#ythmir writes

or, what you (i) would like to say the moment zayne decides its a good time to self-sacrifice

Or what if you were the palace guard assigned to prince keith and belle at That Moment

my 4 children under the cut:

(a trying guide for the unsuspecting by-stander when experiencing a slight prickling on their skin // Urban magic AU // a bit of side-read to A Thousand Mended Seams)

Ieyasu Tokugawa - healing, warding, chalk lines carefully plotted around a house, ground spices to slather on paper cuts and deeper wounds, seeds left to dry, packets of condiments from fast-food joints stashed in pockets, the scalding burn from grabbing a boiling pot, the impatience of having waited far too long far too often in a line that never ends.

Masamune Date - sustenance, invigoration, the roar of bustling kitchens, frigid liminal diners that never close, knives sharpened to cut through fat and bone alike, choking smoke from wildfires, striking matches against skin, the rabid sinking of teeth into every meal.

Mitsunari Ishida - memory, shrewdness, worn-out keyboards with faded letters, the towering stacks of paper yet to be read and sorted, a lingering baritone at dusk, the chatter of rain beginning to pour, witnessing lightning illuminate a hundred outstretched shapes in the sky.

Hideyoshi Toyotomi - defending, imbuing, chipped cups serving fragrant tea, written instructions on the back of carton boxes that both guide and break, the steady blinking backlight of digital watches, text messages in full coherent sentences, raw bleeding knuckles that never really heal.

Mitsuihude Akechi - illusions, endurance, spider webs in places you could never quite reach, a deck of cards that cannot bear any faces, filtered lenses to fit in with the crowd, the disappearing tail of an animal at the corner of the street, coins tossed into styrofoam cups, the grief of knowing you will never be truly remembered.

Nobunaga Oda - bones, unbecoming, epigraphs over graves, shadows starker when under streetlights, the constant blinking light of skyscrapers, scraping chairs at concluded meetings, blood washed from hands, the last words snarled before a strangled final breath.

Kenshin Uesugi - piercing, dominions, polished leather seats, bottles served for unquenchable throats, the shriek of shattering glass, the weight of a heavy coat over your shoulders, looming dark clouds bringing snowfall to bury a city, vertigo when you stand with one feet over the edge.

Sasuke Sarutobi - discernment, shadows, homemade meals newly microwaved, the popping of your ears from elevator rides, static from unattended radio channels, rhythmic beeping of arcade games, the near indiscernible scratching of pencil on paper, a nagging doubt that you always arrive too little too late.

Yukimura Sanada - strengthening, coercions, graffiti sprayed over walls, the hiss of carbonated beverages, winding roads down the mountainside, guitar strings pulled taut, the comforting weight of a switchblade on hand, an overwhelming dread when cornered in the dark.

Shingen Takeda - second-sight, ardour, neon lights beckoning for attention, a wavering flame of a nearly empty lighter, engines purring to life, a crisp bill crumpled into your pocket, the weight of keys to a hundred different homes, outstretched hands always reaching for things too far away.

Yoshimoto Imagawa - perception, ink-wells, pacing inside museums, a double rainbow after a brief shower, winding walks through empty sunlit parks, brochures for obscure dramas dancing in the wind, paper torn and shredded, the inescapable duty of trying to be everything you are not.

Ranmaru Mori - protection, swiftness, heels clacking on office floors, crinkling sound of chips being opened, the silence of theatres after full shows, trains lulling you to sleep, plastic bags bursting with too many things, a map that leads you to somewhere else than where you intend to be.

Kennyo - invocations, concealing, the solemnity of well-kept records, the lingering scent of incense even after a service long done, empty cans trampled underfoot, winding two-toned corridors that give no bearing and never really end, conspiring whispers shared in back alleys, an unceasing sobbing for words that can no longer be said.

no warnings / just thoughts about him

Pretend

It was no secret that Mammon is Lucifer’s favorite brother. In so saying however, it must be also emphasized that this was something everyone except Mammon knew.

It was not to say that Mammon had never heard of this ridiculous idea before but the concept seemed to only fly over his head. Several entities too nosy to keep to their damned businesses sometimes casually mentioned the topic of favorites and most endeared to him, often pinning him at the center of Lucifer’s fond affection. But this would be followed quickly by a sneer, a scoff, a long list of enumerations as to how, and exactly, why it was impossible that the former Light of Heaven had anything for him but contempt.

