𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gender neutral mc, mainly Nightbringer focused, forged timelines and descriptions of lacking autonomy. Much older one from a personal drabble challenge
𖤛: synopsis . . . | What matters to the being of Night and scale, to narrate the usurper of a wise sorcerer with bare hands, clawed and unearthly, or to reign in his incomparable veins — and watch your magic from afar?
“How long do you plan to use me?”
The question ringed out into the hollow carapace of a space. A void dimension. A pitch in between all three worlds, opening its bottomless maw once upon a many unnoticed eons. It doesn't bow down to the laws of physics, it doesn't waver in its desired path —it is uncontrollable by all but its own host.
The host in question, Nightbringer —who has puppeteered you right into his palm, once again.
You're tired. And most of all, you've come to realize, utterly helpless. No matter what path you take, you know it's what he had wanted. If you act out of character —conveying a half-truth that is colossally dangerous across both worlds —you're promptly taken back in time with a quiet “tut” in your ear that has become increasingly, gratingly familiar to your senses.
Still, you've yet to see his face, all this time. He speaks in cryptic words, not necessarily malicious —but you know and you can never pretend that you don't know the fact that the being, the father of all demons himself —could easily turn your entire life upside down. You are but a mortal among billions. But are you expendable?
His honeyed words do nothing to quell that deeply rooted fear within you, whenever in one of his rarest moments of gracing you with his unperceivable presence.
Still, your question remains unanswered. After all, you did nothing wrong this time. Everything was going forward, wasn't it? It was a day like any other. You routinely woke up, freshened up and made a hearty breakfast that'd be enough for you and your housemate. As dawn laid into noon and you settled down beside Solomon in an engrossed study session, something hit you.
It wasn't a thought. It wasn't physical, either. It didn't hurt —yet, yet —as you soullessly stood up from within your seat, and flashed Solomon a reassuring smile (“I forgot something in my room, I'll be right back.”), you knew it was from none but your own will when your head turned just briefly by the door, eyes stinging, guts lurching —but there he sat. He sat with his back facing you, unperturbed by the unnatural set of hands that rose you up and away into the fathomless.
Please look at me, you thought to yourself with limbs that disregarded your outputs. Don't let me go again. Not again.
Alas, you were never in control to begin with.
“What a curious question.” Nightbringer finally answers. You sit, but feel nothing underneath that holds your weight. You can't see anything, either. Still, you keep your eyes open: searching. “It sounds more akin to a statement. Quite a bold one, at that..”
“Is it not?” You press on. “Weaving events into your sole ideal. Pulling my existence like a trump card at every opportunity to polish.”
“Such strong distrust. I have to wonder where that harbors from.”
“You don't have to wonder anything but answer one thing. It's not that impossible of a request, that I can assure you.”
“Hehe. How demanding,” as if teasing, a faint warm air hits your cheek —alarmingly gentle, like the soft puff of a breath. “You're smart, [Name]. You've proven that time and time again. I'm sure you already know the answer to that.”
Fine. That is just fine (it's anything but fine.), you can move this one-sided conversation into the inevitable topic of discussion.
“What is it this time, then?” You try to get up —hands momentarily flailing to grasp onto all unseen to your temporarily blind eyes. “Why have you taken me away again? What did I do wrong this time?”
“For now, you've done nothing wrong —”
“I've done nothing wrong,” you parrot, the pitch and bitterness in your voice swirling into one and many unrecognizable things. “Yet you punish me, all the same.”
“......”
For once, without being granted even the grace to observe a face that doesn't exist —you know you've stunned him into silence. It's a pointless triumph. What does your monumental bites matter in the face of a life without autonomy waiting for you behind that sacred door —countless nights gazing, clawing at thoughts and possibilities you can never fight against?
That is what kills you, day by day; to be so inconsequential a existence, that you were never designed to win this —never meant to possibly even fight it—deemed to have not a power of your own. Your ‘power’ lies in your deific, ancestral blood, it lies in a single word and seven marks etched on flesh invisible to the eyes of all except your own to agonize over.
How much longer can you last —ignoring the silent terror that's made home deep in your bones and vertebrae— living with the threat of being tossed into another time again, and knowing you'll be just as helpless as the first time?
“Punish you?” He says, eventually. Quieter. Curious. “I…”
Did he truly think it wouldn't cause you grief? Or is he acting —to set a faux narrative into play?
Still, something shifts in the air.
“I don't care what you think you're doing, Night.” Yes, you simply couldn't be bothered to use that mouthful name. “Not at this point. Not anymore. The first two times were understandable — if vague, still. Now send me back.”
A faint shuffle of cloth. You can feel eyes peering into your soul. Then you focus a little harder, and — a pair of white eyes glow into view, though still obscured in a heavy, dark fog. You almost gasp.
That just makes it — he? — squint at you. You suspect Nightbringer to be smiling right now. How shameless of him, really.
“[Name], [Name], [Name]....” He singsongs, a quiet rhyme. “Despite what you must be thinking of me, I must make it clear that you are not simply a pawn to me. Your happiness is as valuable as mine.” He speaks again, still holding that curious but sure tone.
“That is exactly what someone who thinks of the other as pawn would say. But sure.”
“I've led you this far, [Name]. Do you truly think that if I held such little regard for you, that I wouldn't simply dispose of you at whim?”
“And you think that not doing so makes you any less dangerous?” You scoff. “Whatever. Just send me out of your pocket dimension.”
The being of night hums, tapping a long-nailed finger where their mouth should be. “I must say, this temper of yours is new.” Then, mocking, “no less adorable than the rest of you, of course.”
You stare into the void, exasperated. A quiet chuff of laughter resounds.
You blink — and all is white — a foggy stratosphere you cannot quite identify. Then, you're falling again — just as you had parted your lips to speak.
“I will keep this in mind — apprentice of Solomon.” Nightbringer's voice resounds with a distant lilt. “You need not worry so much. Our goals will always align with one another.”
You're in the kitchen of Purgatory Hall again.
Stumbling briefly against a counter, you clutch your head, then turn around —
“Ah, [Name]!” Solomon's cheery voice carries itself to you, appearing unkempt and…? “Hey, where'd you disappear to?”
“... Would you like to tell me why half the building is destroyed?”
“Aha, that!” He scratches his head. “You see, Beel was dropping by to carry back some desserts Simeon ordered in Barbatos’ name to the demon Lord castle, so I wanted to add a gift of my own.”
“Did you, now..?”
“Beel couldn't help himself and dug into one of them.. He started crying tears and — this — so I'm inclined to believe it was simply that superb.” He chuckles, then, donning a thoughtful expression. “Good thing you left when you did, though. The ground here fell apart in a single go…”
You sigh and look away, gazing out the window and the starry-lit streets. This needlessly complicates the narrative you've survived within.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gender neutral mc, obsessive Barbatos, depictions of blood and amalgam deaths, manipulation in at least fifty shades, the not-so milder shtick of a bid for utopian world.
𖤛: synopsis . . . | You're bursting at the seams. The weight of your dual pacts, as well as the ever brimming growth and decay of magic — is a biological hazard that your mortal vessel can't contain for long. You know this. At the very least, your plan works out in the end — even if you are no more; the realms are safe.
Except, there's only one person in the web of all life who can refuse to move on, and actually win against the natural order he used to abide by.
YOU WERE RUNNING out of time.
Faint exhaustion turned to full-blown bouts of fatigue. The borders that held your galvanism were teetering in violent halts —and there you were, the regular by the cold sink and tiled floors.
You shook it off time and time again. But behind myriad backs, you opened several books to find a resistance against the worst possible scenario. Now, you could think of many, but this was in and out of an inconvenience on its own.
So you continued, discreet; and for a while, you succeeded. Your methods, that is. Soon enough, a few remedies dipped in magic were about as useful as throwing in an aspiring onto an open wound. Circumstances forced your hand into more.. Creative means, so you continued to research better techniques —hells, you even managed to snag up a witch's location. Not just any witch, either; but one that specialized as a doctorate.
She did slam the door in your face, though.
But you continued looking —and before you knew it, running inked incantations and modified insignia along at least a few hundred dozen talismans had become routine. Some nights —you would lose yourself in the act, and while you sat at your desk at noon —you'd blink, feel cold air brushing your feet by the edge of the bed.
It was sunrise.
There would be instances where your shirt would incidentally lift a little high when you'd reach something —and even when no one was around —you'd feel the hole in your gut expand exponentially. It was humiliating, what you've become —over fifty talismans wrapped around the crevices of your form. Those, too, would not be visible to the naked eye. And still, that dread lounged on your shoulder. It mocks and points out the sheer futility in your efforts —but most of all, it's a drill sergeant; you would not expose even the faintest hint of decrepitude.
You would have hell to pay if you did.
At some point, it became clearer by day —there was no preventing what's coming to you —to the worlds.
You started hallucinating, too; you'd be standing in the library, calling back directions to denizens long gone —and you'd see them, too. It affected you regardless of where you were. You kept your composure pristine —but the moment Solomon caught you shaking your head, murmuring to an empty space —you knew it was time.
It probably cost you the remainder of your limited time —and it was infuriatingly difficult; using your connections to get your hands on things you otherwise couldn't —waiting while counting each ticking of the clock to get everything you needed. You traversed through Babel and the East of the celestial realm for some favors, but it didn't end there.
Solomon kept calling, too —on a daily basis, asking where and what you were up to. You'd tell him it was research —which in retrospect, was not far from the truth. The others were a bit harder to deal with; you appeared at important student council meetings in the Devildom, but that became about the extent of your expected visits.
Solomon would remark how hard working of a pupil you were, and most questions would die down after that. You brought whatever vintage souvenirs he’d like and left it on his desk, though he never asked. His surprised laughter at every occasional goods told you enough; kept you on your toes enough —you had to keep going.
But then came the torrents of visions —like how you foresaw Raphael's demise in Babel, back then. That was a wholesome snippet compared to what began playing itself into your senses each night —each time you fell asleep, really.
It wasn't as though you never saw this coming —not your own theurgy on a mark to consume you alive, but the escalating conflicts between the worlds. You just never could've imagined it could get so much uglier.
It only furthered your resolve to do this one thing —and you must, lest you forever stay as a faraway stain on humanity's name.
The day your work finally paid off —and after countless polishing of its properties, layer by layer —you picked up your phone and dialed a number you haven't used in a while. You were standing by the end of your elongated desk —cluttered with binded paper after paper, vials, old runes —and the sun filtering through the tall ends of triforium windows. Most of your furniture was wood, and after you got a priest to deconsecrate the place, you replaced most of the walls with enchanted solid iron.
Yes, you were never safe. Yes, even the serenity manor was not an option; so you took to farthest lands you could've taken —and it was an abandoned church building you remodeled for temporary periods of trips. The trick was that it looked as deserted as the day you saw it on the outside.
The door bell rung out.
“Come on in, Barbatos.” you usher the politely perplexed steward inside —but he wasn't just the next demon king's butler. He was a dear friend. It took you a pause to look at one another, like you were drinking in the presence of someone you thought you'd never see again. “It's been a while.”
But Barbatos smiles, a faint but genuine crinkles forming around the warmth of his eyes. “It has.”
You returned the expression —though there was something more restrained in yours. Then you guided him upstairs —and he sat down in the single armchair across you, while you briefly excused yourself. Common courtesy of bringing in some of his favourite tea blends, as well as with limited goods you spent a notable time attaining…
“We've a lot to talk about.” You said, settling in your own chair. He stirred his teacup, though you knew he was keenly listening. “It's about the future.”
Barbatos made a ‘hm’ noise, thoughtful —eyes flitting up to yours, now. “The future of which realm, may I ask?”
“It involves all three of them, I'm afraid.”
His hand pauses. Slowly, he leans back in his seat —but the intensity of his focus has heightened.
“It's not all grim news, don't worry.” You reassure, though faintly amused by his expression. “We'll just go over a few things.”
“If I may,” he speaks before you can continue, and you nod. “Pardon me if this comes across offensive.. But how long have you been staying here, [Name]?”
“It's been on and off. A temporary accommodation, if you will.”
He lets that sink in for only a second, eyes narrowing — “Are you in danger?”
You hold back in a sigh as you look around, wetting your lips. There's really nothing that gets past this man. “Not quite the direction you should be focusing on right now. There's foul things afoot, Barbatos. It's…”
You squeeze your hand inside your pockets to hide the quivers. “It's enough to incite war between all realms, if we're not careful.”
Barbatos’ eyes widen slightly, but he cools his demeanor. “And you know this, how, exactly?”
“I've seen it.” You look away briefly. “Remember Raphael's oopsie in Babel? I've seen that happen before it did in the real world, too. It's become a bit of a regular occurrence, now —these visions. And so far, it's never been wrong.”
“I see.” Barbatos hums, a troubled look crossing his face as he mulls over the revelation. “How do they happen? Your visions?”
“Usually in sleep. Sometimes, mid-day. Violent headaches, nosebleeds, all that classic shebang —so you get the image.” You cross a leg over another. “It's a mess unlike anything I've seen, Barbatos.”
Barbatos slowly leans in. “Tell me about it. Don't spare any details.”
And so you do.
What you still remember, at least. How all the three realms will go bazooka on each other —and in the name of rebalancing power, a staggering amount of human deaths toll up first. And because the devildom was already quite invested in the human world —they were directly involved in the fire. Witches working with dominions, and sorcerers standing with demons?
“An apocalypse, minus the biblical sense.” You cough into your palm. “At the very least, the fourth realm —the other one in between——remains undamaged for a while. But if just anyone strolls into the reaper’s cave to the fountain of knowledge, it'll be an even bigger setback. We'll have to enforce a better structural gateway plan with Thirteen. But all this is only a primary reason I brought you here, Barbatos.”
You catch the creasing in his crisp gloves, flexing by his side discreetly. “... And what would the main reason be?”
You look at him for a moment. Then you stand up, rounding around the room to stop by the desk —half an organized mess, but you know exactly where it is. Every file and book is burned into your memories, cluttered as they may be. You've rifled through them countlessly —enough to recognize each piece by the feel of its cover and size alone. Your hands rummage through the drawer and pull a small box, tinny enough to be half the size of your palm.
Barbatos is watching you with a tilted head when you turn —and your heart jostles at his abyssal eyes. You forget how unnerving his staring can be, sometimes. He looks at people like he is perceiving them, a keen eyed watchdog —as if he is not right by their side, experiencing their presence.
You're used to it a bit more by now, so it doesn't unsettle you as much as it would in the beginning. You just return to his side, though you do not sit —standing by the seat.
