#glass body steel wings

[blue-cassowary]

Doodles for one of my favorite UraIchi fic "Glass Body, Steel Wings" by @devinephoenix

I'll probably clean it up when I'm feeling less lazy haha

Part 2 :)

[happysnowseal]

Deals and Desires (final)

Sylus x OC | Midnight Stealth!AU

genre: smut, lil’ comedy, enemies to enemies who fuck

rating: explicit

description: You fail to find the brooch within 24 hours, so the twins suggest you offer Sylus something else in return for getting into the auction—your body. Turns out, your desires are aligned, no matter how twisted they seem. 

word count: 8.8k

warnings: IMPROPER use of Evol, tentacle smut, “rope” bondage, lore from Midnight Stealth and the two chapters we meet Sylus (duh), Luke and Kieran being instigators, mentions of hentai, OC’s turned on by Sylus and his Evol and is conflicted, rough sex, breast play, fingering, oral sex (male and female receiving), double penetration, unprotected sex (this is fiction), standing 69, mirror sex, sneaky sex, electrostimulation, cum eating, multiple rounds. 

a/n: IT IS DONE. IT IS HERE! I made a post saying imagine Sylus manipulating his Evol into tentacles to fuck OC with… and voila! This was born. I incorporated a lot of the game dialogue/events but also put my own spin on it. Asks, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated! 💌

You must be sick in the head. 

Ever since you witnessed those black-red tendrils dissipate the man in black who abducted you into nothing but mere crimson specks, something strange awoke in you. Witnessing such a cruel death shouldn’t pique your curiosity, but beneath your horrified expression was a deep fascination for the leader of Onychinus’ powers. Not that you’d ever tell him.

A simple flick of the wrist or snap of the fingers is all it takes to summon those menacing black-red tendrils. The powerful mist would coil your vulnerable body, manipulate it, bind it—all for his intentions of resonating with you. 

However, as the shopkeeper had stated, you can’t resonate with him. On a subconscious level, you’re rejecting him, scared of him, or disgusted by him. So you wonder: is it possible to fear him yet desire him also?

When Sylus proposed a deal that would aid you in your quest for the Aether Core, you couldn’t resist. You had twenty-four hours to find a brooch he had hidden somewhere in Onychinus’ base. Yet despite searching every nook and cranny, you came up short of nothing. 

The first time Sylus caught you, he was reading a book on the couch. His calm demeanor didn’t match his appearance, which screamed sin. The gold-rimmed glasses on his face matched a gentlemanly scholar's, but his body was adorned in a lavish red robe, with a V-line low enough to expose his toned pecs. Seriously, who was he showing off for? 

“Get out.”

Once you were caught snooping, the same black-red mist formed make-shift handcuffs that bound your wrists. You groaned, dwelling on your loss. 

The second time he caught you was when he was dusting his shelves, his back toward you. He was no longer in his robe, having changed into a black dress shirt and matching slacks. Without sparing you a glance, one word left his lips. 

“Leave.”

The black-red tendrils were back around your wrists and you whined. “Ugh… I was caught again…”

Third time’s the charm, right? You had your gun loaded and after cocking it, you said to yourself, “This time for sure, I’ll…”

A pair of black slippers showed up in your peripheral and you slowly looked up to see the same, steeled expression in those crimson eyes and that cursed red robe again. It was like a second skin on him at this point. He let out a weighted sigh, which diminished your confidence.

“... I know. I’ll go now,” you said, defeated. He didn’t use his Evol this time, and you’re at war with yourself as to why you even noticed. Or why it mattered so much. 

The last time Sylus caught you was the worst. He was in the shower, so you seized the chance to search his bedroom. Desperate, you even sunk to the low level of animal abuse when you shook Mephisto, his crow with mechanical wings, like a piggy bank for answers. 

That’s when Sylus turned off the water and panic struck you, so you hid. There was a small window of opportunity to escape, but a phone call came in, deterring your plans. He answered, you eavesdropped, and when things were getting juicy, he noticed your presence and chuckled.

“Mr. Sylus?” the man on the call said. 

“It’s nothing. Just a stray cat who happened to barge in.”

This time Sylus not only apprehended you by the wrists, he lifted you in the air as black-red mist swirled around his left hand. The call ends as he sets you down on the bed, and you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Not because you failed, but because you didn’t want to face the humiliation of how his Evol brought back a certain spark you thought fizzled out.

Sylus’ back was turned, selecting a record before placing it on his record player. 

“Have I underestimated your determination or overestimated your intellect?” he asked. You stared at your bound wrists, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine.

“You’re the one who suggested a deal. But here you are making things difficult—” you said, fiddling with your thumbs. He approached you, a stern look flashing across his sharp features.

“You’ll have to work harder.”

He grabbed one of your wrists, and red sirens went off in your head. Your mind raced a mile a minute, wondering what his intentions were as he dragged you off the bed. You commanded him to let go, and he obliged, but only after he shoved you out of his room.

“Leave,” he said, his head gesturing to your right, “I’m going to bed.” 

At least he kicked Mephisto out too, so you didn’t have to face the loss alone.

Which brings you to the present. You’re scribbling doodles of the bastard as an outlet for your anger, making the stylish choice of adding devil horns on top of his head. 

It’s bad enough you’ve been trapped in Onychinus’s base for who knows how long. The man who’s held you captive should be your worst enemy, yet every encounter ignites an inferno in the pit of your stomach. Try as you may, but the dark thoughts you shove in the back of your mind are bubbling to the surface. If anything could anchor you back to reality, it’d be this—remember the mission. 

You were to get into the auction to find the Aether core, which you can’t do without his help. But you couldn’t find that stupid brooch, so you’re back to square one. You scrawl over the sketch of Sylus, the pressure harsh enough that the paper threatens to tear until only a tornado of black ink is left. 

“You’re pulling your hair out over this, huh?” Kieran says, sitting atop a table with his back towards you. He looks over his shoulder, so his voice will reach better. “If you want to do something, maybe we can help you.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, casting the notebook aside.

“If you want to conquer our boss’s heart, you’ll have to use a different approach,” Luke says, leaning back in his chair. 

“I’m not trying to conquer his heart. He’s trying to conquer mine if anything,” you retort, folding your arms across your chest as you stand. Luke pulls a book from underneath the table and slides it across in your direction. You walk over, pick it up, and drop it just as quickly like it was a ticking time bomb. “What the fuck?!” 

“Strike when he’s off-guard!” the twins chorus with Kieran leaning forward as Luke makes claws with his hands.

“Yeah, I suppose anyone who receives a hentai novel would be caught off-guard! What’s wrong with you two?!” You have to tear yourself away from looking at the erotic cover, depicting an anime girl being fucked by black tentacles belonging to what seems to be a demonic being. He had it all: horns atop his head, ebony eyes, endless tendrils, and a smokin’ hot bod like Sy—wait. No. Don’t look at it anymore. Even sparing it another glance feels like corruption and sin. 

Luke chuckles, taking the explicit material back and flipping it open to a specific page. “For some people, they get bored once they have everything. So only those who dare to challenge their authority can catch their interest,” he reads. 

Kieran’s sharp memory allows him to quote the story without having it in his hands.  "When you're dealing with such a person, you bow down and submit or take them out in one go."

“What are you on about?” you ask, exasperated they’re quoting the pornography like it’s a holy scripture. Luke shuts the book and slides it towards you again, but you grimace like it’ll taint your soul.

“If you don’t want to conquer his heart, perhaps it’d be smarter if you conquer his… desires.”

“If you bow down and submit, maybe our Boss will have a change of heart and help you get into the auction. I mean, no one’s ever offered him their body,” Kieran adds. Your hands fall to your side, balling into fists until your knuckles turn white. 

“I’d rather take him out in one go,” you say through gritted teeth. It’s not like you haven’t tried. However, the crazy bastard used you to shoot himself in the chest and you haven’t been the same since. Man thinks he has regenerative healing properties and he’s all that. Pfft. “You two are insane if you think being promiscuous is the solution.”

“In the end, Boss wants to resonate with you. You don’t have to like him, but your body can. Think about it,” Kieran insists, tilting his chin down slightly. The mask he wore shields his face, but you can imagine the impish grin from his inflection. “There’s nothing more intimate than spending a night together.”

“Read the comic,” Luke says, and you can tell from his tone he’s smirking despite the matching mask on his face. “Maybe you’ll find it enjoyable.”

“N-No. This is insanity. You’re telling me your Boss wants to fuck someone with his Evol as… tentacles?”

“Now you see why no one’s ever offered their body,” Kieran says matter-of-factly.

“This is stupid,” you mutter, clasping a hand to your forehead. “I’d rather die than fuck Sylus.”

“She might die even if she does fuck Sylus.” Kieran’s quick to elbow his brother in the side, and your heart is lodged in your throat, beating so loudly like it’s about to burst. He’s right. You could. You’ve seen what his Evol could do to a person.

But you’ve also thought about what it could do for a person. For you. 

“Just… think about it,” Kieran says, his voice gentle like he’s coaxing a kitten out of its hiding spot. “If you give our Boss his ultimate desire, I’m sure he’ll do the same for you. You’ve never once thought about him in such a way? You’re not a tad bit curious?”

Luke and Kieran were treading dangerous waters. These two instigators somehow burrowed into your subconscious, forcing you to come face-to-face with your depravity. 

You roll your eyes to maintain aloofness, but the book ends up in your possession seconds later. “I’m taking this for research. You’re sure this belongs to him?”

“Absolutely!” they chorus and you’re not sure hearing double aids their credibility. 

“Boss is least guarded when he’s sleeping,” Kieran informs. Aren’t we all?

“You only have one shot,” Luke says, emphasizing his point by sticking up his forefinger. “Don’t waste this chance. Just do it!” He gives you a supportive fist pump and you peer down at the lewd book cover again.

What choice did you have? The twins presented a rather salacious solution, but Sylus was your only means of getting into the auction. As Luke said, if you can’t conquer his heart, perhaps you can conquer his desires.

