Fram

As, oh dear, her Empress and Emperor were such a lovely couple! Married just a few months ago, but it seemed as Emperor had been wrapped around his lady's sweet finger, following her dear step by step. Such a raw and passionate man he was, tormented by his wife, with or without her by his side, as even with her, he acted as a man tortured. And you, a sweet rose of France, loved him dearly, but took quite a pleasure in making your husband walk by your ankle like a dog. Because the gentleman who soon would control the whole of Europe had just one little weakness – you.

"My Empress, should you write back?" she asked politely, with her head dipped, glancing at your fingers clenched on the paper.

"He's in Italy, isn't he? How often must my husband write, for me to get letters almost every single day," you wondered out loud, already thinking about the one you'll get tomorrow.

All of them were sweet and dear, quite bold even, but always needy. You remembered the one from yesterday, and your cheeks suddenly flushed like cherries.

My love, I've received your two letters, but why so few? Are there days when you don't write to me? Oh my darling, your letters are the joy of my days and the blaze of my nights. Leave a little kiss for me next time, so I can see your sweet lips again! I'm hopeless and sorrowful without you. Since I left, my mind has been nothing but depressed. Join me soon in Italy, you'll love it here, my love. I'll buy you dresses and jewellery, build a mansion in Venice if you wish for it, but please come by and let us enjoy this time together. I miss you dearly, and we shall reunite soon. A kiss on your heart, and one much lower down, much lower! Forever yours, Satoru

Oh, how foul he was, but such passionate too, and you could almost feel his lips fondling your thighs and breasts. He was obsessed indeed, and you have wondered whether your husband was in good health, as no man should be that possessed by madness!

You didn't write every day, but should you? In fact, you liked him a bit frenzied, sore, begging for your attention. You replied to him once, just after his first letter, and it seemed he held onto it dearly, waiting desperately for the next one.

But it wasn't coming! And he was sour about that.

Thus, after not replying to him for a month, it seemed that the Emperor himself got quite mad!

My love, I write to you every day. Sometimes twice! Yet I see no letters of yours, do you still love me? I don't love you; on the contrary, I detest you! A cruel witch you are, unkind to your poor husband. What are you doing in those days when not thinking of me? Where does your heart go if not towards your husband? My love, do you enjoy tormenting me that much? Forever yours, Satoru

And upon reading it with a sly smile, you decided to answer his begging.

My husband, I would answer you sooner, but each time I begin, another letter arrives! You write as if the world ends, but it's been only three months. I adore your passion, but heavens, you are exhausting! Do you love to suffer, my dear? You're writing as if I deceived you! Stop sulking and come home soon.

Oh, how angry he was! For there was no trace of your lips nor smell of your sweetness, and your words he awaited were washed of any fondness. How cruel of you!

My darling, the day when you say "I love you less" will be the end of my life. My love for you is saddened, my heart enslaved, and my mind frightens me... will you ever stop loving me? I cannot go a day without loving you; I cannot even drink my tea without you tormenting my thoughts. Oh my darling, if your love will extinct, I'll throw myself under the guillotine! Why must you be so mean to me? Shall I end my life for you to cherish me a bit more?! Forever yours, Satoru

And as much as you loved to torture him, something panged in your chest upon imagining your poor husband maddened by the playfulness of yours.

So this time you've decided to write him a hearty one, with a cherry kiss left at the end, fragrance of your favourite perfumes sprinkled on creamy paper.

Your maid took it for delivery, and you waited impatiently for the next response from a man who would trade whole Europe just for the single glance of your lovely eyes!

But, surprisingly, you didn't receive any letter the next day, and another one too, thus a little frown has formed between your eyebrows, and your maid has been seeing you waiting by the window every single day. She hated to see her lovely Empress in such mania, with those sweet, pushed lips and arms crossed on her dear chest, as she walked back and forth in the rose garden.

Oh, how strange it was to not read his pouty tears daily! Was he dead indeed?

Your eyes were thus awaiting a delivery desperately, everyone in the palace on tenterhooks, seeing their young Empress so impatient!

Days were going by – two, four, six. Over two weeks passed, and then three, with no letter coming in, and the loveliest French rose withering slowly in the sweet gardens of her mansion. You walked all days sourly, with nothing to cheer you up. Even the company of your favourite ladies turned out to be poor, for a certain sadness always dripped from your gentle voice.

And then, after a month of torment, it finally came. Not just one letter, but two!

Your maid ran towards the garden hectically, with sweat dripping down her temple and eyes filled with cheerfulness. "My Empress," she screamed over the rose bushes. "My Empress, it's here!"

And your head sprang up, hips lifted from the bench, book long forgotten, as you took the letters from her trembling hands.

The first words written by your husband left you speechless.

My love, the coldness of your heart has melted, and nothing affected me more than your last letter. I shall accuse you of witchery, as my soul has been possessed solely by thoughts of you! The kiss of your lips I put to mine and wondered what it would be like to feel the softness of your skin. My love, oh my love! I cannot live like that any longer. I carry your portrait over my heart and imagine it beating together with yours. The letters take so long to deliver, and I'm getting older each day. What if I die on a battlefield without ever tasting you again? My poor heart, oh, my love, I yearn to kiss you once again and taste that sweetness on my tongue. My madness is strangling me, passion burns my soul, for I'm dying to be by your side! Forever yours, Satoru

You coughed, cheeks burning feverishly till your maid asked, "My Empress, do you feel alright?" and you could best give her a nod, for the muscles of your throat clamped tight in embarrassment.

You've heard that your husband carries your portrait, as he said nothing has brought him more luck than having you by his side. A true lucky charm, as he loved to remark, with fondling your skin gently and leaving sweet traces upon your thighs.

You tucked the paper and opened the second letter. But, well, how shocked you were – you and the maid standing right over your shoulder – upon seeing just a single sentence! But as you read it, a sudden tremor moved your heart, and sweat dribbled down your neck.

Home in three days, do not wash! Forever yours, Satoru

"Oh," you could only mutter, mind blank, eyes staring at the pinkish roses of your garden.

And then it suddenly hit.

"My Empress," your maid started, rubbing her fingers nervously. As she also saw the date written on the letter, and if she counted correctly, the Emperor should be–

"It's today," you mumbled quietly, as if to yourself. But your head moved her way, eyes bulging. "Shall he arrive tod–"

You didn't manage to finish it, however, as a sudden commotion in the mansion made you rise from the bench and walk frenzily through the rose bushes. The screams and horses, the agitation that could only accompany the arrival of one man.

Your husband!

The long garments moved together with the fast pace of your feet, breasts sitting plumply in a long, pinkish dress as it slouched off your shoulder slightly, not prissy at all, but rather vulgar for other men to see. Your hair pinned up, brows cressing gently as you walked inside the mansion, straight to the front gate.

But, couldn't you get to the main door as it opened suddenly, and no one but your maddened husband walked inside.

He stood tall, with broad shoulders, still dressed in his blue jacket with gold buttons and light trousers that hugged his legs loosely. The snowishness of his hair blinded you and (almost) weeping eyes looked your way as if lost in agony, with nothing but love lifting up the corners of his lips.

"My love," he grumbled with a strangled voice and opened arms. "I have been waiting for our reunion too long!"

You laughed cheekily, walking towards your husband at an unhurried pace. Arms wrapped around his neck gently, fingers playing with soft strands of his wet hair, as if he was running your way all day and all night, with nothing but sweat dripping down his spine. "My dear, why so early? Shouldn't you leave Italy in a month?"

His muscular arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.

Oh, how you enjoyed the look of those crystal eyes, so open and truthful, burning with passion that was clearly eating him alive!

"I couldn't wait," he said, taking your hand and leading you quickly through the corridors of your mansion. "You're such a vile woman! Cruel, wicked, playing with your poor husband's heart like a child," he looked over his shoulder, a bit of playfulness shining in his eye as you giggled softly. You knew the route of the corridor, leading straight to your chamber. "There's nothing to laugh about, my love! I'll show you how much I longed for your touch."

And maybe he was right. You shouldn't laugh, indeed.

℘℘℘

He pushed you on bed the moment the heavy doors of your room closed behind, and almost ripped the undergarments off your drenched legs. His knees hit the floor as you opened your thighs, smooth and drenched, showing the sweetest, the juiciest meal he could ever dream of.

You glanced at him with this cheeky smile dancing on your plump lips and wicked eyes, knowing the impact you had on him. He was nothing more than a tormented man!

You watched him while leaning on your elbows – eyes following snowish hair reaching down, fingers pushing the dress up till your hips, trembling at the sheer thought of finally tasting the sweetness of your pussy after months of nothing but releasing himself to your picture.

He seated you right at the edge of the royal bed, with velvet skin blushing feverishly under his raw kisses and long fingers digging hard into the plush of your thighs.

"M-my Emperor," a pitched moan pushed through your lips, as you tilted your head back. Soft linen of your bedding dipped under your sprawled body, thighs opened wide, skin melting under his lips on the inner thighs. Wet lips going down down down, from the bend of your knee right till the drenched mound.

"Oh my kitty, how I've missed you," he mumbled, as if already drunk, lost, with his head diving deep into the rolls of your cunt, giving it a heavy and nasty smell. "My sweet pussy, mhmmm, I've dreamed about you every night."

"My Emperor, please stop calling her like that. You're so filthy," your strangled voice tried to scold him, but Gojo Satoru, the soon-to-be most powerful man in the whole continent, was deaf to your pleadings.

For there was nothing he dreamed of more than getting drunk on the honeyed saps of his pussy and the plushness of your thighs around his cheeks.

And the moment his tongue finally landed between your folds– SNAP!

The rest of his sanity finally cracked, and a long growl drove through his lips, going straight into your fluttering cunt. You pushed white strands sticking to his forehead, watching the gentle furrow between his handsome brows, eyes closed, tongue working you out – slurping, licking, pushing every nerve of your wet cunt. He pushed a finger in, scooping out more of your creamy cum, tasting you as if he came back starved, with juices dripping down his chin and tongue put flat to your clit.

"My Emperor, aren't you just desperate? Didn't they feed you there?" you giggled, rolling your hips together with a pace of his tongue, riding his face in a fever. "A-ah, slow down a bit, I'm not running anywhere!"

"Ngh, I told you not to wash–mmmmm, I love the smell of your sweat," he mumbled, already giving you a headache. Nasty, nasty man! "My sweet kitty, m-my pussy, thought about you every night, every day, nothing but thought of tasting you again, giving me a strength to fight– nghhh–"

"My Emperor, please, enough!" you cried, hips rolling up and down, thighs trembling as his second finger pushed inside. He caressed your clit with his tongue, smoochering it with kisses, sucking it wetly till his cheeks sucked in.

He growled again, tremors going straight into your cunt, the pads of his fingers finally finding the plush spot that made your toes curl.

"Oh my love, do you feel good? Does my Empress feel good? You're so sweet, god you taste so delicious." his muscular arm landed on your lower belly, pulling you closer to his warm breath. "She missed me so much, sucking my fingers in so desperately. My Empress, you may detest your husband, but she will never betray me!"

Your head lulled back, eyes crossed, when he sucked on your clit again, massaging the plush spot inside with his fingers. His fat fingers already filled you well, as your walls clamped on them tight, flapping everytime he bent them to that spot. Oh, he knew this was your favourite combo, making droplets of sweat form around your temple and thighs tremble in excitement, as you tried to lock them around his head.

"My dear, just s-shut up and m-make me cum," your voice was of the purest melody, tickling his ears with passion and lust, making his heavy cock leak through the pants even more, as he tried to release himself by rubbing against the bed's wooden leg.

The look on his face was enough to feel a sudden warmth in your belly. He looked absolutely defeated, lost like a child, with beefy arms hugging your thighs, pulling you closer and closer, till the hilt of his nose brushed your clit. His lips devouring you with slurpy noises, pure filth pushing through them every time he had a chance to open his mouth – wish I could lick your creamy cunt before every meal, and, I could fight a thousand wars if it meant to have her as my prize, or, next time don't wash for a week, no, two weeks, I wish to taste the purest flavour of my pussy.

You reprimanded him every time, with your syrupy moans and scoldings making him even harder, but at some point, even your throat gave up. You just couldn't win against him, and this tongue stuck to your cunt flat, working on your trembling clit till you finally, finally, felt the warmth spilling out.

Your back arched deliciously, thighs clamped around his head, fingers dug deep into his scalp, and you cried for the one last time. The pleasure was blinding, and even your pleadings couldn't stop your husband from drinking allll the juices dripping straight down his throat, with a quiet thank you thank you thank you, murmured straight to your hole. His throat bobbed, fingers trembled, as a moment later, a wet patch formed on his trousers.

His cheeks were wet, but it didn't stop him from rubbing them against your inner thighs, feeling the softness of your skin on his. You were ready to believe that his mind was possessed indeed, as his eyes looked almost like two little hearts, looking at you with a burning lust.

"My Empress, my love, oh how I love you," he climbed the bed, and you moved slightly back. Only then have you noticed the wetness on his trousers, so filthy and embarrassing, nevertheless warming you up once again.

How pathetic your husband was, truly miserable, with his lips smooching the curve of your breast gently, fingers working the dress out, almost ripping it off your body.

"My dear, aren't you tired? We have all night, you mustn't be so reckless–"

"I mustn't," he mumbled, fingers already scooping up your plump tits, rough pads fidling with hardened nipples. "But I must finally make an heir. That's what I've been thinking about for the past few months, my love" his crystal eyes glanced up, seeing a little tremble of your lips and quickened breath. Oh, how obsessed he was with his lovely Empress! "Do you not wish to bear my child? To have my seed, riiiight here," his lips travelled down, till he placed a gentle kiss on your belly's pouch. Finger digging deep, one hand hooking behind your thigh. "Say it, my love."

His voice was stern, but nevertheless begging, waiting for your answer. You liked to torment your husband indeed, but this time, under his heavy gaze and muscular arms, broad back bulging under his jacket and messy snowish hair, you could do nothing but nod you head.

He smirked, eyes curving like a moon, as he folded you easily like a paper doll.

"Ever heard of mating press, my love?"

You can read Napoleon's letters here and here!

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You can hear the racket of an engine, but with no headlights in sight, you only glance left and right before walking across. The police officers pays you little mind, but you call out, "Morning, Robert, Stan!"

"Morning!" they call back in unison. 

Despite the minuscule bustle, the only lights you see on are from the bakers, Paul lugging crates into the establishment. The man had been up long before you, no doubt. It smells heavenly, but Paul is too busy arguing with the delivery man about a mis-order to take your compliment. 

No matter, the crisp New York air, perfumed by baked goods and smoke, is overlayed by a cobbled scent you never quite learned to place. Your sister, far far away in Philadelphia, called it urban, said it like it was an insult. You were quick to remind her she grew up in the urban air all the same; it runs in her veins. 

You miss the lamppost by a hair, gracefully staggering over your own two feet. It will never matter how many years you take the same turn, the lamppost coming up 28th street will always stand barricade. You deflect to the right side of the sidewalk, and are immediately flanked by a whirring engine in your ear, the obscene creaking and banging of a Ford harassing you as you veer a little too close to the street. 

It's around this time during your commute that you have to start looking straight ahead instead of at your shoes or at the closed shops. Stepping over an abandoned string of pearls, you strut down the sidewalk with shoulders back and chin up, air of forced confidence engulfing you. 

It was important that you did so, for 28th street at five o'clock in the morning was passageway to the last drunken staggers of haphazardly clothed people, fried and sodden from their whoopees and wingdings, desperate for a cracking excuse to stay out another hour. Two men with their wits hardly about them pass you by, both jelly legged yet deluded into believing they can hold one another up. 

Broken glass crunched audibly under your feet, mixed with final drunken hurrahs in the distance, louder than necessary fits of laughter, the occasional brawl with slurred obscenities and muffled thumps and grunts.

It was easier to navigate than what appears, the point was to never look like a darty eyed squirrel in predator territory. They're like vultures, but instead of feasting, they look for meek individuals to inaugurate into the revelry. You ignore every slurred and intonated hellos and how you doings, stalking right up to the alley that would take you to your storefront. 

The alley off your flower shop has been wet since your first memory of the place. Your father wasted years of his life in attempts to get it fixed, letters returned and long commutes to city hall in vain. The alley remained as it was to this day. 

You step over a puddle and walk briskly out into the greying sky. Dawn was coming in, all while the streets evicted its night shift workers of pearls and dancing shoes into their cold beds, you take the turn towards the locked doors of your establishment. 

Maeve's Flowers was named after the wife of the man who opened the place decades ago. Your father bought it when you were young enough to not remember it, a compensation to himself for not being drafted into war for the sake of his crippled left leg, but your memory was full of every conscious moment after that. 

There's debris you're not keen to identify at the front door, but you merely step over it and pull the keys out of your bag. Unlocking, you hardly step inside the shop before closing the door and locking it once again. It wasn't unsafe, but it wasn't wise to leave the door open when the rowdiness was yet to dissipate. 

You take a moment to look around the shop—just like how you left it last night. It's silent when you place your bag on the counter save for the noise of the mechanical fridges in the corner, still looking around as you take off your coat. The light switch remains turned off, but the minimal light is enough for you. Slowly, with your coat hung over your arm, you take a tentative step towards coming around the counter. 

The door behind the counter, labelled with a conspicuous "BREAKROOM" is closed, but you're cautious anyway. You're next to the counter now, catching sight of the sliver of air the door leaves at the bottom. 

The light is on. 

Backtracking, you walk towards the front door again, making sure to make as little noise as possible. You grab your bag as you go, gripping the handle and pushing down. It's locked, doesn't open when you tug. But that isn't your goal. 

You take the handle and give it a good shake, rattling the door against the frame with enough noise to make you cringe. Quickly, you grab your keys and jam them into the lock, unlocking it, only to lock it again. 

As you're twisting the keys, you hear the sound of the door clicking open behind you. One last twist, you re-lock the door and turn around. Like you'd just walked in. 

He stands there in a suit too put together for five o'clock in the morning, pocket watch dangling from his pocket. There's a bulge on his left hip that is usually concealed by coat. It's a nice thing, black and leather, hiding his gun. 

"'Morning, Patrick," you say, feigning mild confusion. Before you can say anything else, he raises a hand. 

"We'll be out of your hair in a few. Feel free to start setting up shop." And then door clicks shut once more. 

Letting out a sigh, you let your shoulders sag, putting your bag right back on the counter and walking around it. You don't muffle your footsteps, in fact you make it a point to make noise, hanging your coat and bag, turning the lights on. It's bright, but you'll turn most of them off soon enough when the sun is awake and you've pulled the shutters up. 

Slipping out the inventory book, you refresh on what needs to be expected from the delivery coming in today, trying your best to pay minimal attention to the sanded conversation happening beyond the door behind you. 

Making your way around the counter, you move to the edges of the room to pull the potted plants out of hiding, bringing them to their usual spots where they're seen beyond the unfathomable hues of the flowers. The loud ruckus of the mechanical fridges are next, bringing out the last of the roses, lilies and orchids out of the tiny cold compartment. You set them in their usual spots, making room for the new ones to come in. 

Turning the refrigerator off would be a challenge, considering the compressor and switchboard resides within the breakroom. You make a mental note the next time one of them comes out. Joe was clear when they'd bought you the fridges to remember to turn them off when they weren't in use, but you would rather strip Patrick's gun right off his belt and laugh in his face about it than step into the breakroom while it was occupied. 

Opening one of the drawers, you pull out your father's old hardwood watch, checking the time. Your flower delivery would be here any minute, and you wonder if you should start feeling anxious about the men in the other room. 

You note the crack in the clock face, yet to be mended. It was your own doing, the day you had to face the aftermath of being your father's daughter. At least, who you thought your father was. 

It was a week after his death, you'd taken the same route to get to the shop, but this time without him leading you or waiting for you there. Joe was stood outside the door, a pack of Chesterfields being shoved in his pocket from where you could see him around the corner. You watched him light the cigarette, the dark fog of the April morning making quite a scenic view of the man in his dark coat and hat. 

You walked right past him towards the door, not realising he was waiting for you. And he had been waiting for a full week. 

Your natural reaction to an unfamiliar man telling you he owned a stake in your shop was nothing above baffling, but not more than the glinting metal strapped to his hip. You will never know if he flashed you his gun on purpose or not, but the effect was the same. This was not some ordinary man. 

The name Carmine was not unheard of, in fact it was far from it. The puppet master of the largest mafia in the city was not one so easily concealed. 

The man took a sledgehammer to the man you knew as your father, bludgeoning the familiar to a face you couldn't recognise. This wasn't the only front he owned, but it was the oldest, and he intended to keep it. Regardless of the line of inheritance. 

He stood there, claiming to be a fair man, promising to pay you exactly what he paid your father, give you the protection when needed, in exchange for the small breakroom behind the flower shop counter, and your sworn secrecy. 

Joe Carmine had turned your life inside out, because of course, it had already been turned upside down. And he'd done it all before snubbing out his first smoke of the day. 

Of course, you've grown familiar to the men over the years. Joe is hardly in, Patrick seemingly taking the brunt of the work around this part of town. You've grown used to the constant in and out of men with withered looks and permanently strained jaws, ignoring them as they loiter around the shop pretending to be interested in the flowers, before stalking right into the breakroom as soon as the customer says their goodbyes. 

You don't ask questions and they don't answer them. Perhaps for your own good. 

There isn't much to complain about. Business is good, and the extra cash is more than just a tip, and Joe seems to take care of you in his own detached way. You don't know if he and your father were close, and you're not sure if you want to know. The world of Carmine is far from squeaky clean. 

It's nearing six on the dot, and you're beginning to contemplate knocking on the door, when Patrick wrenches the door open. You whip around, watching him file out along with a couple more men you recognise but cannot name. 

"Apologies, we'll be out now" he says, moving towards the door. 

"Do I need to expect anyone during the day?" you call out before he can leave. He turns, his expression detached. He looks tired. 

He motions for the men to file out before him, one already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Once they're gone, he iterates, "None that I know of. But plans might change. You can leave after you close."

Patrick leaves, but not before reaching up to tug the door chime that's tucked away at the end of the day, closing the door with the sound of twinkling metal, marking the day shift. 

Marcus has brought you the pink peonies, daffodils, orchids, gardenias and every other flower on your list, but very conveniently forgets the roses. 

"Crops not good!" he argues. 

"Is the crop not good or is Damson's store offering more for less," you say, checking the gardenias off the list. The guilt look on his face is enough, and you continue, "We've been giving you business before Damson could tell the difference between a daisy and a coneflower, is it impossible to expect a little more loyalty?" 

"You'll have them tomorrow morning," he promises. And you're left walking inside with the last box, calling out behind you, "You're lucky I had the foresight!" 

You're flipping the sign to open before 7 AM hits, still opening the last couple boxes when the first customer rolls in. It's the usual at this time, business meetings needing a flowery push, housewives wanting colour in their space, a wreath for a headstone, a rose for a disgruntled partner. You move like clockwork, wrapping flowers in ribbon and outdated newspaper, trying to avoid placing the latest statement from Coolidge somewhere noticeable. 

It isn't until the afternoon strikes when the other crowd pours in. Most have only just risen from bed, wanting lavish bouquets that rival the ones down every street in New York, enormous arrangements that hardly fit through the door. They come with shaded glasses to hide their eyes, rouge to cover their tired cheeks, a hidden flask under most coats that require the occasional spot of attention.

Men and women come in asking for fabulous, unprecedented, better than whatever Nancy showed out with at the parlour. They could walk out with flowers you picked blind and remain none the wiser. 

It's nearing eight o'clock when the rush subsides. It's a weekday, and there's less for you to do than usual. A customer walks in just as you're contemplating closing, a woman in a dark coat and hat, gloved hands folded over her torso, handbag tight against her hip. 

"Evening!" you say and she smiles when you smile, albeit a strained one. She looks uncomfortable, but it seems to stem from the loud yelling outside. 

"You wouldn't have any daisies left?" she asks. 

"Enough for one more bouquet. Would you like an arrangement?" 

"Just the last of your daisies, please," she says, wincing in irritation at the ruckus outside. 28th Street was on for the night shift. "Jesus Christ, how do you do it every day?" 

