#alt 11

A knock came from your chamber door, sending a deep echo through the room, you called for whoever was at your door to enter, setting down your book in your lap. You smiled when your maid, Lavinya quietly shuffled into the room.

“Milady,” Lavinya gave you a curtsy, “The queen has requested your presence in the library.”

“Did she say what for?” You stood, smoothing out the skirt of your dress.

“She didn’t, milady, only that she needed to see you right away.”

“Then I guess I am going to the library,” you started for the door and stopped short, “Oh, Lavinya can you have my afternoon tea prepared here in my chambers for me when I return?”

“Of course, milady.” She curtsied again.

“Thank you.”

The halls leading up to the library were always quiet, sometimes a little too quiet, but you enjoyed the silence from time to time. Though the Red Keep was quite expansive and had the occasional secluded corner, it always seemed to be bustling with activity, servants running around, arguments from the Small Council were loud enough to carry through the walls, finding a moment of quiet was difficult at times.

The library itself was the only place truly void of any chaos, silent as a tomb. You looked around, but Alicent was nowhere in sight. Puzzled, you stepped further into the library, looking down the first few aisles of bookshelves. Alicent wasn’t in the library, clearly, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t alone. You could feel someone watching you, like a predator stalking its prey.

You were about to call out for Alicent but instead released a surprised gasp when someone seized you by the arm and pulled you into one of the darkened alcoves that lined the walls of the library.

“Hello.” You heard Aemond’s smooth familiar voice before you could see him. When your eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he was mere inches away from your face.

“Ameond,” you swatted his arm, but put no real strength behind it, “you nearly scared the life out of me!”

“Oh, did I now,” he laughed, bringing his hands up to cradle your face, “Apologies, but I couldn’t help myself.”

He stepped closer to you, backing you up until you were against the wall. He moved his hand, drawing a finger down your cheek to your neck and further down until he reached your waist, gripping you firmly before placing his lips onto yours.

“Aem—” he cut you off with another kiss, “Aemond—” he cut you off once more, “Aemond! Stop, someone could see!”

You quickly looked out of the alcove to make sure no prying eyes were looking at the two of you.

“No one ever comes to the library, you know that.” Aemond began to plant kisses along your neck, “and if you recall that fact is the very reason we started having our little meetings here.”

“Your mother needed to speak with me here.” You reluctantly pushed him away.

“Are you sure about that?” Aemond laughed.

“What?”

He smirked, “Think, has my mother ever asked to speak with you in the library before?”

“No.”

“So, perhaps someone told your maid that my mother wished to speak with you in the library, but in fact it was just a ruse to get you here, so he could share a private moment with you.”

The mischievous smirk on Aemond face sent a flutter through your chest, “Using the queen as a ruse to see me? Aemond Targaryen, you are smitten with me, aren’t you?”

You weren’t sure if your eyes were playing tricks on you, but you could have sworn, if only for a moment, that Aemond’s lips had formed a pout, “Forgive me for wishing to spend a moment with you where we don’t have to converse through glances across the room.”

Aemond’s agitation was crystal clear. It had been a while since the two of you had been alone. Keeping your relationship secret was getting harder as your affections for one another grew stronger.

“Aemond,” you brought your hand to his cheek, gently gliding your thumb across his scar, “I was only teasing. I’m happy to finally have a moment alone with you,” you pulled him back towards you and kissed him again, “Tomorrow I could come up with the ruse! I could say Helaena wishes to see you in the gardens, or Ser Criston Cole needs to speak with you in the armory.”

Aemond laughed softly, “You truly wish to meet up in the armory?”

“Perhaps that’s not the best location for a secret rendezvous, but I believe you see my point.”

“That I do.” he took hold of your hand and placed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek then rested your forehead against his, “Lavinya is preparing my afternoon tea in my chambers, would you care to join me.”

“Yes, but not right now. Right now,” he pressed you against the wall again, “let’s focus on the fact that we get to have a moment alone.”

You smiled, a rush of heat filling your cheeks as Aemond’s lips attached to your neck once more, “Of course, my prince.”

“Babe, can you believe this?” Abby shoves his phone in your face.

After you blink past the initial shock, you focus on the screen. It’s a social media post when a collage of photos of Abby. They are all moments of him being especially sweet or helping the other group members. The caption reads “Abby is a big teddy bear istg” with a rather impressive collection of emojis. You quickly tap the screen to send the post to yourself.

“Babe!” Abby snatches the phone away with a whine. “Did you just send that to yourself?”

