#for a second it almost looks like they have wings. their pact marks are glowing and shifting

[flaming-hotcheeto]

UPDATED PACT POST

If you've been following my profile for a while you probably know I did a similar post a while back.

After some intense thought and some research I came to the conclusion I hate that post.

Here's the brand new version tho <3

General HCS:

They glow when "activated". Either MC is giving a command to the demon or they just want attention, the mark will appear to have a faint glow.

The person/demon on either end of the pact can feel the other's emotions and feelings in general (very inconvenient with the twins because they are always hungry and sleepy).

At the beginning, the mark almost feels engraved onto the skin. It has some kind of texture and it hURTS. Eventually they settle down to look like tattoos.

HCS about the brothers:

Lucifer: It took time, manipulation, blood, sweat and tears to get the oldest brother to make a pact with MC but they eventually got there. The mark is located right between MC's shoulder blades. It's the exact place Lucifer's third pair of wings was growing, before he fell from the Celestial Realm. He doesn't let MC put a pact mark on him.

Mammon: Where I'm from we have this belief, that when your left palm feels itchy, you'll get a lot of money. It's only natural to put Mammon's pact mark there. He has a matching mark right between his titt-

Levi: Kinda hesitant about this but maybe on MC's inner wrist?? right inner wrist I guess?? It's the second pact MC makes and Levi IS the avatar of Envy so he wanted to outshine Mammon in a way. It's also very convenient when you play games or hold your console, because you see it every time you look down. He has a similar mark on the same spot.

Satan: His mark is on the back of MC's right hand. He likes to show off MC just to piss off his brothers. Simple as that. Convenient, easy to spot, not that easy to hide but Satan is not really concerned. He wants MC to put the same mark on the exact same spot just to make MC feel a bit better.

Asmo: As the avatar of Lust he will place the mark on an intimate spot. So he chooses the spot right under your chest (think of a sternum tattoo kind of way). He loves to see it on MC's skin and he adores how good it fits on their body. He let's MC put a mark on him after a while tho. His is placed on a very private yet public spot: the back of his neck. He absolutely hates when people try to touch that spot after he gets the mark.

Beel: The most obvious and the most common pact mark HC, on MC's stomach. He doesn't have a preference whether he has a mark or not. If MC wants to mark him as well he'll put it on his stomach.

Belphie: On your neck to remind you of the time he fking murdered you. By the time he managed to make a pact with MC all the good places were gone. After some though he decides the small of their back is the perfect spot for him tho. He can touch it while cuddling, sleeping, walking, talking etc. Pretty much whenever he pleases. I don't think he would get a mark on him, but if he did he would put it on his ribcage. That way he can feel MC always near his heart. AW

That's a long post, I'm so sorry about that babyz <3

I'll see you soon <3

[lovesick-panmess]

Protect Them

Soo I know I'm way overdue with the 3rd part of my Armageddon AU but I've actually been replaying the lessons so I get a proper feel for what I'm writing, so to make up for it and to get this idea out of my head I've been thinking about it for days here is a related fic between the oldest brothers

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Levi can count on one hand how many times he's seen Lucifer coming home injured. The Avatar of Pride could easily crush irrelevant demons with his glare and he proved worthy of Diavalo's right-hand man for a reason... But the first time that Levi remembers was on a travel mission with Lord Diavalo within a year after their fall from grace. It was a distant memory, seeing Lucifer stumble up the stairs blooded up and adamantly refusing care from any of them, even Mammon who was following behind his every footstep. He had gotten used to such behavior and just settled for turning up his headphones on his way to the safe haven that was his room, stopping when he noticed the eldest's door cracked open. He watched Mammon gingerly wrap the bandage around his shoulder, blinking back tears in his eyes and shaking his head vehemently as Lucifer spoke. The music was loud and distracting he just settled for reading their lips-

"Mammon I need you to do this for me.."

"I won't! There's no need, ya just paranoid-!"

Watching the tears well up made Levi shift, uncomfortable and jealous, wondering what bond allowed them to be so vulnerable so open. Hadn't they all fought their father together? Rallied behind him so readily behind Lucifer, their Morningstar that only shined a light that only Mammon was allowed to see. He lingered before continuing to walk down the hall, to dwell in his own sunken loneliness but hearing Mammon speak one more time before the door had shut.

"..I'll do it, alright? Just stop ya crying, Luci.."

He had felt the deja vu of that very moment playing out in front of him, though this time he was hiding from Mammon in his secret spot in the living room. They had planned to go to the movies in an hour and Levi knew that Mammon would try to find him to convince him to pay for the tickets yet again so he decided to wait out the time so that scumbag would have to bring his wallet. It was a surprise to see the door open, everyone else is out and Lucifer's return to be scheduled for a few more days, but instead, the eldest had come early with visible wounds and beatings. Levi felt frozen, debating on whether he should slip out to help or stay putt but once again Mammon comes down the stairs like it's his calling. "Lucifer? Let me help you!" Denial was the first given reaction, the eldest's heart too hard and stubborn to ask for help before collapsing into Mammon's arms.

Levi followed with anxiety brewing in his chest, now wanting to just hide away in his room since plans were clearly on hold and he could do nothing to help the pair. Not like they would want his help, a shitty pathetic otaku wasn't much good at bandaging wounds, not like he was able to get much practice like Mammon did. Jealousy seethed, it made his heart race as he hid to the side of the door at the mention of his name.

"We have to tell him, Mams."

"We don't have to tell him shit! It's fine like this...Levi doesn't have to be involved."

It was confusing to be thrown out of the loop, but it hurt to hear Mammon so effortlessly fight to not include him. Maybe the second-born felt that Levi wasn't worth it? Too weak and unable to do..whatever it is they are arguing about, even so, it was odd-looking into Lucifer's room. Mammon unafraid of the eldest's temper and even being so bold as to glare at him while cleaning his cuts, Lucifer had an expression of utter fondness that was intertwined with an unlabeled fear, one that only he seemed to see.

"Mammon, you know it takes a lot out of me to..admit this. I'm almost jealous that you're able to view me so..."

Shit shit shit, he had been so entrapped in their conversation and his own envy he hadn't realized that it was emitting throughout the hall. He stiffens when Lucifer calls his name, slipping out from where he was hiding and now embarrassed. "Levi..come here please." He notes that Mammon refuses to look at him, biting his bottom lip hard as he sits next to his brother, so not used to this soft tone from him. He really must have stepped into a completely different world, one where Lucifer is willing to fight tooth and nail with his own pride in order to tell them the truth. And what a horrid truth it must be.

"Lucifer what's going on? Why is Mammon..." He trails off, feeling Lucifer's hand skim through his hair, and despite his own embarrassment leaned into the comforting touch and suddenly the bottle of Demonus was looking very tempting. "Levi...I would like to involve you in something very important, in order to protect the others." Lucifer's words were slow, each one taking some kind of will to overcome his pride, his wings twitching in what Levi could easily place as anxiety and one he knew way too well. "I'm not allowed to say anything about the threat outside of the Devildom but it puts us at risk and I...There may be a chance I won't come back."

His stomach drops, he doesn't realize that he's shaking until he feels Mammon's arms wrapping around his shoulder, shaking his head in pure denial. Not Lucifer, the most powerful one of them all, their eldest brother not coming back. Such thoughts were unfathomable to even believe, much less considered as a probability to the point that they had to talk about it. Acknowledge it and take action, Lucifer keeps talking and Mammon presses Levi closer to his chest, "I talked this with Mammon since the beginning but now we believe it's time to tell you in case something were ever to happen to the both of us and you would decide when to tell Satan..."

The prospect of such responsibility makes Levi feel like a fish out of water as he gulps for air yet in that same breath go on a rampage of self-deprecation and drowning doubt. How he's not ready, he's a good-for-nothing shitty pathetic otaku, he can't protect his brothers, he's weak, he's nothing, if Lucifer and Mammon are gone then there would be no fucking hope for them. The two oldest look at each other, small bits of regret building up from the pressure and burden they had put on him, Mammon gently rubbing his back and Lucifer cupping his face. "Leviathan please breathe."

His body does it automatically before he can think about it, the air in his lungs felt like boiling water as the panic slowly dissipates in his chest. All that was left was his own soft mutterings, so sure that Lucifer was probably disappointed that he has to trust in Levi of all people to protect them, he leans against Mammon who nudges him affectionately before resting his head on his shoulder. "I...I haven't really done anything good since...I was General...how can you be so sure in me?" He asks but squirms unready for whatever the answer might be, though he's unable to mistake Lucifer's radiating pride that he feels.