No matter how twisted.

Three hours later…

Time slips away from you as you’re engrossed in your “research.” Not only was it full of filth, but the plot (if you can even call it that), was eerily similar to your situation. The girl on the cover was a demon hunter who fucks a demon to get him to do what she needs. Every drawing is breathtaking, detailed, and graphic. The way his tentacles bent her body to his will, the various positions, how it slithered around her body—it awoke the same feelings you had the night you met Sylus. 

The dialogue instilled shame, lust, and more than enough sexual tension to charge a lightning storm. You had to pause every few pages, fanning your face until your cheeks cooled enough to continue. An earthquake couldn’t pry this masterpiece from your grasp and you were determined to finish it. 

Once you’re done, you slam the book shut. You take a deep breath, regaining a sense of clarity when a realization dawns on you.

This was why Sylus’s Evol fascinated you. How every time he manipulated your body, a surge of adrenaline coursed through your body until your heart nearly gave out. You indeed feared him; everyone did. But fear was a mask you’ve clung onto so desperately to disguise the dark truth.

Sylus could’ve killed you at any time, but he chose not to. Sure, he has ulterior motives, but the control he has over his power is undeniably sexy, and knowing he can’t kill you meant you had control over him too. 

You’ve hidden your desires under revulsion and endless banter when maybe he was right. You’re two kindred spirits, who are more alike than you want to admit. Someone created this book to satisfy the same urges you’ve been depriving yourself of and if Sylus indulged in these fantasies, then you’re not insane for wanting the same thing.

You’ve made up your mind. 

If you offer your body to Sylus, it’s a win-win. You’ll get into the auction and you no longer have to feel ashamed about wanting him. 

For the mission of course.

You head to Sylus’s bedroom, standing outside the wooden double doors. A pair of Evol-sealing handcuffs are in your possession, courtesy of the twins. You place them in your back pocket and rest your hands on the gold handles, giving yourself a mental pep-talk.

All or nothing!

You turn the handles and march in, seeing Sylus sleeping in his canopy bed with his back against the plush headboard instead of the mattress.

Is he a vampire? Eh. Red eyes, white hair, gorgeous—might as well be.

Climbing onto the bed gently, you watch his chest heave, his breathing evident but it’s so light that you’re tempted to press your ear against his chest to ensure he’s alive. 

“Sylus… Sylus?” you say, confirming his dormant status. A soft chuckle escapes you as you whip out the handcuffs, lifting his wrist and attaching it to the golden vintage bed frame. “This is what you get.”

Now that he’s immobile, you can’t help your feasting eyes from ogling his exposed skin. That red robe was both a curse and a blessing, a warning of caution, yet you choose to ignore it. You hover your finger above his abdomen, contemplating whether to make contact when a hand snatches your wrist, lifting it to eye level.

“Showing up uninvited at this hour… Want me to tell you a bedtime story?” he says before tossing your wrist aside. You place both hands on either side of his head and his eyes slightly widen, but he remains composed. This would be a lot easier if you straddled him, but patience was a virtue.

“These handcuffs nullify a person’s Evol for an hour,” you declare. He stares at the restraints, his face devoid of emotion before settling his attention back on you. “No matter how powerful you are, you’re helpless as of now.”

“Really?” he asks, the corner of his lips hinting at a small smile. It’s subtle and leaves as soon as it comes. “What do you plan to do then since I’ve become your prey?”

You remove your hands and lean back to sit on your knees. “You’re going to listen to my counteroffer.”

To your surprise, he nods like he has nothing better to do. Maybe the cuffs weren’t necessary. “I’m intrigued. Continue.”

Clasping your hands together, you clear your throat like you had prepared a speech when in reality, your brain is scrambled. What are you supposed to say? 

Hey Sylus, do you want to fuck and use your Evol on me like tentacles? It’ll help us resonate!

You might as well put a big fat sticker on your head that says “FREE $.99! FUCK NOW!” and get it over with.  

“I’m getting bored,” he states, stirring you from disorganized thoughts. You press your lips into a thin line, mustering whatever courage you have left. 

“Look… from the beginning, you trapped me here, forced me to resonate with you, and even said ‘we’re the same’...” You wet your lips out of habit to calm your nerves, and he doesn’t miss it. “I couldn’t find the brooch in time and need your help to get into the auction. And you want to be able to resonate with me. So…”

“Get to the point.”

“I’m offering you my body for the night,” you blurt out. He raises an eyebrow and his usually calm demeanor breaks for the first time as a flicker of confusion dances across his face. You would take pride in that, but his face quickly morphs, so you jump out of bed with your hands up, worried he’d deny you. “Hold on. Let me explain.”

Not like he had a choice. The fact he was handcuffed eludes you for a moment, but once you remember, it eases the tension in your shoulders. He waits for you to continue, the smug look on his face not helping to ease your nerves. 

“I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But you want to resonate with me, so if we sleep together, maybe… I’ll hate you less. Besides, we have similar desires. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

His eyes glint a haunting crimson from the golden glow of his night lamp. “Do tell. How do I look at you?”

Your knees almost buckle from his deep, smooth voice. “Like… Like… you hate me.”

“Astonishing misunderstanding. Yet somehow you’ve concluded this means we should sleep together?”

You might as well die of embarrassment. “If it’s for the mission, I can detach my personal feelings. We do this and there’s a chance I’ll be able to resonate with you better. After all, what’s more intimate than spending the night together? It’ll work unless… you’re inadequate in bed.”

It’s brief, but you’re sure Sylus clenches his jaw as his lips press into a slight frown, his eyes narrowed on you with laser-like focus. You turn away from him, smacking your cheek like a spanking for being stupid enough to question Onychinus’ leader’s skills in bed.

“Are you done?”

You whip your head around. “Um… yes.”

An exasperated sigh escapes him. “You say you failed to locate the brooch, but your twenty-four hours aren’t up yet. There’s still time.”

You place one hand on your hip while the other waves him off, dismissing his words. “I’ve searched everywhere already!”

“Everywhere. But not everyone.”

The light bulb in your head goes off and you’re back by Sylus’ side on the bed, holding your palm out like an entitled brat. 

“Where’s the brooch?”

His smile reaches his eyes and he gestures his free hand across the expanse of his body top to bottom. “Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

You run your fingers along the black lapels on his robe, checking the inside layer first. The fabric is silky smooth to the touch, but you’re distracted by how hot his skin is on the back of your fingers. No brooch though.

Next, you check the outside of the lapels and sure enough, you feel a hard, circular object. Pulling it out, you see the crow brooch with a lustrous ruby in the center. You giggle with glee. 

“Do you really think I hate you?” he questions. 

“Now it doesn’t matter at all. I won!”

“Deals have conditions and my condition wasn’t met. The offer has expired already.”

“But you said…”

Shit. The handcuffs on Sylus start to glow red, similar to how blacksmiths heat materials in a furnace. The metal soon melts, allowing your once prey to become the predator.

Your attempts to escape are futile, given Sylus’ quick speed, and you’re thrown onto the bed. He hovers over you and your fight-or-flight instincts kick in as you throw a punch, but he catches your wrist and pins it down without batting an eye.

“You’re pretty good at running away.”

“Let me go. I already have the brooch.” He pins your other hand down, enveloping his large hand over your clenched fist.

“I told you. My offer has expired already, so the real question is… when does yours?”

Sylus is staring down at you with crazed, crimson eyes as the sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears. His hands are warm, too warm. Like they’ll burn you alive or maybe that’s your body heat rising exponentially from how close he was. His scent wafts over you, filling your nose with pleasant notes of cardamom and something herbal, which soothes your nerves and helps you rediscover your voice.

“I… I…”

“Use your words.”

“I only made you that counteroffer because I thought I failed. The brooch has been found. Who cares about the rules? You’re the leader of the N109 Zone. You break them all the time.”

“Careful, sweetheart. My patience is running thin. I’m only keeping you around because you’re still useful. And…” He squeezes your fist like he wants to pry it open. A warning. “I truly enjoy seeing my little prey struggle.” He brings your enclosed fist in front of his chest. “Especially when it thinks it can get away from me. Now tell me… what similar desires do we share?”

Okay. Maybe if you scream loud enough, Mephisto will fly in and—

“Answer me.”

Who were you kidding, Mephisto would sell you out in a heartbeat. That damn crow better not have seen you reading pornography. And those twins… they better start counting their days.

You pull your lower lip under your front teeth, hoping to seal your answer shut for good. But Sylus’ right eye glows red, and you writhe underneath him, turning your head to the side. His Aether Core will reveal your deepest desires if you make eye contact. 

Sylus grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, probing into your subconscious and witnessing all your shameful thoughts. Eerie voices fill your mind, their murmurs are difficult to understand, but the pain they bring is borderline unbearable—an unfortunate side effect of Sylus’ intrusion. Once the glow in his eye fades, you feel like yourself again. But the twisted smile on his face let you know things were far from over. 

“So that’s what you mean by shared desires… You want me to use my Evol on you. No… you want me to fuck you with it.”

“That’s not true! Luke and Kieran—”

He runs his thumb across your lips, an effective solution for your yapping mouth. “Such improper use of an Evol could have devastating consequences. You are too gullible, kitten.”

Damn it. Those two…!

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back. 

“Oh? You have quite the mouth on you today. First, you make a big show of offering your body to me and now you don’t have the guts to tell me exactly how you want me to take you?” He leans closer, his lips ghosting above your own with the slightest touch. “Confess your true desires, [Y/N].”

“N-No. The twins set me up.”

“That book may not belong to me, but I assure you… my desires are all my own. And they align with yours. All you have to do is confess.”

He doesn’t move and prolongs eye contact to where you feel stifled, trapped, and heated in places you shouldn’t. The leader of the N109 Zone doesn’t play around and knows what he wants and the means to get it. But you like challenging him. You like being challenged by him too.

You stay quiet because giving in too easily is what he wants. 

“That look in your eyes… Are you trying to seduce me?” You form what you believe is a scowl, but it results in another teasing smirk. “As long as you have desires, there will always be deals to make. So what will it be?”

