☀️𝓛𝓤𝓩✨

Hi! I'm going to list all of my works in this post and update it after each new fic. You can find them as well on Ao3 at LuzDivina. Note that requests are open but may take a moment for me to write! I'm willing to write any prompt for any character as long as it doesn't include underage characters. If you make a request, indicate if you'd rather it be fluff 🌶️ or smut 🌶️🌶️

I hope you enjoy~ ♡

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

[ObeyMe!]

The Prince's Pet: Diavolo x Reader 🌶️🌶️ Ongoing

Barbatos x Reader: Period Comfort 🌶️ One-Shot

All In For The Great Mammon: 🌶️🌶️One-Shot

Filling Silence: Solomon x Reader🌶️ One-Shot

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

[The Freak Circus]

Choosing Pink: Harlequin x Reader x Pierrot🌶️🌶️ Ongoing

You knew that something was going to happen. You felt it deep in your chest. But nothing could have prepared you for the hand that clamped over your mouth. Branded with gold cuffs and paraded before a crowd of bidders, you catch the gaze of one powerful demon in particular. The future king has decided you belong to him, body and soul. A dark romance where love is just another word for ownership. {Chapter 1}

||Previous|| ~ ||Next||

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

~Chapter 17~

The humans arrived at midday, which meant little more than the faint lightening of an eternal night, sky fading from an overwhelming darkness to a bruised purple. You stood by the tall window in Diavolo’s chambers, watching the entrance far below.

Much to your surprise, Solomon was leading the group. 

He held his hands loosely at his sides as his silver hair caught what little light filtered through those gates. You stared at him intently, mind wandering to the tense conversation you had overheard between him and Barbatos only a few hours earlier. Voices stretched thin, posture rigid, discussing something you could only speculate. Even now you could see the lingering tightness in his shoulders.

There were more of them than you expected. A hundred, maybe more, though counting them proved to be difficult. They moved so strangely. Their pace would stutter, slowing to a crawl before they burst forward. A few steps in unison before their rhythm broke apart. No one spoke, no one even looked up at the castle looming above them. Their eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point ahead of their feet as though the ground itself was the last thing in the world that still made sense.

You remembered your own awe when that same sight had stolen your breath away.

But these humans were nothing like you. 

That was the first thing that struck you. Not the strange stutter of their walk, not the stillness in their faces or the pale skin that would never see the sun. It was the absence of gold. No cuffs at their wrists or throats. Only bare skin where the metal should have been, and the sight filled you with a bitter, unexpected envy. You watched them for a long time, brow furrowed, lightly biting at your lower lip. 

“They have never needed correction,” Barbatos said from behind you, reading the confusion on your face before you could voice it

You jumped, whipping around to face him, the cuffs flaring warm at the sudden spike of your pulse. You hadn't heard him enter. Hadn't caught the familiar rhythm of his footsteps or the soft groan of the opening door. You had been too caught up in searching those strange, empty faces for something that might have resembled your own reflection.

"The cuffs exist to tame," Barbatos continued, unbothered by your startled reaction. "These humans have never known a reason to resist."

You didn't answer. You weren't sure you could have. You only nodded, curt and small, and turned back to the window.

Your eyes wandered to a young woman who had fallen to the back of the group, entirely still. Her gaze was fixed on nothing, swaying lightly in place until the human beside her reached out and gently turned her by the shoulders, redirecting her. The woman resumed her walk forward as though nothing had happened. No startled glance or flush of embarrassment at being caught dozing off. Nothing at all.

“What… What’s wrong with her?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

Barbatos looked past you with a bored expression, watching as the woman sauntered forward. “Nothing is wrong with her,” he replied flatly. “By the standards under which she was raised, she is behaving exactly as expected. Without an owner, these humans lose their sense of structure and purpose. They grow sporadic. Anxious. Desperate for instruction, desperate to please, and they do poorly without a demon to command them." His eyes flicked back to you. "That is simply what they were bred for." 

You frowned deeply at his explanation. You were disturbed by their uncanniness, by their empty smiles that came and went without reason. Something in you recoiled at the sight of them, more from grief than fear. You searched their faces for something you could recognize; brief irritation, boredom, the smallest private thought passing behind their eyes. You found nothing. These were people who had never been allowed to choose, to form their own thoughts and opinions, to know what being human really meant.

And you recalled, with a slow, gnawing anxiety, how close you had once come to becoming exactly like them. Astaroth had bid for you, had tried to steal you away in the chaos of a party.

Now you understood why Diavolo demanded your gratitude.

The group reached the main courtyard before coming to a halt, gathering loosely as Solomon spoke with the guards. Every one of them was beautiful in a way that felt unnatural. Engineered and ethereal with symmetrical features, unblemished skin, and bodies that had clearly never known labor. They were soft in places that suggested a life spent completely contained, indoors, entirely cared for.

“They don’t seem too afraid,” you commented out loud.

"Fear requires an understanding of alternatives," Barbatos said. "Of what could be otherwise. These humans were born within Lord Astaroth's estate and raised under his careful guidance. The only ones among them who will ever come to know fear, danger, or pain are the ones deemed unworthy of keeping. The ones sent down to the lower houses." 

Just the mention of the lower houses made your heart drop and stomach coil.

You couldn’t help but picture it. The ones who would fall short of whatever impossible standard Astaroth had demanded of them. They had never known fear because nothing in their soft, curated existence had ever required it of them. Even in the human world, you learned as a child the dangers of the world around you.

You imagined a woman like the one who had stopped at the back of the crowd. She would have no warning or framework for understanding what was happening to her even as it happened. She would have no name for the sensation of muscle being ripped from bone, no memory of ever needing to scream, so her first scream would be torn out of her raw and unpracticed. She wouldn’t even know that she could fight back, that resistance was something a person could reach for. She had never been taught that such a thing existed.

You pressed a hand against your mouth, worried that you might actually become sick.

You had felt embarrassed earlier when Diavolo had referred to you as a “wild” human, but now you understood. The ones in front of you were hardly human at all.

You expected to be left at that window for the remainder of the day, and some cowardly part of you hoped for that exactly. But Diavolo himself had sent for you, and Barbatos was here to collect.

You dressed in the elegant clothing already laid out, then let yourself be escorted through the labyrinth of the castle. You asked, quietly, why you were being brought into the middle of something you so clearly weren’t meant to see.

Barbatos’ reply came with thinly veiled frustration, as though he disagreed with your presence there entirely. “Lord Diavolo wishes for you to see exactly what is expected of your kind here. He wants you to look at them and understand, precisely, what you were spared and what remains possible should you forget yourself.”

You shuddered at his words, steps faltering as your stomach twisted with a wave of nausea you fought hard to not let show. You imagined yourself among that same crowd of empty eyes and meaningless smiles, waiting for someone to decide whether you were worth keeping or discarding. You pressed your lips together and forced your legs to keep moving. 

When you finally reached the main hall, you noticed it had been cleared of its usual furnishings. Diavolo stood near the center of it, dressed in dark, simple clothing that made him look almost like an ordinary man. As if an ordinary man could carry himself with so much authority. He held a thick ledger open in one hand as his golden eyes swept the room with the assessment of someone doing routine inventory.

The humans had been arranged in loose rows near the entrance. Solomon stood slightly apart from them with his arms crossed, watching everything with a neutral expression that seemed to require effort to maintain. Demon nobles were scattered around the room, watching the event unfold with interest. Some lounged along the far walls, whispering behind gloved hands. The moment you entered, eyes drifted towards you, curious and examining in the way that all nobles look at anything belonging to Diavolo.

Your gaze moved across the room without meaning to settle on any one of them.

Until you saw Lucifer.

He stood next to Diavolo’s side, arms folded and spine straight as a blade. His eyes were already on you. Had been on you, you realized, for much longer than yours had been on him. He stared at you coldly in a way that made your stomach drop and your breath catch involuntarily.

His gaze narrowed, red eyes nearly glowing, before turning back to Diavolo as though your very presence in the room was a fact he intended to address later.

Diavolo’s eyes found you almost immediately. He stared at you for a moment, debating where he should call you over and show you off in front of the gathering. Instead he only crossed the short distance between you.

His eyes didn't hold their usual arrogance or possession, only something quieter and appraising, as though he were already measuring you against the humans kneeling behind him. 

“Stand over there,” he said in a low voice, nodding towards a spot near the wall, far from where the nobles would soon be circling. They would spend the day inspecting the rows of humans for themselves, and the last thing Diavolo wanted was for you to be mistaken as one of them. “I don’t want their eyes lingering on what’s mine instead of what’s been laid out for them.”

You only nodded, jaw tight, and he studied you a moment longer as something unreadable passed behind his eyes. 

“Watch,” he continued. “Watch closely and keep silent regardless of what you hear being spoken about or to them. This isn’t a conversation meant for you, little one. You’re only here to observe and to learn from your own kind.” His voice had softened, just barely, just enough that the words felt like they belonged only to the two of you.

His fingers grazed the side of your cheek, brief and unexpectedly tender, before he turned his attention back to the humans waiting at the entrance. There was no cushion in the emptied room for you to kneel on, so you stood instead, exactly where he had placed you. To your own surprise, you found even standing uncomfortable, as though the simple act of it drew in attention you hadn't asked for and didn't want.

Moving between the rows of humans were servants carrying small wooden boards strung on cord. They would write numbers quickly before looping the cord around each lowered head. You watched as a servant wrote the number seven onto a board and looped it around the neck of the young woman from earlier. She accepted it without any change in her expression at all, gaze fixed somewhere past the servant's shoulder.

“Seven,” Diavolo said more to himself than anyone, writing a small note in the ledger. “Healthy, docile, suitable for a noble household requiring minimal management.” He glanced down at Barbatos. “Thouogh she’s not particularly charming, is she?”

“Not quite, my lord. We may have trouble placing her.”

Diavolo hummed his agreement and leaned down over the page.

You watched the tip of his pen hover there a moment too long, and something in your chest went very still. You told yourself it meant nothing. Just a comment. A note, same as all the others. You told yourself this even as your eyes fixed on the small mark forming at the end of her number, willing it into something harmless.

It was an X.

Small and precise. Final in a way that made your stomach twist. You didn't know  for certain what it meant. You only knew, with the same wordless dread that had settled into you the moment Barbatos first mentioned the lower houses, exactly what you were afraid it meant. You found yourself praying, uselessly, that you were wrong.

You stood near the edge of the room and watched the process unfold. Watched as Diavolo categorized entire lives, entire souls into only a few categories. Weak, healthy, lively, composed. Everything about it was so matter-of-fact, like this was nothing more than everyday paperwork.

An hour passed with what felt like little progress, then another. Each human was made to stand as gloved hands turned their chins, prodded at their flesh, and checked the clarity of their eyes. They were asked simple questions in bored, repetitive voices. Have you ever refused a command? Have you ever broken one of your master’s rules? The replies came softly, without hesitation or even a flicker of resentment. All delivered with those same, empty smiles.

Everything about this disgusted you, and you wished hopelessly that there was something you could do. Something you could say to snap even one of them out of their daze, to shake loose even the smallest bit of resistance buried beneath the practiced calm. But there was nothing. These humans were perfectly, disturbingly content. No amount of wishing would change that.

Whatever it was that Diavolo wanted out of bringing you here, whatever lesson he meant for this to teach you, you refused to let it work. You were grateful that you were given to Astaroth, sure. You could be careful and obedient and quiet in the way they were, but you would not become this. Vacant and hollowed out.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your throat felt tight, your eyes hot, and you had to look away before it showed on your face.

That’s when Solomon caught your eye from across the room.

Just like earlier, it was a brief flicker of his gaze toward you and then away again. But he knew he got your attention this time. He nodded towards the archway, to the doors leading out of this room as though what he was asking was simple. As though it wouldn't cost you everything if you were caught.

Your blood went cold.

The cuffs flared in response to your quickening pulse, a faint warmth spreading through you. You forced your breathing to even out, terrified that whatever they sensed might sharpen into something Diavolo could feel from across the room. 

Your eyes shifted between Solomon and Diavolo. He hadn’t noticed.

You tried, at first, to ignore him. To pretend you hadn’t understood his request. The room was too full, too open to possibly consider sneaking away. And yet it sat heavy in your chest all the same. You found yourself calculating distances without meaning to; from you to the doors, the amount of bodies you would need to pass, how many eyes you would need to avoid.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Reckless even to consider it. One wrong glance, one noble deciding you'd make for interesting conversation, one flicker of attention from Diavolo at exactly the wrong moment, and there would be no explaining it away. You had no excuse prepared. No reason to be anywhere but exactly where he'd placed you. 

But your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure someone could hear it. The cuffs sat warm and quiet against your skin, and you found yourself praying they would stay that way. 

Despite your better judgement, you shifted your weight. Once. Then again. He didn't glance up. 

Every step felt like it echoed, though your bare feet made no real sound against the marble. Lucifer, at least, had stopped watching you. Another noble had drawn his attention, some lord murmuring low and close to his ear. Lucifer's replies came short but refined, his focus entirely consumed by the exchange. 

You were grateful for it in a way that felt shameful. You had become so insignificant, so invisible in this room that not even the demon who had glared daggers at you only a few hours ago could be bothered to remember you existed.

That smallness, for once, was a mercy. 

You risked another glance at Diavolo.

He hadn't moved. Golden eyes assessing the human in front of him, the faint furrow of concentration still creasing his brow. A noble stood next to him, commenting on the human's appearance openly with lust.

Solomon waited, watching your movements from the corner of his eye before following suit. Instead of shuffling the way you did, he weaved through the rows of humans. He would kneel next to one, resting a hand briefly on a shoulder as though checking on a patient. To anyone watching, it would have looked like concern. Like a natural gesture of comfort between humans in a room full of demons. But you understood that this was a performance. Every pause and unhurried motion built the appearance of a man making his rounds rather than a man making his escape.

He reached the archway before you did, lingering at its edge. He glanced back at the nobles, towards Diavolo, then toward the servants still moving between rows with their board. He waited, cautiously, until the room’s attention had settled somewhere else.

You caught up a few moments later, shuffling slowly with lowered eyes until the archway swallowed you as well.

He approached you just past the doors and glanced back once toward the hall before speaking low and fast.

"We don't have long," he murmured, already moving away from the light and further into the shadowed corridor beyond it. "He won't notice you're gone unless someone tells him, and no one in that room wants to be the one to give the prince bad news." He glanced at you almost apologetically. "I need you to listen to me carefully-"

Solomon suddenly went very still. Whatever he'd been about to say vanished in an instant. He straightened to his full height, shoulders squaring, his usual loose posture falling away like a discarded coat. 

"Barbatos," he said, and you startled slightly at the sudden shift in his voice. He was not speaking to you. He was speaking past you, and you turned to find Barbatos had followed as well, positioned just inside the archway with his hands folded behind his back and his expression carefully unreadable. 

The silence stretched. Somewhere behind you, the murmur of the main hall carried on oblivious. You were suddenly very aware of how far you'd wandered from anything resembling safety.

Barbatos's gaze shifted once to you. Whatever he found in your face didn't reach his expression at all.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Solomon cut him off sharply.

"If Lord Diavolo asks for her," Solomon said, "you will provide an excuse. Anything that does not draw his attention toward what we are about to discuss." His silver eyes held Barbatos' steadily. "And you will keep him occupied for as long as you are able. Do not let him come looking."

Barbatos's eyes narrowed, not with anger but with something far more measured, a creeping calculation that moved between you and Solomon in turn, weighing something you couldn't begin to guess at. He didn’t look surprised at all, like he was expecting this to happen. After a long moment, he nodded once stiffly.

"As you say," Barbatos said, voice clipped.

Solomon didn’t wait for any further discussion. Without touching you, he guided you further down the hall, Barbatos still watching with narrowed eyes. He turned several corners before reaching a small storage room.

It had clearly gone unused for some time. The furniture that remained looked like the castle's forgotten leftovers, mismatched chairs shoved against the wall, a thin layer of dust coating a desk in the far corner. The air smelled stale, faintly of old paper and stone, nothing like the incense that clung to the rest of the castle. 

For a moment, Solomon only looked at you.

His gaze moved over your face with an intensity that made you shift uncomfortably, searching for something, and you didn't understand what until he finally spoke. His voice had gone quieter, almost disbelieving.

"You're still… you," he whispered.

Your stomach tightened, remembered exactly what he had told you, how little time you had before you would lose yourself. "It's only been a week," you said carefully, unsure whether you wanted him to explain further or take the words back entirely. 

"A week is a long time here," he said. "Longer than it sounds." He studied you a moment more, something like relief mixed with alarm behind his eyes. "The cuffs work quickly, Y/N. I've watched people lose themselves entirely within days. I've seen it happen to humans who swore up and down they'd never give in." His jaw tightened. "It was already startling to find you this lucid a week ago, but now?"

He exhaled, dragging a hand back through his hair, and for a moment he looked less like the composed, unbothered sorcerer who moved through demon courts with ease and more like a man carrying something heavy he had carried for a very long time.

"This is good," he said, more to himself than to you. "This means we have more time than I feared."

Your pulse quickened at the shift in his tone, at everything the words carried underneath them. 

"Have you decided," he asked, eyes finding yours directly now, "to plan your way out of here, that is. Truly decided." His voice had gone low and urgent, the words coming a little quicker than before. "Because, unfortunately, we no longer have the time to wait around. You need to choose one way or the other. This is the last time I ask you plainly. Because once we begin arranging the details, there’s no turning back." 

You opened your mouth to answer and found that no answer came.

You thought of the vow you had made only a few nights ago. You thought of Diavolo's hand cradling your face in the bath that same morning, the gentleness of it, the way his laughter had rolled through the steam and loosened something in your chest despite every instinct screaming that it shouldn't. You thought of the tug behind your sternum that had pulled you toward the window in the dark, desperate and searching, and how frightened you had been to realize how little of that desperation had actually felt like coercion. 

You hesitated.

"I don't know," you said honestly. "I want to go home. I do. But it's not that simple anymore, and I hate that it isn't, and I don't know how to explain that without sounding like I've already lost against myself."

Solomon was quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read, something that might have been sympathy or might have been something closer to anger held in check.

"Let me remind you of something," he said at last, voice low and even. "Somewhere in your world right now, there's a life you left behind. People who might still be looking for you. Grieving a version of you they'll never get back." His gaze didn't waver. "You had hardships there, I'm sure. Everyone does. But you had choices. A self that belonged entirely to you and no one else." 

The words landed exactly where he intended them to land, and you held your breath without realizing it.

"You've seen what happens to the ones who give in," he continued. "And you know what waits for the ones who aren't obedient enough to be kept." His jaw tightened. "Astaroth's humans, out there right now being numbered and sorted like cattle, do you understand what happens to the ones who don't find a house willing to take them? They're sent down. Into rings where the light doesn't reach the bottom. Where nothing waits for them but hunger."

You felt sick, the image rising vividly behind your eyes, the cold stone floor of your nightmare pressing back into your mind with sickening clarity. Teeth in soft flesh. The wet tear of skin. A scream swallowed whole by laughter that wasn't human.

"Diavolo can promise you safety," Solomon said, quieter now, but no less insistent. "But you are still property, however finely kept, and property can be sold or reassigned the moment it becomes inconvenient to keep. Nothing he has given you is a right. It's a privilege he extends because it currently pleases him to extend it. That can change."

You pictured yourself years from now, the novelty of you worn thin, Diavolo's attention drifting the way attention always drifted eventually. You pictured him bored. Tired of your antics, tired of the sneaking and the small rebellions that had once seemed to amuse him. You pictured a version of him who no longer found it charming at all, who looked at you the way he'd looked at Astaroth's collection today.