Because did not Lucifer often hung him up like a fool upside down House of Lamentation for the most mundane reasons? And did not Lucifer often brand him a scum, a low-life, the worst even when compared to the lowest dregs of the most inhumane civilization?

Nine times out of ten, was not Mammon often lauded as the instigator of the worst messes Lucifer has had the burden to clean up over the centuries? Was he not often blamed for problems that took lifetimes to unravel? And Mammon would drive his point only further: that maybe the reason he was the most endeared was simply because he was the one out of all the other lords to and from whom Lucifer could exact his more sadistic tendencies? Not even Belphegor – for all his impishness – could compare.

And if one were to look at it like that, Mammon had a very good point.

However –

If one were to chronicle their life from Heaven to Hell, dotted their little adventures, and followed the schemes that ran the universe, two things were apparent.

One, Mammon and Lucifer’s history was more than just eons shared. Was he not the one by Lucifer’s side when they started the War? Was he not the one who rallied their armies in Lucifer’s behalf? Was he not the one who pulled and pulled and pulled, until there was nothing to be done but to fall?

And two, to be able to do all that, nothing Lucifer thought really flew above Mammon’s head, and nothing Lucifer did was without Mammon’s assistance.

Simply, it was unlike the Avatar of Greed to not notice things directly related to what and whom were dear to him. But he could pretend otherwise.

Mammon could pretend to be the weakest, pretend to be the least scheming, pretend to be the scummiest, the least responsible, the most fickle and insufferable. Pretend  to be the figurative punching bag for his brothers when he was the second oldest by birth and by unimaginable power.

Mammon could pretend – for only the goddess knows the reasons for – to not know the idea of being Lucifer’s favorite brother. Pretend to not relish it. Pretend to downright scorn it all, for whims.

Because Mammon knows Lucifer more, than all the others. And Mammon knows the most of the Eldest’s pride.

fandom: Ikemen Vampire feat: Comte de Saint-Germain

( So maybe here’s a neat headcanon i’ve been carrying around for some time now! )

It was no secret to the residents of the mansion that the Comte de Saint-Germain loved to collect hourglasses. It was impossible to go into an unoccupied room without spotting one, or two, or six. As part of the décor, they lined up on bookshelves, sat accompanying lamps or house plants, or other knickknacks the Comte had accumulated from his travels. In a few rooms, a single hourglass would act as the center piece from which the rest of the motif followed.

Plenty of his collection were gifts but most the Comte bought for himself. Regardless, he treated them as his prized possessions.  Tall ones. Short ones. Plastic pieces from his excursions through the Doors. Some hung by chains, others were held in place by blocks of wood, or by thin metal as if to seemingly be suspended midair.

If prompted he could recount the time he came to own each of them with an enthusiasm quite unlike his composed self and then he would wonder if he could acquire a second or third piece to form sets. If the visitor was not discerning enough to stop the Comte from continuing at that point in his story, he would proceed to tell the tale of his very first hourglass.

It was a gigantic piece that was almost to the Comte’s shoulders and was held in place by old stones and molded copper. It was filled nearly to the brim with different colored sand, making it look like an odd sort of bell and it was as old as Constantinople itself. The Comte’s expression would turn wistful as he traced its many layers, noting his different travels to places all over the known world where he would take a piece of the earth to take back with him. He would then explain that all the hourglasses in the mansion took its sand from this single timepiece that told no time. A kind of fitting symbolism for where he acquired it; ownership and his adventures, of sorts.

The Comte did keep the more unique hourglasses in his study, and almost all the residents have experiences of ogling one too many of them - which the Comte indulged as there was never a time he was not proud of them. Those in intricate, twisting molds like a spider’s web, those with gold plating, bejeweled pieces that shone like stars when hit by the sun, disturbing ones carved from bone or stone or both, glasses held in-between monstrous jaws, narrow ones that counted only grains of sand, hourglasses shaped almost like blades, and antiques that seemed to whisper with the voices of the ghosts who once owned them.