“I know no other who could wield it better than you, Barbatos.” You reaffirm —to a part of yourself and to him. You open up the box — pick up the glinting demise in between your fingers, watching his eyes slightly widen a fraction. “It tends to change design according to what it reads in your soul, so you don't have to worry about anyone recognizing it.”
“Is that — ?”
“A finalized prototype of the Ring of the Light, yes. I wasted half my dreary lifespan recreating its perfect image, so you better not fool around with it.” You glance at him sharply, rolling the ring around your digit.
“Why me, [Name]?” Barbatos asks, still looking at the ring —then to you, a conflicted crease between his brows. “Don't get me wrong, I am honored that you would go out of your way to consider giving such a powerful ring to me.”
“I'm not considering it, Barbatos. You're the sole candidate here.”
He looks at you for a long moment, like trying to read through your mind —but he gives up with a sigh, hands folded on his lap. “I suppose I'm glad that it was me who you've come to confer all this.”
You smile, then. It looks relieved —Barbatos thinks. Tired, but relieved —like half a boulder has been taken off your shoulders.
“How did you go about possibly even creating the exact replica, [Name]?” He asks with a thoughtful frown. “You're handing me power over half —if not the entirety of the angelicals’ legion. That must've cost you more than a hair.”
“I have my ways. And I know it's best kept within your judgement. I know you already have power beyond my comprehension, but…” You chuckle under your breath mirthlessly. “Consider it a gift.”
He blinks slowly, lost for words. You tilt your head, motioning briefly to his hands. “May I?”
Barbatos looks down to his lap —then up again, entrapping gazes with your own, and he nods surely. He lifts his hand to you —and you put down the box on the coffee table to his hand. It's strangely suffocating, the way he doesn't bother to take off his own gloves, and so you do, careful of not actually picking at his skin. His palm is bigger than yours —a fact that he'd commented about a while ago. A good thing it was, he'd said — good for butlers like him who juggle between various tasks.
You push the ring onto his ring finger —and hear the faintest hitching of the breath. Not paying it any more mind —you watch the ring take shape into something different; swirling lines of vantablack and turquoise.
“It's beautiful.” You tell him, and it's true. You pause then at your own words, and something more may have slipped up —but you clear your throat instead. His hand falls from your loose grip —and he lingers, no, two lean fingers chase the waning brumal grasp, but you turn in enough time to skip his fervid touch.
You don't look at his expression as you look out at the swaying wintry fields —you're more inclined to give him room to digest his gift, but he's not. Still, he raises his hand to examine the ring —and marvels at the oddity in its existence.
“I'm not quite sure how to accept something of this scale without any form of repayment, but…” He lifts his head, complexion melting into something more calm. “I won't let down your expectations, [Name].”
The next time Barbatos sees you, you're barely alive.
He would glimpse into the past, he'd agreed with the young Lord. He'd see the extent of which he'd need to do to secure the Devildom, and more importantly; you.
He was supposed to ask if you'd join him —just for a short while, just to confirm a few details.
You're not supposed to be producing this amount of blood from a nosebleed.
“What is the matter with you?” The words tangle in his throat. He's by your side in a blink, kneeling —hands and mind unsure of what to do with itself. “I should bring you to the finest doctor immediately —”
You tug his sleeve, the touch of an undead. There's more coming out of your mouth —out of your ears. You tell him it's pointless, and he almost snaps your wrist in half from incredulity alone.
“You can't make them treat what they can't find,” you hum, still propped against the wall, on the ground. You stop his prying hands as they try to find a wound —something —and to lift you up. “Listen to me for a second. Come on.”
“I don't want to hear another word from you, unless it's an agreement to how utterly negligent of a human you are,” He speaks the words like an executioner. That finality of his steely judgement has always scared you. Now, though? You can almost find it in yourself to smile in humour. “Keep your hands down. Save your strength for now, because believe me, you have some things to answer later.”
“Just.. calm down.” You try to wipe your mouth, but it's a smudged touch as any you could attempt. There's bile and blood and parts of mushed organs rising up your esophagus, so you cough onto your sleeve again. “This always happens. You can't stop it.”
The world turns to a standstill for Barbatos when he registers your words. “You do not mean that. You are not implying —?”
“A human body can only handle so much… power, Barbatos.” You finally lift your gaze from a dark spot in your study to him —his boundless eyes. It's hard to speak —and even harder to breathe, as the clock ticks. “Sorry. I'm pretty sure I don't live past this stage in any universe.”
“That's enough.” He pulls out a handkerchief —a pristine white work of embroidery and indigos to wipe the mess away. The onslaught of blood makes his hands falter. He's so good at steeling his emotions usually —so cold that it makes you wonder if there is anything stirring within him at all. “I will not listen to this eyesore of a parting monologue.”
It feels painful to even sigh. “I've had a target on my head for the crime of continuing to exist, Barbatos. My mere being is a sacrilege to them, don't you understand?” You grip his hands —and his heart wails at the feebleness in your grasp. “You can't stop them from what they'll do to me, but you can still… use the ring —use it for them. Time is on your hands.”
“I'll bring you help,” He states sternly instead —yet wavering at how increasingly cold you feel. He moves over you, wrapping his hands around the sides of your waist, but quickly realizes you've already lost the ability to walk, too. “Please do not…”
You murmur something again —but you've grown limp in his arms. The words are slurred in between and fade into ether. Your head drops lightly by his chest —and your hands are absent again.
There's so much blood. He can only wonder for how long you managed to contain a bursting vessel for so long —how many hours a day you spent awake to keep your own innards inside its suit. He can't quite tell, because even now, you look more asleep than dead —ignoring all the red. He checks your pulse and it's the most frightening sound he's heard.
It's the tune of pure absence.
Barbatos calls your name again. Shouts the syllables until his throat is scraped raw and no utterances budge you. He cradles you like a child holding onto a loss they can't decipher, nudges your head into the soft crevice of his neck and runs his hands over your back again and again. He consolidates you like you may still be here —still be stuck between the indefinite and on the center of agony.
Barbatos speaks your name, as if it were an incantation —a prayer to bring you back. But you already knew of every outcome; and you had to come to terms with it long before he could've ever suspected something as insidious as this was playing behind the curtain.
For a long while, he sits in the pitch black with you, wordless and immovable.
Today marks the day —the day you've departed from every realm wherein. An annual anniversary dedicated to you, specifically.
When you told him that he couldn't stop it —he didn't believe you then. He was a lone overseer to the decays of what the universe sang for a long, long time, after all. He has access to every choice you branch off to at the tips of his fingertips.
He believes you now.
Now —after having spent an unspeakable amount of time trying to undo the damage he foolishly overlooked. Was this vast gift worth it —worth to lose you, permanently, in a world toward perfection?
He had ushered you away from traveling to distant lands —in a bid to find you the cure you needed, the first time he came back in time. Just a hour after you bestowed him the responsibility. But such a thing did not exist in any historical record —there are no relics to suppress the surplus of magic coursing through your worn veins, constructed to eventually pop like birthday confetti.
His search does not end there.
He goes back even farther in time, having ensured you're in better condition. Sometime within the next week, again; your remains are left unrecognizable, when he finds them.
He thinks back on your words in the dark.
It's Diavolo who finally summons him back —and the more he speaks of finding a way, the sadder his Lord looks at him. He must've known how many portals he's opened by now —an unspeakable violation of time. Diavolo closes the case and orders any and all to stand down from interfering with the lifetime of a human —beloved as they may be.
It takes Diavolo the longest to get Barbatos to keep to his oath, considering everyone else who protested for a way and the unnatural state of your departure. It wasn't cancer and it was not an organ failure. The weight of the truth lies on a pair of threes —it was a necessary move to send you back in time. The only mutual goal in between them was that they needed you —and you specifically, on their side. It couldn't work as effectively were it not for the dual pacts.
It's obvious that a part of them, as finely kept in abyssal depths as it may be —feels responsible, and more or less, guilty. He sees it in the young Lord —and he reprimands him to look less haggard, that hunched sagging of his shoulders, and how he should keep a clear head. His crowning ceremony was upcoming soon, after all. Solomon does not look or speak to them as much anymore, but he remembers the glazed repression in his eyes. That ugly part of him inside revels, if only for a while, because you chose him over your own kin.
Barbatos quashes it down and, though usually unreceived —continues to send him baked sweets.
He should feel more pity —certainly, because it is nothing short of pitiful, the state of them all. Perhaps he is more alike to Solomon than he guessed; he, too, has been in the clouds throughout the aftermath.
There was a headshot carved statue of you — buried in a box in his room. It was a project you undertook in one of Diavolo's whims — carving life into stone, and he had watched your hands work its unending machinations. The only pressure he could cave in to was of Diavolo's. Yet his hands soon found themselves ungloved — dipping into clay — timeworn pupils counting every soft and sharp ends of your countenance. And he's kept it since then.
He presses his temple to the stone and inhales the decrepit scent from an era bygone. Recounts every mould of your vessel's face. Counts it again between his fingertips. He places it back into the shelf and fears its recollection.
It was the suddenness of it — your passing — that mostly took up the impact for the majority. Demons knew the lifespan of a human, and the sheer fragility of it. They just had a hard time coming to terms with it; you had immersed yourself so deeply within this society and its cultures.
The brothers have it the hardest —they had wholly welcomed you into their family, after all. Each time he sees either of them —they look a touch more lifeless than prior. Especially Lucifer who believes he can hide it well.
Still; life goes on.
Everything you warned him about were true. The world has been rewritten —and he continues to polish it like glass marble. It will never die, this world —and will continue to flourish, as it was meant to. Barbatos oversees Diavolo's coronation to the throne as their new king. The next exchange term delegation proceeds successfully; after arduous meetings with the scribes and Michael himself comes down. The Celestial realm welcomes its new exchange students by that vast field; Satan and Solomon.
Achieving this kind of peace —though pertaining its own ups and downs occasionally— is still akin to utopia for many.
You would've been proud — Barbatos thinks, standing in his room, lifting his hand with the ring of light resting snugly on his finger. His glove is laid out on his desk. The archaic hum of the door in front of him fills his mind with dull familiarity. It's like returning to base instincts — this aching reclamation. He puts back on his glove, flattening away the crease and folds —straightening his posture perfectly.
He'd hate for you to see him unkempt, of course.
The doorknob turns. Barbatos steps through, and his eyes gleam a deep, abyssal shade. He is the first and the last person to cope as unsightly as he had with your loss. You were not in heaven or hell. Your soul was kept behind a great darkness — slumbering a dreamless sleep in the supervoid of Purgatory.
How could they ever consider a world without you utopian?
The first time he sees you again—after so long—leaves him almost distracted. You're unaware of anything; how blissful it must be. He smiles at you then.
And he rips your soul straight out of its warded crevice.
He wishes there was a less painful way to extract your essence— without the gushing sea of crimson in your chest, or that indecipherable look on your face before you crumble. It's always a little different when he does it; your complexion is an array of betrayal, shock, confusion, the most occurring one — but it's always pained. Even brushing too close to the inner of one's soul can incite unspeakable pain, it is known and widely forbidden.
And each time he collects your essence, and you're but a hollow vessel on the floor—he snaps his finger once, and the end vacuums your world to null.
Barbatos comes to savor some of the instances. He doesn't get tired, but he stalls occasionally—just to hear your voice a little longer. Those versions of you are always the hardest to end, because they are you in a bend where you uttered a word differently. He sits in your gentle massacre before he erases those worlds, too— swallowing them like a particularly wide exhale. He's come to adore you, even when you look a little different or you don't recognize him at all, and he loathes what you've doomed his hands to perfect—his patience doesn't calcify, it's his atavistic nature that drowns you both.
Barbatos wonders if you too had to die a little in your delegation to carve him the ring that made the inevitable conflicts vincible.
The clock ticks. He has hunted down a little over 33644 variations of you. The precious souls writhe in an enclosed gem — they've meshed with one another, but it needs a little budging, because some are a lot less willing to become one — to surrender. He brings it up to his lips. Your fervor is admirable, really, even in this state.
They hold nothing else of you once they merge, however — no personality or perception. It's a pure mass of your individual essence that will outlive even your own theurgy. The weight of the dual pacts will feel like an afterthought for you, when his work is done.
The clock hums. Barbatos opens another door — and there he is, on the porch steps, nearing your sanctuary. Barbatos watches this past version of him halt — eerily still. His ears pick up on the distant cadence of a knell — but whom is it singing for?
He doesn't let him turn his head enough to understand the rip in time—he's erased every quota of his being with a scrutinizing glance alone.
No trace remains.
And he takes his place — standing right where he did. His measured steps carry him back in front of your door. He rings the door bell, a single lilt alerting you of his arrival. The clouds overhead gather and part in disarray. His lips twitch.
The door creaks an inch, opening fully once a glimpse of his immaculate — familiar suit registers to you. His eyes rake over your form — noticing only now of the weary ends below your eyes, the tenseness in your posture, like he might shapeshift into something else entirely.
But you step aside, carving him a path inside your hearth.
“Come on in, Barbatos.” You assess him in vigilance — partly with the feel of someone who thought they wouldn't cross paths again. A pause lingers. “It's been a while.”
He inclines his head, that knowing edge. “It has.”
Barbatos' aphotic eyes crinkle at the edges. Not from suppressing a smile or pathos. It's a strange sense of odium — when he knows what you will say and do in the next hour. He liked it better when he couldn't predict your next course of actions — indulge in the mastery of what you make with that cardinal mind of yours.
Regardless, he'd gladly take an hour of pretense than let you slip through his fingers again.
And when, finally, that ring sits snug on his finger, and you're a sentinel by the glass paneled windows — he rises.
He calls your name — an unsuppressible yawn of his being reveling in the oratorio of your company — and of noticing every minuscule timbre in your voice, the varying degrees of a penetrative gaze.
“I had something of my own for you,” He takes your hand. You look a little taken aback, fruitlessly anticipating what that entails. “I have been meaning to deliver it at your earliest convenience. I believe now would be a perfect time to fix that —” His jaw works, tense as a bowstring of even the concept of it — but his smile is still. Pleasant. “That affliction of yours is long overdue, wouldn't you say?”
Your pupils constrict. “Pardon?”
His hand holds yours still — the other coming up to briefly brush over your knuckles with his thumb. He produces something from the inner pocket of his coat, held delicately with his forefinger. It's a mood ring — lined acanthus, infrangible labradorite behind satiny glass.
“All you need to do, is wear it.” He says, a lulling temptation. “Please wear it.”