“I want to get into the auction,” you say, uttering the same script to maintain a semblance of professionalism. “That’s all.”

He sees the brooch jutting out from the space between your forefinger and thumb, easily able to lift it from you. “Don’t move.”

To your surprise, he pins it on your shirt and sits on the edge of the bed. You sit up and lean on your elbows, tilting your head at his sudden behavior change. 

“Technically, you did find the brooch. I won’t go back on what I promised you.”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“You sound rather disappointed.” He gets up, and you follow suit off the bed like a lost kitten. “If getting into the auction is all you desire, consider it done. You can leave now.”

His back is facing you, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s disappointed too. You fidget with the brooch, running your thumb across the smooth jewel. Without thinking, your hand latches onto his like a magnetic force. Sylus spins around, glowering as you intertwine your fingers through his.

“Let me resonate with you.”

“So brash… you’re getting more and more interesting.”

He entertains you and utilizes his Evol, the black-red mist wrapping around his forearm like sprouting vines as he brings your entwined hands up to eye level. He closes his eyes as more mist envelops where you two are connected, and you watch with bated breath as scarlet specks float inward. 

Devour him… he’s yours. He’s right there before your very eyes.

Those eerie voices are back, and you’re strangely compelled to heed their words. An ivory glow shines where your palms meet before an explosive burst of energy emerges, a spiral of lethal scarlet and radiant white from your combined powers. Sylus opens his eyes and lets go of your hand, allowing ivory flakes to cascade down like confetti. 

“It’s a shame. But not a surprise.”

“We can try again. Let’s—”

“I admire your tenacity, kitten. But I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Your insides feel like an unattended kettle, whistling from immense frustration and on the verge of exploding. You can’t leave now. Not after he gave you what you wanted. There is a thing called give-and-take, and you’re not one to only take. The guilt would eat you alive. 

“I don’t want to owe you. Here,” you grab both his hands, “one more time.”

Sylus lifts his arms and pins you against the nearest wall with hands above your head. Your breath is knocked out of you when your back collides with it, the impact causing the lamp to nearly topple over. His glare is murderous and your sick mind dared to find it incredibly attractive.

“Your stubbornness is what’s going to get you killed someday,” he warns. You see him lean back and remove his hold over you, but when you try to move, you feel restrained. His powers; they’re bounding you. “Is this what you want? For me to use my Evol on you?”

“Isn’t that what you want? I don’t want to owe you,” you repeat. “So I’m ready for whatever’s going on here. You can… use me for the night.” The last part was barely above a whisper, but Sylus’ hum as he folds his arms across his chest lets you know he heard you.

“Do you know what you’re requesting, little one? My Evol is dangerous,” You feel the restraints tighten and they only stop when you yelp in pain. “Yet it’s almost like you welcome it. Even if it hurts. Do you like it when it hurts?”

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, so you kick in his direction with all your might. Hunter instincts, if you will. But the black-red tendrils around your ankle make you sweat as he lowers your leg without breaking eye contact, pinning both ankles to the wall.

“Feisty kitten thinks she’s a tiger now, huh?”

“Why don’t you get on with it already?” you snap, impatient. Sylus grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pucker like a fish.

“What makes you think I won’t kill you?” Like his razor-sharp words, you feel something akin to a collar around your neck. It prickles your skin while restricting the flow of oxygen to your lungs and you gasp like you’re trying desperately not to drown. You feel light-headed, but his Evol takes mercy on you and grants you enough air to breathe, though you know it comes with the price of answering his question.

“Because you would’ve done so already,” you answer, though your voice is shaky. Sylus nods, as if satisfied with your reply.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Clever girl.” The praise sounds delicious rolling off his tongue. “One final question.” He releases your face and bends down to meet your eye level. “Do you desire me?” 

Having been inside your head, the answer was obvious. He’s looking for confirmation, a verbal confession to make whatever feelings you have for him tangible. The man is a walking red flag, and you’re about to wave a white one in surrender.

“If I don’t?” you question, challenging his authority one last time. 

“Then I’ll release you.”

“And if I do?”

“Then… I hope you’ll allow me to have you. All of you. Deal?”

A beat passes and you gulp, your head saying no, but your body and heart screaming, “Yes.”

His hand comes up to caress your face, almost lovingly. “Yes, what?”

“I desire you.”

Sylus gives you a full smile, the corners of his eyes creasing. “You’re aware of the risks, right? With the snap of my fingers, I can tear things to shreds,” He carries out the action and as promised, his robe is shredded to bits of black and red confetti. Your eyes trail down his well-developed abdominal muscles and pronounced V-line until they settle on… “Enjoying the view?”

His teasing lilt reminds you to close your gaping jaw. Hell yeah, you’re enjoying the view. Not only was this man well over six feet, his body rivaled that of a Greek God, and he was blessed with a massive cock too? Of course. Things had to be proportionate.

“I… you… that robe was expensive, wasn’t it?” That was quite possibly the lamest response you could’ve come up with.

“It seems like the little kitten is distracted. Probably needs a toy to keep her occupied.” Sylus flicks his fingers, commanding the whirl of black-red mist to rip your clothes and you shriek in surprise. The brooch falls to the floor with a soft clink, and he picks it up, gently putting it on his nightstand. His attention returns to you and your exposed body, and you take pride in how his cock throbs at the sight. “So she likes lace. Pretty.”

You bite back a scream when a black tendril with cracks of glowing red light slithers up your body in between the valley of your breasts, tearing your bra right off. Another one coils around your thigh before it rips your panties off too. The appendages seem to multiply, wrapping your body in an intricate pattern similar to shibari. There’s no pain and they feel smooth, cooling your heated skin.

“I can manipulate things at will with the flick of a wrist. My powers are pure energy meant for destruction, and you’re here wanting to use them for pleasure.”

He leans close to your ear and nibbles the shell of it. The sensation tickles, but you’re too tense to move a muscle. His voice is husky as he whispers, “I could kill you right now. It’d be so easy…”

You hold your breath when he leans back enough to scan your face, relishing the turmoil in your eyes. “I-I trust that you won’t.”

“You know…” His index finger travels alongside your neck, then to your breast, tracing your areola in circular motions. “As soon as my Evol makes contact with anyone, people would die almost instantly and experience the most excruciating pain.”

He’s now rolling your nipple in between his forefinger and thumb, pinching it enough to hurt and elicit a whine from you. “S-Sylus…”

“But that’s not the case with you. Do you know the violence it took to become this gentle?”

You don’t know why your heart swells, but his words were sweeter than any confession. “Thank you…” 

His eyes widen slightly and he stops his actions, tilting your chin up instead. “Say that again.”

“Th-Thank you… for being gentle with me.”

He closes his eyes and shudders like your gracious manners sent waves of pleasure throughout his body. A sharp inhale comes, and then he’s staring deep into your eyes like he could see your soul.

“What a good girl you are thanking me… but I must warn you. I meant what I said about having all of you. You’re not the only one with fantasies, [Y/N]. And mine are anything but gentle.”

“I can take it.”

He gives you a half-smile. “Is that so?”

“You doubt me?”

“No. But I think you might underestimate me. After all… I’m possibly ‘inadequate’ in bed.”

Shit. Maybe you shouldn’t have challenged him. But your bratty nature couldn’t leave you well enough alone. “Prove me wrong.”

Sylus’ resolve crumbles and he holds the side of your face as his lips meet yours for the first time. His pressure is gentle like he doesn’t want to scare you off, and once you two find rhythm, he deepens the kiss and you moan as the taste of cinnamon overcomes you. Spicy, very much like him.

His tongue prods its way through once your body relaxes, sliding across your own, the action far more lewd than romantic. He groans and carefully takes your bottom lip in between his teeth, pulling back in the most sexy manner. You moan and he swallows it, kissing you again with more fervor as his hands explore your body. 

First, he traces your curves and trails down until his hands cup your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. Then he brings them back up, kneading your breasts and you mewl at how rough he handled them. Eventually, the kiss breaks, leaving a thin trail of saliva that connects your lips until it eventually severs.

“Beautiful…” 

One word and you’re all heart-eyes for the man as heat rushes to your cheeks. If he wanted to tease you for it, he restrains himself and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly before releasing it with an audible pop. His tongue pokes out, swirling around the bud while his hand tends to the other. Your back arches involuntarily, but you’re quickly reminded of your immobility, which causes more arousal to drip down your thighs.

Sylus stops messing with your pert nipples to suck harshly between the valley of your breasts, inevitably leaving a nasty hickey. He pushes them together and then lets go, loving how they jiggle. 

“I wonder…” he muses, taking two fingers to tease your folds. “Oh… you’re so wet and I haven’t even put them in yet.”

You squeeze your eyes when he inserts them in slowly, your slick making the transition smooth as he stretches you out. “Fuck… Sylus, please.”

“What? Are my fingers not enough?” He stills and the lack of movement frustrates you to no end. You want to thrash around, but you’re still glued to the wall. 

“N-No. Please… please move them.”

“You beg so prettily,” He pulls them out and begins fingering you at a snail’s pace. “But it’s not enough. You can do better.”

“Please!” you exclaim. “I need more…”

“God, you’re dripping on my hand and I haven’t done much.” He moves faster, his fingers knuckle deep and curling in spots that have you clenching hard. It’s like he’s coaxing out more of your essence with each stroke and then challenges you with a third finger. “Does it feel good?”

You can hardly respond with how stuffed you feel, your lust insatiable as he speeds up.

“Yes? No? Maybe so?” he asks, amused by your struggle. 

“Y-Yes… good… so good…”

Your pussy is making obscene noises and you’re feeling a warmth building in your abdomen, especially when Sylus kisses your neck. His lips are scorching hot, almost searing as if you were being branded. You submit and let him mark you, focusing on the pressure within as your high is approaching. He uses his free hand to hold yours, interlocking your fingers together. 

