#ruewrites

Don't worry, he knows you'll survive. He's seen alot in his years of immortality.

"Ed...stop messing around you piece of.."

"Patience dear..."

It was interesting seeing him eliminate an anomaly, even if you were bleeding out.

This was an odd way to go out..

Goodbye cruel world.

Goodbye Darkwick.

Atleast you didn't die a Kyklos.

Or maybe you were half one? Whatever the hell you were.

You close your eyes, feeling your body grow weaker.

Now you half expected to see light or maybe even scorching fire. But the only light you saw was a surgical one.

With an angel's handsome face just a few inches from yours...

Then the angel moved away and the devil showed up on your face, even closer than the angel. His lips were inches away from yours, and you could smell blood, tangy and odd...not human blood.

Wait a minute.

You blink a couple times then your eyes finally focused on the figure.

"Ed!"

The vampire just smirked before pulling back.

"I told you you'll live"

You would've strangled him if your body didn't feel like jello.

Rui Mizuki

His life flashed before his eyes and it wasn't even him that got slashed.

This time he didn't hesitate (thankfully).

The anomaly combusted.

Now how was he supposed to carry you back?

"Hang on there cutie, Lyca's coming....please hang on for me"

He was on the verge of tears.

All he could do was stand over you, he can't even comfort you or anything.

He could try to heal you a little with his powers, but he's paranoid because you're so fragile and if anything went wrong then you would...

"Hey blond gigolo! Inspector"

"Lyca..."

Your eyes grow heavy, you could feel your consciousness slipping away, but this time, you weren't sure if you'd wake up.

Huh....

The afterlife is oddly comfortable, a soft bed...so familiar, so soft...

"Cutie..?"

Wow....the angel does sound like Rui..alot actually.

"Cutie!"

Your eyes shot open as you look around, you were in the Obscuary dormitory.

Your body aches and you noticed you were all bandaged up.

"Hehe, I took you here once they (Jiro and Yuri) were done with you, I couldn't leave you on that horrid hospital bed all alone"

"Thank you, Angel~"

"No problem, cutie!"

....

Silence

....

"W-wait, what did you just call me?"

The reaper's face slowly turned pink, not expecting the nickname.

________________________________________

"And that's why I call him Angel!"

Your tone was one of pride as you thank yourself for being such a genius.

Romeo and Haru looked at you blankly, with the latter already long gone in his 4th drink.

Rui was in the back, flustered as he nearly crushed the glass shot glass in his palm.

Lyca Colt

It all happened so quickly.

One second you were behind him, safe, guarded, protected.

Unhurt.

Then when he turned around, you were on the floor, clutching your abdomen as blood pooled around you.

"Lyca...."

"Inspector!"

Blink.

Screams and the sound of flesh being torn.

Blink.

You see the ground, brownish red and dirty...wet.

Blink.

The sky was moving, or maybe you were moving? You don't know.

Blink.

"What happened?!"

Yuri? He sounds panicked.

"I-I- I don't know!"

"What do you mean you don't-"

......

Your head felt all fuzzy, but atleast your stomach didn't hurt anymore.

It was soft, warm, silent. Not at all like the fiery inferno and screams you thought you'll end up in.

Then suddenly it felt suffocating, you couldn't breathe.

What the hell?

"Gah!"

You were forcefully ripped away from your peaceful slumber, finding the Ed and Lyca over you, with Ed's arm already in Lyca's mouth...

"See? She's awake now. No need for such violence!"

"That's because she couldn't breathe!"

You would've helped Ed, but he deserved it after pinching your nose and covering your mouth to force you out of your happy place.

The door creaked open on its hinges, the familiar weight of it grounding Terry as he stepped inside, steel-toe boots thudding heavily against the floor. The scent of home hit him first, something warm, seasoned, and slow-cooked. His stomach grumbled. His shoulders ached. Muscles pulled taut from a long shift, grease still clinging under his fingernails and grit caked into the lines of his palms.

The house was quiet.

No soft footsteps rushing to the door. No warm body throwing arms around his neck, peppering kisses across his jaw, teasing him for smelling like diesel and sweat. Just silence, low-lit lamps, and the soft hum of something playing faintly from the kitchen radio.

He paused, brows drawing together. Not in frustration, just… surprise. He had been used to her. To that light in his day, that little smile she always wore just for him, like she had been waiting all afternoon just to make him feel like a king walking through the door.