You smirk and save the photo to your phone. “That’s a good collage. I’m making it my background.”

Abby looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh. “Don’t laugh! You can’t possibly agree with that!”

“You are a big, sweet teddy bear though.” You smile cutely at him.

He frowns. “I am not. I’m big and strong.”

“And super cuddly.” You state flatly. “You’re not helping you case.”

Abby huffs. “I’m the one with the sex appeal in the group.”

Now you just want to push his buttons for a little bit. “That could be Jinu, though. He has the face.”

He gapes at you. “But I have the abs!” Abby lifts up his ridiculously tight t-shirt and points at his flexing stomach.

“Yes, they’re very pretty.” You pat his arm like you’re consoling someone. “But that doesn’t affect your teddy bear personality.” You try to suppress your laughter when he glares at you. It slips out anyway and you have to turn away, stepping back from him.

Suddenly, Abby is in your space. He’s determined and confident. Your heart rate speeds up as he presses a palm flat against your chest and pushes you until your back hits the wall. His other arm moves to rest over your head, effectively caging you in. You look up at him with wide eyes. His gaze is sultry and seductive.

The room feels like it’s heating up around you. Abby’s hand moves from your chest, up your throat, and cups your jaw. He tilts your face just right to dive in for a searing kiss. You slip your arms around him, clinging when your knees go weak. You’re panting when he pulls back.

There’s a smirk on his face. “Could a teddy bear do that?”

You blink up at him, everything making sense now. “I never said you couldn’t be both my sexy boyfriend and a giant teddy bear.” Your smile is soft when you reach up to caress his cheek. “You make me feel comfortable and safe. I can depend on you to be gentle and caring with me when I need it. Being my teddy bear isn’t a bad thing. Plus, you are a fantastic cuddler.”

Abby’s tension fades. “That sounds good when it’s with you.”

You stand on your tiptoes to kiss his nose. “Good, because I would love to go cuddle on the couch right now.”

He just sweeps you into his arm and carries you into the other room to do just that.

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Sherlock leaned closer to John, almost touching his lips to his ear. “He’s all but begged me to do it, John,” he murmured, putting emphasis on the ‘begging.’

John swallowed and pulled back a bit to look at Sherlock, who was smirking at him, that wicked glint in his eyes.

Christ, John thought, shivering slightly at the electric pulse that ran down his spine at that voice. What had got into Sherlock today?

And as if his suggestive voice wasn’t enough, Sherlock placed a hand on John’s knee, drawing small circles with his thumb. John had to take in deep, deliberate breaths. Not now, he had to tell himself, and not here in this cab, on the way to a crime scene.

John was close to thanking a God he didn’t believe in as the cab finally came to halt in a relatively empty street. Sherlock left John to pay the cabbie in order to find Lestrade, and once John had caught up, Sherlock was already insulting Anderson’s intelligence. It was almost reassuring, to see this side of Sherlock, his ‘normal’ going out behaviour. Almost.

“Alright, Sherlock,” John intervened, placing a hand on his shoulder blade. “Greg, could you give us what you’ve got so far and show us the crime scene?”

Greg nodded, giving John a relieved and grateful look. Just as Greg turned to lead the way, Sherlock shot him a heated look, as if John had done something incredible that justified pushing him against a wall and snogging him senseless. John swallowed thickly and motioned for Sherlock to follow Greg. If things went on like this, John would get so aroused that he’d come in his pants at some point. Christ, anything but that. He wasn’t a bloody hormonal teenager – even if Sherlock sometimes made him feel this way.

---

The case had been relatively straight forward – just as Sherlock had predicted – which hadn’t made it less gruesome, though. The man had been stabbed in the side, the knife nowhere to be found, a pool of dried blood around the dead body.

With the ripped and cut open pockets of the man’s coat, Sherlock had been able to discern that the victim had been a drug dealer, and after a look at the man’s shoes and wallet, he’d given Greg a detailed description of where and how to look for the culprits, most likely two men in their twenties.

Greg had nodded, shaken his head at some points and raised his eyebrows at others, but had made notes diligently and thanked Sherlock afterwards.

“Well, this was quite quick indeed,” John stated as Sherlock ushered him into a relatively narrow alley to shorten their way back to the main street. Of course Sherlock had a map of this part of London in his head as well.

“Plain sailing,” Sherlock waved it off.

“Not for me,” John retorted. “And not for Greg and his team, either, you genius.”

Sherlock slowed and turned towards John, that glint back in his eyes.