But you pull your hand away, when he's lifting your ring finger — and look at him like his efforts are only a subject of virulence. Deeply, inherently, disgustingly wrong. He counts the seconds of your hesitation; suspicion dawning way to blooming realization. Your hands fall back to your sides slowly.
“I died, didn't I?”
Barbatos' smile strains to a straight line.
His silence tells you enough and nearly nothing at all; nothing to grasp from the abyssal depths in his eyes. They lock with your own — ticking seconds — and for nearly a full minute, he is a black hole, biding his time to swallow you whole. The draped shadows crawl to the soles of his fine shoes, absorbing the light in your space.
And the room breathes — when your lips finally part.
“How did you get that, exactly?”
He looks to your hands, up at you again. You don't pull away when he takes your hand, but he notes the tension in your frame, brimming with questions. Barbatos examines your hand — parts that space to lift your ring finger, the eyes of someone whose nature and will is a shroud of demonic innominateness.
“The cost does not matter. Rest assured, you've no debt to me but to life,” He leans in, voice lower. “and you will live.”
Your fingers curl. “This function —”
“You may think of it as a vast channel.” He tuts. “the kind of vastness that can sufficiently hold half your magic. It will be sealed inside — and stabilize the irregularities, as well as purifying magic sickness.”
Your lips part. Close again.
Barbatos pushes the ring onto your finger — an unfamiliar knit of impatience searing through his tight grip, the way he doesn't even wait for a response. You watch in conflicted silence. Something feels different already within you.
“Do try not to lose it, [Name].” Barbatos brings your attention back to him, smiling. “It'd be truly remiss of you to lose your only chance of survival.”
You force down a nauseous motion, meeting his focused gaze. It takes you a moment to respond, the bluntness of his words stumping you back a mile. You nod with not quite a smile, but an appreciative balminess in your eyes — and Barbatos latches onto it in his mute gait.
“Thank you, Barbatos.”
“Don't thank me yet. Your recovery won't be a two-way street,” His eyes crinkle. Narrow, really. “But I'll be here to ensure the state of your well-being until I see fit.”
And he means it.
Life settles back into a familiar rhythm.
Due to your unstable flow of magic still being filtered through the ring — it required particular monitoring, as it's taking a 50/100 of that theurgy in a schedule Barbatos carefully curated for the matter of your safety. You're essentially a gaping hole with half your power undergoing a decontamination — a prize on a stick waved over a trickle of goliaths.
So on the days you'd have to put on the ring, for an hour or two, Barbatos would be sitting across you — knees tucked, an unopened ledger by the coffee table. A means of pretense; you'd feel better once you'd close your eyes (a mandatory meditative) and imagine him eventually picking that up, the surveying gaze lifting from your form.
When your eyes reopen, the ledger is moved by an inch. The tension eases around your shoulders.
And Barbatos offers you a patient smile. (His hand moved only once.)
The good thing is that it works, and you finally don't have to walk around in chronic pain, or with the bandages and talismans that are slick with sweat and blood across your skin. The notion of beginning to understand that you never had to live this way is a strange and startling one. To spend your nights organizing the upcoming exchange delegations in the tranquil of your room — impossibly lucid, that part of you who'd take that time to change clean linen and frustrate over the lack of desired results within the web is enjoying this. Just slightly. Perhaps —— more than that, at peace.
You are still vigilant, though, Barbatos notes. You hold these new halcyon experiences close to your heart, as unattached as you keep yourself, were it to wretch itself away from you at the whim of an absurd universe.
You're doing good. So, so very good, that surely you wouldn't mind Barbatos observing your progress at a closer vintage point. When you're at a good point of stability, he tells you to keep the ring on; it is attuned to the very pulse of your essence. It will keep you safe. From all harm — including yourself.
You don't even question his presence by your side as much anymore. He is the grounding, reliable end of you as extension; you coexist throughout the mirages and the hardships of working towards the brightest future for all three realms.
Barbatos' bellicose hands itch, sometimes — when he looks at you, you — being everything and nothing he expected you to be, weaving the delicate balance of the realms, as if your soul isn't an abiding empire he wishes to serve until the twelfth of never.
You're a step ahead of him — but now you stop, and you turn, waiting for him to catch up. Unhurried, as you should be. He falls into step beside you, exchanging wordless smiles — and perhaps someday, you will figure it out, hard and insoluble as he'll make it. For now, and perpetually, you are undying like him, invariably — at the edge of eternity.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gender neutral mc, past Barbatos' POV centered AU, not the happiest 'ending' I'm afraid
𖤛: synopsis . . . | He is immune to bounds, to falsehoods and deceit. Still —he has slipped once, and it costed him nearly the continuity of his existence. Meeting an even stranger in this tinny form while he struggles to revitalize back into his prime may yet be an impending cost he is not ready to face.
BARBATOS WOULD NEVER let anyone get the best of him.
This wasn't a warning —but an omen spread into the beguiling hearts of lower level demons. He who walks between the cracks of a myriad realities and realms. To whomever unaware of the legitimacy of his existence, these stories —many stories —were more akin to a bedtime story, an impossible urban legend.
Well, he definitely was a local of this realm —and he'd be damned (literally) if he ever slipped —it mattered not how infinitesimal an opening could be, as he knew the nature of his kins better than anyone.
And yet —this knowledge did not save him this time.
He was weakened. No, not just weakened —dying —how shameful it is! The one thing he devoted himself to —acquiring every tidbit of the worlds —and excruciatingly specific at times, nobody could truly say that information is useless and mean it. And it was especially useful, knowing oneself —a being ruling over time at his fingertips. Sometimes, it is easy to lose yourself in the notion of self-observance —one can live only for so long until you are your own audience.
Too much of anything could be poison, that Barbatos knew very well —but he has fallen to his own distant whims, and now he is praying the price on a muddied soil —a tempest of rainstorm pooling into his lithe snot. He had left just in the nick of time —and who could ever find him here, on the green fields of earth? No demon could succeed that kind of fear by themselves without summons, and even more specific limitations.
Alas, Barbatos was no mere demon —and though lain with poison coursing steadily through his bloodstream —he is undefeated. Oh, he already has plans for what he'll do to those imbeciles —the filthy hand of the sky had been playing a part of it, he knew.
It was only a matter of time until he completely recuperated to his prime.
But then he noticed it, a human nearby —and his eyes glinted that hazy gleam. He thought of it as strange —the unusual palette of your soul.
It was transparent.
The chances of encountering a soul that wielded such a barrier was simply nonsensical —the idea that such a hue existed on its own at all could be as ridiculous as closer to blasphemy, and the implications it set ablaze in curious minds.
He's certainly taking greed to levels seen unheard of —but still. A demon's a demon, and when you so easily put something in front of it…
They passed by him, then —and stopped a few feet away. A long cloak adorned their form, and their hood was even longer —so long that it covered half their face, if not entirely —when their head happened to snap towards the direction of his tail slapping against wet ground in its nerve instinct. The only thing he could make out were your lips, half parted. Barbatos wondered if you were actually saying something, but he could not hear it in the heavy clap of the dribbling rain.
He was watching you keenly —and then, you surprised him. It wasn't as though you pulled out something from a world by gone —nothing as unprompted, but that you were walking straight towards him was outlandish on its own. Did you truly not realize who he is —the weight in his presence? Surely, this animalian form couldn't have tricked you that easily —
“Hello, sweetheart.” You sussured, kneeling, lifting half the side of your cloak to shield him from the torrents of the icy rainfalls.
Barbatos lifted his head —stared into the pitfalls of your gaze. He caught the slightest curve of your eyes, the edge of your lashes smeared with pinpricks of a heaven's cleanse.
Since then, he could not believe —nor understand your audacity. You took him with yourself —carried him throughout your incessant travels as you saw fit. Barbatos was disturbedly aware of the fact that the process of him riding the dose in his veins was taking longer than what he was content with. You were odd, that was as clear as the night to him —and apparently you shared the sentiment in the fact that he was not an accessory to behold by your elbow, to showcase his uncanny eyes and coat.
Much to his utter befuddlement, you were trying to help him, actually.
At first, your foolish hands tried to feed him with your natural remedies —and he hacked it back out on the ground, intentionally wasted and soiled. He had no time or the inclination to entertain an amateur who did not even recognize who wore this coiled skin. The sooner you left him be —the sooner he could just slumber in a dark pit to get back into shape.
Part of him is glad he did so —if he hadn't, you certainly wouldn't seem to have taken it as a challenge instead and began using other means to cleanse the rot taking root in his being. Yes, magic. Adding to the pile of your not-quite-explainable aura, and the odd steadiness of your company by his unwilling side —now he knows that you must be quite the brazen sorcerer to practice magic near him — of all demons —and much less in a time and place such as this one.
Your idle strolls had taken you quite far, too —places he didn't know existed. None of the places interested him. It'd take a lot more to garner his attention —and, albeit slightly, it did —at some point. You walked through the bustling starry-lit streets of hanazono-jinja and its antique markets by an even taller shrine —and Barbatos slithered under the satiny weight of your half-draped shawl, an amalgam explosion of colors bleeding into his irises. The way they compiled colors together in the art scrolls and those bold ceramics —it was a curious method he was not privy to.
Not knowing what he desired brought that familiar aching in his sinew.
At some point with you touring through at least fifty vendors —a particular cloth by the stand behind you caught his eye. It was a kimono —nothing quite special —but for a fleeting moment, Barbatos thought that it'd fit the curvature of your form and flounder the color in your lips to something one could not ignore. Tempting, but revoltingly confusing than anything —and it was brushed into the deepest crevices of his mind.
You continued to travel — through arduous roads to eventually Rome and even the astringent baths of Diocletian that you had the balls to snuck him inside of —and though it was distantly amusing, including your brief retellings of the events that took place here and fro, he still couldn't quite understand your motives to begin with, much less discern what you really were thinking.
Barbatos supposed that'd make the two of them —as to put it lightly, he wasn't the easiest patient under your ambitious administrations.
The one reason he hadn't simply left at whim was because he lacked the strength it'd possess to move as smoothly in this realm. He was not particularly involved or interested in the affairs of the human world —and while he would initially guide their lost souls to a more befitting end —his form was not used to this soil as much as he counted on.
That, and that he was still halfway into insidious decay.
You kept him under your radar, though —the human insisting onto oneself and its abilities of this calibre was as irritating as it disturbed him.
Any moment now, he'd think, with his eyes half lidded and laying atop a heated ——draped cloth. They will ask it of me, I know it.
But perhaps you were simply idiotic —or oblivious beyond belief —as you never did procure about dealings past your skillset, or other even foolish demands in nature to being indebted to you in some capacity. If you knew to use magic —especially the kind that you were adapting through various trials of error to simply cure his ailment —surely you must have noticed. You must've had questions about his forked tail —and its faintly turquoise sheen. There was no way you couldn't have, after all —you had to examine his condition on a few set days.
He would've likely tore your hand clean off if you weren't as brief, and if not for the thin piece of cloth that covered your hands. Barbatos wondered where you managed to procure such a garment. Yes, at times like these, he truly wanted to speak, then —not just to question you, but to remind lost lambs such as yourself in whose presence you paraded around.
And yet, he holds himself back from doing so. He still wasn't perked enough to even care enough in holding a full conversation with you. You were simply one of those blips of irregularity in his list. You would be gone soon, as quick as was his initial scrutiny.
With an air of injured dignity, Barbatos had to admit —you were good at what you did. Already, his scales glistened brighter than your feeble future, and he began to find himself awake more often than not.
After reams of harrowing nights —of how, most days, he could only hear your voice in his subconscious than even in his wake— these kinds of days were not kind to bear through their eventual end.
Your words lasted an unexpected effect on him the most, and it was the closest thing that came to hold his archaic mind from a bottomless line of limbo. It made no sense to him; your faint voice in such instances were not of incantations or to raise him into a demonic contract —but you told him a great many things of non-importance, and more mumbo jumbo about distant cautionary tales than he was looking to file in his memory —but it kept him anchored, and that was all that he needed.
But —need? Barbatos —to need anything at all from a mere human?
He must be truly more unwell than he realized.
It seems you knew he had a particular sensitivity to light and its fiery heat —so you'd allowed him to curl up just about in any spot that he could relax in. Yes, most of the time —he was asleep to preserve his steadily rising energy. You also didn't seem to mind that even when he was awake, he would not come near you or allow you near. Perhaps you knew better than to push your luck —or you understood the warning in his unnerving stares.
Barbatos would not tolerate being treated as neither pet or being babysat. For now, though, he supposed he'd let you be —see what you will concoct. Will you run away —screaming and upset —when you see him for who he truly is? Or, perhaps you are more cunning than he has given you credit for —and you hid behind your false ministrations to get him on your good side. Surely you must've wanted something; it'd be senseless for you to have been doing this all on whim.
Barbatos acquiesced; at least for your unending efforts, confusing as they may be, he would grant you one —singular wish.
As dawn rolled into night —he came to be. He did not simply look more luminescent than before —he felt more alive than a few days prior. Barbatos never realized the strains had made home in his bones —so much so that it was the norm for him. Today, not only had that damnation been wiped clean from his system, but that he held an unfamiliar kind of enervation now. It was strange —but not something to complain about.
And because it was so early, he allowed himself to slither out of his shadeless cocoon and about the place you were staying in. If he had been allowed inside, surely that would grant him the right to see whatever he desired —and it was an inconspicuous space, anyway. It looked empty —unlived within, even though you occupied it more often than not, located in the hillside of a whole nothingness, just a vast field, and even longer forest paths.
Good thing you knew teleportation magic. Otherwise, he'd give you a lot more trouble for the inconvenience of striding underneath that scorching sun. You were also careful enough to never get caught by passers, and regular older folk that'd stop to make small talk with you, or invite you in for a hearty dinner.
You rarely excused yourself. Really, you ought to be more aware of your surroundings, as esteemed a sorcerer you were. What if your rice was ridden with Coriaria, and you noticed too late? And how would you fare the consequences, leaving him in the foul companies of untrained imbeciles?
You weren't unkind.
Barbatos did not know what to quite make of this notion that became more apparent by the day —and he decided that such a thing must surely have been at test at least several times a day and night. That was how most novice sorcerers were, after all. They had little discipline in what should be grasped and what lines should be best left uncrossed.
They wanted —and wanted. Endlessly.
So did you? He did not know —and it gnawed at him with rabid unrest. Barbatos was a demon of excellent composure and will, but if he hadn't, he surely would have inquired. You wasted your time with strangers you didn't know, just to satisfy an untold societal expectation —and sometimes your voice was duller, or sweeter, and it always varied to a deacon he couldn't quite discern.
