[ You don't have to tell him twice. Actually, you don't even have to tell him once - Valmont's grabbed the nearest plate and begun tucking in before the second word is out of Satanick's mouth, manners be damned. He's starving.
It occurs to him eventually to consider that the food might be spiked with something, and for a moment he hesitates - but no, Satanick's probably got a hundred more direct ways to mess with his mind, what would he need drugs for? Besides, it's not like Valmont can very well turn down his only food source for the conceivable future, and anyway the food here really is incredible, if unidentifiable. He doesn't know if being subjected to a feast this extravagant after his confinement is some sort of carrot-and-stick mind game the demon's playing, or an actual effort to consider his needs, or if this is just what all of Satanick's meals are like. He doesn't know which option he likes least.
The wine doesn't go unnoticed, either. If he's going to forget this night (is it still night? He can never tell in this world) ever happened, alcohol seems like a decent place to start. And continue. And keep continuing. He doesn't question how the bottle hasn't run out yet, because apparently one of the infinite sodding perks of being a demon/devil/whatever-term-applies-here is supernaturally efficient food service. It's unfair, is what it is.
Unfair. The word echoes as he stares into his whateverth glass of wine. None of this is fair. The food, the furniture, the fanciness - this is the kind of luxury Valmont's always believed he deserves to live in, and now he is, and it doesn't mean anything because he doesn't have any damn power, he's at the whim of the second-worst demon in existence and he'll never be rich again and he doesn't deserve - ]
...damn it...
[ The glare he's been directing at his drink shifts, blurrily, to Satanick, and one hand steadies Valmont against the table as he shakily gets to his feet. ]
no subject
It occurs to him eventually to consider that the food might be spiked with something, and for a moment he hesitates - but no, Satanick's probably got a hundred more direct ways to mess with his mind, what would he need drugs for? Besides, it's not like Valmont can very well turn down his only food source for the conceivable future, and anyway the food here really is incredible, if unidentifiable. He doesn't know if being subjected to a feast this extravagant after his confinement is some sort of carrot-and-stick mind game the demon's playing, or an actual effort to consider his needs, or if this is just what all of Satanick's meals are like. He doesn't know which option he likes least.
The wine doesn't go unnoticed, either. If he's going to forget this night (is it still night? He can never tell in this world) ever happened, alcohol seems like a decent place to start. And continue. And keep continuing. He doesn't question how the bottle hasn't run out yet, because apparently one of the infinite sodding perks of being a demon/devil/whatever-term-applies-here is supernaturally efficient food service. It's unfair, is what it is.
Unfair. The word echoes as he stares into his whateverth glass of wine. None of this is fair. The food, the furniture, the fanciness - this is the kind of luxury Valmont's always believed he deserves to live in, and now he is, and it doesn't mean anything because he doesn't have any damn power, he's at the whim of the second-worst demon in existence and he'll never be rich again and he doesn't deserve - ]
...damn it...
[ The glare he's been directing at his drink shifts, blurrily, to Satanick, and one hand steadies Valmont against the table as he shakily gets to his feet. ]