It was also no secret to the residents that the Comte had a knack for knowing which hourglass in the mansion was just about finished, despite not seeing them all the time. They had thought Sebastian tipped him off but the man confessed he never paid the items much attention  - and that even if he did, there was simply too many of them to keep track.

But the Comte knew. And the residents would notice him obsessively watch them empty; unmoving, staring as the contents trickled away, until finally the last grain had fallen and there was nothing left to count. Then, the Comte would take them down from their place and empty their contents back into the giant hourglass.

All of them had also noticed that around the same time, he would receive letters – sometimes with flowers, sometimes with trunks or crates, or statues even, or sometimes carried by human messengers– and he would be away for days, or weeks. To where, he would never say. Only he needed to go visit a friend, a relative, someone more important than they needed to know.

Then he would return, and it was hard to ignore the stiffness in the Comte, the heaviness that surrounded him. Days would be spent not leaving his room, with only Leonardo allowed to speak for him.

“He’s fine.” Leonardo would often say. “Just an old and sentimental vampire, is all.”

Soon enough, the Comte would emerge from his room as if reborn, an hourglass or two filled again with sand in his hands, and all would fall into its normal pace again.

So what else can the residents of the mansion do but leave the Comte to his peculiar and mysterious obsession – patron as he was, and they knew too well that vampires needed to entertain themselves somehow – only sometimes, they worried for him.

Because it was obvious what the hourglasses represented, what all the sinking sand meant. It did not take a genius or a scholar, or a particularly bright-minded individual to connect the dots. All it took was time and all the residents had more than enough of that.

The hourglasses were reminders: times passes.

fandom: Obey Me!

feat: Lucifer

no warnings!

A/N: and thank you for requesting him! my first Obey Me fic is for my bestest boi, so i am v happy ﾟ*｡(･∀･)ﾟ*｡

Soft

Lucifer entered the study and was not surprised to find Kita poring over their mountain of notes, muttering something under their breath. From the way their forefinger was repeatedly going over a line, it seemed they were intent to memorize a certain passage before turning the page.

He closed the door and kept his gaze on them as they continued to mutter, closing their eyes as their fingers began tapping on the table to help with some rhythm or other. Twice, they blew out a breath in frustration. And then they nearly swore, grabbed the book in both hands and looked for all intents and purposes, as if they were scolding it for being utterly confusing and hard to remember.

Lucifer nodded to himself. This was good.

He was pleased to see that Kita was taking the RAD midterms very seriously and he took satisfaction in knowing that they had taken his warnings of torture and hellfire, should they fail, to heart. Everyone should take his warnings to heart; it would save him all the trouble.

But as Kita carried on, Lucifer found that he was somewhat displeased all the same.

Kita had not noticed Lucifer enter study, nor did they turn their head to where he stood, continuing only to stare at the book in front of them.

Lucifer had half a mind to call out to them. How long had it been since they started studying now? Perhaps it would be best for them to pause and take a break?

But he hesitated, remaining by the door with Kita’s name and the words he wanted to say only half-formed on his tongue. Because reaching out would mean distracting Kita from what he had told them to do. He disliked the idea of pulling them away from what looked like a good flow in their work, and consequently opening himself to the possibility that he would be used as an excuse to discontinue any studying.

Besides, did he not himself disliked the idea of being interrupted whenever he was busy? Did he not go to great pains to make sure none of his brothers would make a mess when he needed to concentrate?

And yet.

It would seem that Lucifer disliked the idea of remaining unnoticed more.

So what exactly was he hesitating for? Surely, it was only a matter of calling Kita’s attention now, wasn’t it?

Lucifer took a deep breath, slightly unnerved that his thoughts would wander about before he could make a decision – but before he could even call to Kita, they had startled, turned their head, and looked at him.

“Oh, Lucifer.” Kita said, putting down the book. “I didn’t notice you there.”

“Yes.” Lucifer said, tone even, biting down the words you didn’t as he collected himself and ignored how now he was certain he very much disliked what he had just experienced and heard. But there was no sense in letting Kita know, much less any sense in allowing his mind to drag the issue further.

“I happened to pass by and saw the lights were open. You’re hard at work.”

“Yeah.” Kita repressed a sigh. “I’m in a bit of a rut, though. Hell has extensive history and I am trying very hard to memorize these names but it’s all just…” They trailed off, made a face that was almost one of distaste.