"Who's the one who came up with the plan on where to steal the weapons in the Celestial Realm?"

"M-Me but I-"

"And who helped convince the others to lay low while we defended the base?"

"I did but Luci-"

"Who's the one who took an arrow for Mammon while he was trying to protect me?"

"Lucifer-!"

He gets cut off with a flick on his forehead, his lips set in a pout but meeting the Morningstar's expression that made butterflies bloom in his stomach from overwhelming pride had him turn away and looking down at the floor. "Levi, get out of your head for one second and look at how smart and tactical you are. When it matters...when there is no time to panic. You're the third strongest family for a fucking reason, you should start believing it." The unusual confidence makes him flush but it's really Lucifer's words that bring the tears, no longer from fear but slowly coming to the realization that Lucifer and Mammon too had faith in him...they always did.

"Do ya still wanna join the pact? If ya wanna think about it, ya still can Levi." He blinks at the fact that Mammon had really been silent this whole time and just hugging him, the second born now getting up to tighten the remaining bandages. "Did you think about it, Mammon?" Levi knew the answer in his gut, only the blind would question the unwavering devotion that Mammon and Lucifer had for each other, only further cemented as the Avatar of greed simply shakes his head. He feels a small smile form on his face, "Then I don't need to think about it...I want to do this."

By the next few hours, any of the remaining tension and somber feelings had slipped away, replaced by a calm atmosphere that usually would not last long in the House of Lamentation. The melody of the cursed record floated and hung in the air as Levi rested on the floor in his demon form, the pact officially made and learning about the secret doorway by Lucifer's bookcase, definitely locking that information into memory. He sees Mammon grinning above him, curiosity embedded in his features, "So where'd ya decide to put the pact mark?" Levi lifts his sweater, the symbol of the three still glow fresh on the side by his ribs, and Mammon hissing with empathy.

He wanted it to hurt weirdly enough, to serve as a forever reminder that this pain was temporary but the pain of losing his brothers would surely last till the end of time. Mammon shows the mark on his hand, Lucifer clicks his tongue in disapproval as someone might ask about the pact but the second brother waves his concern away. He enjoys looking at the pact, the constant reassurance that they would be okay when the word goes to absolute shit, and Lucifer couldn't find any argument against that. They both look at the eldest who crosses his arms with a sharp, "No-" before puppy eyes come into play and Lucifer's pride can not save him from that.

What they both don't expect is for Lucifer to turn around and spread his wings out as if to show off, but then they see it. The markings trailing up his spine and next to the scars of where his two wings used to be, Levi is the first to reach up and touch it, internally blaming the remnants of Lucifer's pride that is making him so bold. He sees his hand tremble but luckily he is able to hold his voice steady, "Just because we made this pact..doesn't mean you both get to just fuck up. Y-You both should always come home." Lucifer nods, Mammon kisses his cheek and Levi struggles to hide his tears.

When Levithan leaves the room while closing the door behind him, reality, as he knew it just a few hours ago, wasn't all that different and he can hear Asmo drunkenly cheering as Satan carries him through the door. "Hey, Levi! Don't hide in your room- you better come join us." He doesn't give his thoughts a chance, heading down the stairs with a small smile. The world hadn't changed, but Levi would be forever.

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AHHH THIS HAS BEEN SITTING THE DRAFTS FOREVER I'M SO GLAD I FINISHED IT. Please please let me know if I should make an explanation post of how the pacts would work (it will most likely be headcanons cause I don't know how they work in canon 😪😪)

either way, I really hope you enjoyed the fic as I did writing it! I'm still working on the next part for the Armageddon AU so bear with me 😭

[obeymeluv]

Quick! Kiss Me! [Part 3 - Mammon]

Same rules apply from Part 2: thoughts are italicized and bolded. May be slightly NSFW because the boys have a crush on you and such. If anyone has suggestions for Asmo’s part or Belphie’s, I’m down to hear it. I kind of have one for Belphie but I feel it’s a little cliché.

Also, I’ve logged back in and started playing Obey Me! since I have a three day weekend and the “Are You Kidding Me?!” event is making me want to write those baby headcanons. Might do that next.

Mammon:

You’d been following a buzzing, bubbling sensation around the house. It was enough to make your teeth rattle at points and you wondered if one of the brothers were using shadow magic to stay on the fringes of your vision (or just out of it). Sometimes it would feel like you were right on top of it, your whole body feeling like loose change in a can, and just as quickly it would stop. The cold wash of going the wrong way was a welcome reprieve.

Exhausted, feeling like you’d lapped the house several times, you dragged yourself back to your bedroom. It wasn’t very romantic but at this point you’d had it! The only thing your poor brain could think of was texting them one by one and just kissing them. If you were honest with yourself, you wouldn’t even need to text all seven. If you were really honest with yourself, you just wanted to text one of them.

And he was in your bed, cuddled into your pillows and half-wrapped in your sheets like he was supposed to be there.

Was he asleep?

You resisted the urge to stomp your foot or startle Mammon awake. His jacket was tossed haphazardly over your small desk chair but his sunglasses had been placed with care on your nightstand. Mammon? You placed on knee on the bed, planning to crawl towards him from the opposite corner. Mammon tended to wake up swinging and flailing; you remembered Belphie yanking him off of “his” spot on the couch but not before he’d fluffed his pillow and took a defensive stance.

Your little brain tap was enough to make him snort and stretch but not open his eyes. Tanned limbs dragged themselves across twisted sheets. He sounded like he’d mumbled something but you couldn’t be sure. You were sure he’d scooped up another pillow to stuff his face in and squeeze to death.

Was that a giggle? Mammon gave a contented little hum, snuggling his face into the new, cool pillow. Mammon! you tried again. It was weird to speak with your brain. Could you raise your voice just by thinking it? You froze in the middle of the bed, Mammon snapping up with a slow blink and a confused slur (and a huffy demon gurgle).

If he wasn’t hugging the pillow, he probably would’ve swung his arms out or fallen out the bed and taken half the sheets with him. Mammon blinked again, his white brows furrowing as he scanned the room. He leaned forward and you barely remembered how utterly blind he was as you watched the sleep lift from blue-yellow eyes.

“So who was the lucky—“ Mammon started off in his fake ‘I’m not interested’ tone but the words died out before he could make them any more indifferent. “Your lips are still sealed shut.” he lurched forward, your noses practically touching. “Your lips are still sealed shut!” he whispered again breathlessly, the quickness of his words matching the excited pulse in his throat.

Mammon’s heart squeezed in his chest. His mouth dried and suddenly he couldn’t think of anything to say. This wasn’t how he thought your first kiss would be but Diavolo be damned if he’d turn it down! The demon could barely filter his desire for you, trying to keep the YES! GIMME! KISS ME, KISS ME! in his head and out of yours. His face started to heat up when the pact mark on your shoulder glowed a soft golden color, painting both of your faces in a candlelight-like glow.

The tiniest part of his awed brain could feel his mouth slipping open in shock. You were a vision with golden highlights. Golden highlights from his pact mark! It made him want to take you on a fancy restaurant date and see it again.

Mammon? you were waiting on him now, ever so careful. So considerate. That’s what he loved about you. You put up with a lot of his walls and his loud behavior but deep down you knew. He knew you knew, and he was glad you kept his secret.

The people who made the loudest echoes were often the most fragile. He was a giving heart that had been corrupted against his will, and he had not totally hardened with the fall. You saw those scars and chips and cracks and somehow healed all of it with your human hands. With your smile. Your touch.

Hell, you just saying his name could wipe centuries of suffering from his mind.

“Was I your first choice?” Mammon’s voice turned raspy and tight. He couldn’t bear to hear you say you’d gone to one of the others first. He’d seen you going from room to room, slinking around the house in a way only the second-eldest could master. Years of trying to slip out past curfew and make off with a few odds and ends no one would miss without getting caught had its perks. Watching you touch doors and turn halls gutted him and drove him to seek refuge in your room.

He’d consoled himself amongst your pillows—your scent—and tried not to cry. Even if you didn’t choose him, he’d still have you as a friend. Maybe an in-law. That didn’t stop the cold twisting in his guts or the burning anguish in his chest as he realized over and over that he was one of seven. The other six were better than him, he feared. He was just scummy, scummy Mammon.