Or worse. You pictured his hand at your throat, deciding with the same idle authority he'd used to sort a hundred lives into a ledger today, that he was finished with you. That ending things himself would be simpler than handing you off to someone else's care.

What had you been thinking? How had you let yourself consider, even for a single reckless second, the idea of staying.

"You're right," you said, quiet but steady. Ashamed that you had let yourself push back against it at all. "You’re right and… and I'm ready. I want to go home. Tell me what you need from me."

Something in Solomon's shoulders eased, relief loosening whatever tension had gathered there.

"Good," he said. "That's good." He glanced toward the door, then back to you, lowering his voice further, leaning in slightly. "There are portals scattered throughout the Devildom, some not too far from here. They shift occasionally, so I'll need time to locate one. We'll also need a distraction. I know several angels who could demand an audience with the prince and keep him occupied; he can't refuse a diplomatic request. You can't be wearing the cuffs when you cross the portal, which means we'll need to find a way to-"

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

Purposeful, measured strides growing louder with each passing second, accompanied by the softer click of a second set of shoes keeping pace. Solomon's head snapped toward the door, composure shifting into genuine alarm.

"That's not good," he muttered, already stepping back from you, eyes darting around the small room for some tool of escape. There wasn't one. There was only the door, and the footsteps growing louder on the other side of it.

Panic flooded your body as the image of the cuffs searing your body shoved its way into your mind. The memory was so vivid you nearly gasped, phantom pain causing nerves to twitch in preparation for the agony that would surely come. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything except the growing certainty that you were about to be found, about to be dragged back and made to scream in front of the entire room.

Your hands moved before your thoughts had fully caught up to them.

You hadn’t made the conscious decision to do anything. One moment you stood frozen, the next your fingers had already closed around the stray pen abandoned on top of the writing desk.

It felt as though someone else had taken hold of your limbs and was operating them on your behalf.

You didn't think. You simply drew.

Your hand moved in the same motion it had moved only a night ago. The vertical stroke, the leftward curl at the crown, the tight spiral at the base, and this time your eyes stayed soft and unfocused the entire time, letting your hand carry the shape rather than your mind chasing it. It startled you, distantly, how naturally it came now, no need to strain for the memory of it at all. You felt the ink resist for an agonizing moment before settling into the correct form. 

The mark glowed faintly against your palm.

You stepped close to Solomon on instinct, some deep, wordless understanding guiding you, and pressed your bare foot lightly against the toe of his boot. Connection enough. You didn't know how you knew that would matter. You only knew, with the same unthinking certainty that had carried your hand across your own skin, that it would.

The room dimmed at the edges of your perception, that strange sensation of stepping half out of the world while still standing fully within it.

Solomon stared down at you, eyes wide with something between shock and disbelief, his mouth parting as though to ask a question there wasn't time left to voice.

The door was thrown open.

Lucifer stepped through first, dark coat sweeping behind him, jaw set in the way that meant his patience had already run thin before the conversation had even begun. Barbatos followed a half step behind him, composed as ever on the surface, but you caught the faint tension at the corner of his mouth, the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes.

Lucifer's gaze swept the small room, narrowing with visible irritation.

"Empty," he said flatly. "You were entirely certain, Barbatos, that she came here?"

"I observed her leaving the hall in this direction," Barbatos said, voice even. "Along with Solomon."

"And yet." Lucifer gestured at the room, plainly unconvinced. "Unless you'd like to suggest they climbed out through the window, in which case I'd very much like to hear how, given it has no latch."

"I would not suggest something so simple," Barbatos said curtly. His gaze passed once more over the writing desk, the abandoned pen, the faint disturbance in the dust that hadn't been there earlier. Small details you hadn't even noticed yourself. He noted every one of them.

"Perhaps Solomon is more capable than either of us gives him credit for," Lucifer said, crossing his arms, studying the room. "He's more than a court curiosity. If he wanted the pair of them to go unnoticed, I wouldn't put it past him to manage it."

"That possibility had occurred to me as well," Barbatos said quietly. Something flickered across his face before being smoothed away. "Though I have my suspicions as to what he wants with her specifically. He has made his sympathies known before. If he means to help her run, she may find his intentions rather different from what she's been led to believe."

Your heart dropped at his words. You turned to look at Solomon, some desperate part of you hoping his expression might offer reassurance, might smooth over whatever Barbatos had just implied. It didn't. His jaw was set, stern and unreadable, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. He would not meet your gaze at all. Not even a glance. 

Barbatos had said it so plainly, standing in a room he believed empty. Too plainly, perhaps. You wondered whether he had known all along that you were there to hear it. Whether the entire exchange, the suspicion, the warning wrapped inside an offhand remark to Lucifer, had been meant for you specifically. Planted like a seed, meant to take root and grow into exactly the kind of doubt now spreading cold through your chest.

Lucifer exhaled, dragging a hand back through his hair. "Diavolo's going to be unbearable if she's turned up missing now of all times. He'll tear apart the castle and begin interrogating the nobility if we don't find her first."

"Then we had best not give him the opportunity," Barbatos said, and his gaze drifted back over the room one final time, lingering just slightly too long on the empty space near the desk before he finally looked away. You did not breathe. You were fairly certain, in that moment, that you could not have breathed even if your life depended on it, which perhaps it did.

"I'll take the east corridor," Lucifer said finally. 

He turned and swept back through the door without waiting for a response. Barbatos lingered a moment longer, jaw tight with dissatisfaction. For one terrifying moment, you were sure he was going to say something despite the impossibility of it. Instead, he exhaled once, slow and controlled, and followed Lucifer out, letting the door close behind him.

Their footsteps faded down the hall.

You waited, counting your own heartbeats, until the sound had vanished completely, and only then did Solomon gently break the connection between your foot and his boot, stepping back and passing a hand over the mark on your palm. The glow dimmed and disappeared, and the weight of the world settled back around you all at once, color and sound rushing back in like a held breath finally released.

You opened your mouth, Barbatos' vague words still sitting heavy in your chest, needing to ask, needing him to explain what exactly was being insinuated. "Solomon-" was all that came out before your throat closed around the rest of it. He didn’t wait for you to find your voice.

"Where," Solomon cut in before you could try again, "did you learn that magic?"

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙

Solomon x reader, based on this request. I hope you like it, 📘 anon! I took a few creative liberties but tried to keep the essence of your request. <3

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙ ⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

Returning to the human world came with a period of adjustment. You had just  lived a life of adventure and experienced friendships and family bonds that surpassed anything you had ever known. There was nothing that could compare to it, not even close.

For an entire year, you lived under a roof with seven unruly brothers, all vying for your attention. Waking up to Mammon sleeping on your floor, being dragged into Asmo’s room for an impromptu spa day, quietly reading next to Satan. You didn’t just grow accustomed to it, you relied on it. So when you returned home to your small apartment in the city, you could hardly bear the change.

One day you were waking up to the smell of exotic foods being prepared in a lavish kitchen, the next you were awoken by the damp smell of a very old apartment. You had learned to love the sound of the brothers' petty bickering, laughing to yourself as you eavesdropped on their ridiculous arguments. Now you heard screaming matches and bottles breaking and the creaking of wood. 

But that was nothing compared to the silence. The silence was unbearable.

No records playing from the music room, no laughter, no Levi screaming at his screen as he got yet another bad ending. Rather than the comforting sound of chaos, there was silence. And it was wearing you down.

You bought new candles for the apartment and told yourself the vanilla scent helped. You rearranged your bookshelf. You made a list of things to look forward to that you had missed while away. Coffee from the place on the corner, the farmer's market on Saturdays, the way autumn was beginning to press golden light through the city windows.

The list sat untouched on your kitchen counter for weeks.

You went through the motions of a normal life. Work was fine. Your colleagues were nice enough. The city was the same city it had always been, full of noise and colour and the kind of human chaos that had once felt like more than enough. It wasn't enough anymore. 

The messages helped ease the painful longing. They came in at odd hours because none of the brothers had ever quite grasped the concept of time zones, and you suspected they simply didn't care. 

And then there was Solomon.

Solomon called, rather than texted. He would call and you would sit on your windowsill with your knees pulled to your chest and he would talk about his research, about a new spell that had gone interestingly wrong. He asked about you in a way that was never direct, slipping the question in between other sentences like he was hoping you might answer before you realised you'd been asked. Although he had returned back to the human world as well, he lived just as far. 

“It must be a breath of fresh air to be home again” he would say.

"It's quiet," you told him one evening, several weeks in. "I didn't realise how loud the House of Lamentation was until I wasn't in it anymore."

You could picture him, settled into some chair with his robe draped over the back of it, his expression easy and inquisitive.

"I know how it feels," he said eventually. "Although Luke and Simeon were much quieter, it’s odd not having someone to bounce my ideas off of. Or to sample my recipes."

You chuckled lightly at his last comment. The first sound of happiness since you had returned.

The calls continued, each one a little longer than the last. You talked about magic the way you had during your lessons in the Devildom, him explaining things with the chaos and disorganization of someone who understood a topic so entirely, they forgot how to explain it to a beginner. You would ask questions that were sometimes naive and sometimes not, both of you building on previous conversations until it had become a single, long discussion broken into chapters. 

He was an extraordinary teacher. Not warm in the way Simeon was warm, not enthusiastic in the way that Levi became enthusiastic about the things he loved. Solomon taught as though he was thinking things through again alongside you, and that your presence in that process was genuinely useful to him.

It was one of the things you had always liked most about him.

A month went by, then another. The apartment was still damp, quiet, and the radiator had begun making a sound like something small and miserable living inside the walls, which suited the general atmosphere. You ate whatever was cheapest and easiest, which was increasingly not much. The exchange program had not exactly left you as they found you, and readjusting to a salary that covered rent and utilities and very little else was difficult. You didn’t think about it much. There were larger things to feel grey about.

It was on a Thursday evening in the fourth month that the knock came at the door.

You were not expecting anyone. You were still in the state of not expecting anyone that involved having your dishes left in the sink and your textbooks open across the kitchen table alongside a meal that could barely be described as a meal. The knock came again.

Solomon looked exactly as he always had. Ageless, composed, and faintly amused by something he was choosing not to mention. He was in his long coat rather than his robe, which was the closest he came to human world dressing. His silver hair caught the light from the bare bulb in your hallway and his grey eyes took in the door frame, the hallway, and then you in a single sweep.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," you said.

"I didn't want to," he replied, which was a perfectly Solomon answer. Honest to the point of being slightly rude without any awareness that this was the case. 

"Come in," you stood aside, and he did.

He moved through the apartment, paying close attention to everything while appearing to pay attention to nothing. He didn’t comment on the dishes. He didn’t comment on the textbooks, the unfinished meal, or the radiator, which chose that moment to make one of its more expressive sounds. He looked at the window and at the ceiling, where a watermark from some previous tenant's leak had been painted over imperfectly. He looked at the small bookshelf where your Devildom texts were shelved next to your university books. He looked at the meal on the table.

You watched him look at all of it, and you felt faintly embarrassed. Not because you had not been aware of the state of the apartment, you had simply stopped seeing it as something worth fixing. But Solomon seeing it made it noticeable again. 

He sat down at your kitchen table without being invited, which was also very Solomon, and looked at you.

"How long have you been living like this?" he asked.

"Like what?" you asked, and even as you asked it you knew you were not going to convince him.

"The heating is practically nonexistant," he said in the same tone he might use to observe a spell circle that had been drawn incorrectly. "The walls are damp and cracked. And you've been eating," he glanced at the table, "that."

"It's soup."

"Maybe it used to be."

You sat down across from him and there was a pause you didn’t bother filling. You usually filled silences, it was something Solomon occasionally pointed out as an endearing quirk. You didn’t know how to fill this silence.

"I'm still readjusting to my old life," you said eventually.

"That’s not what I’m seeing…" An awkward pause filled the silence. You opened your mouth to speak. You weren’t sure what you were going to say, really. Scold him for judging your life, sarcastically thank him for his astute observations, or  politely lead him to the door. You already knew it wouldn’t be the last option. Before you could get a word out, he spoke.

"I came here with a proposal," Solomon said, and his voice shifted into something that was slightly more composed. "Your study of the magical arts is at a stage where it would benefit from more… intensive guidance. You have a natural talent that is currently going to waste in," he paused briefly, "these circumstances. Distractions are not conducive to meaningful progress, and financial and environmental distractions are especially hard to ignore."

You looked at him. He had his hands folded on the table, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. 

"Well… I can’t exactly make money appear out of thin air," you said. “And I can’t afford to move.”

"I know, which is why I’m here to offer you a room in my home. If you want to, of course. You would have proper accommodation, dedicated space for study, access to my library, and be able to continue your studies in peace. Your progress would not be hindered by," the same tactful pause "external stressors." Prick.

You met his eyes. There was something in his expression that made you shift in place. He wasn’t telling you something, wasn’t revealing the entire truth. But this was Solomon, your teacher and friend, the only other human who had been by your side as you learned to navigate a new realm. You trusted him.

"When?" 

"When you're ready."

"Give me a week."

"A week," he agreed.

He stayed for another hour, making tea using your kettle and the tea bags in your cupboard with an odd familiarity. He talked about the new inscription method he had been developing while you sat across from him. You let yourself be simply in his company, which was something you had not let yourself want openly until this moment. When he left, he paused in the doorway, and he looked at you one more time with those stormy eyes that seemed to uncover every hidden thing.

"A week," he said.

"A week," you confirmed.

The door closed and you stood in the hallway for a moment. You opened your D.D.D. and sent a quick message before seating yourself at the table. Something that had been very tightly held in your chest for months released just a fraction. Just enough. 

Your D.D.D. lit up before you had even set it down.

You had made a mistake, you realised immediately upon sending a brief message to the group chat explaining that you would soon be moving. With Solomon. 

Mammon: WJAT?? SOLOMON?? YOU CNT BE SERIOUS

Asmodeus: OHH~ I'm not saying Solomon has ulterior motives but I'm absolutely saying Solomon has ulterior motives ;)

Leviathan: this is literally a villain origin story. sorcerer isolates the protagonist from their support network. chapter one.

Asmodeus: also WHY does HE get to have you and we're just HERE 

Satan: If he does anything I would find objectionable, I demand to be contacted immediately. 

Belphegor: ...so you're going to go live with a weird old man?

Beelzebub: We miss you here. Please eat properly. 

Lucifer: I trust you are aware of what you are doing. I will say nothing further. 

You stared at your phone for a moment and giggled before sending back a single response.

You: He's helping me practice magic.

Mammon's reply came in under four seconds.

Mammon: THATS WHAT THEY ALL SAY

You set the D.D.D. face down on the table and went to find a box.

The move itself was not complicated, and you owned less than you had thought. The books were the most of it, and Solomon helped you carry everything through a portal, which you were grateful for.

What you had expected, however, was a house. Solomon lived alone, and there was something about his transient lifestyle that had conjured, in your mind, a modest place. A cottage maybe, with too many books and not enough furniture. The kind of home suited for a scholar because he had never thought to want more than four walls and a desk.

What you stepped out of the portal to face was not that.

The building rose in front of you in a way that felt never ending. Stone like old parchment with ivy climbing up the walls and windows tall enough to walk through standing upright. 

"You live here," you said breathily. It wasn't really a question. It came out flatter than you meant it to, mostly because your brain hadn't caught up with your mouth yet.

"I do," Solomon said, already walking toward the door as though this were as unremarkable as mentioning the weather. "Something the matter?"

"You never mentioned you lived in a palace."

"It's not a palace." He glanced back at you, amused, the corner of his mouth turning upward. "Palaces have staff. I have several irritable spirits bound to the east wing, and a garden that occasionally tries to eat itself."

"That's worse."

"At least it’s honest."

You supposed it made sense, once your mind had room to think about it properly. He had been alive for centuries, outliving kingdoms or even entire civilizations. Of course the house he'd built for himself somewhere along the way would have to be grand enough to hold his history. Still, rationalizing something and standing in front of it were very different experiences.

The inside didn’t ease your shock. Stone floors covered in rugs ranging across the eras, shelves climbing the walls with books from every corner of the Earth. There was an unlit chandelier hung with something that looked like enchanted glass.

"This way," Solomon said, and led you up a staircase that curved wide enough for three people to walk side by side, though it was only the two of you and the sound of your footsteps. He stopped in front of a door on the second floor, one of many along the long hallway.

"This is yours," he said, and opened it.

The room was larger than your entire apartment back home. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t hard to beat. A bed in deep blue linens sat beneath a window that overlooked the garden he'd mentioned, the one that apparently tried to eat itself, though from here it just looked like an ordinary garden. There was a writing desk already stocked with paper and ink, an empty bookshelf clearly waiting for you to fill it, and a wardrobe that seemed just large enough to fit all of your clothes.

You felt a bit overwhelmed, if you were being honest with yourself, and your throat tightened before you could even be embarrassed about it. 

"This is too much," you said honestly, voice quiet and taut.

"It's just a room," Solomon said. "Rooms are meant to be lived in, and this one was empty. Now it isn't." He said it plainly, like the logic was simple. Maybe it was. "There's a bathroom through that door, and if you don’t like this desk I have others."

"The desk is fine."

"Good." He lingered a moment in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, watching you take it in with an expression that bordered smugness. Satisfaction. "Get settled. We'll start tomorrow."

The days folded into a comfortable rhythm you hadn't expected to find so quickly. Mornings were dedicated to your studies, the human kind, while Solomon tended to his own matters. The afternoons belonged to magic, spent with circles chalked and erased so many times the stone beneath had begun to hold a permanent outline of them all.

He would think out loud beside you rather than lecturing at you, correcting your hand placement with a familiarity that made you wonder how many students he'd had before you, and whether any of them had lasted this long.

"Again," he'd say, breath brushing against the shell of your ear when your circle wavered. You would draw it again, and again, and again until your wrist ached and the lines came easier.

He insisted that you didn’t work in a way that allowed no negotiation. He insisted that it would just become a distraction from what was most important.

"Think of it as a scholarship, of sorts," he told you when you'd hesitantly brought up the idea of paying rent. "Room, board, and my considerable expertise, in exchange for your undivided attention. That is your one obligation."

"That doesn't feel fair on your end."

"I disagree. In the Devildom, your attention was divided seven ways. Someone always wanted something from you, and you always gave it because that's simply the kind of person you are." He paused, something crossing his face before he tucked it away again. "Your full attention is more valuable than you realize, and now it’s mine alone." You dropped the topic after that. 

He also insisted you learn to make your own portals, rather than relying on his. "You cannot spend your whole life stepping through doors someone else has opened for you," he said on the day he finally decided you were ready to attempt one unsupervised. It went badly and continued to go badly for the next several attempts, some landing you in the wrong hallway, others in what you were fairly sure was a supply closet three streets from where you meant to be. 

He never once looked frustrated. If anything, he looked pleased by your attempts. Right up until the morning you opened a clean, correct portal straight to your lecture hall. That night he ordered food to the house and celebrated you for your achievement while you both laughed over your failed attempts.

You began leaving each afternoon through your own doorway, and each evening you would step back through it into a house that had somewhere along the line started to feel less like his and more like yours as well.

It was in the second month that you started to notice his habits more clearly, the parts that didn't show themselves in a single afternoon or conversation but only became visible once you'd lived alongside someone.

Solomon worked constantly. You had known that he was dedicated to his craft, but now you felt it. He was in his study before you woke and often still there when you went to bed. Meals happened around him rather than with him more often than not, and you'd started quietly leaving him something small and less distracting. Fruit, crackers, things he could eat without breaking his concentration.

Getting his attention outside the hours he'd set aside for your lessons had become a challenge. You would knock, he would tell you that he’d be just a moment, and that moment would stretch into forty minutes.

