#agent shepherd

You have heard it here first, folks. I am a fool, and the only thing missing is a decadent court to laugh and make fun of me.

The first rule of my job is to never, ever catch feelings. It is true for all succubi, but especially true when you try to fully embrace your role as a seductive little devil.

Combining that with a high-risk job with creatures in direct service to different Gods, as well as several flesh-eating behemoths, topped off with a healthy dose of human-made weapons in everyday life, there is no reason for me to grow attached to anything or anyone, let alone to find myself falling in love. The concept is nice, but ultimately not for me.

I curse and spit at whatever cosmic being made me fall in love with the soft-spoken, slow, behemoth known as Amos. If anyone can give me what I need, it isn’t him. I already know for certain I can’t give him what HE needs. No, I think it would take more than the heart of a lowly demon to heal his wounds.

I have not confided in anyone, and yet the druid, Simon, seems to stare at me with what I can only assume is a mocking smile. A plague upon him and his house. At least I have enough self-awareness to know who is and isn’t out of my league. The druid is blind to Ms. Agave’s feelings, so he is not one to talk.

I do not know when it started. Perhaps it was after the 500 billionth suicide mission we were sent on (given my constitution and general aversion for full-scale combat, I consider every mission a suicide mission).

All things considered, things could have gone much, much better than they did -- they also could have gone worse, but the fact remains that I nearly failed in my job. 

After centuries of seducing and killing young men, taking down a young lieutenant should not have been a problem at all. I had succeeded in seducing him; that was never an issue. The problem arose in the fact that the man was too paranoid for one as unimportant as him. The only reason he was to be taken out was due to Mr. Takahashi’s insistence on wiping out the lieutenants. 

Every part of his tent was trapped, rigged up with silent alarms, and despite the drug I had slipped in the alcohol we shared together, he remained infuriatingly alert. When I went to stab him, he shrugged me off and gave me the most embarrassing fight of my life. I had only two choices: stay there and accept the beatdown, sacrificing my life in return for my utter failure to complete the mission, and keep my comrades out of it, or I could set off the alarms around the camp, drawing attention from all sides and ensuring a conflict that would surely bring my comrades to me.

I am ashamed to say which one I picked.

The speed at which my comrades rushed to my aide was surprising, but what was even more surprising was the fervor with which they fought, especially the behemoth. Even Doctor Fero had shown up.

They made quick work of the camp and despite being chewed out to hell and back, I retained my position. Back at our forward camp, I was surprised to find myself joined in the common room by the behemoth. I am sad to say I never really struck up a conversation with Amos before, but I felt... almost compelled to when seeing how he had fought for me. What imagined worth did I have, for him to fight so ferociously?

“Why did you fight so hard to save me?” 

I remember his answer clearly, even if it had been years ago.

“Because you’re worth it.”

In what capacity? What was I to him? An owed favor? An asset? A friend?

Despite telling myself otherwise, I found myself laying awake that night, desperately trying to figure out what I was to the man. The mystery, it seems, has only consumed me since then. With my interest in the man growing, I noticed the little things he did. How he got up at 8 every morning, before the undead and demons, but after the spirits and angels. How cute he was when he was tired, his hair disheveled and his voice deep and ragged from sleep. The way he carried himself.

He was no longer slow, he was deliberate. He was not hunched over, he was cautious. He was not reckless, he was powerful. Gods above, he was powerful.

I sometimes wonder if he has ever used the full extent of his power, even though I know he almost certainly has not.

I find myself forcing consciousness upon myself earlier, just to get a chance to sneak a peek at Amos’s sleeping form. He is a cuddler, evidently, shown in the way his body curls up around an imaginary space and the way his hands need to be underneath something. I find myself moving him in my head, managing his position and trying to fit myself against him.