You don’t think you are? You tilted your head as you looked at him, hands coming up to comb gently through his hair and massage the bottom of his ears. Your hands smoothed down his neck, drawing him into a hug that was just…very you. Comforting and genuine and wholesome. He felt it first physically, then emotionally as your pact mark burned a little brighter.

You dummy, it was so light, so teasing and gentle that Mammon couldn’t help but smile as you cupped his face and brought his lips up to yours. “Of course you’re my first choice. You’re my first man, aren’t you?”

Mammon realized you said that with your mouth--your open mouth—and he exploded into a rolling yayayayaya victory warble. His eyes were a molten yellow, almost as bright as Diavolo’s (maybe brighter). Tears beaded in his eyes and Mammon blinked them away, stuffing his face into your neck as he tackled you to the bed. A burst of heat rolled over you as his horns came out a hot skin touched yours, the demon greedily snuggling into like he’d finally found his home.

He was scenting you with all his snuggling and ‘settling’ but you didn’t mind, patting his back and running your fingertips across the seams in his black jacket. In all his ‘settling’ you’d been turned onto your side and scooped up by him. Mammon locked his arms around you, feet tangling with yours. He’d tucked you under his chin to keep you away from his horns. “I can’t believe you took so long!” he whined, fingers playing with your hair, “making me wait like that! I’m a busy guy, you know?”

“I can take your place if you’re so busy!” you saw a hint of Asmo in the doorway and probably Levi behind him before Mammon’s wing blocked your view. They’d been called by the noise Mammon made earlier.

“Get lost, the lot of ya!” Mammon flapped his free wing at them. He hugged you closer and you briefly wondered if this what a dragon did with their hoard. You laughed at the thought. “This is my human! And my human is spending time with their first man!” he’d made a little tent out of his wing, peeking down at you with pride and love and a little hesitancy that begged you to back him up because his embarrassment was outweighing his ability to run his smart mouth.

You responded by kissing his chest, little kitten kisses that climbed his throat and jaw and could definitely be heard with demon ears. Popping out from just under his wing, you pecked his lips. His nose just to catch him off guard. “It’s very personal time.” you teased, rubbing his shoulders as his wing unfolded to show you off, sitting happily atop your man.

There were scowls and little demon grumbles you’d never be able to understand, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t even hear them over the sound of Mammon’s purr.

[designatedbreadbox]

Imagine the Bros. having

a final form of their demon form. Like, the more MC commits acts according to that sin, imagine the brothers slowly transforming into a demonized, horror version of their animal. Imagine that an "Ultimate Act of ______" is what's needed to activate their final forms.

Like, just......

Imagine MC having so much pride in themself of what they accomplished and what they could achieve. Imagine Lucifer feeling it while scolding his brothers, the feeling to turn into demon form is strong, as if he was commanded to. The pact mark doesn't glow, but it feels like its trying to lure him into doing so. The mark being demanding, gently yet aggressively pressuring him to follow an order he never heard. His brothers look at him as his wings grow bigger, the soft feathers now looking like obsidian blades. His horns are more slick now, preventing anyone that tries to grab the smooth bone. A peacock's tail emerged from him, big, grand and elegant; expected from the symbolic bird that screams pride. Lucifer's powers are at their upmost peak, now; power that could possibly rival Diavolo if he was bold and had the audacity to test the idea. His peacock feathers don't stretch, but his usual wings do; way bigger than ever before and so intimidating it could have Michael shaking. Lucifer grew at least 1-2 ft taller; everyone stopped what they were doing and wondered if they made him angry enough to cause it.

Imagine MC being given the option to either give up their WHOLE family in exchange for a lot of money. Imagine MC about to choose "yes" out of pure selfishness and greed; the pact mark with Mammon starts glowing way brighter than it ever has before. Imagine the pact mark getting extremely warm, but only Mammon feels it. MC is the one making the mark act that way, so naturally MC won't notice it. Mammon's wings turn into even harder leather; leather so thick it can possible block a bullet. Horns aren't the tiny, stupid little twists now; now, they're huge, and dangerously pointed. He has a crow head; some feathers grow from his wrists to his elbows, ankles to his hips. He doesn't have crows feet, though, but he makes up for that in speed. Feathers fall behind him and grow back rapidly as he flies. His hands turned into claws, sharp enough to cut stone with ease; almost as if it was paper. Mammon being able to summon hordes of crows made purely of magic as he wishes to combat his opponent. Imagine him having excellent sight so good, he can see people down to detail up to 2 miles away. Imagine Mammon being able to see through crows' eyes as if they were cameras, being able to watch whoever he wanted wihout any repercussions. Imagine Mammon being able to recieve information from them, having dirty secrets from most if not all of Devildom's citizens.

Imagine Levi feeling it while gaming. MC saw something that drove them over the edge; something they worked so hard for, only for it to be handed off to some sleazy, pathetic, second place winner. Levi suddenly turning into a more scaled version of himself, growing so much that the chair creaked under his weight. Imagine Levi desperately trying to get into the tank he usually has Henry in, who was luckily in the fishbowl prior to that. The pact mark he shared with MC was painful; the effects were nullified if not ereased due to the coldness of the water. Imagine Levi's horns growing bigger and branching off some more; Imagine Levi trying to readjust himself to be comfortable, but trying not to spill water over his stuff. His eyes bevome more snake-like, being able to see better in the dim lighting, as if the tank light acted as the sun. Imagine Levi hearing MC's thoughts out of no where as he quickly learns what they were envious over and why. Imagine Mammon or Lucifer walking into the room to bring him down for dinner, only to see Levi's head above the water and body underneath the water's surface, legs now a tail that spills over the tank's edge, nearing towards the floor.

Imagine Satan feeling the urge to destroy everything in sight and he has no idea why. Truly, he doesn't; nothing new to him. That is until he felt his bones ache, body becoming tired yet energetic at once. Imagine Satan feeling his forehead fuckin' burn like no other; the pain was immense, and while doubling over, feels something brutally forcing its way through his skin, growing bigger until it stopped. Satan feeling it, realizing it's a horn; a unicorn horn, to be exact. His horns pointed menacingly outwards, daring anyone to come close to him. Imagine Satan now looking at his hands, seeing nothing but bone and the hard cartilage that holds it together. Satan's face is hurting now too, but he can't scream; or to be clear, whatever was happening to him won't let him. Imagine Satan standing up now, a full foot and a half taller than Lucifer; he would've felt weightless has it not been for the heavy thing grounding him to the floor. Satan looking in a mirror, seeing his face a horse's, complete with horn; problem was, though, that his entire skin structure was gone, also revealing the bones underneath. Satan testung the tail out, seeing it crash through the floor like nothing; a deadly tail that knows no mercy. Satan looking at his body now, seeing how he has a glowing green gem where his heart should be; the only think he recognized from his usual demon form was the pants. But even then, the pants were ripped to show a horses' hind legs.

Imagine Asmo suddenly feeling so....relaxed..one dsy randomly, while binging a serious MC recommended. His whole body feels cold now, and he feels the need to warm himself up. Blankets, pillows, heater; all barely did anything. Imagine Asmo falling asleep only to wake up as a normal demon with huge pincers for arms. Imagine Asmo freaking out at first at the sight, only to realize he has 2 other sets of normal arms; arms he can coordinate them all to act seperately from the others. Arms that were muscular, even for Asmo; his torso and legs felt hardened, especially his legs. Imagine Asmo feeling them, then hitting them at full force to see what happens only to learn that he didn't feel a thing. His whole body was his hair color, and the only recognizable human (demon) thing about him was his face and hair. And even then, his face had a few faceplates to protect itself from oncoming attacks. Asmo taking a look at himself in the mirror, seeing a scorpion tail that's the length of his body. Imagine him swinging it, testing how light and easy it was to lift it on command; testing it to see it fall to the floor with a hard thud, heavy weight now returning. Imagine Asmo seeing that his wings was proportional to his body; feeling like hard leather and his horns seemed more rugged, more pointy.