“Will I get a reward once we are home?” He crowded closer into John. “You could press me up against the door, trap me with your body and kiss me until my knees go weak.”

John gasped and reached out to ball a fist around the heavy wool of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock moved slowly, guiding John backwards until he was almost pressed against the wall, his long fingers closing gently around John’s wrists.

“You could peel these clothes off me, or rip them off. Plain skin, exposed only for you.”

John was breathing heavily now, the heady scent of Sherlock mixing with the images he was creating in John’s head.

“You could turn me around and bend me over the kitchen table, or the desk. Or, you could take me right there, against the door. You’re strong. You could lift me up and lower me down onto your cock. You could take me right there, with my feet digging into your back and my arms around your neck.”

John groaned softly, tipping his head forward and leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

“Or you could lead me to your chair. Imagine you sitting there, looking down to see me kneeling between your spread legs.”

Sherlock ran his thumb over John’s cheekbone, down his jaw. “I could ride you,” he whispered, “In your chair.”

And that was about everything John could take. He gripped Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shoved him back against the wall, pressing himself up against his front and pulling him down to crush their lips together. The kiss was hungry from the start, open mouthed and wet and hot, and John groaned as he pushed his tongue past Sherlock’s lips. They licked and sucked and nibbled and pulled, and it took John some time to notice that he was grinding against Sherlock.

“Home!” he gasped, pulling together all his strength to weekly push at Sherlock. “Now! I’m not going to take you in that back alley.”

Sherlock stepped back, making it look graceful and almost effortless, but John could see his own longing reflected in those usually bright eyes, now dark and hooded with lust.

“Christ, Sherlock, get us a cab.”

Sherlock did as he was told, his hand never letting go of John’s wrist.

“Or,” he murmured into John’s ear once they were seated in the cab. “Or, I could slip my hand just a bit further up your thigh. I could palm you right here.”

John shook his head, biting his lip in order to keep silent.

“But it wouldn’t be enough. Not for you, not for me. I would pull down that zip, and slip my fingers in. Imagine warm skin enveloping you there, soft touches at first, pulling, stroking…”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped. “You can’t do this!”

He reached down to rearrange himself, his jeans more than just uncomfortable now, and Sherlock let out a gasp himself at that.

John longed to kiss him, to reach out and touch him, anywhere, everywhere, just feel him in some way. But he knew that they’d get thrown out of the taxi if he let himself do any of that. So he bit his lip and waited, glaring resolutely out the window.

---

It was like an explosion when they finally reached Baker Street. Once they were up in their flat, they’d practically ripped their clothes off each other, their lips never parting. It had been heated and intense, heady and all consuming. They’d never actually come to the part of anyone taking the other, but when they’d reached climax, John had felt as if he was burning alive, just to be reborn in Sherlock’s arms. For long minutes afterwards, they’d been reduced to a heavily panting tangle of limbs on the sofa.

---

“This,” John stated after they’d come down from their high and were lying comfortably on the sofa together, “was amazing. Absolutely incredible.”

Sherlock only hummed. John shifted a little, revelling in the sated calmness.

“No wonder,” he mused, “with you riling me up the entire day.”

He paused, then gasped as realisation hit him, and he sat up to stare down at Sherlock.

“That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? To wind me up! From the moment I woke up until now.”

Sherlock pulled him back down again, and John went willingly enough, placing his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Well, the plan was not to wind you up, exactly. Just to… whisper sweet nothings to you over the day. But yes, that was the plan. Lestrade’s timing was for once impeccable. My plan worked much better this way, and I didn’t have to lure you out the flat with some excuse.”

“That weren’t nothings,” John laughed, shaking his head. “I felt like I could explode every second. God, Sherlock. These suggestions, in that voice. Do you even know what that did to me? I wanted to jump right at you every time you leaned in to whisper into my ear. I wanted to lick your neck every time you turned your head, wanted to suck your fingers every time you lifted your hands, and I wanted to pull you down and kiss you every time you looked at me. Christ, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, and his arms tightened a little around John.

“And you accuse me of riling you up,” he muttered, and John laughed.

“This calls for a revenge, doesn’t it?”

“Er…” Sherlock started to protest, but John was having none of it.

“Oh yes. I’m going to show you how it is to be teased all day.” He bent down to trace the shell of Sherlock’s ear with his tongue. “You just wait and see.”

“Can’t wait,” Sherlock gasped, then cupped John’s jaw and crushed their lips together.