Barbatos did not know, and it began to kill him more meticulously than withstanding the poison locked within his lined veins.
To probably not to startle your hosts —you'd never pulled him out, nor introduced him, but only acknowledged him with silent mannerisms —a nod when he would rather stroll outside, a faint tapping to redirect his path out of your cloak and to the wooden ground. He couldn't resist messing with you a little in his own way —when he crawled to a wrong opening that could make the others spot him, or whistle an entropy in your ears, just to see the slightest panic paint your complexion.
He hasn't seen your eyes in a while, so this is all he has. Barbatos doesn't know if you find it unnerving to gaze back at him —because you always have that cloak masking half your countenance. Maybe you do meet gazes. Just not directly.
And when those little visits finally come to an end, Barbatos is met with a finely skewered piece of meat in his face. You take what is offered to you on the side and let him snuff out what piques his interest. Mostly, he remains haughty and distant —eyeing some of your antique purchases.
He takes what he wants and you smile at him, pleased. Barbatos is less disgruntled by this strange term of exchange —he has noticed it lately.
Ah, but today would mark the end of his soddy state —finally, and perhaps he'll think of what to say to you soon. Right now, he needs to shed this skin…
But he is halted by the call of him from the other end of the room, Night — you say, because of course you would come up with such a name for him. Really, he has been outstandingly patient with this human when he needn't be. At the very least, he can appreciate the vast ambiguity in its title.
You tell him you'll be back with his final fix —but he doesn't quite understand your wording. You looked at him for only half a minute. Couldn't you tell he was entirely cured, now? Was your collection more important than him —the one to let the threads you walk across exist?
He was a little iffed, certainly —but who was he to truly understand a human's heart, especially one as indecipherable as your own? You bared it to no one —not even to the slumbering companion.
So, Barbatos found his way into your quarters while you were out and about. And again, it surprised him slightly.
It was just as empty as the rest of the house.
The wooden desk would be a good place to pry, he decided. Just a rust toned cushion —a dingy little bed that had seen better days, and there were the trinkets. Not to you perhaps, but to Barbatos —they didn't seem particularly eye-catching. He would go back to your desk and pause for a moment, looking back at the neatly rolled blankets —the way they were placed. Finally, it clicked.
Those travels and books —they weren't simply for the sake of your gung-ho carelessness. You were collecting possessions to perfecting your medicine —and it was meant for him.
Barbatos feels the tendons in his body shift.
Most of these leftover items had been used. He is awake and better than ever thanks to the little tricks he must inquire to you about. He doesn't know what else you surmised that he must possibly need —perhaps you saw how his scales are drying out, but you didn't know that he is to shed it. Are you going to bring him back one of those goopy looking nourishments in a bottle?
Well, it doesn't matter. Because the next time you see him, now, he will actually have a face and a voice that can respond to you. He has a lot he wants to talk to you about, after all. There was potential in you, too, he spied. Barbatos mused; were you under anyone's pupillage? Did you learn everything you knew on your own mortal hands?
So he sits —not before shedding his old skin and wearing something more, well, humanoid. A familiar face is always better than the other with humans —how much discomfort it brings, even the smallest anomalies on his person. Which —right, does not matter, does it? You will know he is a demon, one way or another. Perhaps you'll be one of those who will propose a pact, too, humorous as may it be. It would take one herculean heights for him to even amuse the thought.
Barbatos sits —rod-straight and poised, waiting for you to come back by noon.
You never come back.
He disguised himself —and he tracked down the remnants of your magic. It came to a stand in the middle of nowhere —deep within the forest. There's nothing he could grasp from your soul, either —it was a boundless thing, far beyond the reach of being something relatively readable. He could not snuff you out —he could not find even the slightest lingering of your being.
Barbatos stops in his unrelenting tracks —and looks to the darkening sky. In his eons of existence —he has never experienced a stark feeling of being as lost as he is now. And that makes no sense! He is the one whom the beguiled denizens of the devildom turn to for guidance, he is the one to shepherd lost lambs to wherever reality they belong.
How dare you disappear on him, just when he was finally himself again —when he had so many burning questions to satiate? He won't accept it.
Barbatos tears through the fabric of time and space in search of you —to catch even a faintest glint of those eyes he only saw once —but the truth is an unkind one to face. The chances of your encounter is epsilon —and as myriad zeros filled his vision —he would not accept it. Even if you did not exist in any single timeline other than in this one —he would not accept it.
That voice, faint but sure —it may be turning weary on the edges of his memory bank —but Barbatos holds onto every single memory, filed away in the glowing candles in his room that never run out. He stops by in his room sometimes, gazing into the glowing lamps —replaying the epiphany of your company, that lightless space draped with about as much as yours did —a collection of zero-sum.
The buttons on Barbatos' coat being in the shape of trumpets may have just been the final piece of confirmation I needed that he is truly Nightbringer.
Your suffering is not beautiful, but your due diligence will be.
You have died, but your intended purpose is yet to be. Do it for your kind —endure through a celestial reconstruction. After all, their most cherished Michael will be there to guide, shield, and shepherd you to the sole right path, and he has plans for you.
You must live in their name: for the greater good, and for the myriad generations to come.
You will learn to understand the message in pain.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . The continuation of this Michael centered rebirth au is finished as an even longer standalone on its own — so (not so) jolly reading GODLING here in ao3, to whomever were curious about its initial phase. @razonay since you asked to be tagged!
house of lamentation is alive and it loves you. you're not allowed to move out permanently even once you're married because the entire building starts trembling on its foundations and all the woodwork screeches and whines like its crying. if ever a brother has an argument with you every door starts conveniently shutting on his face and the carpet slips from under him as he tries to walk around
I'm surprised I haven't seen anyone mention it yet, but the Goetic demon (from the Lesser Key of Solomon), Paimon, actually holds a rather fitting profile for Nightbringer.
He's also the ninth after him (8th) on both lists. No musical parts are mentioned in Barbatos' section.
Adam's prior encounter with Nightbringer also adds to the trumpet choir part of evidence.
Most important detail here though;
We all know Nightbringer has been implied to be Barbatos for a good while now. There's good enough evidence supporting it, as well as even in-game characters verbally wondering aloud if the two are the one, and the same.
But could Paimon being the ninth right after Barbatos — while pertaining identical themes that of Nightbringer, can really be passed as mere coincidence, though?
`` I actually do like the mystery of it all, to be fair. Even if some are more pointed than the others.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gn reader as per canon, some scurrying, arguments and temporary animalian transformation.
𖤛 synopsis . . . | An accident in the potions class temporarily leaves you in the form of a cat. While having to figure out how to safely turn yourself back, there's a certain cat-fanatic(s) on your trail you'll also have to watch out for.
IT WAS A RELATIVELY normal day, until it wasn't, as it so happened to involve Solomon.
“Hey, [Name], pass me that vial, will you?” he'd asked so innocently in the potions class. (You should've never partnered up with him.) You nodded and reached over, placing it on the table in front of you.
“Thank you.” He smiled at you halfway, closing his book. “Now, let's —”
“Solomon, not that one —”
You tried to stop him, of course, being the good samaritan you were, but it was a pointless act in itself — as by the mere flick of his finger, the wrong vial was lifted into air and poured its venom into the bowl. Far too gracefully for the situation.
Your half-attempt to stop him only causes him to bump and drop the other one he was holding in his hand prior. He didn't even get to explain its properties to you, for God's sake. It was now swirling ominously in the ‘unknown substance cocktail’.
… .
… …
.. .
You stared at each other for a moment. He coughs into his palm. “We can bring another —”
“Mammon, you damned moron, give it back!” you hear Levi's agitated shout, followed by approaching footsteps your way.
“Nu-uh! I can sell this at the market and become the billionaire you could only dream of being in your wet dreams!”
“You idiot, that's RAD property, now give —”
You slowly turn around, just in time to witness Solomon's gobsmacked expression as Mammon's backpedalling form crashes against his back. A lone tear threatens to spill through your tear ducts.
Unwilling for this to become a full-time disaster, you throw yourself over to catch the ‘unknown substance cocktail’s case holder, god forbid it spills onto a poor, unsuspecting student in its merciless way.
Well, an attempt was made.
It spilled on you. All over you.
Mammon shrieks across the room, followed by more objects clashing and dropping to the ground. “Ya klutz! Why the hell are you diving onto the air —”
His greedy hands reach down to sit you up, but are met with nothing. “Huh? Wha —”
“[Name]!” Solomon pushes him aside (more akin to shoving him back by an ungently smack to the face.) “[Name]?! What happened to you?”
His hands search around the only remaining evidences of your existence while the other students gather around behind him into a half-curious, concerned huddle. He pushes through and pulls up your RAD uniform… ..
“... Nooo way. No way. This must be a fever dream. Uh-huh.” Levi turns away to stare at the wall, questionably stoic faced. Solomon picks up the overfluffed ball of a cat under its armpits, and raises it into air, humming to himself in deep thought. A tiny chorus of gasps fill the room.
“Yo, Solomon! The heck did ya have to push me over for?!” Mammon semi-fixes his already crumpled and messy shirt, all brows furrowed and stomping over to him, grabbing his shoulder to look over it. “why are you so quiet all of a sudden —”
“We have to hide them from Satan.” Levi interrupts him, much to his brother's disbelief at the sight ahead of him. “If he sees them like this.. Ohhh… no! NO! I don't even want to imagine the atrocious but utterly adorable things he'd do with them!”
“For once, I'm glad you've butted in, Levi.” Solomon smiles in that unreadable way, securing your smaller disgruntled form under his other arm while picking up the rest of your uniform into a bundle. “I'm afraid that if he sees this, he might never let them transform back into their human form at all. His curses aren't to be underestimated.”
He turns to Mammon with a chilly smile. “Hold their clothes for me, will you?” Mammon looks like he'd both been told to face the guillotine and to have won the jackpot, quickly grabbing the attire while Solomon turns back to the rest of the class. “You saw nothing. Back to class.”
The rest of the student body go back their seats and what they were doing, moving in sync. Levi pales. “Jeez… that's even creepier to see in real life…”
Now, back to present. Only you, Levi, Mammon and Solomon were aware of this little predicament as of yet, and a secret they were trying to keep it as. Until they safely figured out a solution, that is. (And totally not to mess with you a little before they do so. A picture or two. A squeeze of a paw to watch the surprisingly sharp talons appear like a wolf in sheep's disguise, it was harmless things, really.)
“Why am I the one carrying their clothes!?” Mammon grumbles loudly as they walk through the hall, looking over his shoulder back and forth, because he can't stay inconspicuous for the love of him. “Not that I'm complaining, of course. But when do I get to hold ‘em, too?”
“Can't you just be quiet,” Levi hisses, nearly animalian in tone as he grits his teeth. He'd been reduced to a mere witness.
“Wow, I can feel the sheer hatred bouncing off of his back. I better make some distance.” Solomon muses like he's talking about the weather, while Mammon gulps and clutches the uniform closer to his heart.
You, meanwhile, were placed inside Solomon's bag. Luckily, it was big enough to contain your masses of self-suffocating fur. You licked away at your coat to make your undercoat-fluff flatten down —it was kind of getting in your nostrils —and you ended up with getting your tongue stuck on it halfway instead.
Solomon laughed at you. You chucked his ‘An Introduction to Devildom Cuisine & Recipes for Newbies 101’ book out of your stuffed space. He nearly dropped you in his haste to collect it back along the way, and you were never quite taken as seriously for the rest of the temporary outing.
“Yo, Levi! Stop poking your fingers into the bag!” Mammon accuses harshly with a pointed finger when Levi freezes, quickly retracting to himself. “Don't think we don't see you tryin’ to pet ‘em!”
“How scandalous, Levi —” Solomon sighs. Levi turns even redder and sputters.
“Cut it! Don't act like you weren't subtly hugging the bag to yourself either!”
“I have no idea what you're talking about. Also —”
“Why do YOU get to hold the bag, anyway?” Mammon interrupts him. He shoots him a look that he returns staunchly.
“Because it's my bag, Mammon?”
“No fair! I have a bag too! Let me carry them, you'll probably trip and drop them, anyway.”
“Not a chance.”
“Well… I… I would carry them very carefully, too! Why should either of you even get to hold them —”
You've heard enough of this tirade. While they're busy bickering with each other, you quickly poke your head out of the bag and jump onto the ground. Luckily, they seem to be getting way too invested in their heated discussion to notice your escapade. You'll have to find a better place or someone to hang around until you can figure out how to change yourself back.
Traversing through the students legs isn't easy, but thankfully it's already the end of most classes. Some try to pick you up or even bite a good chunk of you. They fail, of course, because underneath those fur that need to be trimmed — are claws sharper than their wit. With a swipe or two, they yelp and drop you. You take that time to run off, once again —they're still demons, after all. You doubt it's a good idea to piss anyone off in this state.
Standing in front of RAD's council room, you close your eyes briefly in despair. Then begin furiously pawing at the door until, about nearly a full minute later —someone— opens the door for you. They look around in confusion, then, down at you from the other side of the door.
“My my.” Barbatos tilts his head slightly to the left with a contemplative look on his face. “I wasn't aware we were expecting tiny guests.”
“What is it, Barbatos?” Diavolo leans over his shoulder —when did he get there so fast— and blinks in surprise, once, before breaking out into a hearty laugh at the sight of you by their feet. “[Name]? You're a cat now?”
“[Name]? Whatever do you —” Barbatos looks shocked. Then stares down at you, even more contemplatively than before. Probably already calculating how big of a headache this could turn to.
“Well! Let them in, Barbatos.”
He leans away from the door to let you pad through the doorway and into the spacious, richly lit room. You can feel both of their curious and thinly veiled amused gazes set on your back. You turn to them, poised.
“Meow.” I will explain everything, now. “Mrrow, meow.” Solomon’s fault. Well, everyone in that class, really. “Mrroo.” You're the only ones who can safely help me.
Diavolo sighs, although not even hiding the broad smile on his face. “As endearing your voice is to listen to, I'm afraid the language barrier poses quite an issue. [Name]’s knowledge of magic and curses are more than good enough to be able to turn themselves back —but I imagine this is why they must have come here.”
I should probably invest in animalian incantations…
“My Lord.” An icy smile curves Barbatos’ lips. Diavolo blinks through an invisible shudder. “I trust you didn't merely forget that I specialize in animal speech?”