You didn't resent him for it, which somehow surprised you. There was something almost endearing about watching a man who had lived for centuries still lose himself so completely in the act of learning one more thing. But you missed him, you realized, even while sitting across from him.

So on the evenings your own studies ran late and you came home to find the light still on beneath the study door, you began, without quite deciding to, letting yourself in anyway.

This time it was nearing midnight when you got back. You'd stayed after your last class to finish an assignment you'd let slip further than you meant to, and by the time you cut your portal home your eyes were heavy and your bag felt like it had gained fifty pounds. The house was dark except for the one line of gold beneath his door. Same as always.

You didn't knock this time. You pushed the door open to find him seated on a cushion, hunched over the coffee table with a candle burning low and a page covered in his sharp, slanted handwriting. One hand steadied the parchment while the other hand scribbled words in a foreign language, murmuring something under his breath that might have been the words of the spell itself or might have just been him thinking out loud.

He didn't look up. "You're back late."

You dropped your bag by the door, gently enough not to disturb the candle, and crossed the room toward him. "You're up later."

"I'm close to something." He still hadn't looked up, his focus entirely on the page.

You didn't say anything else, knowing it would be pointless. You crossed the room quietly and knelt on the floor behind him instead, close enough that your knees pressed into the cushion at his back. Before he could ask what you were doing, you wrapped your arms around him from behind and rested your chin against his shoulder, letting your whole weight settle gently into him.

His pen paused, just barely, a hitch so small you might have missed it if you weren't already used to reading him.

"Comfortable?" he asked, and there was something in his voice that wasn't quite steady.

"Very," you said, and meant it. You could feel the warmth of him through his shirt and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You let your eyes fall half shut, content simply to be near him after a day that had felt way too long.

He continued writing, and you let your hands slide down from where they'd settled at his chest, tracing along his forearms until you found the marks there, the pacts inked into his skin in symbols. You traced one gently with your fingertip, following the line of it the way he might trace a spell circle. Unhurried. Curious.

You'd seen his marks before in passing, but you'd never really looked. Not like this, not with the patience to let your eyes follow where they wanted to go. So slowly, giving him every chance to shift away or tell you to stop, you slid your hand beneath the hem of his shirt at the small of his back and eased the fabric up.

He let out a small exhale, sounding loud in the quiet room. He didn't stop writing. He didn't tell you to stop, either.

More marks traced up the plane of his back in an array of shapes and sizes. You touched them one at a time, unhurried, memorizing each the way you'd memorize a new spell. Then your fingers found one near the base of his spine and paused there entirely.

You knew that mark, the particular flourish at the tail of the line. It was unmistakably Asmodeus's, and you could recognize it anywhere because you carried one just like it yourself.

"This one," you said quietly, tracing the curve of it, "is Asmo's."

"Mm." He agreed without words. "He insisted on the placement himself. It was either there, or somewhere I won’t even mention."

"It's the same as mine."

"I know." The pen came to a halt between his fingers. "He told me. It was not a small distraction, either."

You let your palm rest flat over the mark, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your hand, and felt him hold very still beneath the touch.

"You're going to make me lose my place," he said, though he made no attempt to stop you, and his pen had been resting against the page for the last minute or so.

"Am I bothering you?"

"No," he said immediately, nearly cutting your sentence short. "You're not."

You smiled against his shoulder, tracing the mark a second time, slower. "You work too much."

"I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t mean to neglect my dear apprentice," he said lightly, almost teasing, as though he were trying to remove some of the tension.

"I miss you. Even when you're two rooms away."

His hand came up then, covering yours where it rested against his arm. He didn’t stop the movement so much as simply hold it there, the two of you still for a moment in the candlelight. "I know the feeling," he said, quiet enough that you almost missed it.

You stayed like that a while, your arms around him and his hand over yours, the candle burning lower, ink drying on the page he'd abandoned. Eventually he set the pen down entirely and turned just enough to look at you properly, and there was something in his expression you hadn't seen from him before. Something unguarded.

"Sit by me," he said. "Not draped over me like an affectionate scarf."

"I like being a scarf."

"I'm sure you do." He said as he was shifting regardless, turning enough to guide you around the edge of the cushion and into his lap gently, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn’t. You settled against him, head tucked beneath his chin, and felt his arms come around you.

"You know," you said, tracing one more slow line along his forearm, "you told me my one obligation here was to give you my undivided attention. Something about how valuable it was."

"I did say something along those lines, yes."

"That's a bit difficult to do when you spend most of your hours locked away." 

You tipped your head back against his shoulder, just enough to catch the edge of his expression. "I've been trying to hold up my end of the bargain. You haven't exactly made it easy to hold up yours."

You felt him laugh softly before you heard it. "A fair point," he admitted. "Though in my defense, some of us find it difficult to abandon three hundred years of habit for anything less than proper motivation."

"And what would count as proper motivation?"

"You're currently sitting in my lap tracing the pact marks on my skin. I'd say you've found it."

You laughed, and he tightened his arms around slightly, like he wasn't quite ready to let the moment end. The candle flickered low beside you, throwing shifting light across the abandoned page. You shifted slightly to look at him, to say something light and teasing, only to find his eyes already on you.

His eyes moved over your face like he was weighing the option of something. Then he reached up, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.

He kissed you then, slow and careful, like he was still giving you every opportunity to change your mind, right up until you didn't. Your hand came up to rest against his jaw, and his hand slid to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with the same unhurried patience he brought to everything he did. Like he had all the time in the world to memorize this too.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his composure had visibly diminished. He looked almost startled by himself.

"Well," he said.

"Well," you repeated, smiling against the last inch of space between you.

He exhaled something that wasn't quite a laugh, resting his forehead against yours. "I had a whole explanation prepared, you know. For why I asked you to come live here."

"I remember. It was very convincing."

"It was mostly true." His thumb traced idle circles at the nape of your neck. "But not entirely."

"What was the rest of it?"

He was quiet again, and this time you let the silence linger for just a moment, watching the candlelight catch in his grey eyes as he worked toward whatever he'd been avoiding since the day he showed up uninvited at your apartment door.

"I was lonely," he said finally. Plainly. "I have been for a very long time. In a way I stopped mentioning because there was no one left to mention it to. And then you were a thousand miles away in a broken apartment, and I told myself I was simply concerned for your wellbeing." He paused. "I was. But it wasn't only that."

"Solomon."

"I missed you enough that it became all I could think about. I told myself many practical reasons for bringing you here. Most of them were true, but none were the real reason."

You reached up and pressed your palm flat against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. Something about his confession resonated with you, and you knew you had needed him just as deeply as he had needed you.

"You could have told me the truth."

"I've lived a very long time without needing to tell the truth. I'm out of practice."

"You're doing fine so far."

That earned you the smallest smile. "High praise, from my one and only apprentice."

He kissed your forehead this time, and let his cheek rest there after. "Stay up with me tonight. Not for spellwork. Just this."

"Don’t you have a casting circle to finish?"

"It will be fine. It has kept for three centuries, and can certainly keep another few hours." 

His arms tightened around you, and beneath the humor you could hear something that sounded almost like relief. "I'd rather not be lonely tonight, if it's all the same to you."

First of all, your writing is amazing! I’m especially intrigued by your world-building! ^^ You took a world that already intrigued me and managed to make it even more interesting! Honestly if you have some random bits of world building that don’t fit into any of your stories I’d love to hear it.

I absolutely ADORE the way you characterize Barbatos, if I had to guess he is one of, if not your favorite? He’s my favorite by far and your period comfort story is fantastic! It’s so sweet, honestly I love the idea of a darker and more sinister Barbatos but seeing him being so sweet and caring UGH I love that too! I can’t decide which I like more. I feel like he has so much potential and it breaks my heart that he often is often overlooked. I don’t think the game did his justice.

I feel like I’m being super selfish for asking something like this, but what do you think things would be like if Barbatos had a human? He seems far stricter than Diavolo. It’s a nice contrast to how Diavolo seems more inclined to spoil them. I’m not sure I could envision Barbatos getting a human one as it would probably get in the way of his butler shit or whatever you call it, Maybe what would he be like if he ended up growing fond of Diavolo’s human pet instead? Sorry if this is a really weird question don’t feel pressured to answer it! but I’m desperate for Barbatos crumbs. It’s been months and the only thing of note we’ve gotten is the screenshot of him stepping on Lucifer whenitshouldhavebeenus-

I just want to reiterate that I really love your work!! Thank you for taking the time and effort to put your work into the world. I highly encourage you to write more Barbatos even if it’s just 3 second cameos in unrelated works 5 years in the future from now! Hope you have a good day/night/afternoon

Hi, thank you for reaching out! You never have to feel nervous, I really enjoy chatting with y'all!

I'm so happy you've been liking my AU! If you have any specific questions, please feel free to ask! As for tidbits that I have yet to mention, there are a few that come to mind.

The Devildom is made up of three tiers. The upper tier, which includes the crown and the aristocracy. The middle tier, which includes the merchant class and minor nobility. Then there are the lower houses, where lower is literal. Beyond the city limits, the Devildom drops for miles. A void where the “trash” of society is kept. Light doesn’t reach the bottom, and sound behaves differently there as well. Out of sync with what produced it, giving conversations in the lower rings an uncanny feeling. Demons from the upper tier find it disorienting. Demons who never leave the lower rings find the upper tier's synchronized sound uncomfortable and sterile.

Despite the physical separation, the tiers of society don't have clean lines separating them. Demons move between them based on accumulated power, favors, and pacts. Being in the lower houses also comes with physical consequences. The closer one is to Diavolo, the source of demonic power, the stronger they are. Those that are lower need to regularly consume humans so as to not starve. Those in the upper tier of society don’t rely on human flesh at all, but rather treat them as a status symbol. Having a pet flaunts how little they rely on humans for survival.

There are four means of acquiring humans. You could simply take a human, which is technically illegal under Diavolo's law but functionally tolerated in the lower rings due to a lack of enforcement. Then, there are private sales. Demons trading or selling humans between themselves, like in the instance of Astaroth’s captive-bred humans. Next are the auctions. The black cuff auctions happen somewhat regularly and without ceremony (almost exclusively in the lower houses) because human flesh is a high-demand good. Lastly, the golden auctions. They are irregular and require much more presentation. They always begin with a traditional black-cuff auction, but end with the real prize.

Although I haven't mentioned it (due to brevity, as I can very easily become sidetracked with anything involving scientific rationale), the golden cuffs aren't only magic! The side that faces the skin is made up of microscopic needles that release hormones to physically condition the wearer into adapting their emotions in favor of their owner. Oxytocin for trust and pair-bonding. Dopamine when obeying commands or being rewarded. Possibly Vasopressin; however, that particular hormone operates differently between the sexes. It causes nurturing responses in females and mate-guarding (jealous) responses in males. It is, however, believed to be the hormone responsible for monogamy/loyalty in humans, so I believe it would still be used regardless of its response in each sex.

Barbatos is absolutely my favorite! He's mysterious and incredibly powerful, yet remains in a subservient role throughout the games. He's so fascinating to me.

I've mentioned it to others, but Barbatos was originally supposed to be the main love interest for The Prince's Pet! I've been considering adding him as a secondary love interest, but I don’t want to disappoint anyone who signed up for the current pairing. I've thought about making a poll. If that doesn’t end up happening, I’d love to do a series of “what-if” one-shots where each ObeyMe demon gets their own human pet.

Barbatos would be a more sadistic owner. He'd train them rigorously, assigning impossible tasks only to then punish them for their inevitable failure. His affection wouldn't be chaotic like Diavolo's. He would make his pet feel pampered and cherished one moment, only to pull away the next, leaving them frantically craving his attention long before the cuffs had even finished conditioning them.

Hi! It's me again. I did not expect you to reply so fast ( ꩜///꩜;) I was ready to wait 4-5 business day, hehe.

Okay, so, uhm, first thing first... EXCUSE ME?? I never thought I would live to see 'Lucifer' and 'cheating' in the same sentence unless he's scolding someone else (definitely Mammon) about it. I am now scared to open it, fr. I was kinda excited to get down to it too, since I saw pics of Mammon and he looked soo goood, but now I am having second thoughts. Maybe I'll take your word for it, and just focus on the OG and NB for now (I am like, halfway though the OG and barely 1/4 on NB). I am also really lexcited for the next game too! I wish they'd release it before the next school year starts tho, 'cause then I'd be too busy once more.

That aside, I want you to know how much your Diavolo fic has altered my brain chemistry. Whenever I read other Diavolo fics or HC, and they mention giving MC pets or giving/sharing food, my brain immediately goes back to your fic, like ptsd but a wonderful variant of it. I read some HCs of when Diavolo travels with MC and he keeps subconsciously petting MC while talking to other demons/vampires. My mind immediately went back to when Diavolo took her (uh, his pet? human? I'm sorry I'm not quite sure how to address the, uh, MC in your fic, like I don't remember if they were referred to as female or male in your fic, but I guess I have always thought of them as female since I am) to the convention thing (I'm sorry my memory's a little foggy as of late). Uhm, so I forgot where I was going with this, I tried going back to check the name of the convention thingy but ended up rereading until chapther 5, and Dia does says 'good girl' so I guess there's that. But anyway!! I guess what I'm trying to say is that your work is incredibly amazing! I am looking forward to your next one. ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Anyways, I'm sorry for the nonsensical chatter. Being short and concise isn't exactly my best suit. Sending you lots of love ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕

xoxo.

Hi 🦢! It's always good to hear from you!

Haha, ironically, it took me much longer to respond to this message. My apologies! I respond when I am available, whenever that may be. Sometimes, I respond after five minutes. Other times, it may take me a week or two.

The story is definitely more complicated than I'm letting on! He's not cheating in the "sneaking around with random lovers" sense, but I was still annoyed by it regardless. I also wish the newest game would release earlier, as this upcoming semester will be one of my busiest yet. 😵‍💫

I'm so glad you've been enjoying my story so much! I also envision Diavolo and the other characters as their variants in my AU, so it's a bit of a shock when I read fanfics with their goofier canon selves (which I say with endearment). As for the MC, I started this fanfiction with low hopes of it ever gaining traction, so I wrote the MC using feminine terms as I myself am a cisgender woman. Now that I have quite a few readers, I've avoided using overtly gendered terms to appeal to a larger audience. I've thought about going back and fully committing to the gender-neutrality, but the entire story is nearly 500 pages long, and I haven't had the time to sift through it all. (Actually typing out the number 500 feels absolutely insane to me. I suppose I am a bit long-winded in my descriptions).

Thank you again, as always! Never apologize, I always enjoy interacting with y'all!

You knew that something was going to happen. You felt it deep in your chest. But nothing could have prepared you for the hand that clamped over your mouth. Branded with gold cuffs and paraded before a crowd of bidders, you catch the gaze of one powerful demon in particular. The future king has decided you belong to him, body and soul. A dark romance where love is just another word for ownership. {Chapter 1}

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⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

~Chapter 16~

Diavolo looked down at you expectantly, mirth still shimmering behind his eyes. You felt shock radiating through you like the aftermath of an earthquake, heart dropping to your core. Silence stretched between you. He waited.

Slowly, you lifted your hand in front of your face, spreading your fingers wide as if the simple motion could shatter the illusion. You could see yourself. You could see flesh, veins, the faint tremble of fear. Was this some cruel trick of his? You couldn’t be invisible. Not when his gaze still pinned you in place like a specimen under glass.

He reached up and grabbed your hand, observing closely as though he were unraveling the secret for himself. Then he pressed his lips to your palm, a lingering kiss that sent heat flooding through your veins. If you truly were invisible, you were pathetically grateful for it. Grateful it hid the flush crawling up your neck.

He was being gentle.

Too gentle. The kind that made your mind fracture and your body betray you in that dark, unwanted way you hated.

He looked directly at you, it seemed, but his eyes narrowed as he looked past you. Through you. Directly to the sigil you had drawn that was still glowing on the table.

His eyes shifted to meet your own. His gaze seemed calculated and questioning, before the delight faded into something almost suspicious.

“Little pet,” he murmured, voice low and smooth as he rose to his full height without breaking that piercing eye contact. “You haven’t been keeping secrets from me, have you? Surely you wouldn’t dare do something... reckless after I’ve only been gone a single day.”

You froze, the cuffs at your wrists pulsing once in warning, a silent reminder of who owned you.

Diavolo's smile hadn't vanished entirely. It lingered at the corners of his mouth, but no longer held warmth. His golden eyes met yours with that particular quality of stillness that you had learned to fear more than his anger. This was quiet in the way a trap is quiet.

"Well?"

"I couldn't sleep," you said quietly. The words came out steadier than you felt. "The tug was... it was difficult. I was trying to distract myself."

He regarded you for a moment without speaking. Then, without any change to his expression, he released your hand and turned toward the table.

He moved the way he always moved. Unhurried and effortless, as though the world arranged itself ahead of him rather than the other way around. He stopped before the table and looked down at what was there. The open book. The scattered study notes. The pages of failed attempts. The single sheet of grey parchment with the sigil you had drawn still shimmering on its surface.

He was quiet for a long time.

You watched his back and the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He stood with his hands clasped behind him at first, simply looking. Then one hand came forward, and his thumb traced the line of what you had drawn. Not quickly. Never that. Following the vertical stroke downward, the curve at its crown, then the spiral at its base. 

He picked up the parchment.

He held it for a moment, and you opened your mouth, though you weren't certain what exactly you were supposed to say. That you hadn't known what it was? That Barbatos had left the books, that you had only been-

The paper caught.

Neither with a match nor any visible motion. The flame appeared between his fingers suddenly and without warning, moving across the parchment and consuming the sigil first, then the rest of the sheet, until nothing remained between his fingers but a small bit of ash that dissolved before it could fall.

The moment the sigil burned, you felt yourself lurch forward.

It was like catching yourself from a stumble. Your body snapped back into its own weight, gravity reasserting itself all at once. You braced your hands against your thighs to steady yourself, heart hammering. You stared at your own fingers gripping the fabric, entirely visible.

You hadn't known.

That was the part that was nagging at you as Diavolo turned back around. You had drawn that mark and your body had simply disappeared around it, not knowing until he laughed.

He looked at you now with an expression that was not quite angry, not quite amused. He was holding the book open at the page you had been studying. He crossed the room and held it out to you, in front of your face.

"Tell me what you see," he said.

You flinched lightly as you looked at the page. The characters shifted and coiled in the way they always did, retreating from direct attention. You could make out the shape of the example you had copied and the Latin notation beneath it.

"A sigil," you said carefully. "It… It says it’s called the seal of shadows."

Something moved behind his eyes. Something with the essence of discomfort.

"You translated this by yourself?" he questioned.

"Barbatos taught me how to translate Latin yesterday. I didn't get very far, I only managed a few characters before-"

"This is not the book that was given to you for studying. You should not be able to understand these sigils at all, Y/N." His voice was still measured, but something beneath it had shifted. Something quieter and more careful than seriousness. "There are demons who have devoted entire lifetimes to this particular script. Centuries of attempting to copy what is written in these pages, only to find the ink refused to hold the shapes." He paused, letting his words land. "And yet you, a human, copied it after a single night of practice?"

You stared at him, breathing slowly, and said nothing. 

His gaze moved over you in a way that unsettled you deeply. He had never looked at you quite like this. Not like prey or a possession to be admired. Like he was cataloguing something he hadn't expected to find. Checking for cracks in something he thought he had understood entirely. "You should be in considerable pain right now for even attempting such a thing."

"Pain?" The word came out smaller than you intended. "I… I had a headache, but it was manageable. I didn't think-"

"A headache." The two words came out with a flatness that made the back of your neck prickle. He glanced down at the book down between you, face up, characters still writhing across the page "You experienced a headache."