"Learn to zone it out," you laugh, gathering the last of the daisies with the petals still intact. 

"Oh, you can give me the defected ones too, it's alright," she waves you dismissively, opening her purse to fish out the cash. You gather the flowers together, placing them on the table to wrap them up. 

You're busy wrestling a big enough assortment of newspaper when the door chime rings, someone stepping through the threshold into the shop. 

Instinctively, you call out, "Evening!" Looking up from your assortment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You think your heart might have stopped. 

The man is tall enough to tower over you and everything else in the room, dark coat hung over his shoulders, a mop of ebony hair brushing over his eyes, down to his nape. 

He's handsome. At least you think he is. 

There's intrusions on his face in the form of smeared blood, tracks across his face like he made a crude attempt at wiping it off but failed. You catch sight of his hands, knuckles in the same state of bloodied, torn and bruised. He might be limping. 

He only nods in response to your greeting, and moves over to inspect the floor covered in potted plants. The woman is still rummaging through her bag to notice you falter so visibly, willing yourself to steel, picking up a corner of the newspaper to start wrapping. 

You pray he keeps his head turned away, needing this woman to pay and leave before she catches sight of him. 

You might not be on first name basis with most of the Carmine clan that utilises this space, but you could spot them by face a mile away. Despite the nature of their business, they all appear to be prim, well groomed men, guns holstered and covered, bruises and cuts bandaged and hidden away. 

The racing of your heart stems from a few things, namely that this man is the very opposite of prim and proper, in fact, he's walked in like he got into a brawl with a cement wall. And not to mention, you've never seen this man in your life. 

Nothing is indicating you to treat him like a Carmine. 

Panic is flooding your veins at the speed of light, an increasing amount of willpower channelling through to keep your hands from shaking. Your knees feel like they're moments away from buckling. You may be used to dealing with bad men, but you've never dealt with bad men. 

Your customer is tapping her fingers against her own hand, looking around the shop like she was taking it in. It was significantly more sparse than this morning, but she stares like you were hosting her a garden in spring. You wish she'd stop. 

The man is still observing your house plants like he's genuinely interested, brushing his fingers over the green of your golden pothos with his bruised hand, knuckles caked with dried blood. 

He's waiting for her to leave. You know he is. 

One of the drawers housing your ribbons catch onto the mechanism, taking a few minutes for you to pull the damn thing open. When you do, the force of your tugging makes an audible bang as wood slams against wood. The two other people in the room snap their heads towards you, and you make it a point to not look up. At least, not until you had your ribbon in your hands. 

His gaze was on you and the table.

You ignore it as you continue to tighten the strings around the bouquet and pulling the ribbon into a nicer bow. You don't realise how sweaty your palms are till you wipe them on your skirts. 

"Right," the woman beings, "How much do I owe you?" 

"That'll be a dollar fifty." 

The woman scrutinises the bouquet, "But these are more than a dozen."

"The defected are on the house, ma'am," you explain, noting how breathless you sound. 

"Oh, that's awful nice of you!" she cracks a smile, slipping the money out of her coin purse and placing them on the table. You count an extra dollar on the table, and you're already opening your mouth to call for her. 

But all you hear the distinct ringing of the bell at the door, and when you look up, she's gone. 

Slowly, but deliberately, you exhale out of your nose, sliding the coins and bill towards you off the table. You drop them into the drawer, closing it shut. 

Then you look over at the man that's now taking steps towards the counter, plastering a smile on your face like all the blood and grime coating his entire being are invisible to you. He's not smiling. 

"What can I get you this evening?" 

"Patrick said I could use the breakroom for the night." The first thing you note is his voice. It's coarse, but something tells you it's not always like that. 

You hesitate for a beat too long, and you know it. "I'm sorry?"

He turns his head, shifting his weight. He exhales forcibly. "Cut the shit. Patrick said I could use the breakroom at Maeve's on the 28th. Is this Maeve's on 28th?"

You're entirely unequipped to handle the situation, especially considering Patrick told you to expect no one just this morning. But he also said plans might change. 

You've been quiet for too long, except you have not a clue what to do. "I…I don't know who Patrick is."

He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. "Listen lady, clearly I've had a long day. I wouldn't know Carmine has quarters here if I wasn't told by someone on the inside."

But is he on the inside?

He continues. "Patrick's gonna be here any minute, and you oughtta let me in before he starts asking you questions."

"Patrick never—"

"So you do know him?"

Shit. 

"I can't let you in the back," you state. Clear and simple. 

Perhaps it wasn't at all intelligent to argue with a man who's clearly capable of getting himself this roughed up, not to mention one with a gun very conveniently within arms reach. But you aren't choosing to use an ounce of intelligence in the current moment, acting purely on instinct. 

"Fine," he says. Moving away from the counter slowly. "I have two options, both of them involve waiting for Patrick to get here." 

You don't have a response. 

"I can either stay in here, or I can wait right outside. Of course, I look like someone's worst nightmare brought to life and I can't imagine a scenario where you're not losing out on your last couple customers."

"We're closing."

"Scenario number three. You say that, and I say I'm not going anywhere." 

Your fists ball up at your sides. "I need you to understand that I can't just let you in. At least not until Patrick gets here." 

"You want me to understand? I'm bleeding out on your dainty little flowers , for fucks' sake!" he yells, arms coming up in frustration. Loud enough to rattle you. Taking an instinctive step back, you let your eyes move past his waist, and are quick to note the dark bloodstains on his trousers, and then shockingly, the distinctly crimson shoe prints surrounding him on the floor. 

"Why don't you understand that?" he asks. 

"I—"

You don't get to finish, because the bell sounds the alarm of a customer at the door, and you're making a split second decision, pulling yourself to sprint around the counter and whispering a harsh "Get inside" to the intruder before you can step over the blood, reaching the customer at the door to block their view. 

"Evening!" you yelp as the elderly man comes into view, and then proceeds to flinch at your overenthusiastic greeting. 

"I–oh!" 

"What can I get you sir?" you ask as he's barely through the threshold. You hear the door of the breakroom click shut, and that becomes one less problem to worry about. Now for the bloody footprints all over the floors. 

You position yourself to cover as much of his field of vision as possible, walking backwards as he walks inside. 

"I—I was looking for a bouquet for my wife—"

"What kind of flowers does she like?"

"Uh, daisies—"

"I'm so sorry sir, we just ran out of our daises."

"Roses perhaps!" 

"We're out of those too, I'm very sorry."

"Well, uh–" The man is stuttering, and you feel a pang of guilt at the way you're spinning him. But you need him out, for the same reasons you pushed the man into the breakroom regardless of what preluded it. 

"What do you have?" 

"I have…house plants. And a few hydrangeas left." 

The man stops and ponders for a moment. His silence is stretching too long, and you add in, "We were just about to close up shop, you see. Not a lot of stock at the end of the day." 

"I see..."

"How about you come back in tomorrow morning, and I'll make you a bouquet right out of the garden of Eden. On the house, for your inconvenience." 

"I can…I can come in tomorrow, yes."

"Perfect!" you exclaim, leading the man out the door as you talk. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr…?"

"Cohen."

You let him down the steps of the front door and into the streetlights of New York, flashing the brightest smile you can muster. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Mr Cohen."

And then he's gone, and you're slamming the door shut and pulling the deadlock shut, but not before flipping the open sign to closed, waiting to move the outside displays indoors. You have bigger problems than a few missing plants. 

The floors haven't magically reverted back to spotless, which means the man is still in your breakroom. 

There's a loud knock on the door, and it startles you enough to have you jumping up. The muffled voice on the other side, loud enough. 

"It's Patrick."

You move to undo the deadlock, opening the door for him. 

He stands in a fresh set of clothes, pushing his hat back to get a look at you inquisitively. There's a half smoked cigarette in his hands, the scent of tobacco making its way into the shop. "Why's the door locked?"

"I—I couldn't let anyone in."

"Whaddya mean?" his mouth his curled up in mild annoyance, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on the lit embers. He steps inside, and you step away. 

The blood on the floor catches his sight immediately, yet he does nothing to show the slightest hint of alarm. 

"Jun made it then," he remarks, still looking at the bloody footprints. he closes the door for you. 

"So you did send him," you confirm, mostly to yourself. 

"I did. Why does it matter?"

"I just—"

He's walking towards the breakroom, "I don't have all night."

"He came in looking like hell, and you never told me he was coming. I didn't know what to do with him."

"What made you put him in anyway?"

"Customer came in."

"Well," he says, taking his hat off, "lady luck's on your side. Because if it was anyone else…"

He doesn't finish the thought, because you know. And he knows you know. 

The door of the breakroom closes, and you're left alone with the sparse of your shop, and the mess you need to clean off the floor. 

But the universe deems you a far cry from done for the night, because it's only been seconds before Patrick is re-opening the door, grim look on his face. 

"I need water. And towels."

"What?"

"Hurry!"

Gathering stray towels and a pitcher of water doesn't take long, but as you enter the breakroom, Patrick is putting his coat and hat back on. 

The breakroom is small, a couple couches and chairs pushed up against the walls, the remaining holding cabinets you never dared touch. It was mostly empty, sometimes cluttered with guns and unlabelled bottles and a million other things you could never catch from the small glances. 

It's cleaner today, if you didn't count for the coat, shoes and other bits of clothing strewn about. 

And the fact that Jun, is barely in his undershirt that you assume may have been white at one point. Because right now it shimmers crimson, soaked in blood. There's a particularly dark patch at his right side, concaving inwards. 

"Oh…" You knew he was bloodied up, but for some reason you assumed it was mostly the other guy's. 

Patrick is putting his coat on, grabbing his things. "Cut his shirt open and clean the wound as much as you can with water, I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" you ask, petrified at being left alone with the scene. 

"The speakeasy around the corner, the drug store's gonna ask too many questions."

Alcohol. 

He seems to note the look your face, slowing down for a moment to reassure you. "It's a shallow wound. The worst thing that can happen is an infection. Just—just be gentle and use water and towels till I get back."

He waits for you to nod, before slipping out. 

Jun's eyes are screwed shut, breathing heavy. There's a moment of bewilderment, how he managed to conduct himself outside without collapsing, you may never understand. 

You put down the towels and pitcher of water, moving back outside to gather the shears you use to trim flowers, pans, bowls and tweezers. 

He seems to not have noticed you come in and out, but you move closer anyhow. He's slumped low on the couch in an odd sitting position. 

"Can you lay down flat? You're putting pressure on the cut."

Sure enough, there's an even larger pool of blood on the couch, dripping like an open faucet onto the floors. He does not seem to hear you for a few seconds, before he opens his eyes. 

"Just," he starts, voice barely there. "Just give me a second."

His condition's seemed to have worsened exponentially from your row outside. He gulps, and the begins to shift. You shuffle one of the cushions under his head, not knowing how else to support him as he groans at the movement. Gathering his legs, you aid him in pushing them up onto the couch. 

"I'm gonna cut open your shirt," you say, reaching for the shears on the table, kneeling in front of the gash. He barely nods. 

The shirt is so saturated it difficult to figure where his shirt ends and his skin begins. You decide to start at the hem, lifting it at his waist, hoping it would help you find the torn edge. It's easier after that, taking a deep breath before bringing your shears to start cutting. 

You cut down from his side to the hem, revealing skin that stands out like light amidst the deep red of his blood. Cutting as much you can, you pull the fabric away from the wound as far as possible, blood smeared over every inch of his abdomen, stomach and chest. 

His breathing is growing staggered by the second, and you'd be lying if you say it didn't panic you. Passing a wet towel, you drag it over the larger area of the wound first, as gentle as possible. 

And then inwards, slowly making your way towards the cut. It looks ghastly, dried blood clumped in places, fresh blood oozing from gaps you cannot make out. You realise it's about to hurt no matter how gentle you go. 

"This is gonna hurt," you warn, but don't wait for a response as you bring the towel towards the wound, pressing down. 

Immediately, he lets out a loud yelp, breathing louder, groaning intermittently. You push yourself to keep going, no matter the discouraging sounds. He gets reprieve when you stop to drain your soaked towels or bring a fresh pitcher of water. You find a sponge, and use it to squeeze water over the area, anything to get rid of the excess blood and clear the area. 

You're losing hope with all the oozing blood when finally, you hear the distinct sound of the door chimes outside, Patrick entering the breakroom that officially resembles a war zone. 

"I saw less blood in Belleau Wood, Jun," Patrick grunts as he puts down an armful of supplies on the table, before digging into his weighed coat, pulling out a few corked, unlabelled bottles. 

He urges you aside, and you comply as he uncorks one of the bottles, "Premium bathtub gin for the good man. Get him something to bite down on, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker."

You've exhausted every last towel and rag on the premises, stalling for a moment before, bringing your fingers to undo your cardigan, slipping it off your shoulders and bunching it up. Patrick gives you an odd look, but you'd argue this was the least odd instance that's occurred tonight. 

You have to force the fabric into Jun's mouth at this point, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Bite down on this. Hard as you can."

Patrick is less cautious, because he takes a swig of the liquid into his mouth, wincing, "Hint of Palmolive, you're in luck boy."

And then he dumps the entire bottled straight onto the wound. 

Jun can barely keep still, muffled yells scratching out his throat into a siren. You're wincing at the sight yourself, the stream of reddish liquid mixed with alcohol pouring out onto the floor. 

"Hold him steady," Patrick calls out for you, and you have to brace yourself before placing both palms on his shoulders, pushing him down against the couch with your entire weight. He's still squirming, and Patrick is doing nothing but opening the second bottle and pouring straight out once again. 

The agony doesn't seem to end, until Patrick decides he's clean enough and relents. Sure enough, the cut is cleaner than you could ever get it with just water. 

It takes another hour or so for Patrick to clean him off and patch him up, forcing a few pills down his throat that knock him out almost immediately. 

"Wash up and go home, I'll clean up," he finally says, throwing Jun's shoes across the room to let the man sleep his injury off with ease. "We can't move him for a couple days, I'll stay here so you conduct business as usual."

"Do you need anything? Blankets, a mattress—"

"We'll manage, "he waves you off, grunting as he seats himself on the chair. "Need'a keep watch anyway." 

You make the conscious choice to ask no more questions, taking one last look at the couch where he's been crudely wiped down, bloody towels and pools of liquid all around him. He sleeps as though nothing is amiss. 

You walk out, and close the door of the breakroom behind you. 

TWO DAYS. YOU DON'T enter the breakroom for two days. 

You get in in the mornings, checking for the sliver of light under the doors, only to find them turned off. Suppliers drop your stock, customers come and go from your unassuming shop. 

It's like that night never happend, nor Patrick or Jun to be seen for days, the bloody footprints cleaned off the main floor when you had walked in the next day. 

It wasn't entirely odd. Patrick would disappear for weeks at times, so would other members of the clan. Except you'd argue the situation is entirely different considering the pandemonium that preceded the quiet. 

It's a whole week after the day that you find the lights of the breakroom illuminating from under the door. A jolt goes through your spine, stepping back instictively. You gather yourself quickly, resuming business as usual as you open up shop. 

You're in the middle of checking your order slip when the front door is unlocked from the outside. The chimes are tucked away on the ledge, so there's no sound besides Jun's footsteps as he passes into the threshold. 

Instantly, you freeze. 

He notices you at the counter, and freezes all the same. There's a moment where you're both opening your mouth and closing it like fish out of water. He closes the door behind him, even locking it like usual. 

He's in a different ensemble from the last time you saw him, and you almost don't recognise him. His long black coat, the bloodstained clothes on the floor, the dried grime and blood on his skin. It's all replaced by a crisp suit in a deep gray, pocket watch chained to his waistcoat, a tie at his throat and two toned shoes at his feet. His hair is combed back in a neat manner, a clean homburg hat resting on top. His leather gloved hands grip the handle of the door.

"Morning," you break the ice first. 

Clearning his throat, he responds, "Morning."

Silence again. 

"Are you…feeling better?"

"Oh yes," he says, but does not move. "I—thank you. For what you did."

"Oh no, Patrick asked and I couldn't just…it's alright! You oughtta stay from those knives, huh?" you chuckle dryly, uncomfortable with yourself. You don't want to ponder on the fact that you attempted urge a clan member to ward off a weapon. 

He might be trying to keep your pride, so he responds, "I suppose so."

The door to the breakroom clicks open and its akin to a gust of wind on a hot summer day, Patrick walking out like a buffer sent from Christ himself. 

"Great!" he exclaims, and then turns to you. "Remember that face. Try not to let him bleed out on your peonies next time."

Heat surges to your cheeks, and you immediately start sputtering. He brushes you off, like he was only half joking. "This one's addicted to death, we've got a headstone in storage ready for him. Nothing new." 

"Are you done?" Jun asks, sighing. 

"Wait for me outside, I just need to grab something."

Jun nods, undoing the lock and stepping outside, closing the door behind him. You take the opportunity to turn towards Patrick, who's moving back into the breakroom. 

"You said he'd be okay?" you say. 

"Hm?" he calls out from inside. 

"You said the wound wasn't fatal."

"It wasn't," he reemerges from the room, strapping something onto his belt. "Know that now."

"Now?" 

He sighs, "I lied. I didn't know if it was fatal or not."

He sees the look on your face, and interrupts before you can say anything. 

"I don't know what was on that blade, and nor does he. He's been out in Harlem for years in this line of work, that place makes New York City look like a playground."

You've never left the city, and you certainly have no desire to. New York has been your everything, and you don't intend to change that. No matter how rough around the edges. 

"Don't turn yourself over, doll. Occupational hazard. He knows whats at stake." 

You can only nod, letting him walk past you and out the door. "I'm gonna be out of town in the next week," he calls out before clicking it shut and leaving you there. 

YOUR FATHER HAD MADE sure Maeve's Flowers would live beyond him, and beyond you. There was little left to learn by the time you inherited the shop, his lessons over the years ingrained into your memory. It was easy, it was natural. 

Of course, one of his teachings included the very fickle nature of the stakeholder. Marcus had been indespensible to your father for many years, but there were also the occassional days when he just has to be an absolute pain in your father's behind, and now, in yours. 

The telegram came in right as you closed up, sending the last customer away before you turned the sign from open to closed. Marcus has caught himself a cold. And he has no one else to send the supplies through. 

You grip the piece of paper in your hands and feel a striking pain pulse in your temple. Looking around, there is no way you could do another day's business without stock, the only thing remaining a few crushed petals and your potted plants. It's nearly eight, and you have to stop and contemplate the possibility of remaining closed tomorrow. 

Tomorrow is a Saturday, your busiest day of the week. 

There's nothing you can do but stare at the piece of paper and at your sparse plants. It was the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is solve an impending problem. You're left sitting in your chair at the counter, head in hands and trying not to scream instead of packing up and going home. 

You don't know how long you've been sitting there when the door of the shop rattles and clicks with someone attempting to unlock it from the outside. When you look up, Jun is standing in the threshold. 

His attire is similar to the one you found him in the first time you met, dark clothing that blends in. Except for the unceremonious lack of blood coating his skin, he might as well have worn the same clothes. Even his hair is mussed up, slight curled under his hat. 

"I thought you'd closed up already," he says, glancing at the door sign. 

"I have," you say, your voice comes out raspy. "I was just leaving."

He only nods, watching as you shuck your coat off the rack, pulling it on as you grab your bag and attempt to head out the door. "There's no need to keep the fridges running, they're empty. And tell Patrick shop's closed tomorrow." He once again, only nods in understanding, and lets you leave. 

By the time you get home, you come to terms with losing out on business, and perhaps even grow excited to have a day off tomorrow. You try not to think of what your father would say as you dispense you shoes, coat and bag, walking into your tiny, barren home. He'd closed up shop only twice in his life; one day when your sister was born, and another when he'd fallen so ill he could not sit himself up. 

His crippled leg was never an excuse. You close your eyes as you lean back on your bed; you can still see his limp as he walked in front of you towards the shop. He never bought himself a cane. 

The feeling surmounting in your chest is suddenly too much, pulling yourself upright in bed to avoid drowning in it whole. It puts your vision to your quarters, and the sight is suddenly equally unbearable. 

Working yourself to the bone meant nothing but neglecting every other part of your life. Drained colour of everything you set your eyes upon. A bedspace to sleep and eat and wash yourself, a landing zone for the less productive things in life. 

There's a loud knock on your front door, and your gaze darts to your windows. It was past nine o'clock, and fire escape forever mortified you. The curtains show no shadows, so you tiptoe towards the front door, making no sound as oyu prepare to pretend like no one's home. 

Unconvering the peephole, you have to bite down a yelp. 

Jun stands there in the same clothes as you saw merely an hour ago in, shuffling impatiently. He reaches his fist once more and raps at the door again. Between wondering how on earth he found you and the fear of awakening the wrath of Mrs. Miller's dog, you make the decision to unlock the deadbolt. 

Jun does not look startled to see you, confirming he knew where he wanted to be. 

"Why are you here?" you ask immediately. 

"I—"

"How do you know where I live?" 

He raises his brows at that, like the answer was obvious. "It's not entirely difficult to find out. And no, I need not tail you."

Of course. He's a Carmine. 

"Why are you here?" you ask again, gripping the door handle tightly. 

Jun presses his lips together, shifting his weight. "You don't have to worry about the shipment tomorrow. I handled it, you just need to be there at the usual time to recieve it." 

"What?" Perhaps you were a tad too loud, overcome by the confusion, because you suddenly hear the very distinct sound of a growling beast down the hall. Mrs. Miller's dog begins barking through the muffle of doors and hallway. 

"What's with all the commotion!" her voice pierces through the walls with reedy accuracy, and you have to think fast. 

Lurching forward, Jun is staring down the hall to where the noise is coming from, blissfully unaware as you take a full grasp of the front of his shirt and coat, postively yanking him inside your apartment. You don't wait to think before slamming the door closed and locking it shut. 

You also don't look back to assess Jun, because you're on your tiptoes staring out the peephole, sending out a quick prayer that she does not come knocking on your door. When you're sure she's picked a different innocent victim you drop to your heels and relax. 

When you look back, Jun is staring at you in even fiercer confusion. "What in Christ's name was that?"

"Mrs. Miller," you reply glumly. "Or her idiotic labrador. Gets set off by anything."

"Right," he clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case you were going to try anything else for tomorrow. It's been dealt with."

You furrow your brows. "But I never told you about tomorrow's delivery."

"You left the telegram on the counter. Patrick told me to figure it out for you," he explains. 

"I see." You did leave it on the counter in your haste. "Thank you for doing that, and I'll thank Patrick too when I see him—"

"There's no need. You know how he gets," he interrupts. You aren't quite sure, since Patrick's made it a habit to wave off any sliver of gratitude you try to give him for whatever reason. He's not very inclined to Thank Yous. 

You only nod, half smiling. 

"I'll get going now," he says. "If the coast is clear."

"Ah," you turn around to look into the peephole, staring at nothing but empty hallway for a few seconds. It gives you the opportunity to think, hands curling up against the door as you think about the space in your apartment, the ticking clock that is your life. 

Swiftly, you turn around to look into his expecting face. "Would you like to stay for a coffee?"

"Sorry?"

"I'm not brave enough to keep alcohol around the house, I have tea as well if that's what you like."

"You'd like me to stay for a coffee?" he confirms slowly. He's pointing at himself like there are other people in the room you could be talking to. 

"Yes. If you would like to, and if you have the time. I just thought since you're here—"

"I'd like that." 

Oh. 

"Oh." You stare at him, in a little but of disbelief. "Good. I'll put the kettle on. Will that be a tea or…?"

"Whatever you're having."

In a few minutes, you've set your practically unused living room table with two steaming mugs, both of which you had to double, triple check for crawlers and bugs before rinsing and drying. Jun sits on your couch, and you have a brief flashback to the last time you saw him in this position. 

"How's your wound healing?" you ask. 

"Better than I hoped," he responds. "Scabbed over without pain, I think that's a good sign." 

"It is," you confirm. "I'd ask you how you got it but that would be fruitless," you laugh at yourself. 

"It was a kid."

That has you looking up from your mug. "A…A kid?"

"I'd been assigned way down in Harlem for the past few years. It's a rough place. Hard to get out if you're in. I was on an assignment when this kid with a knife decided I was up to no good, came up to me in the middle of the street and got me right below the ribs. It was too easy for him, I knew it wasn't his first time."