“Oh. Not at all, Barbatos.” Diavolo looks off to the side. “Why don't you go ahead and translate it for me? It's been a while since I've seen your work. I'm curious if that dialect ever goes away without regular use…”
“As I was saying, my Lord.” Barbatos stands a little taller, then, looking down at you. “It seems an accident was done in the potions class. Hence their form. [Name] believes we're the best fit for the job of handling this. I must say, I'm a little honored.”
Diavolo's eyes gleam across the room, skittering to you like watery fireworks. Yeah, let's not let it get to our head, shall we?
“To seek our help, yes?” Barbatos queries to confirm. You nod. “Well, you're in good hands, not to worry. We were just about to finish up, so why don't you stay here until we're done?”
Diavolo looks like he has something to say on the matter, but a short glance from Barbatos quickly shuts him down. He walks back to his seat like a dog that's been standing in the rain for the past ten hours. “Let's quickly sign these, then.”
Well! Seems your detour wasn't such a bad plan after all. You idly sit on the ground while they write away on the remaining stack of reports. You feel like that's going to take a little while, though, so you look around for something to do in the meantime.
Perhaps you should try to prove yourself useful. Jumping on the desk stand where the rest of the cluttered pieces of paper and documents lay, you unintentionally startle them both. Diavolo clears his throat and bows his head completely into his work while Barbatos smiles at you politely. “Careful, now.”
“Mrow.”
He goes back to his own work. Or, well, tries to. You casually (but carefully) step over the objects to perch near Diavolo's papers. You're curious what he's reviewing. If you understand the material, using your lithe form, you could quickly get one and two done, surely.
You don't really get why Diavolo's shoulders are shaking and he's flexing his facial muscles so much (was that a tear in the demon Lord's eye?) but you pay no heed to it, continuing your indiscreet agenda.
Barbatos coughs into his gloved palm, and you briefly wonder if he's caught a fever. “My Lord, focus, please.” He does look a little red on the forehead —was that a vein popping on the line between his neck and ear? Oh… .
You can't even comprehend what's on the paper because they both keep acting strangely, but you digress. Peeking over a little more, a tortured, drawn out bemoaning nearly sends you jumping off the table.
“I can't do it!” Diavolo hunches over himself. You're not sure if he's about to keel over and puke, or if he's having an unfortunate case of a gastric episode. “Forgive me, Barbatos.. But I can't resist it anymore.”
“My Lord —?”
You're promptly lifted up and held closely against Diavolo's chest. You knew demons emitted their own unique warmth, but you didn't expect him to be a godforsaken live furnace.
It's actually pretty comfortable, if you'd say so yourself. Your pointy ears flatten back as his hands run over your head in a slow, repeating motion. They're just as warm, if not toasty.
“[Name] certainly would make a fine pet, wouldn't you agree, Barbatos?”
The Barbatos in question is fully facing the wall, hands twitching. He's still sorting through the reports, impressive… . But he looks miserable.
“My Lord. Don't tease my patience no longer.” He looks off to the side with a wistful little sigh. “They're distracting me enough as is.”
“But don't you just want to pet them, even once?” Diavolo smiles to himself, then down at you, and the sheer giddiness of it nearly gives you a heartburn enough to blackout. “They're so adorable. Well, they always are, but like this? It's a rare sight —and a chance one is not strong enough to let pass.”
Traitors! You yowl. In mind. You don't want to risk neither of their wrath, as unlikely that is to happen in your lifetime. Barbatos drops his document folder on the ground.
You close your eyes briefly. You've completely decapitated their focus and sanity. Now, they can't even get the last two reports signed down.
I bring disgrace to the student council! You climb over Diavolo's shoulder while he dons a surprised look on his face, one that mirrors Barbatos’. Before either of them can even process it, you've up and disappeared through the far end window that leads to the backyard. “[Name]! Wait!”
You're not sure which one of them was calling out to you, but what you know is that you're glad for your flexible attributes in this furry form. If you make it back safely enough, you could make a personal study of this. It'd make for a good essay… you're sure Satan would make a copy for himself.
“Ack —watch yourself!” A sharp voice breaks you out of your thoughts because you realize; you've bumped into someone's legs while turning a corner in the hallways.
“What is a stray feline…”You look up, almost offended. Mephistopheles squints his eyes down at you. “Well, you're one well groomed cat to be on campus. Where's your owner?”
“.......”
“Well, farewell to you…” he turns and walks away, head held high. Wait! This is basically the perfect chance presented to you on a silver platter. He's the most uninterested, thus; the safest to rely on for the moment.
You run after him and your intention was to stand in front of him, but instead you let out a half shriek when a stabbing pain shoots along your tailbone. You've gone and done it again; caught between his long legs —and he's accidentally stepped over your tail.
“Ah… ! What in the Devildom do you think you're doing, running in between my feet like that?” He's scolding you, but is managing to sound dangerously close to worried, despite his all too exasperated tone. “Huh?”
Making use of grave mistakes in the moment was, woefully, something you've come to master. So, with droopy ears —you stand back up, purposely making a show of limping your leg. Just dramatic enough to run over even of the most coldest of hearts. His stare hardens, as his arms automatically cross —
But he relents with a furrowed, guilty brow. “Curse my luck. I would've ignored today's fortune, if I knew I'd run into such a troublesome…” Your noise of pained complaint (you were being so extra. His heels had barely even struck your actual skin.) makes him clam up.
He looks around carefully before swiftly leaning down to pick you up —with surprising gentleness, might you add.
Then again, he did mention about owning a pet chihuahua, sometime ago…
Perhaps you were the cursed one, as only within two minutes you arriving inside the newspaper club's office, an obnoxiously loud bell was locked neatly around your neck. What is the meaning of this? Your unimpressed stare implied.
Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow and pointed a gloved finger at you. “You should be honored to even wear something of that quality in your rather —short, lifespan.” He proclaims, a proud smirk threatening to break across his lips. “If you hadn't adapted a hobby of running in between people's legs every five consecutive seconds, I wouldn't have to place that around your neck in the first place.”
Good god. Was this thing loud, too. It would give a dead giveaway of your location at all times. And who other than Satan himself knows the meaning behind that little twinkling noise? Of course…
“Take that time to reflect on your actions,” Mephistopheles readjusts his already neat, crisp-free gloves before moving to sit behind the desk. “Your owner —if you even have one, that is, will know where to come, should they be reminded of your absence. Here, I'll even leave a notice on the forum…”
You suppose the situation is salvageable enough. It's far from ideal, but perhaps if you hang around him long enough, someone will recognize you at one point or another, and finally get you back for a redoing spell.
So, you sit idly by.
Only half way through a few minutes does he stand up, wordlessly, and leaves the office, while you gape after his retreating form. Maybe you should have darted around his legs again to remind him of your existence that he just conveniently seems to forget. Truly, Mephistopheles was something else.
“Mephistopheles! We've brought the report you wanted —” the door opens after a knock or two, two set of footsteps following inside the space —while your flabbergasted self slowly turns to the intruders, in midst of a refuge seeking. “He's not here? Aw…”
That's Luke! And Raphael's with him, too. “We could just leave them at the desk. Send him a message afterwa— is that a cat, over there?”
Their slowly widening eyes sweep across the room to settle on you. You sigh internally.
“Aw… it is!” Luke approaches with gusto, both curious and delighted at the sight while Raphael follows behind with a similar complexion. “I didn't know he had a pet cat. I wonder if he's just found a missing cat, since he never mentioned bringing one here before…”
“We'll just have to ask him.” Raphael leans down to observe if you're hostile or friendly, then rubs around your ears. “Come, Luke. You can pet them too.”
No, you can't! You sit still, deadpan. I didn't give anyone permission..
“They're so soft!” Luke gasps faintly, and he's a little clumsy in the way he pats your smaller head, but you let them both be, for now. You're not malicious enough to scratch a child. “Their fur's so silky. And that bell around their neck looks really expensive…”
“Indeed. It's certainly well cared for.” Raphael flashes one of his rare smiles down at you, and you're about to tumble over your own fur before something outside the window catches your eye. “I'll admit that I've never came across a cat of this coat before —”
It's Satan! Devildom's sake, he's right below the backyard. And… It awfully looks like he's heading this way.
“Mroow!”
“Ah —” Raphael blinks in shock when you jump onto his elbow. “What has you so distressed, suddenly —?”
“Aww, look!” Luke laughs lightly and covers his mouth, while Raphael tentatively rises to his full height, careful of the cat climbing over his shoulder. “It probably feels safe with you! I heard Satan mention that before, from one of his books.”
“Safe… with me?” Raphael hums thoughtfully. “Even though I'm a stranger they just met? What an odd one.”
“Well… what are we going to do?” Luke asks, the hopeful tone and twiddling of his thumbs displaying his intentions. “It's taken such a liking to you… can't we… .?”
“Can't we what? Hey.” He sighs, retracting your little claws from digging into his hood. Oops. “Don't scratch that. I won't have time to sew that back properly within this week..”
“Can't we bring it with us!?” Luke bursts out, unable to hold it in. “Are we really going to leave it here by force?”
“Bold choice of words, Luke. This cat isn't ours. Did you forget?” Raphael rubs his temple. “We can't simply waltz in and walk away with someone else's —”
That won't do. Won't do at all. And you're set on getting out of here with either one of them, lest you fall victim to a even deranged demon of nature. Ignoring his questioning stare, you move over and plop yourself entirely in his hood, which rises the front and nearly strangles him —you really didn't mean that one— but he pulls you away gently, readjusting you in his hood by the shoulder instead. Resignedly. Great!
“I suppose we have no choice, when one is as adamant as this one.” He taps his chin. Luke practically jumps with joy; he's never had an animal to take care of, after all. Doing so for a day, at least, seemed a most temptingly exciting experience for him. “I wouldn't mind having it over for a while. We'll text Mephistopheles the details to spare any misunderstandings. Let's go then.”
The walk around the hallways is relatively peaceful. Probably the most peace you'd have today in record. You swat at the golden coils around Raphael's head leisurely while planning your next course of actions. You don't get much time to curate one, alas.
“Simeon! Simeon!” Luke all but dashes ahead once you've reached the campus and (oh no.), seemingly remembering something, pauses to walk back and pull Raphael by the sleeve ahead. “Look what we came across!”
Simeon turns to face you all as he stands in a half-crouch by a thorny flowerbed. He looks surprised. “Hm?”
“Luke, lower your voice.” Raphael admonishes, looking pained again. He feels like a zoo animal that has been put on the spotlight of curious judgement. “We mustn't bring attention to the little thing. I'm not even sure pets are allowed in Purgatory Hall.”
“Ack —sorry!” He doesn't look like he has time to be sorry. He's too excited right now. “I'll speak quieter.” He does promise that one, voice dropping to a whisper —holding a finger to his lips.
“Not that quiet, Luke.”
“Oh— is this better?”
“Just a little higher? Luke, now you simply look suspicious.”
“What! Suspicious? I… I think it's fine, Raphael! I don't see anyone around, anyway…”
They both turn to Simeon after a pause —who has been watching them in wry amusement all the while. “I am here. Thank you for noticing, you two..”
Brushing over their sheepish demeanor now, he tilts his head at Raphael. “So, I’m to understand that you've acquired a… ?” The silence drags out until Luke peeps in, earlier excitement back in gusto. “A cat! It's the fluffiest, tamest feline I've seen, Simeon!”
Your smaller head appears into the proper view beneath Raphael's hood.
Not to be a creep, also, but you couldn't help noticing (you were practically suffocating in the thing, for God's sake) that Raphael has a strange scent to him. The pattern speaks for itself with the others, too. It's not unpleasant to your nose, exactly, but its unfamiliar origin is harder to ignore when you are up this close. It's quite like how a human has her or his own scent —something uniquely theirs. You wonder if that is the same case for the angels. And the demons.
Musings aside, Simeon tilts his head contemplatively upon a half minute of examining you. Ah. You should probably make a better impression of being a ‘cat’ while under their care. You're not taking chances with them possibly running their mouths about your actual identity here under the initial appearance.
“I must say,” he begins, and you sweat a ton. All the fur still feels hard to get accustomed to. “Something about it feels quite familiar…”
He's already onto you, but are you surprised? No. Intimidated would be more correct. Nothing really gets past Simeon, doesn't it? You turn away from him to lick your paw. If there's something you know about cats, it's their attention span. You probably shouldn't stare at him for so long.
“Ah, I know what you mean!” Luke nods, a thoughtful finger underneath his chin. “I kind of… felt the same when I saw it. It's kinda weird, too. The cat, I mean.” That was as plain as a pikestaff. “I've never seen a cat behave like this one.” Raphael only hums in response, hands coming up to scritch under your chin.
You still with a barely perceptible twitch of the eye, then remind yourself of your manners. While you don't want to get caught, you're not exactly trying to put on a whole show for them, either. You don't even want to imagine how much fun they'd poke at you, later on.
So, you lean away from his touch —but remain seated. “Huh. It let me pet them before…?”
“Cats are moody.” Simeon smiles at the sight. “Let them be. But more importantly… Where did you find it?”
The pair glance at each other in brief but mutual hesitation. “Newspaper club's office. We were about to just hand in the papers, but it was empty… except for them.”
Raphael nods agreeingly at the tale. “They were sitting atop his desk. We were going to leave it be, but… it's quite insistent. A bit spooked, too.”
“Spooked?”
“Yeah, one moment it was all still,” Luke demonstrates with his hands, like retelling a great forbidden witnessing. “Then it yowled and scampered all the way to Raphael's shoulder! I'm not sure why it got so scared. So… we decided to let it sit on Raphael for a… a while! While we look for a solution, of course.”
Right.
“I see.” Simeon's smile has never faded. Warning bells ring off in your head. “I suppose there's no harm in letting it stay with us at the Purgatory Hall. Have you contacted Mephistopheles yet? You should let him know, as it was initially in his office, after all.”
“He probably knows something, too, now that I think about it!”
“We haven't. We were about to.” Raphael pulls out his D.D.D, and you balk a little at what is set as his background. He swipes through the notes app, retracts with a pause, and then, presses on the camera app.
The sight of him looking down at his screen —to himself, makes his eye twitch —but he sees you looking, too, which prompts him to turn his head at you now. You're too busy being half irritated that he still cuts a fine vision despite the unflattering angle to give him a reaction.
He goes back to his phone while the other two chat between themselves. Something about Barbatos stumbling into a student… . Luke looks unnerved at the memory. Rightfully so.
Raphael finally reaches the demmunication app, though, and sighs with visible relief. He's probably still getting used to navigating around a phone.
