hit that shit, slimer.

Warnings:

We're getting into the actual smut, y'all! Conduct yourself accordingly. The scene at the beginning of the chapter is really the only thing going on in this one, since it's a lot of setup and foreplay (ahem).

Tags have been updated on AO3, and I’ll keep updating as we go along. Slow-ish burn, but they’re ghouls and I’m me, though, so, you know–it’s gonna be freaky.

Credits/etc

Chapter 7: fieramente

The pack is remarkably chill about the way Rain and Storm's growing bond re-sculpts the shape and weave of pack activities. Sometimes Rain catches Dew and Phantom whispering together, sly smiles unconcealed, before finding conspicuous ways to settle around him that leave room for Storm, though the air ghoul's selective social battery means he keeps to himself, journal propped open, pressing ink to paper as often as not. Other times he's occupied with Aurora, who relishes the opportunity to test the endless reserve of his willingness to anticipate and cater to her whims. Rain would tease her about it, but it turns out, he's learning to like it, too.

When Storm catches Rain's eye after practice, or sitting down to a meal, or when they start blowing up the pack group chat, rearranging schedules so they can take chapel shifts together again, Rain finds himself relaxing into the certainty of Storm's presence, somehow both electrifying and grounding. Of knowing that when they're alone together, he can truly let go. That Rain doesn't have to show up a certain way or any way at all. That no matter what ridiculous thing he might say he wants, and even sometimes when it's unspoken, Storm will try to find a way to give him what he needs. That the air ghoul derives a deep sense of fulfillment in the way he cherishes, nourishes those he chooses to invite in.

Rain can see it in the way Storm works in the greenhouse, when he catches sight of him through the foggy panes one damp day on his way to the lake. Whispers about it with Aurora, giggling their way through one of Swiss' joints (stolen) as she paints his nails. Finds himself peppered with questions about how it's going over breakfast by Cirrus and Cumulus, who coo at him and one another, and exchange knowing glances before drifting back to their room with all the subtlety of a Papa's wardrobe.

But it's not all gentle nurturing and bouquets of flowers, either (though Storm does stop by with something fresh every few days, as soon the ones in Rain's room start looking a little sad). Rain's lost count of the number of times he's felt the back of his neck prickle with the weight of regard and looked around to find Storm watching him, eyes full of appreciation, admiration, desire. And, if Rain's being honest, the number of times Storm catches him doing the exact same thing. Either way, when it happens, there's always a moment where they both watch to see who's going to break first.

Rain learns that the easiest way to "win" is distraction; one night he's pretty deep into a sample of Mountain's newest strain and, feeling Storm watching from across the room, meets his gaze and, following an impulse, cups his tits in both hands, giving them a slow squeeze. The way the light flickers through Storm's eyes makes it impossible to hide the way they immediately, almost involuntarily, track Rain's hands. He gives Storm a silly, satisfied smirk when he looks back up, acknowledging a point in Rain's favor this time.

But often, Rain gets more pleasure from being on the receiving end of the strategy Storm's adopted in their dirty little private game of chicken. If they're alone when it happens, he'll start describing whatever thoughts he's having about Rain in the moment. If they're not, Rain can expect a lengthy text, meticulously tapped out between appraising glances. Admiring the way his gills flare in the afternoon sunlight on a warm spring day and praising the soft bassline he hums while he makes his morning tea, sure, but also opining on the generous curve of his ass and every detail of how it bounces when he's playing. Monologuing about the ways he'd like to mark the elegant length of Rain's exposed neck and throat. And so on.

For the most part, Rain can't get enough of it, but on one memorable night in the chapel before Mass, his actions come back to haunt him. Storm, laying out the ceremonial necessities while Rain lights candles, chooses this opportunity to recount exactly what happened when he discovered Rain's underwear tucked into the back pocket of the pants he'd worn to the club that night. Rain has never felt lightheaded just from someone describing their experience jerking off before, but Storm does so in such exquisite, excruciating detail that Rain hurries them through the remaining preparations. This leaves just enough time for Rain to drag Storm into the broom closet, which has seen more than its fair share of covert ghoulish dalliances.