"But you were covered in everything that night," you recall the grime, the blooming knuckles and smeared blood all over him. 

He laughs, taking a sip of his drink before setting the warm cup in his other palm. "People thought I was jumping the kid, that was an episode and then…I still had to go do my job."

"And then you came all the way to 28th? From Harlem?"

"Took the subway, got a couple look but that wasn't the worst of it."

You don't need to ask what the worst of it was, because you know. 

Closing your eyes, you cringe to yourself, "And I made you stand there for who know how long."

He chuckles, and you have the realisation that you…quite like his smile. It stretches across his face, lighting him up in a way you didn't realise his face could. It makes him look boyish, like the life he's chosen was meant for someone far, far removed from him. 

"I wouldn't normally be as worked up, there's not much else you could've done in that situation. But you stood your ground. That's good."

Your chest flourishes at being told a job well done. "Are you…Are you back from Harlem for good?"

It was a careful question, laced with something you aren't sure you want to admit. 

"I might be." Jun is dragging his fingernails across the bottom edge of his cup, contemplating. "I've been given a choice. I might end up taking it as a way out."

"Way out?"

"From Harlem, anyway. It's either Carmine or dead for us." 

The weight of what he says settles on you like a blanket. Carmine or dead. You wonder where you stand in this equation, neither sworn in nor an outsider. Are you a Carmine? And are you allowed a way out, ever?

You think of tomorrow, when you'll wake up in the morning as you always do, dress and leave for the same route you could walk in your sleep. Set up shop and do a days worth of trade, all while hiding some of the most dangerous people in the city in your backrooms. 

One of them sits on the same couch cushions as you right now, under your roof, drinking from your cup. 

The thought should unsettle you. But it doesn't. 

And then it hits you. 

You sit up straighter, face changing as you turn to face him. "You said Patrick sent you?"

Jun nods. 

"Patrick told he was going to be out of town for a week."

Jun's face is blank, blinking at you with a poker face gamblers would envy. And then he breaks. 

"He is out of town." 

"So you—"

"I saw the telegram on the counter and took matters into my own hands," he admits, but he's as nonchalant as ever, sipping the last dregs from his mug and setting it on the table. "It's getting late, I'll get going now. Thank you for inviting me in."

Inviting was a daring word considering you shanghaied him into your apartment by brute force, but you take it anyway. Other than that, you're not quite sure what to say with this new revelation. You watch him as he stands up, adjusting his coat and trousers as he begins to walk himself to the door. 

Catching up to him, you stop when he stops a couple feet from the entryway. He turns to look at you, and you can predict his goodbye. 

"Why did you do that?" you have to ask. 

For the first time, Jun looks unsure as for what to say. "I know that shop is important to you."

Why do you care?

Your lips press into a line, both your damp hands clasped in front of you. "Was it so we're even?"

Jun is staring at you an intensity you've never experience, an unmatched energy. "We were even the second you got on your knees to help me after I yelled at you."

"Then what's this for?" you press. 

Jun takes a step towards you, and you have the distinct feeling he might frustrated. Not with you, but perhaps with himself. "I…I don't know."

"That's not very Carmine of you," you whisper, suddenly realising just how close you've gotten. His gaze is unrelenting, and you feel the familiar rise in your chest that makes it a chore to breathe. 

Jun's getting closer, leaning over you like a towering stallion. His breath hits your face, warm and cascading. 

"I know." 

And then his mouth is on yours, and you're melting like this was the answer all along. His palm and fingers cup the back of your head in a secure motion, pulling you towards him. Your arms fly to grip his body, finding reprieve in the opening of his coat, hands splayed on his fabric covered chest. 

He's a demanding kisser, taking what you give in motions that have your knees going weak. You fingers scrunch against his shirt to grip him tighter, the warmth of his skin under his shirt seeping. 

You forget where you stand as his other arm holds you up and against him, you hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. His mouth moves against your own like he's already mapped out every hill, dip and crevice, the distinct wet of his tongue on your bottom lip as he sucks. 

The feeling is all consuming, one you cannot name. It's tingly, from the top of your head to the tips of fingers and toes. His scent encases you with remnants of coffee and sweet pea. It has you pushing into him closer, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. 

Your lungs are about to give in when you finally pull away, gasping loudly for air as you do nothing to move from your position. Your chest heaves, and so does his, in tandem as you throw your head back to reign yourself in. Jun's eyes never leave you. 

You cannot help but smile, one that stretches even more so when you see him crack one too. 

"Patrick isn't here—" you start, but do not need to finish. 

"I think I heard Mrs. Miller outside." 

"Not very safe, Carmine or not," you jest. 

"Perhaps another coffee will do," he adds as you laugh. "Or a tea this time?"

He does not let you answer, because he dips his head towards you once more. 

All night, two cold mugs remain lone on the table. 

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

YOU AND YOUR BOSS CALL IT A DAY AND RETURN HOME AFTER THREE SUMMONINGS, ONE AFTER THE OTHER. Today, you negotiated terms for fame and a plea for everlasting beauty. The last one, though, was interesting.

Jun had been summoned to a small apartment, where a single mother waited for him, begging for just enough money to send her only daughter to college.

"She just got into her dream school. She has scholarships, but it's not enough and I can't afford it. She has to go. She's been working for this her entire life.

I'll exchange anything you want. I'll pay every cent back if you want. You can have my soul, too. Anything—please. As long as you take nothing from her."

You were dumbstruck. Her daughter was living a life parallel to yours on the opposite track. Here was a mother who was willing to do whatever she could to secure her daughter's future, while shielding her from their struggles and from the consequences of dealing with the Devil. While yours… yours offered you to him on a silver platter. It was only by Jun's grace that it didn't work and another deal was agreed upon.

And it was by his grace again that this single mother wasn't given a deal at all. Instead, he told her this was a case better suited for God.

"I've already prayed so hard to God."

"She receives millions of prayers a day and does her best to attend to them. But I'll talk to her personally. She'll grant you a miracle that you won't have to pay her back for."

"'She'?!"

It was a short visit, but you know it's one you'll think about for the rest of your life—and maybe even well into your impending demonhood.

"That was really nice, Junnie," you tell him as you two slouch against the sofa, covered in ghost pepper chip crumbs and still in your work clothes—you in your stupid cloak, him in another jaw-dropping outfit—too lazy to get to your respective rooms right now.

"Ugh, don't start."

"What?" you laugh. "It was!"

"Yes, well, I'm not totally incapable of kindness."

"I know that!" you scoff, slapping the couch since he's too far to slap and you don't want to move. "It was just… very touching."

The silence that follows is a little heavy with a lot of unspoken words on your end, but you force yourself to sit in it. You don't know how long it's been when Jun says, "I know it's really gross and selfish, but I'm the literal fucking Devil so I can say this." You smile at the disclaimer. "I'm glad your parents were so shit." The smile is wiped off your face.

"Huh?!" you exclaim, sitting up straight to face him fully. "Why would you say that to me?"

"That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it?" he asks, the picture of composed as he remains unflustered by your outburst. He doesn't even bother looking at you when he says it, eyes lazily zoning out on the marble pillars bracketing the hallway to your suite. "How this girl has one parent who would do anything for her, including damning her own soul… and you had two parents who were perfectly fine with giving you away to the objectively worst person you can give someone away to? You were thinking about what must be so wrong with you that your parents couldn't love you the way that mother could."

It takes you a few moments to truly process what just came out of his mouth, and when you do, you're unexpectedly hurt by the words even though they're the same ones that have been bouncing around inside your head since the summoning ended.

You know he's the Devil. You know that thousands of years of stories and countless cultures have all painted him to be vile and cruel. Ruthless and merciless. But in the few months you've known him now, you've cast those stereotypes aside. It's clear to you that Jun is as good as you suspect God is—maybe even better honestly. After all, he's the one charged with punishing the wicked. He is justice and vengeance and karma, and while he can't deliver any of it while on Earth like God can, he still does it exceptionally well, down here in Hell. But even with how unfeeling his job forces him to be sometimes, he's been soft. He's been kind. He cares.

You would've never expected him to say something like this, and it's why you give him the benefit of the doubt before deciding to immediately start crying and screaming and demanding Hell expense you a therapist.

"What do you mean?" you ask hesitantly.

He shrugs, either missing how badly he's hurt your feelings or ignoring it. "I told you it was gross and selfish… but if they hadn't been so… nauseatingly despicable, you wouldn't have ever wound up here."

You pause, neither inhaling or exhaling—finding yourself kind of incapable of either, actually. You wanted to take a chance that someone wasn't trying to hurt you despite history saying otherwise, and you were right. Jun actually meant the opposite. In a really sad and messed up and yes, slightly gross and selfish way, the Devil was trying to tell you he liked having you here.

"DAD is over, y'know," you point out pathetically.

He chuckles. "Today was unique. You should remember you're appreciated today too." His voice gets stern all of a sudden. "But just DAD and today. Do not even think of feeling valued any other day of the year."

You grin. "Fine. I won't."

"Good."

You feel your muscles relax as you sink back into the cushions, relieved that Jun wasn't pointing out how unwanted you were by your own parents for shits and giggles. How funny—that in the end, you finally do feel wanted. By the creatures of Hell, no less.

"Do you have parents?" you ask quietly.

Jun inhales sharply, heaving a sigh before he answers, "The stars are my mother, the dawn my father."

You glance at him, ready to tell him to be serious, but when you see the wistful, almost sad look on his face, you know he is. You turn over onto your stomach, prop your chin on your hands, and openly stare at him. Feeling your gaze, he turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised.

"Do you miss them?" You don't know if it's a silly question to ask, especially since you can't fully wrap your mind around his parents being so abstract.

His questioning eyebrow lowers as he thinks over the question, those dark brown eyes piercing through you as he does. You think he looks human like this, so pensive and unsure. A world away from the confident, untouchable king everyone views him as. And maybe one time he was—human. You think you're lucky to be able to see him like this.

"It's been a long time," he finally says. "I sometimes think I don't remember them or that period of my life at all. But then I go to Earth at the magic hours just to catch a glimpse of them, and I remember that they named me Junhui—outstanding and bright. And I was loved… and cherished and so carefully raised to take my place here." He smiles a little sheepishly at you and shrugs. "And I don't feel like I need to miss them. They're everywhere I am and in everything I do."

You roll your lips between your teeth to keep them from trembling as your eyes water. He groans and rolls his eyes, pushing to get off the couch and away from you.

"Stop it!" you shout, lunging forward to grab a hold of his bicep and pull as hard as you can. Still, he barely budges and you know you only succeed at keeping him in place because he allows you to. "I'm sorry! That was just really lovely! And I'm already emotional from tonight! I'm only human!"

You mean it as a joke, but Jun looks at you with wide eyes, searching your face like he's making sure you're not going to have a mental breakdown on his sofa. When he sees you're not, he leans back into the cushions with you.

"Junhui," you repeat, saying his full name for the first time. "It's very beautiful. I love it."

He smirks but the blush that creeps onto his cheeks tell you it means more to him than he lets on. "Thanks. Don't go using it in front of everyone, darling."

"No promises," you joke. You won't. You knew the moment he said it, Junhui was something you'd want to keep for yourself.

You only remember your fingers are still wrapped around his bicep when he pries them off. You're about to rip your hand away and apologize, but then he transfers it to his own hand resting against his abdomen, staring down at it like it's the sky—something he'd travel to Earth every day to catch a glimpse of. He cradles your hand in both of his, so gentle, it makes you melt.

"I forget sometimes," he says. "That you're human." He traces the lines in your palms with his fingertips, the sensation sending goosebumps up the same arm. "It feels like you've been here my entire reign."

You laugh nervously, unsure why your palms are suddenly becoming clammy and your heart is thrashing in your chest.

"It's weird, huh? It's only been a few months." Jun nods as you take your hand back and wipe it furiously against your thigh under your stupid summoning cloak, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Do you still feel like you've been kidnapped?"

You blow a raspberry and pretend to think. "Uh yeah, because I was." He scoffs. "It might be gross and selfish to say, but I suppose I'm glad you did." You cringe at yourself. How was he able to achieve this kind of vulnerability without making it sound so cheesy? "At least I wound up here."

The smile that paints his face isn't like any smile of his you've seen before—so big and wide that his gums show and his eyes crinkle in the corners. His mouth makes that pretty heart shape you get to see so rarely, and it's impossible to refrain from mirroring his joy right back.

"Yeah?" he asks for confirmation.

"Mhm." You give it to him.

DAY SIXTY-THREE

"Hold it, please!"

You know from the way the voice doesn't gurgle with the sound of a little blood that it isn't any of the damned souls, so you comply, holding the elevator doors open for whoever asked you to (strictly forbidden for damned souls; in fact, you're expected to hit the emergency close button should any of them ask you to hold the doors). You shove a foot over the threshold without looking up from your tablet.

"Thanks," the man breathes, entering the lift. You hum in acknowledgment but don't bother looking up.

You instead try not to lose your concentration as you search for the best time to fit in grooming for Key, who you were just informed got thrown up on by another Hellhound who'd gotten into some cannibals while at doggy daycare. He will not be coming home with you until either you get him an appointment or Junhui himself cleans him up.

It takes you another minute or two and a few ascended floors to find the perfect gap in your boss's schedule for him to take Key over. You don't care that you're the assistant; you refuse to be near Hellhound puke ever again if you can help it. You send a quick ping to Junhui to let him know he will be taking his dog to the groomer before you finally look up.

"You're Y/N, yes? His Infernal Majesty's business manager?" the stranger asks now that you're not preoccupied.

You're put off more from the title than from the demon knowing your name. You look up to find a tall man, around Junhui's height, with a polite smile and long, luscious, dark hair that frames his face.

"Yes. Though 'business manager' is generous," you laugh nervously.

"That is effectively what your role is, no?" he asks, eyes twinkling as he tilts his head at you. "From what I've seen, you've really whipped this place into shape. You practically run half of Hell at this point."

"I do not!" you insist quickly, still overly sensitive to agreeing to anything that can misconstrue you as Junhui's opposite—or as Soonyoung keeps calling you, his queen. Ugh. "I'm just his assistant."

"Sounds like a gross understatement but fine," he relents. He places the hand not holding his briefcase against his abdomen and bows his head slightly. "I'm Minghao, from—"

"Minghao?!" you shriek, voice bouncing off the marble walls of the elevator. "Minghao from Accounting, Minghao?!"

He just barely subdues an amused smile and nods. "Yes. That would be me."

You fully turn toward him, tuck your tablet under your arm, and grab his hand with both of yours, shaking enthusiastically.

"Oh!" he startles a little.

"Oh my god, I have heard so many things about you," you inform him. "Your work on making filing taxes a never-ending form of torture was so impressive."

"Why thank—"

"I mean, making it so that every single box on the return references another form they're not sure they even have? Genius!" He grins wider as you shake your head in astonishment. "And that exercise at the soul intake window? The one that forces all new damned souls to do the math and figure out how many lives they could have improved if they hadn't carried out every, single bad decision they've ever made—is it true that was your idea?"

He blushes the way only a humble mastermind like him would. He coughs over another laugh and nods. "Ah yes, my first-ever contribution to Hell. I was just an intern back then."

Your mouth makes a small o at that piece of information you hadn't heard prior. "Wow. Truly remarkable."

"Not as remarkable as getting His Infernal Majesty to start an entire department dedicated to building a torture chamber specifically meant for the day that one, orange American arrives in Hell," he shoots right back, inspiring a roll of the eyes from you.

"Oh please. Bare minimum. Any respectable Hell would've already had one."

"Okay. How about creating Hell's first-ever paid holiday?" he points out, raising his eyebrows like he's suggesting it's something you can't refute. He doesn't know you, though. You can refute anything you set your mind to.

"That was more so I could have a day off than anything else."

"Still no small feat."

You shrug, not having much to say to that. If the demon is committed to complimenting you, you're not going to stop him. It takes him clearing his throat and pointedly staring down for you to realize you're still holding his hand in a handshake that's been long over.

"Oh god!" you exclaim, releasing him. "I'm sorry! Didn't mean to hold you hostage. I just got a little excited. You feel like some sort of celebrity."

"Is that so?" Minghao asks, pursing his lips to keep his smile from getting ant larger. "You know, Y/N, I've heard quite a lot about you myself."

"Like what?" you laugh. "I'm really good at annoying the archangels?"

He tucks the hand you released into the pocket of his slacks, and you take a moment to observe just how elegantly out of place Minghao is in Hell.

Every demon you've met here has an enchanting and almost uncanny beauty about them, which is probably mandatory for the job if they're meant to lure humans to Hell. But Minghao doesn't ooze chaos and destruction the way the others do. He doesn't have a frenetic energy that almost vibrates off the surface of his skin and threatens to suffocate you. He seems too mature for that. There's something ancient about him—not unlike Junhui.

"Actually, yes," he confirms, chuckling. "But I've also heard about your very attentive and kind nature."

You look up at him, mortified. "Someone down here called me 'kind'?" You don't take it as an insult, but you know depending on the demon who used that word, it could very much be meant as one. "Who was it? Was it Jeonghan? Because if so, you should know that the other day, that fucker voluntarily beat the shit out of the vending machine until it released my Snickers bar. He's the 'kind' one!"

Minghao laughs freely now and shakes his head. "No. No, it wasn't Jeonghan…" The way he says it makes it sound like he's in on some joke that he has no intention of filling you in on. You narrow your eyes at him, but all he does is smile that disarming smile. "I speak with His Infernal Majesty quite often."

"Oh," you utter, the anger in your posture deflating. "Jun said that?"

He smirks now. "In his own very cagey and obliquitous way, yes."

"Obli… quitous…"

He nods. "Roundabout. Indirect. Honestly, a little bit of a ramble."

"Oh okay. Obliquitous," you repeat.

He nods. "He's right. You're very endearing."

"'Endearing'?" you repeat, even more mortified than you initially were. "He called me 'kind' and 'endearing'?" Your mouth drops and you dazedly bring your tablet back to your chest as the elevator approaches your floor. "Does he hate me?"

Minghao coughs suddenly, waving a hand when you ask him if he's okay. "I'm fine. Just, uh, breathed down the wrong tube. Anyway, all I meant to say was I've heard a lot about you and you seem to be doing a great job. Hell is lucky to have you."

You feel heat rising in your cheeks. and you try your best to accept the compliment, nodding shyly. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from the demon that singlehandedly audited God's spending and actually succeeded in cutting her budget." You frown. "Actually, kind of rude of you. Stop silencing women."

He scoffs then. "She started it." Before you can ask what he means, the elevator dings a few floors below yours, and he sticks his hand out. "Well, Y/N, it was nice officially meeting you."

"You too. Don't go telling people I'm kind, though. I have a reputation to maintain," you grumble, slipping your hand into his and shaking it once more.

"I won't, promise. Just a quick one this time," he laughs, looking pointedly at your joined hands as the doors slide open. "Maybe we'll have more time for you to hold me hostage again another day."

You snort. "I'm—"

"Oh? And what do we have here?"

Junhui stands at the open doors, and even though his words come out light and easygoing, his face is so carefully blank, you're actually not sure you've ever seen him so expressionless. For whatever godforsaken reason, it drives a horrible chill down your spine and right between your legs. And for the first time in a while, you're reminded of what your doctor told you.

Arousal. You immediately rip your hand out of Minghao's, step away, and avert your eyes from your boss's prying gaze.

"Jun!" Minghao greets him happily, a mischievous lilt seeping into his voice. He's officially the first demon you've ever heard call the Devil by his name. "I've finally met your incredibly lovely business manager."

You quietly groan at the title, your face turning even hotter. You feel Junhui's eyes boring holes into your forehead as you busy yourself with the black marble under your feet. Very shiny.

"Hm."

"She's every bit as charming as I expected her to be," he says, confusing you because you're sure you were the opposite of charming. In fact, you might have been borderline embarrassing with the never-ending handshake and all the unsolicited fangirling. He steps forward, making to leave the lift but turns to you one more time and smiles. "Y/N, it's been grand. If you're free next week, I'd love t—ungh!"

Minghao stumbles back as Junhui yanks him by his collar, shoving him away roughly before he can barrel into your boss. He replaces the man in the lift next to you and shoots Minghao an icy glare, who has his own displeased frown on his face.

"She's busy," Junhui answers for you. "And come to think of it, you are too." His subordinate raises an eyebrow at him. "I want a report of how many improved lives the damned souls have counted at the intake window this week, complete with their full names and a brief summary of how their lives would have improved."

Minghao balks at him now, the elegance replaced by sheer disbelief. "We get millions of souls a week."

He finally smiles, but it's all kinds of wrong. Like a predator smiling at food. "I told you you'd be busy."

"Oh come on, dude, it was a joke!" he complains, scratching his scalp violently in irritation. He's also the first demon you've heard call the Devil "dude."

Junhui laughs, cold and forced, even bending over and shaking his shoulders as he does. He points at Minghao as he does. "Good one!" He stops immediately, his glare returning. "Get to work."

The doors slide closed, and the space is engulfed in silence as you rise toward the top floor, where both your and Junhui's desks await. You fidget in the wetness of your underwear, and you decide you will be sifting through that list of therapists when you get home.

"So. Business manager, hm?"

Your eyes widen. "I did not call myself that. He pulled that out of his ass! In fact, you should ask for two weeks of metrics as punishment!"

Junhui hums again but says nothing else, forcing you to exist in the discomfort of whatever just happened.

DAY SIXTY-FOUR

"What's this?" you yawn, rubbing one eye with a knuckle as you sleepily stare at the familiar red glimmer of a contract floating above your bed, where Junhui just woke you up for the day.

"Updated employment agreement," he huffs, turning away from you to leave your room. "Hurry up and sign it so we can get going."

You read the gist of it, scoffing when you finish. You sign as requested before getting ready for the day and meeting Junhui in the kitchen for breakfast and coffee like you always do.

"So. Chief of Staff, hm?" you ask, trying not to let on how pleased you are about your new title.

His cheeks turn a light pink as he shrugs, refusing to look up at you from his phone. "Business manager is a dumb fucking title anyway."

You grin, taking your seat at the kitchen island as he puts his phone down and begins pulling you an espresso shot. "Agreed."

He finally turns to look you in the eye, and when he sees you're serious, he smiles. A real one this time. He extends a hand to you, and you shake it, that same hot sensation taking over as your new deal is cemented in Hell.

"Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thanks, boss."

"Hm."

DAY SIXTY-SIX

"Hi, Minghao. Here for your meeting with Jun?"

"Sorry, so so crazy busy, cannot talk to you ever again, even if it's just a harmless fucking joke," Hell's accountant grumbles as he speed walks right past your desk and allows himself into your boss's office.

You frown, turning as your gaze follows the demon to the chair across from Jun, who simply slouches back in his seat, a smug grin on his face as he stares at an irritated Minghao. His eyes slide to you and his grin just widens. He winks and you turn back to your desk, blindly picking a therapist and making an appointment.

DAY SEVENTY

"So. Therapy, huh?"

It takes everything in you to keep from bolting out of the office. You sink deeper into the plush couch in an attempt to keep yourself grounded. The silver lining is that you're within proximity of God. She is walking these very halls as you breathe. That's it, though.

Heaven is entirely too bright and white and polite and full of talk about the weather (how much can someone talk about clouds?), and you would rather be cleaning up Key's vomit back in Hell.

"Yup," you answer, popping the p.

"And what compelled you to pick me?"

"I didn't. It was like… a blind box of therapists."

"And I'm your therapist Labubu?"

"Yes, Joshua," you sneer, rolling your eyes at the archangel, who's nestled into the armchair adjacent to you, his massive wings tucked in around him like a comfy cocoon. "You're my therapist Labubu."

The archangel nods, his expression surrendering nothing. "Okay, well, you can choose someone else if you're uncomfortable, but I'd like to let you know that should you remain my patient, anything you tell me will be kept between the two of us, and Satan will never have to know."

"What makes you think this is about Jun?" you ask, voice rising and heart rate spiking at the implication that he knows you're here because of the devil.