“Fuck!” you shout, feeling like you couldn’t breathe fast enough to keep up with his bruising pace. “I’m going to come, I—”

He seals your words with another kiss, and your scream is muffled when your orgasm hits you like a gunshot. It’s brutal and intense, causing you to see stars for what feels like the longest minute of your life. 

At the same time, your interlocked palms glow bright red and ivory. Unlike before, this explosion caused a surge of power to pass through his bedroom like shockwaves, destroying most things that came into contact. The roar is deafening, but all you can focus on is Sylus and how good he made you feel. 

“Come back to me.”

You don’t realize when he stopped kissing you. Or when he removed his fingers. Or when you stopped being pinned to the wall. Sylus is holding you up and when you see how his eyes softened for the concern for your well-being, you’re smitten.

“I’m okay…”

His demeanor shifts, the change so sudden that it is like a phone going from light mode to dark mode. The man manipulates your body with his Evol and throws you onto the bed without a second thought. Black-red mist envelops your body again, this time cuffing your wrists in front. Tendrils wrap around each breast, your torso, and your neck, constricting tightly until you resemble a beautifully decorated present. 

Sylus joins you on the bed, settling in between your thighs as he lies on his stomach as if he were a sniper. He has his Evol pry them wider, so your pussy is exposed for his feasting eyes. His arms are secured under your thighs, an extra precaution to hold you in place. 

That’s when an untimely knock comes.

“Boss? Is everything alright?” 

“We heard a loud crash!”

Damn it. Luke and Kieran have impeccable timing. And the way the corners of Sylus’ lips tug into a smirk instills panic in you.

“Answer them. Make it convincing,” Sylus whispers. You watch as he dips down until his white hair is all you can see. His lips latch onto your lower ones and you’re choked up, trying not to moan too loudly as he tastes you. 

“We’re… We’re fine!” you exclaim, though your breathy tone is far from convincing. Sylus grunts in disapproval at your poor performance, and the vibrations are a suitable punishment. “Sylus and I have are having a disagree—ah!—ment.” 

Fuck, why does he have to lick your clit right at that moment?!

“Oh no, you two are fighting?” Kieran asks, his voice cracking slightly from his concern.

“Give up, [Y/N]! Our boss is relentless!” Luke adds with a faint snicker. Tell me about it.

Sylus continues to give you kitten licks before licking a long stripe across your labia folds. You’re bucking your hips because you want more, but you’re also trying to close your thighs to escape the pleasure. It’s no use when you’re restrained and have no choice but to let him eat you out to his heart’s content. It’s when he inserts a finger to join in his salacious tongue that your eyes are rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you breathe. “Sylus, if you keep going… they’ll hear me.”

“Then I suggest you stay quiet. What would your colleagues say if they knew the best hunter in Linkon is lusting over the leader of Onychinus?”

“I’m-I’m not!”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie,” He gives you a short break to clean your juices off his fingers, sucking them like they were a popsicle. “And oh how sweet you are, indeed.”

“Don’t kill each other!” the twins chorus. Sylus chuckles and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

“Leave us,” he demands. “We have ways of… negotiating. Even if it takes all night…”

There’s some shuffling before you hear their footsteps recede down the hallway until silence remains. 

“That was mean,” you whine. He tilts his head, swiping his upper lip with his tongue ever so slowly.

“You think that was mean? Oh… you underestimate me.”

He rises from your thighs and kneels on the bed, but his large frame still towers over you. “Wait, I—”

A snap of his fingers seals your mouth shut. You see the crimson specks floating around your mouth and protest, but they’re reduced to muffled squeals. 

“Like I said before… you have quite the mouth on you today.”

Your eyes enlarge when you see a black-red tentacle rise from between your thighs. It sparks at the tip, which transforms into a cock-head to simulate a human penis. It’s not too thick, but it still makes your heart beat erratically. 

Sylus takes both your hands and squeezes the right one first. “If you want me to keep going, squeeze your right hand,” He squeezes the left one next. “If it’s too much and you want me to stop, squeeze your left.”

His thoughtfulness brings those butterflies back. You squeeze your right hand and he nods, commanding the tentacle to run its tip up and down your folds. It brushes your clit every so often, which makes you sigh in pleasure. Then it enters you slowly, your arousal making things run smoothly. 

It penetrates you about six inches deep before pulling out halfway, only to slam back into you with greater force. Your cries are muffled, but Sylus can tell you’re enjoying yourself by how your eyes roll back. The appendage thrusts into you at a maddening pace, your body rocking back and forth from the notion, and Sylus enjoys seeing the erotic sight of your tits bouncing. The tendrils around your breasts constrict while smaller ones branch off, wrapping around your nipples and teasing them too. 

The make-shift gag around your mouth converts into another cock-head tentacle, forcing its way in so you’re sucking it off. Sylus groans at the beautiful sight of you submitting to it so willingly. 

“You’re so pretty when you submit… I can’t imagine how sexy you’ll look when I take you,” he praises. 

So many parts of you are being stimulated and you’re sure you’ll come again soon with how each thrust, both in your pussy and mouth, speeds up. It’s almost like they were losing control, taking you with them. It’s not until you feel a small spark from below that you yelp. 

The sensation was like static electricity that you get if you rub your feet on a carpet. Not life-threatening, but a nuisance that stings for a brief second. 

“My Evol is energy manipulation… that energy is hard to control sometimes…” Sylus says in a low voice. “It might even shock you.”

You can’t hear much over the squelching noises from your pussy and mouth as the tentacles work into you, hungrily, greedily, until the build-up from below is enough to cause your whole body to shake involuntarily. Your orgasm approaches and then is heightened when a small jolt of electricity shocks your clit. 

The tentacle in your mouth removes itself, so you can scream until your voice gives out. The other one leaves your pussy once you stop shaking, and you are still on the bed, catching your breath. However, you feel something warm and wet on your stomach, so you lift your head enough to see spurts of cum leaking from Sylus’ cock.

His hands are still holding your own. Did he come from simply watching you?

“I’m not going to apologize,” he says without a hint of remorse. “You excite me.”

You’re flattered, truly. Especially when his cock is still erect, almost angry with need by how much it throbs. You wonder if it’s painful.

The mist around your wrists vanishes, but your body is dragged off the bed to the opposite side of the room, where Sylus’ grand wall mirror reaches the ceiling. You’re suspended in front of it and he wraps his arm around your waist from behind, twirling your hair with his other hand. 

“Do you know how irresistible you are? Such temptation… that’s why I’m taking my time,” He takes his finger, swipes across your stomach, and gathers enough cum to coat his digit before lifting it to your mouth. “Open.”

You obey and he lets you taste himself, the action so wicked. So dominating. So sexy. His cum is salty and slightly bitter, but addictive. 

“Good girl. Are you ready for what’s next?”

“Yes.”

His Evol controls your limbs and suddenly, you’re flipped upside-down with Sylus’ cock in front of your lips while your pussy is facing his. Your legs are wrapped around his neck and you’re taken aback at the extreme position. 

“I’ve always thought Standing 69’s would be… enthralling. Always wanted to try it.”

The blood rushing to your head blurs your focus and your adrenaline spikes at the thought of possibly falling. But Sylus’ powers are strong and you’ve yet to see them falter. As if he can read your thoughts, he says, “Don’t worry, kitten. Rest assured I won’t drop you on your pretty little head.”

“It’s still scary…”

“I know. But isn’t that what makes it thrilling?” He pulls you closer by placing his hands on your ass, placing a chaste kiss on your cunt. “The sooner you finish, the sooner I’ll have you right-side up.”

Another challenge you can’t back down from. You take Sylus’ cock in your mouth and it reaches the back of your throat quickly from its impressive length. It’s also thicker in girth than the tentacle you sucked off earlier, which makes you gag. 

Sylus throws his head back, panting from how soft and warm your mouth feels. He snaps his fingers to release your wrists, allowing your hands to find purchase on the back of his thighs.

“If it becomes too much, squeeze twice.”

You respond by bobbing your head up and down, which earns a sharp inhale from him. He isn’t one to fall behind, so he indulges in your sopping cunt like a glutton, moaning and grunting into it like an animal. Meanwhile, you relax your jaw so it becomes easier to adjust to his size, swirling your tongue as you maneuver up and down.

Your eyes shift to the mirror, seeing your compromised position and lewd actions. You barely recognize yourself or Sylus for that matter. He’s so engrossed in eating you out that his eyes are closed like he’s enjoying heaven on Earth. It pushes you to work harder, keeping up with his pace.

Right before Sylus is about to reach his peak, you hear another snap. He stops eating you out and you feel something bumpy rub itself against your pussy. Then Sylus’ fingers spread your ass cheeks and you feel it probing around your other hole.

Your mouth stills and your eyes widen at the sight of a black-red tendril that’s now ribbed at the tip. It slowly enters, stretching you to take each ribbed section, simulating the action of being fucked repeatedly. Sylus is back at work, inserting his tongue into your vagina in hopes it’ll distract you from the burn, but it only makes you clench harder.

“Relax…” he reminds you before diving back in again. He’s bucking his hips to remind you to continue, and you do your best as saliva pools so much that it drips down near your eyes. Everything feels too much, too tight, especially when the tentacle starts fucking your asshole. The ribbed texture only adds to the intensity and hits spots that border pain and pleasure. 

Sylus’ hips begin to stutter and you’re seconds away from passing out from the light-headedness. Fortunately, he finishes in your mouth, the thick viscosity of his cum coating your throat while you orgasm for the third time tonight. 

The noises he lets out are feral and if you had the chance, you’d record them so you could get off to them another night. You feel the pressure in your ass disappear and as promised, you’re right-side up again, but your limbs feel like jelly. Sylus wraps his arm around your waist, his hold secure as he flashes you a satisfied grin.

“Open.” You’re still in a daze, but the command gets through to you and you show him your mouth. When he sees you have swallowed, he hums in approval. “You really do hold up your end of the bargain. I suppose I’ll finally give you what you want.”

He grabs your hand and places it on his dick, which is slippery from your saliva. He’s still semi-erect but a few strokes is all it takes to get him up and running again. The man’s a beast and refuses to be in a cage.

