(no subject)
There's a note left in the Mansion's kitchen, folded-over cardstock with the Metatron's name written in Beelzebub's tight scrawl. Without pleasantries, it's concise and to the point-- there's a room number, a time, and a signature. Once, it had almost had an I love you, but for the sake of public appearances (and there being more intimate oppurtunities, as well as more effetive methods, to say the same), he'd decided against it.
At the noted time, the door of the noted room is left unlocked (should anyone who is not the Metatron arrive, they will not be suffered lightly; one shouldn't mess with a demon in love). The lights are off, but there is a trail of candles that leads to and circles the bedroom. The dim lighting makes for dramatic shadows on the floor, on the walls, and on the face of a certain demon. He's casual, almost too casual, as he leans back in his chair and rests his shiny black shoes on the writing desk.
Beelzebub is, as usual, impeccably dressed, though his collar's perfectly imperfect and his tie's half undone.
He's waiting.
At the noted time, the door of the noted room is left unlocked (should anyone who is not the Metatron arrive, they will not be suffered lightly; one shouldn't mess with a demon in love). The lights are off, but there is a trail of candles that leads to and circles the bedroom. The dim lighting makes for dramatic shadows on the floor, on the walls, and on the face of a certain demon. He's casual, almost too casual, as he leans back in his chair and rests his shiny black shoes on the writing desk.
Beelzebub is, as usual, impeccably dressed, though his collar's perfectly imperfect and his tie's half undone.
He's waiting.