---

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That was it, this was his way out. Akaza lifted the cup and swallowed the rest of the drink with a big gulp, almost spilling some of the liquid over his sparkly sweater. He managed to avoid that fate in the last second and quickly wiped a droplet from his chin, intently avoiding to look at the other side of the table. Then, he stood up, absentmindedly asking himself why the world suddenly started spinning. “I need another drink,” he said to no one in particular, and walked off before a certain someone could say something.

Akaza made his way through the crowd which resulted in at least two invitations to dance with someone and three elbows casually rammed into his stomach and sides. When he finally reached the table where the alcohol was waiting for him, his head was spinning. He did not bother reading the labels on the bottles and randomly grabbed two of them, both filled with golden liquids. He fumbled around with the bottle caps for longer than he wanted to admit to himself, and when he finally got them undone, his patience had worn thin. Instead of checking whether the two drinks would work together, he carelessly poured both of them into his cup until it was full to the brim. Then, he leaned against a wall beside him and took a first sip. The drink tasted questionable at best and he grimaced when it burned his tongue and throat. But burning meant it was strong and a strong drink meant distraction from what was bothering him. And thus, he forced himself to down the drink quicker than he probably should have.

He had barely swallowed the last drop when Douma appeared out of nowhere. His cheeks were blushed, his hair disheveled and his rainbow eyes sparkled with excitement. Akaza lazily noticed that more than one head turned when Douma passed them, but Douma did not stop for anyone. His eyes were fixed on Akaza and it occurred to him too late that this should have been his clue to go into hiding. But when he finally realized that, it was already too late. Douma stopped right before him and beamed at him. “There you are,” he shouted and Akaza groggily asked himself why Douma felt the need to speak so loudly.

“Here I am,” he said and nodded emphatically. “I am right here.”

Douma grinned and said, “I can tell. But you’re not staying here. You’re coming with me now.”

Akaza wanted to give him a friendly smile, but then the meaning of Douma’s words sank in. He started to protest but as usual, Douma did not even seem to notice. He grabbed Akaza’s hand, intertwined his fingers with Akaza’s, and dragged him towards the dancefloor with surprising strength.

The further they walked, the louder the music grew. Douma effortlessly dove into the mass of moving bodies and somehow, he carved a way for Akaza as well. Mere seconds later, Akaza found himself in the middle of the dancers. To his left, his right, behind him, everywhere were people. Everything was moving, his head, Douma before him, and finally, Akaza himself. The beat encompassed his body and without wanting to, he started to mirror Douma’s movements. And when Douma smiled at him, Akaza returned the smile.

For a while, he was carried by the music, blood rushing in his ears. At first, there was only Douma, but when he started moving on his own, Douma’s face became only one in a kaleidoscope of smiling faces, every single one of them radiating pure joy. He saw Makio’s warm smile, Tengen’s white hair, Douma’s joyful expression. Brown eyes, rainbow-colored eyes, golden eyes, maroon eyes. All around him soft bodies, moving bodies, fabric grazing each other. He held Makio’s hands when they danced, felt Douma whirling him around, heard Tengen’s hearty laugh, felt someone close to him. Their warmth was magnetic, calling to him, and he followed the call. Their bodies moved together, a perfect symphony, harmony incarnate. The music whirled around them, making them float. Akaza tripped over a foot and a warm arm caught him, wrapping around his waist. A soft, warm laugh in his ear, and Akaza laughed as he held on to him, too. He looked up at his partner, his heart fluttering, and saw golden eyes.

The music stopped when the world came crashing down. Among the crowd of dancers, two stood still. The laugh was still etched into Kyoujurou’s face, his arm still around Akaza’s waist, Akaza’s hand still on Kyoujurou’s chest. He felt Kyoujurou’s steady heartbeat under his fingers. And then, the connection broke when Akaza threw himself back, almost knocking down a girl dancing behind him. She yelped but he did not look at her, he kept walking backwards, trapped by golden eyes that had widened in surprise. And then, the crowd closed between them and he broke free from the burning gaze. Akaza whirled around, pushing through the people, heading everywhere and nowhere at once.

He found himself at the bottom of a staircase that was mercifully empty and unlit. He climbed one step, tripped, stabilized himself with both hands. Half walking, half crawling, he moved up the stairs into a dark hallway. At a landing between the two segments of the stairs, he came to a halt and fought for air.