“Sent. Ah, he's online.” He squints. “Says we can go ahead and ‘take the trouble off his plate’. Wants the little decoration around their neck to remain undamaged, though.”
“Of course that'd be his worry…” Luke grumbles. “Does he know what's with the cat, then?”
Raphael shakes his head, the golden drops faintly hitting your face with the movement. “He's just as ignorant to the situation.”
Simeon steps closer to take a look at you. You avoid his eyes. “Too well-groomed to be ownerless, this little thing.” He lifts a hand to let you sniff it, a common ritual in acquiescing yourself to a cat, but he visibly deflates when you silently stare at him, and drops his hand back to his side with a weak cough.
Not only did he think the cat in front of him was entirely disinterested in him, but this was a clear sign of rejection, too. That's a special kind of pain on its own. You'll apologize to him later. Sorry, Simeon…
“We should head back to Purgatory Hall now, and figure something out during dinner. Classes are over already.” He surmises with a light smile. “There's nothing to worry about, you two.”
“Great!” Luke jumps a little like a certain type of dog that he has been referenced to, numerous times. “I was on dinner duty today, right?”
“Right, Luke. We're lacking a little on groceries right now, however, so I'll accompany you to the store.” Simeon pats his hat, to which he almost immediately retaliates.
“I was going to accompany Luke, too.” Raphael mumbles. “But you two can go ahead. I'll wait for Beel.”
“Huh —Beel?”
“——Busted a button on his sanctioned uniform. He's dropping by us so I can quickly sew it back together.” He wrinkles a brow. “My kit's in my room. I should probably get a smaller case, for situations like this…”
“That's a good idea, Raphael.” Simeon smiles something softer, patting his arm once or twice. “I trust the cat will be in safe hands?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Raphael straightens his pose, pocketing the D.D.D. “We'll be going straight to Purgatory Hall, so there's no need for concern.”
“I'm aware, but…” Simeon trails off with the untold thought, then shakes his head and herds Luke ahead of himself. “We won't take long.” He boops your little wet nose, seemingly satisfied. “I'll even browse through some cat food. There should be plenty of options, I'm sure…”
The pair prattle on amongst themselves as they disappear inside the halls.
Raphael sighs and pinches between his brows. “Honestly… Beelzebub better not make me wait long.” His darkening mood somewhat endears to something more compliant when you swat at his golden coils. You simply like the noise they make when clashing against another. It's a neat little ornament.
Luckily, you both don't have to wait long until another pair of footsteps come into view. That's Beel, and… Asmodeus. Huh.
“Haaa-y! There you are.” Asmo saunters past Beel to reach Raphael, grasping him by the arm. “We've been just looking for you. Beel guessed right when he said you'd be here.”
“Let go of my arm, Asmo.” Raphael looks irritated again, then lifts his head to spot Beel. “Beel. You're right on time, fortunately enough this time…”
Beel finally reaches the rest of you and says something. He probably meant to say ‘that's good to hear’, but it sounds like any other unintelligible nonsense he can spout at times. He's too busy gorging on a hellburger to spare a proper response. Seems Raphael is enough used to this as he makes no further comments, but Asmo's shrill gasp jolts them both a little.
“Raphael, sneaky dear,” he pokes a well-manicured nail towards you —not quite touching, just enough to gouge out if you're friendly or not. “Have you been hiding this angel all to yourself, the entire time?”
Beel steps closer to see what he's pointing at, and only when he really notices you perching just a little beneath the other's hood does he pause. He blinks a little in surprise. “You have a pet?”
“I… we —” Raphael pushes Asmo's hand away gently, having to formulate yet another explanation for his demise, visibly stressing him out. You watch him in something like pity. “Luke and I found it today. They're under our care until we figure out if they have an owner or not.”
“Aw, how kind hearted of you!” Asmo's smiles are sharper, despite being genuine. “You don't mind if I tag along with Beel, do you? I was meaning to speak with Moonie, anyway.” He picks at his nails, a bit irate. “He's been ignoring my calls all day. The nerve of him.”
“Moonie…?” Raphael trails off. Beelzebub mumbles ‘Solomon’ loud enough for him to catch, and he sighs. “You can come. Just don't cause a ruckus.”
Asmodeus’ eye twitches in his momentary falter. “A ‘ruckus’? What do you take me for?” He steps closer to flick imaginary dust off Raphael's shoulder, flashing his knife-end canines. Somehow, they only add to his natural charm. “You'll be fine so long as you don't get caught in the hypothetical ruckus, I assure you.”
Missing the terse air, and the stare-off between the two —Beel raises some crackers in his hand towards you. They smell toasty and barbecued. “Want some?”
In disbelief, Asmo turns to Beel. “Did you really —”
You snap the cracker in two within a single bite, ignoring the pointedly bewildered stares you get from your party. You were right. It's one of your favourite flavors. That, and you missed lunch completely…
“Raphael, you found this kitty where again?” Asmodeus looks increasingly perplexed. The kind of concerned perplexity where your answers may just become a bone thrown into a loaded minefield, either way.
“Newspaper club's office.” Raphael sighs. “Look, we can discuss this at —”
“I've never seen a cat eating junk food.” Beel interrupts him, strangely serious. When did he even finish his burger? “At least, none that actually accepted when I offered. That means —”
“——It's starving!” Asmo finishes his sentence with a startlingly agitated energy. “I remember it from Satan. Always nose-deep in his cat behavioural journals… they don't eat things like this unless they're really out of options.”
“It was eyeing the crackers. I saw its nose flare.” Beel half-heartedly adds in a defense at Raphael's gaze. You deadpan.
“You make… sensible points, for once.” If it was any more possible, Raphael looks even more haggard. “No matter. Simeon and Luke promised to bring meals befitting to a cat's diet.”
Asmodeus relaxes, if only slightly, a hand resting on his hip idly —drumming fingers along the neat fabric. “Is that so?”
“Yes. They went to fill in some grocery shopping to complete tonight's dinner. They'll be back soon, so we should get going too.” Raphael is already moving to leave, done with the whole farce.
“Hold the thought.” Asmo straightens his pose haughtily. “And you said you'd found the little thing at Mephistopheles’ office?”
“That is what I said, yes.”
Asmo treads a finger over the fine linen along the collar around your neck. You didn't even notice his hand approaching…
“That's Mephistopheles’ property, too.” Raphael narrows his eyes. “I don't know why or how he had that just lying around, but it's quite an expensive adornment. I thought I saw the Lord's seals beneath the casing.”
“So he had the time to glamorize the poor little thing,” You can almost see the simmering swirls of anger gathered along his form, the pitch in his normally playful voice dropping a rare octave. “But couldn't even feed it a little?”
“That's unacceptable.” Beel seems to agree with the sentiment, if the way he was gripping the box of crackers —to now stuffing them in your face spoke at all. “The cafeteria isn't far from his office. That's negligent.”
Raphael looks just about to collapse, but he holds himself surprisingly well, pushing Beel's hand away. “Get yourselves together, now. He said he'd found and placed it in the office just minutes prior before he had to step out, and we came in.”
“Well… that makes more sense, but still —” Beel looks a little crestfallen for you. You appreciate the concern, really, it's sweet even that they're fussing this much —but right now you just need to get going from RAD grounds already.
Asmo still looks wholly displeased, arms crossing, but he's retracted more to himself now. Certainly, Solomon won't be the only one getting an earful tonight, it seems.
At long last, the trek back to Purgatory Hall resumes. Thankfully, no one notices you passing through the gates —and the few that do pay you no much mind, if at all.
Beel still stops by some stands on the midnight markets to have a ‘on-sale’ snacks, both for himself and, endearingly, a separate portion on your behalf, too. He's even asked the seller to leave out spice or anything of the sort, worrying for your appetite. It's a small thing, but… honestly, you still can't help but be touched by the gesture.
You can only accept the delicate offerings while in his arms, though, as Raphael immediately opposed to the idea of you chewing right in his ear, as well as dropping crumbs in his hood.
It wasn't all too bad being in Beel's hold now —if he could be a little more careful with not dropping snaps and pieces of food on your head. Noticing this, Raphael takes you back in his hood to settle comfortably between his shoulders.
You half-heartedly lick his cheek (direct translation: thank you) and he jumps a little. An uncharacteristically gentle smile blooms on his countenance soon as his eyes lock on you. “Don't worry. The food at Purgatory Hall is unlike any other.” He whispers. “I specifically asked for Solomon's hand in tonight's supper as a secret surprise, so rest assured that you won't go hungry any longer.”
Aaaaa?
“Mrooow!” You smack Raphael in the cheek with your forepaw, as if he might understand your alarmed prophecy. He takes it to mean you're excited instead. “That tickles. Please settle down now, though.”
Alright. This calls for a change of plans. You kick up and jump down from Raphael's hood while he's distracted by window shopping into a pair of odd-looking yarns, humming to himself in deep contemplation.
You cast a look around. The streetlights are alight with colorful hues, displaying some of the residents' beloved stores. The trio is busy selecting the seasonal special ice creams. It's one of those that work similarly as a fortune cookie. You pale inwardly at the last memory of when you received a lucky coupon and quickly skitter through many legs to turn another path.
Your journey is less gentle this time around. You bump into countless legs in your unused gait and get a few occasional kicks — just an irritated shout or two, if you're lucky. As aggravating your position is, you have to find a safer area with less people around.
The local library is the top candidate. It's the quietest corner, and you doubt Satan will be there. When he wants a book, he'll usually waltz into the royal library at the castle. Quality and trustworthy source material are vital in his studies, after all.
You just hope that this won't be the one time he decided to drop by to return another book… And, well. Would you look at that… there's a pen rapidly rolling towards you across the alley.
You'd think it a mere pen if it wasn't hurtling towards you with the intensity of a… well, you'd be damned.
Wham!
Letting out a grunt, you swat at your head where you got hit. It's not like you were just standing still, either. The accursed thing even thought (were you really anthromorphizing a magical pen, now?) to swerve when you turned and bulldogged straight into you. At least it wasn't aimed from the tip… though, it did peril some strange ornaments on its casing…
“Hey! You little thief! Give me that back, it's not for you!” A feminine voice rings out behind. You freeze, forepaw resting idly on the newly-deceased pen on the ground. The voice gets closer until you can see who it is. “Don't — ack! No! You ruined my precious prototype…”
You straighten up with a haughty air as if that might refute her claim, unimpressed and, frankly speaking, a little butthurt. Literally. You hope nobody saw that startled fall. She doesn't seem like she has, so that's a win in your book.
“Mrow.”
“Don't talk to me, beastie.” Thirteen sighs deeply, picking up the motionless pen. “This was supposed to be a gift for [Name]... They kept losing their pens, that klutz. I don't usually work on trinkets like this, anyway. But I'm not about to let anyone else steal my idea, either.”
(Mammon had a tendency to think using your pen produced him with more productivity. Belphegor crushed his own several times by sleeping on them haphazardly. Even the Lucifer you thought would know better snapped his pens into two when someone interrupted him mid-lesson.)
How sweet of her! A pen that will always find its way to you… wait…
“Hey! What's wrong with you?!” You climb her legs, unintentionally digging your claws into skin (Thirteen was definitely holding back from flinging you across the pew.) and grab onto the pen with your maw. The two of you scuffle for a short while. She eventually relents and lets go, much to your relief. “Seriously, what's up with this cat? Do you have a few screws loose or something? Damn it.”
She peers over your shoulder as you drag the tip against the pavement. “That still holds magic to it, you know. Pompous kitties like you shouldn't mess with this type of stuff. Where even…” her words trail off at the sight of the scraggly writing. She squints.
“[Name] is… me? Huuuh? Wait, are you for real?” She gasps. “Then again, you do kinda sport that familiar coat… and something about your presence.. But whatever!” She casually picks you up, inspecting you over curiously. “How'd you get into this tinny form, anyway? Aren'tcha supposed to be a great sorcerer?”
You can only respond with a low snarling — one that you quickly run out of breath from. You settle for a throaty warning instead. Still, it comes out as more of a guttural wheeze than anything remotely threatening. You hang limp in her hold with an expectant gaze.
“Leeet me guess,” She smirks — of course. Sigh. You should've seen this coming. “You want my help, don't you? Of course you do, seeing as you're scurrying about like a mouse around.” That one makes your eye twitch. “You're rather cute in this state, too. I might just toy around with you for a little more. What do you say?”
“Mrooow!”
“Yes?” No! In fully capitalized letters no! “Well, I do have nothing interesting in particular to do right now, so I can spare you the time to hang around a little.” Thirteen grins, envisioning herself a rather great saviour. “I might even help you out in the end.”
As she holds you more properly in her hold and resumes her walk back the way she came, you perk up at the possibility of getting help. She glances down at you in amusement. “You can't go around breaking my toys, though. And my other projects. You get that? You'll just end up hurting yourself anyway. As long as you behave and don't break my precious work, I'll see what I can do about this little furry form of yours.”
You quieten down after that.
Not conventional by any means, but you can trust Thirteen to keep her promises.
“So! Since you can't really talk, let me fill this boring silence with the crafts I came up today.” She gestures wildly — tries to — then retracts when remembering you're in her grasp. “You saw that pen from before, right? So, I actually conjured up its own mechanism. It's sort of closer to a clockwork invention since it has two properties at work; magia and mechanism. They're annoyingly tricky, though! So, when you infuse those together… ..”
You listen to her chatter away about the pen's inner workings. It'd be a little more bearable if her voice didn't carry the loud strength of a megaphone and your eardrums weren't the size of an organelle. Each sense you have is heightened to a keen degree — hearing and scent feeling the most sensitive so far.
“... And that's why I have to be really careful of its cognitive function. It just carries a singular task to be within your reach, the strongest part of today's headaches — but you can disable it or summon it anytime!” Her hand idly strokes between your ears, much to your chagrin. “That's partly why I wanted to bring you along, you know.. I'm deciding whether I should instill it with complex problem solving knowledge when it gets stuck or taken from you afar. The issue is how well it can carry it out without, you know… spontaneously bursting from the spot?”
She sighs heavily, pausing over a railing that looks over the city lights — twinkling like the dust of starfall. “It’s better left to carry this solution without the incantations. Magia is a tricky thing, no matter how small.”
She releases you so you can perch over the stone-cold railing, blinking over the looming horizon. “In a place like this, where about anywhere is bustling with remnants of bygone folk and curses alike, I'd rather not risk you as the target of a crazed pen. Hey.” She grimaces. “Don’t look at me like that. I'll run it through a few trials and errors before I'll actually give it to you, anyway. Don't you underestimate how great I am.. I'm sure you're honored! Aren't you?”