Rain's desperate enough that when Storm follows him inside and presses up close behind him to pull the door shut, sliding a warm hand around Rain's hip and stroking him through his pants with a broad palm and insistent, relentless pressure, Rain's coming apart almost before they even really get going. Which is all they have time for, anyway, without risking being missed at the beginning of the service. It certainly helps that Storm's pressing his mouth to Rain's ear the whole time too, crooning absolute filth as he all but orders Rain to come for him.

They return to their appointed places just in time to greet Papa, ignoring his brief but unmistakable glance at where Storm's wrist has a clear and deep imprint—skin fortunately unbroken—from the teeth of a ghoul making an attempt at being quiet as he's being utterly unraveled. Storm radiates a certain smug satisfaction from Rain's side for the rest of the night, which the pack picks up on even if they don't know what Storm did to earn it.

---

Then, on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, as the pack gathers for practice, Rain notices a small envelope tucked under the strings of his bass. As he hoists the instrument onto his shoulders, adjusting the strap, he looks around, but no one is watching him. He's about to slit the envelope open to see what's inside when Perpetua enters and the energy of the room all turns toward him. Rain shoves the envelope into his back pocket, fishing around for a pick and trotting over to his first mark.

The pack emerges from the rehearsal room a couple hours later, sweaty, hungry, and in Rain's case, ready for a nap. He'd spent the entire second half of practice distracted, fantasizing about the hot bath he was going to take before crawling into bed, and damn the consequences to his sleep schedule. He makes a brief stop in the kitchen and finds Storm and Mountain chatting as they cut up fruit to add to the spread that Swiss is arranging for everyone to share while Phantom rummages through the cabinets, occasionally thrusting something they find at Swiss.

Before Rain is even aware that he's about to make the decision to take his to-go, Storm's handing him a bowl. Mountain looks on, amused, as Rain gives Storm an ironic shrug; yeah, all right, you got me this time. Storm arches one eyebrow, mouth curved in a smug grin before he gets right back to the melon he's butchering with practiced efficiency.

Rain escapes the kitchen without further incident, draws a bath, shucks off his clothes, and drops into the water with relief. It's not until he's toweling off and gathering his dishes and dirty laundry that he feels the rustle of paper and remembers the envelope.

It's a little crumpled now, and still a bit damp from his sweat, the humidity of the bath, or both. Rain opens it as he flops into bed.

Inside, there are two notecards. The first is inscribed with an elegant script Rain's grown to recognize almost as well as the feeling of its writer's gaze. It reads, simply, You Are Invited and he flips the card over, looking for more details. On the back, the message continues, though it's equally—perplexingly—brief.

When you're ready, text me.

- S

Ready? Ready for what, Rain wonders, tracing a fingertip over the elegant curve of the oversized, stylized S. The ink isn't black, not quite, shimmering in a deep navy shade with a hint of gold-green iridescence, when he angles it just so in the light.

Bemused, he puts the note aside and examines the second card. A hand-drawn sketch in ink, washed with watercolor in gentle hues, which as Rain considers it, he realizes is of an out-of-the-way corner of the Ministry, a tall tower encircled by trees that's always struck him as a bit odd, architecturally speaking. But there are many strange things about this place, and he wouldn't have enough time to examine them all even if he put effort into it. Nonetheless, it's drawn from the perspective of someone looking at the building from a vantage point near the lake, and therefore strikes a chord of familiarity.

And that's it. No other explanation, no directions, no clues.

So obviously Rain grabs his phone.

He's being mean to me again :(

Aurora responds right away.

[🦄]: u like it and u know it

[🦄]: what is it this time

Rain groans; he was hoping for a hint but Aurora's either not in on it, or is playing coy for her own obscure reasons. He takes a picture of the sketch, sends it to her.

[🦄]: ohhhhh

[🦄]: can't help u rainy

[🦄]: ur on ur own ;)

Rain resists the urge to throw his phone, instead thumbing out a reply.

Remember that next time you want to borrow something from my closet 😘

He switches to his conversation with Storm. Thinks. Taps out a new message.

How will I know? And invited to what??