Imagine MC eating so much or being so unwilling to share their food that Beel feels his hunger lessen. Strange, he notes, feeling the long-forgotten sensation once more. Imagine Beel growing even taller, towering over Diavolo who could only look in amazement and slight worry. Imagine Beel having 2 other sets of arms that would've been like Asmo's, but all 3 pairs of his arms are hardened as well beyond comparison; no mortal weapon would be able to penetrate it. The pact mark he and MC share feels ironically greedy, and full; like it was full of contentment and satisfaction. Like as if it satsifed itself somehow with no awareness whatsoever to what others possibly could've wanted. His multiple arms are all black and shiny; his wings are montrous, each wing big enough to clearly support his weight. His legs weren't human, obviously resembling somewhat to that of a fly's. Beel's hair is even messier than before; his horns would be similar to Satan's, all rugged and sharp just by looking at it. Imagine Beel having multiple eyes instead of bug eyes, 2 small ones on each cheek and on 3 on his forehead at different angles; 2 are covered by his hair. Imagine Beel having a great scope vision of his surroundings so that his only open spot would be his back, if you ever managed to get behind him. Imagine Beel flying so high in the Devildom sky, seeing the city at a view that he never in 10 centuries thought he would consider seeing.

Imagine MC being so careless and unwilling to help the people that ask for them, only to say no with no explanatiom. Imagine Belphie feeling a dull pain in his sleep that slowly grows more painful. He wakes up, rubbing his head, only making the pain grow stronger the more he rubs his head. Imagine Belphie taking a medicine for the pain before going to sleep, only for it to hit him full force like a sudden truck. Belphie feels his legs go weak, feeling like putty with unbearable pain hidding beneath the soreness. Imagine Belphie call for Beel through tears over the phone, begging him to come home and hold him; he doesn't know what's happening or why it is. The pact mark glows sleepily, like it's waking up despite it being the main source of the pain Belphie's going through. Imagine Beel seeing Belphie as a tall cow-headed man, legs those of a cow's complete with hooves and even a bit of grayish-blue hair. Imagine Belphie going to Beel, unaware of his new founded strength as he sends Beel crashing through the wall. The pain has lessened now, considerably, but it was still there. Imagine Belphie's horns even more twisted and curled out, the tips seeming too sharp to be considered "normal" for a demon. Almost as if it was sharpened like a butcher's knife, but crueler. His tail remained the same, just larger; yet it seemed sturdy, like it'll take a considerable amount of force to potentially and very painfully rip it off. Imagine Belphie having random, unshaped black spots over his body, and the size having no consistency whatsoever. Imagine Belphie looking at himself in the mirror, examining himself as he noticed finally that the pact mark was dimming.

Imagine MC coming home to this, seeing all of them in the entryway waiting for MC. They all look at MC with what looks like fear and bewilderment.

Imagine them demanding an explanation from MC who has no idea what they're all talking about.

Imagine Lucifer having to call Diavolo, who's equally as confused and curious as they are.

Imagine each of them showing MC the animal/human hybrid (technically demon) version of themself; a form each one had to intensely focus on.

Imagine them not loving MC any more than they do, but admiring and eulogizing them for activating a demon form none knew they had.

Imagine that.

[kettlequills]

C3: a wife to remember

god i love this fic so much. a03

A hag had many resources at her disposal, not at the least, her fellow sisters of feather, and Moira had a problem. She did not know the Dragonborn, and Moira did not much like not knowing things, especially when it pertained to the fruits of her bargains. The Dragonborn had not seemed adverse to Moira on the basis of being a hag alone, but accepting talons and feathers was quite different from permitting her to actively work her magics. There was too much that Moira did not know.

Moira planned to speak to someone who did.

Moira hauled her smoking cauldron into the garden patch, hissing at the weight and thinking longingly of the corded muscle that had braided the Dragonborn’s tanned brown arms, how easy it would be for them to move a cauldron almost as large as Moira was. She idly plucked a few of her own feathers and added them to the steaming brew until the liquid was thick and purple.

Her arms screamed when she took up the stirrer and laboriously fought it through the viscous liquid. Prickles of sweat broke out on her brow, and she leant her full bird-boned weight into the motion, adding an extra push with feather-fluttering hops. This cursed potion would save her days of pointless travel, but it exacted its price here, she thought irritably. Still, Moira had made it enough times before, if not for many years, that it did not take longer than a few hours before she was dipping salvaged bottles with peeling wine-labels into the mixture.

The bottles appeared largely spontaneously, washing up in the banks of the river not far from Moira’s house from Blood-Made-Pleasure’s daedric revels upstream, within the soft fold of Oblivion. Moira hunted along the banks come the morning for mortals, hollow-souled and blown from the Myriad Realms like scrunched daisies, and the trash from endless parties – human viscera, empty wine-bottles that stung the nose with haunting fragrant scents, fake cocks of shattered glass, snapped dremora horns. Sometimes, the blood-sports of the Prince of Plots bleeding over from the nexus of their shrine not far from the snow-city of Nord kings made their way to Moira’s stream, too. The river ran red for days to her mage-eye, and Moira would be weeding femurs and teeth out of her garden patch for even longer. But since Moira’s pact with Sanguine, his realm was closer, and Moira had more empty bottles than she could ever use.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger, for a single night of revelry.

She uncorked one such with her teeth and swigged from the potion as she labelled the others in spidery daedric letters that would make little sense to one foreign to haglore. When her gums began to prickle with chill, Moira kicked over her cauldron and let the dregs of the potion water her deathbell flowers. She left it there, staring hollowly out at the damp trees, and went to her roost. The potion took hold of the daedra inside her heart and dragged, and Moira’s spirit pierced the skin of Oblivion and rose on flapping raven-wings.

Witchmist Grove shimmered with ghostlike mists when she flew above it, the magic of Oblivion searing the trees tall and gloomy with the prescient tendrils of Moira’s magic soaked into the ground. The roost of a hag, visible as a thorny spot nestled like a canker around the soil. The dragon-cairn over the ridge glowed dully with trapped soul energy.

Not for the first time, Moira overflew her home and cawed at her cleverness. The necromantic energy of the dragon’s old servants and its own aedric glow nearly eclipsed Witchmist Grove, and the lines of power that hazed the ground was broken into the rippling hot pools, confusing the scrying-eye. Her own wards against magical predation still held strong, but she had been wise enough to choose a good spot to make it harder. The Grove would shelter its witch well while her mind attended to her business.

It was the work of a moment to envisage the heart of the plainsland, and a second later Moira was soaring through the cloudless blue skies of Whiterun – crisscrossed though they were by the fading trail of a dragon. Still, that was not too unusual in this season of change, and Moira made for the human city where the answers to her questions resided. It pulsed whitely in her mage-eye, the vast wings of the Skyforge spread over the city like a gargoyle. The eagle shrieked as Moira swept lower, and for a moment, its beady eye fixed on her. Her wings faltered in surprise. After a second that felt like an eternity, the eagle tucked its head back against its chest, satisfied, it seemed, that she posed little threat.

Moira’s talons clenched uneasily. The Skyforge was impersonal as the wind. Last time she had come here in this way, its wings had barely twitched when she’d landed on its head. That it was so riled up did not bode well.

Her disquiet mounted as she flew lower to the city – or what was left of it. Radiating outwards from the pulverised remains of the gates was a blast radius of crumbled stone that had reduced the surrounding timber houses to splinters. A wooden palisade had been erected, manned by guards whose spirits flickered dimly with fear to Moira’s mage-sight. Grief hung over Whiterun like a pall, and, pressing against the wall that separated Oblivion from the living, ghosts wandered dully through the streets, torn too abruptly from their living bodies to look for the way to Aetherius just yet. The living tree within the heart of the city was bowed double under the strength of their sorrow, its roots choked by a strange power crawling down from the heart of the prison of dragons. Familiar, daedric darkness, soft as poetry and suggestive as a whisper. The Webspinner, moving openly to claim the city, and, from the look of it, mostly unopposed. Even Hircine’s Underforge was muted. Well, good for the Webspinner. Moira had never liked Whiterun much.

Still, Moira noticed with some relief the burning-bright soul of the one Whiterun resident that she had come to see. Olava the Feeble was waiting for her, playing cards with a small child that shivered at Moira’s approach.

“Go along now,” Olava told the child, who wriggled in her chair. She had untidy brown hair and looked thin, but there were fresh crumbs on her ragged dress, and smears of jam on an empty plate on Olava’s table.

“But we weren’t done playing,” said the girl, and Olava smiled mysteriously.

“Yes, we were,” she said, and tapped the table between them. Moira saw the magic inside Olava flare, and the child gaped down at the cards in her hands. There was dirt caked under her nails.

“How did you do that?” she gasped. Moira sensed a curious flicker in the girl’s own fledgling spirit, as if she was trying to see as a witch did.