When the dim twilight engulfed him, Akaza leaned against a wall. His heart thundered in his chest, drowning out the sounds of the music coming from downstairs. His breath came ragged and a tsunami rushed through his veins. He tried to focus on his breathing, tried to calm down, but once he closed his eyes, he could only see one face looking down at him. He clenched his fists and pressed them against his temples but nothing helped.

“Akaza?”

A soft voice, closer than he liked, and sounding agonizingly worried. Faint footsteps coming closer, reluctant but without pause. Akaza squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, dug his fists even deeper into his temples. This was not happening, it just was not.

“Hey, are you okay?” A short pause, but the footsteps came even closer. He could hear them coming up the steps, felt his presence on his skin. When they finally stopped, he could even hear him breathing. A moment of silence, then his voice again. “Is everything alright?”

He shook his head again, hunched his shoulders. “Go away,” he said under his breath, barely able to hear his own words.

But he did not go away, of course he did not. He stayed, each of his breaths torture. This voice, this damn voice that was so soft and warm, so entirely unreal. “What’s wrong?”

And something in Akaza snapped. His head shot up and he found himself face to face with Kyoujurou. The landing was so narrow that their bodies almost touched. Akaza moved away, his back to the handrail, Kyoujurou between him and the wall. The air around them was warmer than it should be, thinner than it could. Akaza fought for air, his heart hammering in his chest. “You want to know what’s wrong?” he hissed, the words tumbling out of his mouth as if a dam had broken. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. How dare you show your face after I had one full year of peace? How dare you come close to me with that fake smile and your ever so friendly face?”

Kyoujurou’s golden eyes widened and he opened his mouth, trying to say something. But Akaza was not done, his whole body burned with a fiery rage that would not back down. “I can see right through you. It’s taken me a while, admitted, but now I know how you really are.”

Kyoujurou tilted his head and even though his eyes were full of flames, his voice sounded calm. “And how am I?” he asked.

Akaza growled and took one menacing step closer. “You hide behind that gorgeous face, hide behind that oh so kind behavior. But inside, you’re laughing at me, have been since we’ve first met. You insult me to my face and hide it so well that it even sounds like a compliment. Be damned, Kyoujurou!”

Kyoujurou took a step back as if Akaza had punched him. His calm expression faltered and gave way to a devastating mix of confusion and concern. His eyes darted around, reliving memories that Akaza had so desperately tried to get rid of. And then, suddenly, Kyoujurou’s expression cleared. His face softened and his hand moved ever so slightly, almost as if he wanted to reach out. “You’re talking about the day at the bookshop,” he said softly.

Akaza clenched his fists when the memories came flooding back. It had been a cold day, so cold, and he had worn the wrong clothing. He had been freezing, his fingernails slowly turning purple. And then, he had been there, Kyoujurou, in this horrible sweater. And what followed had been a fever dream, a rollercoaster Akaza could not exit. For one moment, one heavenly moment, he had thought Kyoujurou liked him. And then, he had scorned him, insulted him to his face, smiling all the while. “Yes,” he hissed.

Kyoujurou’s eyes narrowed and he softly shook his head. “You got me wrong, Akaza,” he said quietly. “I never meant to insult you.”

Akaza’s face burst into flames and he took another step closer, trapping Kyoujurou between him and the wall. “What else could you have meant?” Akaza snarled, setting Kyoujurou on fire with his glare.

But instead of backing down, Kyoujurou looked down to the floor, his cheeks slowly turning red. For a moment, he looked very young. “I was trying to compliment you,” he said, his voice so soft that Akaza almost could not hear him. “I wanted to show you something. But it seems like I failed.”

Akaza was so close that he could feel Kyoujurou’s breath on his skin. A shiver ran down his spine when he leaned even closer. “And what did you want to show me?” he whispered, his heart racing.

Kyoujurou looked up and his golden eyes mellowed when he looked at Akaza. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers over Akaza’s cheek. Akaza did not dare to move a muscle. The warmth of Kyoujurou’s hand spread through his cheeks, down his neck, into his chest and from there throughout his whole body. Kyoujurou’s eyes were as bright as the sun when he said, “That I like you.”

The fire engulfed Akaza and his arms moved without his doing. He pinned Kyoujurou against the wall, and when Kyoujurou’s mouth opened in a small gasp, Akaza leaned in. The gasp drowned in his lips and when Kyoujurou’s arms wrapped around his body, Akaza let go of his mind. He shoved Kyoujurou against the wall, coming closer until their bodies became one. And when Kyoujurou opened his mouth and gave in to his hunger, Akaza lost himself in those golden eyes.