Storm's next message doesn't arrive for a few minutes. He replies not in text, but in the form of a voice memo. Rain's finger hovers over the 'play' button; the first time Storm sent him one, he made the mistake of listening to it as soon as it arrived, which happened to be while he was helping Swiss put away groceries. How was Rain supposed to know that that was how he would learn that Storm had found yet another way to thoroughly undo him without laying so much as a finger on him or even being in the same room, scrambling to stop playback while Swiss cackled over the sound of Storm's hushed voice narrating how he'd like to take Rain apart on the drum riser, while the faint sound of Perpetua giving the band's guitarists feedback during their most recent practice session was audible in the background.

Rain finished listening to it later. Several times. Texted Storm a photo afterward, face flushed and shiny, hair a mess, fingers in his mouth like he could transmit the taste of himself through the airwaves.

Maybe that round was a draw, after all.

And now he's alone, so he hits 'play' with less hesitation than he would otherwise, ignoring the way warmth rises between his legs, anticipating.

Hello, beautiful ghoul. I hope you're having a good evening.

His voice drips like the honey Rain takes in his tea.

Did you enjoy your soak? I have a new batch of things for you that I've been working on, but they're not quite ready yet. And speaking of ready…

Rain hears shifting fabric, a soft tinkle of chimes, and the quiet, close exhale of Storm's breath before he continues. His voice is no less self-assured than Rain knows it to be most of the time, but there's an edge of something new here. A quiet vulnerability that's usually shielded by the confidence, Rain thinks.

The time hasn't quite arrived, but there's something I want to show you. Share with you. If I'm honest, this part isn't something I've asked of many others. I don't say that to flatter you, though if you wished, I would spend a thousand hours devoting my tongue to that pursuit.

Rain squirms, feeling a pleasant, lazy curl of heat flicker in his core. On the recording, Storm clears his throat.

But I digress. It's so easy to be distracted by your many fine qualities, siren. So, in answer to your questions… How will you know when you're ready? When you understand that my intention is to place a few carefully-hewn planks on the bridge of trust we've been building between us since you agreed to allow me to pursue you, and that this undertaking is, I believe, to both your benefit and mine.

As far as, 'to what,' the answer is the same. And also, the answer is, to what you see.

Rain picks up the sketch again, staring at as if it's going to reveal more secrets if he looks hard enough. To there?

Storm continues after a short pause, as if anticipating Rain's thoughts (which he has).

I'm fairly certain you'll recognize the view. I'd like to show you what it looks like from the other side. Not tonight. It's getting late and I think we'll need some time. I certainly don't intend to rush. How do you feel about Saturday morning?

The recording ends. Rain plays it again, feeling only vaguely more informed than before.

And all the more committed to unraveling the unexpected puzzle Storm dangles in front of him, knowing he can't resist the bait.

Saturday's great, I'll see you then

Despite wanting to ask a hundred more questions, Rain forces himself to put the phone down. He's got a few days to spend pondering the voice memo and the envelope's contents. No need to keep himself up doing it now.

But then he thinks of a question he cannot leave unasked.

Were you touching yourself when you recorded that?

Without waiting for a reply he throws his phone onto the nightstand and rolls over, burrowing into the pillows and blankets. After a lot of tossing and turning, he manages to fall asleep.

At some point in the middle of the night he braves a peek at his phone screen; the reply is succinct, but hours old:

[⛈️]: No, but I am now. Sweet dreams. xo

"Fuck."

Getting to sleep is even worse the second time.

---

Saturday arrives full of promise—a sparkling sunrise that Rain spends at the lake in Mist's company, once again submitting himself to her pointed ribbing. He manages to get her to share a few stories about Zephyr and Ifrit, and can't help but agreeing with her that air ghouls—for all their outward poise—might have the greatest potential to cause the most chaos in any pack they're part of, based on their uncanny ability to intuit any number of ways to take another ghoul apart purely with words.

Explaining that he can't stay too long, Rain and Mist swim along the shore so he can point out the strange tower, describing the note and how Storm wants to show him something there. Mist stares at the grounds for a long moment, going still in the water.

"That was Zeph's tower. They stopped being able to get up there, before—you know." She offers Rain a tiny smile: real, but steeped in the quiet grief of being the last of something. He pulls her into a tight hug, which she allows for exactly three seconds before pushing away, submerging until she's only visible from the chin up.