"I don't," he assures you, doing a fantastic job of not looking at you like you have two heads the way you would have anyone else. "Since our paths cross professionally, I just want you to know that everything that is said here will not leave this room. In case that is a concern for you."

"It's not." It is. It very much is. Junhui meets with Joshua at least once a week. He is the last person who needs to hear about your clammy hands and soiled panties.

"Okay, good."

"Great."

"So do you want to discuss why you're here?"

"No!" you shout suddenly. His eyebrow twitches—the closest it gets to a frown. He still succeeds in keeping his face neutral.

"Alright," he says easily. "We don't have to talk about anything in particular. Is there something you do want to talk about?"

"I… um," you stammer, stopping to chew on your lower lip.

You didn't notice Joshua was even on the list of therapist recommendations when you chose blindly. Why would an archangel be moonlighting as a therapist serving both celestial bodies? Does he not have enough responsibilities liaising between God and Junhui all hours of the day? Or managing idiots like Brayden?

"Why are you a therapist?" you blurt.

He smiles. "I've always liked listening to people and helping them through their thoughts and feelings. So I started with just Heaven. Then, my archangel duties took me to Hell, and I figured I'd expand my services."

"So you just have two jobs?"

"A few more," he admits. "I have many interests."

"And this is not a conflict of any of those interests?"

"Oh, no, it very much is," he confirms, nodding. "We just don't care here. There isn't exactly an abundance of therapists for our hundreds of thousands of angels and demons to choose from. So. We overlook some things."

"Right."

"Again, you're free to choose someone else if you'd like. I can give you a list—"

"No lists!"

He purses his lips and nods. "Okay." He lets the silence sit for a full minute before he finally asks, "Are you feeling alright? You're jittery today."

You exhale through your lips and nod. "Yes. I'm fine. I just… wasn't expecting you to be here."

He nods. "Fair. How long have you been with us now, Y/N?"

"Uh, three months soon," you say, unsure if that's even correct. Your mind is so foggy.

"Wow, time really flew, huh? Feels like there isn't an angel or demon who doesn't know who you are."

"I don't know about that," you refute, shaking your head. "I just have to talk to a lot of people on behalf of Jun."

Joshua nods. "Yes, I imagine you do. Well, either way, you've been doing a really great job. We notice it up here too; since you've arrived, things have been going very smoothly."

It makes you feel proud. "Thank you. I've been having fun."

"Good!" he says, sounding genuinely pleased that you like your job. "Plus, Satan has been in a much better mood these days. Less annoying."

You clear your throat to stop yourself from having a cough attack. You nod but say nothing else.

He smiles. "He's been a good boss?" You nod again. "I know the way you were… hired was a touch unconventional. Does it bother you at all?"

You shake your head. Other than the occasional jibe that Junhui kidnapped you, you wholly view your station in Hell, ironically, as a blessing.

"That's great to hear," Joshua says despite not actually hearing anything. "You fit very well with all of us despite being human. Do you feel at home?" You nod. If he's tired of your nonverbal answers, he doesn't show it. "And are you making friends?"

There's Soonyoung, who is determined to die at the hands of his boss because he never leaves you alone. There's Jeonghan, who frequently comes by to run his ideas for torture by you. There's Jeongyeon, who lets you cut all the damned souls whenever you want water and gives you all the best gossip. Junhui. Junhui, who has become the best of all your friends. You talk to your human friends less and less these days, giving you even less reason to visit your apartment on Earth. You're very much making a life in Hell. And you like it.

"I like it here," you murmur.

"What do you like?"

"Um," you start to rifle through the things that come to mind. In the end, you rattle them all off without much thought. "I like my home. Jun making breakfast. I like my work. I like being around people. My friends. I like Jun's pets."

Joshua shudders, and you stifle a laugh at the thought of all the stories Junhui has told you about the archangel's encounters with Lock and Key.

"I, um, think I enjoy it more than I did my life on Earth," you admit, feeling a little embarrassed to.

"Why do you say it like that?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"Like what?"

"Like you don't want to say it at all."

You shrug.

"What was your life like back on Earth?"

You snort. "I was a bartender at a nightclub. I had a good amount of friends. My parents were absent, but you know that." He nods, giving you a comforting smile.

"It sounds like you had a nice life back on Earth."

"I guess." He makes you sit in the silence again, just softly smiling at you even as you start to feel awkward, picking at the nonexistent lint on your pants. When you can't stand the silence anymore, you tell him, "It was quiet."

"Nothing wrong with quiet."

You correct yourself. "Lonely."

"Ah," he nods. "Why were you lonely?"

"I lived alone. My friends were 'just for fun' friends—people who only hit me up for a good time or to get into the club for free. I didn't really know my coworkers much beyond covering shifts for each other. I was just… living day to day. I felt like if I disappeared, no one would notice." You pause and laugh a little as you come to the realization in real time. "No one did notice. I've been gone for almost three months, and no one has tried to see me outside of a night at the bar."

Joshua studies you carefully, and he must see something because he doesn't speak, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you continue.

"I can go for weeks without hearing my own name. If I didn't have the job I did, I think I could go for months without talking to anyone at all," you tell him, feeling an uncomfortably prickly feeling behind your eyes.

He hums, nodding. "How about now?"

You shake your head. "It's the complete opposite. I hear my name all day. Demons randomly check in to talk about nothing. They invite me places. They ask how I am. Jun always has ghost pepper chips stocked at home. He brings me to Earth to watch a movie I mentioned or visit a place I miss. I went to the doctor's early one morning without telling him, and my absence was noticed immediately. I feel… I feel… I don't know how I feel."

"Wanted, maybe?"

The word punches a hole through your chest. You inhale deeply. "Yeah. Wanted. I feel wanted. Like I matter here. Like…" There's suddenly a knot in your throat and you recognize too late that the prickly feeling are your tears fighting for release. "Fuck."

You turn away from Joshua and wipe at your eyes, mortified to be crying in front of your boss's colleague.

"Here." A tissue box prods at your knee and you take it without looking at him.

"Thanks."

"What's going through your mind?"

You press a tissue to your eyes, and when you're certain you won't start sobbing out of nowhere, you face Joshua once more, crossing your arms and driving your back into the couch as far as you'll go.

"I was just thinking that I feel like I belong somewhere. Like…" You clear your throat and roll your eyes at yourself. "Like, if I disappeared, someone would actually miss me."

"Someone?"

You look up at him, finding that same, neutral, unjudging face. He smiles at you encouragingly, and you only understand now why Joshua is a therapist. He's fucking good at it. You told him you didn't want to talk about why you came here, and now you're doing even worse—you're talking about the real reason why you came here. The reason you weren't even consciously aware existed. Because the truth is, you feel like if you disappeared right now, there isn't anything Junhui wouldn't do to make sure you made it back home. And you've never had that.

Your doctor had it right. It's not so much the things about Junhui you find attractive. It's the fact that you feel like he cares. He cares deeply—enough to want to provide a safe space for you.

"I don't know, this is dumb."

Joshua raises his eyebrows at the sudden retreat back into your shell. "Why do you think so?"

"I'm crying because people notice I exist," you scoff, shaking your head at the ridiculousness. "It's pathetic."

"No," the archangel insists, correcting you gently but firmly. "It's not pathetic. It is innately human—actually, it's not even human. All creatures crave that. Demons and angels included." He adjusts himself in his seat, the feathers of his wings ruffling as he does. "Have you ever thought about the possibility that it isn't that you're crying because people notice you exist? That maybe you're crying because for the first time, existing doesn't feel like something you have to justify?"

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, before, your existence seemed to hinge on how fun you could be to your friends or how useful you could be to your coworkers—things meant to justify why you should matter to them, right?" You don't answer. "Well, here, you get to experience what it's like to simply… exist, period. You don't have to do anything other than be exactly who you are here, and people still care about you. People still want you around. You don't have to offer anything to feel like you belong." He pauses to let his words land before he eventually asks, "Is it possible that's why you're crying?"

Your tears slide down your face quickly, one after the other, and you groan, plucking several more tissues out of the box and burying your face into them.

"Fuck, you're really fucking good at your job, you motherfucker," you practically wail into your hands.

"I think this has been a very productive first session." His voice is so smug.

"Yeah, I bet you do!" You're met with the melodic chuckles of an angel.

DAY EIGHTY-ONE

You think you're being much too obvious that something fundamental has changed inside you. Junhui watches you carefully these days, a little more than usual.

The man has taken to waking you gently in the morning, simply laying a warm hand on your shoulder and squeezing instead of ripping your blankets and eye mask off. He also lingers a little before going to the kitchen, asking how you slept and if you feel okay. He tells you to take your time in the mornings, blocking out the first few hours of his day so the two of you don't have to rush into work. Throughout the day, he'll poke his head out of his office and ask you how you are, and on more than one occasion, he's forced you on a break to walk with him or even visit Earth for a meal. And weirdest of them all, he cooks dinner for you. He only knows how to do hotpot, but it's still surprising to you.

It isn't that you aren't grateful for the gentle treatment; you love it, actually. You think it's the most regulated your nervous system has ever been in your entire life. It's that now that Joshua has helped you identify how badly you crave stability and safety and unconditional love and care, Junhui's change of pace is inspiring dangerous feelings you don't think you ever learned how to properly feel in the first place.

"Why are you being so nice?" you blurt out over the table.

He looks up at you from the belt of revolving sushi he had been relentlessly staring at. He's been pulling all your favorites without being told, never missing a single plate that crawls by even though you're pretty sure you can't eat anymore. Junhui doesn't answer right away, taking his time watching you like he always does. And usually, that's fine. Today, you fidget uncontrollably.

The Devil shrugs. "I told you. I'm capable of kindness."

You roll your eyes. "Stop. You know what I mean."

"Maybe I don't."

You glare at him before glaring at the restaurant around you pointedly. The restaurant he whisked you away to for lunch in the middle of the day despite having a packed schedule of meetings. Meetings he had you cancel for him.

He smirks, unashamed of being caught so blatantly lying. He reaches for the spicy tuna, popping it into his mouth and leisurely chewing, not-at-all in a rush to answer your question.

"You're being weird."

"Am I?" he asks around his food. "Why do you say that?"

You don't want to have to say it out loud because how do you even explain to your boss that his behavior is weird because it's making you feel valued? "You just are" is the genius answer you settle for.

He sighs when he finishes swallowing, putting his chopsticks down and leaning back. "You've been visiting Joshua a lot."

You nod. It isn't a secret you've been seeking therapy. But try as he might to get you or Joshua to tell him anything, everything else about your appointments has—thankfully—remained a secret.

"Can you blame me if I'm concerned that you've visited a therapist three times in the last 10 days?" he asks, glowering at nothing in particular.

You snort. "Therapy is good for you. You should try it."

"I'm a million years old," he spits your most-used hyperbole to describe everyone in Hell back at you. "I have been in and out of therapy before therapy was even a word." You raise your eyebrows at the admission. "Don't look so surprised." He smirks when he quotes you, "Therapy is good for you."

"Well, I'm fine," you tell him. It's the truth. You're more than fine; you're happy. Your appointments with Joshua so far have revealed that much. Now, you're just sifting through the confusion of being employed by someone you've come to think of very fondly. And that someone doesn't need to know that. "You don't have to worry."

His smirk fades, and he leans forward, openly staring at you as he does. "But I do worry. So that can't really be helped, hm?" You open your mouth, but he doesn't let you respond. "Are you happy?"

You make a surprised noise at the question, but when he sits in silence, waiting for your answer, you nod quickly. "Yes, Junhui. Of course I'm happy. I'm not seeking therapy because I'm unhappy."

"Then, will you tell me why you are seeking therapy?"

"That is sensitive information you shouldn't be asking about!" you admonish him, feeling your cheeks heat up at the mere thought of telling Junhui why you needed an appointment in the first place.

"I'm the Devil. I can ask whatever inappropriate question I want," he grumbles. When that doesn't work on you, he sighs. "Fine. But you promise you're okay?"

It makes your heart want to burst. "I promise. I am very happy."

He smiles a little at that. "And you promise if that changes, you'll let me know?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes. I will let you know. Is that all? Your weird behavior was just you being worried?"

He shrugs but says nothing else. That "weird" behavior you love so much doesn't stop even after Junhui seems to accept your assurances as truth, and you're secretly glad for it.

DAY EIGHTY-NINE

"Congratulations on completing your probationary period."

"Junhui, can you hurry up?" You complain as you open an email invitation requesting his presence at what is essentially Hell's Met Gala—except instead of fashion, they appreciate their own torture methods. "I have, like, 20 Ouija Board calls to screen."

"Please put your tablet down for one minute so I can give you your first performance review."

"Hold on."

He barks a singular, disbelieving laugh but allows you your one moment as you respond "Yes" to the invite. You also make a note to have him fitted for whatever ridiculously attractive outfit he wants to wear to what you've now decided to call Hell Gala. Something with abs showing, you note.

You saw his abs a total of one time. You had woken up early for once after Lock had pounced on your chest and scared the ever living shit out of you. Unable to go back to sleep, you made your way to the kitchen to find Jun dialing in the espresso, nothing on aside from black silk pajamas hanging for dear life on his hips. He'd turned around and made the most interesting noise as he flinched in surprise. You couldn't even make fun of him because your eyes zeroed in on the muscles rippling across his torso. You didn't expect your boss to look like a chocolate bar. And if it were you, you would go everywhere shirtless. You're not sure why he doesn't, but you should probably be glad you don't have that distraction to worry about.

You pucker your lips in thought before adding an extra note: Probably wants to wear black, but let's float the idea of hot pink.

You lock your tablet, rest it against your lap, and smile widely at him. "Alright. Ready."

"Thank you so much for gracing the King of Hell with your attention," he grumbles as he turns to his right. A screen materializes—a shimmery red that displays what you know is information about your performance.

"You're very welcome, Junnie."

He shakes his head, muttering things under his breath before he starts.

"You are a very effective employee," he starts monotonously. "You do your job very well, you have made life very efficient, and the demons all love you. Well, as much as a demon can love, I suppose."

You think it's the Soonyoung-shaped conscience you've unfortunately developed that prompts you to ask, "Can demons… not love…?"

Jun frowns at the question. "They can." Relief, curiously, is the first feeling that washes over you. "It just takes an insane amount of time. Probably more time than it's worth. Y'know… bloodthirst and a general craving for chaos can get in the way of other feelings sometimes."

You snort. "Right."

"Now, let's go over some of your big wins and room for improvement." He reads off the screen. "Big wins: everything you've done thus far… improvements… none." He narrows his eyes as they slide to you.

"Amazing!" you exclaim, clapping and moving to stand. "Thanks, boss! I'll continue doing an impeccable job and get back to screening those c—"

"Sit."

You squeak in surprise as the chair behind you jerks forward, forcing you to fall back down on it. You gasp in disbelief. "What was that for?!"

"I don't know, going into my computer and messing with your review notes, for one? How did you even get into this? It's literally in my mind." He pauses momentarily before muttering, "You're going to make a fantastic demon, it's infuriating."

You roll your eyes. "Why do we even need to do this? Since when have you cared about performance reviews?"

"Demon Resources insisted I at least do your 90-day probationary review so they have it in their records. For what, I do not know, and I do not care. But they did just have a record quarter with their torture retention, so I will give them this one thing as a reward."

You groan. "I have so much work to do!"

"I'm your boss. I say you have no work right now, so you have no work right now. Sit still, let me review you, and this will go faster than it currently is with all of your interruptions!"

You sigh, annoyed that you find his rising voice attractive. "Fine."

"Big wins!" he shouts, emphatically shoving his sleeves up his forearm and leaning toward his screen, glaring at it as it deletes what you'd written. It begins writing new notes as he speaks. "Since your employment, scheduling conflicts have decreased by 96 percent."

You smile smugly.

"Thanks to your help, we've able to hit all our targets on pace, and several demons and department heads have personally reached out to me to tell me you've helped them a great deal."

Your mouth drops open in delighted surprise. "Like who?"

Junhui scrolls for a little. "Ah, here it is. Jeonghan said, 'Thanks for letting us use Y/N for the latest brainstorm on our automated torture project. She's insane and her contributions were better than my useless demons.' Insane used positively, of course."

"Of course," you agree, grinning. "Go on."

He gives you a flat look.

"What? If you're going to review me, you should tell me these things, no?"

"Don't let 'em get to your head, darling," he murmurs, oblivious to how the pet name now makes you squirm. He reads on. "Seungkwan said you're a 'joy' to work and talk shit with." He cocks an eyebrow at you. "Should I be worried?"

"I have never talked shit about you, Junnie."

"Hm." He returns to the screen. "Minghao said—" He cuts himself off, his expression turning dark immediately as he reads on without reciting it.

"What?" you ask. "What did Minghao say?"

"Nothing," he says, skin turning a dark pink as he scrolls back to where he originally was. "Anyway, like I was saying, your contributions are very valuable." He doesn't let you get a word in, barreling on so you don't have the space to. "You do a fantastic job negotiating contracts during summonings. In fact, you would do very well in Contracts and Collections once you're a demon in case that option interests you."

You find that it does and lean forward. "As in, I would only do summonings?"

He hums a yes. "And debt collection. You'd take lower-level calls that don't explicitly ask for the Devil."

"Ah, so no longer with you."

He hesitates but ultimately shakes his head. "No." He takes a deep breath before reminding you, "Your time with me will be complete once your human life ends. You'll be free to do as you wish once you're a demon."

"What if I want to continue being your assistant?" you ask, frowning.

Jun looks confused. "Why would you want to continue being my Chief of Staff?" he asks, subtly correcting you.

"Why wouldn't I…?"

The question stumps him.

"I like this job," you say when he remains silent. "Who knows, I might change my mind since I have quite some time before I die, but I really like doing this."

"Sure, but enough to do it… forever?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You know, you're lucky I'm in this role because you would never be able to sell it to anyone else." He continues staring at you blankly. "Yes, I would not mind being your Chief of Staff forever."

Your boss's stare is relentless, and you're almost convinced he managed to completely dissociate while you were talking. After a long, painstaking silence, though, he finally speaks, and when he does, you wish he hadn't.

"That's not a good idea," he announces, leaning away from his computer. The screen disappears altogether.

"Huh? Why not? You just said I'm a very effective—"

"The agreement explicitly states that employment will end upon your human death," he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His Adam's apple bobs a few times, and you kind of want to punch it because of how annoying he's being right now.

"The agreement doesn't say anything about me not being allowed to continue working the same role after, though."

"I don't care what the agreement says."

"You're the one that just referenced the agreement!"

"Don't care. I say it's a bad idea."

You glare now. "It's fine if I'm doing it to escape the debt of my asshole parents, but once I actually have the autonomy to choose to work for you, it's suddenly a bad idea?"

Jun exhales slowly. "It's not like that. But even if it were, I'm within my right to choose when it is and isn't 'fine.' I'm literally the—"

"The Devil! We fucking know!" you shout in frustration. Junhui's face settles into an eerily calm expression as he watches you with slightly narrowed eyes. "You're the Devil and you get to do whatever you want—I know. I also know you're never going to find someone better than me for this job."

"That won't be your concern once your contract is over."

You feel a horrible tightness in your chest. Of all the feelings you had been sorting through in therapy, you never considered that fear should be one of them. You never stopped to be afraid you could lose any of this; in your mind, this was eternity. This was it. You exhale a single laugh and shake your head.

"I did do something wrong, didn't I?"

"What?" He tilts his head at you, perplexed.

"When you were sick. I did something wrong." His face falls at the mention and you know you've hit the nail on the head. "Right? That's why you were giving me the cold shoulder, and that's why you're saying I shouldn't work with you anymore once I'm a demon." He doesn't answer, his eyes coming down to his desk as he thinks back to his bout of the Demon Flu. "So what was it? What did I do? I can't properly apologize until you tell me."

"You didn't—"

"Bullshit." He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at you, but it doesn't scare or deter you. "Did I cross a boundary? Maybe I shouldn't have entered your room or helped you eat or… whatever it is you're mad about—"

"I'm not mad."

"—but if that's why you don't want me to be working under you anymore, that's a dumb reason! You love me being your direct report!" you insist. The tips of his ears turn a bright red and he can't meet your gaze, eyes flying about the room. "And I know you would love to have me as your Chief of Staff forever! Now tell me what I did so I can apologize!"

"I have to go to Earth for business," he says abruptly and stands.

"No, you don't. We have 45 minutes left of this stupid review you wanted to do so badly. So review me. Tell me what's so wrong with me being your Chief of Staff."

"I will be back late."

"What?" you ask, voice coming out small and helpless as all of your stubbornness is immediately forgotten. "How late?"

"Not that late," he walks his words back immediately, shaking his head frantically and waving his hands to retract his statement. "Actually, not late at all. Sorry. Uh, I'll be quick. I'll be home before you go to sleep. I just—I'm—yeah, I need to go."

"Junhui, what the fuck is—" He disappears without another word, nothing but red flecks of light and dark smoke in his wake.

DAY NINETY-FOUR

If you thought what happened the week following Junhui's Demon Flu was bad, you were wrong. Because this time, it isn't even fully a cold shoulder, which you can stomach since that's an obviously petty response to something. No, this time, it just feels like you've been put in a box, forbidden to interact with Junhui at all. You hardly see him anymore, and when you do, it's only brief glances as he makes his way to whatever next meeting he scheduled himself. You haven't added anything new to his calendar in days.

You know what you did wrong; you pushed on a boundary that, although he never verbally expressed, he had still drawn clearly. You pushed and pushed and pushed, and he snapped, and now everything that has to do with you makes him uncomfortable. And it deeply hurts your feelings.

You just wanted to keep being his Chief of Staff after death. You thought that would be a good thing—flattering, even. That in your death, you would still choose to sit outside Junhui's office, answering his phone and fielding calendar invitations and spending time with someone who felt like the first real friend you had in ages. Not someone who thought you were a fun time out, or someone who liked that you got discounts at the bar you worked at, or someone that only ever talked about themselves and never cared to know anything about you. But an actual friend.

And that's probably where it all went wrong anyway. Even the Devil understands professionalism. You have no business being friends with your boss. You're his roommate, and that's already so questionable on so many levels. Now that you've had all week to think about it, you recognize that your insistence that you stay his assistant is just another symptom of your fear of being left behind. The Contracts and Collections role didn't sound bad at all until he confirmed he wouldn't be with you. Then, it sounded like the dumbest job in the world.

Junhui could probably sense your desperation for friendship—for his friendship—as you pressed him for an answer during your probationary review. And of course that would be weird and uncomfortable. You put him in an awkward spot, and now you have no idea how to properly apologize, especially because you're still not confident you wouldn't still fall to your knees begging to keep this stupid job once you die.

What has your life come to?

"I don't know, what has it come to?"

You jump, turning to find Soonyoung entering the mail room again. You sigh, putting the fan letter to Jun you were failing to comprehend and respond to back down on the desk.

"I don't know," you mutter. "Sorry, didn't realize I was talking to myself."

He raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, no sarcastic quip? What's wrong?"

You look around. Save for a pair in the corner raiding the supply closet for packing tape to wrap a damned soul in, you and Soonyoung are alone in the room, and you've gotten to know the demon well enough that you think sharing some of your woes with him wouldn't be so bad.

"I have bad abandonment issues."

He freezes for a moment before dumping the packages he came in with into a random cart and taking the seat next to you. "Damn. That's heavy."

"Yeah."

"Parents or a bad ex?"

You snort. "Parents. I've never even been in a relationship."

"Oh. Do you want to talk about it?"

You shrug. "I have a therapy appointment soon."

He laughs, looking at you like you're silly. "Okay, that's nice, but you can still talk to a friend about your feelings. You don't have to wait to see your therapist."

Soonyoung turns his body to face you fully, propping his chin in his hand and giving you all his attention.

"C'mon. Tell Soonie all your woes. I'm listening."

Normally, you'd probably slap him and shove him away, telling him to leave you alone unless he has stories to share about his hot Earthling witch. But you've been sensitive about your review and Junhui's switch-up on you, so instead, you start to weep at the extended kindness.

"Oh!" Soonyoung squeaks, panicked. "Oh devil, don't cry! What's going on?" He scoots his stool closer to yours and wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Hey!" he calls to the other two demons. "Get out of here! We need the room."