This is part of a multi-chapter fic. Read more at:

Since Charlie had achieved her goal of another meeting with heaven, there was nothing more interesting for Alastor to see, so he said goodbye for the rest of the day. As he strolled leisurely back to his room, he went over all the events of the day, a large part of which involved what Husk had said.

Big talk for someone who's also on a leash.

Of course, he had made sure that Husk would never mention it again. As much as he liked rumors, he hated it when they were lies about him, especially when the truth was much worse.

A leash, ha! If that were the only thing tormenting him, he could do something about it, but no, there was nothing he could do about it.

He opened his bedroom door and was met with a cacophony of voices.

“Oh man, oh shit. I know I promised Charlie, but what if they still don't let her in? I can't ask Sera again, maybe... no, not him, he has no influence and Charlie has to go to the top. Urg, what do I do? It's no use, I have to call Mic—there you are.”

Relieved, Lucifer interrupted his rant and approached Alastor, who had been silently watching him as he paced around frantically arguing with himself. Lucifer had by now got rid of his hat, bow tie, and coat. “What do you think?” Lucifer asked him as Alastor also took off his coat. This was his room, after all, so he could make himself comfortable there too. “Hmm, it went pretty well, Sire.”

Lucifer sighed, “Al, stop it, Charlie isn't even here anymore.”

Yes, Charlie wasn't here anymore, and neither was anyone else. So why was Lucifer still preoccupied with this when they could be spending their time better?

Lucifer started talking again, getting worked up about something that was no longer important.

Alastor looked at Lucifer's hands, which were waving frantically back and forth instead of gently running through his hair and stroking his head. His lips, which were uttering only nonsensical gibberish instead of kissing his.

Alastor licked his lips, sighing inwardly. A leash would really be so much better than this. It would restrict him less than this. But he no longer had that luxury. For almost seven years, he had been infatuated with this clown of a king.

No matter how absurd the request, he couldn't refuse the fallen angel as soon as he looked into his beautiful big eyes.

He was here for him. He spent his time at the Hazbin Hotel to keep an eye on Lucifers naive, daydreaming daughter so that nothing would happen to her. And how could he refuse his request when there was nothing more beautiful to Alastor than seeing Lucifer smile?

His bright laughter could lift his spirits like nothing else. He didn't like being separated from him. The distance stressed him out, as ridiculous as it sounded. Lucifer had ruined him. He used to keep others at a distance until he needed them, but now it tormented him to be separated from someone for too long.

Not being able to touch or feel him, not having Lucifer in his immediate vicinity.

He had never had any problems being alone, but now, after a month without him, he was falling apart. He was literally consumed by his longing for the other's warm company. His bed was so big and cold without the constantly fidgeting devil.

Lucifer had him in his palm, and he didn't even know it. He knew nothing of the power he had, nor would he abuse it. Even though Alastor couldn't understand how Lucifer had crept into his heart, he also knew that Lucifer loved him.

As ridiculous as the little declarations of love from the ruler of hell were, they were charming in a way that he had come to appreciate. The last time they had really seen each other was a month ago, an agonizingly long month. They had never been apart for so long.

Lucifer made a point of visiting him at the hotel, albeit secretly so that his daughter would not learn of Alastor's actual assignment. He wanted to spend time with him. Now it had been a month without the slightest contact, and it was driving Alastor mad. Their little show in front of the others was all nice and all, but it wasn't satisfying enough for Alastor, not by a long shot. Their little show in front of the others was all nice and all, but it wasn't enough to satisfy Alastor, not by a long shot.

He had waited so long for him and now he was still talking about unnecessary things instead of focusing on what was important, which was Alastor and nothing else!

In the middle of his sentence, he grabbed Lucifer hard by the shoulders. “Lucifer,” he growled, coming dangerously close to the blond's face. Surprised, Lucifer looked up and stared directly at him, no mistrust, no spark of fear reflected in his eyes.

Alastor's gaze fell on Lucifer's slender neck. It would be easy to take advantage of the situation and strangle the devil to death. Perhaps this would help him rid himself of these troublesome feelings that were only hindering him. Instead, his gaze fell on a much more desirable target, the full lips that smiled as they said his name.

“Alastor?”

That beautiful voice was his downfall, just like the hand touching his cheek, which he was leaning against. Lucifer laughed, gently tracing his finger along his cheekbone, and Alastor fell apart.

God, why was he so weak?

Read the rest here

1.