"They'd be happy to know it's not going to ruin, guppy. It's all right," she reassures him. Starts to sink, then adds, "I think the staircase is hidden in a back corner of the library. If nothing's changed."

And then she disappears into the dark deep.

Leaving Rain with no choice but to face whatever comes next.

---

In the time that it takes Rain to swim to the dock, pull on enough clothing to not cause a riot as he walks back to the ghoul den, and catch Dew in time to share a brief, steamy shower, the weather shifts.

When Rain emerges with Dew from their room, scrubbed clean, dressed in soft, casual trousers and a linen button-down, and only a little mussed in the wake of mandatory post-shower affection from his fire ghoul, it's much cloudier outside. Not entirely gloomy, but not the bright, clear morning he'd expected after such a brilliant start.

But it's no matter because now, Rain is a ghoul on a mission. He explores the library, emptier than usual on a weekend morning, with fresh eyes. No one seems to notice him wandering from section to section and peering out the high, dusty windows, trying to triangulate his position relative to his mental image, the lake, and the sketch tucked in his pocket.

After getting turned around a few times, he finds himself in an upper-floor reading room, and knows he's on to something when he catches a hint of the familiar scent of Storm: citrus, a dose of static, and a deep warm layer underneath that he still isn't sure of but recognizes instantly. Around the corner, he finds an unmarked door at the far end of a long shelf of books about liturgical music, which tracks based on what little Rain has learned about the elder air ghoul who once used the space. When he tries the handle, however, it's locked. He knocks, hesitant to break the peace of the library or draw unwanted attention, but there's no response and no sound from within.

Ducking back into the reading room, he looks around for any further hints. Maybe the door is part of a different mystery.

Or not, he decides, spotting a familiar little object resting on a side table tucked between two big cozy chairs next to the windows. It's another of Storm's charms, resembling the one Rain's been carrying in his pocket like a much more superstitious ghoul than he considers himself to be. Attached to this charm is a key.

It slides into the lock without resistance, and turns easily. Despite its somewhat shabby appearance, the door doesn't so much as squeak when he opens it, or pulls it shut behind him, re-engaging the lock as he pockets the key.

The door conceals a staircase that rises up past Rain's line of sight. As he begins to climb, a faint sound of what he thinks is piano music begins to reach his ears, though it's distant still. He hits the landing, which curves around as the stairs double back over themselves. It's brighter as he ascends, the sound of the piano growing louder by the step, and as he reaches the top Rain finds himself in a short hallway, at the end of which is a room, and nowhere else to go.

The room is full of natural light that spills around the edges of the door, three-quarters shut. The music, too, pours out into the hallway. As Rain approaches, peers inside, nudges the door open just wide enough for him to slip past, this is what he sees:

The music he's been hearing is not, as he assumed, a recording. The tower room, which he's successfully located, is large enough—if only just—to house a small grand piano, shabby with age and wear, but rich in tone. Storm sits at its keys, deep in concentration as he plays. Rain, unsure if he's been noticed and unwilling to interrupt, freezes in place.

The melody, at first tentative but persistent, grows in urgency. Shifts darker, louder. Builds. Crescendos in triumph. Settles, then rises again with a momentum that that doesn't quite feel under control. And finally, retreats, tender and soft, back to where it began.

Rain lets each emotion wash over him as it plays out on the canvas of Storm's body, channeled in his every move, every touch of the keys. He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until it bursts out of him in an impressed whoosh once Storm goes still. Storm turns to look at him, eyes still a little wild as Rain gives him a small wave.

"Hi. That was beautiful."

"You're beautiful. And thank you. Come in. You can shut the door, please."

Rain shuffles his slippers off near the door, closing it then turning back to Storm, who's still seated at the piano.

"I locked the one downstairs, too. Did you want your key back?" Rain reaches for his pocket, stopping mid-motion when Storm looks back up at him.

"Good. And no, that's for you. If you want it." Storm smiles, the closest to shy Rain's seen him since perhaps the first week he was summoned.

"I do," Rain reassures him, pleased to see Storm's expression warming. "Will you play something else for me? Can I watch?"