You could hear your own voice growing smaller as you spoke, the explanation falling apart under his attention. "Barbatos said that a headache was a normal side effect. I could see the characters if I looked indirectly. It worked, so I practiced on just the one." You swallowed. "The shape was simple enough, so I assumed it might be for beginners."

He stared at you. "Simple," he repeated, very quietly.

When he said it back to you in that tone, the logic that had seemed perfectly reasonable at three in the morning became difficult to defend. You pressed your lips together and said nothing as he tapped the spine of the book rhythmically. 

He looked at the book, then at the space where the parchment had been. Then, briefly, at your hands. You felt that last look the way you felt most of his attention. Physical. A pressure that lasted longer than the glance itself. His expression didn't change, but the furrow between his brows deepened fractionally before smoothing again.

The cuffs pulsed once, quietly, seeming to match the rhythm of his emotions.

He finally looked directly at you, and you made yourself hold his gaze rather than drop it. His eyes moved over your face in an analyzing way, and for once the hunger that usually lived there was absent. What remained in its place was harder to name. He was searching for something. Whatever it was, he had not yet decided if he had found it. The firelight caught the gold of his irises, burning low and steady.

The calculation softened.

Not entirely. Not in any way that would have been visible to someone who hadn't spent weeks learning to read the small changes between his expressions. But it was there. Something in the set of his mouth eased, and the tension between his brows released, and he looked at you the way he had looked at you when he first walked through the door tonight. Before he had noticed the book. 

Your own expression did something you hadn't planned for. The careful stillness you had been holding in place loosened, just slightly, and couldn’t stop it. Your eyes met his, searching for an answer.

Then he sighed, a long exhale that carried the last of whatever he had been deciding, and spoke. "The sigils in this book are not Devildom script, but rather its predecessor." You waited, and the room seemed to hold its breath with you. 

"Before demons ruled this realm, something else did." He let a moment of quiet settle between you before continuing. "The fae," he said. The word landed in a way you hadn't expected. Familiar and deeply unfamiliar all at once. Stories. Children's myths. You had grown up with a vague, secondhand understanding of fae as small, whimsical things that granted wishes or stole children from cradles.

"They… ruled the Devildom?"

"They ruled everything beneath the Celestial Realm for an age that predates history. They were precise. Strategic. They understood language in a way that nothing before or since has quite replicated." You kept your expression still and listened.

"The fae did not use weapons or magic the way demons do," he continued. "What they had instead were sigils. Marks that, when rendered correctly, carried power into the world." His eyes held yours. 

You watched his face as he spoke. There was something different in it, something you hadn't encountered before in all your weeks of survival. He wasn't watching you for a reaction to use or building up to a punishment. He was simply… telling you something. Explaining. The realization settled over you strangely, like recognizing a room you had never been in before.

Every other conversation had been laced with possession and power. This was different. He was telling you something real because he had decided you needed to know it, and the distinction felt significant in a way you couldn't articulate.

"When the war ended, the fae were gone but their sigils remained. Written on stone, pressed into materials that resisted being destroyed as stubbornly as the language itself." He looked at you. "These sigils aren’t judged by their ‘simplicity,’ as you put it. Their power is determined by the hand that drew it. Demons adopted their writing in hopes of capturing something of what they possessed. What we built from it became the Devildom script. Functional. But a copy. And copies lose something in translation." 

Your mouth had gone very dry. You looked at the book sitting on the table with its ordinary appearance. You had pulled it from the shelf because it was there. Because you couldn't sleep. Because your hands needed something to do.

You had drawn one of their marks because you were restless.

The thought refused to settle into anything coherent. You had no particular gifts, no training, no history that could explain any of this. You were simply someone who had picked up a pen and copied the first character your eyes could make out. Demons couldn’t replicate this text, but you could? You were sure he found it just as ridiculous as you did. 

Where understanding should have been, you found blankness.

"That book," you said, your voice considerably smaller than you intended, "was in the bookshelf. Within reach."

"Yes," Diavolo said. "It was. I am the only demon permitted to keep such items, and hadn’t expected anyone to open them, let alone write the sigils found within. Let alone by my own pet."

You crossed your arms tightly over your body. "I-I didn't have any luck studying the book Barbatos had given me and I couldn't sleep and I-" You stopped. Breathed. You could feel the edge of panic begin to creep up as you processed his words. "It was one of the few symbols I could make out, so I translated the notation. I thought it referred to an actual word, not a…" You gestured vaguely toward the space where the parchment had been. "Not that."

"The seal of shadows," he said, tipping your chin up to hold his gaze. "Is a fae sigil of oblivion. It does not make things invisible. It removes them from the awareness of the world entirely. Whatever has activated it, in any meaningful sense, has ceased to exist."

The fire crackled. You became aware that your hands were gripping your arms hard enough to ache and consciously loosened them.

"So I… disappeared?" you asked quietly.

"Incompletely, yes." He looked you up and down, as though taking inventory of something that belonged to him. "That particular sigil, if completely rendered by someone who understands what they are doing, is absolute. Nothing remains. Not sight, not sound, not scent." He paused, thumb brushing your jaw just once, almost idly. "You rendered it imperfectly. Enough to remove you from sight. But I could still smell you. I could still feel the shift of air when you breathed." His voice dropped. "Had you rendered it correctly, I would have walked into this room and found it empty."

The implication of that settled over you slowly, like cold water rising rather than falling.

Had you rendered it correctly.

You thought about what that would have meant. Arriving in a room that smelled of you, held the evidence of your presence, only to find nothing. His reaction to that. The conclusions he would have drawn. What he would have done next, and to whom?

The cuffs gave a sudden sharp pulse against your skin that made you flinch.

"It wouldn't have mattered," he said, voice dropping low. "Had you vanished entirely. Had you walked out of this room and out into the Devildom itself without a single soul perceiving you." He held your gaze without blinking. "The cuffs would have led me to you. They are bound to me. And what is bound to me does not disappear. Not by fae magic. Not by any other method you might consider in the dark hours when I am away."

Your heart was hammering, and you braced yourself without meaning to. You had learned what came after moments like these, whether your transgressions were accidental or intentional. The sharp, searing current through the cuffs. The way your own screams could empty you of everything else until nothing remained.

He reached out, and you went very still.

The golden bands at your wrists and throat pulsed once, anticipatory in a way that made your stomach drop. You were acutely aware of them at that moment. The weight of the metal, the warmth of it against your skin, the way they seemed to breathe in time with your own frantic heartbeat. They were never more present than in moments like these.

His fingers found the side of your face, and brushed the hair back from your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, almost absently, palm engulfing one side of your face.

The cuffs settled into a low, pleased hum against your skin.

You told yourself the rush of warmth that moved through your chest was relief. It had to be. You had been bracing for searing pain from wrist to throat. Instead he had touched your face gently, and your body was simply responding to the absence of pain. That was all. That was the only reasonable explanation for the way your pulse refused to slow, for the heat that crept up the back of your neck and into your cheeks with a thoroughness you could do nothing to stop.

You were not fooling either of you.

"You made me a vow," he said quietly. Not an accusation. Simply a fact. "The night before I left. You looked at me and you said you would stay." His eyes searched yours, golden and steady and far too perceptive. "I have not forgotten it. And neither, I think, have you."

Without any announcement of the intention, he took your right hand and lifted it, turning it palm upward. He examined it with a quiet, attentive care that confused you. His thumbs moved across the lines of your palm slowly.

You watched his face while he watched your hand. The tiredness you had noticed when he first walked in was still present, visible in the set of his brow. He had been awake all night on crown business only to find you invisible. Now he was standing here in the amber light of early morning, holding your hand as though checking it for damage.

You looked away before the thought could settle any further.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"A little," you admitted, your voice very small. "My hands. Since I finished the mark."

He said nothing. He continued his quiet examination of your palm for a moment longer, then released your hand and straightened.

"You will not touch that book again," he said. The gentleness of his tone did not soften the finality of the words. "What is in those pages is not yours to explore, Y/N. And if you find yourself restless in the dark again," he said, each word enunciated with intent, "you will wake me. If I am not present, you will call for Barbatos. You will not sit alone in the dark making decisions about what is and isn't worth attempting." His gaze held yours, steady and absolute. "Do you understand?"

The cuffs hummed their warm, approving pulse.

"Yes," you said.

He held your gaze for one moment longer. Then he drew your hand upward and pressed his lips briefly to your knuckles, unhurried, as though the gesture were simply his due.

"Now that that's taken care of… Shall we?" 

He didn't specify what he meant. He didn't need to. His hand found the small of your back as he turned toward the bathing chamber. The warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your nightgown was answer enough. 

The bath was already drawn by the time he guided you into the adjoining room. You didn't know how. The copper tub steamed gently, surface scattered with those same dark petals. The scent was familiar by now. 

Diavolo stopped at the edge of the tub and began to undress with the same unhurried ease that had always undone you. Shirt first. The fabric fell from his shoulders and he set it aside without looking at you. Next his pants.

You looked away.

You had seen him unclothed quite a few times by now, and the embarrassment had not diminished, but rather changed. Less terror. You kept your eyes fixed on the far wall, on a particular vein of gold running through the black marble, until you heard the soft displacement of water that meant he had stepped in.

"Come," he said.

The word was quiet, and held that particular register that your body had learned to respond to before your mind could catch up.

You reached for the hem of your nightgown and made yourself move.

Your hands had stopped shaking. You noticed it as you undressed. You stood in the light of the bath chamber, bare, felt your body flush, but your hands were still.

You stepped into the tub without being told twice.

The water was warm, heat moving up through your legs and into your chest as you sank down. Diavolo was already settled against the curved back of the tub, one arm draped along its rim. You sat across from him as you usually did, drew your knees up slightly, let the water and the scattered petals settle around you both.

"Come here."

You quickly looked up. His arm still rested along the rim, his posture still perfectly relaxed. But his eyes were on you, steady and unblinking, in a way that never left room for debate.

You moved through the water toward him slowly, petals parting around your arms. When you reached him he didn't wait for you to negotiate the distance. His hands found your waist beneath the surface and drew you the rest of the way, settling you back against his chest with an ease that still managed to unsettle you no matter how many times it happened. One arm stayed low across your stomach, fingers spread wide. The other returned to the rim of the tub as though nothing significant had happened.

Your back was warm against the hard planes of his chest and you could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine.

Neither of you spoke, but the silence was not uncomfortable.

You stayed quiet. You had volunteered enough already, stumbling through explanations that kept making things worse the longer you talked. You let the water hold you and gently swirled the petals with one finger.

One arm moved beneath the surface, and you felt his hand slowly begin to caress the flesh of your thighs.

You breathed carefully through your nose and kept your eyes on the water.

"You’re quite troublesome, little one," he said finally. The word came out with a tone of reflection, almost fond. Almost. "In the time you have been here, you have wandered the castle without escort and drawn so much attention to yourself that I was forced to cast out a member of my own aristocracy." His thumb made slow circles across your warm skin. "You still have not learned your place. You hesitate when I give you the simplest instructions. You disobey and then look at me with those wide eyes as though you're surprised by the consequences." A brief pause. "And now I find you drawing sigils from restricted texts." 

You pressed your lips together.

“The humans I met last night," he continued, voice dropping lower, the smile audible beneath it even as his tone stayed even, "were so very well behaved. Quiet. Perfectly dressed. They sat exactly where they were placed and did not move unless spoken to. No wandering. No complaints. And they complied with every demand."

You felt your heart drop before you could stop it. You recognized the feeling half a second after it arrived, and the recognition was worse than the feeling itself. You were not jealous. You were not. The idea was absurd. You certainly did not feel any particular way about the thought of other humans sitting quietly at his feet, looking at him with contented eyes.

Your jaw tightened fractionally.

He didn't respond immediately. The hand beneath the water continued its slow, unhurried path along your thigh. Patient as everything he did.

"One of them," he said after a moment, "was particularly attentive. Lovely thing. Extraordinarily well trained. She seemed to understand every request before it was even made." He let those words settle enough for discomfort to rise. "I found it quite refreshing."

You drew your knees up slightly beneath the water, closing your posture without meaning to. A petal drifted across the surface and stuck to your forearm, and you peeled it away as though it required your full concentration.

Heat climbed up the back of your neck in a way that had nothing to do with the bath or your previous embarrassment. 

"Not a single moment of resistance. Not one wandering glance, not one question she wasn't invited to ask. She simply…" The hand on your stomach spread wider, slow and warm. "…gave."

You said absolutely nothing.

Something in your chest began to pull tight. Not the tug. This was sharper and had nothing to do with the cuffs and everything to do with his voice when he said that word. Gave. The satisfaction. 

You peeled another petal from the surface of the water and released it. Watched it drift.

You could feel the tension in your jaw traveling up to your temples with a low, grinding ache that you were almost grateful for. Physical discomfort you understood. It was tidier than what was happening in your mind.

She gave? You had given him things too. Things you had not chosen to give and had not gotten back, and he had the audacity to sit here in the warm water with his arm across your stomach describing some other human's obedience with that tone. Of quiet, satisfied appreciation. As though he were recounting a pleasant meal. As though you were supposed to hear it and feel nothing.

The cuffs pulsed again. Warmer this time, and you recognized the meaning. It was warning you. Warning you to control the anger it could feel rising to the surface.

"Did you," you began, and stopped.

The words had arrived before the decision to speak did, and you caught them just in time. You pressed your lips together very hard and returned your attention to the petals with intentional focus.

"Did I?" he prompted, the words perfectly pleasant and coaxing.

You said nothing. You were not going to finish that sentence. You were not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing the question out loud, of watching his expression when he had gotten exactly what he wanted. Your jaw stayed locked. Your eyes stayed on the water.

You turned your focus to the petals on the surface and began counting them, which was difficult because they kept drifting in the current your breath made against the water, and also because the anger had made your vision slightly unsteady.

The chest behind you began to shake.

Gently at first. A faint, barely perceptible tremor that moved through his ribs and into your back. Then less gently. Then not gentle at all. The laugh that came out of him was warm and unguarded, rolling through the steam of the bathing chamber.

He was genuinely amused.

"My darling," he said, and his voice was still threaded with it, laughter catching on the edges of every syllable. "My poor, furious little pet."

"I'm not furious," you said flatly.

"No." His arms tightened around you, drawing you further back against his chest. His chin came to rest on the top of your head, and you could feel him still smiling. "You are absolutely livid and doing a remarkable impression of someone who is not."

You didn't respond.

"Adorable," he murmured, lips pressing to your hair once, then again. The word didn’t seem to carry condescension. "The way your shoulders went up. The way you found suddenly very important business with the petals. The question you refused to finish." He exhaled, slow and fond. "You are jealous, little one."

"I," you said, with as much precision as you could manage, "am not jealous."

"Of course not. Nothing of the sort."

His lips found the shell of your ear, and his warm breath caused shivers to run down your spine, betraying you. "Nothing happened," he said quietly. The amusement had softened, but not disappeared. "Not in the way you are imagining. Not in any way that would interest those particular thoughts you are refusing to acknowledge."

You didn't move.

"The humans I was with last night were not there for my entertainment." His voice had shifted again. The lightness remained, but something more professional had come into it. "They belonged to Astaroth."

You were not relieved. You had no reason to be relieved. You had no claim over him, had never wanted one, and had spent the better part of your time in this castle actively resenting his claim over you. The idea that you might feel anything resembling relief at being told nothing had happened was not something you were prepared to examine.

"He fled," Diavolo continued. "And whatever network of contacts, properties, and assets he maintained in this realm have been dissolving in his absence, piece by piece. His estates. His titles. His debts." A pause. "His humans."

You shifted slightly against him and he let you turn enough to see the edge of his jaw without breaking the loose hold of his arms.

"He curated quite the collection," he said. "Although he was known to buy a wild human from time to time, such as yourself, most of his were born there, raised fully in captivity."

The phrase landed somewhere in your stomach and stayed there.

Wild human. You had been called many things since you arrived in this place. Pet. Little one. His. But wild human carried a different weight. You were a category. You, with your fear and your resistance and your pathetic, stubborn attempts to remain yourself, were simply the undomesticated version of something that could also come domesticated.

Your stomach turned.

"Generations of humans were raised inside his estate walls," Diavolo continued, his voice unhurried, "bred as pets for demons who do not want the trouble of breaking one in." He said it the way he might describe a livestock practice. Efficient. Practical. A reasonable solution to a logistical problem. "They don't know the Devildom the way someone taken from the surface might. They have no knowledge of the human world, no knowledge that freedom is a concept that could ever be used to describe themselves."

You refused to imagine what it meant to have no frame of reference. To have been born inside those walls, raised within them. To have never had a self that existed prior to the cuffs or the conditioning. You thought about the blonde man in the salon, his dreamy eyes and his easy laugh, the way he spoke about his demon with reverence that made your skin crawl. You had assumed it was the cuffs. Weeks of syrupy pleasure and searing correction reshaping a person from the outside in.

But what if it hadn't required reshaping at all? What if some of them had simply never been anything else?

The nausea moved up from your stomach and settled at the base of your throat. You swallowed against it carefully. Everything felt suddenly distant, as though you were perceiving it from outside yourself.

"When his estate was seized," Diavolo said, "his humans had no master. No one to continue their care. As such, they have begun to starve."

The steam moved around you both. You kept very still against his chest and let the information settle.

"What will happen to them?" you asked.

"That is currently being decided." His thumb resumed its slow arc across your thigh. "The practical options are limited. Some of the houses have expressed interest in taking on the more attractive ones as pets. There would still be the matter of the remainder."

You felt the shift in his tone before the words arrived. 

"It would be simpler to hand them over to the lower houses. Let them be useful one final time."

The word useful arrived in your chest like a blade.

You knew what it meant. You had learned it when Barbatos had told you, in that emotionless way of his, about the ones with black cuffs and what became of them. 

Your hands moved before anything else did. They came up from the water and gripped the arm across your stomach, fingers closing around it tightly. The motion was involuntary and you did not try to stop it.

"Don't." The word left you without hesitation, cracking at the edges and far louder than anything you had said in the past several minutes. "They deserve to live. To have at least a fighting chance. Don't let them be eaten. Please." Your voice had gone rough, catching on the last word in a way that humiliated you even as it happened. 

You stopped as he just stared at you. 

He didn’t reply right away. Instead he held your gaze and his eyes warned you that you’d almost gone too far. You drew in a shaky breath, nerves fried from the emotional rollercoaster this morning had put you through. Slowly, you released his arm and turned away, obeying his silent command.

His hand came to your hair.

He pressed his palm flat against the crown of your head. Slowly, he combed through the damp strands in long, even passes that started at your temple and moved back.

"For the time being," he said, "they will be brought here. To the castle."

You lifted your head slightly from his chest. He allowed it, watching you from above with that steady, unreadable gaze.

"Here?" you asked carefully.

"It is the simplest solution while more permanent arrangements are being made. Here they will be housed, fed, and protected," he said, with the precision of someone who understood exactly what he was and was not promising.

"You could have explained this all to me from the beginning," you said. Very carefully. "Instead of… the other thing."

"I could have," he agreed, and the smile was back in his voice. "But then I would have missed out on the pleasure of feeling your envy and anger."

You exhaled through your nose and looked back at the petals.

His lips found your temple gently. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your jaw, each kiss placed with quiet intention. His arms wrapped firmly around you and he drew you back against him fully. 

"You're mine," he murmured against your hair. Said simply as a fact that he seemed to find comforting. “And there is nothing that could take you from me, or me from you.” 

You kept your mind on Astaroth’s humans. You knew the castle was not salvation. But they were not going to the lower houses tonight.

They would be taken care of tonight.

That was enough for now.

