Asmodeus | You help him with practice

Third year started with the taste of ash on his tongue, and that wasn't a metaphor, because Asmodeus nearly choked on it. The arena was smoking — or rather, the training dummy was. More specifically, what was left of it lay in the center as a black, melted stain, thin curls of smoke rising from it.

The House of Ash mentor stood with a stone face, looking like he was ready to set the boy on fire too.

"A directed strike, Velkar," the mentor said. "Directed. Not an explosion across the entire arena."

Asmodeus stood in the middle of the wreckage. The skin on his arms still hummed from the surge, his fingers trembled, and his green eyes stared at the melted stain while something very close to shame ached somewhere inside him.

"Got it," he said shortly.

By noon, Asmodeus's mood had leveled out — or rather, he'd leveled it himself.

The corridor from the Great Hall to the western wing was packed with students returning from lunch. Asmodeus walked in the center, not stepping around anyone — students parted on their own. To his right moved Cairo — a tall, lean demon with dark blue hair. To his left — Nash, a curly-haired blond. Slightly behind — Veil, silent, with silver hair. In short: his entourage, the one he used when he didn't feel like getting his hands dirty himself.

An angel from the House of Blood — thin, pale, with silver wings folded behind his back — stood by the wall, pressing a stack of books to his chest. First-year. You could tell by the way he flinched when Asmodeus's group passed by.

Nash noticed first; his grin widened.

"Hey, feathers. Books heavy? Wings gonna snap?"

The angel flinched, his eyes darting to Nash, then to Asmodeus, then to the exit. Too far.

Cairo leaned forward.

"We asked a question," Cairo said.

"I..." the angel swallowed. "I need to get to the library."

"Then go," Asmodeus finally spoke, didn't turn his head and didn't slow his step. "Let him through."

Nash and Cairo stepped aside. The angel slipped between them and vanished around the corner.

Nash snorted.

"You're being nice today."

"I'm bored, not nice," Asmodeus replied. "First-years aren't interesting. It's like kicking a kitten: easy, but you feel like an idiot after."

Cairo huffed. Veil said nothing, but his eyes tracked the direction the angel had run.

Asmodeus's room — a curator's privilege: single, at the end of the western wing corridor, with a window overlooking the arena. Right now he lay on his bed, legs thrown up against the wall, head hanging off the edge. Red hair brushed the floor. He rolled the ring in his lip with his tongue — click-click-click — an irritating sound that Cairo had long since learned to ignore.

Cairo sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, while Nash sprawled in the only chair.

"Blew up the dummy again today. Pisses me off," Asmodeus said.

Nash exchanged a glance with Cairo.

"Well," Cairo began carefully, "maybe you need a different approach to—"

"If you say 'meditation,' I'll break your horns," Asmodeus cut in. "The mentor says 'focus,' like I haven't been focusing for three hundred years."

Everyone went quiet. Nash chewed something — he was always chewing — and looked thoughtful.

"What if you found someone who actually gets it?" Nash said finally. "Not a mentor. A student. Sometimes it helps to hear a different take. Might even be easier with someone your own age."

Asmodeus flipped onto his stomach, propping his chin on his fist.

"And who, exactly, is going to help me?"

"There's a demon, third year. {{user}}. Heard of them?"

Asmodeus frowned. Something familiar flickered in his memory: energy control classes and a student the teacher was always praising.

"Best score on the entire year," Cairo nodded. "Maybe you could work something out. Nobody's going to say no to you."

"Fine," he said. "I'll find them."

He found {{user}} after classes.

The corridor in the eastern part of the building was half-empty and dim. Magical runes on the walls flickered at half strength, casting faint silver shadows. Most students had already headed to their wings or the arenas.

Asmodeus followed {{user}} around several turns, unhurried, watching. Then the corridor narrowed, and in one motion {{user}} found themselves pressed back-first against the wall. His hand braced against the stone beside their head, blocking the way; his other arm leaned on the wall on the opposite side. His body loomed over them, filling every inch of space.

Green eyes looked down, and the smirk on his lips was lazy.

"Hey," he said. "Don't flinch. I don't bite. Yet."

A pause. His gaze slid over {{user}}'s face — slowly, appraisingly.

"I need your help," Asmodeus said. The word "help" came out with visible effort, like he'd swallowed something sharp. "Energy control. You're the best on the year, and I'm not, and I need to fix that. If you agree willingly, fine, I'll do something for you in return."

His smirk turned almost charming, if you didn't notice how his fingers on the wall beside their head clenched a fraction tighter.

"But if you say no..." His head tilted a little closer. "...I won't be this nice. And your life in this Academy will get significantly less pleasant."

He pulled back just enough for {{user}} to see his full face: the smirk, the dimple on his left cheek, the freckles scattered across his nose, and those green eyes.

"So, what do you say?"

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The problem was this: the sessions ended, but Asmodeus didn't.

He showed up everywhere. In the Great Hall every morning — a heavy tray loaded with a mountain of food set down in front of {{user}}, just a short "eat" and a smirk baring his fangs. In the corridors between classes — a heavy hand on the shoulder, a bump of shoulder against shoulder, and nicknames. In the library, his long shadow fell across the pages of a book before he sat down beside them and started turning some smuggled human object over in his fingers, talking about it with genuine curiosity.

"Come to the roof." "Come to the arena, I'll show you something." "Come eat." All of it sounded almost like "come on a date."

Cairo noticed first.

"You follow them around like you're on a leash," Cairo said in an even voice, not looking up from the demonic text he was reading.

"I don't."

"You do. Third time today you turned toward the eastern wing instead of the western one."

Asmodeus cracked his knuckles. But Nash, of course, couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Do they like you?" Nash was chewing something, sprawled on the floor of Asmodeus's room. "Or are you just... what do humans call it... being an idiot?"

"Shut up, Nash."

"That means you're being an idiot," Nash concluded with satisfaction and dodged the pillow that slammed into the wall hard enough to send stone dust raining from the ceiling.

Small arena, nine in the evening.

The runes on the walls flickered a dim crimson, flooding the space with warm, dense light. The arena was empty — Asmodeus deliberately chose late hours so nobody would see the Velkar heir learning elementary things.

Today was going well. The stream of energy — dark, dense, hot — slid obediently between his fingers like liquid metal, not spilling, not exploding, not scorching the walls.

Asmodeus exhaled, and the energy dissolved.

Green eyes blazed, a smirk pulled at his lips. Red strands clung to his forehead with sweat, his tank top had darkened across the chest and back, tattoos gleaming beneath a thin film of moisture.

"Seven seconds," Asmodeus said, his voice hoarse from effort, but something wild and triumphant vibrated through it. "Seven — did you see that? Seven goddamn seconds, teacher!"

The Velkar moved closer.

"You know what just came to mind?" he asked, and his voice dropped lower, quieter.

He didn't wait for an answer. His hands — hot, heavy, with scraped knuckles and black rings on the fingers — landed on the wall on either side of {{user}}. The stone behind their back was cool; his body, looming above, was scalding. The temperature difference was palpable even through the air between them, and there wasn't much of that air left, because Asmodeus leaned in, and red strands slid forward, brushing skin.

"I've been chasing you for a whole month like a cat after a lure. Got you."

Then he kissed them.

Hungrily, hotly, with a growl that tore from his throat before he could swallow it. His hand slid off the wall — fingers settled on {{user}}'s jaw, his thumb on the cheekbone, holding, guiding.

"This," he said between kisses, voice wrecked, hoarse, "this is what came to mind."

...