Storm gestures at what Rain can only describe as a true ghoul nest, an interwoven circle of cushions and pillows, blankets and other select pieces of fabric, which takes up most of the front half of the tower room, spread out on an elevated platform under windows that curve along one of the short ends of the room, opposite the piano. They span almost floor to ceiling, and open onto a covered balcony barely large enough for two ghouls, which shimmers in the daylight despite the overcast sky. All are thrown open wide, gauzy curtains stirring from the breeze that blows off the lake, filling the room with the smell of an approaching cold front.

As Rain settles into the nest and Storm begins to play again, he tries to take it all in. For such a small space, there's much to see.

Built-ins set into the stone walls line the back half of the room; lower cabinets topped with shelves, climbing all the way to the ceiling, which rises higher than Rain would be able to reach. Above him, in this rounded part of the turret that makes up most of the front half, is a dome that, from the looks of it, was painted centuries ago to resemble the night sky. Suspended in front of the windows and throughout the space, catching light and throwing prismatic flashes into every corner of the room, there are crystal and glass baubles of many sizes and shapes, arranged with obvious intention even if Rain can't infer the reasons behind their placement. He sees more charms scattered about, some in the style he recognizes, and others he does not, interspersed with other small pretty things—white pebbles, woven strands of river grass, plant cuttings in tiny jars, soaking up sunlight.

Tucked into one corner and partially obscuring the piano, an enormous floor mirror sits, perhaps of equal age to the venerable instrument judging by its freckled patina and faded gilt finish. Rain realizes that it's placed at a very particular angle; it does a wonderful job of reflecting light and brightening the room, and it also gives Storm a direct line of sight to the nest, and the way Rain sinks into it, eyes wide.

His knee bumps against something familiar: the same journal that he's seen Storm carrying around for quite some time now, even before all this began. He starts to set it aside, would never dare to peer between its covers even if he didn't know that Storm could see him. Storm clears his throat, fingers falling still for a moment, as their eyes meet in the mirror.

"You can look. Should look. It's for you."

Rain makes a puzzled expression, eyebrows raised. But Storm offers no further explanation and launches into the next movement of the piece.

Rain looks down at the book in his lap. Pushes his hair out of his face and opens the front cover.

It's not a journal—not really. It's more like a scrapbook, he realizes, running his thumb along the edge of the pages as he pauses to read the inscription.

Rain,

In the Circle I come from, we sometimes follow what some rightly characterize as outdated traditions. Ghouls choose to walk these paths when we find ourselves in the presence of someone who, simply by existing, undeniably and unfailingly draws the attention and admiration of all around them. It is imperative that in these moments of recognition, we honor the magnificence of His creation, and consecrate them in the Princes' names. It's not dissimilar to the pledges of fealty sworn by noble knights in other Circles, and in mortal stories that perhaps started as fables that knew a little too much. But each ghoul who chooses this path has the opportunity to shape their own story. I hope that this will be the beginning of ours.

Rain isn't sure how long he spends paging through the journal, which is crammed full of more things to see than this small, airy room that's full of light and music, all for him.

The first quarter of the journal is a beautifully illustrated catalog of notes on the various salves, oils, and other concoctions Storm's created for Rain, covering everything from the best ways to grow and harvest the base ingredients, to full recipes, and notes on the optimal methods to decant and store everything long-term to maintain efficacy.

Past that section, Rain finds an illustration of the charm Storm first gave him, decorating the corner of a recipe for the tea blend they'd shared the first time they'd talked about Storm's request. Beyond that, a hasty but well-captured sketch depicting Rain standing at the practice room workbench, headphones on and oblivious to the outside world. He feels his cheeks go warm—he didn't know Storm had stood there watching him long enough to draw him, even if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Inscribed in the corner of the page, a symbol Rain has to examine for a moment before linking it to Mammon, the Prince of Greed.

Between another pair of pages, he finds a pressed flower. Its many petals, overlapping and interlocked in cascading layers, are a creamy ivory that shades into vivid spring green in the center. A note on the page, rendered in Storm's flawless script to the side of another symbol, this one for the sea serpent Leviathan, identifies it as a zinnia.