Food for a starving waif, and a light-show of no substance? A more obvious hook had never been planted. Moira cared not for Olava’s interest in a ragged child, but surely it would be easier to simply tell the girl whatever it was Olava wanted from her, and claim she was mad or dispose of her if she broke Olava’s cover?

“Charlatanry,” Moira commented dryly, amused at Olava’s transparent recruitment effort, “You didn’t need to touch the table at all for such a simple trick.”

“An old woman never shares all her secrets,” Olava said to them both, and then shooed the girl off. Once she had gone, perhaps a little faster than she would have if it had not been for the invisible presence of a hagraven glaring at the back of her neck, Moira fluttered down to perch on the back of the chair she had vacated. Her talons gripped the wood, but left no mark on it. She was not, after all, truly there.

“Sister,” said Olava plainly, “What can an old woman do for you?”

“Do you not need to maintain your quaint cover?” Moira asked, electing to preen herself. She tugged an errant feather back into alignment while Olava chuckled.

“Not at all.” Olava’s eyes were crinkled up at the edges and her smile was kindly, as if she really were simply nothing more than an old grandmother. Convincing, were it not for the aura of twisted power that radiated her from her like a dark sun and the way that her eyes were holes to the Void in her skull. “My neighbours think nothing of an old woman talking to herself.”

“As you wish.” Moira spread her wings and eyed them critically, as if it were more important than the task that had brought her here. “I propose a bargain of knowledge. I need to learn hand language.”

What better way to learn the ways of her new ��� spouse… than to prise them from the Dragonborn herself?

Olava hummed, pleased. “You have come to the right place, then. Which sign language is it you need to know?”

Moira ruffled her feathers. “How should I know?”

“Ai,” sighed Olava, “There is more than one. It would help if I knew who you need it to speak with.”

Flaring her wings, Moira shrieked her harsh raven’s cry. It echoed jealously, ear-splittingly loud. Under the eclipsing shadow of her wings, her true shape flickered and burned like coals. She would not share this knowledge. The Dragonborn was vulnerable, for now, ripe for the uncovering, and Moira would permit no other witch’s claws to steal in on her prize. Bad enough that she shared with Sanguine’s hook, that her own hold was as tenuous as the Dragonborn’s word.

Olava leant back in her seat to watch and rose a thin white eyebrow. Her face, for all it was wrought and wrecked by the passage of time, hid a mind no less canny.

“I can get you the knowledge of all major forms of hand-sign from here to Black Marsh, but it’ll cost you,” Olava relented. “I’ll have to call in a few favours.”

Moira accepted this irritably, and Olava eyed her, as if curious to see how far she would take this whim.

“I want you to … deliver something, for me.”

“Knowledge for knowledge is traditional,” Moira cawed, “I’m not your errand girl.”

“No,” said Olava, calmly, but Moira could see the tension wound in the leylines of her magic, her future-seeing eyes that glowed with the deepness of the Void, “But good luck finding another sister to help you. Did you say it was urgent?”

She hadn’t, but Moira was not patient, and Olava knew it. Besides, Olava’s demeanour was – reluctantly – intriguing. A witch’s errand was no small thing, particularly if she wanted a hag’s help to achieve it.

“Not that urgent,” Moira snapped regardless, because she did not want Olava to think that she did not see what she was doing by pricking Moira’s curiosity. “Out with it, then.”

“I need you to take an item to a particular person,” Olava said, “and ensure that it does not… leave her possession.”

Moira cawed a laugh. “A curse object, sister? Why, I’d almost do it for free. But why not see to it yourself?”

Olava’s hands smoothed deliberately over the table. She began to gather the cards and answered Moira’s question to their dog-eared and scribbled faces. “It cannot be me directly. The target knows me too well, and the spell must work.”

Moira paused. Olava’s carefully level voice roused her suspicion, and as she watched Olava stack the cards and slide them precisely into a bag woven of river-reeds, she grasped that Olava was not dissembling. She was worried. Moira did not lack confidence in her magical strength, but nor was she a fool. She had no desire to get mixed up in something that was going to require too much of her time.

“You have seen something that you hope to avoid,” Moira prompted.

“Yes,” Olava admitted, freely. “Nothing that concerns you, sister. A few fraying strings will soon be cut, and I have a … vested interest.”

Moira stared hard at Olava, who returned her gaze steadily. She was being sincere, Moira could tell that immediately from the glow and pulse of her magicka, and even more, Olava was letting her see without a single attempt to hide herself from Moira’s mage-sight. Whatever it was, it was important to her, perhaps important enough to ask a hag to do a courier’s job, if only to be sure it was done.

“Where is this target?”

“Falkreath,” said Olava and Moira squawked indignantly.

“It is far from my roost,” she complained, but Olava only shrugged.

“You’re the one who asked for something,” she said, and Moira conceded with a whistling hiss through her beak.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll see your token delivered.”

“Thank you,” said Olava. She smiled, a genuine one, smaller and slyer than her elderly façade. “I will send you a … friend, on the night of the new moon. He will have what you need.”

Three days. Moira shifted her claws on the chair, then took off without ceremony. She beat her wings quickly to rise over Whiterun, and took the precaution to soar some ways away from the wandering eyes of the powers that wrestled beneath the city. It was only once Moira wheeled freely over the stripped bones of a dead dragon, soul-claimed, that she tucked her wings and followed the thread tethering her to her body, and home.

---

Of course, it was not three days. It was two, and Olava’s friend came yowling with his ear in the firm grip of the Dragonborn.

“You’re early,” Moira said sourly, and the Dragonborn’s mouth tensed.

They wore no helmet today, and their greying brown hair had been roughly knotted at the nape of their neck. It was greasy, already damp from the moist air of the Grove. The rude knot exposed the gruesome fullness of their facial scarring, which twisted as they scowled at the terrified Khajiit whose tunic they held. Still broad, still strong, but there was a bandage wrapped around their bicep, several days old if Moira was any judge, and somewhat dirty and stained. The Khajiit in their grasp was a young ginger tom, his yellow eyes slitted with fear.

“Let him go,” Moira chided the Dragonborn, “Have you no manners?”

Moira did not recognise the boy, but she guessed that he had been sent when he offered her with trembling paws a bag marked with the crest of the Nords of Whiterun, a curling ram’s head.

“For you,” the Khajiit whispered. The Dragonborn’s lips thinned unsubtly, and they stalked off to lean against a tree, their back to the Khajiit but their head cocked, as if they were listening.

The boy’s tail lashed. “This one was not trying to sneak, he swears! He was told to bring a message, to the old woman in the grove by the dragon burial, that is all!”

“I am old, and within the grove,” Moira said, flatly, annoyed that she had not seen him coming, and had time to muster her illusions of being a harmless – if unnerving – old woman who lived alone. She had not sensed the Khajiit at all around the brilliance of the Dragonborn’s signature when they entered Witchmist Grove. “Give it to me.”

The Khajiit hesitated, but when Moira flashed her claws he tripped over himself in his rush to thrust the sack at her. It fell at her feet with a muted rattle. The Khajiit withered under Moira’s poisonous glare.

“Well?” she demanded, and the poor boy’s ears twitched. He bolted, and Moira rolled her eyes. “Let him go,” she told the Dragonborn, whose hunter’s eyes had tracked his flight, “and come in.”

But Moira did not move from her position on the top step as the Dragonborn pushed off the tree and approached her with slow, steady steps, their armour – wrapped for silence, again, in the shredded remains of what appeared to be Nordic burial shrouds – reflecting back the whiteness of the magelight Moira had tethered in the mouths of her staked goat heads. They removed their gauntlet carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, they stooped to pick up the sack and hand it to her.

Feeling as if she were moving thrice as slowly as normal, Moira took it, and her feathers fluttered involuntarily when their fingertips – rough and callused, but hot as fire – brushed her skin. Before the Dragonborn could pull away Moira tightened her grip until the tips of her sharp claws pressed into the back of the Dragonborn’s hand. Scarred, even here, with the nicks and cuts of a lifelong soldier.

The Dragonborn watched her. Those dark dragon eyes were steady as granite, and when Moira stared into them she had the odd sense of falling inwards. It was as if she peered into the implacable gaze of a creature so impossibly huge and dense that it warped the world towards it, as inexorable as a bird struck from the sky must meet the stony ground. She wondered how the Dragonborn would look beneath her potion-enhanced mage sight. She wondered how the Dragonborn saw her.