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙

You hadn't meant to get involved. A bandage offered to a stranger, a green heart pinned to your collar, and somehow you'd found yourself holding three tickets with a decision that needed to be made. The red belonged to Pierrot, the green to Harlequin. The pink belonged to no one, or so you thought. You chose it because it seemed safe. Neutral. A way to see the show without taking sides. What you didn't know is that the pink ticket held a weight that, once chosen, was impossible to reverse.

||Previous|| ~ ||Next||

Chapter 2

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

The streets became quieter as the evening crowd thinned to a few scattered pairs walking close together against the cold. You kept your hands in your pockets and your eyes mostly forward. The pink ticket was tucked inside your coat, and you were aware of it in a nagging way that lingered at the edge of your mind.

The walk to the circus was longer than you remembered.

Or perhaps it only felt that way because you kept slowing without meaning to, each step resisting something you hadn't done in a very long time. The lights were visible before the tents were, bleeding color into the dark above the rooftops.

You thought about your mother.

It was unavoidable, really. She had loved the circus in the effortless way that adults who remember being children love things. She didn’t need the wonder and mysticism of it the way you had. You could still picture the angle of her face when she'd looked down at you in the crowd. The soft patience of it, the adoration. You didn’t understand it back then. 

Your father had held your other hand. He’d complain about the price of everything, called the games and their prizes absurd, and yet bought it all regardless. He had been the kind of man who called things what they were and did them anyway. You had inherited that from him, or so you liked to think.

You slowed without meaning to.

You thought about turning back. You genuinely considered it, breath misting in front of you. You could go home, brew another cup of tea you wouldn't finish, sit in the silence you'd grown accustomed to. There were practical reasons to be nowhere near this place. Two women were missing and the signs were pointing in this direction.

You had almost convinced yourself when Pierrot found his way into your mind.

You remembered his face when you'd told him that you weren’t coming. The way his face fell, posture closed, and his eyes. His eyes held so much emotion. You'd noticed, and wished you hadn't. 

Harlequin was an entirely different kind of problem.

You didn't trust the green pin, which, for some odd reason, you had failed to remove even now. Something about him was a performance to his core with amusement as his armor.

But you hadn't come for either of them, you reminded yourself firmly. You'd chosen the pink ticket precisely to belong to no one. You would watch the show from whatever anonymous corner you could find, and you would let yourself feel whatever small portion of wonder this place could still offer. Then you would go home, and that would be the end of it.

Your feet had resumed walking while you reasoned with yourself.

The glow grew warmer as you rounded the curve and the tents came into full view. Your breath left you in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

You had forgotten. In the way that grief tends to take the good things with it when it goes, you had simply forgotten what it looked like. The scale of it. The strange and total world it made of itself. Music drifted from somewhere inside, low and in a minor key, nothing like the cheerful brass you remembered from childhood. 

A queue had formed at the entrance and you fell in at the back of it automatically, tucking your chin down against the wind.

Then the line moved, and the ticket taker came into view. 

It was only then, as the crowd shuffled closer, that you noticed the tickets. Everyone ahead of you held one, and every one of them caught the circus lights the same way. A deep, unmistakable gold. You glanced down at the pink slip in your own hand, then back at the people around you. Gold. All of them gold. You turned the pink ticket over, as though the back of it might offer some explanation, and found nothing. 

Did it even matter? It probably meant nothing. A different tier of seating, or a nightly variation you had no way of knowing about. And yet something stirred within. The type of instinct that comes from an almost primal place. Your feet felt suddenly shaky beneath you, and the urge to step out of the line came not as a decision but as something closer to a warning. 

You were still turning it over in your mind, stuck in an internal battle, when the ticket taker leaned forward.

"Hello there, visitor! May I punch your ticket?"

You stared at him with what was undoubtedly a dumb expression. The urge to leave had not gone anywhere. It sat at the base of your spine, and you found you couldn't quite make yourself move forward or back. Behind you, the queue shuffled. Someone cleared their throat. You glanced once more at the golden tickets passing easily through the gate, and then down at the pink ticket in your hand.

You needed to make a decision. Now.

"Visitor, if you need to purchase a ticket, please visit the booth to my left and return once you've obtained one."

You jumped at being addressed a second time. The embarrassment of holding up the line snapped something loose. Why were you so nervous? You let out a short, shy laugh and shook your head.

"Sorry. I spaced out. I do have a ticket, actually."

The ticket taker seemed to straighten the moment it came into view, his eyes narrowing to it in recognition. Then the grin returned wider than before with the same sharp and intense quality every circus worker seemed to share.

"Oh, a pink ticket? Well, then you're in luck. That ticket grants you special access." He stepped aside and extended one arm toward the entrance. "Please, come with me."

He didn't wait to see if you would follow.

That was the first thing that unsettled you. He simply turned with the certainty that you would, and moved away from the main entrance along to the outer edge of the tents. You looked back at the golden ticket crowd filing in behind you, then at the ticket taker's back before taking a step.

The path he took curved away from the main area, where the lights dimmed and the music faded. You kept a careful distance behind him and found yourself studying him the way you did when you were nervous.

He was slender and walked with impeccable posture. His coat was a deep navy with gold buttons and a top hat of the same deep blue sat atop his head, which softened the peculiarity of his mask. It was split cleanly down the center. The left side was white with black markings that dripped beneath the eye like liquid. The right side was black with its details swallowed by the darkness.

He had not looked back at you once.

The unease that had been sitting quietly was becoming harder to reason with. You thought about turning around once again. The main entrance was not so far, and you could still hear the distant music if you listened. You could slip back into the crowd and go home and that would be entirely reasonable. Nobody was stopping you.

But you kept walking.

The pink tent appeared between two larger ones, tucked back as though it did not want to be found. The canvas was a pale and faded rose, almost colorless in the dark, with no signs or lights along its entrance. Nothing to indicate what it was for or who it was meant to hold. The ticket taker stopped before it and finally turned to look at you, his one visible eye catching the dark in a way that made it difficult to meet.

Slowly, he took hold of the tent flap and drew it open.

“Right this way, dear visitor.”

You looked at the opening, then at him. You looked back into the tent, and saw nothing inside. It was completely black and devoid of any apparent show. You remembered what everyone had told you, that this circus was unlike any other, that it was scary and morbid and unlike the family friendly versions you were accustomed to. As you considered your options, he simply smiled at you politely, as though he understood your thoughts perfectly and knew that it was only a matter of time before you complied.

And you did.

You stepped inside. 

The flap fell closed behind you, and the dark was immediate and total. Not the dim of a room with curtains drawn, not the dark your eyes might gradually adjust to. It was the kind of dark that consumed everything around you. You stood very still and heard nothing but your own breathing, and the faint sound of the tent settling. Somewhere far away, as though from a different world entirely, the low music of the circus continued on.

You felt your heart begin to race, just as it had the prior night when the breaker box had failed on you. You tried squinting, as though that would accomplish anything. You reached a hand out in front of you and found nothing.

You waited.

Nothing happened. The ticket taker did not speak. The lights did not come on. There was only the canvas settling faintly around you and the sound of your own breathing, and then a rustling. Coming from somewhere you couldn't place.

‘Fuck this,’ you thought. You had come to see the circus, not to stand in a dark tent while something moved around you. You turned, fully intending to find the exit and walk back out into the noise and the lights, leaving the whole thing behind you.

The blow came from behind before you'd finished turning.

It was blunt and intense. For a single, splitting moment it was the only thing that existed. Then your knees met the ground and the rest of you followed. Your vision became prickly at the edges, and when you opened your mouth to scream, no sound came out.

The last things you were aware of arrived in pieces. The cool ground against your cheek, the pull of something at your wrists. The sensation of leaving the ground entirely, folded over a shoulder like luggage.

Then nothing.

You woke to the sound of voices.

Male, low, murmuring to one another above you. Your first instinct was to move your hands, and you couldn't. The restraints at your wrists were tight enough to feel professional, digging into skin in a way that told you they had not been tied in haste. Your legs were folded beneath you, bound at the ankle, and the ache that had consumed your lower body was dull and pulsing. Your head was worse. The throbbing behind your skull made rational thought feel like an impossibility.

You tried opening your eyes, blinking rapidly to retain any fragments of cohesion that remained. Immediately a voice spoke.

“Looks like they’re awake… They’re quite pretty.”

You finally open your eyes all the way and look up at the figures before you, your heart dropping to your core. There were five of them, arranged in a loose half-circle, looking down at you with varying degrees of interest. The tallest wore the long coat and beaked mask of a plague doctor, his arms folded and expression unreadable. Beside him stood the ticket taker, fully composed as though this were simply a regular part of his duties. On his other side, a figure in a deep purple jester’s outfit with long hair to match watched you with a smile that made your skin prickle. Something about him was different from the others. More sinister.

You then looked at the last two, and you stopped breathing entirely.

Harlequin. And Pierrot.

Harlequin was watching you with his usual sharp interest, the smirk in its usual place. But his posture was rigid, his brows drawn together in something that looked, beneath the performance of it, like genuine displeasure.

Pierrot looked broken.

His eyes were wide, moving between you and the others in quick, unsteady flickers. He swayed slightly where he stood, as though the effort of standing still was costing him something. The guilt on his face was unconcealed, visible even through the apparent shock.

You looked at him for a long moment.

You didn't know him. He had not promised you anything. And yet the sight of him standing in this room while your wrists ached and your head split open made something go cold in your chest. You should have listened. You should have listened to every warning, every whispered word blaming this place for tragedy. You should have listened to all of it.

The ticket taker's voice broke the silence.

"Shall we begin? Is anyone interested in this one?"

The purple figure spoke first. He tilted his head at you with an expression of mild consideration.

"Hmm… Tempting. However, I have enough mouths to feed as is." He smiled pleasantly. "I must decline."

The doctor looked at you and answered with a flat voice, laced with a thick Russian accent. "No. I don’t want to be distracted from my current experiments."

Then silence, and the weight of it shifted toward Pierrot. He had not spoken. The purple jester glanced at him with a raised brow.

"Pierrot? Do you have an interest in this one?"

He looked over, and then back at you. He shook his head lightly, which at first you interpreted as another no, before he spoke.

"I gave you my red ticket." When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and quiet, as though he were still trying to understand it himself. "Why would you use a pink one?"

The room went still. You tried to answer, and produced only a muffled sound behind the tape. Harlequin laughed at that, short and sharp.

“My my, looks like your dearest didn’t want either of us!” He looked down at you with something that might have been appreciation. "I almost respect that, honestly. Well then, if you don't want her, Pierrot, I'll happily take her off your hands." 

You did not see Pierrot move.

One moment Harlequin was speaking, and the next there was a knife in his shoulder. You screamed behind the tape. The doctor stepped between them immediately, one arm extended. The jester and the ticket taker exchanged a look. Harlequin glanced down at the blade with something closer to amusement than pain, gripped the handle, and pulled it free. He let it drop to the ground. His expression, when he looked back up, was almost pleased.

"Pierrot, did you give this human your ticket?" 

The word the Jester had spoken landed strangely. Human. As though it were a category he was observing from outside of it. He couldn’t be implying that they themselves were not human, could he? 

Pierrot looked at the Jester and nodded before he looked back at you with a softened gaze. His eyes glowed in the dark, holding an intense, conflicted emotion.

"My dear." He stopped, seeming at a loss for words. "I did not anticipate this. Had I known you carried a pink ticket, I would have taken it from you before you ever reached the gate." He paused, voice growing even softer. Quieter. "This is all my doing, but… I want you… I want you so badly I can hardly bear it.”

With every word, his voice became quicker and less composed. You watched him without making a sound. Your head still throbbed in insistent pulses, and some distant part of you was still trying to determine whether any of this was real. 

Harlequin looked at the knife on the floor, then appeared to decide against whatever he'd been about to say. Nothing helpful, you were certain.

You had no leverage here. No argument, no exit, nothing but the mercy of your captors. The jester regarded Pierrot for a moment before clasping his hands together as though this had all been settled.

"Then that’s that. Pierrot claims this one." He paused. "If you'd like, I'll allow you to select their mask before the transformation."

Pierrot moved before the sentence finished.

He placed himself between you and the jester, and something behind his mask had shifted. Something with an almost malicious intent.

"No." The word was quiet. “You will not turn this one into a fool. I chose them because I want them as they are. I will not allow you to change them.”

The jester paused, looking as though he had not expected that. Harlequin snorted, quite rudely, and the doctor tightened his hold. This time, the Ticket Taker spoke with a measured tone.

“Pierrot. You are aware that we cannot allow humans to retain full knowledge of the circus. They would become a liability, a risk we cannot take. This is how it must be.”

What came next was not a sound you had a name for. 

It started low, below hearing, vibrating up into your bones. A low growl. Every part of you that was still animal recognized it and told you to run. To your shock, and slight horror, you realized it was coming from Pierrot.

He was taller now, you were sure of it. You watched as his hands flexed open and closed, revealing the sharp claws you had failed to notice with every prior meeting. 

“I refuse to let you touch them. They defended me." His voice had dropped into something rough and strained. "The townspeople had surrounded me, kicked me, said things I will not repeat. They put themselves in front of me, and was struck in my place." The last words came out slower, lower. "They are kind. They have been nothing but kind to me." 

You felt something shift in your chest at that. A small, almost involuntary thing. Hope for your situation. Hope that was shattered in an instant.

“Should I be impressed?”

The jester let the silence sit for a moment, as though giving Pierrot the opportunity to hear himself.

"After everything, have you not learned?" His voice had not changed, had not raised nor sharpened. That was the most unsettling part of it. 

He began to move slowly, in a wide circle around you. Not looking at you. Looking at Pierrot.

"Humans are fragile things. Lovely, sometimes, in the way that fragile things can be. They break easily and break others just as easily without ever knowing." He paused. "This one defended you on a street corner. That may be true. Yet the very crowd that they defended you against was made up of the same creature. The same hands that offer comfort are the ones that throw stones. You have been here long enough to know that."

Pierrot said nothing. He stared at the jester as he circled around, matching his steps so that he was always placed between you.

"They are useful, at times," the jester continued. "But utility and companionship are not the same, and confusing the two will cost you." He glanced at you then with detached interest and mild loathing. "It will cost them something as well, which I suspect you care about more."

"You are describing other humans," Pierrot said, "they’re different."

The jester stopped walking. He scoffed, looking at Pierrot as though he were a fool.

"I am describing," he said, the first trace of his composure cracking, "what I have watched happen. Repeatedly. To members of this circus, including yourself." He tilted his head. "They will smile at you. They will mean it, for a time. And then something will frighten them, you will frighten them, and whatever they felt will curdle into something they can justify. They will tell themselves they had no choice. They will tell others that you are dangerous. And the cycle will begin again, in a new town, with new flyers." 

The tent was very quiet.

Pierrot's hands had not unclenched. The low rumbling had faded, but the feeling of it hadn't. Like the way thunder leaves the air charged long after it's passed. You stayed very still and watched the jester complete his circle and come to a stop.

"I know what they are," Pierrot said. His voice had regained some of its control, but not all of it. "I am not confused about that."

"Then you are choosing this with full understanding." The jester's tone was not a question. "That is somehow less reassuring."

"That’s right. I am choosing this."

The jester looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked at you, evaluating you in a way that felt clinical. You held his gaze because looking away felt like a confession you couldn't afford.

He turned back to Pierrot. Whatever conclusion he reached, he kept it to himself. 

"If I permit this," he said, and the word permit landed with a weight that made you flinch, "you will be responsible for them. Entirely. What they see, what they know, what they do with either. If they become a liability, which I am certain they will, if they speak to the wrong person, if their presence draws the kind of attention that forces us to move before we are ready," he paused. "I will remove the problem and we will be in a new town within the week. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Pierrot understood. You could tell by the way he went still.

"I understand."

"Say it plainly. So they understand."

A pause. Something moved through Pierrot's expression that he did not try to conceal.

"If they become a risk to this circus, you will kill them."

"Without hesitation," the jester said simply. 

The silence that followed was the longest yet. 

The jester turned away from Pierrot, which seemed to be his version of a conclusion.

"See to it that they are not." He moved toward the exit with a fluid, graceful movement. "And take them to your tent."

He didn't look back.

The remaining figures began to disperse one after the other, each looking down at you a last time before leaving. The jester left without another word. The doctor gave Pierrot a single, unreadable look before following. The ticket taker straightened his coat, glanced at you with that same expression of professional attention, and disappeared.

That left Harlequin.

He hadn't moved.

While the others filed out with the purposeful quiet of people returning to their routines, Harlequin remained exactly where he was, watching Pierrot with a mischievous glare.

"Well," he said. "That was quite the performance."

Pierrot didn't look at him.

"I mean it as a compliment." Harlequin tilted his head, the smirk widening by a fraction. "I didn't know you had it in you, honestly. All that growling. Very dramatic." He glanced down at his shoulder, where the fabric was still torn. "Though I could have done without the knife."

"Then you should have kept your mouth shut."

"Hmm?~ Perhaps." He didn't sound even slightly troubled by it. He began moving in your direction, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "Though in my defense, I wanted to know what you'd do. Now I know. But really, you should know better than to show your cards to me." He crouched down to your level without warning, close enough that you could see seams where the mask met flesh. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?" 

You held his gaze and said nothing. The tape was still placed firmly over your mouth.

"Don't antagonize them," Pierrot said. His voice had gone flat.

"I wouldn’t dream of it~ I'm being friendly." Harlequin looked at you with an expression of exaggerated sincerity. "I'm a very friendly person. Ask anyone."

Pierrot grabbed another knife, seemingly out of nowhere, and gripped it tightly as a silent warning for whatever may come next. Harlequin scoffed.

"He gets like this," he told you, as though Pierrot were not standing directly behind him and had not recently thrown a knife. "Very territorial. It's honestly a little embarrassing to watch, but the heart wants what it wants, I suppose. Apparently what his heart wants is," he gestured at you, "this. No offense."

Pierrot's hands had begun to flex again. You could see it in your peripheral vision. The low rumble hadn't returned yet, but something in the air had shifted in the direction of it.

Harlequin rose without hurry and turned to face him.

"No need to get riled up," he said, almost laughing. "You wouldn't want to scare them more than you already have, would you? Make them hide from you? Make them despise your very presence?"

Pierrot went still.

The smirk returned to its usual satisfied position. 

"That's what I thought."

He turned back to you one last time. The smug look hadn’t left his face, but something more resided underneath it. His eyes seemed to glow ever so slightly as he looked at you.

"You've had quite the evening," he said. "Let’s see how long you last, hmm?" He reached out and, with two careful fingers, straightened the green pin on your collar that had somehow survived all of it. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

He stepped back, and offered a slight, theatrical bow.

"I'll be seeing you around, dear one."

He left without looking at Pierrot.

The tent was quiet. Just the two of you now, and the faint sound of the circus continuing on somewhere outside, indifferent to all of it.

Pierrot stood motionless for a moment after Harlequin left. As though he needed the silence to confirm it was over.

Then he closed the distance between you in two strides, dropping to his knees and gathering you against him with a force that bordered on desperate. His arms wrapped around you completely, one hand pressed to the back of your head with a gentleness that didn't quite match the urgency of the rest of it. He held you like something he had nearly lost and was still in the process of believing he hadn't.

"Forgive me." The words came out low and uneven, against the top of your head. "Forgive me, forgive me. I should have… I should have found you before the gate. I should have been watching you. This is my fault entirely, and I am deeply, deeply sorry."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands moving to cup your face with a tenderness that contrasted the claws still visible at the ends of his gloves. His eyes moved over you in quick passes, checking for damage.

He reached for the rope at your ankles first.

He worked at the knots with more care than you expected, given how his hands had looked minutes ago. He took his time. When the binding finally gave, he set your legs down with the deliberate care of someone who understood that the ache would need a moment. He moved to your wrists next, and you heard something low and unhappy in the back of his throat when he saw the marks the restraints had left.