The cobblestones beneath Bianca’s boots gleamed slick with rain. The program had rendered Nibelheim in dusky twilight. Chimneys breathed pale smoke, curling towards the cloudy sky. Wooden shutters closed tight. No villagers in sight. A silence thick enough to taste hung in the air, broken only by the crunch of her steps and the faint creak of leather when she adjusted her grip on Noctemaris. The blade whispered against her palm, its script glowing faintly, as if urging her forward.

Across the square, Sephiroth stood motionless: a tall silhouette cloaked in black and silver. All leather and metal. His coat swayed with the phantom wind coded into the simulation. His argent hair slid over his shoulders like liquid metal. Masamune hung loose at his side, pointed backwards as its point arched towards the Heavens. His ease was deceptive; she knew better than anyone that he never relaxed.

The Red Thread curled between them. It was soft and visible, a single ribbon winding around their wrists. It pulsed faintly violet, attuned to her restlessness, and she felt his calm flow through the bond. Steady. Deliberate. A counterweight to her turbulence.

“You’re holding back,” she called, as she let the edge of her blade glimmer. Stardust trailed down from Noctemaris, sizzling as it hit the ground: most likely putting holes in the training floor, a cost that Shinra would have to bear from training Bianca Moore.

“I’m not the one afraid of losing control,” Sephiroth answered. His voice was low and even, carrying through the simulated fog. His bright, unblinking, unyielding cat-pupiled gaze never left her.

Her tongue pressed against the point of a fang. He was right. She hated that he was right. She always hated when he was right, but, then, he was the one with experience and a direct feed to her emotions, as if the bond between them was a mood ring.

Sephiroth did not take recruits. He was the pinnacle. He was the face Shinra paraded in front of nations and enemies alike, too valuable to be wasted on the slow grind of training raw talent.

New blood was sorted under Angeal or, rarely, Genesis. Both were capable of shaping men into SOLDIERs while the company kept its crown jewel polished for more public battles: guarding the President, intimidating foreign powers, or standing as the untouchable symbol of Shinra’s might. His time was measured in appearances, stolen heroics, and missions that almost never strayed beyond Midgar’s borders. His legend was curated, managed, and contained.

Bianca was the exception. The only one he trained. Not because Shinra ordered it, because he chose it and requested it from Lazard. Her presence in SOLDIER had been an anomaly from the start, a weapon forged for two purposes: to be a symbol that the Heavens, themselves chose the company and to secure the future of SOLDIER. Sephiroth alone recognized the edge that needed tempering.

No one else could handle her, not in spirit and not in skill. Where Angeal taught discipline and Genesis sharpened ambition, Sephiroth honed her with precision, shaping her in ways only he could. It was exclusivity that carried weight. His time was not given, it was claimed, and Bianca carried the proof of it in every strike, every parry, and every breathless moment of steel meeting steel.

Bianca lifted Noctemaris. Power bled through the sword in shimmering light. It was a radiance born of her angelic blood, warped by the shadows that licked at her veins.

The cobblestones lit beneath her swing. With the energy bright and consuming, a flare turned the empty square into daylight. The Red Thread flared hot white: a warning and a tether both to Sephiroth.

Her strike cut the world open. In the fracture developing between her and Sephiroth, a field of glittering stardust and rotating crimson and cyan, rotating nebulas stretched across the chasm, banishing the darkness lurking within the hole.

And then he moved.

Sephiroth blurred. Masamune splitting into a cascade of steel arcs, faster than her eye could follow. The air cracked with the rhythm of his assault, and the brilliance she summoned scattered under his blows. Sparks leapt, echoing off the stone and wood of the village facades. She felt each counter not only in her arms but down the bond. His precision cut straight through her flood of power, containing it and her.

The last clash tore Noctemaris from her grip. The tachi clattered across the square, skidding to rest beneath a shuttered window.

Before she could draw breath, Sephiroth’s speed carried him to her, Masamune already discarded in a single, deliberate motion.

Her back hit the timber wall hard enough that the air fled her lungs. His hands braced on either side of her head. His black leather gloves spread wide, boxing her in. The long line of his body hovered inches from hers, as his heat radiating through the cold illusion. His breath touched her cheek. Faint. Measured.

The Red Thread between them pulsed crimson now. Their heartbeats echoed in its glow.

His voice was quiet, but it cut sharper than steel. His eyes searched hers, mako-bright. It was an ocean she could drown in. "Do you feel it?

"Each time you reach for that power, it drags you further from yourself.” His eyes dipped bore into hers.