They oblige, shooting you worried glances as they scurry out with arms full of packing tape.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly once you're both left alone in the mail room.

"I had my performance review," you tell him, sniffling. "And it was going well, but then—but then, Jun said he doesn't want me as his assistant anymore once my contract is over."

"Huh?" The demon sounds as confused as you feel. "Why not?"

"I don't know!" you wail, startling him a little. "He wants to transfer me to Contracts and Collections once I die! He got so weird and… and… cagey about it, and he just left without having a proper conversation! And he hasn't talked to me since then!

"He doesn't wake me up. He leaves breakfast and coffee, but he doesn't wait for me to go to the office with him. He schedules his own meetings. He doesn't ask me for anything, not even hot pot. He hasn't talked to me—hasn't even looked at me!"

Soonyoung's palm starts to rub circles into your back as your crying becomes more and more hysterical.

"It's like he suddenly hates me!" you hiccup. "And I know that maybe I haven't been the most p-professional because I—I treat him like too much of a friend or a roommate or, or, or—whatever. But I thought we were friends. If he felt like I was crossing boundaries, why didn't he just say that?! He doesn't need to… to transfer me!"

"Hey, it's okay," the demon says soothingly. "He doesn't hate you. Anyone with eyes knows he doesn't hate you. Even the damned souls who've had their eyes gouged out know it. That can't be why he's transferring you."

"What else would it be?!" you shriek. "I kick ass at my job! My performance review said as much, anyway!"

"Why don't you just… ask him?"

"Because he won't talk to me!" you repeat, the words sending your forehead forward until it meets the desk with a thunk. Soonyoung makes a startled noise, his hand hovering over your slumped figure hesitantly. "And I'm scared."

He freezes, a shit-eating grin growing across his face. "You're scared? Of the Devil you swore wasn't scary?"

"Oh fuck off!" you wail, your tears making it impossible to see.

"Okay! Sorry! Sorry! Bad time!"

"What if I talk to him and he just fires me? Then, what? What happens to me? Where do I live? What do I do? Who will care if I'm not there one day?"

Soonyoung inhales sharply and says your name softly. "Do you really think no one else would care if you just… stopped showing up?" he asks, no judgment in the question. When you don't answer immediately, he assures you, "Because we would. We all would. You don't have to stay in that position or be around Jun 24/7 for somebody to care about you."

Your eyes widen at his use of your boss's name, but he doesn't panic or take it back or start stuttering out of fear like you think he normally would. Instead, he just shakes his head at you, brushing your hair out of your face and catching a tear with his knuckle.

"When you become a demon…" he says quietly, "you'll have your own living quarters in any part of Hell you want. You can even move into the lot next to mine. And if that's still not close enough to a friend, you can just be my roommate. Though I have to warn you that I sleepwalk sometimes and have been known to stab a stuffed toy or two during one of the spells."

You stare at him, mouth agape at the idea of Soonyoung stabbing you in his sleep.

"And if you really do get transferred somewhere else, then you'll be transferred somewhere else," he says nonchalantly, shrugging. "You'll get a new job, you'll kill it at that one too, and you'll continue to live your life down here with all of us. We'll keep torturing souls and hiding away from our jobs in the mail room and all the fun things we do now."

You feel your breathing start to slow. "You'd still be my friend?"

He grins. "Wait—" he takes his phone out. "Can you repeat that? I need to record it. What did you just call me?" You roll your eyes and slap his phone out of his hand, ignoring his gasp when it bounces on the table. "See, despite this behavior, yes. I will still be your friend."

"But do you think Jun would be? Do you think he'd have anything to do with me if I weren't working for him?"

"Mmm, it's not about the position, is it?" he asks. "It's about him." You stay quiet, ashamed of the implications of your answer. Soonyoung doesn't tease you or judge you or tell you that whatever it is you're feeling is wrong. He just sighs. "He loves you."

You frown deeply at the words, but the demon is too busy staring at the wall absentmindedly to notice.

"I can't see a world where he wouldn't want to stay your friend. You're the best assistant he's ever had, and he likes you enough to keep you as a roommate. And create a holiday for you."

And get angel cake for you. And decorate the kitchen for you. And take you to Earth whenever you feel like it or he thinks you need it. Constantly ask after your health. Make sure you eat three meals a day even though he needs to be reminded it's time to drink blood and eat organs. Trust you with things he's never told anybody else. Never let you be alone in the house at night even if he's ignoring you because he must know by now how much you hate it.

He's meant to be the most despicable creature in the universe, and he likes you enough to be soft for you.

"Oh my god," you murmur, pushing yourself up off the desk. "You're right."

"Yeah. I usually am."

"Don't push it."

"Fine."

"But… if he doesn't want to fire me, what reason would he have to transfer me out?" To get you farther away from him.

Soonyoung looks at you in amusement. "He may be the Devil, but everyone feels afraid of something." He shrugs. "He's probably scared too."

DAY NINETY-EIGHT

The last person you expect to be in Junhui's office when you barge in is a woman so blindingly beautiful, it makes you want to rip your own eyeballs out of your head and stomp on them for ever having the audacity to look upon her. She's seated across from him, with perfect hair and perfect posture and a perfect manicure and a perfect aura that seems to pulse and glow around her.

"Y/N!" she exclaims, gasping and standing. "I've heard so much about you." She throws Junhui a look before she walks over to you, a stupid and perfect smile on her stupid, perfect lips. "I've been wanting to meet you for quite some time, but I think Jun here has been hiding you from me. Worried I might poach you." She leans in and theatrically whispers, "I can totally make that happen, by the way, if you ever want to cross over to the light side."

"Y/N, meet God," Junhui sighs, waving a hand at the woman. "God, Y/N."

The revelation overshadows the fact that that's the first thing Junhui has said to you in days. You gasp so loudly, your boss flinches, and your eyes widen, quickly darting between the two. "God?! Is that you?!"

"In the flesh!" she says cheerily, brushing her hair behind her shoulders and grinning with all her perfectly white teeth.

"Oh my god—I mean, uh—oh my—holy shit—I mean, what the fuck?!" you stammer. "I've been wanting to meet you since I heard you were a woman."

She laughs and the sound is like choir bells softly ringing in the distance. "Of course I'm a woman. They would never put Heaven in the hands of a man."

"Oh my god—shit, sorry."

She shakes her head. "You can say it. I don't care."

"Oh my god," you say again just to say it. "You're so beautiful. I've literally never seen someone more beautiful."

"Okay, this is ridiculous." Your boss goes ignored.

"What's your skincare routine?"

"I use the tears of incels as my toner."

"Ugh, duh, of course."

"Y/N," Junhui says your name in a way that reminds you he's been busy pretending to hate you all week. "Is there a reason you're barging in here, interrupting my meeting without so much as a knock?"

"I'm going to head out," God announces, smiling. "Y/N, let's get coffee sometime."

"She's busy."

"No, I'm not!" you deny immediately. "Coffee would be amazing!"

"Splendid. I'll have my assistant reach out. See you soon then." She turns to Junhui and raises her eyebrows at him, and when he rolls his eyes but nods anyway, you wonder if they can communicate telepathically. She disappears, leaving nothing but dove feathers and white petals in her wake—both of which dissolve before you can lean down and pluck either off the ground as a keepsake.

You exhale, the rush of meeting God leaving you quite breathless. After a few moments, Junhui clears his throat exaggeratedly, gesturing for you to get on with whatever you rudely barged in here for.

You step forward, taking a seat where God just was. "Wow, God was just sitting here," you mutter. Junhui doesn't entertain you with a response. "Um. Hello."

"Hi."

"Why are you ignoring me?" you ask.

"I'm not," he denies it. You stare at him but he doesn't offer you anything else. He knows he doesn't have to explain himself to you, of all people.

"You are."

"I'm busy. That's all. So if you don't mind…" He tilts his head toward the door of his office. You stay right where you are.

"Are you not going to admit things are weird?" you ask, giving it one last shot before you try your best to make your boss near-homicidal. "That the best thing for the both of us is for me to stay here, as—"

"You don't know what the best thing for me is," he cuts in, face too blank for how cold his words are. "I've been alive longer than you can fathom, and I've fared just fine. I don't need you pretending you know what's best for me."

"You're being cruel, Junhui," you say, squeezing your hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

He smirks. "Yeah. Well. Welcome to Hell, darling."

You have no idea what happened in the last week—what could have caused Junhui to switch on you so fast—but it's clear to you now that you're not going to get an honest answer out of him with civil conversation.

"I've been thinking," you say, trying not to lose your nerve as you lie through your teeth. "If we both know that our time is limited and that you'll release my employment as soon as my contract is over, then maybe we should terminate my contract altogether. Maybe you should just… send me back to Earth."

He freezes, that blank mask falling over his features again. "Repeat that?"

You swallow. "Maybe we should—"

"And why the fuck would I do that?" he snaps before you can do as he asked and repeat yourself. "Your employment replaces the eternal servitude your parents were indebted with. Terminating now, a measly three months into your contract, would not benefit me."

"According to our termination clause," you say, begging your voice not to shake, "I'm under no obligation to deliver the equivalent of eternal servitude at the time of termination. The only requirement for termination is my natural death, the collapse of reality, or a mutual agreement."

"None of which you have," he hisses. "Because you sure as hell don't have my agreement. Now if you're done being a nuisance—"

"The fourth option was a legal challenge by three cosmic authorities and one archangel."

His eyes narrow at you, without a doubt hearing your negotiation voice through your nervousness. "You're aware that the only cosmic authorities are me and God, right? That the inclusion of that in your termination clause is a trick meant to present you with the illusion of choice?"

You scoff. If you were serious about terminating your employment, you'd be seriously pissed.

"I don't know why you keep needing me to remind you who I am," he says, his words landing sharp around the edges. You have no idea why he's so angry, but it's giving you more courage to do what you need to. "It's my job to be deceitful."

"Okay, let's try something new then," you say through gritted teeth, smiling tightly. "I'll remind you who I am. To answer your question, yes, I'm aware that you think the only cosmic authorities are you and God." His eyebrow furrows at the distinction. "So while you were busy throwing a tantrum and ignoring me all week, I have been studying. It turns out there are quite a few authorities I can choose from."

You see it clear as day—the panic that briefly flashes across his face before he schools it back into that careful mask again. His fingers grip the arms of his seat tightly as his eyes search you for some sign that you're bluffing.

"I happen to know a witch," you explain. "She communes with Pagan gods—a number of which she has assured me would be happy to uphold a challenge on my behalf."

"Pagan gods have no authority in Hell," Junhui's voice is low and dangerous, and you think if you were someone he liked even just a little less, your head would already be rolling right now.

"I'd imagine that has no bearing since the clause says 'cosmic authority,' not infernal authority," you point out, delighted when you catch his eye twitch. "But if that's your argument, I have another back-up."

"Wow. You really thought this through, didn't you, darling?" he asks, glaring at you. "So eager to be rid of me?"

"You've reminded me so many times who you are," you say simply. "I wasn't going to bring a knife to a gun fight with the Devil."

He hums in mock amusement, seeming more devilish now than you've ever seen him. His eyes flash a deep red. "Cunning little thing. Fine. I'll play along. Tell me about this back-up of yours."

You smile. "There's no higher authority than the Devil and God."

"Glad you agree."

"Except for the deities that made them."

He stares at you for so long, you'd assume he malfunctioned in any other scenario. You don't know how much time has elapsed when he asks, "You called my mom and dad…?"

You grin. "Yes! With the help of my witchy friend. Very lovely—your parents. Your dad took a little convincing, but with the help of your very understanding mother, we were able to secure his agreement to help." You shrug. "So with all of these options, I'd say I have more than enough authorities to legally challenge my contract."

"Wrong," he seethes. "You also need an archangel, and if God wants to avoid the guarantee of me absolutely decimating Heaven, she will be smart to advise her little, feathered flies to stay far, far, far away from you."

You purse your lips. "Well, that makes this a little awkward because Joshua has already agreed to—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

His voice causes a sort of sonic boom in his own office as he stands and slams his hands on his desk. You shriek as your hair is blown away from your face and the marble under his hands fractures into several hairline cracks. The Devil disappears, reappearing at your side and yanking your seat violently away from his desk. You gasp at the motion, the sound of it getting caught in your throat when Junhui hinges at the hips and cages you in with a hand on each arm of the seat. You're almost nose-to-nose as he speaks.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, hm?" he asks, his eyes bright red now. "Do you really want to do this with me right now? Because I'll fucking do this."

"Do what, Junhui?" you ask quietly.

"If you think you can leave me before I say it's okay to, you're so mistaken, it's pitiful," he tells you. "I own you. Do you understand? I own you. You belong to me."

"No I don't!" you protest weakly. "We specifically negotiated that when I first came here! It's in my—"

"I do not care," he accentuates each syllable, his voice drenched and dripping in so much venom, it shuts you up. "You think I need words to make you mine?" he barks a laugh out at the thought.

For the first time since meeting him, you truly see the Devil now. You think you understand why the others are so scared of him sometimes. Unfortunately, you don't quite have the same survival instinct they do, because all this does is make way for that familiar ache low in your stomach to return.

"Your contract is binding. If I have the means to leave, then—"

"Oh, baby, I'll have you chained up at home faster than you can ask any of your so-called gods for help," he informs you, snickering as he does. You squeeze your thighs together uselessly. It does nothing to alleviate your pain.

When the sound of his laughter dies, he takes a slow, deep breath, his exhale brushing up against your lips. He clicks his tongue in disapproval as his eyes sweep your face, his face deceivingly soft even though he looks like he's ready to eat you alive.

"I fear I've given you the wrong impression of me," he says quietly, one hand coming up to trace the side of your face as his gaze follows his own movement. The ache inside you grows nearly unbearable as he drags his finger down your cheek, across your jaw, and to your throat. "I'll admit it, though. It is my fault.

"I was nice to you. I cooked for you. Made sure you were happy. Safe. I gave you all my time. All my energy. And now you think because I care about you, that I'm also going to play nice. That I'll play fair, and I'll stop being the Devil."

One by one, his fingers slowly and delicately wrap themselves around the front of your throat. His gaze comes up to meet yours when he feels you swallow under his palm, and whatever he sees just makes his eyes glow a brighter red. He smirks.

"But you've got it all backwards. It's because I care about you that I'm going to play dirty. I care about you more than I've cared about any damn thing in my life," he says, stealing your breath away. "And you think I'd let something as trivial as our fucking signatures keep me from you?"

His grasp goes from your throat to your cheeks, and he squeezes, bringing you right back to the first night he appeared in your apartment.

"I'll tear that contract up right now, Y/N. I don't care. I'll keep you here anyway. You don't get to change everything about my life and then decide to leave it, darling. I don't care how ugly it makes me. I don't care if you think I'm a monster. I don't care. You're going to be here for fucking ever."

You glare at him, wriggling your face until it's free of his hold. He snorts, bringing it back down to the arm of your chair. "So you don't want me to leave."

He narrows his eyes at you. "I barely want you out of my sight. Why would I want you to leave?"

"God, was that so fucking hard?!" you shout, planting both hands on his chest and shoving him away from you. He steps away, clearly baffled as you stand and put space between the two of you before whipping back around. "You want me here! You want me to stay! You want me to be with you!"

His cheeks turn pink even as he looks at you like you're losing your mind. He doesn't confirm it, simply staring at you as you breathe hard at the realization that you and Soonyoung were right. Junhui is scared to lose you. If this isn't a man as equally terrified of being without you as you are of being without him, you don't know what is. It's just infuriating that he could only communicate that once you pretended you were set on leaving.

"I want to be here too," you say breathlessly. "I love it here so much. I love being here. With you. I love being with you. I…" You swallow hard, shaking your head. "Junhui, I love you."

He doesn't move a muscle, doesn't say a word—doesn't really show any sign of life, really. But you force yourself to keep going.

"I'm not even sure what to do with all of it because I've never felt this before. I've never cared like this before either. And if you're being honest… if you care about me too… then I'm confused.

"I don't know why you're trying to push me away. Why you're trying to make me go somewhere else, or have to be without you. I don't know why you want me to leave when my contract is up. If you need space, then say that. But… don't cast me out. Don't make me be without you," you plead pathetically.

You don't register that Junhui is walking toward you until you're done speaking and he's already reaching you, stopping when you're toe-to-toe. There's a split second where he seems to give you the chance to take everything you said back, but it passes too quickly for you to even fully register. Because his patience snaps and his large hands cradle your face, walking you backward until your back hits the wall. You find that he's taken the both of you back home, and you're in his room, pushed right up against his door.

He looks like he's committing your face to memory as one thumb runs across your bottom lip, before it pulls it down enough to open your mouth. He inhales sharply when you take it in, eyes fluttering closed as the warm saltiness of his skin hits your taste buds. He presses his thumb into the center of your tongue, dragging it out of your mouth and groaning at the obscenity of your spit coating his digit and dripping down his wrist. He lifts his thumb off you and you look up at him through your eyelashes, swallowing as you do.

"I wasn't trying to push you away. I'm sorry—I was—I'm…" He falters, unsure where to start. "I don't want you to be without me either," he finally says, voice husky as he stares at you like you're actively torturing him. "I need you. I need you so badly, you have no idea."

"Show me."

Without waiting another moment, Junhui leans down, and his mouth is on yours, hot and commanding as his hand snakes around the nape of your neck to bring you impossibly closer. His other hand comes to your waist, balling your shirt up and squeezing like he's fighting the instinct to tear it off.

You let your body give into its own instincts, kissing him the way it tells you it needs to and grabbing him wherever it wants to. You swear it feels like you spent your whole life doing this. Like you've never done anything other than kiss Junhui senseless. His tongue prods your mouth open, and you surrender, giving him entry to any part of you he wants.

You moan, sighing into it when his tongue meets yours, licking into your mouth so fervidly and getting you so burning hot, you're half worried your body is actually catching on fire.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers as you break away for a breath, not missing a beat as he starts leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

"Junhui," you gasp, "if you stop, I swear I'll find a way to fucking kill you."

He chuckles against your skin, the mere feeling of his breath causing you to roll your hips into his. He groans at that, roughly pressing his already hard dick against you and pinning you to the door completely. You whimper, immediately trying to create friction on your clit but finding that you can't move under him.

"Be careful, darling," he warns you, his voice vibrating through his chest and into yours, where you're pressed together. "You don't know what you're playing with."

"Please," you whine, throwing your head back and sighing impatiently. "Please, please, please. Need more."

"Ugh, sound so pretty," he grunts, allowing just enough space for him to fit his hand between you and unbutton your pants. "So needy, hm? What do you need, darling? Tell me."

He brings the zipper down, his pointer finger resting against the bare skin right above your panties.

"Need you."

"I'm right here."

"Touch me," you beg, trying to roll against him. He flattens his palm against your stomach and keeps you in place, smirking when you whine in frustration. "Please!"

"Mmm," he hooks one finger into your panties, running it back and forth teasingly. "So impatient." He slips his finger in further, making your breath hitch. "You should know by now…" he whispers, finally slipping his hand down your panties. "That I'll give you anything…" He cups your cunt, holding you steady when the sensation makes your entire body jerk. "Anything you ask for."

You gasp and grip his shoulder tightly as he parts your folds, running two fingers through them and collecting your arousal before he presses your clit firmly.

"Oh fuck," you breathe, head tilting back against his door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Junhui."

"Fucking love it when you say my name," he confesses in a broken whisper to your ear, massaging you too slowly. You look up at him, dazed and convinced you'd collapse to the floor if he stepped away from you. He watches you with hooded eyes and a lazy smile. "Will you say it again for me, darling?"

"Junhui," you near cry, gasping when he rewards you with faster, harsher circles. "Junhui, I—"

You squeal as you're suddenly bouncing back in his bed, his tall frame towering over you as he kneels between your legs. You didn't anticipate Junhui using his Hell-given abilities while fooling around, but you find it useful, wasting no time sitting up and whipping your shirt off your body before reaching for the buttons on his and undoing them clumsily.

You're not even through all of them when you shove the fabric off his shoulders frantically, unable to help yourself as you giggle at the sight of a topless Junhui in bed with you. Before you can bring your hands to his bare skin, his fingers circle around your wrists, stopping you.

You look up at him to find him looking at you with wide eyes and parted lips.

"Are… are you okay?" you ask, unable to ask if he changed his mind. You don't think you'll be able to recover from the embarrassment of your eagerness if he's suddenly changed his mind.

He squeezes your wrists, absentmindedly bringing them to his chest and holding them there. You press your palms against his hot skin, exhaling when you feel his steady heartbeat underneath your fingertips.

Junhui utters your name so softly, it almost sounds like a hallucination. You look back up at him, and you're floored by how much reverence he looks at you with, his eyes searching you with an almost panicked energy—like eternity isn't enough time to spend looking at you. You melt into his grip.

"Junnie?"

"I, uh," he starts, licking his lips nervously. "I'm right there with you… I don't know what to do with everything I feel either. It's so—" He swallows. "It's so much. And I've never felt like this."

You swipe your thumb across his heartbeat, giving him an encouraging smile and nod as you wait for him to think through his thoughts. He exhales.

"I can't promise to know what to do at every turn," he admits. "I know I've already messed up. But… I love you too." The side of his mouth twitches up into a brief smile before it opens again to speak. Nothing comes out for a moment. Then, he says it again. "I love you. And you'll never be without me. Never."

You bring a hand to cradle his face, the grasp he has on your wrist sliding down to hang loosely from your forearm. He leans forward to rest his forehead against yours.

"Junhui," you murmur. "Are you going to show me?"

He nods, smiling as he starts to crawl over you until you're pressed flat against his pillows. He reaches down to kiss you, licking, sucking, and biting as he does. Then, he starts making his way down, mouth leaving marks in your skin as he does, and you're too busy getting lost in the pleasure of belonging to someone to protest the hickeys. You know you'll be mortified later, but right now, the thought of everyone seeing what Junhui did to your body makes you so unbelievably wet, you squirm underneath him.

"Junhui," you breathe, hips bucking up into his. "I, um—oh fuck."

His fingers hook into your pants and your underwear, shoving both down as he bites your collarbone. He runs his tongue across his marks before he sits back, pulling your clothes off your legs and tossing them aside carelessly and leaving you naked from the waist down. He rests his hands atop your thighs, massaging the flesh there as he stares down at your pussy, his eyes growing so dark, they're nearly black.

"Perfect," he whispers as he drops to his stomach between your legs, hooking each over his shoulders so he can get as close to you as humanly possible. "Tell me I can. Please."

His eyes don't leave your glistening cunt as he pleads, groaning when you clench around nothing because the ache is threatening to kill you at this point. You nod frantically.

"Ye—" You're cut off by your own gasp because that's all he needs.

He surges forward, his tongue lapping at your clit like he hasn't eaten in ages. You struggle to keep your hips still, your mind reeling as you experience something you never have before. How did people do this? How did people feel this good and keep from completely falling apart in someone else's hands? Because you think you might die tonight. You think you might die right here, in Hell, with the Devil's face pressed tightly against your cunt as he drinks you up.

He holds your legs open, groaning as he licks stripes up your folds, his tongue leaving no part of you unexplored.

"Junhui," you moan, hand slipping into his hair and pulling uncontrollably. The vibrations of his groans against you make your toes curl, and you think you're edging closer and closer to this imminent death. "I'm… I…"

"What is it, baby?" he sloppily speaks against you, refusing to let his mouth completely leave your pussy. He travels further down, until his tongue is poking into your hole, gently massaging its way in until his cheeks are practically welded to your inner thighs and his nose is buried in your folds.

"Holy shit!" you gasp, hips rolling on their own in rhythm with Junhui's tongue as it licks and thrusts into you. "Oh… oh my god… Jun… Jun, I… I… so good. It feels so good…"

He pauses for only a moment to tell you, "Come on my face, darling."

There's no time to respond before his tongue is inside you again, and the words alone are enough to push you toward what you thought was death and realize now was your orgasm. Your fingers close in a fist around Junhui's hair, your other hand gripping his sheets like you'll float right out of your body if you let go.

The noises that leave your mouth are noises you've never made in your life, and they just make Junhui move more aggressively—more desperately. Just before he retracts his tongue, he breathes you in deeply, his hips grinding into his bed as he groans at your scent.