Moira had the height advantage on them from the top step, but the weight of their gaze was so immense that she felt small, like a darting bird before the maw of a dragon. She remembered challenging the Dragonborn to consummate their engagement the second time they had come to Witchmist Grove. Almost involuntarily, she pictured being pinned beneath that suffocating presence, those dark eyes, that searing heat – the enormity of them like a serpent big enough to touch nose to tail around the entirety of Tamriel coiling itself into one short human body that had to tilt their head up to look Moira in the eyes.

Moira was a hagraven, no fragile thing, her body knitted with ancient magics and raven-feathers, and she had birthed horrors on her altar for little reason other than curiosity. But she was also a bird-hearted once-woman, and the strange, arrhythmic pounding in her chest that could not decide what it felt at the warmth of the Dragonborn’s skin on hers disconcerted her.

With an impatient snort, Moira released the Dragonborn, but not before one last, pointed flex of her claws. The Dragonborn did not flinch at the tiny teardrops of blood that welled up from the scratches, just as they had not reacted to the poison tea, and when Moira turned and stormed into her house, she felt the shaking of the steps as the Dragonborn followed her.

As before, Moira filled the kettle and set it to boil, after checking the sack and tucking it away for later in a cabinet. She was curious to see if the Dragonborn would make the same mistake twice. They did not choose to sit down this time, but leant uncertainly against the wall, arms folded uncomfortably across their chest. Moira was expecting the airlessness of the shack this time and took a moment over the smoke of the fire to soothe herself.

A clinking distracted her, and she whipped her head around in time to catch the Dragonborn leaning back like a child caught going for the cookie jar, hand froze in the act of placing something shiny on the table.

“What’s that?” Moira demanded, and the Dragonborn’s grim mouth moved oddly, as if they were trying to smile.

They gestured sweepingly at Moira, and Moira eyed them suspiciously as she seized this latest offering. It was a bottle, a large one, filled to the brim with glittering dust that shifted and shimmered when she tipped it to and fro, like it was trying to escape the directness of her gaze. The aura that seeped off it reeked of death even with the cap sealed with what looked like leather and home-made twine.

“Blood-drinker dust,” Moira identified. Useful in potions, very useful. Her claws clacked when she tapped the bottle, not wanting to admit that she had nearly run out of her own supply. And she had never had so much as this. It was a handsome gift, and practical, as well. A hag had little use for frippery, after all, even if the Dragonborn’s last gift was currently hidden safely under Moira’s bed and warded with her strongest spells. “You hunted all of these yourself?”

The Dragonborn’s scarred face split, and all of their teeth gleamed. They nodded.

“Is that how you hurt your arm?” Moira asked before she registered what she was going to say, and hissed at herself.

It did not help that the Dragonborn seemed equally surprised at her question, and by the way their eyes flickered to the wound on their arm and back, she imagined they were wondering why she was bothered – or perhaps, had forgotten the wound was there at all. After a brief hesitation, the Dragonborn shook their head.

Moira cursed herself to the Void and back. “How then?” she snapped, aware of the brittle anger in her voice. She wanted to know now. Her curiosity had been piqued, and more than that, there was a strange, restless annoyance Moira ascribed to a healer’s knowledge, impatient with the mysterious wound under its dirty bandage.

The Dragonborn’s shoulders rounded, and their movements as they fumbled for their journal seemed if anything oddly shy. They scribbled for a moment, and then avoided her eye when they presented the page.

“Wolf pack surprised me,” they had written.

“You slay dragons, and hunt vampires, but not wolves,” Moira said. “Did you at least clean it?”

The Dragonborn nodded, and then cleared their throat. They were still looking away, and after a moment, Moira recognised that the fire’s warmth on their cheek was not solely responsible for the redness that had bloomed there.

“Well,” Moira heard herself say irascibly, “Wash your bandages, then.”

Scrubbing the back of their neck with their hand, the Dragonborn nodded. The motion reminded her of their skin touching hers, and Moira busied herself with the kettle, indiscreetly bolstering the fire with magic. The heat enveloped the hut, steaming away the perpetual dampness, and Moira heard the Dragonborn sigh with pleasure behind her. It was nearly noiseless, but not quite, and Moira was hard-pressed to tell whether the shiver that went through her was from some miniature earthquake or the base of her spine, which had elected to, for some reason only daedra knew, play host to half a dozen guttering candles.

“So,” Moira said eventually, “What do they call you?”

Silence, not the scratch of charcoal, and Moira glanced over her shoulder to see the Dragonborn’s confused expression.

“Your name?”

With a metallic creak, the Dragonborn’s arms around their chest tightened, and a muscle in their cheek jumped. They shrugged flatly, and then with a weariness that Moira could almost sense bent their head to write.

“I don’t know the name I was born with,” they showed her, “The dragons call me – “

More of the claw-mark letters of the dragon language, and Moira pursed her lips.

“You know I can’t read this,” she said. The Dragonborn’s mouth crooked helplessly, but Moira’s eye was drawn to the smudges of charcoal on their fingers, exposed, because they hadn’t put their gauntlet back on.

“It comes from inside,” they scribbled, and then illustratively clasped their bare hand over their breastplate. A smear of charcoal darkened the fraying edge of one of the ripped up shrouds.

They shifted, and the shadow of their warhammer blotted the firelight over the page. Moira’s claws flexed, and she wondered, briefly, precisely when the fool bird in her brain had forgotten to watch the Dragonborn’s weapon hovering ominously over their shoulder.

“I could tell you my name, but you’ll have to come outside to hear it,” they wrote. Wariness in them then, and wasn’t that an interesting response to their own offer.

Moira weighed her options. Outside would give the Dragonborn more room to swing, but it also gave Moira better manoeuvrability to escape. It was a gamble, but Moira knew herself. She was a fast shifter, and a faster flier.

“Fine,” she said, and the Dragonborn jerked their chin and led the way outside.

They were not content with Moira’s garden, but crunched their way up the garden path and out the gate without a backwards glance. Their stride was aggressive and quick, a beat short of a march, and Moira got three steps after them on her talons and then gave up and took to her wings instead. The Dragonborn glanced up and with narrowed eyes searched among the flapping cloud of black-winged birds that rose like a fanfare at their intrusion into their domain. Moira circled above them, making no move to announce herself, and with an uneasy twitch the Dragonborn continued.

They had a hunter’s instinct, and as they walked a strange, circuitous route out of Witchmist Grove, Moira realised that they were following and walking on top of the Khajiit’s tracks. She wondered at it as she swept along overhead, doubling back every so often to flit down among the trees and feel the heavy leaves weep their burden of rain onto her glossy feathers.

Did the Dragonborn hope to find the boy, or simply to obliterate his tracks with their heavy boots? To stop Moira from following him, or to ensure he did manage to find his way out of the labyrinthine corridors of twining pine and hanging ivy, the nightshade groves and lurking brambles? The enchanted mist worked well to entrap and ensnare visitors, bringing them to the heart of the Grove into Moira’s clutches. Most had some trouble finding their way out without her blessing. Perhaps the Dragonborn had an abundance of caution, to walk only where it was demonstrably safe to step, in a hag’s home.

Moira appreciated it. Some of the moss she cultivated was rather difficult to grow, and she kept it away from the illusory paths for a reason.

The Dragonborn stopped only when they had reached the boundary of Witchmist Grove, where the copse of trees broke into the steaming hot-pools. The sandy-seared ground rose in jagged humps towards Bonestrewn Crest, where the sleeping dragonbones waited like a scar on the horizon. Squat rocks clumped around the meandering dirt path, and heat shimmered lazily, like Sanguine’s ruby red eye. Tensely, they waited for Moira.

Her damp feathers billowed steam in cross-currents and curls as she backwinged towards the ground, already changing. The Dragonborn did not look away, but Moira saw them blink rapidly as the illusions fell away and it seemed as if there had never been a bird there at all, only a hag, feathered and clawed, perched atop a rock that still, technically, was within the boundary of her grove.

The Dragonborn inclined their head, then purposefully, they planted their feet and turned their back on her. Facing out over the steamy barrenness of Eastmarch, their fist clenched nervously, as if they were second-guessing their decision.

Before Moira could demand an explanation, or taunt them to fulfilling their offer, the Dragonborn spoke.