You nod haggardly. Her grin widens. “That's what I thought. But, you know… I was wondering since I saw you in the alley. Where's your — ?”
“Where's their owner?” Comes an unnervingly calm voice behind Thirteen, the click of their oxford shoes carrying an unhurried grace. “I'm quite curious about that mystery myself, you see.”
Thirteen has such a subtle jolt that you suspect only your own keen eyes could even notice it. She turns around with a surprised look on her face that quickly morphs to annoyance. She doesn't bother to hide it at all.
You shuffle behind her, still, hoping you aren't visible… but you know it's futile.
“Satan? Of course you of all demons would blindly follow someone that's got a cat with them.” No, Thirteen, you aren't supposed to so blatantly give me out… “How long have you been tailing us, huh? Did you so badly want a run-in with one of my greatest inventions? Do you want me to throw one at you right now?”
When you peek over Thirteen's elbow, you almost fall over the edge from the chill you just got. That man's smile is anything but benevolent.
He catches your gaze for a split second, and his lips twist upwards. Ah. Hypothetically, how many bones could you break if you jumped from this height… ?
“I'm more interested in what's behind you right now, actually.” Satan folds his hands together, taking a step closer. “It’s something of mine…”
“Hey! It's too late to act like you don't know who that is!” Thirteen plants her feet firmly on the ground, raising an eyebrow at him. “And ‘yours’? Don't make me laugh! Hey, how about you turn around and go away? Watch your mouth while you're at it.”
“Why don't you watch your own sarcasm cues? I'm just poking fun at them right now, I don't actually mean it literally.” He pinches between his brows, impatience glinting in his slowly narrowing eyes, and sighs.
“Look. It's late and it's time for [Name] to go back home. I know you want to play with them… but keep in mind that they're not in the same form that can hold fatigue for long.” A sympathetic smile. Hook, line… “Everyone's been terribly worried and looking for them since this morning. Hmm. I imagine it also would be quite a scene if I just took a picture of you both and sent it to Solomon, who's already halfway into your cave, wouldn't it?”
And sinker.
Thirteen pauses, mouth hanging open before exclaiming loudly; “UGH! You and that damned sorcerer!”
She turns to you quickly, gripping under forearms and leaning down with a barely concealed irritation. “Sorry we didn't get to have our fun for long. I still enjoyed walking around with you looking like this, though.”
As she turns to basically seal the deal, you start kicking up a fuss. At least teleport me elsewhere! Alas, no one can hear your inner thoughts or understand your agonized yowling. Sigh. You certainly have your work cut out for you today.
Satan has the nerve to look triumphant, though, so that motivates you kick your forepaw a little harder against his reaching hands. Not that it deters him in the slightest. He handles your thrashing form gently and secures you carefully in a hold that makes it hard for you to move much.
“Don't think I'll forget this!” Thirteen’s fading voice calls out behind her, already running down the other way. “I'll just…. at you a thousand times harder… !”
“Sure. We'll see about that.” Satan replies half-heartedly, unblinking gaze locked on you. “Now… let's go home, shall we?”
Soon as this is over, you swear to find a curse that ails everyone nearby into extinction… This is going to be an even bigger headache now.
While Satan has the decency to not flat out start flinging you around from excitement, he did not hold back once you safely reached past Hol and into his room. Yes. He didn't even bother to notify anyone. You were faintly sure Mammon must be ripping his hairs out by now.
Then again, you weren't in any better circumstance to pity him right now…
“Just one belly flop? Please?” Satan pleads, his tail swishing and thumping over a fat stack of documents over the edge when you do something that he finds particularly adoring. He holds one camera in one hand, the other; some cat toys.
“But you're so... Pinchable. Very cute, if I say so myself. Aren't you?” You swat away his hand that tries to pinch your cheeks. “Even as indignant as you are, you're still cute. May I see your nails a touch closer? Just one squeeze? Surely I'm not asking for much.”
Good lord. You turn away from him and instead focus on a cracked point in the clutters of his books.
“I promise to carry out any request you might find yourself needing if you just…” he clasps his hands together. “Please! I won't show the picture to anyone else. It's just for me. I have to immortalize this moment…”
Your withering glare makes him cough. Do you think that makes it better?
“Alright, fine. No belly flopping. But how about this collar?” He showcases it to you with a proud curve of his mouth. Then falters. “Oh, you were already wearing one, weren't you…”
Silence.
“Who put it on?”
You close your eyes. You don't get paid to be dealing with this. You trot over to sharpen your claws against a small sofa of his — and Satan sputters in shock behind you. “My sofa.. No, no, never mind. This is just as cute. I'll…” he pulls out his D.D.D and you let him be, since this is nowhere near as humiliating as before.
Somewhere along the line, Satan started chasing you through the tight space for a pet. You perch atop his bookshelf and swat at his hands poking your forepaw when the door bursts open.
“What the.. I locked the door for a reason, you know?” Satan turns around, immediately grimacing. “You of all people are even less exempt to this, Lucifer.”
Lucifer looks furious.
“You know full-well what you did. Don't you dare to try making excuses now.” There's that dark aura emanating off of him like vaporizing waves of fog… “Do you know for how long they've been missing? We tore through the entire RAD grounds for them, just for you to secretly keep them here?”
“Stop exaggerating. Just because you're clinically-paranoid doesn't mean we have to suffer from it, you know.” Satan smiles mockingly at him. “[Name] lives with us. Why wouldn't you think to consider first that they would be back here?”
A vein pops in Lucifer's forehead. Uh oh.
“It seems you need a reminder why. I'll gladly remind you of the kind of place you're living in.” You turn away from Lucifer's malevolence. “A lone animal who also happens to be a human in disguise, amongst hundreds of demons… yes, that would go quite smoothly, don't you think?”
You can see Satan's tail starting to thump heavily against the ground the more he talks. Wait, when did he turn into his demon form again? “You forget yourself, as always, Lucifer. Fortunately for you, I'm nowhere near as incompetent as you to fail tracking down our valued housemate, and ensuring their safety.”
“Incompetent, you say?” Lucifer smiles. It's not the kind of smile you'd celebrate getting out of him. Perhaps Satan would, though. “If we're talking about incompetence, I have quite a few things to go over, if you'd like. Shall I?”
“The stage's all yours.”
Why can't anyone be normal in this house? Screw that, not one single person you've encountered so far have behaved… although, you can use the hostile air to your advantage.
WHAM!
Or, well, as your safety exit route. They certainly are at it now. You duck underneath a bundle of flying books — cursed books, you note. Cursed books specifically at wait for Lucifer.
Yes. Now's a time as good as any to leave before you get caught up in the destruction. Thankfully, they are too engaged in their to notice a certain someone else slipping inside to whisk you away.
“Psst,” Belphegor intonates, laying on his stomach for some reason, then full-on catcalling you instead. “Psspssps. [Name], come over here.”
You sigh and it comes out as more of a huff as you skitter towards his outstretched hands. He hides you in his hood and crawls backwards stealthily with a kind of speed you sometimes forget he has. He slips outside safely just as another sound of vase breaking echoes inside.
“Out of danger-zone.” Belphegor announces to no one, standing fully again — as straight as he can, with that familiar slight slouch. He turns his head to look at you with a warm smile. “These two are so annoying, aren't they? I'm glad I got to you in time. Let's get back to my room.”
Ignoring the eerie smile, and that he isn't actually heading to his shared room, you blink and settle back in his hood. He laughs a few times quietly. Your fur tickle the nape of his neck, after all. Something a little warmer grows in your chest in a long while since today.
“I was curious what all the fuss was about,” Belphegor says once you reach the threshold of the attic room, closing the door securely. “I just thought, ‘they were probably dragged into something by Mammon again’, and that was that. Then I saw Solomon and Mammon in a heated discussion of sorts near the gates… and the group-chats starting to pile up…”
He deposits himself on the well-cushioned bed to lay on his back, pulling you out of his hood to dangle you mid-air under your armpits. He shakes you a little and laughs when you outstretch your front forepaw to swipe at him.
“I was actually getting worried, you know?” He sighs, bringing you down to boop his nose against your smaller wet one. “They didn't specify what happened, either. Just an accident. That's what made it so… terrifying, for a moment. Too many implications that could be true. I didn't like that at all.”
“Mrow.”
“I know, I know. That must've been terrible, huh?” He moves to put some pillows behind his head, holding you against his cold cheek. “Well, it's fine now. You can stay here as long as you need until you turn yourself back. But…”
But… ?
“Aren't you too cute like this?” He hums, as if it's a genuine question. “I bet you'd be even cuter as a lamb. So, hey… just stay here for a bit, okay? Don't go slipping out anywhere. We'll take a nap.”
He let's you go — only to rest his head on your stomach. He's leaning than anything, but he's still a little heavy… though honestly, after such a troublesome day, you think it's not too bad of an idea to actually wind down and close your eyes for a while.
And so you do.
Slowly, exhaustion takes its grip on your consciousness, and you slip into a comfortable darkness. You faintly hear Belphie's tail swishing back and forth languidly. He's probably in an even deeper sleep than you right now, though that's hardly news.
. . . …
.. . .
“I should've known better than to take my eyes off of you for a minute. I'm glad he stayed inside the house, at least..”
Your eyes snap open. How much time has passed? Your bleary eyes blink up to the intruder. Lucifer crosses his arms as he scrutinizes the scene before him.
“You have the gall to be purring in your sleep, too, hm?” He runs a rough hand through his hair — which looks a little more disheveled than what you're used to seeing, even while living under the same roof. His narrowed eyes scrunch up even more when he looks at Belphegor's deeply asleep state, half atop your smaller portion. “Hmph.. No matter.”
He easily replaces your place with a pillow underneath Belphegor's head, holding you under one arm. He doesn't look happy with Belphie's catnapping, but it seems he can't stay mad for long, if by the way he draws up more blankets around him is of any indication. He sighs once he's done. “Let's get going. I'm exhausted.”
“Mrow.”
“Be quiet. You don't want to wake or alert anyone.” Hey, maybe you do. “We're going to my office.”
Once he finally reaches his office with you under his arm in tow, his steps noticeably quieter, he drops you on the cushioned chair and rummages through his desk drawer. You clean your under-coat in the meantime and listen to the firelight crackling nearby. It's strangely quiet. The others must be either still outside, or getting some rest. Who was on dinner duty, again?
Faintly, you wish well for Asmo and Beel's wellbeing…
When Lucifer draws his head back to look at you, holding an opened page of a book, you clean your fur a little more meticulously, just out of spite. He pinches between his brows.
“If you want to take revenge, I'm afraid you'll have to come up with something more severe than that petty act.” He shuts the book and struts to you, a great shadow now looming over you with his height. “Or did you forget I'm wearing gloves?”
You pay him no mind.
“Hmph. So be it. Though, I'll have a word with you later about your attitude. And — don't you hiss at me. I've gone through all this trouble and secured you from these troublemakers to turn you back, and this is sort of gratitude I get?”
“Mrow.”
“Stop your yammering. Honestly…” he sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning down to your height. “What are you planning on doing if I don't help you now, hm? I expect you to act more accordingly to your situation.”
He picks you up by the scruff of your neck and sits down in his desk to deposit you in his lap, one hand ungloved to rest atop your head. The other anchors your weight by your stomach.
Your eyes twitch in irritation.
“No one will come here tonight, don't worry.” You absolutely will. “I'll look after you in the meantime. So stop squirming around.”
Are you even planning to turn me back? You want to demand, but fall into a silent fury instead. His deft hand work its ministrations between your ears, and while he can clearly see how much they're bent back (globally classified as the ‘airplane-ears’), he cares little for it — it seems.
He has the wits to even curl his lips into that cunning smirk of his, as well. It's unbelievably infuriating. “Oh, you're fuming… Well, the reversal spell should take only about —”
Your angel in the form of a envy-wrecked Leviathan barges into the room, just in minutes. Huh, Lucifer just mentioned a spell, though. When did he even get to do that? Probably when you were too immersed in your cleansing procedure. The bastard was just toying with you.
“Lucifer! You absolute…”
“Lower your voice. Didn't I tell you not to —”
“... You're the LOWEST lifeform on this planet!” Levi interrupts him, watching and regarding him by the door as if he came across a homewrecker in real-time. He's nearly beet-red from anger, gripping the door’s hinges until they start to crack inwardly. “You took [Name] all to yourself, and not one of you told me! You're all… I can't believe how trashy you all can be sometimes, but this is a new low!”
Lucifer's hand continues stroking your head, completely unperturbed, if not a little iffed. “What do you take me for? I already said I got it under control. You have nothing to complain about.” His hand pauses, tone lowering an octave. “This is partly your fault, need I remind you? You were in the same class. Instead of being careful and watching over each other as you should, you and your idiotic brother were too busy fooling around. Now you —”
“I wasn't fooling around!” Levi rebukes. “In fact, I deliberately tried to stop Mammon from bumping into Solomon and.. and dropping that vial into the bowl!”
“Yes.” Lucifer leans back in his chair, tightening his grip when you dig your claws into the fabric of his dark pants. “And you failed.”
Levi stares wide-eyed at Lucifer, slack-jawed.
“If you have nothing better to say, go back to your room.” Lucifer releases your mid-section to pull some RAD related documents closer, putting on a pair of reading glasses to look over his desk, then give Leviathan a sharp glare. “I'm willing to overlook this incident since [Name] suffered no perilous injuries, but I expect better from you in the future. We're lucky that they didn't turn into something more fragile. How did you intend to relatively watch over them, then? In fact, bring Mammon here as well. It seems you're both overdue for a manner of discipline.”
“You're really…” Leviathan hangs his head low, trembling. “You really are just…”
“Am I what? Finish your sentence.”
“The most irritating, arrogant, self-absorbed PIECE of work!” He bursts, completely in his demon form now. You begin to sweat. “I — Leviathan, avatar of envy, summon —”
“.... ! Wait —”
“LOTAN!”
Splash!
For a few long, disorienting seconds, you're in a storm. A blinding blue is all you can see, as well as the asphyxiation — before all crashes down into something wet and muddied. Water dribbles from the ceiling.
The hearth has been completely snuffed. Every document, save for the bookshelves (he had probably cast a protective spell on them beforehand) was thoroughly soaked. Lucifer sits still in his chair, streaks of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
As for you, well… You're back in your human form, standing in the middle of the room. You kind of flew out of Lucifer's momentary faltering grip and landed somewhere else.
But right now… there's only one thing that you want to do.