"Jun!" you shriek, mortified as you shove his head away. It doesn't go far; after all, you aren't very strong compared to the literal Devil.

"You smell divine," he informs you, licking the entire length of your slit and taking another deep inhale. "You smell like you're mine. Taste like you're mine."

You whimper at the nearly overstimulating sensation. He lifts his head and when you meet his eyes, you flinch and it makes him smirk. The dark of Junhui's eyes had spread while he was between your legs, and there's no longer any white left of them.

"Are you scared?" he asks, his voice powerful and guttural. Almost wild. He crawls up over you, head tilting as he stares at you and waits for your response.

"No," you say truthfully. You writhe under him, hands reaching for his naked torso. He leans back before you can touch him, though, obviously amused when you're disappointed. "Jun."

"Hm?" he hums, clearly distracted as he's turning his attention back to your pussy. He takes two fingers through your folds before he brings them to his mouth, sucking hard and tilting his head back with a hedonistic moan. "You're delectable, baby."

You breathe hard, even as all you do is lay there, watching the man you've managed to fall in love with in a handful of months taste parts of you no one else has and now never will. It does something to you—knowing that he's consumed a part of you. That you're inside the Devil.

"Mmm, I'm part of you now," you whisper. He lets his fingers fall from his mouth and when he brings his head back down, his black eyes pierce right through you.

"Does the thought of that please you?" he asks, bending down to lick and nibble at the flesh of your inner thigh. You're too busy squirming to answer the question. "Do you like thinking of us as one?"

"Yes, Junnie," you sigh. "Oh my god, yes."

He smirks, two fingers slipping into you without much resistance after he's already made you come. "Do you want a part of me too, darling?" You mewl as he spreads his fingers, scissoring you open leisurely. "You can have my fingers…" He shoves his fingers into you until he's knuckle-deep, pulling a cry out of you before he starts curling his fingers into a spot that has you seeing stars when you squeeze your eyes shut. "You can have my mouth… my tongue…"

"You," you gasp. "Want you."

"Hm. Maybe soon… if you can give me another one," he tells you, fingers moving faster. "Do you think you can give me another one, baby?"

You nod, murmuring incoherently, no idea what you're even trying to say. Your body starts to move on its own, trying desperately to meet Junhui's fingers with so much fervor, you're sure his knuckles will leave you bruised. You don't care, not when you're so close.

"One more." Junhui's voice is suddenly at your ear, his tongue darting out to catch your lobe and suck. You let out a hysterical keen at the two sensations working together to bring you to your second orgasm. When you get there, the feeling pulls you under, and you officially lose yourself in the Devil's bed.

It feels like free-falling through the dark, nothing but the sound of Junhui's praise reminding you where and who you are.

"That's it, baby, that's it," he growls, his fingers becoming frenetic as he pants above you, hips grinding against you. "Oh, you're doing so good. You're fucking perfect."

"Need it," you gasp, finally blinking your eyes open as you register the rock hard body part pressed into your thigh as Junhui's cock. "Need it, please. Please."

You press Junhui away from you, holding your breath as his fingers slip out of you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, letting the straps of your bra fall off your shoulders. Junhui's black eyes drop at the movement as he brings his fingers into his mouth again. His eyes seem to roll into the back of his head momentarily, and you get chills only seeing more black. Once he's swallowed your slick, he leans over you, arm immediately coming up to wrap around your torso. His fingers make quick work of the clasps of your bra, popping it open easily and tossing it aside the same way he did your other clothes.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he whispers, chanting the word over and over again as he dips down to take your nipple in his mouth.

"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat when you hear how raspy your voice sounds. He hums but continues circling your nipple with his tongue. "Junhui, hold on."

He immediately releases you, head snapping up to look at you. You watch as his eyes return to normal, allowing you to see the concern in them upon hearing your request to stop.

"Are you okay?" he asks, pushing himself off your body slightly.

"No—yes! I mean yes," you say, laughing a little. "I'm okay. I just…" you reach up to trace the lines of his collarbone, into his pecs, and down his abs, feeling entranced and momentarily forgetting what you wanted to say.

"What is it, darling?" He reaches up to massage your breast and you let your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm… I've uh, never done this," you admit.

He freezes over you, and you open your eyes, a little panicked that he's about to stop before you get to the good part—the part you desperately need. But he looks down at you fondly, a small smile on his lips.

"You've never done what?" he asks teasingly.

You glare at him. "Junnie, please."

He laughs. "I'm just kidding, love." He bends down to catch your lips in a quick kiss.

"I like that."

"What?" he asks, leaning back to look at you once more. "'Love'?" You nod sheepishly and he grins. "Mmm, 'love' it is."

The two of you kiss for a few minutes, just enjoying the feeling of your tongues sliding against each other and your hands caressing each other's bodies. When you start bucking up into him again, he breaks the kiss and presses his hips to yours to stop you from moving. You groan in frustration.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "That you want to… do this? With me?"

You nod. "Yes. Yes. I've never been surer. Are you—"

"Don't even," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. You bite down a giggle. He sits back on his heels, unbuttoning his pants, and your heart leaps into your throat.

You sit up along with him, crawling onto your knees and gently pushing his hands away as you undo his zipper. When his slacks and his underwear are off, your throat suddenly feels dry as you wonder if there's enough room inside you for him.

"Oh my god," you breathe.

"C'mere," he says softly, taking your hand in his and guiding you until you're straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist and hugging you to him. You wrap your hand around his cock between your bodies, pumping a few times before you press it against your clit for you to grind against. "Fuck."

You moan in agreement, your movements growing frantic as you chase the friction, your slick coating the underside of his cock until Junhui is near whimpering underneath you.

"Are… are you ready?" he asks, hand tracing gentle shapes into the skin of your back. You nod quickly.

"Yes, yes, please, I'm ready."

He untangles his arms from you, one hand planting itself on the bed behind him to support the two of you and the other finding yours and intertwining with your fingers. He guides you to lean your weight into your joined hands as you rise onto your knees to line his cock up with your hole.

"Take it as slow as you need to," he reminds you, leading your hand to his shoulder and wrapping his arm around your waist once more. "It might hurt a little at first. We can stop at any point, okay?"

You shake your head. "No, not okay."

He smirks but it quickly falls off his face when you start lowering yourself, the head of his cock sliding into you with ease at first. It quickly meets resistance, though, your muscles tensing at his size.

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He doesn't complain, simply leaning forward to leave gentle kisses across your collar and shoulder. He doesn't hurry you, either, saying nothing when you have to pause for a minute or two to adjust to his size. Between the kisses he leaves on you and the caress of his fingers, you relax enough to let him in inch by inch.

Then, finally, he bottoms out, your hips meeting with the delicious feeling of his balls resting against your ass.

He groans loudly, touching his forehead to your shoulder. You cradle his head, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of being full.

"You're so big," you whisper.

"Mmm…" he hums absentmindedly, the hand on your back pressing flat against you like he needs you even closer than you already are. "Breathe, baby."

The command is the only reason you notice you're holding your breath. You try to exhale, struggling with the feeling that if you do, Junhui's dick will quite literally split you in half.

"Breathe…" he coos soothingly. "You're fine, love, you're fine. Just breathe… take your time."

You don't know how long it takes for your abdominal muscles to relax around the feeling of Junhui inside your guts. When you do, though, you know it's okay to move from the fact that breathing finally comes easily to you again.

"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat. "I want to move now."

"Go ahead, baby," he says, nodding. "I've got you."

He supports you, holding you with so much care as you start with rolling your hips to ease yourself into the feeling of him moving inside you. It's only a few more movements before you're lifting yourself off him and coming back down, the drag of his cock inside you pulling moan after moan out of you.

You bring both palms to either side of Junhui's face, tilting his head up. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, his pupils vibrating erratically like there's a battle happening inside him. You take shallower thrusts to reach down and connect your lips to Junhui's, eagerly swallowing all the whimpers he makes.

Then, when you break apart, foreheads resting against each other, you look into his eyes and tell him, "Let go, Junhui. Let go for me."

Whatever is happening inside him comes to a head, and the black of his pupils start to seep into the brown, and into the white, spreading until his eyes are a bottomless abyss again. But Junhui's pleasure knows no bounds now, and the perimeter of his room also goes up in white hot blue flames. As his moans get louder, the fire pulses, growing and climbing up the walls and across the ceiling but never burning through anything or getting anywhere close to you.

You groan at the thought of you and your cunt being the cause of this burning loss of control the Devil is experiencing, and it suddenly isn't enough. You tilt your head up, eyes barely focusing on the rippling blue flames dancing above your heads as you lift yourself almost completely off him before crashing back down. The room is a cacophony of skin meeting skin, desperate gasps for air, and whines for more.

"Oh, fuck," Junhui curses, leaning back onto the hand on his bed to support himself as he starts to thrust his hips up to meet yours each time you come back down. The flames ferociously lick every surface of the walls.

"Junnie," you gasp when his movements start to get rough, the feeling of being split open no longer scaring you and suddenly becoming a sensation you're actively chasing. "Feels… feels so good."

"You feel fucking amazing," he tells you with a broken moan. "Made for me."

You nod desperately. "I was." You ride him easily now, smiling when you notice him watching your tits as they bounce in his face with every thrust. "Was made just for you."

"Fuck," he whimpers, the glow of blue fire illuminating just how much he enjoys that. "Say that again. Fucking say that again." His grasp on your waist becomes bruising and it makes the burn in your thighs tolerable as you slam down on him repeatedly.

"This pussy was made for you," you tell him, the words followed by a scream when Junhui suddenly turns the two of you over without warning, leaving you no time to adjust as he starts thrusting into you so fast and hard and violently, you're immediately rendered boneless.

"That's fucking right," he grunts, taking both your hands in his and holding them above your head as his hips piston mercilessly. "Just for me, huh?" You nod wildly. "Your first and your last."

"Junhui!"

He kisses you then, his mouth hungry and impatient and sending an electric sensation straight to your cunt. Almost like he knows what's happening underneath him, he starts grinding his pubic bone hard over your clit to drive you even closer.

"Jun…" You squeeze your eyes shut and your nails carve half moons into his hands. "I'm going to… I'm…"

"Me too, love," he breathes. "So close…"

"Please," you beg, though you're unsure what for. Junhui seems to know somehow because he nods at your pleas. "Please, baby."

"Gonna fill you up," he promises. It isn't until he says that that you realize that's exactly what you're begging for. "Is that what you want? Wanna be pumped full of my cum?"

"Fuck, yes. Yes."

It only takes two more thrusts before your thighs are clamping around his torso hard, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back as you come. Your walls spasm and suck him in, demanding more of him even as you hug him as close as possible with your legs.

He grunts loudly, fucking you through your orgasm for only a few seconds more before his own hits him. The fire roars and the room is bathed in blue. "Take it, baby," he nearly shouts when he comes inside you. It feels never-ending as he fucks his own cum deeper and deeper into you. "You want it, take it all."

"Junhui," you whimper, feeling him beginning to spill out of you when his cum has nowhere else to go. "No, no, no, no. Please." He hums in question. "Keep it in. Keep it… keep—"

The flames slowly fade to red, calming down to a gentle flicker that's more reminiscent of candlelight than the wild Hellfire used to melt flesh off the bones of damned souls. Junhui's thrusts come to a stop, and he makes sure to go as far into you as he can to seal his seed inside you. You sigh happily at the thought of being full of him.

"Thank you," you mutter, hugging him close. "Thank you."

He peppers everywhere he can reach with kisses—your face, your neck, your hair—careful not to move his lower body so you don't start whining that he's letting his cum drip out of you again.

"How are you?" he asks after he feels that you've caught your breath. "Are you okay?"

You nod. Okay is an understatement. You don't think you've ever felt bliss quite like this. Your body is so loose and pliant and relaxed, and you know it's because you've been so thoroughly and carefully fucked.

"I love you." It's the last thing you say before you unintentionally drift off to sleep.

DAY NINETY-NINE

When you wake up, it's dark and warm, and you've been cleaned and changed into your silk pajamas. You don't doubt that all happened with a snap of Junhui's fingers. You take stock of your body, wincing a little at the soreness between your legs and in your thighs.

"Hey." Junhui's voice is gravelly and thick with sleep. His arms follow close behind his greeting, tightening around your waist and pulling you until your back is flush against his chest.

"Hi," you whisper through a yawn.

"How do you feel?" He plants a kiss on your shoulder. "Does anything hurt?"

"Yes, but it feels good," you tell him honestly. "Really good."

"Good. Now come on. You need to eat."

You immediately shake your head. "No."

"Yes."

"No—hey!" Junhui suddenly disappears from the bed, leaving you without his arms wrapped around you. You shriek when the covers are ripped off you and the eye mask you didn't even know you were wearing vanishes, allowing the lights of Junhui's room to blind you. "Jun!"

"Food time," he hisses, hauling you up and into his arms.

You're seated at the kitchen island before you can register what's happening, a breakfast already cooked and ready for you. You blink at it.

"You cooked?"

"Of course I cooked. When have I not cooked you breakfast?"

You frown, realizing the only time he's ever left you without a meal in the morning was when he was sick. You just shared yourself with Junhui in a way you've never shared yourself with anyone, and still, this makes you blush furiously for some reason.

He smirks but doesn't comment on it. "Eat up, love. We have a lot to talk about."

And he doesn't waste any time, starting as soon as you've put away the last piece of bacon on your plate. The dishes disappear and he sits next to you, fully facing you and resting his arm along the back of your seat. He watches you carefully, a soft smile on his lips as he takes in every bit of you.

"Hi," you say pathetically.

"Hi."

"Thanks for breakfast. And… everything else. It was perfect."

His smile widens drastically, eyes raking over all the exposed bits of skin where he can see the marks he left on you with his mouth. Mercifully, he doesn't say anything about them. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me. For sharing that with me."

You blush furiously and look away, ignoring the way it makes him chuckle. "Okay, anyway, what do we need to talk about?"

"Ah. Your contract."

Your stomach sours. You'd forgotten that you two had never finished your conversation. You got so lost in Junhui—or rather, he got lost in you—it didn't occur to you that you still had things to discuss.

"It's important to me that you know I wasn't trying to make you leave," he mutters, reaching forward to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "I think I've made it quite clear how much I do not want you to leave."

You nod, trying not to fidget as you think about how much his reaction to the termination of your contract turned you on. "Well, then… so why do you want me to transfer out?"

"Because you were always going to be mine," he says simply. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"Presumptuous of you."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "So be it. But I knew. And you can't be mine if you work directly under me."

You bark out your laughter, looking at him incredulously. "You mean to tell me… you're willing to hold me hostage and chain me up at home, but you draw the line at fucking your assistant?!"

He purses his lips to keep from smiling at the mere mention of sex with you. He rolls his eyes. "Say what you want, but chaining you up and holding you hostage is kind of par for the course in Hell. Fucking your direct report, though—generally frowned down upon. You moving into another department upon your contract completion would take care of that for me. I just… didn't know how to communicate that without having told you how I felt yet.

"So... I kind of panicked and thought if I just stopped communicating at all, maybe that would quicken the process and you'd just want to transfer on your own sooner, then I could explain myself. I didn't anticipate you threatening to leave Hell altogether. But I can see why my behavior would make you feel like I wanted you to. I'm sorry for that."

You hum, nodding as you process this information. "See, this is why you need to go to therapy. You probably could've figured that out before I had a meltdown, sobbing to a demon in the mail room."

He frowns. "You cried?" You shrug. "And who the fuck did you cry to?"

You scoff. "You're such a jealous person."

"I am not jealous."

"You buried Minghao under so much work, the man won't even look at me anymore."

"Good. That's the point."

You roll your eyes but can't help the feeling of satisfaction that blooms in your chest at that. You'll never admit to him how much his possessiveness pleases you.

"I'm sorry again," he says. "For making you cry."

You shake your head. "It was a misunderstanding. I'm sorry for goading you into your own little meltdown."

He glares at you. "Don't ever do that again. I was this close to leaving you mid-sentence to go eviscerate Joshua. That would've been incredibly unfortunate." You raise your eyebrows at the understatement. "Did you really call my parents?"

You nod, smiling. "Yes. They're lovely. I didn't tell them anything, though. Just called under the guise that I was updating all of your contacts."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're insane."

"I didn't know how else to get you to admit you wanted me to stay."

Junhui sighs, cupping a hand behind your neck and reaching forward to kiss you like he needs to remind you immediately that he does want you to stay.

"Of course I want you to stay," he says as he releases you. "You don't want to see what I'd do if you left."

"I can imagine," you say, amused.

"You can't," he disagrees, shaking his head. The seriousness in his voice doesn't scare you, though. It just turns you on all over again. "But we won't have to worry about that. Right?"

You shake your head. "Nope. Not unless you randomly decide to push me away again." He groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder and sighing. "I'm kidding, Junhui. We're fine. Your ranking of what's immoral is a little skewed, but we're fine."

He raises his head and glares at you. "Chains in Hell are normal."

"Sure."

"Fucking your direct report is not."

"You technically just did."

He winces. "Well, that's what we need to talk about."

Your heart jumps. "What do you mean…?"

Junhui reaches over to hold your hand, threading your fingers together. "You're going to have to transfer before your mortal death, darling."

"What…?" you ask, crestfallen. "But… I…"

"Hey, hey, hey," he calls, standing and pulling your bar stool so that it's facing him. He pushes your legs apart so he can stand between them and take your face in his hands. "You're still going to live here for as long as you want. You're still going to see me as much as you want. You're still going to be mine, and I'm still going to be yours. You're not going to be without me, okay?"

Your breathing slows, the Devil effectively quelling your growing panic before it even becomes anything real. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah… yes. I'm still going to have you and my friends and my job and everything I love." And you're still going to have therapy to help you remember that.

He hums in affirmation. "Yes you are. You're going to have everything you've ever wanted and will want. I'll make sure of it."

Your cheeks grow hot and you turn in a weak attempt to hide it. But your face is still in Junhui's hold, so he guides your gaze back to his. He smiles fondly at the pink dusting your cheeks and bends down to press a kiss to both.

"I love you," he says, looking deeply into your eyes when he says it. "No matter where in Hell you are and no matter what role you're in. I love you and you have me."

You smile up at him, closing your eyes as you nod. You feel his lips touch your eyelids before they press against your mouth. He tastes like coffee and ghost pepper chips and you fight to keep from laughing in his face because of it.

"What?" he murmurs, feeling the amusement in your lips.

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I love you, Junhui. Now take me back to bed."

"Gladly."

DAY ONE HUNDRED

THE INFERNAL ADMINISTRATION OF HELL Office of Internal Communications Memorandum

Executive Leave

Please be advised that His Infernal Majesty and his Chief of Staff will be out of office on approved executive leave for the next week.

During this period:

Do not attempt to summon His Infernal Majesty for matters deemed "urgent" unless they are apocalyptic

Matters involving routine damnation, contract approvals, ritual inquiries, plague authorizations, and standard temptations should continue through normal channels

Ouija Board communications from minors should be redirected to and screened by the Community Outreach Desk

Please note that executive leave is not to be interpreted as an invitation to stage a coup.

Additionally, His Infernal Majesty would like to announce an organizational restructuring. Upon her return from executive leave, Y/N will transition from the position of Chief of Staff to Director of Contract Negotiations.

In her new role, Y/N will oversee:

High-value mortal negotiations

Executive-level contract drafting and review

Treaty negotiations with celestial representatives

Appeals involving legacy soul agreements

Cross-departmental bargaining strategy

Y/N will now report to the Chief Torment and Innovation Officer.

A message from His Infernal Majesty:

"Y/N has demonstrated exceptional judgment, professionalism, and integrity throughout her tenure as Chief of Staff. This move reflects not only her accomplishments, but the confidence I place in her continued leadership. She has my full authority in all matters pertaining to infernal negotiations."

Please join Executive Leadership in congratulating Y/N on her well-earned advancement and wishing both executives a restful leave. (Fun Fact: The last time His Infernal Majesty took more than three consecutive days away from the office, the Byzantine Empire still existed!)

We appreciate your patience as he attempts this exciting new experience known as "relaxing."

This memorandum has been reviewed and approved by the Office of Internal Communications and His Infernal Majesty.

You turned back, seeing Gojo looking at you, smile sly and gaze slightly dimmed, as if drunk on constantly flowing wine. You heard Zeus bickering with the God of Wine over his attempts to alcoholise everyone, but his voice alone wasn't quite clear either, with golden hair already slightly messy and white robes sliding down muscular shoulders.

"Aren't you just a womaniser?" You hummed, already seeing the glimmering bottom of your cup and Gojo pacing towards you. "Leave my nymphs alone, or I'll be the one listening to their cries about your mischievous promises."

He scoffed, sitting down next to you and clinking your cups together. "I've never promised them anything aside from having fun. None of them ever complained." He settled comfortably, a hand behind your back and a lone finger caressing your bare shoulders slowly, slowly. "Who are you taking home today, hm? You know I'm free if–"

This time, you scoffed. "Forget it," you took a sip, never asking him to keep his hands off you. It was nice. He was nice, but there indeed wasn't much chemistry between you two when it came to sex life. "We're not good lovers. Besides, a little dove whispered to my ear that you've been having an affair with a mortal," You stopped, glancing at him with a smile dancing in the corner of your lips. "A male mortal. Prince of Sparta Geto Suguru, from what I've heard. Such a beauty, isn't he?"

Gojo laughed quietly, his eyes following your cunning smile. "Isn't your birdie quite well-informed, hm?"

He seemed taken aback, almost wanting to hide his secret affair from the prying eyes of the Gods. But he didn't know that nothing could have been hidden from you, and little, white doves flying above the skies of the mortal world, maybe following him here and there if you were bored and amused enough to watch his secret romance with a Spartan prince bloom like a pristine flower.

"What? Getting jealous? I thought God was above it."

He snorted, eyes glued to something, someone, over your shoulder.

A dark figure, sitting quietly among the most powerful Gods, one of the three brothers ruling the three dimensions of this world. The "Unseen One", a grim and ghastly man, as if mute and solemn, always in the dark corners or ones barely flustered by candles' gentle tongues. Everyone knew he was there, but rarely glanced towards him, as if ignorance was the only way to handle one of the three most powerful Gods in all of Greece. The one having power over the domain so dark and eerie, mortals prayed to never meet him directly, as if bathing in Tartarus was more pleasant than standing face to face with him.

Hades.

"You also have an admirer, I see," Gojo murmured, while you looked back.

Your eyes met with panic.

Not yours, his.

He looked absolutely terrified, with a glance so flustered and lost, as if your attention alone was the absurdest and scariest thing he could experience. His stare escaped quickly towards his two younger brothers, before, just for a second, it slipped back to you again – your lips and breasts, wrapped tightly in pinkish robes and soft hair caressing your cheeks, reddened like a wine and flushed in a smile.

You indeed had an admirer. For a long time now.

"The oldest one, but also the most peculiar, don't you think? He looks a bit miserable." Gojo hummed to your ear, sitting so close you could feel his sweet breath on your ear. The man in the corner moved slightly, looking between you and the other God with a little frown and eyes so anxious, a small chuckle escaped your lips. "And so jealous!"

"You know, that you've just insulted one of the strongest Gods, right? Also, he has quite good relations with three sisters." Gojo shrugged his shoulders, as if a vision of his thread of life being cut didn't scare him in the slightest. But you, he, and every other God in this feast knew that if there’s anyone Gods and mortals should be the most polite and thankful to, it should be Hades.

Because what could be better than being on good terms with God of the Underworld himself?

"So that's why you haven't slept with anyone recently?"

You hummed softly but didn't answer.

And it was true that as a Goddess of Love, Beauty and Fertility, quite... a few lovers have stumbled through your sheets. All of them just for one night, with both mortals, heroes and demigods always wanting more, but never having a chance with a Goddess herself.

You also never wanted anything more from either of them. Never needed, but just a few gentle touches and charming words whispered to your ear, maybe a thrust one or two and a spasmic tremble of their body, while you were left quite satisfied but never fully.

Gojo was a fine lover, good even, but he was too, well, overpowering, you would say. Too confident, always in control, such a tease, with nymphs hanging off his shoulders and sheets dirtier than you could imagine. He was a fun person to be around and sleep from time to time if you were extremely bored, but… well. 

