#ronan 01

They were friends. Friends could attend events together, right? Even if said friends had once been...romantically involved. Even if their relationship would never be wholly platonic--not on his side, at least, though he had been the one to end things between them out of necessity of grief. True, Lilianna had been nothing but kind and gracious to him in the months following Emmaline’s disappearance, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a yawning chasm of awkwardness and unspoken thoughts and feelings that spread between them, as dangerous as teetering along the lip of an unstable cliff.

Most days, he wanted to call her; ask her to come over like she used to. And he knew, somewhere deep in his heart, that Lilianna would oblige with his request. But he knew, even just looking at her, that he wanted more than friendship with her. He always had, and deep in his heart, he knew he always would. There was a part of his soul that spoke to her; begged her to return to him. He wanted to nestle against her on the couch, pressing his face against her hair as they watched old romantic comedies and made fun of the trials and tribulations of the characters onscreen. He wanted to spend hours in the kitchen with her again, tediously learning the art to folding and crimping fortune cookies to prepare or teaching her his mother’s recipe to fried chicken. He found himself missing the mornings they spent in bed, his fingers tracing circles along the smooth dip between her shoulder blades; the way he would kiss along her spine as though each and every atom of her was a map that continuously led him to something deeply-rooted inside of himself.

Even now, as Christian and Lilianna made their way inside the sprawling ballroom and banquet hall of the Garden Hotel, he felt himself overwhelmed by the sheer force of his emotions. He loved her--he loved her with everything in him, and he’d let her go because of it. In his grief, Christian knew he had become a shell of the man he once was; it hadn’t been fair, making her stay tangled up in his grief and PTSD. It wasn’t fair of him to love her when he had let her go.

“You know,” he said as they made their way into the room, nervously adjusting the floral vest jacket he’d donned for the evening (he’d tried to match the beautiful blue of her dress, but there was no telling if Lilianna had noticed or not). “I heard the food tonight costs more than an entire year’s rent.”

Smooth, dummy, he chided himself. Real smooth.

he remembered the day with a haunting clarity: the glittering lake under the ripple of summer heat, the swaying trees through a fresh breeze, the water droplets on the back of gabriel’s hands as he helped undo the clasps of lars’ armor leather.

he didn’t know what called him to wade into the water, but lars was already knees deep by the time he realized it. and he was cold, cold, cold down to his bones. the chill suffused everywhere, like winter rot, growing only stronger by the minute. again, that feeling of never being able to find warmth returned. intensified.

the ice spread in a crawl, faintly misting over the grey waters of the lake at first before a second wave crystallized it. then a third swept over in a blue miasma, chilling everything within a radius around him. he let out a gasp. but he didn’t hold back. if the world froze over, then so be it. lars’ skin steamed as his magic rippled out, causing all underwater plants and creatures to freeze.

Through The Dominion and across The Darklands was the easiest, most comfortable way for a Demon to reach Lolita’s. He’d avoid most of the southern borough, as wolves tended to be protective of their own and territorial, just as he was of his congeners and his establishment. As nasty as they might be in his eyes, Najelon understood them, and so he knew how to stay out of pointless trouble. He could take a werewolf any day, but he wasn’t driven by unorganized chaos, he liked to pull the strings at his own pace.

That’s why he was so interested in visiting Lolita’s, the stories he heard placed it as a competitor, one that did actually take clients from him as wolves didn’t frequent The Nepenthe regularly like other species did. It was probably the location and the familiarity that draw them to that choice, something he couldn’t simply achieve, but there were other ways to steal clientele. This visit’s goal was to gather information a find out what appealed most to its patrons, and if he couldn’t find a clear answer, maybe it was time to invest his money and acquire the place.

How would the werewolves take that, though? The curiosity made his skin tingle with excitement. He imagined their terrified, disgusted, scandalized faces if a Demon, the one currently stepping into Lolita’s, became the owner of such a popular wolf spot. Delightful. He thought about his own fantasies right when his eyes fell on the bartender behind the counter. That too. Najelon made eye contact, intense, letting him and everyone present know that yes, he was an Incubus with horns on display nonchalantly coming inside and he didn’t care about their opinion nor the stares. Hell, he welcomed them, same as his spoiled Loyalist, he loved attention.

He let his body rest comfortably on an armchair, crossed his legs and waited to be attended. “Kinky…” he whispered at the scratches adorning his seat. The whole place was a mess, yet somehow it worked. He’d need to stay around for a while before making his mind up about it all.