Guiding you to the bed, he lays down first on the mattress, his hands clasped behind his head as he rests on a pillow. In the blink of an eye, you’re suspended over him, the black-red mist parting your thighs and slowly lowering you until your pussy barely grazes his tip. Your wrists are bound behind your back now and you’re like a puppet, bent to his will. 

“What do you desire, Kitten?”

“You,” you beg. “Please.”

“You wish for me to take you raw?”

You’re nodding like your life depended on it. “Yes.”

“You wish for me to use you?”

“To your heart’s content.”

He says nothing else and sinks you onto his fat cock, and despite the many sessions he’s used to prep you, there’s still a slight burn from how much he stretches you. It feels incredible as he bottoms out, knocking the breath out of both of you. 

“Oh god…” you say, trembling from how full you feel. “You’re so big…”

“And you’re so tight. It’s like your pussy doesn’t want to let go of me. So greedy.”

The mist controls your pliant body, helping you bounce up and down without pausing for a break. Sylus does a jazz hands motion with the widest grin on his face. 

“Look, kitten. No hands.”

You almost growl at his cheap jokes, but his throbbing cock deters you from your thoughts, almost impaling you from its brute force. Sylus reaches out and pulls you so your chest meets his, his arm hooked around your back to hold you in place, giving you a short moment of reprieve. 

“Raise your head,” he commands. You feel so drained, but you force yourself to do it and he gives you a quick smooch. “I need you to relax.”

The ribbed tentacle is back and you feel it gliding in between your ass cheeks, prodding your rim every so often like it’s mischievous. 

“S-Sylus, it’ll be too much,” you say. 

“You can handle it. But let me know now if you want to stop.”

You bite your lower lip, considering his words. “No. Don’t stop.”

“That’s my girl…” The tendril pushes into your asshole, taking its time as each ribbed section feels like a repeated attack, pushing the limits of your body. You’re utterly stuffed once it’s in as far as Sylus allows and you feel his cock throb in your sore pussy. 

Sylus jerks his hips first and then the tentacle joins as they pump in and out of you, alternating and becoming more violent. You’re biting down in the juncture between his neck and shoulder to steady yourself, and he lets out a strained fuck, yes, thrusting up into you so hard that you sob, tears pricking your eye. 

Just when you think there aren’t any surprises left, a second tentacle sneaks around to your lips, seizing its opportunity to enter when you gasp. It gags you and now all three of your holes are being used and abused, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. The stimulation is overwhelming, the pressure bottling, your pussy squeezing Sylus’ like a vice—you’re both not going to last much longer.

“That’s it, that’s it—fuck, I adore you,” he pants, closing his eyes and focusing his energy to give you his all. The tendril occupying your mouth releases you, allowing the mantra of Sylus’ name to fall from your lips as euphoria greets you. 

You’ve come many times tonight, but this one saturates you in overwhelming pain and pleasure. Everything is sore and you can’t stop seeing four of everything until Sylus lifts you by the hips, coming on his stomach and not inside you. You collapse onto his chest when the mist dissipates, the two of you catching your breath. 

There isn’t enough money in the world to convince you to move, not after what you’ve experienced. Yet something lifts you off Sylus and you’re about to cry again.

“No, no more…”

“Hush now,” The mist positions you in Sylus’ arms bridal-styled as he gets off the bed, his strong arms securing you. “We’re going to the bathroom to clean ourselves up. You’re staying with me for the night.”

You nuzzle into his embrace like a kitten, and a fond smile rests on his face. 

“Okay.”

A/N: You made it to the end! Yipee! Thank you for giving my writing a chance. PLEASE let me know if you enjoyed. 🌹

[circeyoru]

Collection of Overlords _ Part 5 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 (here) — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9  — Part 10 — Part 11 — Part 12 — Part 13

You honestly, truly didn’t want to bring up the negatives because it’s been so long since everyone was gathered here. You merely wanted to celebrate the achievement some of your Elites have done and reward them accordingly, then you’ll move on to another topic

But no, those three sinners sharing the title of Overlords just couldn’t fully grasp their situation and keep their mouths shut until they were back in what tiny territory they have. You’ve overlooked their words since it was their privacy

However, not when they bring it to the open

Everyone tensed up when the glass shattered in your direction. Slowly, their heads turned in your direction. On another occasion, they’d melt under your gaze as it wasn’t always that your eyes were visible

Yet this was not such a time. They felt caged and suffocated, the air around them pressuring them to be more compacted. The smile you had was long gone, now replaced by a slight frown and your eyes were sharp, cold and cruel. They could see the shadowy wisps around you while your hair floated in the air

You stood from your seat, glaring down. Your surroundings molding to match your aura and deathly wrath and rage towards souls that you deemed to be placed in your Elite Collection

The other Overlords regained their composure and sat in their seats with their heads slightly bowed, the Vees were in a different state

Their arms up and heads tilted to the side as though they were puppets on strings. The slight shake in their limbs suggests they were fighting the power that held them in such a humiliating place. Velvette and Valentino started to choke as though the air was sucked out of them, while Vox’s screen face cracked more and more from the pressure

“How brazen of you to judge your fellow Overlords in front of me.” Your voice roared even though it was soft and gentle. “I will have to remind you that it was I who chose them to be under my wing, that includes you.”

What a front. What a misleading trap. You’re not one to initiate fights, but you do provoke fights to give yourself an excuse to let out some steam. That’s to the other demons and sinner, not your Collection, as you give them their chances to change and correct their way on their own. Like how you let Zestial and the others warn the Vees before something triggering happens. 

“Brazen. Brazen.” Cages appeared around the room, some perched on the top of the chairs, some on the table, and some hovering around you with their wings flapping. “Disrespectful. Disrespectful.”

“No, wait, I…” Vox raised his hands, trying to explain himself but words fall short from his speakers. 

“You have no right to say they are ganging up on you three when you have been acting as a group since the beginning. You have no right to say they are not fighting because where were you when Carmilla and Rosie were providing support and Alastor was fighting on the front lines?” You laughed dryly, “Yes, I recall…”

The Vees’ bodies tensed up even more, twitching like branches in the wind. Your dear Cages flew over to them, pecking their bodies with their beck and clawing their flesh with their talons that were coated with angelic steel, courtesy of Carmilla. 

“You were safe in your little bunker and watched the entire battle like a show. Don’t make me start with you three using the souls you own as meat shields and bait!” Your eyes narrowed, then you raised your hand with your palm facing upwards and her fingers curled inwards a bit. “You certainly have no right to bet your soul because it is not yours to use anymore.” You growled, “If anything, you should be ashamed of sharing your title as an Overlord with others.”

At your last words, the deafening, crunching sounds of bones and metal started to echo in the silent room. Zestial closed his eyes, opting to drink from his cup. Carmilla sighed, exasperated, while her head shook from side to side with the smallest of motion. Zeezi gulp at the scene with fear, but she can’t help but smirk a bit. Rosie watched in fascination with the most intrigued expression. And Alastor peeked over to your glorious form.

Vox, Velvette, and Valentino’s bodies were squished and squeezed into the shape of a ball at the slow forming of your fist. Their screams muffled by your powers, their lips were sewn shut with a glowing silver line that appeared along with more silver strings that held them up. Only broke when their bodies were reshaped into balls and dropped on the table, noticing that Valentino’s size was even smaller than what his other two partners have. Their blood spread across the table, but nothing was dirtied by the liquid.

Your beloved Cages flew to what was your Overlords, some ripping pieces of meat as much as they could with their beaks and claws and some licking the blood on the table. 

“There is so much more that I could pick on you three for, however, I want to have you three know it was never my intention to keep everything this dark.” You sighed and massaged the side of your head with a finger. Your eyes glowed with an aura around them, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll correct your current ways before my patience is gone. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” Vox was quick to mutter out despite his current state.

“Crystal clear… Master.” Velvette followed after.

“I’m s… sorry… Master.” Valentino whined out.

With the snap of your fingers, they were back to their normal form. They gasped and patted themselves, their minds reliving what they had gone through. They bowed before taking their seats, “Thank you for your mercy, Master.”

Your eyes closed and a smile reformed on your face, “Well then! Let’s move on to something more fun!”

Just like that, the meeting’s main agenda was finally mentioned. You needed your Overlords to dominate the lowlives that were claiming to be Overlords and trying to take territories for themselves

The hologram changed to the landscape of the Pride Ring, and the signature colours of the Overlords marked their respective territories. An eerie black colour mixed with silver marked those that were occupied by self-proclaimed Overlords

You had already checked that there were no Overlords worthwhile to add to your collection, so you gave your Overlords the chance to claim more lands, as well as the opportunity to impress you with their ability to perform a given test. There was a lot of land to cover, so you sat back and let them divide it amongst themselves

It was almost laughable how docile the Vees were acting now, if they had been like so in the first place, then your hand wouldn’t be forced. Still, with some demons and sinners, if they aren’t reminded what real power looks like, they’ll never learn

Their discussion was civil and structured, with Carmilla marking down and arranging the biggest threat and size of new territories. You trust in her judgment. Most picked their preferred land as it was near what territory they have, the ones that benefit most from this was the Vees as they needed to win back your favour in order to wipe the slate clean of their mistakes

While they did so, this time without the arguing and fighting since they had been warned. You petted your Cages one by one and let them return to where they came from, continuing to serve you until you saw they could help more in their former bodies or a humanoid one. You played around with their claws and wings, even feeding them with the everlasting snacks that you summoned when there was no need to

A smile graced the peaceful scene as you sighed in relief over the cooperation they are capable of. You see them working together, it’ll be better if they could set aside their differences and help each other grow

However, you also know it’s impossible for such an idealistic fantasy to come true. This was Hell, no matter how well you have them under your control, they have free will, therefore, free thought. Lucifer’s right when he believes the people of Hell to be awful, even thinking his daughter was wasting time helping them

You’ll have to deny it because Princess Charlie’s redemption worked. For you were approached by the true Ruler of Heaven in regards to a soul needing to leave Hell and go to Heaven. Similar to your role, they reminded in the background and not rule over the souls of Heaven. The only difference was that they were more mischievous in their actions to prove the high-ranking angels wrong

It’s not your business. So you didn’t care. You let that soul leave your realm either way

Still, the individuals before you wouldn’t be able to leave Hell. Never. You won’t allow it since they have sold their souls to you. Even if they are redempted, you won’t let their soul leave and Heaven’s true Ruler knows better than to fight you on that. You’ll let other souls go, but not ones within your Collection

“My Liege, we have divided our work.” Alastor brought you out of your thoughts. 