He didn't know how to handle you as a Goddess. Worship, like a plain mortal, so pathetically and desperately down on his knees, creaming all over his pants just from your one glance.

But you knew a man who could do it.

Because he was always there, in the night sky and quiet wind, within a soft flickering of the candle and moonlight coming to your chamber through a window. In the seeds of the pomegranates that were left in your temple – your attribute, a symbol of desire and fertility, almost as if he wanted to be noticed, let you know that he’s here and has been for a long time.

Hades, no, Choso, a God of the Underworld, barely showed himself up here in Olympus, almost always down in his realm of death. He wasn’t very social, if it was the correct way to describe his rare appearance during all the Gods' gatherings, be it a feast or holiday celebrations. 

He avoided every meeting as much as he could, but somehow appeared every time he knew you also would be there. And during the feasts, he would sit at the table for the highest and mightiest, but always keep himself in the dark, even if the sun shining upon Olympus couldn’t be any brighter.

You glanced at him once again, noticing little nods he gave Zeus and lips curling in a barely visible, timid smile, before he chuckled. And you could swear that softness of his voice was the reason your throat tightened around the swallowed wine.

You coughed, bringing his attention, a worried gaze, and a hand, almost, slightly reaching out to you, before he hid it once again in the wide sleeve of his dark robes.

“Isn't our beauty already drunk?” Gojo cooed, patting your back. 

Wine spilt all over your robes, leaving a dark stain on your half-bare breasts. Gojo chortled, his hand too touchy and too close to your lower back, while Zeus sighed deeply, almost disappointingly. It was hard to see him not disappointed in Gojo and all the troubles, orgies and affairs he was always getting himself into. 

Gojo was still patting your back before something stopped him. 

Someone. 

Choso stood up at some point and came closer so quietly, you didn’t even notice him leaving the table. Just a hint of greaminess filled the atmosphere, with hushed voices and faint whispers of the demigods and nymphs, glancing upon a looming figure bathed in darkness.

Your coughing stopped, but warm tongues of flames scratching your skin were suddenly dimmed by a tall man with dark hair touching his shoulders and cupping pinkish cheeks softly. Dark eyes, filled with so much concern it made your stomach turn, looked down at you, with surrounding them purplish circles, giving his handsome face even more earrines. Your gaze slipped to his long earrings swinging lightly with every step, one of delicate shell and the other of snake, so opposite to one another but harmonising so beautifully, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your heart.

But. Wait a second. 

Wasn’t a shell an attribute of–

“Here,” you heard a low voice, and the next second, a black handkerchief was extended towards you. “You can use it to, um, to clean yourself. It’s black, so i-it won’t leave a–“

Oh dear god. 

How pitiful he looked, with eyes running between your face and breasts, cheeks flushed in a cherry, such a contrast with his deadly-pale skin, and long fingers holding on to a handkerchief with a slight tremor.  

You were terrified to even think of the face you did at that moment, but Gojo's elbow brushing yours and his silent cough told you that your eyes may or may not have changed into two small hearts, beating furiously at the sight of the pathetic God standing right in front.

Gojo wanted to take black material himself, but Choso's gaze was so strongly fixated on your trembling figure (not with dreadfulness, but a desire you've never felt before!), he quite literally was afraid to break such a precious moment.

So he coughed again and stuck his elbow even harder, before you finally noticed a fair palm extended to you.

"Oh," you muttered, taking a handkerchief and wiping your dirty clothes immediately. "Thank you so much, my Lord."

He shrugged visibly, nodding his head and looking at your plush breasts, soaked in reddish wine and coated in your pink, almost transparent robes.

And you, as a Goddess of so many beautiful and fertile things, were mostly known for one thing – your sexual appeal. Greeks loved to sculpt your body almost naked, rarely dressed, but even if, always in skimpy robes and translucent garments. Some presented you wrapped in a golden girdle, a myth and a gossip going on around the mortal world, of the belt whose wearer could make anyone fall in love with them.

It was funny at first to even think that the most beautiful Goddess needed a mere accessory to seduce her admirers. But the gossip turned out to be so appealing, you decided to create such a belt and give it to Hera, for... well, seducing the highest and mightiest of all, of course.

But you've never used it yourself, keeping it only for your friends and demigods, maybe sometimes water nymphs, who used your accessories to play with mortals and some heroes. It was fun, safe and without any commitment.

But you?

Choso gulped, a droplet of sweat forming around his temple as his eyes couldn't leave your drenched skin, too bare and too soft under flushed material, to have every other God around see you in such an harmless state.

Maybe he was hallucinating or maybe not, but you stood up, slowly, confidently, with breasts almost falling from your already too skimpy robes. Knowing his eyes followed your body, you glanced at him with such a stunning smile and a hint of foxy craftiness in your glimmering gaze, he almost passed out.

Literally, because his knees gave out, and the long scepter was the only thing that saved him from complete humiliation in front of the whole of Olympus.

"I'll clean it and return, my Lord. Maybe you could give me a hint or two regarding navigating the Underworld, hm?" You said so quietly, he may have been the only person who had heard your honeyed voice.

He could swear it was as sweet as your body, which turned out to be definitely too close to his, spreading a fragrance of fresh roses and an ocean breeze, stuck to your flowing hair and velvety skin.

But how could a Goddess like you even think of going down to his grim and mournful domain, filled with nothing but eeariness and cries of descendent souls, left at his mercy. "No, my G-Goddess, you shouldn't–"

"I insist." Your voice was firm and touch even firmer, almost burning his creamy skin, when your fingers brushed his bicep and gripped it lightly.

Only now you've noticed a delicate, black stripe spread on his nose and rosy cheeks, almost hidden under the muted candle's light, but visible enough the moment you closed the distance, suffocating him with your–ah, too close, too close, too close.

"My Goddess, I'm afraid you're too–"

But how could he push you away when his body betrayed him so clearly? Your hand on his bicep, plump breasts almost grazing his dark robes and flushed cheeks raised to meet his furrowed brows, oh so lost in your sweetness and a soft giggle, which already sounded like the most graceful melody.

Saying he was tall would be an overstatement, but stating he was well–built would be a pure untruth – his muscles trembled under your small hand, but you could feel their sturdiness. You caught how tight the dark robe was around his shoulders and the way it perfectly fit his muscular back and veiny forearms, peeking from wide sleeves.

He clenched snowish fingers on a long scepter, looking anywhere just not at you.

And when you touched your wine-wet breasts with his handkerchief, it was over.

He couldn't handle it anymore, so he did what every other wise and powerful God would do in the presence of a lustful and most beautiful woman walking on this Earth – turned on his heels and ran away.

"I'm sorry, my Goddess, I need to–um, I truly need to g-go–"

And he went indeed.

With such a hurry and a shade of delicious apple you've never seen spread on his face before, the only thing you could do was stand still and stare at his broad back slowly going down from Olympus's peak.

"My, my," you've heard a whistle and a second later, Gojo stood next to you, with a face not much different from yours. Flushed, stupefied, maybe a bit more amused. "He really is a lost cause, hm? Maybe calling him miserable was an overstatement. He's the most pathetic God in this Pantheon."

You inhaled heavily, feeling a warmth coiling in your belly, so familiar but at the same time intense, you've tried to remember the last time it felt as pleasant as now.

Hm, never?

"You're wrong," Gojo glanced at you with a raised eyebrow. And his amusement was even higher when he saw this weird look in your eye. Delight? Lust? No, lo– "He's pathetic for me only."

Days were passing by, filled with responsibilities mostly.

You've spent your time on listetning to worshippers – young girls, future mothers, women praying to bestow them with fertility, couples wishing for productive sexual life – and devoted sunny afternoons to bathing in the warm sun dancing on Olympus.

It was your favourite time of the day, so the moment your feet dipped into the crystal water, a blissful shiver ran through your spine, soothing both mind and body with a delicate touch of the waves. Nymphs surrounded you like ducks, dipping their heads in the pool and chirping among themselves like little birdies.

Your open bathhouse sat at the top of Olympus, built encircled by creamy columns, growing tall as trees, scratching cotton clouds with a serene feeling of quietness.

Small stairs led directly to fresh water, warmed by gentle rays of sunlight and glimmering on the velvety skin of playing nymphs.

Your statue stood right next to the open pool, tall and proud, almost naked too, representing which God this place belonged to.

When your body finally dipped fully, and eyes closed in ease, a faint sight escaped your lips. Sun rubbed your skin as you slumped against the pool’s wall and took a deep breath of the air dripping with an ocean breeze.

One of the nymphs slouched next to your naked body, her eyes looking at you with awe and curiosity, before she asked softly. "My Lady, my Lady, wasn’t Lord Hades quite rude to you last time?"

Another one swam closer, peaking at your body like a gem, something so beautiful and precious, no one deserved to touch— no, maybe even look at it. "That’s right, my Lady, doesn’t Lord Hades lack in manners? He’s never gonna find a wife with such a temper!"

You chuckled first, but the second sentence seemed to pique your curiosity. Your eye opened, glancing at a few nymphs floating peacefully around.

Such silly and adorable creatures they were, quite coquettish if they wanted to, and you understood why Gojo seemed to have a soft spot for them.

"And why would he need a wife?" You murmured, a strange feeling coiling in your belly.

One girl hummed, as if wondering, long hair flowing on the water, golden like wheat.

"My Lady, I’ve heard Lord Zeus talking to him about this. It seems like there’s a woman called Persephone and quite interested in Lord Hades she seems to be."

Your lips immediately fell flat in line.

Persephone? Isn’t she just a small sprat living under her mother's wings? What in the world could she want from Hades himself?

"Zeus said that, hm?" You mumbled, but didn’t listen to the rest of what Nymphs had to say.

Wife. Wife. Wife.

Why the hell he needed a wife?

You juggled this question like a mantra, like a woman obsessed, although there was truly nothing to be obsessed with.

That night was still vivid in your mind when Choso left the feast in a hurry – speechless and with ears burning like fire. The picture of his face was stuck in your memory, so lovely and pathetic, haunting you every night till the first sun rays hit your chamber.

You’ve seemed to lose your mind over him, how touch-starved he seemed to be, wanting, needing your attention desperately.

So why couldn’t you feel him anymore?

You wondered.

Why did any trace of his presence suddenly disappear, slip through the corners of your temples, together with pomegranates and shells scattered around your altars?

Why your chamber seemed to be lighter in the night, and what happened to the ragged, shortened breath you swear could hear during the deepest sleep.

Why has he left you?

Why—

A shriek brought your thoughts back, with a crystal water suddenly flowing in streams over the edge of the swimming pool. Nymphs were running away, as if scared – no, terrified, pointing with their fingers at something behind you.

"M-my Lady, look out! There’s a creature!"

A creature?

You turned head slowly, glancing over your shoulder. And suddenly, shock crossed your face, but only for a moment, before you raised an eyebrow in interest.

"Oh?" A hum escaped your lips, bringing your attention entirely to the so-called creature, being nothing more than a black snake.

For your nymphs' justification, some of them were quite… uneducated, you would say. Maybe a bit stupid, never seeing a world outside Olympus. Although snakes belonged to various Gods living on the Mountain, many usually associated them with the earth.

And the underworld.

"What brought you here, my dear? Are you lost?" You cooed, looking at his long body, slowly moving towards you, with yellowish eyes focused on nothing but your small, white dove, sitting calmly near your dipped body.

The snake was big, truly looking quite monstrous, but the dove didn't seem to mind his presence, as if her curiosity was piqued by the creature. Its black skin glimmered under the scorching sun, pinkish tongue sliding in and out of a closed mouth, checking the surroundings.

Nymphs left the pool, still warning you with faint screams and pleadings to leave it alone.

But how could you leave it alone if it was the first sign the God of the Underworld has sent you since that feast?

How could you ignore his weak and unsatisfying presence, sending your way such a creature instead of himself?

You stretched out your hand, brushing its hard skin. The scales were warm under your touch, but the snake completly ignored you, instead grazing with its big head the snowy feathers of the dove. "Where's your master, hm? Did he send you?"

Your birdie glanced at it, for a second only, before she lowered her head and touched the snake's raven skin with her soft feathers.

And then–

Snap!

Dove cried, one of the white feathers falling from her delicate body. You almost saw a furrow between her small eyes and stare shooting daggers at her bully.

She flew up, sitting on your arm, as you lifted your fingers to gently caress her.

"My poor baby," you whispered, as she cooed softly to your ear. "Isn't he just a mean bully? Quite different from his master, hm?"

Her small head pushed against your fingers, starved for your delicate touch, soothing her snowy feathers with slow brushes.

And when you looked at the snake, with a feather in his mouth, he sent you one last glance, before hiding back in the forest.

It seemed like you needed to fulfil your promise and pay the God of the Underworld a visit.

So a few days later, you finally found the only person who could help you get down to Hades's domain.

"Sorry, what?" Hermes looked at you with a furrow, scanning your body covered in pink, flowy robes, full of beauty and charm, definitely not accustomed to and made for a journey to the underworld. "Are you bored? Why in the world would you like to go down there?"

Your lips pressed in a line, hands clasped on your chest, with gold bracelets hugging your bare arms. It was always weird to hear other Gods – men – question your choices, and aside from Gojo who indeed had this privilege solely because of being your friend, it was always quite irritating to see others not giving you what you asked them for.

And if going to the underworld was that easy, you would do it yourself.

But it wasn't.

In fact, only one God was responsible for taking souls to the gates of hell, and it was he – this charming man, but just a dick to be honest, with wings on his feet and a golden helmet sitting tight on his raven hair.

Toji.

Your once-lover and Gojo's nemesis.

"Lord Hades invited me over," you said, but the only reaction you've got was a soft scoff.

"I doubt it." He murmured, broad back still turned away.

You took a deep breath, placing fingers on your temple. "Okay, what do you want in exchange?"

"Nothing." He stood back to you, focused on repairing something in his winged sandals, ignoring your boiling figure completly.

You really hoped that this pink dress, hugging your hips gently, with skin smelling like rose oil and a golden necklace sitting calmly right on your plump breasts, would convince him to grant you a pass.

You blinked.

"Nothing?" you repeated slowly, not quite believing your ears.

Toji finally turned to face you. The movement was lazy, unhurried, like a lion stretching only because it felt like it. Sunlight caught on the metal of his winged sandals, and the golden helmet resting carelessly on his head tilted as he studied you with dark, amused eyes.

“Did I stutter, doll?”

Your eye twitched.

Men like him were always like this – acting as if they were above bargains, above temptation, above you. As if the Goddess of Love herself standing in front of them asking for help was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"I don’t believe you," you said flatly.

He smirked. "Smart."

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he leaned against the marble pillar behind him, muscles shifting beneath his tunic. Even relaxed, he looked built for war – dangerous in a way that made other gods nervous and foolish mortals worshipful. He was cunning, smart, a God of Travellers and thieves, mostly, somehow having responsibility over guiding poor souls to the underworld.

You had fun back in the days, but he, like any other God, was too overpowering. Too pushy, brutal, with his fast and heavy thrusts, indeed giving you pleasure, but never satisfying some deep need coiling in your belly. He wouldn't drop down to his knees. Worship you like a Goddess, a pathetic man eager to lose his Godly status just to have you exclusively.

"You don’t want gold," you continued, ticking possibilities off in your mind. "You don’t care for favors. You’ve never been one for politics. So what is it, Toji? What do you want?"

For a moment he only watched you, gaze dragging slowly over your face as if he were trying to decide something.

Then he laughed.

Low. Rough. Infuriatingly confident.

"What I want," he said, stepping closer, "is to see something interesting."

Your brows knitted together. "Interesting?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "You, of all people, marching into the Underworld for the brooding King of the Dead? That’s entertainment money can’t buy."

So that was it.

Curiosity.

Amusement.

Typical Hermes.

"You’re unbelievable," you muttered.

"So I’ve been told." His grin widened. "Alright, doll. I’ll take you."

Relief loosened the knot in your chest, though you hid it well to not give him satisfaction.

"But," he added, holding up a finger, "you follow my lead. No wandering off. No charming the shades. And absolutely no crying if you get scared."

"I don’t get scared," you said coolly.

"We’ll see."

Without another word, he extended a hand to you. Rough, warm, steady.

Hesitating only a second, you placed your fingers in his.

The world shifted.

Air folded in on itself. The brightness of Olympus faded like a curtain being drawn, colors draining away into something colder, heavier. The scent of flowers and honey dissolved into ash and stone.

When your feet touched solid ground again, it wasn’t marble beneath you.

It was black sand.

The sky above was no longer sky at all – just a vast, endless ceiling of shadow. Rivers of dark water cut through the land like veins, and distant wails echoed from places you couldn’t see.

Toji released your hand.

"Welcome to the Underworld," he said casually, as if he’d just shown you a new café instead of the realm of the dead.

You barely heard him.

Because ahead of you, towering higher than any palace of Olympus, stood the gates.

Massive iron doors carved with ancient symbols, wrapped in chains that seemed to breathe, guarded by looming statues with hollow eyes. Beyond them stretched a kingdom of eternal night.

Hades’s domain.

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

"So," Toji drawled beside you, watching your expression with open amusement, "still sure about this?"

You lifted your chin.

"Open the gates."

The underworld turned out to be... quiet.

The shriek of massive gates filled the stifled air, but when you entered through, there was nothing once again.

No, maybe there was.

Soft whispers coming from the long river stretching in front of you, with a small, wooden pier lightened by a single candle. Its flame whizzed in the darkness, inviting you as if offering a bit of warmth.

Black sand sank beneath your sandals, your pink dress grazing the ground as you followed Toji’s broad, confident back toward the pier.

"My company ends here," he stated, walking slowly. "But Charon will take you straight to Hades’s temple."

You frowned slightly, glancing around the boundless land. No sun. No moon. Only endless twilight, air shifting between cold and warmth, sticky and hollow, sending uneasy shivers down your spine.

"He’ll be there. Don’t worry," Toji added, noticing the tension in your shoulders. “You’ll be fine.”

You noticed shades hovering nearby – dim, almost transparent figures gliding aimlessly, faces pale and empty, hands reaching out as though searching for something they had long forgotten. "Who are they?"

"Dead who weren’t buried with coins," Toji replied, casually swatting away one shade that drifted too close to you with cupped, pleading hands. "Charon can’t take them across the Styx without payment."

"And what happens to them?"

Your feet touched the wooden pier. The boat was already waiting – long and narrow, with a single lamp hanging from its curved prow. A small figure sat at the back, cloaked in black, nothing visible but pale, bony hands protruding from wide sleeves, one extended expectantly, the other gripping a worn paddle.

"They wander," Toji said with a shrug, snapping his fingers towards the boatman. "Hey, grandpa, she's a Goddess, no need for payment. Take her right to Hades. She's a guest."

Charon slowly withdrew his outstretched hand and placed it back on the paddle, waiting in silent invitation.

You inhaled slowly, gathering the folds of your dress, and stepped into the boat.

The wood creaked beneath your weight, and the small vessel rocked gently as Charon pushed away from the pier with a single, practiced motion. The candlelight swayed, throwing trembling reflections across the dark water.

Toji remained on the shore, arms crossed.

"Try not to die down there," he called after you with a lazy grin.

"I’m a Goddess," you glanced back, lifting your chin. "I can't die."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, already turning away. "Tell that Sisyphus."

You wanted to snap back that he, in fact, wasn't a God, but the boat already moved, sliding over the dark waters of the Styx with gentle waves woven by a wooden paddle.

The River Styx stretched endlessly in both directions, black as polished obsidian, its surface smooth and unmoving. No wind touched it. No ripple dared disturb it. The only sound was the slow dip of Charon’s paddle cutting through the water.

Around you, shades hovered in the mist, faint faces pressed together like memories too worn to remember themselves. Some reached toward the boat with hollow eyes, others merely watched, envy etched into their pale, fading forms.

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

For the first time in centuries, you felt small.

“Don’t listen to them,” Toji had warned before you left.

But how could you not?

One shade drifted close to the boat, its hollow eyes meeting yours, and for a heartbeat, you felt a wave of sorrow so deep it nearly stole your breath.

You looked away quickly.

The further you travelled, the heavier the air became, until at last the boat scraped softly against another shore.

And there it was.

The entrance to the Underworld.

You looked over your shoulder at Charon, wishing to hear his voice, but he only stretched his skeletal hand, pointing at something.

You left the boat, feet once again touching soft, black sand.

The closer you got to Hades's temple, the warmer it became, with a gentle wind moving folds of your dress. As Toji said, it wasn't a place for you.

Dark, isolated, gloomy, hugging your shivering body covered in the sweetest, most beautiful shimmering gown worn only on the sunny land of Olympus.

But here? You looked truly like a clown, with gold jewellery looking almost bleak under the darkness looming over your figure.

Another gate appeared in front of you, once again massive in its heaviness, but this time with no chain in sight.

Actually, it looked as if... slightly opened?

Impossible.

You moved closer, step by step, white sandals sinking in sand, black grains moving between your soft fingers. The gate was right there, so close, with a mere few steps and–

Your body froze.

Because there, from the darkness emerged a creature so massive it seemed carved from nightmares themselves.

Enormous, monstrous even, with three heads moving towards you, teeth wet with saliva and eyes burning like coal.

A guard of the underworld, you've heard.

Hades's pet.

But you didn't see any assembly to a pet, rather a monster talked about only in tales, one usually killed bravely by heroes or spreading annihilation over mortals.

Your heart skipped.

"Oh," you breathed. "You must be the Cerberus."

The beast stepped closer, paws heavier than thunder, breath warm and smoky against your skin. Each head watched you with suspicion, nostrils flaring at your unfamiliar scent.

You straightened your shoulders.

"I am Aphrodite," you said softly, holding out a hand. "Goddess of Love and Beauty. I mean no harm."

For a tense moment, nothing happened.

But then, one of the massive heads tilted. In curiosity, playfulness, maybe, with this glint in his eye, you knew animals had every time they saw you.

Another gave a curious sniff, as if your rosy oil scratched his nostrils in pleasure.

The third promptly leaned forward, and before you could fully process it, a rough, warm tongue dragged across your cheek.

"Oh–!" You gasped, stumbling back in surprise.

The second head followed, then the third, each nuzzling you with embarrassing enthusiasm. The fear melted instantly, replaced by startled laughter.

The great hound wagged its monstrous tail, the ground trembling with each happy thump.

"Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You're just like your Master." Faint giggle bubbled in your throat, fingers scratching one of the enormous heads under its chin, the other one behind its ear, while the third licked your skin once again, leaving you with another gasp and its saliva dripping down your robe.

"Such good puppies, aren't you? Can you take me to your Master? We have stuff to discuss."

Cerberus escorted you the rest of the way, walking proudly at your side as if you were already expected.

And beyond the heavy gate and rocky path, rising higher than any structure you had ever seen, stood the temple of Hades. Stone steps rose upward toward a structure carved into the cliffs themselves – dark marble pillars wrapped in shadow, torches burning with pale fire.

Cold.

Majestic.

Eternal.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"So this is where he lives," you whispered, feeling Cerberus' nose pushing you towards the temple. "Yes, yes, thank you, my dear. Such a good dog you are. The best, maybe."

You gave him one last scratch before going towards Hades's domain.

Did he expect you? You thought.

Will he be surprised?

Did Toji tell him you're here?

But if he did, wouldn't the God of the Underworld wait for you already?

And as you stepped closer to the looming entrance, licked by the cold fire of the hanging lanterns, something in your gut told you that he, in fact, didn't know that you were here.

And when you entered, looking around the cold stones, your heart suddenly skipped a beat.

You expected the inside to be quite cold, sheathed in gloom, a feeling of sadness, weird eariness that would send a chill through your bones. No one actually knew what Hades lived like. No one ever cared. And it seemed like he didn't care too – about making an appearance, trying to change the way people see him, particularly about other Gods.

But, oh, how wrong you were.

Because on the tall walls and high ceilings, an altar quietly put in the middle and columns wrapped in paintings – was you.

You, bathing in a pool, painted with a steady hand on one of the walls.

Your body wrapped around the column, one of the flowy dresses slipped on it casually, hair fluttering in the wind, and a smile spread on plump lips.