Instead, he found a plate waiting on the kitchen counter, wrapped neatly in foil. Beside it, a little note written in her hand:

“Eat up, baby. I made your favourite. Didn’t want it to get cold. I’ll be waiting in bed. I love you.”

—x—

A slow smile curved across his face as he pulled off his jacket, fingers lingering on the note. His chest swelled, soft with affection and longing. God, he loved her.

Still… something about the house without her presence at the door made it feel too still. Like it hadn’t quite turned into home yet.

He sat down, ate with quiet gratitude, licking sauce from his thumb and letting the warmth of her cooking settle in his bones. But the thing he really craved?

Was upstairs.

Waiting for him.

Terry set his empty plate in the sink, gave the note one last glance, and sighed like a man already half-asleep on his feet. Every muscle begged for rest, but his mind was fixed on her - how quiet the house felt without her laughter drifting from the living room, or the scent of her skin hugging him in welcome.

Upstairs, he peeled off his clothes slow. Not for show, he never did anything just for show but because that was how he unwound. Belt undone, jeans shrugged off one leg at a time, T-shirt pulled over his head and tossed into the hamper with a tired grunt.

The shower steamed quickly, hot and heavy as he stepped beneath the spray. Dirt and sweat ran in rivulets down his broad back, his arms, his thick thighs. He braced one hand on the wall, head bowed, letting the water drum against sore shoulders. Another day down.

He reached for the soap, lathered up slowly, scrubbing the grime from his skin. A breathy chuckle escaped as he murmured to himself, low and fond,

“She’d still call me handsome even when I come home smelling like work. Crazy little thing.”

He thought of her in that second, probably curled up in bed, half-asleep, wearing one of those soft nightgowns she swore weren’t sexy. But to him?

God, nothing had ever looked better.

He washed his neck, thinking of her lips there. Washed between his legs, thinking of how her hands always fit just right. She had been in every thought, every muscle memory, every sigh that left his lungs.

He finished up with another long pass of water over his face, letting the day slide off him completely. Then, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he stepped out, silent and barefoot, ready to find the heart of his home.

The bedroom was dim and quiet, moonlight cutting soft lines across the floor. Terry stepped in, still towel-clad, still warm from the shower, and stopped in his tracks.

There she was.

Curled up on her side of the bed, delicate and small despite how deeply she filled every corner of his heart. One arm tucked under her head, legs drawn up, nightdress bunched up high on her thighs like it always did when she slept deep and undisturbed.

It wasn’t anything flashy; no lace, no satin. Just a soft, worn little thing. Wife-core to the bone. But it was hers. And on her? Christ. It clung to every soft swell and gentle curve like it was stitched by the hands of fate just for her and his eyes alone.

Terry stood there for a long moment, just watching. Chest aching with something bigger than exhaustion, heavier than lust. That familiar swell behind the ribs, the feeling that this was what made every long shift worth it.

He padded closer, slow and quiet, not wanting to startle her. The towel slipped lower on his hips as he knelt beside the bed and reached out.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her calf, warm and smooth under his calloused hand.

“Baby,” he whispered, voice low and thick with longing. “Come into bed more. You know I couldn’t sleep without holdin’ my girl.”

She stirred, slow and groggy, barely blinking as she turned her head toward him. Her voice was a breath of air, soft and drowsy:

“Wanted to leave space for you…”

God.

It hit him like a punch to the gut - the kind that stole your breath not from pain, but from love so thick it pressed into your lungs.

“Aw, sweetheart…”

He eased the blanket back, climbed in beside her, strong arms snaking around her waist. One hand slid up her side, coaxing her gently toward him, cradling her like she was made of spun sugar.

She stretched in that half-asleep way, arms forward, legs back, and her body arched, slow and feline. The hem of her nightdress hiked up over her hips in the process. And that was when he saw it.

Nothing underneath.

No panties. Just bare, warm, glistening skin.

Terry stilled.

His breath stopped in his chest, then spilled out in one slow, ragged draw. That pulse between his legs kicked alive, instant and undeniable.

“Ooooh fuck, woman…” His voice was thick, almost reverent, laced with a growl at the end. “The things you do to me.”

He didn’t pounce. He didn’t rush.

No, he slid out from under the covers, knelt behind her at the edge of the bed, and just looked.

Big hands spread her thighs with reverent care. He groaned under his breath at the sight—soft folds slick and glistening, waiting, aching. Her warmth already called to him.