When the tape came last, he hesitated. His fingers found the edge of it with delicate precision, and he peeled it back so slowly it almost didn't hurt. Almost.

And then he paused.

His eyes had dropped to your mouth. He stayed there a moment too long, something flickering through his expression that he didn't fully conceal. His face moved in closer, closer than it had been a breath before. Then he blinked, pulled back, and the composure returned.

He took your hands in both of his instead, cradling them with the marks from the rope facing up, as though he could do something about them by looking. He breathed out, partially angry, partially devastated.

"I will make this right," he said. "I give you my word. You will want for nothing here. I will perform for you every night if you wish it. You will have the best seat, always, the kind no ticket can purchase." He was speaking faster now, the formality dropping away with every word. "I will see to it that you are fed properly, that your clothes are warm and comfortable, that you’re happy here. There are things here, within this circus, that you cannot imagine. I will protect you. I want you to be happy, I want you to like it here, I want you Y/N, I want-"

You pressed one finger to his lips.

He stopped instantly. His eyes went very wide, fixed on you, pupils flaring bright.

Your voice, when it came, was not entirely steady.

Hi! its my first time doing this... kinda nervous

First of all, I would like to say how much I love your writing, its really what got me through the last couple hell weeks, also known as my finals. No words cannot express the dopamine rush I get whenever I get notified of your updates. May the gods forever favor you 🙇🏻‍♀️ I don't usually interact like this to people on the internet, but I would like to inform you that I am here, I have read all your works and I love them all ‪‪❤︎‬

Anyway, getting down to business... I'm sorry to bother you with this, but I have no one to talk this (atleast no one who knows the weight of the choice I'm about to make). I am talking about OM!IDO. I have been incredibly busy with my school duties that it somehow slipped past my knowledge that there is a third game??? Like, I thought that when people here talked about OM!IDO they meant like, the dating cards that were available for the brothers in NB. Last news I heard about OM was that the devs are like, stopped updating the games of something like that. But I noticed these past day or two that there's new cards released and all, and I was looking for them in NB but I couldn't find them and I'm stressed about it but I can't afford to linger much on it since there's still this one exam I still haven't taken since I was sick on the day of the test and so I was still busy preparing for that in the past week. But I noticed that the characters on the homescreen, no matter who I put on there, kept saying something about installing a new application so I checked in the app store and there it was! I was like shooked, I immediately deleted some old games I'm no longer playing to make space for it (my photos take up most of my storage but I cant delete them, yet).

Sorry for the long back (?) story, but the main thing I wanna talk about is that you're supposed to choose one of the brothers to marry!!?? like, ONLY ONE?? I can't do that, I'll have them all please. Sooo, I was just wondering who did you choose? (I'm assuming here that among all of them your number 1 is diavolo (samesies, btw)) I wish they have included the other dateables as options, but honestly that just might make choosing harder (╥ᴗ╥) I'm crying.

Feel free to ignore me, just letting out some emotions. But this might not be my last message, so if you don't mind I might pop in every now and then. I hope [.🦢] isn't taken, and if not I would like to take that as my handle. Thankies ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

xoxo.

Hi 🦢! Thanks for reaching out. You’re always more than welcome (encouraged, even) to message me!

I’m really glad you’ve been enjoying my writing and that it’s helped you get through finals! I was actively writing throughout my own finals, so it was a great stress reliever for me as well. 🤝

To be entirely honest, I ended up deleting IDO for the time being! I feel that they completely lost the plot. They changed the characters (such as having Barbatos leave Diavolo’s side) removed the ability to romance multiple characters, made the overall format feel underwhelming, and even some of the plotlines bugged me (especially Lucifer’s entire cheating storyline). I’m absolutely open to re-downloading it in the future (mainly once they’ve added Diavolo and Barbatos, haha), but for now I’m really looking forward to their next game later this year. It’s going to be much grittier and darker, but it takes place in an alternate universe (similar to NB).

Also, I would never dream of ignoring you! At most, there may be a few weeks where I’m unable to reply to messages due to research or classes. I also only respond to fic requests once I’ve actually started working on them (so if anyone who has requested a fic is reading this, know that I’m not ignoring you! I’m just busy with a different piece at the moment, but I will get to yours soon). I absolutely love and appreciate all of my readers, so being able to talk with y’all directly gives me life. 🙇‍♀️

Omg I had NO idea ur fic requests were open actively dying of joy

I love how you write so bad and I’m actively flopping aroundike a fish at the thought of anything Solomon in your characterization 😭❤️ If your interested (or want to) could it be something along the lines of mc coming home late while hes working (Maybe Solomon’s writing down a new spell or working on magic, #focusedking )👀 and MC just slumps against his back and holds him for a while while he does so, I think he’d be secretly or very obviously ecstatic at something so sweet and fluffy ❤️☹️

I love him so bad 😭 #yearning for slightly domestic sweet stuff with Solomon and hugging him while he does work and tracing his pact marks haha

Thank you so much for answering my other questions so well! I was so afraid it was worded weirdly or was too vague in my meaning, super excited to see what content you have in store!🥰❤️

This is such a cute idea! I'd be more than happy to write something like this. I definitely need more practice writing Solomon if he's going to appear more often in my long fic, haha.

- Also, I'm glad you reached out! Being asked more in depth questions is actually really helpful when it comes to planning future chapters.

You hadn't meant to get involved. A bandage offered to a stranger, a green heart pinned to your collar, and somehow you'd found yourself holding three tickets with a decision that needed to be made. The red belonged to Pierrot, the green to Harlequin. The pink belonged to no one, or so you thought. You chose it because it seemed safe. Neutral. A way to see the show without taking sides. What you didn't know is that the pink ticket held a weight that, once chosen, was impossible to reverse.

||Next||

Chapter 1

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

You loved the circus. You always had.

As a child, you remembered those flashing lights vividly; the cheerful performers, the exotic animals showcased with the grandeur of beasts from legend. You had been enamored, eyes wide, unable to look away. You remembered clutching your mother's hand and dragging her from tent to tent, desperate to see everything there was to offer. It had been a magical place, somewhere you truly believed in miracles and the power of the unknown.

Unfortunately, time is a cruel thing.

Following the death of your parents, that magic ceased to exist. You refused to ever go back, refused to revisit the place that now belonged only to a version of yourself that no longer existed. Instead, you found work young, determined not to get trapped in the soulless loop of foster parents and government housing. That had been several years ago. Now you were an adult, still working at the same coffee shop, and it was fine. Truly it was, but somewhere deep in your soul, you wished for more.

Flyers had been plastered around town for days. A lone imprint of a monochromatic tent, titled in bold letters: The Freak Circus of Horrors. People grew excited, just as you once had, while others seemed uneasy in a quieter, disturbed way. There were whispers. Dark ones. That the circus held some deadly secret. That it was a front for human trafficking. Wherever it traveled, people went missing, and there was always a perfectly reasonable explanation. Young lovers running away together. Family quarrels. A sudden itch for adventure. The excuses were endless, and yet the disappearances followed the circus like a shadow. Coincidence, most said. You weren't sure what you believed, but it didn't matter either way. You weren't going.

You had enough to worry about in this life without adding freak circuses to the list.

You shook your head and kept walking, hands tucked into your pockets against the morning chill. As you turned a corner, shouting broke through the quiet. It was loud, the kind of shouting that made you tense up on instinct. You picked up your pace, fully prepared to mind your own business, when the glint of a golden bell caught your eye.

You stopped.

A small crowd had gathered around a figure folded in on himself against the wall. One of the circus workers, judging by the costume. An elaborate outfit in red, black, and gold. Three liripipes tipped with bells hanging from his hat, golden stars at each base. A wide ruff of fabric curled around his neck, and a motley coat cinched tight at his waist. Scattered around him on the pavement were crumpled flyers, the same monochromatic tent you'd been ignoring all week.

But it was his mask that held your attention. Blank and white, save for his mouth and the two dark markings beneath each eye, with one shaped unmistakably like a falling tear. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about it. Something that felt, impossibly, like expression.

He hadn't moved. Not once.

"I told you freaks to get lost!" one man shouted. The worker seemed to shrink further into himself, silent. "Ever since you people showed up, folks have been going missing! Go back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of!"

The words were punctuated with a kick. The worker's mask scraped against the wall, leaving a streak across the white surface. You looked around the crowd, waiting for someone to step in. No one did. The faces watching weren't encouraging it, but they weren't stopping it either, and somehow that felt worse.

When one of the men drew his arm back, you stopped thinking.

Your feet moved before the decision did. You pushed through the gathered crowd and planted yourself between them just as his hand came down, the slap landing hard across your cheek instead. The crowd went silent. The man stared at you, something flickering across his face that might have been surprise before it curdled back into anger. You pressed your hand to your cheek. It throbbed.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!"

You turned to face him fully and found that your voice was very calm. "I should be asking you that." You held his gaze. "You've surrounded a man doing his job, berated him without evidence he's done anything wrong, and now you're assaulting him while he won't even defend himself."

He looked around for support. The crowd had gone quiet in a different way now. They were murmuring. Shifting.

"He's one of them! You saw the flyers! People disappear wherever that circus goes, and you're standing up for-"

"If you have evidence of a crime," you said, "take it to the police. In the meantime, assaulting someone is also a crime. One I'd be happy to report."

The silence that followed was thick. His jaw worked. Then he let out a short, sharp laugh. Disbelieving, full of contempt, and shook his head.

"Whatever. Don't expect anyone to mourn you when you disappear next."

He turned and walked. The crowd unraveled behind him, dispersing with the speed of those who'd rather not be asked for a witness statement. You let out a slow breath and turned around to help the worker up.

When you turned, he was standing directly behind you. You nearly stumbled backward.

He was tall, towering over you in a way that made you draw your breath in sharply, and he was close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. His mask, which you could have sworn had been set in a frown, now curved into something wide and sharp-toothed. A grin that took up too much space on his face. Stranger still, a faint dusting of pink had risen across the mask itself, like a blush, which was impossible because it was a mask. You weren't sure how to process that, so you filed it away and focused on his eyes instead.

That wasn't better. His eyes were an endless black, with bright pupils like a star against the void of space, and they were fixed entirely on you, unblinking. He stared at you with an intensity that made you shift in place.

He didn't speak.

You cleared your throat.

"Some people are hot-headed," you said. It came out steadier than you felt. "Better not get too close, you know?"

He nodded once. The bell on his hat gave a single, soft chime.

You reached into your bag mostly for something to do with your hands, fingers searching until they found what you were looking for. He tilted his head, watching, bells chiming faintly with the motion.

You held out a pink bandage.

"For your face. And if it's worse than it looks, see a doctor."

He took it carefully, fingertips barely grazing yours, and then his gaze traveled to your cheek. His expression shifted. The wide grin dropped into something else, something that had no business being that dark, pupils swirling with an emotion you couldn't place and weren't sure you wanted to.

"I'm fine… Really."

He didn't look like he believed you.

You glanced at your phone. Late. Almost. You took a step back, and his eyes tracked the movement immediately.

"I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself, alright?"

He said nothing. He only watched as you turned and broke into a run, and you couldn't shake the feeling that his gaze stayed on you long after you'd rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

You barged into the cafe right as the clock hit eight. You stood in the doorway for a moment, panting, before your boss emerged from the kitchen with a tray stacked high with pastries and drinks.

"Ah, just in time. It's busier with the cold today. Apron on, quick as you can please. Carol's running late and I've been covering since open."

You breathed out a quick yessir and went to change, tying your hair back. Your boss wasn't lying. The cafe was packed, and every table was full.

"Orders are already on the counter."

You grabbed the first tray, two cappuccinos, checked the ticket, and moved. As you wove between tables, Carol nagged at the back of your mind. She was never late. Not once in all the time you'd worked together. She covered your shifts without complaint, volunteered for holidays, remembered every regular's order. It was strange enough to sit wrong.

After delivering the order, you glanced back at your boss.

"You've been covering her entire shift? Have you called her?"

He shrugged, but the furrow between his brows told you more than he would. "I've tried. She's not answering. Maybe she's sick."

You simply nodded, and turned away to serve more customers. Throughout the day, you felt this foreboding feeling in the pit of your chest. It was a feeling you recognized distantly from childhood. Waking in the dead of night during camping trips, slipping out of the tent into the suffocating dark. There was always this feeling of dread hanging over you, the sense that you were being watched. That just beyond the treeline, something was tracking your movements. After all these years, you had forgotten what that feeling was like. Until today.

Patrons came and went, but that gnawing feeling never left. The conversations didn't help, and every table seemed to bleed into the same one. The newest disappearance. The circus. Most people unsurprisingly connected the two, and more than a few turned to you for your opinion when you set down their drink. You kept your answers careful. “If there were real evidence, the police would be involved.” That was usually enough to satisfy them. Several told you to watch yourself when closing up. Be careful. Lock up early. Don't walk home alone.

You tried not to let it get to you.

The morning rush eventually settled, and the quiet was somehow worse. You caught yourself pausing too long between tasks, eyes drifting to the windows. You were reaching for the next tray when the hair on the back of your neck rose all at once, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and then someone cleared their throat.

You turned.

A man in a blue suit stood behind you, smiling pleasantly.

"Oh, sorry! Can I help you?"

"Just a hot coffee, please. No rush."

You poured it fresh and brought it over, and that was when the feeling sharpened. He hadn't looked at the cup even once after you set it down. He was looking at you. His smile stayed exactly as it had been, unchanging, while his eyes remained very still and very empty. Eyes that made the smile beneath them seem like a separate thing entirely.

"What are those?" He nodded toward your apron pocket, where you'd been collecting papers scattered around the shop.

"Circus flyers. People keep leaving them on the tables, and my boss doesn't appreciate the free advertising."

He nodded slowly, still not looking away. "How inconsiderate. I happen to be gathering paper for recycling. If you'd like, I can take them off your hands."

There was an urgency underneath the pleasantness, faint but there. You couldn't have said why it made you uneasy. The request itself was reasonable. You handed them over.

He still didn't touch the coffee.

"I really should check on the other-"

"Do you like the circus?"

He said it the way someone asks a question they already know the answer to. You looked at him more directly then, trying to identify what was wrong with his face. It was smooth in a way that didn't quite move right, the expressions shifting a beat behind his words, like a mask worn by something still learning how to wear one.

"I did. When I was young." You kept your voice even. "I'm not sure it's really my thing anymore."

"Nonsense. This one isn't meant for children." He tilted his head. "It's a different kind of spectacle entirely."

"You've been then?"

He began speaking, and you found you couldn't hold onto a word of it. The discomfort had thickened into something you couldn't reason away, and you were staring without meaning to. You watched the way he blinked too infrequently, smiled too consistently, until he cleared his throat again and your eyes snapped back to his.

His grin widened by a fraction.

"I thought I'd lost you. No matter." He extended his hand. Between two fingers sat a pink ticket. "I've already attended. It seems a shame to waste it."

"I couldn't-"

"I'm leaving town tomorrow. Consider it a gift."

He stood before you could protest further, and the way he rose was wrong. Too sudden, too straight, as though his joints were reinforced with steel beams. He crossed the cafe in quick, even strides and was out the door before you'd thought to say anything. His coffee sat untouched on the table, still steaming.

You stood there holding the ticket.

"Strange man," your boss said from the counter, with a tone that suggested he'd been watching from a careful distance. "At least he paid. Go ahead and start the closing routine. We're finishing early tonight."

"Is something wrong?"

"An appointment came up. Since you'll be alone, I'd rather you not stay too late." He paused, coat half on. "Call me if anything happens."

Then he was gone, and it was just you.

Closing was usually the part of the day you liked best. Music on, one last drink, no one waiting. Tonight, the silence was different. You kept the music off and your eyes kept moving about the room.

You worked quickly. Cars passing outside made you flinch. A door slamming two shops down made you go still. You told yourself it was the day catching up with you. Carol's absence, the strange man, the whispers everyone had been trading. Nothing more than that.

You had almost convinced yourself when the bell above the door chimed.

"Good evening, I'm sorry but we're-"

No one was there.

You stood for a moment, looking at the empty doorway. The door was closed. You were certain it had opened. Before you could move toward it, the lights went out.

Silence.

Your heart was loud in the dark. You stood very still, instinct overriding thought. There was nothing. No sounds, no movement, and yet the dark felt full in a way you couldn't explain.

The cold, you told yourself. Extra load on the circuit. That's all.

You moved. Carefully. One hand trailing the counter's edge until your fingers found the breaker box and you flipped the switch. The lights came back. You turned around slowly and checked every corner of the room.

Empty.

You let out a long, shaky breath. Your hands had stopped trembling by the time the door chimed again, and this time you spun around with a mix of frustration and fear.

"We're closed-" You stopped. "Oh! It's you."

The worker from this morning stood in the doorway, grin in place exactly as you remembered it. The pink bandage on his cheek was the one you'd given him that morning, though it had begun to peel at one corner.

You almost said something light, something to smooth over how relieved you were to see a face, any face, you recognized. Then you noticed the blood.

It had dried along his hairline where the mask's edge met skin. A slow ache settled in your chest at the sight of it.

"Did they come back?" Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "If someone did this, you should file a report. Genuinely. You don't have to just-"

He stepped forward.

It was more sudden than anything else, the quick movement of someone who had been holding something back. He extended his arm and a flower appeared in front of your face, thrust forward with a kind of desperation. It was a deep red and faintly glistening near the center.

You blinked. Then you took it.

His eyes changed immediately, pupils flaring bright in that impossible, unnerving way. Something in the set of his shoulders released, as though he had been prepared for you to refuse. You turned the flower in your fingers for a moment, not sure what to say. It was beautiful, in its strange and slightly overwhelming way.

"Thank you," you said. "Is this a gift for the bandage?"

He nodded and smiled wider, which should not have been possible. You looked away from it before it could unsettle you properly.

"Come sit. Let me clean that up."

He moved to the counter with an eagerness he made no attempt to conceal, perching at the nearest stool and leaning forward on both elbows, watching you with adoration. You ran a cloth under the tap and wrung it out, then stepped close.

"Hold still."

He did. Utterly and completely, like he was trying very hard not to ruin something. As you pressed the cloth to his hairline and worked carefully at the dried blood, he let his eyes fall closed. The blush was back, spreading under the mask's surface. He leaned incrementally toward you.

"You don't talk much," you said, keeping your voice low and even.

His eyes opened slowly. He glanced toward the windows, then back to you, and leaned in just slightly closer.

"I can't be seen talking."

The voice caught you off guard. You paused in your work for just a moment before resuming.

"Part of the act, then."

"Precisely, my dear." A beat. "I am deeply grateful for your kindness today. Both times." He straightened, and there was an odd formality to it, like a gesture from a different era. "I am called the Pierrot."

You told him your name. He whispered something quietly to himself, too soft to catch.

You spoke while you worked. Carefully, unhurried. He was polite, and composed, and the contrast between who he was and how he'd been treated on that street corner that morning tugged at your heart. When the wound was clean, you removed the old bandage from his cheek.

"There," you said, stepping back.

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a ticket, holding it out with a small but unmistakable flourish.

"A token of my appreciation," he said. "If you'll permit me."

You took it, and only then remembered the one already in your apron pocket, the one pressed on you by the man in the blue suit. Something about mentioning it felt unkind, so you simply thanked him and tucked this one away beside it.

The delight that moved across his face was so unguarded it was almost difficult to look at.

"I will make you smile during my performance," he said, genuinely. "I give you my word."

You laughed, soft and brief. "I'll hold you to that, Pierrot."

He went very still for just a moment at the sound of his name in your voice. As if it had landed somewhere unexpected.

You finished wiping down the counter, and he watched every motion of it.

"I've got to lock up now," you said, finally. "I'm sorry to rush you out."