The right-hand page here is crinkled, uneven in the way paper dries after it's gotten damp. Rain tries to turn the page and realizes it's stuck to the one behind it. Snorts out loud when the suspicion strikes him, which he confirms as he leans closer, catching an undeniable scent.

The music doesn't falter, but Rain feels Storm's eyes on him again and he looks up, a wide and wicked grin on his face as their eyes meet, briefly. The breeze picks up, causing the crystals in the window to spin and the light to dance.

As Rain continues to look, he finds more art—another sketch, from Storm's perspective with Rain asleep on the couch, tucked against Storm's side and his book closed in his lap as Dew curls up at the far end. Rain looking untouchable at the club with colorful lights streaking around him, this time captured in watercolor and ink. The other ghouls are there, too, blurry figures surrounding him, but Rain is rendered in the greatest detail, as if he were somehow even more alive than the vibrant scene surrounding him.

The page opposite that contains the recipe for the hangover cure Storm made sure to bring him that night, despite his own complicated feelings.

It continues. On a napkin from the place they'd eaten after their visit to Wrath, a simple drawing of Rain's hands, elegant and beautiful, alongside a photo Storm must have obtained from the Sibling working there. It looks like a printed still frame from the security system, freezing the moment that Storm pinned Rain against the floor and capturing it for posterity.

There's more, and a long ribbon embroidered in careful threadwork that marks the spot where there are blank pages still to be filled, but Rain has seen plenty. Is bowled over in many quiet ways from the effort and care and deep yearning that this book represents. He sprawls out in the nest, getting comfortable, folding his hands over the journal, which he rests on his chest. His gaze remains steady for a while before he allows his eyes to drift shut, letting the notes wash over him as Storm plays on.

When the music ends, some time later, Rain opens his eyes and finds Storm watching him again. Expression unreadable, too many emotions at once.

"Come here," Rain whispers. "Please." He stays on his back but shifts to one side of the nest, tucking the book away behind a pillow as he looks up into the dome above.

He hears the small clunk of the cover that protects the piano's keys, and the scrape of the bench. Storm walks over, tentative in a way Rain doesn't recognize on him, but very much wants to assuage. Rain gestures to the spot next to him, and Storm joins him in the nest.

"I suppose that means you don't hate it, then?" Storm settles in, a little further away than Rain expects or would like.

Without looking, Rain reaches for Storm's hand, finds it among the blankets. Takes it in his.

"No. I could never. I'm—you're—" Rain shrugs helplessly, unable to word good. "Whatever they put in the water where you came from… it makes for one hell of a ghoul."

At this, Storm throws his head back in a bright laugh of delight. The tension eases.

"I mean it. I can't believe you did all that. And the piano? I mean, I knew you could play obviously, but…" Rain shakes his head, scooting a little closer so that their shoulders touch.

"You're the one who called me, what was it, a 'ghoul of many talents'—it wouldn't be right to contradict you." Storm waves his free hand lazily in the air above them and the breeze shifts again, drawing fresh air inside. Rain recognizes the sound of the tinkling chimes from the background of the voice memo, drifting in from out on the balcony.

Rain concentrates, lets his own magic mingle with Storm's, and soon they're batting around a conjured wisp of a puffy little cloud that drifts in the air currents as Storm guides it up to the ceiling before letting it float back down again.

"At least now I know why your room down in the den looks like you've been here for weeks, not months. How did you even find this place?"

"Ah. That was a little bit of luck and a certain amount of perseverance. The den is wonderful and I love being part of this pack, but you all are—"

"A lot," Rain cuts in, laughing. "I know."

Storm continues, "And it's a little, well, dark and enclosed. For my taste. I know others have made it work, but when Cirrus and Cumulus mentioned that their old mentor had an aerie, I decided to try to find it. The keys were hidden in a place I'm sworn to keep secret, but it was, for the most part, intact. And the ghoulettes gave their blessings, to open it up, and to make it my own."

"Mm. Mist mentioned it was Zeph's, before. We were looking up here from the lake—this morning. She said the same thing. That they would be happy it's being used again." Rain hums thoughtfully, looking around. "And it's beautiful. Very you. Much more than where I thought you were staying," he teases, glancing over.

"I do stay there! Sometimes." Storm laughs. "To keep an eye on you, at the very least."