At first, it was noise. Just noise, like the sound of lightning so deep it rumbled in the bones. A flash of awareness like seeing that stark-white fork in the black sky, and then understanding that what she was experiencing was noise, horribly loud noise, like every drum in the world beating at once, every rock falling, every heart stopping. And then it was power – power like every spell in the world backfiring at once immense and throbbing, power like Moira’s first flight, like the buffeting of the wind under her feathers.

In the ringing aftermath, Moira opened stinging eyes – when had she closed them? – and took in a world unutterably changed. She thought that the Grove had reacted to her presence by thickening the mist, and realised with a strange feeling like falling into the Dragonborn’s eyes that no, the grey smoke in the air was neither smoke nor mist, but dust. Dust, all that was left of all the rocks in the Dragonborn’s path, the furrowed brow of the hill that led up to Bonestrewn Crest. Instead, there was a perfectly carved bowl, wide and smooth as any stone-carved arena. It was perfectly done, steady as if the Dragonborn had simply scooped a section of the world away with a giant spoon. Except for the claw-like, shimmering markings that were chiselled in the wall, markings that matched the Dragonborn’s name in their journal.

It was only then that Moira’s ears made sense of the sounds, and the Dragonborn’s name clicked into her mind like a fact she had always known, but had not realised she had forgotten.

“Laataazin,” Moira gasped, and the Dragonborn – Laataazin – nodded slowly.

Greatest power wrapped around your finger. Oh. Oh. Oh. And to think – all this time, Moira had been angry for his trickery, when this was the prize!

Moira’s feathers quivered, then her shoulders, and then all at once she was laughing. It was a rusty, inelegant sound, more raven-shriek than human, and when the Dragonborn heard it they startled. After a moment, as Moira continued to laugh at the immensity of the gift that Sanguine had given her, slowly, tentatively, Laataazin started to smile back.

It was small, and sweet, and looked like they were unused to it as it was to their face. But it brightened their eyes and took years from their face, and Moira recognised for the first time the winsome, laughing-loud but shy creature that had come calling to her gate in a night of revelry, and offered a ring paid in blood for a hagraven’s hand in marriage.

[inkribbon796]

The Emissaries of Death and War Ch. 1 Strike Fast, Strike First

Summary: Some old enemies show up to fight Dark, who has three of his Lost Ones with him.

A/N: Techno and Philza are sworn blood brothers in this AU. There will be no shipping of them here, only the promise of Tommy and Wilbur angst in the future.

Chapters: 1, 2

Dark was having a rare calm day, mostly because as opposed to most days, because unlike other days he had not only Illinois with him but Bim and the Host. So his blue soul was in an extremely good mood and Dark wanted to keep it that way.

The Entity knew something was wrong with his aura and he wanted to make sure his blue soul wasn’t to blame again. But to do that effectively Dark needed both his souls calm so he could thoroughly inspect his blue soul without his red soul flying into a protective fury. She tended to think he was going to hurt her brother.

But for the moment his souls were calm and Dark had one of the Lost One he rarely got to see.

It was a good day, until Dark noticed there were a lot of crows watching them. Too many crows. There had to be well over a hundred.

Dark thought, at least for a second or two, that the birds belonged to King. The young man had more than a couple ravens, crows, and other birds sworn to his service due to being fed and protected by him. These crows were different, Dark realized they weren’t even birds, just manifestations of aura.

“Heya[1] mate.”

Dark turned to look behind him, his aura curling around the three Lost Ones as he recognized the two individuals down the street. One in a green haori and the other in full armor and a pig mask. The second individual was a beast of a person with a long braid of pink hair.

The Angel of Death, and the Blood God.

“Fuck,” Dark hissed under his breath.

“When I first got to this place I thought I smelt the iron fist of a dictator,” Techno gave as a greeting. “Thought you would have learned after Agra. You’re lucky the first thing I came across was a very nice glitch who showed me you don’t rule this entire city. Or else I would have torched this place to the ground.”

Dark braced for an attack, already readying his aura to make portals.

Then Techno moved first, as he tended to, bloodlust boiling in his eyes. Dark had seen that haze come over him in battle before.

“Sic semper tyrannis,”[2] Techno promised as he raced at Dark and his companion drew his own sword and his cloak pulled off of him to show that it had been a pair of dark grey wings.

Dark tried to push his three sons into a portal and move them safely to the Manor but the Host’s aura stopped him.

“The Host has been waiting for this,” the Host told Dark.

“This is not some game, they are older and stronger than all of you,” Dark spat as he split his aura and attention between trying to keep the worst of Techno’s hits from landing on his sons and just keep Philza from throwing himself into the fight and making it harder for Dark to defend his three sons.

“Then the Host fails to understand how the Entity could face both opponents on his own,” the Host informed Dark. “The Host will take care of his brothers, the Entity should deal with the Blade’s sworn blood brother.”

Mostly by force, not by choice, Dark had to concentrate on his current opponent. He did his best to try and keep an eye on the other fight.

“Never thought you’d be the type to have some spawnlings, mate, much less keep ‘em[3] around,” Philza smiled, his sword glowing a vibrant purple as it tried to cut through Dark’s aura. “But yah[4] think they can really take on the Blade?”

“What do you two want?” Dark growled, barely noticing the swirl of black crows and ravens racing towards him in time, and Dark brought his aura up to block as much of the attack as possible. “This is my city!”

“Exactly, mate,” Philza grinned, “you had ta[5] know we’d find out about it eventually.”

After they broke apart again, Phil glanced around, grinning, “Where’s Phantom? Been a while since we all played catch up.”

“He and I are no longer pact mates,” Dark growled, shoving the avian back with his aura.

“Ehh, good fer[6] you, mate.” Philza was all smiles. “Bloke was a shite friend anyways.”

“Shut up,” Dark hissed back as Phil’s smile widened, and Dark charged at him with his aura. The Entity noticed in the strike that some of Philza’s feathers were burned off to the bone, which explained why he hadn’t taken to the sky and tried skewering Dark from above like he annoyingly tended to do in fights.

With the three brothers, Techno was proving to be a more forceful fighter than they were used to. And he had singled out a main target: Bim.

While Bim had an aura that could score marks in just about everything he didn’t exactly have the best control over it. And so Techno focused on taking down the more unpredictable opponent.

Bim knew he was nowhere near as powerful as his brothers. He and Dark had certainly trained a bit with his aura but Dark never wanted to actually train him unless Bim asked first and Bim didn’t want to ask Illinois or Anti because he was so jealous that aura just came naturally to his older brother and he wanted to already be at the stage he could impress people with it. He could only make either one large portal or several smaller portals big enough to fit his hands and he had been warned several times not to accidentally close his hands on them — as Dark had demonstrated with a slab of meat and Bim had watched the thing get cut in half.

Unfortunately, he was not and it was obvious to everyone around that Bim wasn’t as skilled as his older brothers.

“Bim, out of the way!” Illinois shouted and pulled Bim back in time so that when Techno came at the young man the blade slid through Bim’s aura and slashed him across the arm instead of cutting his whole arm off. Thankfully it didn’t cut deep, but Bim screamed in pain and then Illinois was there, putting himself in-between his brother and their opponent.

Several gunshots rang out, and Techno and the trio of brothers turned to see Wilford standing there with his revolver and a huge smile on his face.

“You all having fun without me?” Wilford chuckled but then when his eyes locked with the eyes of Techno’s mask, Wil’s smile began to fade and his ears started to bleed and he was muttering something repeatedly.

The three brothers didn’t know what Wilford was saying, but Techno did: “Blood for the Blood God”. It was a phrase that Techno heard almost every waking moment. The voices that fought for his attention would often repeat it, among other things.

Bim tried to hit Techno but the experienced fighter summoned a shield to knock Bim back.

“Be with you in a sec,” Techno promised him as Wilford turned and immediately started bolting for the nearest crowd, taking out his stiletto knife and shooting and just stabbing people without saying a single word.

“Dad?” Bim whispered in shock.

“Host!” Illinois yelled, reaching out for his older brother.

“The Host is trying,” the Host shouted back at him.

“아빠!”[7] Illinois called out.

“Phil!” Techno called out at the same time and both Phil and Dark stopped fighting to look out at the sea of carnage quickly spreading out in the city. “Phil!”

“What’d you do, mate?” Phil demanded.

The fight came to a sudden screeching halt as Dark ported His three boys to the Manor and raced after Wil, using his aura to dodge bullets as he went, Techno and Phil hot on his heels.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Post A/N: In retrospect maybe having someone who can canonically read minds, and someone who canonically has thousands of voices screaming in his head together in the same space is a bad idea.