He stood without complaint, and apologized for taking up your time. At the door, he paused and looked back, watching you for a moment with that same consuming attention from the street corner, before wishing you a good night.

The walk home was short, but the cold made it feel longer.

You kept your pace brisk, hands deep in your pockets, the red flower wrapped in a paper napkin you'd taken from the cafe. You weren't sure why you'd kept it. It seemed wasteful to throw it out, you told yourself, and had nothing to do with the fact that no one had given you flowers before.

You didn't let yourself think about that for very long.

The streets were quieter than usual, which should have been a relief. Instead the quiet had the same quality it had taken on inside the cafe. Not empty, exactly, but waiting. You passed countless more circus flyers on the short walk home. You didn't look at them directly. You'd done enough of that today.

Your apartment was small and familiar and exactly as you'd left it. The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt the day land on you all at once. You changed, washed your face, made tea you didn't finish. Normally you preferred to sleep in silence, but tonight the silence felt charged. You turned the television on and kept the volume low. It reminded you of the weeks following your parent’s death, when the dark had felt full of monsters and the sound of other voices, even fictional ones, had been enough to keep them back.

You pulled the blanket up and watched the ceiling until your eyes grew heavy. You were asleep before you meant to be. 

When you woke, the first thing you were aware of was warmth.

Not the warmth of the blanket or the room, but something brief and already fading by the time consciousness caught up with it. It had been on your lips. You were almost certain of that.

There was also a taste in your mouth you didn't recognize. Something faint and sweet and slightly floral, not unpleasant, but nothing like the tea you'd left on the counter. You touched your lips with two fingers without meaning to.

The television was now off, somehow, but the room was exactly as you'd left it. No displaced objects. No sign of anything. You sat up slowly, trying to piece together what may have happened, before the clock registered.

Nearly late. Again.

You were out of bed before the thought finished.

You rushed to work in the cold without a coat, hair flowing around you, breath visible as you panted. Usually, the early morning walk brought you a small bit of comfort. The quiet of it. The way the light sat low and unhurried.

Today the flyers ruined it.

They were everywhere. Lampposts, windows, wedged beneath windshield wipers. The same monochromatic tent, plastered across every surface the city had to offer. You had been successfully ignoring them since yesterday, and you nearly managed it again before one found its way directly into your face.

You stopped abruptly, glaring at the hand that held the paper in front of your face. 

“Care to visit the circus? I bet you’ll be surprised. Here, take a flyer!” The voice had an almost musical quality to it, bright in the way a person sounds when they've said something too many times while trying to find enjoyment in saying it.  

The hand still held the flyer in front of you. You looked past it to the figure it belonged to, and felt the same pause you'd felt yesterday morning on the street corner.

Another circus worker. The costume shared the same logic as Pierrot's with the liripipes, the bells, the excess. But where Pierrot had been red and black, this one was dark and green with hearts where the stars had been. A long cape swept back from his shoulders, tied at the throat with a gold stripe. 

He was tall enough that looking up at him required effort, and he was watching you with another sharp-toothed smile that managed to be both too polished and not quite right, like something practiced in a mirror. You felt, very distinctly, the particular discomfort of being studied. 

You didn’t respond directly to his offer. Instead, you simply sighed.

“I thought you guys weren’t supposed to speak? Either way, I need to get to work please. I already have a ticket to the circus.”

You stepped past him, determined to not be late. You knew, even without looking back, that he began following you.

“Oh? You’ve received a ticket from someone who doesn’t speak? You wouldn’t be referring to that Pierrot, would you?”

There was a bit of tension in the way he said “Pierrot,” as though it were bitter on his tongue. He leaned down towards you in interest while keeping pace. 

“I am,” you replied plainly. “He gave me a ticket just yesterday.”

The man’s eyes seem to glow with a mixture of glee and mischief.

“I’m the Harlequin, dear one,” he introduced himself with polite formality. You nodded at him and told him your name, not faltering in your steps. He walked for a moment in silence before cutting in front of you.

“I have an idea! How about we trade? I give you my green ticket and you give me your red one.”

You gave him an odd look and huffed slightly at being halted yet again.

“Does it truly make a difference? And besides, I don’t just walk around carrying tickets. I left mine at home.”

He seemed, briefly, genuinely displeased by this. Then the performance continued, and he produced a green ticket from inside his cape and pressed it into your hand as though he were closing a deal. 

“That’s alright, you can take this one anyway. Use mine at the entrance, okay?”

You pocketed it more to end the conversation than anything else. He seemed satisfied by this, or chose to appear so, and finally left with a parting smile that lingered a bit too long.

You kept walking. Somewhere behind you, without your notice, a soft bell chimed.

When you walked into the cafe, two officers were deep in conversation with your boss near the counter. You watched for a moment before deciding not to interrupt. You slipped past them, grabbed your apron, and started on the nearest table before anyone had to ask.

Your boss found you after, and told you plainly that Carol hadn't come home. The police were calling it a runaway. 

You stood very still for a moment.

"She didn't give any sign," you said. It wasn't really a question.

"Apparently not." He picked up a cloth and turned away. "If she comes in, we call. Understood? I'll be in the back running interviews. You've got the floor."

You nodded and went back to work. The weight of it settled in your chest alongside everything else from yesterday. You thought about Pierrot, briefly. It was difficult to imagine him and trafficking together. You weren't sure what that proved. Probably nothing.

The morning moved slowly. You served customers and kept your face pleasant, trying not to think about Carol. You were reaching for a tray when that prickling feeling at the back of your neck returned. You looked around.

Pierrot was sitting at the counter.

You let out a short breath, slightly relieved. He was watching you with his full, undivided attention. It would have felt intrusive from anyone else.

"I didn't hear you come in." You set the tray down. "Would you like something?"

He nodded and pointed to a combination on the menu board that made you raise an eyebrow.

"It's quite cold for a milkshake," you said.

He looked at you pleasantly and did not change his selection.

"Alright then."

You were at the machine when your boss appeared at your shoulder. His voice was low. "Is he buying something?"

"A milkshake."

A short pause. "Good. Let him know we don't allow flyering inside."

He moved away before you could respond. You watched him go, then turned around with the milkshake, and stopped.

Pierrot was directly in front of you, face nearly pressed against yours.

You hadn't heard him move. He folded himself forward at the waist, a bit unnaturally, and his pupils had gone very dark. 

“Is he… being mean to you, my dear?”

“H-huh? My boss? Hah! No, not at all. He’s actually quite nice. We’re just a bit short staffed and it’s weighing down on him.”

Pierrot did not release your arm, but his gaze softened just a fraction.

“Will you come tonight?” He asked you abruptly, eyebrows furrowing together. Something in the way he asked sat heavier than the words themselves. You thought about going, but you weren’t sure your heart could handle being in that place. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight,” you lied, feeling almost guilty. “One of my coworkers disappeared, and I have to cover for her while we look for new workers. Maybe tomorrow.”

His face fell in a way that was difficult to watch. Then, with visible effort, it settled into something more composed. Tomorrow, it seemed, was an acceptable distance. 

“Well, then I look forward to tomorrow my dear. Please, if you do come, remember to use my-”

He was interrupted by a woman in a gray pantsuit, tapping her foot, telling you to hurry up already. You quickly handed Pierrot his drink as she continued to spew insults and complaints at your terrible service. As Pierrot walked away, you saw him watching her with an expression you were glad she couldn't see. 

You didn't catch a break for the rest of the morning. The rush had barely thinned when a flicker of dark green caught your eye, and Harlequin was standing before you.

“So this is where you work, dear one?” He asked, looking around the room with mild, theatrical interest.

“Would you like something to drink?” You realized you asked a bit curtly, but your patience was wearing thin. He ordered a coffee, seemingly unbothered by your exasperation.

“You’ll be using my ticket tonight, won’t you?” He asked with that same song-like voice. You placed the coffee in front of him and shook your head. 

"I can't. I have to work, sorry."

"Are you sure?" There was a particular lilt to it, as though he found your sureness entertaining. "I can promise you'd find it worth your while."

You glared at him, somewhat playfully, and held his gaze. He raised both hands briefly, a gesture of defeat, then crossed toward you. He was unhurried about it, and you were already reaching past him to clear a glass before you registered what he was doing. He leaned down and fastened something to your collar with a careful hand.

A small heart. Green, with a gold pin.

"A gift," he said. "One that I would very much like for you to wear. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon."

With that, he left.

You watched him leave before glancing down at the pin on your collar. You thought about removing it, but didn't. 

You had never been the type to draw attention to yourself. You wanted to live a humble life. Quiet. Now, you seemed to be caught in the middle of some kind of feud, and you weren’t quite sure how to handle it.

The evening came quickly and your boss let you go once your shift ended, just as promised. You stepped out into the open air and shivered. Across town, just visible over the rooftops, the circus lights pulsed soft and steady against the darkening sky.

You stood there for a moment longer than you meant to.

You had been seven years old the last time you'd gone. You remembered your mother's hand. You remembered running toward the light.

You turned away from it.

"That's enough of that," you said quietly, and went home.

You changed out of your uniform and made tea. Always the same routine with you. When the kettle was done and the tea was steeping, that same, uncomfortable silence returned.

You paced without meaning to. You told yourself it was Carol, which was true. You told yourself it was the strange man in the blue suit and his untouched coffee, which was also true. You told yourself it had nothing to do with the faint glow still visible beyond the rooftops.

That was less true.

Then your eyes landed on the rose.

It was still partially wrapped in its paper napkin, but the deep red of it seemed to have finally dried. You looked at it for a long moment. Then your gaze moved to the table beside it.

Three tickets. Pink. Red. Green.

You picked up the red one first, turned it over, and thought about Pierrot's face when you had told him maybe tomorrow. The way you watched as an unspoken emotion moved behind his eyes.

 You set it down and picked up the green one.

Harlequin had pressed it on you before you'd agreed to take it, with the confidence of someone who doesn't seriously entertain refusal. There had been something in the way he'd said Pierrot. Something with an edge to it. 

You set the green one down too.

You didn't want to be involved with whatever that was. You weren't interested in being claimed or contested or used as a point in someone else's argument. You just wanted to see the show. You wanted to walk through the lights and feel, for one evening, the kind of wonder that belonged to a version of yourself you'd thought was gone for good.

Lastly, you picked up the pink one.

It felt like the most sensible answer. A ticket from a stranger who had no stake in any of it. A stranger who would not be watching the entrance. A stranger who would not read into the color you chose to carry. You could slip in unnoticed and see them both from a distance. Cause no trouble.

1) hypothetical speaking, if mammon would be introduced to the human yn in your fantastic, mouth watering and toe curling diavolo fic - would he be interested in her because of the greed thriving in him or because he lowkey also likes humans (as pets).

2) and if mammon would be exposed to her for an extended period of time, do you think he would/ could compete diavolo in his looming obsession?

3) not a question but i really like everything you have created and think about your darker concepts weekly if not even daily. obey me needs to do more darker exploration in their writing pleasssse!! like hello those are the the seven deadly sins reincarnated and literally the devil.

sry got carried away, lots of love and thank u!!

Hi! <333

It's actually very funny that you mention Mammon, as he'll be featured in this story and should be coming up quite soon! He's more involved than you might think, as you'll soon discover. ;)

I think so! I believe Levi, Belphie, Mammon, and Diavolo have the strongest potential for being yandere-esque characters. (Barbatos as well, though he would likely be watching from the shadows.) I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m considering writing a series of shorter, possibly one-shot style fanfics featuring each of the Obey Me characters in this AU of mine!

Thank you so much! I’ve always loved dark romances, so I’m a bit sad about the lost potential for a much grungier, more morbid story. That said, I’m pretty excited for the new game! I believe the creators mentioned it would be a bit darker than the previous ones.

Ahhh! So glad you replied shhfjdhdj, and omg im so happy to hear you love Barbatos (and there might possibly be something else for him coming one day perhaps! 🥹❤️) And yes of course!

1. What is the sort of like, social hierarchy? In the canon we have mentions of the House of Lords, yet the fic stays pretty out of much of nobility drama and chaos compared to your fic, how is the society in The Prince’s Pet! :D it seems much less like modern day freedom (hard to explain, I’m so sorry xd) so I’m curious as to like, the mentions of demon balls and parties and esp the one in the fic. Is it very medieval-ish in a way?

If you can, answer to the best of your abilities 😭 I suck at explaining and if you don’t understand the question please feel free and go right ahead and just skip over it ❤️😅)

2. Astaroth, sort of like. Who is he 👀 what is he, where does he stand socially? (Like take Mephistopheles as an example) I’m very curious especially since he seems to be a big shot as far as ive caught on!

3. What defines a good human for a pet? What can make one a pet and what makes another food? How does the whole human keeping thing work (‘Breeding’, Whats done with human children?)

4. Has diavolo’s family ever had previous human pets? Has it ever been mentioned before?

5. Does diavolo (or did) he often go to human auctions? Did he often buy any or merely watched? 👀❤️

Thank you so much again! ❤️

- 📘

Hello again, 📘! <3 I’m also always open to any ideas or requests you might have for a fic with Barbatos (or any other character, really)!🤍

I'll do my best to answer! I believe that the Devildom would be a blend of eras. Their connection to the human realm is highly limited and sporadic, so any influence human civilization has on them comes in waves. As such, they have cars as well as carriages, phones as well as messenger crows, etc. The balls would follow a similar trend, with Demons dressing in a blend of eras and different cultures, which reflects my headcanon that demons aren't particularly innovative on their own and mostly adapt/refine human trends. The social hierarchy, as with the canon, is based on strength and cunning. Those who are powerful rule over those who are weaker. Drama regarding the aristocracy is almost entirely based on weakening their competition or undermining their strength. A clever Demon can rise in rank by outmaneuvering someone stronger, even if their raw power hasn't changed.

Astaroth is a very high-ranking demon on par with the house of lords! He's not particularly strong, but he has spun a web that seems to bleed into every facet of Devildom life. When confronted at the ball, he immediately disappears because his strength is nowhere near that of Barbatos or Diavolo. That doesn't mean that he has given up. His true power lies in the strings he pulls from the shadows. ;)

Firstly, Demons are drawn to human pets that embody everything they are not. Where demons tend to be tall with sharp features, the most desired human pets would be small and delicate in comparison. Soft faces, rounded features, and curves. A good candidate for a “golden-cuffed” human would be docile, deeply emotional/expressive, and have a pure soul. Owning such a human is a status symbol, like keeping an exotic flower in bloom where it doesn't belong, and to experience a human's emotions. The unconditional love, devotion, fear, joy, laughter, and tender companionship a human can offer are all addictive because they are so foreign to demonic nature. As for the breeding aspect, I believe that there are two classes of human pets. Captive-bred humans come from bloodlines carefully selected for docility, affection, and emotional warmth. They would require little supervision, and may even be trusted to roam freely without a collar. All they have ever known is the Devildom, so they would have little desire to escape. However, they may be seen as the “easy way out,” and lack the exotic appeal of the other class. Wild-caught humans would appeal to a Demon’s sadistic nature. The process of breaking and reshaping them is considered a far greater achievement, and much more satisfying than accepting one already tamed.

Diavolo would be the first member of the royal family to own a human! Similar to the original game, I believe Diavolo has a deep fascination with humans, even if it’s controversial to others. He’s simply unable to show it as openly in this fic.

Auctions for wild-caught humans are relatively rare and are treated as major events in the Devildom. He had certainly overseen them in the past, but he had never been inclined to buy a human for himself. The moment he sees you, however, all of that goes out the window ;)

1. What was the whole like. Concept and thought behind the absolute masterpiece that is your longform diavolo fic, what inspired you to write it 👀❤️? Or was it more like a strike from heaven sent to bless us all 😭

2. Whats your take on diavolo as a character (fic specific or in general, idm I’m just super curious!) because he’s one of my absolute favs and I love him in all his sweet glory in the games, but the more darker twist on him, and how you portray him really had me like 👀 Ou shi

3. I LOVEDDD the Barbatos one shot, and him in general- Whats your take on HIM 👀❤️ and if there might ever be any plans for a longform fic for him or another oneshot, absolutely loved the period thing it was so sweet I teared up a little haha!

4. Anything I could wring out of you for the princes pet, like more detail into eating humans and humans pets, maybe even the aristocracy or any lore 👀❤️

You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, sending this in more as endless praise for your fics and characterisation ❤️😭 thank you for the peak!

Thank you so much! I’m thrilled you’re enjoying the story, it means the world to hear that🥹💚💚

1. This may sound like a joke, but the whole thing started from a vivid dream I had several years ago, haha. It was one of those dreams that I couldn’t stop fixating on, and finally decided to write down. Originally, I was just going to write the story for myself to get it out of my system, but decided to post the first few chapters in case anyone else might like it too. The first 9 chapters are a pretty direct (though much more embellished) adaptation of that dream. Everything after that is my own continuation, which is why the update pace slowed down quite a bit!

2. I really love Diavolo’s character and have always found him fascinating! He’s bright and cheerful, but every once in a while the game hints at something darker underneath. When ObeyMe was first coming out, I honestly thought he’d become a villain or at the very least more sinister. As the literal Prince of Hell, I really wish they’d explored that side of him more. Since they didn’t, I get to do it here! As the fic goes on, though, you’ll slowly see more of the sweeter, canon side of him come through as well.

3. I’m so happy you liked the Barbatos one-shot! I have endometriosis, so I’m constantly dealing with cramps regardless of the time of month. The one-shot was entirely self-indulgent. Barbatos is my favorite character from the games, and I will absolutely be making more fics featuring him. He’s mysterious, dark, and the most powerful being in the game. He doesn’t fall for the MC right away, which makes him so compelling to me. Diavolo just happened to fit the dream better, otherwise he would’ve been the main love interest in The Prince’s Pet. (It’s taken serious restraint not to turn this into a poly fic where the reader gets both of them, honestly.)

You knew that something was going to happen. You felt it deep in your chest. But nothing could have prepared you for the hand that clamped over your mouth. Branded with gold cuffs and paraded before a crowd of bidders, you catch the gaze of one powerful demon in particular. The future king has decided you belong to him, body and soul. A dark romance where love is just another word for ownership. {Chapter 1}

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~Chapter 15~

The dark came in waves.

You had been lying still for what felt like hours, watching the shadows created by fire dance and flicker on the ceiling. The bed was enormous and warm and smelled faintly of cedar smoke, of him, and that was the problem.

The pull had returned like a tide, creeping inward from the edges of your chest until you couldn't breathe without feeling it. Something between want and withdrawal. A hollow, grinding pressure behind your sternum that made every breath feel slightly incomplete. As though you were on the cusp of yawning, but somehow unable. Your fingers had drifted to your wrist without your permission, tracing the smooth edge of a cuff with slow, restless circles. You caught yourself and pulled your hand away, opting to lay there a while longer.

You hated it. Hated it with a clean, specific fury. Hated how your body had been quietly and methodically trained without your consent. How parts of you that used to belong only to yourself had been rewired to respond to his absence like a wound. You had not chosen this. 

You had not agreed to it. And yet here you were, lying in the dark, aching like a compass needle yanked away from its magnetic north, and the north was him. You had not asked for that. Not once. Not ever.

He had simply been gone when you woke, leaving you to sit with this. This grinding pull that didn't care about your anger or your grief. The cuffs didn't care. Your body didn't care. They simply ached toward him with that horrible, involuntary want.

Your mind drifted to Solomon’s words for the umpteenth time. How long did you have? How much of the person you had been when you arrived was still intact? How much had already been gently, pleasurably, systematically replaced? You prodded at the question in a way that filled you with dread. Maybe the dread was a good thing. Maybe the dread was proof that you weren’t yet lost.