Her lips curved despite the sting of his words. “You’re one to talk. You nearly tore me apart just now.”

His mouth twitched. The ghost was a prelude of something softer, something neither of them allowed each other to admit. “I control it. You don’t.”

“Then teach me control,” Bianca whispered, tilting her chin up so the faintest brush of her hair, pulled all the way back to prevent from being grabbed by him in their spar, slid against her jaw.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Charged and fragile. The bond pulsed violet, then deepened to a molten red, hot with attraction, which was sharper than fear. She felt it: the ache coiled in him he often refused himself, the restraint wound tight as a blade’s edge.

Sephiroth's hair plastered to his face from the rainfall. Beads of water danced down the contour of his silver pauldrons. His eyes lowered, tracing the shape of her mouth. Then his body shifted closer.

The Red Thread flared so bright she thought it might burn. His palms pressed harder against the wall, framing her face, as he tried to maintain the last visages of control and distance. The air between them thinned, scented with leather, steel, roses, vanilla, pumpkin spice, and rain. Taking a breath, she caught the faint spice of his skin, clean yet charged like ozone before lightning. Alien.

“You’re reckless,” he murmured, as he was now close enough that his breath skimmed her lips.

“You love it,” she shot back. Those words were a bare exhale.

And then he kissed her.

The first brush of his mouth was deliberate, almost careful. His lips were warm and soft, pliant yet firm, sealing over hers with a slow, consuming pressure. They molded together, testing and learning the shape of one another.

His mouth moved in a measured rhythm that stole her breath. The taste of him was sharp and clean, like steel tempered in heat, striking against the sweetness of her own. She also tasted the mint of the toothpaste he used that morning and the tempura he chose from the Shinra Cafeteria earlier that day.

But their restraint didn’t last. The Red Thread glowed fever-hot, and she parted for him, tilting into the hunger she felt roaring through their bond. Always the need that roared within her.

His tongue slid against hers, slow and commanding, tracing the edges of her fangs as though testing the danger. His mouth pressed harder, firmer, deepening until she could feel the heat of him as if it bled into her own veins. Their lips moved in unison and in battle both, dragging, sucking, yielding, and then claiming again. The friction of skin against skin left her mouth tingling, slick, and sensitive. Her plump lips felt swollen from the force of it and him.

She tasted salt and heat, tasted him once again, intoxicating and relentless. Her hand found the open edge of his coat, gripping the leather to anchor herself and brushing against his warm flesh as the kiss turned wetter and hungrier. Saliva mixed between them, a slick thread binding their lips before breaking when they drew back only to crash together again.

He devoured her in silence. Every movement was precise yet tinged with something rawer. Something he’d never shown another or allowed himself to feel. His lips dragged across hers, tugging gently at the corner before sealing over her mouth again with bruising insistence. Each cycle left her more breathless. Her lips ached.

Her own tongue curled against his, teasing, daring, until his low growl vibrated in his chest and into her body. The sound dragged a shiver through her spine, and she arched against him. Her thighs brushed the hardness of his stance.

The bond tightened, glowing red so vivid it painted their joined hands in light. His hunger crashed into her like a wave: desire, yes, but threaded with fear. Fear not of her, but of losing her to the blinding force she carried inside and to withstand the upcoming experiments. She felt it in her own chest through the Thread. His worry wrapped beneath the heat of his want, driving the action forward.

She broke the kiss. Her lips were wet and swollen, as saliva strung thin between them. Her breath trembled as she whispered, “If you’re this worried, then I don’t want you to stop training me.”

His forehead leaned against hers. His silver hair curtaining them from the hollow village around. “You leave me no choice.” His voice was rougher now, stripped of poise.

“Good.” Bianca smiled faintly. She dragged her tongue across her bottom lip to taste the trace he left there. “I don’t want you to.”

His hand shifted, brushing her jaw with the back of his knuckles. He didn’t kiss her again, though the hunger still burned in his gaze. Instead, he held her there, suspended between tension and solace, as the bond thrummed steady and alive, saving them from the future madness that would surround them and the courage that would be needed to see them through it.

Bianca let her eyes fall half-shut, letting the warmth of him. The weight of his presence folded over her. The program’s Nibelheim could have dissolved around them and she wouldn’t have noticed. There was only the wall at her back, his body that caged hers, and the Red Thread that blazed red enough to light the night. At that moment, Sephiroth was the pulse in her veins, and Bianca didn't care in the slightest.

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