Lucifer waited for them to continue, using the silence to bridge the gap between them. When Kita only angled their head at him, Lucifer shook his in understanding.

“It bored you, didn’t it?”

“Not exactly…”

Lucifer almost snorted. “Trying to lie to a Demon, now?”

“Okay, fine.” Kita raised their hands. “But I was not bored, you know, exactly. I just felt it was all very monotonous.”

Lucifer quirked a brow.

Kita continued at his prompting. “I had thought that Hell’s rulers would have had more experiences that involved war and killing. You know, backstabbing and drama and mayhem! Instead, Hell’s history has been nothing but boring procedure and inheritance and deciding if a cousin or two could rule some lower province!”

“We are Demons.” Lucifer said. “Not uncultured savages.”

“I didn’t say that and you know I don’t mean it that way.” Kita rolled their eyes in mock exasperation, waved their hand at the book. “But this is all just so uninspiring and plain. If I wanted to know about Diavolo’s lineage and how much pedigree he has, I should be reading it from a very fancy and very elaborate Family Book. Not a book entitled History of Hell: In-depth Analysis of Important Historical Events.”

“That’s fair.” Lucifer chuckled. He’d had the same thoughts with the class then. “You better make extra effort then. I’ve heard that test is particularly tricky.”

Kita groaned into their hands.

“And you better not fail.” Lucifer reminded them.

“Sure. Your murderous pep talk last night at the House is a great motivator. Keeps replaying in my head how anything that will tarnish the name of the Great Lord Diavolo deserves only pain.” But Kita did not sound enthused.

“Punishment is the best motivator.”

Kita lifted their face from their hands. “Must it always be about punishment –”

“We are literally in Hell.”

“ – can’t I simply want to be a good exchange student and make you proud?”

Lucifer raised a brow and snipped away the tendrils of warmth that threatened to wrap around what little remained of his heart. He could not help but repeat what Kita had just said in disbelief. “You want me to be proud of you?”

“Humans can be very competitive!” Kita hurriedly added as they rubbed the back of their neck. An attempt, Lucifer noted, to hide the blush they usually had on that spot. “Can’t lose to Demons – even if they are the Lords of Hell – Luke won’t let me hear the end of it if I got less marks than Mammon or Asmo.”

Right. Right, of course. It would not have anything to do with him.

And yet.

And yet.

Lucifer nodded. “Then do your best to make sure the little chihuahua won’t have anything to bark about.”

Kita averted their gaze. “Right.”

Silence lingered between them; Kita looking down at their book, hands still on their neck, Lucifer still standing and not quite knowing how to carry on with the conversation.

He should go. He should leave Kita to their studies, as was his original intention. He shouldn’t take more time than he already did from their schedule and he shouldn’t say anything further that would only prove to be distractions for the two of them. Idle conversation that would most likely lead to nothing unproductive. Besides, they would need a lot of time memorizing all the names –

“Well, then –”

“Lucifer, look – ”

They started to speak at the same time, stopped at the same time, and stared at each other waiting for the other one to start again.

“You go.” Kita then said.

“No, you continue.” Lucifer said, placing emphasis on his next words. “I insist.”

Kita seemed to recognize the tone he used as the one that brooked no argument. They took a deep breath, hesitating at first, before very slowly patting the book in front of them. “Can you help me with this?”

“What?”

“I mean – if you’re not too busy, of course.”

Lucifer stared at them as they continued to ramble, continued to explain that they knew Lucifer was also studying for exams on top of council duties but that he did tell all of them to study well – and they were trying, all the brothers have sworn off any shenanigans for two days – but they also know he’d aced this test before and Kita was, quite frankly, completely at a loss so if he could help them and maybe quiz them so they could retain the names more, that would be immensely helpful and they would be forever grateful.

“And,” Kita continued, nearly out of breath, “if you have any nuggets of wisdom now is the right opportunity to maybe share.”

Lucifer knew he could count the times when prizes had been so deliberately placed in front of him for the taking with little effort, knew he’d not even reach the count of three, knew that all he needed to do at the moment was to pluck the gem laid out before him and take it for what it was: a golden opportunity best taken advantage of while it lasted.