“You tryna kill me, leavin’ this sweet little thing waitin’ for me like that?” His voice dipped lower, rougher. He palmed the curve of her ass, leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, slow and indulgent.

One hand kept her spread while the other ran up her spine, settling over her lower back. His mouth hovered just barely above her cunt, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin.

He kissed her again, right there, tongue parting her lips in a slow, deliberate lick from back to front.

“Mmhm… you taste like my girl. My good little wife. Built for me, huh?”

Terry was already on his knees, shoulders square between her thighs. The room was quiet, still, save for the soft sigh of her breathing and the low hum of his voice, thick with hunger.

He leaned in again, tongue flattening as he licked a long, deliberate stripe up her soaked centre. Her thighs twitched. He hummed into her, pleased.

“You taste like my whole damn world, baby…” he groaned, barely audible as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her folds. “This pussy’s heaven.”

He didn’t rush. He savoured.

Slow, deep licks. Tongue flicking against her clit, then dipping lower to tease her entrance, then lower still, giving her ass the same reverence, like she was made of gold and he was here to worship.

He ate like a man starved. Gripping the meat of her thighs to keep her still while he feasted, each moan vibrating against her until she was gasping, trembling, toes curled into the sheets.

“Can’t believe this is mine…” he panted, between licks. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I ever tasted. Goddamn, girl, you spoil me.”

She tried to wriggle, the pressure building too fast—but he didn’t let her go.

“Uh-uh, stay right there. Don’t you run from me.”

He groaned as she began to fall apart, her thighs squeezing around his head, her voice cracking with breathless, desperate moans.

That was what he wanted. That was what he needed.

She came with a whimper, shaking, face buried in a pillow, and he didn’t stop, not until she was gasping, twitching, overstimulated.

Only then did he pull back, face wet, eyes dark, voice wrecked with praise.

“That’s my good girl… makin’ Daddy proud.

The moment he sank into her, it was deep, slow—deliberate. He paused just for a second, allowing her to adjust to the fullness of him before pulling her closer. The weight of him stretched her, making her gasp softly. He watched her closely, his hands digging into her waist, fingers marking her skin as if he wanted to brand her.

He let her ride for a moment, a slow rhythm at first. Her hips rolled against him, taking what he gave her, each movement driving him mad with the sweet friction.

Then, with one swift motion, he flipped her. Her body landed with a soft thud against the bed, and he loomed over her, a grin playing on his lips, cock still buried deep inside her. He couldn’t stop himself from praising her, the words spilling out like they’d been pent up for far too long.

“The boys at work don’t know I come home to a pussy like this,” he gritted, voice rough and possessive. “They can only dream about this. My perfect little wife. Built just for me, aren’t you?”

Her brain was fogged with pleasure. Her body could barely keep up. She wanted to respond, but all she could manage was a desperate, incoherent whimper.

Terry chuckled darkly at her lack of words. His hand came down on her ass with a sharp, satisfying crack. The sound reverberated in the room, making the heat between them even hotter. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, gravelly and commanding.

“Say it. Tell Daddy who owned this sweet fuckin’ cunt.”

Her body trembled, and she could barely speak through the haze of pleasure. But she knew what he wanted. She knew he would never let up until she gave him what he needed.

“Y-You, Terry,” she gasped, voice cracking with the intensity of it all. “You own me. All yours.”

The words sent a surge of possessiveness through him, and he rutted into her, pushing deeper. His body moved like an unstoppable force, each thrust a little harder, a little faster, until she was gasping, clinging to the sheets beneath her.

He could feel her tightness, her heat, her desperate need for him. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, keeping her in place as he took what was his.

“Good girl,” he murmured, praising her through gritted teeth. “So fuckin’ good for me. I could never share you. You’re built just for me.”

Her body trembled with the force of each thrust, and Terry could feel the way she tightened around him, her orgasm building. He slapped her ass again, louder this time, and heard her voice break with pleasure, feeling her pussy flutter around him in response.

Her moans fuelled him, making him want to lose himself in her.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with need. “Tell me who owned this pussy.”

Her words spilled out in a rush, breathless and full of need. “You do, Terry! You own me! I’m yours!”

Her response spurred him on, and his pace quickened. He felt himself getting closer, he could feel the tightening in his gut, the familiar rush of pleasure building inside him. Her cries became more frantic, her body rocking in time with his.

Then, just when he thought he couldn’t hold back anymore, he hit that perfect spot—the spot that made her scream out in pleasure. She cried his name, her orgasm rushing over her in waves. Her body shook, and the sound of her release drove him wild.