You looked over to the other Overlord, who all nodded, showing willingness and agreement to Alastor’s words. You smiled. Yes, if only they didn’t sell their souls to you. “In that case, that’s all for this meeting. I know you won’t keep me waiting or disappoint me.”

“Yes!”

You return to the hotel with your disguised form already taken place when you teleported back. Alastor was such a dear to offer making you a meal to relax and rewind after a long meeting, so you went and sat down, waiting patiently in the dining room with a book in hand

While your eyes seem to be reading the words on the page, you were keeping an eye out for Overlords

Zestial had gone back to his home and reorganize his knowledge and information collected. You have a feeling he’ll be giving you a report some time soon. Since your little absence, he has been diligently working away with what he was provided. He was an Overlord to not much of you until you gave him, after all. Yet he produces excellent results all the same. Very outstanding

Camilla was preserving the room you have significantly changed to the point that nothing would be changed, now you know where to go when another meeting were to take place. You have a good chuckle when you saw Odette and Clara take turns sitting where you sat like schoolgirls with their idol or crush

It’s good not to be feared. Of course, you understand that they weren’t in a contract with you unlike their mother, so maybe that element of fear wasn’t present as they won’t offend you anyhow. You adore those two and secretly put a little protection charm on them when they left before the meeting started. Seriously, them meeting other demons and sinners while delivering weapons is dangerous

Rosie, being the dear she is, went back to Cannibal Town and retold her people the joyous news of your visit. While it was never specified when, they were already preparing a grand welcome for you. Now, you’re feeling a bit awkward since you didn’t plan an exact date. You thought just a spontaneous visit would do

As if sensing your thoughts, Rosie reminded everyone there was no set date or time you’ll be visiting. The cannibals were forced to stop their rushed preparations, but some still prepared all the same. You seriously couldn’t help but smile at their exchange. You do enjoy how Rosie treated you normally at casual times and wasn’t always as a superior

Zeezi was quick to start in her assignment. Immediately acting after mobilizing the souls she owned, the marked territories she was to take over were swiftly put into her hands and her power did grow. Of course, you saw growth in her. Before, she’d be charging head-first into battle. Here, she studied her target from afar for a while then she hunted them down

Now the Vees, they were recovering from their little ordeal. The wounds done on them from your Cages’ angelic touches weren’t recovered by your recovery power, licking their wounds, they made sure to reevaluate themselves and watch what they do. Valentino received quick the shouting from Vox and Velvette, but he shouted back, in the end, it turned out to be a bit of a blaming-on-each-other shout

You had hoped this would be a push for Vox and Velvette to step away from Valentino, to isolate him because there wasn’t much contribution he offered the two. Vox and Velvette can go hand-in-hand and you don’t mind it, they complement each other and their dynamic could be something like Zestial and Carmilla or Alastor and Rosie. But you know it was a stretch to expect them to do so now

Time will tell how your little Overlord group will go

“And now, we change the layout. Remember the bar was in the lobby before? Well, now it’s next to the kitchen and we have a giant dining room where everyone can have meals together! Oh oh! We can even host parties here and feasts!” Charlie’s voice became louder and louder. You figure she was giving a tour to another new guest and minded your business.

“No way…” Now that was a familiar voice.

“Yes way! We can totally host—” Charlie cut off, and her tone became confused. “Uh, dad, where’re you going?”

When the thought registered, Lucifer was already sitting in front of the empty seat in front of you with a bright smile, “My golly! It’s you!”

You smiled politely, keeping up an act, “Yes, greetings, your highness.”

Lucifer laughed, waving his hand like a slap to dismiss it, “Oh, come on! Where’s the familiarity? I owe you so much! Teach!”

Your smile twitched as did your eye, “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Charlie!” Lucifer called over his daughter. Your smile widened as you felt like screaming into the void. “Meet my lovely teacher that helped me become the man I am today, King of Hell and all that! This is The Collector, or Silver!” He whispered, “A bit shy on the name, or it’s a taboo to say it. You know how it is.”

“Collector!?” Charlie exclaimed with wide eyes, doubling back and forth from her father to you. “But. But! Guest? How? Huh!?”

Husk spit out his drink from what he heard at the bar, immediately wiping his mouth when he looked over to the commotion. “Oh sh*t…”

You sighed and glared at Lucifer with a twitching smile while still in your disguised form, “You…”

Note: And that concludes the meeting~ No tease this time~

I'll be moving back to {Unwanted Soul} plotline (I think), so in the meantime, you guys can send in some scenes you want for this, and I'll see how to write them or treat it as trivia~!

Circe Y. 

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist:

@aconfusedwonderland @crowleysthings @donustellaron @mistpurpl3 @lucifers-silhouette @fluffy-koalala @plutobots @ray-rook @thealienartist @serenity-songbird @galaxydreamer468 @raynerrold @wen01203 @hikari-michiko @colecreo @myromanempiree @xsamkuro @yourdoorisunlocked @clavelina @jono723 @cursedcattalastor @an-idyllic-novelist @flamiohotman2024 @rea-grace @myromanempiree @veroneverleft

[silverskye13]

"There you are, Demon."

Evil X's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a deep, resonant sound with a mechanical edge. The Demon, standing in his Colosseum box overlooking the sand, startled. His long, dragon-like elytra wings, repaired after his skirmish with Helsknight, shuddered briefly. The Demon forced a smile and uncrossed his arms from behind his back, trying to hide the sting to his pride at being snuck up on. He turned away from the window, searching the empty room for the voice's source. The shadows moved, light bending, and Evil X stepped into sight like the slow render of a distant horizon; all haze and shape and then sudden definition.

"You're playing a dangerous game." The robotic sovereign and admin of hels tilted his head slightly in a look of amusement, the movement punctuated by the wur and click of half a dozen mechanical parts. "Aren't you?"

Evil X was unassuming, as far as evils went. He was shorter than his brother, Evil Beezuma, which made him shorter than the Demon. Where Evil Beezuma was long and thin and axe-sharp, Evil X was broad and solid and square. Human sized, human shaped, but in the uncanny way of one who has sculpted himself to be perfectly so, piece by piece, as though he had to carefully study humanity in all its forms to settle on something that would pass. On first glance, he seemed so terribly normal it was almost inconvenient -- an easily dismissible mundanity. On second glance, once you noticed the intentionality of his design, he implied power so profound, and actions so calculated, it bordered on the god-like.

∆ The Demon couldn't help but be envious, any more than a moth could help its desire for light and heat. ∆

The Demon bowed low, tail curling nimbly around his ankles, an attempt to appear humble. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Majesty?"

"Amusement," Evil X answered simply, ignoring the formality. He hummed tunelessly as he moved to join the Demon by the window. "Curiosity."

Evil X peered down at the sand far below them, the ruby light from his pixelated screen of a mask aligning itself into a bored expression. He braced his hands on the windowsill, the thick, knobbled joints deceptively dextrous as they curled around the edge. All the mechanical pieces that made up Evil X's robotic body were brutal in their display, unyielding and utilitarian. It was the kind of grim mechanics the Demon might expect to see in a factory; dark oil, black hinges and unyielding jaws. There was a heft to Evil X's movements that implied wrought iron and tempered steel, where Evil Beezuma was a creature of lighter metals -- aluminums and titaniums. Still heavy, but in comparison to the sovereign of hels, he was all bird bones.

∆ The Demon could imagine every hinge and servo in Evil X's powerful grip locking around someone's hand and crushing it with simple ease, the same way he might crush an eggshell in his fist. ∆

"You've upset my brother," Evil X said, not looking up at the Demon. There were fighters on the sand far below -- not a Colosseum Match, though the date for the next one was swiftly approaching. They were training, getting ready. The Demon had taken to watching, revelling in the performative struggles in the sand, knowing they were there because of him. "He thinks you've rigged the next match."

"I'm sorry he thinks so," the Demon said, his voice a cautious smile, obeisant. He needed to feel this conversation out, dance with the danger of it, to determine his odds. There was a thrill of fear and adrenaline in his chest, as intense as the pressure in the End. "I was merely trying to craft a compelling show."

"No you weren't," Evil X said flatly, his tone bored. "How many sponsors and show writers did you have to bribe to force the Champion into such a disadvantage?"

The Demon wisely kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to mirror Evil X's bored glare down at the sand. There was a flicker of red in the corner of the Demon's eye, the glimmer of reflected light on the glass as Evil X glanced in his direction.

"No, you would never stoop to bribery," Evil X hummed, as though agreeing with some unspoken statement. It made the Demon's skin crawl, a feeling like his thoughts were being plucked from his head. "Not when so many people owe you favors. Did you cash in terribly many? Seems a bit moot, given it should have only taken one."

The Demon snapped his gaze down to Evil X then, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. He said with forced civility, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I've been downgraded to sir?" Evil X grinned, turning so his back was pressed against the glass, his arms crossed over his chest. "I liked Majesty better, I think."

The Demon smiled graciously -- and only in doing so realized he'd stopped smiling in the first place. He bowed stiffly, "My apologies, Majesty."

"Helsknight owes you a favor," Evil X said, smoothly ignoring both the bow and the title.

∆ A thorn of hurt pride stabbed itself deeper into the Demon's side. ∆

"Couldn't you have simply asked him to throw the match?" Evil X looked down as if to inspect his fingernails. He fidgeted with something on his wrist, tightening some gear with an audible click! "It would certainly be more direct than... whatever this mess is. I suppose you might be excited to show off just how much of hels is in the palm of your hand."