These moments were far and few in-between; life had never really been kind to him.

But he could not help but be a fool – a prideful fool – who distrusted anything he did not schemed for or forcibly took. “What it’s in it for me?”

“What?” Kita looked genuinely bewildered.

“What do you offer in exchange for my help?” Lucifer leaned on the table, wanting nothing more than to take back what he said and yet couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. “My help comes at a cost.”

“Cost? I’m just asking for – oh. Oh.” Kita clasped their hands together, eyes brightening.

And again, this took Lucifer by surprise. He had expected them to sulk, or retract their plea, or at least be annoyed at him. Kita had come from genuine need for results – a result he had demanded of them – and here he was demanding something from them again. If Lucifer were in Kita’s position, he would not hesitate to turn the offer down. Violently. Part of him had even prepared for the possibility that Kita would be angry.

But they were not. Far from it.

How was it so easy for them to take him by surprise?

“Of course! Because Demons will never do anything without this weird give-me- your-soul-in-exchange-for-a-wish thing, huh?” Kita laughed.

Lucifer found himself staring at them again. “Not your soul – ”

“I know, I know.” Kita waived their hand, stopping him mid-sentence. A rare thing – how many times had they interrupted him in the five minutes since this conversation started? “I’m a treasured exchange student, my soul isn’t up for grabs, blah blah blah.”

Kita looked at him with a determined glint in their eyes now, and the warmth that Lucifer had turned away earlier came back with a vengeance and with no intention of going away.

“First though, if I do pass the test than that means I won’t be suffering any tortuous punishment.” Kita said. “And you have to treat me to Devildom’s best ice cream.”

“It’s a little too late to change the terms to our first agreement but, all right.” Lucifer agreed. “As for my terms –”

Kita interrupted him for the umpteenth time. “If I score lower than Mammon, I’ll treat you to ice cream.”

“How utterly dull.” He scoffed. “If you score lower than any of my brothers, you will have to treat me to something from the human world that I have not yet tasted.”

“What?!” They gasped. “That’s impossible!”

“I think it’s only fair. Since it is in my interest that you pass this test with flying colors, it is only common sense that I put in such parameters to this new agreement. Besides, I’m the one rendering service, shouldn’t I be the one who gets to say my price?”

“Well, yeah…” Kita chewed on her lip. “But hang on, does this mean your reward is to actually see me pass the test?”

“Do not misunderstand. I expect all of my efforts to bear nothing but the best fruit and as such your passing is but the natural course. However, in the unlikely event that you do fail, then my reward is the execution of your punishment and the pleasure of something novel from the human world.”

Kita slowly nodded. “I was expecting something else, really.”

Lucifer raised both brows, curious.

But Kita only shook their head. “But more importantly, do you seriously think I can top Satan’s score?”

“Of course.” Lucifer answered, taking the empty seat beside them. “I am the one tutoring you, am I not?”

Kita grinned widely at that. “You should not let Satan hear that.”

“I have all the confidence in my skills and all the faith in yours.”

“Whatever.” Kita’s hands went to their neck again. “But all right. Deal. I can practically taste my ice cream already.”

Lucifer took out his personal pen, flipped open the book to where Kita was last reading. “Now, I want you to look at these names and tell me what stands out to you the most.”

It was only when Lucifer was sure Kita was immersed again on their textbook did Lucifer allow himself the softest of smiles. Something that he knew he never believed he could do.

Lucifer did not count how many hours passed as he and Kita went over dates, places, names that were too familiar, too weird, and too closely spelled to be any different from all the others. He did not count how much snack they both consumed or how much coffee Kita managed to guzzle in-between bathroom breaks. Nor did Lucifer count how many times he had sensed his brothers peaking at them from the door, with him bracing himself for any interruption. But none of them entered – if only in their respect for Kita and what they wanted to accomplish.

But Lucifer did count the times Kita was close enough that their arms brushed against each other, and the times Kita would lean over to where he was point at the map and he could smell their perfume. Lucifer counted the times Kita smiled triumphantly at having recalled something faster, the times they rubbed their cheeks in frustration, and the times they laughed at his comments on about Devildom history.

He counted. And each one, he tucked inside that warmth spreading in him, making him feel a lot of things he would not bother counting or saying out loud.