Accessibility Translations:

1. Hey there

2. Thus always to tyrants.

3. them

4. you

5. to

6. for

7. Dad! (Korean — used informally, phonetically read as: Appa.)

[dontenchantme]

insomnia

Rated T, belphegor x mc.

it was time to make a choice between facing her nightmares and facing her demons.

fics masterlist

She opened her eyes with a sigh, turning towards the clock placed on her bedside table. The fluorescent numbers glowed in the darkness. Hardly anything had changed since her last check.

It was four in the morning and she couldn’t sleep. The House of Lamentation was quiet; even Lucifer, the insomniac workaholic, had turned in for the night. She should know. This wouldn’t be the first time she whiled the night away, waiting for the brothers to rise for breakfast.

Sleep rarely came easily to her, even when she was in the human world. There was too much going on inside her head. Too much noise. Her thoughts and worries clamoured nonstop, and while she had grown used to tuning them out, they always grew louder when night fell.

She knew that at this timing, there was only one brother who could still be awake. The only one who might understand what she meant when she said that she couldn’t sleep.

Belphegor. The seventh-born, the Avatar of Sloth. Belphie, who so often wandered the house in the middle of the night, staring out of the window at the moon, studying the starless sky.

Her phone was right next to her clock. She reached for it, then hesitated. Would Belphie mind if she disturbed him? She didn’t know him well. Would she be intruding on his personal space?

But her searching fingers found the edge of her phone anyway, and the screen flickered to life. In the darkness, it was almost blinding. She squinted through the glare, opening the message tab and scanning through her chats – Belphie’s was the third on her screen.

For a moment, she thought about whether or not she ought to be texting him. She could just put her phone down now and try to go back to sleep. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone, and she was sure she’d be able to fall asleep eventually.

But then some unexplainable feeling seized her and her fingers began to move across the screen. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was plain, simple desperation. Maybe it was just that she hadn’t slept properly in weeks and she should have asked for help long before she hit this point.

Either way, a mysterious force compelled her to reach out to him, a force strong enough that it overrode the fear that always gripped her at the thought of the seventh-born.

He had been trying to make it up to her, she knew that. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate his effort. She truly did. But even if he kept giving her those charming smiles, even if he spent the whole day doting on her every whim and fancy, she couldn’t help but remember the feeling of his claws sinking deep into her flesh, the murderous intent that gleamed in his eyes.

The pain never went away, not really. It tainted the skin, a memory that sank and nestled within her very bones. If she had her way, if she was able to seek help from anyone else, she would – but there was no one. And she was desperate. She yearned to close her eyes and sink into the escape that was unconsciousness; by now, her dreams were becoming little more than a distant memory.

She sent the text, wondering how long it would take before she received a reply. But she didn’t have to wonder – he replied almost instantly, saying she could come to his room if she wanted to, or he could come to hers.

She made up her mind within seconds. Belphie should come to her room. If she went over, they might wake Beel, and then he’d probably head down to the kitchen and empty the fridge again. It was exhausting enough trying to deal with her insomnia.

Minutes later, she heard a knock on the door. She clambered off the bed, her heart jumping to her throat – when she opened the door, there he stood, holding onto his favourite pillow, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. He had the same violet-pink eyes as Beel. Such lovely eyes.

Before she came to the Devildom, she’d never have believed that someone like Belphie would be able to commit murder. He was so beautiful, with his delicate features and his gentle smile, his silky hair that was so dark it looked almost blue. How could someone like Belphie ever hurt another being? But she knew better now. Her chest ached with unwanted memories.

“Well, you asked for me, so here I am,” he mumbled, yawning as he spoke. “Be grateful for this – I don’t help just anyone with their insomnia, you know.” His smile was half-hearted; she could barely force a smile in return. Her fingers trembled as she stared at him, and she clutched onto the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice. She didn’t want to be scared. She shouldn’t have to be.

But her body remembered. The aftermath of their terrible, violent intimacy echoed through her, and her heart thudded in her chest. The heart was such a weak, fragile thing. An unwanted reminder of how she had collapsed at his touch, how his demonic strength could so easily rend her apart. In his arms, she was nothing more than a paper doll. Weak, useless, completely defenceless.

He didn’t say a word. He just waited for her, patient, unflinching. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. He was different now. She glanced down at her chest, covered by the thin fabric of her pyjamas. Belphie’s pact mark was placed right over her heart, a cruel reminder of where he had once maimed her – how ironic, that the proof of their bond was located there now.

Finally, she stepped aside, allowing him to enter her room. Wordlessly, she went over to her bed, shifting some cushions so that there was space for him before she laid down, giving him an expectant look. Belphie didn’t need a second invitation – he curled up beside her, and his touch was gentle, his soft voice murmuring lullabies, his fingers twirling through her hair.

He had the delicate hands of an artist, and they were beautiful.

It occurred to her that it was strange to think of her would-be killer as anything but terrifying. Yet he was undeniably beautiful, and his smile was tender. It was a far cry from what things were like all those months ago when he had spoken to her through the door of the attic.

Sometimes, she thought about how gullible and trusting she had been, and she’d wonder if things would have been any different if she had just heeded Lucifer’s warnings. Then maybe she wouldn’t have ended up bleeding her heart out. But it was too late for regrets – and anyway, her death and revival had helped the brothers to patch up their relationship. That was good, right? If she hadn’t come along, who knew how long Belphie would be stuck in the attic.

And things were different now. She didn’t have to be afraid anymore, not with the pacts she had collected, not with the way Belphie treated her. Still, fear was an irrational, unconscious thing and it lingered in the back of her mind, never quite releasing its grip on her.

She found her eyelids steadily lowering as Belphie continued to hum. He had such a soothing voice, one that reminded her of her mother rocking her to sleep as a child. Her mind and body were heavy, and she felt the gentle waves of sleep calling to her, washing up against the shore of her consciousness. It would be nice if she could just let go and sink into the melody he wove for her. She turned towards Belphie, instinctively seeking his warmth, and his fingers paused for a moment before he resumed running his hand through her hair, still humming gently.

He allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder as he waited for her to fall asleep, and he finally stopped humming when he sensed her breathing change, becoming slow and steady. He cast his gaze towards the ceiling, his fingers stilling in her hair. Sometimes, he forgot how fragile she was – in the moments when their fingertips brushed, or when they bumped into each other in the hallway, he could hear the blood flowing in her veins, hear the unsteady beat of her heart and he’d realise just how mortal she was. How easily she could live, how easily she could die.

He forgot that for humans, death was an irrevocable sentence. She was not like his brothers, who could all withstand pain, who brushed away life-threatening injuries as though they were little more than scratches. When humans got stabbed through the heart with claws sharper than knives, they wouldn’t bounce back, taunting their enemies with their fangs bared.

She would simply…die. She’d crumple to the floor like a butterfly with its wings torn off, blood spreading across her chest, dripping in puddles onto the ground. She’d smell like death and her body would cool so rapidly that he wondered if she was ever really real, or if this entire time she was nothing but a mannequin, easily fooled, easily manipulated into doing everything he wanted.

He thought that he’d find deliverance in her death, that he would finally be able to avenge Lilith, but when he killed the human, he just felt…hollow.

Even now, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the truth. How he felt about the situation they found themselves in. He knew it was his fault that she was afraid of him now; she showed no sign of fear towards his brothers, only him. It was almost funny. He was the seventh-born, the weakest of the seven princes of hell, and yet he was the one she feared the most.

But he was willing to wait. He wanted to make amends. It was due to his prejudice that things had ended up this way, and until she was willing to forgive him, he’d simply continue trying.

She was Lilith’s descendant, after all. Some part of his precious little sister lived on in this girl, this mortal who was the most fragile thing he’d ever seen – and even if she wasn’t related to Lilith, she still fascinated him. Anyone Beel liked enough to share his food with had to be decent. Perhaps he was mistaken about humans. Or maybe it was just her. He couldn’t be sure.

When he looked at her slumbering face, something about it helped him to find some measure of peace. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. For once he wanted to sleep; he wanted to lay his head down and close his eyes, not because he was the Avatar of Sloth but simply because she was beside him, and there was something unspeakably soothing about her presence.

He would continue to try and continue to wait. One day she might let down her guard around him, the same way she did for his brothers. He had never been particularly patient, but he was willing to wait for her. It was the least he could do to make up for what he had done.