The sculpture of your body, naked, but covered with a transparent robe, presenting only a part of your full breasts and hips, ending just in the middle of thick thighs, standing just in the middle of the entrance. It looked dampened, with the robe sticking to your skin, barely covering perked nipples and fat gathering around your hips.

Your gaze moved to the altar.

Shells scattered around its flat surface, together with roses, apples, seeds of pomegranate, a white feather, a piece of your– wait a minute-

"M-my Goddess?"

A low voice brought your thoughts back.

Choso suddenly emerged from one of the chambers, his tall figure covered in black robes and face – oh, his face – twisted in emotion closest to pure agony. He looked at you with furrowed brows, biting lower lip and deciding whether he should come to you or, maybe, once again, run away.

"My Goddess, what are you doing here?" He asked, staying in place.

You glanced last time at the piece of clothing lying on the altar and grinned. It was weird to see it here, from all places, but something coiling in your lower belly told you that perhaps it was the only reasonable place to see your undergarments stolen a while ago.

"I promised to give it back," a black handkerchief appeared in your hand, clean and fresh, smelling exactly like your favourite body oil. "Last time you ran away so quickly, my Lord, we didn't have a chance to properly talk."

His throat moved and eyes followed you nervously as you slowly walked towards him.

You didn't fit here, he thought, to this disgusting place.

Because he had seen beauty before.

Choso was old as bone and shadow, older than kingdoms, older than grief. He had watched empires crumble into dust and souls pass through his gates like autumn leaves. Nothing startled him anymore. Nothing truly moved him.

But then, oh, then he saw you.

Aphrodite.

A name whispered among Gods and mortals, and yet no story, no hymn, no jealous prayer had ever done you justice.

He watched you approach with a steady pace, swaying hips, and long robes dragged behind your feet. His mouth was dry, heart beating too fast, pale skin sweating with dread, nervousness, terror. Because every time he saw you, smelled your skin damped in the sweetness of flowery oils, heard a laugh always caused by Gojo or another God he absolutely despised – his body was in flames.

Your gown flowed like liquid dawn – soft folds of pink and gold clinging to a body sculpted by the heavens themselves. Each step you took was unhurried, graceful, unaware of the havoc it caused in his heart.

Your hair caught the dim torchlight and turned it into silk. Skin held a glow that did not belong to this realm, smooth and untouched, as if the moment he would sink his teeth into the curve of your ass, pure ambrosia would drip down his chin.

And your face–

Gods had waged wars over less.

There was something unbearably gentle in your expression, something kind, a beauty truly worthy of the Goddess of Love. And the smirk on your lips, a cunning smile, words slipping so casually, constantly with a drop of lewdness as if you knew the effect you had on him.

Choso knew it was over for him.

He had always wondered, distantly, what it would feel like to have your hand in his. To feel that warmth against his eternally cold skin. To have you say his name the way only lovers did, low and familiar, as if he was something precious instead of something feared by Gods and mortals.

His fist clenched, when you walked closer – body mere centimetres from his, breast almost touching his burning skin, and he prayed, truly prayed, for your gaze not to go down any further, because he couldn't stand your lustrous eyes on his cock leaking through black robes.

"My Lord, won't you invite me to a cup of wine, at least?" You asked carefully, quietly, noticing his dark eyes running around your face. His hand trembled, and throat cleared when he showed you a way inside the temple.

To his inner chambers, you guessed.

You walked past him, fingers slightly brushing the bulging part of his robes, and he, well, he almost fell down to his knees in an utterly embarrassing and completly failed position he found himself at.

The inside of the temple was cosier than you thought it would be, with the next room filled with warmth and red carpets, candles fighting the darkness with their reddish tongues. There was a long table too and a balcony, with a view of – oh.

"That is Tartatus, my Goddess," Choso said, when he saw your shocked gaze looking down at the deep abyss filled with faint moans and shrieks, as if souls were cooked alive there, tortured in the most terrifying ways. A dungeon for the most wicked ones, true monsters and creatures that should never see daylight. "I don't use it unless I have to. Some of them deserve to be there."

A hint of nervousness still lingered in his voice when he stood behind you. Heat radiated from his body as he stood close enough to cage you with his muscular forearms. How lovely it would be!

You moved your head away from the painful screams, turning your body back towards him.

Gentle eyes looked at you from under the purplish circles, black stripes moving together with his knitted eyebrows and tightened lips.

"Aren't you lonely here? It doesn't seem like the happiest place in the world," you asked with actual curiosity, but he frowned even harder, as if thinking about the proper answer.

Some servant in the back put two glasses of wine on the table and melted away in the darkness of the temple.

"I never had a choice," Choso finally whispered, inviting you with a gesture back to the room. He moved away a chair and let you sit first, before taking a seat right next to you. "That's how I was raised and born. That's the only place I know."

You watched him carefully as he spoke.

There was something painfully honest in his voice, something raw and unpolished, as if no one had ever truly asked him such a simple question before.

You lifted a glass to your lips, taking a sip of red wine, melting sweetly on your tongue.

“So no visitors?” you asked lightly. “No celebrations? No festivals in your honour? Is there truly no one who worships the God of the Underworld? There must be some benefits to it.”

He huffed softly at that, something almost like embarrassment flickering across his face.

“The dead do not celebrate,” he replied. “And the living fear me too much to bother.”

“Yet you welcomed me,” you pointed out.

At that, his fingers tightened slightly around his own glass. Face slightly flushed, red like a cherry, with its juice going through his cheeks up to hair-covered ears.

"B-but you're not like them," he mumbled so quietly, you needed to use all of your might to hear those words.

Not like them.

Your head tilted, letting a small smile play at the corner of your mouth.

“And how am I different, my Lord?" you asked, voice gentle and confident, nevertheless pinning him down to his seat in nervousness. "Oh, and the paintings at the entrance? Truly wonderful! I've never thought I'll have devotees among the Gods."

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Dark eyes traced your face again, as if committing every detail to memory. The plumpness of your lips. The shine of your skin. The soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath. This rosy dress, too tight and too transparent, allowing him to see the curve of your breast and the pinkish aureola of your soft nipples.

He gulped.

"I-if you're bothered by them–"

"I'm not. I love them, truly," Choso shifted in his place, when you slightly loosened on your chair, legs spread a bit wider than they were, fiery gaze stuck at him. "But the altar, dear Lord. How did you even get such stuff? The feather, I believe, is a treasure captured by one of your small servants, although he indeed was a bit brutal with my birdie," His face was burning, air almost knocked out from lungs in embarrassment and desire he felt under your heavy gaze, with his eyes focused on your parted thighs, hugged by a robe, opened for him as if in invitation. "Though the undergarment? Aren't you–" But before you could finish, he dropped down to his knees, head heavy on your thighs, muscular arms wrapped around your legs as you felt something hard and leaking under your foot. "Just a pervert?"

"M-my Goddes, I'm so s-sorry," he murmured, looking at you from below, with dark eyes filled with pathetic pleading, beefy arms tightening their embrace around your legs as he rubbed his cheek against your warm thigh. "I am, I am a pervert, I-I am nothing more than a pervert, j-just please let me–"

Your hand gently caressed his cheek as he nuzzled into it with a heavy breath.

Dear God, he was truly perfect, with those trembling lips and eyes gazing at you so lovingly, so desperately, something warm coiled in your belly.

His hands touched your ankles, slowly, slowly, going up, catching the hem of your dress, rolling it up to your knees, while he still looked at you with begging eyes.

"Let you do what?" you hummed, foot pushing against his throbbing dick with gentleness, "What are you willing to do to have me, my Lord?"

His fingers clenched on your skin before pulling the dress up to the middle of your slick thighs with one swift motion. "Whatever you want, my Goddess. Just ask me, p-please just ask me. I'll give you sun and moon if you'll ask me to."

He put your legs on his shoulders, hands roaming on your bare skin, feeling the heat radiating from your core, bare but not quite visible for his hungry, despairing eye.

Your head tilted, fingers combing his hair. "Anything? Would you die for me, my Lord?"

"Yes."

No hesitation.

"Would you degrade yourself as a God, my Lord?"

"Yes."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Would you kill your brothers, my Lord?"

You knew this one was completly inappropriate, something others could kill you for, but–

"Yes."

And you didn't have time to react, before Choso spread your thighs even wider and took a looong lick of your creamy pussy. Your breath hitched, he moaned, a grumble going straight to your pulsing core, fingers squeezing his hair stronger.

"My Lord!"

But he was completly lost, with his mouth drenched in your leaking pussy, tasting, as he anticipated, like the purest form of ambrosia, the plum wine going sweetly down his throat until he moaned, no, cried right into your spread folds.

You involuntarily bucked your hips towards his open lips as he sucked on your clit.

"S-so good, my Goddess, s-so mmm–"

But the hard chair was brushing your velvety skin, and a quiet groan escaped your throat when he folded you even harder.

"My Lord, please let's move to–"

You didn't have to say it twice, before he slumped you over his shoulder, like a sack of grain, with bare ass and leaking cunt, kept in place by his beefy arm.

"Call me Choso, my Goddess," he mumbled, not able to keep his lips from your skin, kissing, biting, licking the bare curve of your ass, fingers slightly parting your pussylips as he drenched them in your juices.

And although you couldn't see him, a moment later, you heard him licking something, moaning so loudly you felt another wave of warmth flowing in your belly.

Your back hit a soft surface, and soon you found yourself spread on a bed. Lightless sky peeked through the windows, faint flames kissing Choso's fully dressed body, panting heavily as he looked down at your glistening folds. A second later, his black robe landed on the floor, with absolutely nothing on his tall body aside from heavy mountains of muscles, with muscular thighs dropping down to plush carpet and toned arms again parting your legs.

"M-my Goddess, can I?" He glanced at you pleadingly, looking like a child ready to cry if his mama won't give him his favourite sweet.

You bit lower lip, eyes sparkling with excitement at seeing him in such a hopeless state.

"Only if you'll eat me out like a good boy, Cho. Can you do it?"

Oh! And if it didn't fire him up, with a frown on his handsome face, nodding quickly, obediently, truly like a small puppy. Just maybe ten times bigger and much heavier than you, with enough strength to pin you down against his bed and fuck you senseless like an animal.

You've kept your weight on your elbows, seeing Choso going down once again, giving you a looong drag of his tongue against your glistering folds, as he parted them with his two fingers. His hot breath on your clit, as he sucked on it gently, needily, moaning and crying every time a fresh batch of creamy cum went down his throat. When your walls clenched around his tongue, rummaging inside you, and a sharp breath escaped your throat.

His hands roamed around your ass, hips, pulling you even closer, before going up up up to your breasts. Oh, Goddess of Love and Fertility, you truly were, because the thought of milk dripping from your pinkish nipples, of him sucking your tits and pushing his cock deep down your cunt at the same time made him almost cum on the spot.

He thought about whether you would allow him to cum inside.

Whether you would want his babies, to walk heavily pregnant and let him worship you day and night, by keeping your pussy always warm and pleased.

Would you–

"Yes yes yes, to all of them," you moaned with head lulled back and eyes crossed, as Choso, accidentally or not, murmured all his wishes riiiiight into your pussy, squeezing around his two fingers. "You better keep your promise and fuck me pregnant then."

He licked your pussy unhingeldy, like a starved dog, with a frown between his brows and black stripes moving every time the tip of his tongue dragged down your puffy clit, slick folds, not allowing even a single drop of your honey slick dto rip down the sheets.

His face was so beautiful and truly Godly, with pale skin drenched with your juices and contrasting red lips wrapped around your sweet bud. You looked down on him, mouth parted and breath heavy, as he pressed you closer to his open lips and stuck out tongue. "M-my Goddess, I-I promise–ngh–your pussy tastes so delicious, I can't stop ahhh–p-please tell me it feels good."

A giggle escaped your throat, but was soon strangled by a moan, when his fingers curled riiiight into that spongy spot, sending shivers down till your cervix, making your belly clench and head throw back. And seeing your reaction, he curled them again and again again again, pairing it with his tongue licking your soaked pussy and lips sucking on sweet bud, pushing his face even deeper into your folds, almost wishing to get inhaled by them.

"Mhmmm so good Cho, you're eating me s-so fucking good ahhh–"

But gone he was, eyes closed in pleasure, lips puffy, and head nodding faintly when you moved your hips and rubbed them against his tongue.

"S-so good, mhmm feels so good, this pussy," he mumbled, not quite sure whether to you or your cunt, gasping and wailing with a mouth full of your sweet juice. "Feels so mhm so good, m-my Goddess, my baby mhm, so pretty pretty–"

A pressure coiled in your belly – feeling, that with another thrust of his fingers and looong stripe of his tongue against your cunt, you will completly, pathetically break under his muscular arms pinning you down to bed.

"Choso, I'm gonna–" You gasped, fingers clasping his hair, to take him away from your pussy just for a second. "I wanna cum on your cock."

He looked up. Gaze lost, hair messy, chin drenched, a pearl of sweat running down his pale temple.

"Don't underestimate me. I'll make you cum on both my tongue and cock," His fingers stretched every corner of your cunt, thrusting against the tight muscles, drawing even more of your sweet juices from your tight hole as you moaned at the pressure building in your stomach. "What, my Goddess, your lovers never made you cum twice?"

You shook your head, gaze blurred by the heavy feeling in your belly. Choso smiled, curling his fingers against your sweet spot brutally, sucking on your clit with the lovliest cries, looking sooo satisfied and confident, with this precious knowledge of having the honour to make his Goddess go stupid on both his face and his dick.

"Even Gojo?" He continued, looking completly drunk on your slick juices, nevertheless still making sure that he indeed would be your best, the first, the only lover that will ever make you cum countless times, till your clit is sore and womb plump from his seed.

"I never had a good lover," you mewled, feeling him groan against your cunt.

"Mhmm, m-my Goddess allow me to–"

And you indeed allowed him, because not a second later, your back rose in an arch, fingers curled and thighs clenched on his head, cutting off his air supply for a few seconds, with your body trembling under his toned arms, keeping you pinned to bed.

You weren't quite sure who had an orgasm, because while a heavy whine ripped from your throat, and a shock waved through your body, Choso seemed to go through his own pleasure, crying, whining, moaning, muttering under his nose, hiccuping on your gushing slick – completly, utterly lost in the taste of your pussy.

Pretty pretty pretty pussy.

Seconds later, your positions changed, with you straddling his hips and his back slumped against soft pillows. Two hands landed on your ass, pushing it against his throbbing cock, sticking so obediently to his lower abs, with precum dripping down his shaft and smeared all over his happy trail. With hips on top, your folds hugged in wetly, last traces of creamy cum gushing over his aching shaft, with head so reddish you thought no one ever needed you that desperately.

"My Goddess, r-ride me, please?" And for a God of Underworld himself, one of the most powerful creatures in the whole Pantheon, Choso truly couldn’t stand giving you orders.

It was always please and would you, and I’m sorry, with this absurdly massive body and his eyes filled with so much gentleness, you instantly felt your cunt twitch once again.

"Oh, where did you see that position, Cho?" A smile danced in the corners of your eyes, and your hips moved slightly with your warm folds sliding up and down his cock.

It’s veiny shaft, looking so deliciously wet, fat around your pussylips and so so so pretty, you moaned faintly and put palms on Choso’s chest.

This question seemed to strike him dumb, because you saw the answer bubbling somewhere in his throat, too extreme to see the dawn.

"Tell me, baby, where have you seen it? Aren’t you a virgin, after all?" Your syrupy voice and wet pussy, fluttering hole slightly catching on the head of his cock made him whine and shudder under your weight.

He nodded, clenching his palms on your hips. "I-I am, I s-stayed for you."

For you.

And with these words, you slid his cock inside you a bit, truly barely, with the feverish tip hugged warmly by your pinkish walls. But you didn’t go further, waiting for his filthy confession.

"Such a good boy you are, right? I’ve never met better," you leaned over, lips mere millimetres from his, caressing them gently in a soft kiss. Your tongue slipped and licked his lower lip, trembling with mere inches of his cock sank inside you. "So tell me now, where did you see it?"

There was something pervy within him. Great Lord Hades, fearsome Choso, a dreadful figure living in darkness, always there but never caught by anyone. Everyone thought of him as a ghost, a demon almost, so powerful in his might yet somehow always unreachable.

But you knew.

You saw it, felt it, his presence, your disappearing panties, the rosy smell on his neck, this look when his eyes traced your body, smooth skin, a giggle escaping your lips, and single glances shot towards him, enough to give him false hope and obsess over you within the dark chambers of his temple.

A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead; his voice clearly dipped in utter embarrassment and yearning. "I-I saw you with Gojo."

You raised a brow, lips curved in an o, when you tried to remember the last time you and Gojo had sex.

Dear God, wasn't it like–

"Two years ago, you mean?"

He nodded his head, biting lower lip. Cock still only catching on your entrance, and as much as he wished to sink deep into your soaking cunt, with insanity hanging by a thread, he squeezed fingers on your hips and took a deep breath.

"Y-you rode him them, I-I saw it–"

"What do you mean, saw it?"

Oh, you loved it.

Loved loved loved it.

This blush spreading over his cheeks, a pathetic gaze he bestowed you, paired together with soft whimpers every time you squeezed slightly around his aching head, precum drenching your walls in salty droplets.

"I watched you f-from the c-corner of your chamber," admitting his perversity was a true nightmare, but you couldn't stop this pleasure coiling in your belly.

"You watched me, baby?" You sank lower, just a bit, giving him a prize for being such a good and obedient boy. "Did you touch yourself too? Hm? My cunt riding Gojo's cock excited you that much?"

His head nodded again, fast, a whimper escaping his throat when his huge cock went deeper inside your fluttering walls. The stretch was delicious, absolutely devastating, with a soft moan escaping your lips right into his parted lips.

"M-my Goddess, p-please can you move? Just a b-bit, please, please," He gasped, restraining the urge to buck his hips and push his cock into your drenched pussy till his pumping head will hit your cervix.

"How many times have you watched me?" Your questions were coming one by one, next more difficult than the other, giving Choso almost a cardiac arrest, with his heart beating so fast and his eyes almost glossy, he could not stand another embarrassing answer.

"E-every time, my Goddess, please–"

"Every time?" The last time you satisfied yourself was just after the feast. Did it mean that...?

Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes, lips wobbly when you finally, finally, sat on him with your full weight, heavy cock deep inside your cunt. You deflected, back arched, hands resting on his thighs, legs parted, allowing him to watch a creamy ring forming at the base of his cock.

"S-so good, dear Goddess, oh it feels so fucking good, y-your pussy–" He cried, whimpered, hips finally bucking up to meet yours, cock thrusting deep inside you, squeezed, kissed by your muscles and cervix, sucked every time he tried to pull out.

His eyes met yours – cunning, glistering, with this lovable hint of gentleness and desire he never ever saw with your previous lovers. And he observed you every time another God fucked your tight cunt.

Every time with your panties around his leaking cock, every time noticing what brought you the most pleasure.

So that's how he knew that if he put his hand on your lower belly, bulging with his fat cock, and pushed it slightly, your pussy would clutch him ever harder.

He knew that if his thumb would circle your sweet clit, a sharp whine would bubble in your throat, and your eyes would cross in pleasure.

So he watched your face twist in delight, hips riding him even faster, stronger, wilder, with tits moving together with your sharp back-and-forth moves. He sat up and leaned over to suck your perked nipple, cupping another one with his big palm.

Oh, how he wanted to taste the sweetness of your milk, feeling the heaviness of your breast sitting tightly in his palm, so soft and squishy, he whimpered heavily with his cock sinking in even more. "M-my Goddness, you're squeezing me so hard, feels so good mhmmm. D-do you feel g-good?"

You nodded your head, sweat dripping down your temple, but not for long, because Chose leaned and licked it from your honeyed skin.

Oh, how fucking delicious you were.

"Let me take over? I-I promise I'll be good," His hands on your hips helped you move, fucking himself back into you harder with every thrust, but it was clear that you were getting tired. "I'll be good, good, so so so good for you my Goddess–"

Although he absolutely loved this view, needing to have it in front of his eyes every morning – your full hips bouncing obscenely on his fat cock, belly bulging with his shaft, reddened lips parted and brows furrowed, with sweat dripping between your heavy tits, fitting his palm just perfectly. He would truly be ready to give over his Godly title to see it every fucking day.

"Mhmm yeah please baby, gonna fuck me with your cock?" Your lost gaze met his, even more miserable. "Mmm Cho baby, you're the best, the best fucking lov–"

You didn't manage to finish your sentence before he changed your position fast. You knew he was strong, with muscular arms and great posture, back filling his black robes and heavy, massive cock sealing your thigh cunt juust in the right way.

But you truly underestimated the power he possessed. And maybe you realised it the moment his hands appeared under your thighs, puuushing them far until your knees were almost around your head, with ass lifted in the air and breath knocked out of your chest.

And he?

He was massive. Obsessed. Lost. Bubbling under his nose, with eyes glued to your open pussy. About how delicious you were, how pretty your cunt was, how he'll breed it until it flows with his cum. He parted your lips with two fingers, whimpering at the sight of you, oh so lonely and needy hole, with saps dripping down the sheets.

Choso needed one thrust only – short, absolutely brutal, stretching a still tight ring of your muscles, absolutely devouring every panted cry that escaped your lips with his wet kisses, mouth covering yours fully, and tongue sinking down your throat.

"Mmm Cho, just like that, yes yes yes." He was swallowing your every moan like a madman, thrusting his cock deep aaall the way down to your cervix, head catching on your spongy spot and hammering it with every push.

"You make me, fuck, m-my Goddess, you turn me into fucking animal," He whimpered right into your mouth, fat tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, dangerously close to sliding down his flushed cheeks every time your cunt clamped down on his drenched cock. "I-I dreamed about this for s-so long."

And you started to feel it – this warmth in your belly, your hitched breath, head spinning, and back slightly arching with Choso's brutal thrust, obscene moans filling his chamber and nothing but squelch squelch squelch of your absolutely soaked folds drenching his fat cock.

"C-cho I'm close, I'm so so so close mhmm p-please!"

Nothing could prepare him for your sweet cumming – cunt clenching hard, creamy rings stuck to his shaft and slick gushing down your thighs. You cried, shuddered, rolled your hips against his, squeezed on his cock so hard, you felt every vein of his throbbing shaft. And he continued to pound you madly, brutally, cock sinking balls deep into your hole, a whimper escaping his throat when he drove his mass on your body even harder.

Folding you in half, preparing for a proper breeding, the thought of fucking the most fertile Goddess made him go insane.

Oh god, oh dear fucking god, how many children could you give him?

How delicious your milk would be when he would fuck your pretty pussy while drinking it riiight from your plump tits?

"M-my Goddess, can I p-please cum–"

"You better not spill any drop." Your voice was raspy but still possessed this domination that made him cream his pants on the spot.

So with another thrust, he completly crushed, body shuddering, thrusts not stopping until his tip pressed fully against your womb, filling you with loads and loads, oh god he really was a perv and a virgin, of cum, until it stuck gluey to your walls.

And with a heavy breath, he finally plopped down, embracing you with both arms and placing a cheek on your breast.

The silence filled his chamber, with sky still showing no traces of sun, only the nighttime quietness and, oh, were those crickets singing outside his temple?

"They're also dying, you know?" He whispered, as if reading your mind.

A laugh escaped your throat as you combed your fingers through his hair. "So you decided to put them in your garden?"

He chuckled too, dark eyes closed as if preparing for deep slumber. "I hoped you'd like it. To have something... alive, more familiar here."

Your heart squeezed faintly at the thought of God of the Dead himself wanting to make you comfortable in his always gloomy, always eerie domain.

And maybe you didn't much enjoy the shrieks coming from Tartarus and all the lost souls wandering around his territory, you truly thought that with more aliveness here, you could make it work.

That's why no God or nymph could ever imagine, that during the next feast, Hades himself, a God feared by them all, will sit obediently, flushed on red wine, with a such a beauty on his lap – Aphrodite herself, chippering something sweetly to his ear and may or may not moving her hips in circles on his, oh sooo tight robe!

Going back to Egypt, Seth! Sukuna next <3