“You're… back to yourself..?” Leviathan slumps by the door hill, peering at you with a guilty look. Lucifer shoots him a withering glance and opens his mouth when both parties freeze. Footsteps down the hall.
“Oh, Lucifer!” Diavolo strides past Leviathan after a quick nod, as if this is completely usual. “You're completely soaked.”
“Indeed. And [Name] seems to have turned back into their human self.” Barbatos appears by his side, quick as a shadow.
“Oh, you're right!” Diavolo blinks, stepping further inside while more footsteps thunder close. “How are you feeling, [Name]? Anything out of place? We were just dropping by the street, but we heard quite a ruckus and.. I got concerned, of course.”
“I don't believe it! You were just hopin’ to sneak in to probably kidnap [Name]!” Mammon stands next to Levi with an accusatory, exhausted edge in his voice, balking at all the wet interior. “The hell happened here?”
Leviathan looks off to the side. “Hey, this your doing? Sheesh! What a soppin’ mess, man… Lucifer probably deserved it, though.”
“I wish you didn't do this with [Name] inside, at least.” Belphegor steps in behind Leviathan, looking like he just woke up. He leans his weight against Levi out of convenience while rubbing his eyes and ignores Levi's startled squawk with astonishing ease.
“I agree, and, well…” Diavolo laughs with something crackling in tone. “Let's just say, I was hoping we had a good memory out of it, you know? It didn't feel right to simply wait out something [Name] was getting into so much trouble for..” He sighs deeply. “I'll admit to wanting a few memorial photos.”
“My Lord.”
Diavolo coughs when Barbatos subtly elbows him. “My apologies, [Name].”
You stare at everyone. An uncomfortable minute passes.
“None taken.” You say, then smile. “In fact, I am so glad you decided to show up exactly when you did. You'll certainly have some memorial portraits to take home and frame up by the end of today.”
“Um, [Name]...?”
“Spirit of wind, push the three individuals in front of me out of this room.” you begin, and everyone's eyes widen in alarm. Mammon swears and turns.
Diavolo and Barbatos are pushed back by the force of the wind — and while you decide that's done with, another hindrance speed-walks into the room at the same time, holding a vintage hand-mirror in hand. “In the name of the sorcerer [Name], may the individuals in front and behind me turn into short felines, and let my will be done.”
“.. Am I walking into something — ?”
“Asmo, THROW AWAY THAT MIRROR!” Mammon shrieks, jumping him and tumbling everyone inside yet another disaster — not quite unlike this morning.
Lucifer stands up suddenly, chair scraping against the floor. “No! Don't you dare think for a second I'll let this slide — !”
But your will is done.
A bright beam of light hits your eyes, and a faint, musky scent greets your nose. You blink down at the mass of… cats, in all their glory and differentiating color, look at one another, and then decide to start yelling up a deafening fuss of meows and aggravated chuffing.
The one that looks the most pleased with himself is, somehow, Diavolo — despite his unintentional predicament. His ears are longer and he's a little bigger than the rest. He seems similar to that of a Maine coon. Barbatos, next to him, huffs something weary to himself. He has a more silky and longer coat — a dazzling streak of sky-black.
“Well, well.” You crouch by the two, casting a faraway glance to the other three by the door, still squabbling between themselves. “I did intend to keep you out of this.”
“Mrooow!”
Barbatos hangs his head in shame, a stark contrast to Diavolo's optimistic tone.
“Why don't we make it a family portrait, hm?” You curl your index, pulling the startled four, as well as the grudging Lucifer (who thought he could escape your eye) by your feet.
Diavolo's eyes glimmer brightly. How could you say no?
… … . .
Somewhere in a book littered, half-destroyed room, a demon breaks the curse chaining him to his desk.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gn reader as per canon, can be considered a little as body horror on the side, mostly Michael centered.
𖤛: synopsis . . . | after your death in unforeseen circumstances, you are reborn in the celestial realm as one of their own.
But are you?
YOU AWAKEN in an unfamiliar body.
Feathers. So many of them you spotted, at every angle your head turned to. Everything felt sore —like the layers of your skin had been forcibly ripped, and folded into something entirely different in the gentlest, cruelest of ways.
This is not who I am, you thought to yourself, as you sat up with grievous struggle. Your back feels so, so heavy, as if something is dragging it down even further. The very implications set your heartbeat into a fiery, terror fit. Yet, silent you remain, as you take in your surroundings.
Light surrounds you. Engulfes and encompasses all that you were and will be. You can understand that you're laying atop the softest bed you've ever felt, and it's quite a spacious room —gold and glistening curtains blinding your eyes.
Oh, speaking of eyes. They feel different now. Claustrophobic, in an unexplainable way; you can see everything without having to focus your pupils into a specific area. The amount of details you're processing sets your comprehension into a distress in itself. You clear your throat.
Something is shifting impossibly close to your hearing —which also feel frustratingly sensitive — and your auditory senses quickly conclude; it's not on you, around you, or outside of you, belonging to another.
The noise is within you. It belongs to you, you're the producer and its host. Your breath hitches and so does your body, entirely, it heightens the ruffled, soft noise —oh… it's caressing your eyes and arms.
You dare not look down or behind. You dare not touch yourself. In fact, as you finally bring yourself to your feet and push yourself towards the windowsill, your consciousness forbids you from even processing what you see on its reflection.
You no longer possess pupils to lull them to the side of protection. Illusioning yourself is feeble, after all; every twitch of the protruding, stunningly gentle shift of the appendages around both sides of your ears and back are demanding to be acknowledged, one way or another. (Now you understand what was so heavy on your back. The dead weight cascading along your tailbone and dragging across the floor like a thousand corpses. You just didn't want to face it yet.)
You don't even acknowledge it. Rather, you look outside.
You're in the Celestial realm. Unsurprising to no one, really. It's always so bright there. How do they even live that way, always in the light? Do they not tire of it? Your personal musings aside, you're forced to double away from the beautiful visage as a sharp pang of pain hits all across your body again. It's been like this since you woke up, or, more so —in your state of limbo. You felt it, faintly then, full-force, now.
You could only describe it as your own cells and muscle tissues rearranging themselves. They keep shifting, patching onto another, pulling each other apart and reproducing its essentials to what they now declare a state of perfection.
Ah, also, someone has been incessantly calling your name this entire time. A little after you woke up and walked over.. … .. It's familiar.
“[Name],” it says, again and again. Something shuffles from behind. Your perception takes into account another being, probably of belonging here. (Unlike you.) “How do you feel?”
“Michael,” you say, just barely. Your voice is different, but not as much as the rest of you, thankfully. You lean away from the window and, in a fatigued state, call out the intruder's name once more, just for the sake of familiarity. For a shred of normalcy. “Michael.”
He's been smiling this entire time, but it widens even further upon hearing your voice. “Hello. You recognized me fairly quickly… I have to wonder, how come? But, ah..” He takes you by the arm, gently, and leads your astray form to sit back down on the edge of the well plushed bed. “No matter. Your well-being is more important right now. Now tell me, how do you feel? Are you aware of where you currently are?”
“Celestial.” You say, but the words come out more of a breath than an answer. Your brain spins. Try to finish your sentence. “Realm. In the celestial realm.”
“Good, good. Your name?”
“.............”
“Do you remember your name? I just used it earlier, if that helps.”
You half hum, then startle yourself. You're still not used to the different timbre in your voice. “I remember.”
He hasn't taken his eyes off of you for a moment. More precisely, what's folded into themselves on your back and such. He lifts a hand to gingerly brush an index finger along the ridges of troubled feathers, and you flinch away from the touch enough for his eyes to widen. He retracts his hand and sighs quietly in what sounds like concern, if you're desperate enough for sympathy.
“This process is quite different with who were inherently born into a respective role here.” He says to your keenly listening ears. “We're all Father's children, and such were we raised, despite its complications and risk. The better we understood and developed, the stronger and efficiently were we molded into Father's image eventually. Take Luke for example. He's been ‘living’ for a time that would normally preceed any regular human, but he's still a child. He hasn't grown out his wings in a result of it, as I'm sure you know by now.”
You nod faintly. He continues. “Which is why, [Name], this not only differs from our Father's sacred custom, but your soul and importance have been enough to be amongst us. You weren't initially born into who you are now, [Name], that's why you are in immense pain as of yet.”
“I never,” you croak out through the rearing pain that digs its heels into every open nerve within you. “asked, for this —”
He stands up suddenly. Smoothes down his robes and turns back to you. “For your own sake, [Name], I'll plead you to not finish that sentence. You're in enough pain as is,” he gets on his knees —Michael the Archangel himself, hands on your shoulders. They're warm, a contrast against you, which confuses you —because angels would normally emit warmth — but oh, but ah, you're a little something entirely different, aren't you?
“Rest.” he ushers you onto your back. You wince and bring your hands against your chest reflexively —seems some senses stay rooted within, even as another, huh? “You'll be accustomed to it soon enough, as will the pain cease. Don't think too hard on it for now, alright?”
You'd expect him to leave by now, but he sits by your side instead, his weight dipping the bed sheets considerably. You're aware of his eyes staring at your face. You don't sense any ill intent. They're low lidded, softer than you might have ever imagined. “You probably would've preferred to have Simeon here to take care of you, wouldn't you?”
The mention of his mere name jolts a reaction out of you. You remember Michael words again. Don't think too hard now. If you start to think further, your body will only punish you for it.
“He would do a better job of it, I'm sure.” He mumbles, and you don't quite like the way he allows his hands to so simply run against your cheek, up, and down again. He pauses. “A shame he's no longer allowed here after his treachery, isn't it?”
You don't answer, because there would absolutely be no point in neither wasting your breath, nor getting into verbal sparring with someone like him. He resumes his semi-petting. You don't like the fact that it's actually proving to be calming your torched nerves and aching flesh. Perhaps it's his angelic properties playing part. Or perhaps he's just genuine. Is it that hard to believe, [Name]?
“I don't know why I'm still speaking to you, or why I'm here,” he says. “I think I've been lonely without anyone to speak to for an agonizingly long while, since the brothers and Simeon —even Luke, and Raphael have departed from our sacred palace. Yes, yes… . I've been lonely.”
You close your eyes, and realize that is about as much freedom as you'll ever be able to afford now. Now, you don't have to bear witness the look in his eyes. The light pouring into the room and chaining its promise around your ankles.
general OBM spoilers talk ahead. I think that, aside from how rushed the entire thing was (lesson 16), the reason the demons hadn't minded much of the death of their original timeline's MC is partly because they have an entirely different understanding of mortality.
Thinking about it. If the same circumstance were to happen during when they were Archangels and the like, it could very well have turned out differently. I don't remember the Celestial realm in general being too actively involved with the human world (or allowed to, for that matter), but angels, at least in their realm, aren't born into a specific role by default. They rise through the ranks and earn it, as well as even having the freedom to choose something else. It implies that at some point —the seven brothers only were angels that carried out the more low-tier work —no doubt that would include the "watching over/guiding humans/encounters in missions" in their list.
That in itself already means an innate understanding of a human's mortality would be in mind back then. But how long has it's been since they were casted out of the Celestial realm, becoming full fledged demons that would now not even consider a human more than a particularly shiny soul to resist consuming, for the exchange program's sake?
Not to mention, they are over thousands of years old —their entire physiology, as demon and angel alike, are far superior in terms of fragility and endurance. While it's not necessarily out of malice, it could be why they have been unconsciously expecting you to be so quickly over it. (Another side thought is that: as such, even if you were to explain the natural traumatic effect a human would have on their psyche after lesson 16 — they still could not completely understand, nor grasp the severity of it. What they would try however would be treating you considerably more carefully if you were to be actually vocal/obviously not faring well.)
"Get ready, we're having a tea party at the Demon Lord's Castle."
Half visible from their spot in the bed, they could see Lucifer leaning a hand on the door frame, sporting a handful of papers sure to be Mammon's contribution to the weekly bills. A quick creak snapping the door shut again had the human moving to get ready for the ineviavtable interogation sure to occur from the recent shenaigans.
Really, it was their own fault for being hasty. A choice they made, time and time again. Nonsensical situations and events, always a new danger looming on the horizon. Between the people they loved and their own life, they would always choose their loved ones. A pity said loved ones had an opinion on that.
---
The Demon Lord's Castle gardens were beautiful, as if Barbatos would allow for any less of the Little D's that maintained it. A little table, almost comically small for the three demons gathered around a human who could never outpace them all. Lucifer flanking them, Diavolo across from them, and Barbatos readying Hellrose tea with blank smile beside Diavolo.
As ever the leader, Diavolo leaned forwards and began, "Last week, you endangered yourself. This is not a new situation, you've also attempted prior to protect the others with your own life. I would like an explaination."
Straight shoulders and calm voice, trying not to be too forceful while retaining authority. This wasn't their Diavolo, gentle and kind and lonely, always reaching for a connection he didn't quite have the social grace to make. This was the Demon Prince, dealing with a threat to the human he considered his to protect. A threat they seemed to be posing to themselves, recently.
There really wasn't an opportunity to get away from this. If it wasn't the Royals, it would be the the Angels, the Brothers, or the Sorcerer. May as well start a fire, if it's bound to be an unavoidable problem. Moving from problem solving to damage control, it's always been their specialty.
"I'm human. We live, what, a century? I've given my life candle to Beel, I think the food here has poisioned me enough a Chinese emperor would be jealous, and my life is in near constant danger."
Lucifer stared, Diavolo stared harder. Barbatos had stopped pouring and was now white-knuckling the teapot under his gloves. Hopefully it wasn't one of his favorites.
"If someone has to go, I'm the one who should. I won't live like you." Spoken with the monotony of someone who could only speak like they played pranks with Death itself, they continued their ramble. "I love you. I love the Devildom. I can never be safe here, but it'll always be better than the Human world because the people who love me are here," They paused a moment, "If I need to die to keep you all safe, I will."
It felt, not good, but better to admit. Unfortunate that no one else seemed to take it well.
Lucifer was gripping their thigh tightly, an abnormally distressed look usually reserved for the worst of their families rampages. Diavolo had taken their hand, and was leaning far enough across the table it had begun to lean. Barbatos' smile had dropped alongside the cracks beginning to appear in the pretty little teapot, painted flowers splintering under the weight of his grip.
"I believe I should see you to the Young Lord's guest room, little lamb." The teapot was set down, and quicker than they could see, Barbatos was offering a hand at their side. Taking their hand as the other two released them, Barbatos quickly escorted them out, leaving Lucifer and Diavolo behind with the broken teapot, now cold.
The two quietly looked to each other, grim and considering and ever too nonchalant.