The warmth of her pleasure, the way her body tightened around him, pushed him over the edge. With a final groan, he released, burying himself deep inside her as his own orgasm hit, flooding her with his warmth.

He stayed still for a moment, chest heaving, both of them caught in the aftershocks of the intensity of it all.

The room felt thick with warmth and sweat, the air still humming with the echoes of their bodies. Terry moved slowly, as if the world had quieted around them. He reached for a soft towel by the bed, careful not to pull too far from her. His movements were gentle, reverent, like he was handling something sacred.

He murmured something low, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

She whimpered softly, spent and pliant, trusting him entirely as he cleaned her up. Every swipe was tender, not rushed, like he was committing her to memory all over again. He tossed the towel aside when he was done and slipped back under the blankets, gathering her close until her body curved perfectly into his.

One arm wrapped firmly around her middle, the other came up to stroke her hair—slow, soothing, like he could lull her to sleep just with the rhythm of his touch. His nose nuzzled the top of her head, breath brushing her temple.

“You’re all I ever wanted,” he whispered, voice thick with everything he didn’t say aloud. “My good girl. My whole damn heart.”

She didn’t speak right away, too heavy-limbed and sated, but when she did, her voice was small and drowsy.

“You’re mine too.”

Her words settled into him like a prayer, anchoring him. Terry tightened his hold just slightly, grounding himself in the weight of her, the scent of her skin, the soft rise and fall of her chest against his.

Outside, the moonlight peeked in faint silver slivers through the curtains. But inside their little world, everything was warm and still.

“What do you think, Recluse?”

What did he think? In all honesty he hadn’t been paying attention too closely. The weather had taken more out of him than he thought it would. Who on Earthbread would have been able to predict such a snow squall? It wasn’t as if he could have chosen to stay home either, it struck in the middle of his journey and it had been too late to turn around. A day sooner, an hour sooner, and Recluse wouldn’t have been able to make the journey at all.

 Fate conspired against him. It always did when it wanted to garner favor from the Sage of Truth.

He had long given up on turning towards Sage’s window in hopes that the raging storm had quelled some of its fury and instead resided himself to a comfortable spot in the chair by Sage’s desk. Said desk was currently a mess of scratched out parchments and ink stains, clearly indicative of hastily changed lesson plans.  Recluse wouldn’t have been all that surprised if he had been reworking lesson plans since he spotted the first specks of snow outside.

“What do I think?” Recluse repeated, “I think you are overthinking and putting in more effort than your students will notice.” There was no use beating around the bush, it was a bitter truth, but Sage would never ask him to dull the blade of his words. His honesty was appreciated, especially when others were too worried about speaking their minds to the all knowing and wise Sage of Truth. 

And that fear had isolated Sage.

A relatable loneliness in Recluse’s opinion, but loneliness all the same.

Sage clicked his tongue and made another tiny note with the quill in his hand. “You're such a pessimist my Dear Recluse.”  His cheek had a rather large ink smudge on it that he doubted he even noticed. For an individual who fancied white, Recluse was surprised he didn’t have more stains on his clothing with how furiously he scribbled away.  Not just in his notes and ledgers, but in the hundreds of letters sent to his own quiet tower.

“But perhaps you're right, they won’t appreciate the work I put in.” Sage strutted across the room, heels clicking as he scanned over the parchment once more, his hair flowing and shimmering in what little light filtered through the room. Then he smiled, “But they will certainly appreciate a snow day or two, and I’m doubly certain they will appreciate an engaging and condensed lecture to make up for missed time in class.”

Such an optimist, this one. 

“I just have to decide what I wish to move around. The substitutions of alchemy must remain unedited and intact for safety purposes, and taking out anything in regards to the Witches is out of the question… Forbidden magic perhaps? But what if that makes it too enticing? I wouldn't-”

“Sage, will the entirety of my visit be consumed by your spiraling rambles?” Recluse stood from the chair as Sage's head finally snapped up from the document. Perhaps his chilled bones and the fact that he had trudged against  the storm against reason had made him less tolerant for it all. Or maybe he wished to discuss something more meaningful than those thoughtless and thankless sheep.  “If so I don’t know why you invited me over.”

And he would head home… if he could. Alas, there was no choice with the raging storm.