Barbatos was always somewhere at the edge of your thoughts lately. His measured, careful words from yesterday left more questions than they answered. “The others never wanted to be anything other than what they became.” You had turned those words over a hundred times since he spoke them. He implied that they had gone willingly. Why? 

Somehow you knew you were still yourself. Enough to be furious about what was being done to you. Enough to miss yourself even while it was happening. Whether that remained true depended, Barbatos had said, on the choices you made from this point forward.

You stared at the ceiling and did not sleep. The tug pulled.

You turned onto your side. Then your back. Then your side again. The fire gave a quiet, settling pop. Outside the sealed window the Devildom night sat heavy and lightless, pressing against the glass. Barbatos had sealed the latch, just as he'd promised. You had tested it anyway and found it immovable. No give, no gap.

You weren't going to jump again, you told yourself firmly. Yesterday morning had been a small moment of weakness, nothing more. You had simply been dazed from sleep and unable to resist the pull. Your feet had moved before your mind could catch up. That was all.

Right?

The tug pulsed. You pressed a palm against your sternum and stared at the ceiling until the urge to go to the window anyway began to ease. Enough to breathe, that is.

Morning, Barbatos had said, much to your dismay. You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing through the discomfort.

You were not going to survive lying here until morning.

You sat up slowly, reluctantly, as though your limbs were struggling to catch up to the decision. The marble was cold beneath your bare feet and the chill climbed your calves, grounding you in a way the warmth of the bed hadn't. You sat there for a moment with your hands pressed flat against your knees, letting your eyes adjust to the light. 

Your gaze moved on its own to the small table near the fireplace.

The book was where you had left it. You had set it on the small table near the fireplace when Barbatos escorted you back to the chambers. It sat there now, dark cover slightly warmer than the surrounding air. The symbol on the front shifted when you looked directly at it, as it always did, coiling away from your focus shyly. Evasively.

You pulled the chair closer to the window, desperate to get relief, and curled into it sideways with your knees drawn up. The sealed glass was cold against your shoulder where you leaned.

You turned to the first page.

The characters writhed as they had during the lesson. The moment you tried to focus on any single one directly it contracted, folding inward, retreating behind its neighbors the way small creatures retreated into shells. The headache began almost immediately. A low, spreading ache that started between your eyes and worked outward. Barbatos had warned you not to force it, so you breathed deeply and paused.

You let your gaze go soft and unfocused, as though you were spacing out while on a long drive, not really looking at anything at all. You stopped trying to read the characters, stopped trying to perceive them altogether. Instead, you just let them exist.

The characters didn't exactly still. But they slowed.

In your peripheral, the shapes became more coherent. Not legible, not even close. But less like smoke and more like shadows that had shape. You could see that some were tall and narrow, vertical strokes with small curling tails at the base. Others spread wide, horizontal sweeps that doubled back on themselves in tight spirals. A few seemed to be made of smaller components clustered close together, families of marks that belonged beside each other.

The tug pulsed behind your ribs. You pressed your palm to your chest again and closed your eyes until the pulse subsided into something manageable. You breathed deeply.

“Some paths, once chosen, carry weight that cannot easily be undone.”

The headache throbbed behind your eyes, a sharp reminder of your limits in this world that wasn’t yours. Rather than forcing another attempt, something else pulled at you, something heavier than curiosity. Your eyes lifted toward the tall shelves lining the room, the ones that stretched into shadowed corners where even the firelight seemed hesitant to reach.

One book in particular caught your attention. It wasn’t the largest or most ornate. Its spine was bound in leather that looked almost wet, etched with Devildom runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The symbols shifted when your focus landed on them fully, yet they drew you in anyway.

You rose from the chair, discarding the text onto the table as you approached the shelf instead. Your fingers closed around the book, warmer than the air around it. You carried it back to the chair and settled in again. 

The characters inside didn’t writhe quite as violently as the ones Barbatos had been teaching you. These seemed much more... polished. The pages were denser, characters packed more tightly together with accompanying illustrations. Well… They weren't illustrations exactly. More like examples. Individual characters written in isolation, large enough to examine. Beneath each one, a small column of what you now recognized as Latin script offered some kind of notation.

You studied the first example for a long time.

It was a seemingly simple shape. A single vertical stroke with a small curve at the top that rolled leftward, like that of a question mark, and a sharp spiral towards the base. In the soft, unfocused attention you'd been practicing, it held still more readily than the others. Something about being isolated, removed from the crowd of the main text, made it less inclined to retreat. Instead, it shifted uncomfortably in place. You found the small Latin notation beneath it, and began to translate.

Sigillum Umbrarum. Seal of shadows. The mark of veiled oblivion.

You looked at the character for a while longer, wondering how many humans had sat somewhere trying to learn this script. Whether they had all sat with the same frustrated, hollow ache in their chest. Whether any of them had been awake in the small hours of a lightless night in an enormous bed that was too empty, feeling absence like a wound.

You looked away from that thought and back at the page.

You reached for the small writing kit that accompanied your study texts. Ink, a fine tipped pen, and a sheet of blank grey paper, the same muted tone as the book's pages. You set the book open beside you and studied the first character. You drew the vertical stroke first, then lifted the pen to begin the curve at the top.

The ink moved wrong.

You stared at what you had made. The vertical line was fine. Straight, clean, appropriate weight. But where you had intended a gentle leftward curve, the ink had pulled itself sharply to the right. You had not moved your hand to the right. You were certain you had not. The pen had tracked exactly where you directed it, but the mark that remained on the page curved in a direction you hadn't chosen. It looked like the original character's mirror image, reversed.

You drew it again.

The vertical stroke cooperated. The curve inverted itself again the moment you lifted the pen to begin it. You tried a third time, this time beginning the curve very slowly. Watching the ink land on the page with your full attention, not the soft unfocused awareness from before. The stroke began correctly. The curve started left, followed your hand precisely, held its trajectory for half a heartbeat.

Then it swung right.

You exhaled through your nose. You sat back and looked at the example in the book. The character sat in its isolation, the curve at its crown rolling smoothly leftward without any apparent effort. 

“It cannot be forced.”

You thought about how Barbatos had said the script resisted. How it was not trying to deceive you but simply reminding you that some things required a different approach. You had spent the lesson trying to understand the characters by looking directly at them and finding them slippery. The soft focus had been better. More productive. Less like chasing and more like waiting.

You picked up the pen again. This time, you did not watch the ink. You looked at the character in the book, held the shape of it somewhere behind your eyes, and let your hand move.

The pen traveled, and this time you did not look down.

You let your hand complete the stroke and the curve and the spiral at the base without interruption, without checking. When you finally lowered the pen and looked at the page, you pressed your lips together against whatever sound might have come out.

It wasn't perfect. But the curve held the shape you had been reaching for through multiple failed attempts and what felt like a very long time sitting in a chair beside a sealed window in the dark. A rare smile crossed your features.

You looked at it for a while, noticing how the ink swirled and shimmered. It was letting you look at it, letting you truly view the character in full without fleeing. The more you stared, the more the color began to shift slowly. Pulse. Was it… Glowing? 

It took a moment before you could process what you were seeing. Pushing back from the window and standing, you kept your eyes on the marking. It was most certainly glowing. 

A low hum began filling the room, vibrating up and into your bones. Immediately, you knew you had done something you shouldn’t have. You needed to inform Barbatos, he would know what this meant. He would know if this was dangerous.

You stood in the center of the room for a long moment, notes in hand, and did not move.

There were no guests in the castle tonight. No ballroom full of glittering, predatory eyes. No mezzanine to stumble onto, no Astaroth lurking in the shadows. Just the castle's ordinary dark, and somewhere within it, Barbatos performing whatever functions a butler performed in the hours before dawn. But you remembered vividly what came the last time you had wandered the castle halls without escort. How could you ever forget.

It was nearly morning, and he would be along eventually. Perhaps you could wait? You set your notes back on the table. Picked them up again. Set them down. Your eyes couldn’t tear away from the glow.

Then again, there was still the problem of the tug. It hadn't eased since you stood, and standing here in the center of the room doing nothing gave it full access to your attention. It coiled with that same low, grinding patience, pulling you in the direction of somewhere he was not. Which was, currently, everywhere. He was away. The whole castle was full of his absence. The tug wanted you moving, searching, filling the hollow with something other than the faint cedar scent that clung to the pillow you had stopped trying to avoid.

If you went to find Barbatos, it was not wandering, right? It was purposeful. You had a problem, you had questions, you had a legitimate reason to seek out the only other occupant of these halls whose presence was not a threat.

You set the notes under your arm and crossed to the door before you could talk yourself out of it again.

Your hand closed around the handle and held it there for a moment, breath shallow, waiting for the cuffs to weigh in. They offered a low, curious hum. Not a warning. Not approval, exactly. More like the sensation of being watched by something patient and interested, waiting to see what you would do.

You turned the handle and the latch released with a soft click that sounded very loud in the quiet room. You opened the door just wide enough to look out.

The corridor beyond was dim. Wall sconces burned low, their flames reduced to small, amber points that threw more shadow than light. The dark marble floor stretched in both directions, swallowing the light before it could reach the ceiling. No movement. No sound except the very faint, distant suggestion of the castle's own breathing. The kind of quiet that had a texture to it, that pressed back when you listened too hard.

You stepped out and paused, pulling the door most of the way closed behind you. Not shut, but rested against the frame. Some part of you wanted the option to move back quickly, if it came to that. You stood with your back against the wall beside the door and simply listened for a long moment.

Nothing. The corridor held its breath.

You turned left, the direction Barbatos had led you from last night. You thought you remembered it well enough. The runner in deep plum and gold, the narrower hallway with the ebony door at its end. The castle had a logic to it if you moved slowly enough. Rooms clustered by purpose rather than proximity, the private wing wrapping around itself in a way that could disorient if you stopped paying attention.

You walked slowly, keeping close to the wall.

Two corridors branched left and right from the one you were in. You had not come this way last night. You studied both options. Left was darker, the sconces fewer and further between, the air slightly cooler. Right was marginally lighter, the faintest smell of something warm carried on the air. 

You went right.

The corridor bent after a dozen steps, and then bent again, and then opened into a wider passage lined with the same portraits you had passed on your first night here. Demons with beautiful, merciless faces, their eyes following you through the dark the way portrait eyes always did, that trick of the painted gaze that made you feel observed regardless of where you stood. You kept your own gaze forward and moved steadily.

You heard his voice before you saw the door.

It was slightly ajar, spilling a thin wedge of amber light into the corridor. You slowed instinctively. The voice you heard was Barbatos's, but wrong. Stripped of its usual polished composure. What remained underneath was something sharp and cold.

You couldn't make out the words. The door was too thick, the gap too narrow, and whatever was being said was being said quietly. But you didn't need words. The quality of the sound reached you clearly enough. The particular stillness of a warning being delivered by someone who had never once needed to raise their voice to be obeyed.

You pressed yourself against the wall beside the door, heart hammering, and looked through the crack.

Solomon stood with his back partially to you, silver hair catching the amber light, posture still and rigid. His hands, usually so unhurried, were held tightly against his body. You placed a hand over your mouth, concealing the gasp that wanted to press past your lips.

Barbatos stood across from him, green eyes flat and depthless, all traces of professional serenity stripped away to reveal whatever lived beneath it. The expression on his face was not anger. It was something more architectural than that. He spoke again, one short sentence, and Solomon's chin lifted fractionally in response. His reaction seemed almost… guilty?

Then Barbatos's gaze moved.

It moved to the door.

You pulled back so fast your shoulders almost hit the opposite wall. You stood there, breathing through your mouth, parchment crumpling slightly. Listened. No footsteps approached. The amber light still spilled from the gap, unchanged.

You walked back the way you had come, quickly and quietly, and did not look back.

The parchment sat abandoned on the table. You sat beside it with your hands in your lap and tried to think clearly, which was difficult because your thoughts kept sliding into the image of Solomon's hands and Barbatos's eyes moving to the door.

You had told yourself, in the careful, compartmentalised way you had developed for surviving in this place, that Solomon was an ally. The only one you had. A human who had carved out something resembling autonomy in a realm that devoured humans. A human who had pacts, power, a network of angels, favors and, most importantly, a way out. You had wrapped that belief, that hope, around yourself and worn it underneath everything else. Underneath the obedience, the fear, the vows, and the treacherous warmth of the cuffs. A secret layer. Something that was still yours.

But Solomon had seemed… Off.

Not obviously. Not in any way that would have been visible to someone who hadn't spent weeks learning to read concealed emotion. But you had learned. And what you had read in the set of his shoulders and the careful position of his hands was not the confidence of a man with seventy-two pacts and centuries of earned freedom. It was something much more fragile than that.

For some reason, your mind kept wandering to dark, dreadful places. You thought about what it might mean for you if Solomon's plan was not what he had presented it to be. If the new identities and quiet escapes were something other than rescue. If the person you would become on the other side of that door was not free but differently owned. Could you truly trust a man who had thrived for centuries amongst demons?

The tug behind your sternum pulled.

You pressed your palm against it and breathed.

You thought about home while the Devildom moon brightened, announcing morning. Not the idea of home the way you had been thinking of it since you had been ripped from your life and taken into captivity. You thought about home specifically. In detail. 

Your apartment. The way the morning light came through the kitchen window at an angle that hit the countertop and made it look almost gold, almost valuable, when in reality it was cheap laminate that had been peeling at the corner since the day you moved in. The particular smell of the hallway outside your door. Carpet cleaner, someone else's cooking, and the faint damp of a building that was older than it had any right to be. The sound of your neighbor's television bleeding through the walls every evening at seven, the same program, the same muffled laughter track.

The freedom of it. The absolute, unremarkable, taken for granted freedom of choosing what you ate for breakfast and whether you left the house and what you wore and when you slept and who you spoke to and how you spent every hour of every ordinary, unremarkable day.

You had not been happy. Not exactly. You had been free, which you had always assumed was the same thing until it wasn't.

The manager who had scheduled you for every closing shift for six weeks straight and smiled when he told you it was your turn to pull your weight. The paychecks that looked sufficient until you had finished paying rent and groceries and the cost of pretending, in small, necessary ways, that you were doing fine. The phone calls home that always started warmly and always ended with something said that couldn't be unsaid sitting between you and whoever was on the other end.

You had been free. But you had also been exhausted and lonely and afraid. Afraid in the way that people are when they cannot name what they are afraid of.

Here, you were not free. That was not a small thing. You understood that. You held it carefully and did not minimize it.

But here you were fed, always, things you would never have been able to afford at home. Rich and prepared with a care that suggested your comfort had been considered. Here you were clothed in silk that cost more than your monthly rent. Here you slept in a bed so vast and so soft it still occasionally startled you. Here the fears were enormous and immediate. Here the fears had faces. Golden eyes, green eyes, silver eyes, the glinting edge of a fang, the warm pulse of metal against your wrists, but they were legible. They were present. They were something you could press your hands against.

And here, whether you had chosen it or not, whether the cuffs had engineered it or not, whether any part of it was real in the way that mattered, you were wanted. And you sat with that for a long time.

You thought about what you would be returning to. And you thought about what you would be leaving. While you sat in the early moonlight, pondering the decision you knew you would need to make soon, you felt the familiar pull begin to shift.

The tug changed direction.

It happened without warning, the way the tide shifts beneath the surface. One moment it was pulling you towards the window and the next it suddenly turned. Toward the door, toward something that was approaching from a distance and moving quickly.

Your breath caught and you were on your feet before you decided to stand. The cuffs had gone very warm. Warmer than they had been all night. Their hum deepened into something resonant and pleased. Your heart knocked hard against the inside of your ribs. Once. Twice.

He's coming.

You moved toward the door without meaning to, stopping yourself when your hand nearly reached the handle. You stood there, fingers hovering, and noticed what you were doing. You were eager.

The realization dropped into your chest in a way that resembled fear. You stepped back from the door. One step. You folded your arms across your chest, as though you could physically contain whatever was happening inside you.

‘It’s the cuffs,’ you told yourself firmly. Only the cuffs. You’d been alone with this horrible tug wearing you down and now it’s about to end. Your body is relieved. That’s all. It was one thing to lament on his absence due to the physical discomfort it caused you. It was another thing entirely to wait by the door wagging your tail like the obedient pet he expected you to be.

You believed approximately half of that.

The tug was intensifying now, no longer an ache but a warmth that spread outward from your sternum in slow, radiating waves. The cuffs were singing, vibrating in the metal where it pressed against your wrists and throat. Your pulse was too fast. You were aware of it in a way that embarrassed you, the way you became aware of your own breathing when someone pointed it out.

The handle turned.

The door opened with that unhurried weight you had learned to recognize in the midst of nightmares. The air in the room changed as it always did when he entered. Warmer, denser, threaded with cedar smoke and that dark undercurrent that no human word quite described. The tug dissolved completely the instant he crossed the threshold, all at once, and the absence of it left you so suddenly relieved that you gripped a table behind you.

Diavolo stepped into the room and stopped.

He filled the doorway the way he always filled whatever space he occupied, equal parts imposing and unhurried, but dressed simply compared to his usual state. He looked, if such a word could be applied to the future king of the Devildom, tired. Not diminished. Never that. But something in the slight heaviness around his eyes showed a night of strain rather than leisure.

His golden eyes found you immediately. You looked back at him, and neither of you spoke. 

The room showed the evidence of you, of a human living and working in his space. The scattered pages of your study notes lay on the table. The glowing mark you had managed shimmered faintly still. Proof of something. The open book. All the small evidence of hours spent enduring.

Diavolo's gaze moved across none of it. It stayed on your face. His expression was unreadable. Not the careful blankness of control, not the lazy warmth of amusement, nor the predatory stillness that you had grown to expect. Simply still. As though something had settled in him the moment he saw you.

He inhaled, slow and deep. His eyes, already fixed on yours, shifted as though what the air carried back to him was being catalogued somewhere beneath the surface. Something crossed his face too quickly to name. 

He moved without hesitation, no pause to issue instruction or invite deference. He crossed the room in the same measured way he crossed every room, and when he reached you he did not stop at a polite distance.

His hands found your face.

Both of them, large and warm, cupping your jaw with care, thumbs resting just below your cheekbones. He tilted your face upward and held it there for a moment, golden eyes searching yours with an intensity that had no appetite in it, but something else. Something you refused to name.

The silent intensity of the moment made you shift in place uncomfortably. He wouldn’t stop staring at you.

“Diavolo-”

His lips pressed against yours, silencing you immediately. Not with command. Not with the possessive claim you came to expect, teaching you what belonging to him felt like one press of his mouth at a time. This was different. His lips found yours with a certainty that felt almost involuntary, almost like relief. When he breathed in against your mouth it sounded like the exhale of someone who had been holding their breath for a very long time.

The cuffs were ecstatic.

Heat poured from the metal in waves. Flooding up your arms to the base of your throat, spreading outward through your chest until your fingertips tingled with it. Not coercive. Not the syrupy insistence they used when they were rewarding compliance. This was different. Fuller. As though they were simply reflecting something that was already there, confirming it.

Your hands, which had been folded against your chest like a barrier, did not reach for him. But they uncurled.

He didn’t deepen the kiss. He simply held you there, forehead resting against yours as he drew back. His breath was warm across your lips and his hands cradled your face with that unbearable, unasked for gentleness.

You stayed in that position for a long moment, cuffs settling into something low and content against your skin. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The room held the particular quality of stillness that follows something that doesn't require words, and you let it.

Then you felt his body shake.

Lightly at first, barely perceptible, a faint tremor moving through his chest and into the hands still cupped around your face. You stilled, worried that something was wrong. Your eyes opened and you pulled back just enough to look up at him.

He was laughing.

Not the low, dangerous roll of amusement. Not the dark, rich sound that preceded a lesson. This was quieter than that, more genuine. It was disorienting.