There was another audible click, and the mechanical hand snapped open. Firing redstone glimmered from seams in the plates of his arm, traveling up to the elbow in a series of popping noises. The Demon wrinkled his nose at the sudden biting smell of redstone. It took him a moment to realize Evil X expected an answer.

"The, ahm direct approach wouldn't work," the Demon said at length, crossing his arms behind his back again. "Helsknight isn't what I'm after."

"An example, then?"

"Not exactly."

"Cryptic."

"I feel its in my best interest."

Evil X opened and closed his hand, flexing joints that were suddenly much stiffer than they had been before... whatever he'd done. The fingers opened and closed in stiff, jerking motions -- something that reminded the Demon somewhat squeamishly of a vice. The image of crushing eggshells came back to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

"Oh relax, Demon. I'm not here to punish you," Evil X chuckled, a deep, resonant sound like the clatter of metal. "I'm simply admiring your work."

"My work?" The Demon asked cautiously.

"I used to love playing these games," Evil X sighed wistfully, turning again so he faced the glass. He straightened each individual digit on his hand, those harsh, snapping motions looking almost painful. "It's... Difficult showing people you mean business when death has so little sting."

Evil X rested a fingertip against the glass, as if he meant to scrub away some imperfection there. The glass wasn't completely clear -- it was very subtly tinted yellow, a color the Demon had chosen intentionally. He had always loved motifs of gold and glamor. It was one of the few things about his Hermit he allowed himself to keep.

"The Universe is cruel," Evil X monologued, his gaze focused on the point where his finger met the glass. "But eight, nine times out of ten, we still respawn as if it weren't. Hels is scarce, but not so scarce that losing something means it's impossible to replace. At least, not for people like you and Helsknight, who have wealth and power, and a healthy amount of fear ascribed to your names."

∆ The Demon found it interesting that Evil X didn't include himself in that statement -- did he not consider himself as someone with wealth, power and fear? Perhaps he did, and was simply aware he was far out of anyone else's league. ∆

"So then, how do you truly threaten someone, when the world is so forgiving?" Evil X asked the glass, gaze still intent on that point his finger rested against. "The direct approach has its merits -- death and maiming are always unpleasant. And even though the body returns whole, the mind takes time to recover."

Unease tiptoed along the Demon's spine. A noise made it to him, a quiet groan of stress, oddly sharp, something straining in its casing. The bite of redstone stung the Demon's nose again.

"Sir?"

"But you're clever. The direct approach is too straightforward and barbaric for people like you. So, you build a web."

The glass fractured, suddenly and without warning. Webbed lines spidered out from Evil X's fingertip, focused on the point of contact. It startled the Demon back a step, half-expecting Evil X's hand to crash the rest of the way through, but it didn't. The fracture stopped after the initial break, four odd nearly-concentric circles streaked by smaller perpendicular breaks, very much like a spider's web. Evil X laughed, quick and sharp, almost surprised.

"I got bored of the web making ages ago, and even if I hadn't, I promised my brother I wouldn't meddle in his business. But I do admire good craftsmanship when I see it." There was a click! somewhere in the mechanical pieces in Evil X's wrist as he pressed harder against the fracture he made. The glass broke further, more cracks spiraling out from the source; a larger web. "I was once quite good at it -- building them, and reading the lines. Care to let me guess at yours, Demon?"

He tilted his head in the Demon's direction, the red light from his eyes reflecting in a dozen different facets of cracked glass. The Demon clenched his fists at his sides, and it was an act of will not to take another wary step back.

"The knight is a sacrifice," Evil X hummed, another crack shooting out from his fingertip to spiral across the golden glass. "It's what they're made for, really. I don't play chess -- do you? I know the knight is a deceptively mobile piece, and a crowd favorite, for how pretty it is, but it's movements are complicated and, all bound up with invisible rules. It will never be the most important piece on the board, but it will content itself with being useful. I'm sure he'll be flattered when he figures out he's a means to an end. Knights like that kind of thing."

Another crack, this one spearing sharply to the far edge of the window pane. The whole window shuddered with its violence.

The Demon lurched forward, all previous attempts to appear calm and unbothered forgotten. He almost grabbed Evil X's shoulder to pull him away -- almost. The heat stopped him. Evil X's machinery, either by convention or design, radiated heat like a burning brand. The sudden fear that touching the metal would scald him drew his hand up short.

"Stop that," the Demon hissed, glaring up at the shattering window, so he wouldn't have to witness Evil X's smirk.

"Stop what? This?" Evil X chuckled, another long crack shattering out to touch the top of the window.

"Yes, that!"

"Why?"

"Because it's--"

"--yours?"

Evil X laughed again, and much to the Demon's relief, he removed his hand from the glass. Evil X bared his wrist, fiddling with whatever knob or screw he'd tightened earlier. One by one, the robotic fingers relaxed again, moving much more like a hand was expected to. Evil X clenched and unclenched his fist experimentally.

"The little thief that's found itself in Helsknight's shadow. That's what you're after," Evil X hummed. "I admit, I only know he exists because I know what my brother knows. I assume he stole something from you?"

"What's it to you?" The Demon growled, his wings ruffling uncomfortably.

"Like I said, I admire your craftsmanship." Evil X reached forward and flicked the broken window with a metal finger. The weakened glass shuddered, one jagged shard popping free of the network of webbed cracks. Evil X caught it deftly. "I got bored of this kind of cloak-and-dagger thing ages ago, but I do still understand the allure."

On the words "cloak-and-dagger", Evil X rolled the glass over his knuckles, the jagged shard flickering in the low light in a way that reminded the Demon of the flash of a drawn blade.

"If you're so... Bored by this nonsense," the Demon gestured to the broken glass, "then why--?"

"This isn't web-weaving," Evil X chuckled. "I prefer the direct approach."

The Demon narrowed his eyes. "Then, directly, tell me why you're here."

∆ He did not say "Your Majesty." He thought if he demeaned himself to Evil X again, he might tempt himself to violence, and Evil X was the sovereign of hels, and there were some fights the Demon knew he could not win. ∆

Evil X smirked. It was in the way the red lights of his eyes narrowed, and the way he dipped his head, amused.

"You have a blind spot, Demon," Evil X said. "This web you're weaving -- you've forgotten something very important."

Nervousness thrilled its way down the Demon's spine again.

"What am I missing?"

"Now, where would all the fun for me be, if I told you all the answers?"

The Demon snorted and crossed his arms. He considered, briefly, making himself look bigger. More intimidating. He didn't think it would work, but it would make him feel better at least. Less bullied.

"You are doing a lot of meddling in the Colosseum," Evil X said, tapping the glass again. The window shook, but no other jagged pieces fell free. One of the cracks widened threateningly. "Walking around like you own the place, leaving messes everywhere."

The Demon bared his teeth in his closest approximation of a smile, "I'm well aware the Colosseum isn't mine. It belongs to you, of course."

Evil X laughed, sharp and biting and scornful. "You're sorely mistaken, Demon. I wouldn't dream of calling the Colosseum mine."

"You're worried the knight will take offense to my meddling?" The Demon huffed. "By my reckoning, he's too busy with his own shortsightedness to bother--"

"Gods above and below," Evil X sighed. He leaned in close to the window, blazing the shattered lines in bloody hues. The Demon watched him warily, and then stepped forward to look down at the sand. Far, far below them, the fighters still trained. One in particular meandered among them, offering advice and correcting form.

"Beware, Demon, as you weave your web." Evil X hummed, his voice so low, so close to the glass, it nearly seemed to shake the shattered panes. "Some wasps eat spiders."

"Your brother?" The Demon said, trying to keep his skepticism from his voice.

"My brother," Evil X agreed, flickering that broken glass over his knuckles again in a flourish, "is quite protective of his Colosseum. And as I said, Demon, I have promised not to meddle in his affairs."

"Aren't you meddling now?"

"No, this is a warning, from someone who appreciates the craftsmanship in a well-spun web." Their gazes met, Evil X radiating heat and smoke like breath. "If he does something to you Demon, I won't intervene. He's the nice one -- but he still has Evil in his name, doesn't he?"

Evil X smiled. He reached out gently to pluck a small piece of glass from where it had fallen on the Demon's shoulder, so small it looked like glitter. The Demon had to force himself not to recoil from the touch, from the scald of hot metal so intense it had its own smell; flint and oil and redstone.

Evil X flicked the piece of glass away, the smooth mask of boredom slipping back over his mechanical features, "I'll be interested to see what you choose to do, in any case. Gods know it gets boring enough in hels. Too many rats, not enough races."

"Then change it," the Demon snapped, his pride and temper bristling in tandem. The implication that he was just one more game for a bored god stung.

∆ He was quite sure it was meant to sting. ∆

"No, I don't think I will." Evil X shrugged, sauntering towards the door that led from the Demon's box to the long hall beyond. "I'm quite content watching events unfold as they want."

He opened the door and grinned back at the Demon, "Once you get so good at these games, they stop being fun. Entertain me though, and I might make you my protege."

"I don't need your patronage," the Demon hissed.

"Sure you don't," Evil X chuckled. He flicked his hand, that shard of glass he'd taken flickering through the room like a knifepoint. It hit the cracked pane of glass, and with a shriek, it shattered. The Demon sprang back from the waterfall of sharpened points, watching the golden cascade tumble across the floor. One of the pieces cut him, but he only knew it by the itching trickle of blood that ran down his arm long minutes later.

"That was unnecessary," EB groused that evening, when Evil X descended the long stairs to his cell. "I don't need you sticking up for me. I don't want you sticking up for me."

"Sticking up for you?" Evil X laughed. "Darling baby brother, I don't stick up for anybody."

He ducked the swat EB aimed in his direction. EB didn't try to hit him again -- yet.

"I was just making sure I still leave an impression." Evil X grinned. "And I still got it. You can bill me for the glass, if you like."