“Oh my Dear Recluse, I apologize!” Sage abandoned his parchment. He always moved quicker than Recluse anticipated, flitting to and fro like a honey bee buzzing from flower to flower. He had a bountiful garden of tasks, all of which required his attention and none of which he could organize properly. Recluse tried, trailing behind him, redirecting his attention, helping him place importance. How he managed before him, Recluse had no idea. 

“I just want to make sure they get the most out of my lesson plans and my teachings. The storm throws a wrench into the plans I made you know. There are so many topics to cover and such little time! Oh! How about tea? I can have a fresh pot brewing in no time,” his words were quick in their succession, yet each syllable was given the same prompt punctuation as the last. Sage was a gifted speaker and Recluse couldn’t help but believe that if he really wanted to he could group two of his lesson plans together  without the fear of expanding his scheduled time for his students. “Do you have a preference of flavor?”

Recluse shook his head, “Not particularly. I am fond of most of the blends you acquire.” 

“Lucky for us Herald sent me some new blends and they arrived before the storm hit. What do you say we sample them together?”

And so Recluse continued to listen as Sage yammered on and on. He talked about the blends themselves, the plants which they came from, their medicinal properties, folk lore he’d read about them, favored blends among his friends, visiting his friends... This was the thing about Sage: everything was connected. He himself was one long string of unending thought, a run on sentence personified. At one point, Recluse may have found his voice grating and agitating when compared to the silence of his home.

Now? 

He found a strange comfort in it. Something that soothed a dullness in his very soul. 

“I apologize that you will be stuck here for the foreseeable future,” Sage sighed, taking a seat next to him once more on the chaise. “I know you like to return to your solitude to recoup after visits.”

“Think nothing of it.” It was times like this when a small part of Recluse wished he could force more emotion into his voice. His words sounded so flat even to his own ears. But he couldn’t so he decided to add more to his words. “You do not drain my energy nearly as quickly as most.” 

He meant that. He really did. From the deepest parts of himself. 

Sage was a special person to him, and their time together was something he cherished. Why else would he make such a trek so far from his home? Why else wouldn’t he turn around in such a treacherous storm? He could lie to himself, say that it was too late to turn around and head home, but he knew the truth. Seeing Sage was something he enjoyed, even with all of his constant yammering. He liked when he chose to walk, letting his heels click against the smooth stone tiles. He liked the way his sentences would trail off into a hum or a click of thought before continuing on. He loved their debates, illuminated by candlelight and carried off by soft summer breezes.  

“You were contemplating your lessons before,” Recluse said, taking a sip of his tea. It warmed his bones and the spices lingered on his tongue. “You could use teas or other herbed consumables  to shorten some of your lessons on potions. Use it to show them how different ingredients can come together. You could also use it as a metaphor for the Witches and creation.”

There was silence, and then a light warmth against his cheek, which transformed into a weight on his shoulder.

The heat that rose in his cheeks had nothing to do with the spices in the tea. 

“Some may disagree with me, but I think you are very kind Recluse.”

“I think the some may be many.”

Sage snorted and his laughter shook Recluse’s shoulder. He had to sip at his tea once more to hide his own smile. A kiss on the cheek and laughter? Oh how the Witches were spoiling him. Sage had a unique laugh and when his jokes landed it made him feel proud. After all, many found his dry humor more concerning than funny, but Sage understood.

Sage pulled himself closer,  wrapping his arms around Sage’s and making himself more comfortable on his shoulder. The silence stretched on and settled over them comfortably so. Every now and again the wind would rattle the windows as the storm continued to rage on. There was no telling how long it would continue on nor when his path would be walkable, but neither mattered. 

“Dear Recluse?”

Sage’s voice was softer. Soft in a tactful way lest he shatter the fragile atmosphere that settled over them. Soft in a way that was so different from his normal boisterous tone. His fingers were carefully tracing along him, gentle meaningless meaningful shapes. He was also holding on tight in his softness.

Almost as if he feared scaring Recluse away.

“I am… fortunate that we can spend this time together…. It means the world to me.”

The shapes stopped and Sage’s fingers twitched as the anxiety settled over him, his grip tightening around Recluse’s arm. 

Recluse mulled over his next words allowing the silence to settle from its disturbance once more. He wanted it to settle before he caused his own ripples in its smooth surface. He set his tea down, letting it clink against his saucer and settled Sage’s anxieties with the weight of his own head on top of his. That would have been enough, Recluse knew it was more than enough, and yet tonight he would go the extra mile. Tonight he would make Sage’s heart flutter with the delicate wings of joy. It wasn’t conceit that inspired these thoughts. He noticed the way Sage looked at him, the secrets he thought he kept so hidden from the world. 