"And an ear," Rain interjects.

"That too. But yes, this is my home." Storm turns onto his side, and Rain mirrors him, letting Storm pull him close. "And like I said, this isn't something I share with everyone. There are three keys that unlock the door downstairs, at least that I know of, and you now hold the third."

Rain thinks for a moment before murmuring, "Rory," and receiving Storm's nod in return. "That makes sense. I knew there was something but I wasn't sure if you two were—like us. Or however. You know what I mean."

"I do. And Rain?"

"Hm?"

"I'd like to kiss you now."

"I was wondering what was taking you so long."

Storm leans over him, presses their mouths together in a soft, steady kiss. The moment is, at least right now, more tender than heated.

They pass a little time like that, simple touches and quiet noises of gentle pleasure, before Rain abruptly asks, "So what's left?"

"What's left?" Storm regards him with half-lidded eyes, the remnants of a purr in his chest.

"You mentioned the Princes again, in the book. And I saw Their symbols in there too, but the book's not finished, right?" Rain reaches for it, flipping it open to the empty section at the back. Not that many pages to go, but some.

Storm takes it back, closing it with a smile and setting it behind him.

"That's right. The rites aren't prescriptive, not really. It's more like a path to follow, to illuminate important details about yourself and the other ghoul. Or ghouls, I suppose.

"There are a lot of variations that evolved over the centuries and as our kind spread, but this is the one I'm most familiar with. According to tradition, by invoking the Princes, you're petitioning for their support, which does two things. The first, it proclaims that the intended is of high status, evident through their words and deeds, and second, that because of this, it also conveys that the suitor is committed to putting forth an effort worthy of not just their intended, but our Princes as well.

"Mammon, for greed, not for one's own sake, but to enrich those around you. Leviathan, for envy, to remind us to work for what we desire to hold. Abaddon, for sloth, a reminder to rest and replenish ourselves so we may better serve in days to come. Sathanas, yes, for wrath, for the fire of righteous anger used to protect our pack." He drops another kiss to Rain's lips. "Asmodeus, for lust."

Rain grins. "My favorite."

"Hardly surprising," Storm laughs. "And today is for Lucifer. Pride. The culmination of my gifts, the things I'm proudest of—my art, my music, my home. All things I want to share with you."

Rain feels the swell of Storm's chest and the weight of this gift—not just the book, the literal work as well as all it represents, but also Storm's vulnerability, his space, and his truest expression of self. Things that Rain might, very easily, have never had the chance to see.

"I accept and praise your gifts," Rain says, serious as salt, eyes wide as he looks up at Storm. "I'm honored to be invited in. Thank you. But…"

"But?" Storm frowns, cocking his head to one side.

"Unless my math is wrong, that's six." Rain's pupils widen playfully. "Aren't you forgetting something? Or, I guess, someone?"

"I have some ideas," Storm says, starting to smile again. "Nothing on Belphegor, but we both know that with a single request, you have the power to convince Swiss and Mountain to conjure a feast fit for honoring the sin of gluttony."

"Not just a feast." Rain's mind whirls in many directions at once. "Want to have dinner with me? Here, tonight? We can bring it up from the den together," he adds, seeing Storm start to reply. "If you're free, that is."

"I'd love to. Yes." Storm's face is a perfectly charming shade of pink.

Rain wonders if he's moving faster than Storm had expected, or with more enthusiasm. It was probably a little unorthodox for Rain to be planning the final piece of the path, but if he's honest with himself, it doesn't matter to him in the least—because what matters is that Storm still says yes.

"Great." Rain's voice softens, and he shifts a little closer, hand on Storm's hip. "And… How would you feel about me staying, after?"

"I can think of very little I want more," Storm replies, his voice shaded with desire as he traces his fingers down the length of Rain's arm.

"Good. Okay." Rain squeezes Storm's hip and hops up, excitement no longer contained and for once being unwilling to get distracted by Storm's touch. "I need to go take care of some things, then. Text me any requests? And meet me in the kitchen in…" He pulls his phone from his pocket, thinks for a moment as he shoves his feet into his slippers. "Let's say four hours?"

"Four hours it is. Until then, siren."