“What an intersection of intentions, dare I say! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was cruel irony. The morbid cycle of twisted karma battering our rationality hither and tither, it’s a sensationally sordid spectacle, tahaha!

 Tristan’s mind was in a frenzy, adrenaline and other hormones running through his head. His father had struck him down the staircase. His head was bleeding and he was catatonic, motherfucker’s grand-a-palooza.

 He was losing blood, and he was losing it rapidly.

 When he entered his generally unassuming yet ostentatious estate, he didn’t expect his dad to just brazenly shove him down the stairs like some crazed Chanel Oberlin. What is he, a sociopathic rich kid with a penchant for reacting violently when things don’t go their way? Is this good dad gone bad?

 The walk to his home was generally uneventful; to say the least, aside from Lucere branding him a ‘pompous pumpernickel’ for his hitherto laissez-faire approach to life. My, his habit of rambling got the best of him yet again.

 He bid farewell to the secretly submissive and breedable omega wannabe (a/n: wtf was I thinking when I wrote this, no I totally do not project my fantasies onto Lucere… note to self, write and a/b/o fic), finally free from his frivolously fretful yet irksomely forthcoming disposition.

 And then he hits his head on the rather protruding staircase edge, catatonically staring at his father coming down the now bloodied staircase with a manic grin on his face.

 Today really is just not his day.

 And as the now deathly, deranged Birne Peters treads carefully to his son’s paltry constitution, the atmosphere in the household shifts into one of heavy suspense.

 As if a call button at an eatery table was pushed, a tall, imposing figure suddenly materialized behind Birne.

 Sensing the presence behind him, Birne suddenly shifts his head behind, and a red, handsome yet grotesque creature donning piercing eyes that could kill, and sharp, fleshy wings places their hands on Birne’s neck.

 Before he could even react, Birne Peters combusted into soot; Tristan Peters lost consciousness.

 --------

He awoke an hour or two later, laying on the dining room table. With gauze wrapped around the top of his head, he woke up in a daze, exacerbated by excess blood loss.

Lucere, ever so saintly, stood over him dauntingly, afraid he had actually passed and afraid the demonic enchantments he cast on his wounds were not enough to heal them.

 But, by a stroke of the luck that has shown him naught but clemency these past hours, the eyes that he feared lost their glint flickered once more, a passion burning within them.

 “My my, out of all the places you could have laid me flat on, you chose a hard, glossy surface. How hospitable of you, you rouge reprobate.” Tristan coughed out, voice strained, but ever sardonic.

 “Would you have preferred I let you bleed to death? Oh, don’t answer that, you’d probably say yes anyway.” Lucere rolled his eyes.

 “It’s only been less than 12 hours, and you know me so well” Tristan grinned cheekily, which contrasted with the dried blood on his head. Quite a jarring image, one might say.

 The scene seemed… domestic, should one disregard the blood coating his forehead and garments.

 “What do we do with the ashes? I mean, I sure as h-e-double hockey sticks am not putting them in an urn.” Tristan was pondering whether he should just throw them in the lake behind the estate.

 “I think I know the perfect place to store them.”  Lucere’s mouth contorted into a smirk.

 “Those bastards won’t know what hit ‘em.”

 .