This was no secret.

This was simply unspoken.

But that didn’t make it any less real, any less true.

“My Dearest Sage. Our time together is not something I would trade for all of Earthbread.”

For once, Sage had nothing to say. His arms tightened around Recluse. It was an act of desperation, an act of unfathomable happiness. Perhaps they were both dreaming, and in the morning the raging storm will have been nothing but an act of some higher power playing with the yearnings of their hearts’ deepest desires. 

But for now they were together.

Just them and an unspoken but known truth stretched between them. 

And for now, just for now, that was more than enough. 

Oh how lucky Sage was that Fortune favored him.

Azazel had warned him about this, in gentle words paired with a judging, if not hateful expression. The accusation had been as blatant as it had been wrong. He had said, “I wouldn’t resort to even more poison. Whatever you create will be served first to the person you claim to love.”

Barbatos had smiled. And smiled. And when his hands had started shaking, long afterwards, with Luke sitting on the edge of his bed and whispering soothing words that were far from reassuring, he had still smiled. He hated himself for it but it was the only defense he had.

Azazel knew of the person Barbatos was trying so hard not to be. He knew of the person Barbatos had to become to break through, break out, return home.

Barbatos could not be trusted. After all that time. Because he was made out of distrust. Because he never made sense. Because he was never born, he was created.

Simeon didn’t like the person Barbatos had once been. He, too, thought that Barbatos never truly grew out of being that bitter creation. Simeon and Barbatos had never truly fought because none of them were very confrontational but there had been discussions one word away from being hostile, expressions one twitch of a muscle away from being hateful. There was none of that now.

Because Simeon and Luke couldn’t be trusted either.

“This is ridiculous,” Simeon revealed, his legs crossed and looking up to Barbatos and Luke from the floor. There’s enough space on the bed, since Barbatos is known not to take up much space after all, but they’re not close enough friends to sit together on the same bed, even with no romantic or sexual intentions attached.

“You are many things but you are loyal.”

“I will take this as a compliment,” Barbatos informed him, and his smile became a little warmer, a little less painful.

“It was meant to be one.”

“I can never be sure with you.”

Simeon smiled, if only for a moment. “I can’t forgive you for stealing my apprentice but I hope you can forgive me for misjudging you.”

Barbatos looked down on him in all his angelic beauty, his face nothing but earnest, and he decided that he liked Simeon. Simeon understood how it was to have everything you once thought you were fade until you couldn’t hold onto it anymore. Simeon understood how it was to be happy in a way nobody wanted to grant you. Simeon knew how it was to lose faith in the person you were for so long.

“You’re not the only one who thinks I cannot be trusted,” Barbatos said after a long pause.

“Well, that’s bullshit.” Luke’s voice was loud, yet not raised enough for anyone outside to hear. “What a villain you are, having a breakdown because someone accused you of hurting the person you love the most. You should rot in jail for all eternity.”

Barbatos wanted to say that it hadn’t been a breakdown, and that he was fine, really, but Luke had been too kind to him to be lied to. Who knows, maybe this was how Barbatos broke down. Silently. He was a silent person, so it made sense that his breakdowns matched that.

“I miss him,” he said, and to his horror he couldn’t keep his voice even when he said that. He still wasn’t sure how to be friends with someone who wasn’t Diavolo. Sure, Barbatos had gotten closer with Lucifer over the years but he was convinced that he never would’ve been this amicable with him if it weren’t for Diavolo wanting them to be. (That being said, Barbatos was glad that he got to know Lucifer. Lucifer was similar to him in more ways than Lucifer or Barbatos himself would ever want to admit.)

“No shit,” Luke said gently. “But you’ll see him again. You have to. If there’s any good in the world, you will get to see him again.”

Barbatos didn’t have to look down on Simeon to catch the air of sadness around him, the doubt, the loss of his faith that was so profound that it tinted the air around them. Just as quickly as it came, it was over again, and Simeon smiled up to them like nothing had happened.

“Of course,” he replied to Luke. “Not to mention that Solomon has a plan.”

Right. The plan. Barbatos was going to have to dive deep into the memories of who he had once been.

It was worth it, of course. After all, it was for the person Barbatos would both die and murder for. He would burn down the entire kingdom to make sure Diavolo was going to be safe.