"I will." EB snapped a hand forward, and Evil X let himself be caught. "Stop breaking my Colosseum, X." EB towered, and shoved, and Evil X felt the wall divot behind him from the strength of the push. "You can break everything else in hels, playing around, but this is--"

"Yes yes, it's yours," Evil X conceded, prying EB's hand off his chest. "Lighten up, you're supposed to be the nice one."

EB looked away from him, buzzing a long, unintelligible stream of noise.

"Language."

"You were meddling."

"If I were meddling, there would have been TNT involved." Evil X sobered just a bit. "And I wouldn't be telling you."

"He's impulsive, EX," EB sighed, running a hand down his face. "He's impulsive, and you threatened him."

"And I can't wait to see what he does," Evil X chuckled, rubbing his hands together conspiratorially. "Impulsive people make truly spectacular decisions when they're threatened."

"Not in my Colosseum!"

"And if he does?" Evil X grinned. "I can't wait to see what you do either." He rapped a knuckle against EB's chest, and chuckled at the resonance. "Live up to your name for once. You make me look soft."

He ducked another of EB's swats, cackling, and vanished. It took long minutes for the lights in the room to bleed away the red tinge that seemed to follow in Evil X's wake.

"I liked you better when you were busy with Hermitcraft," EB grumbled to the empty room. "You're a terror when you're bored."

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

[lisenberry]

The sweat on your skin is better than regret on your heart

Part three! (One and Two) I know I promised smut, but I just got really deep into his tattoos. Part four will finish this up, I swear.

Tattoo Artist!Price x F!Reader

He led you towards the back of the shop, past the reception desk and the waiting area, and behind the black velvet privacy curtain.  You were surprised at how clean it was in his workspace.  Welcoming in its warmth.  You expected neon lights and goth décor.  Crystal skulls and gleaming stainless steel.

Instead, it was a palette of rich, earthy tones.  A supple looking camel-colored leather sofa, maps of the ocean and model ships of every shape and size.  A compass rose painted with elaborate detail on the ceiling.  A stained-glass light fixture at its center. 

“It’s beautiful in here,” you mused, as you spun around slowly in a mix of awe and anticipation.  If you were to get a tattoo, it would be the place. 

“If you give me a second, I can draw you up a few ideas.  The ones you showed me on your little phone are uninspired shit.”  He slipped another cig from his pack and tucked it behind his ear.  Always at the ready.

“I’m actually more worried about the placement.”  You bit your lip for courage.  You couldn’t believe you were doing this.  “Could you show me yours?  Maybe that’ll help me decide.”

You sat atop a padded seat that he could recline forward and backward, raise up and down to suit the best position.  It was comfortable and smooth against the back of your knees. 

“I think we can stop pretending why you’re still here.  You want me to help you forget your boyfriend, don’t you?  Work you up so hard—so good and proper—that you don’t remember his name.”

But even as he spoke, he obliged you.  Tugged his shirt off efficiently, pulling it up from behind his neck and shrugging it over the front of his shoulders, letting it come to rest between his wrists.  It briefly looked like handcuffs before he tossed it on the floor beside him.

His hair stuck up in roguish angles before he could smooth it down with a stiff swipe of his palm.   

“No, I want to remember.  Remember this feeling for the rest of my life.”  You couldn’t look away as he stood so close to you, so proudly as if for an inspection. 

At the swath of hair that curled around the thick muscles of his chest and trailed down to disappear beneath the waist of the pants that hung low where his hands rested on his hips.

“What feeling is that?”

“Empty?”  You reached a hand out tentatively to touch the skin along his side.  To move him closer for a better look.  “But free.”

He was inked in a scattering of places, like memories collected over time.  No rhyme or symmetry to their arrangement.  A snake coiled around his shoulder and sunk its teeth into his collarbone.  A black bird with a long neck and hooked beak sat vigilantly on one bicep while a simple, unadorned dagger with wings claimed the other.

Some more weathered than others, it was hard to tell which was the oldest. 

“What’s the bird for?”  you asked, nodding to his left arm.  Below it was written “You’ll never walk alone” in stylized script. 

“That’s a liver bird.  The symbol of the LFC.”  A football club?  You cracked a smile at the boyishness of it.  You wondered if that was his first one, as a lad staking his claim on his body.  And the world.

“And the snake?”  You took your time tracing his right shoulder with your fingertips. 

“I hate snakes.  Scare me to death.”  Brave then, to carry one around with him always, forever creeping up to bite him. 

“And the bees?  You scared of them, too?”  You noted the collection of realistically drawn bumble bees at his side, fresher and with bright yellow colors. 

“Those are for my nieces.  Beatrice, Brenna and Bailey.”  He pointed to each, with a glimmer of softness in his voice as he recalled their names.

As you slid your hands to his hips, you turned him around to view the larger canvas at his back.  Just as disjointed as his front, your gaze fell to a ghostly face. 

More skeleton than specter, it sat on his right shoulder.  It’s teeth were made of bullets, and it stared blankly back at you.  The pitch black in the depths of its eyes unnerving. 

Beside it was a bear, warlike in its posture.  Its face open and fearsome, ready to consume its foe.  A claymore style longsword, with a thistle design at its hilt held in its massive paws.

One last piece balanced out the trinity.  A Knight Templar, crouched in armor.  On one bent knee, in service to a force unseen. 

They felt significant, inked in a similar style and with a fluidity that bound them together. 

“They’re important to you?”

“To be at my back?  Yeah.  They’re the best.”

From there, your fingers moved lower, to a set of four lions sat on their flanks.  You recognized them from history.  They were the Landseed lions of Admiral Nelson’s monument in Trafalgar Square.  They’d once held names too, like his nieces. 

Peace. War. Vigilance. Determination.

But these had arrows in their backs.  You imagined that each one in the count held a significance.  Not a life taken.  Or a victory.  Not something so crass and boastful.  Instead, something lost.

Below each, he’d had a set of coral red poppies added.  Bright and vibrant and new.

“It’s lovely,” you felt a tear drift down your cheek.  You didn’t know why.  It happened sometimes when you were at a museum or a gallery.  Moved beyond words at something beyond yourself.  The unbridled expression of another.

The last was a lone set of crosshairs, in a style so different than the rest.  Thin and unsure, as if doodled in a dream.  Just below his neck.  Dead-center at the crest of his spine.

“What’s this one?” You grazed it gently with your fingers.  Not entirely sure you wanted the answer.

“That’s the one that finally gets me, love,” he growled as he twisted around and held your probing hand in his.  “You’ve looked your fill.  Now it’s my turn.”

[brainr0t-landfill]

T

Chapter One: You get baptized.

Captain Price x male reader

(T.W: forcemasc fetish, kidnapping, forced headshave, reader is currently girlmoding, implied stalking, implied cheating)

The road to your new home is long and wet John is stiff in his seat as the cold lights of the bumfuck, misreable town you called home for years bleed across the dark car he wonder if you can see them if you're still awake, rain splashes against his front window.

Wrongness gnaws at something burried deep in his chest even though it's been hours since your struggle has died down; your desperate pleas and pathetic threats muffled by an old rag and held in place by duct tape, all the frantic energy in your soft body weighed down by exhaustion, he feels bad for you so confused and lost but he knows he's doing what's right like his old man always told him.

"No one finds their true love, son."

He'd tell him sitting on his old throne shallow, warm glass of whiskey in hand.

"You make it, wives like your mother are for husbands like me. I didn't find her on the side of the road as she is today, made her i did."

The contradiction is that Senior Price was more shaped by his wife than his wife by him John's mother with her dishwasher white knuckles and red stained lips, an ex whore, a cols blooded creature in a warm home trying to make her claws into wings.

The contradiction is that John never wanted a woman like his mother, never wanted a woman at all.

On the edge of town he stops the truck, turns the engine off and steps outside walks through the murky mud puddles to the trunk pops it and beholds you, curled into yourself with eyes like a desperate dog you thin wrists held together by zip ties, knobby knees knocking against eachother.

He kneels infornt of you on one knee like a crude mockery.

"I know you're confused."

He tells you rubbing across your ribs,

"But in due time you'll get it luv, I'll be so good for ya, never gonna want for nothing y'hear?"

He gives you his best smile but you don't respond he shushes the sniffles with a heavy hand grabbing you by your scruff and dragging you out, you don't struggle at all and he gently rips the tape off it leaves red lines across your pretty, soft cheeks and pink lips glossy with spit.

"Please, please I won't tell anyone I need to go home please please-"

He stands there as you kneel on the ground big paw rubbing at your sore jaw as you work yourself into tears and sobs begging for things you don't want, he sees your eyes stuck where the sun is setting on the other side of the road desire peeking out like teeth.

"Shhh, shhh it's alright now, it's alright"

He tells you as he rubs his hands across your beautiful locks, such a shame

"I'm not gonna hurt ya luv, no, no not at all. But you need to trust me, alright?"

He looks down at you and clicks his tounge in dissapointment but of course, men are proud animals they play best when they think they'll win, they grasp at any chance to prove their loving masters wrong.

"Looky here, let's make a deal, yeah?"

He takes a deep breath and plays a gamble, rolls the dice knowing he holds every card.

"A year, ya stay with me a year, listen, and be good and if by the end of that year ya still wanna go back home, I'll let ya. Hell I'll even drive ya, drop ya off at the door. But untill than you play by my rules, yeah luv?"

He asks and rubs his calloused hand over your cheek watches the war raging behind those eyes.

"O-okay."

You croak out and your trembling seizes as you steel your shoulders.

"Okay, y-you've got a deal, just please don't hurt me."

He pats your head and takes the clippers out, drags you to the gutter, walk you on your knees deep into the filthy water, stains your pretty, modest white skirt not that you'll have much use of it anymore.

You start screaming again struggling like a feral dog, he thinks of what name to give you, dogs get new names after all to know what they should answer to your old one never fit you anyways.

"What are you doing-? What are you-"

He starts it up and runs it across your scalp, your soft hair falling into the water and your sweat stained blouse as be buzzes it all off, there will be better cuts in the feature; neat crew cuts like his in barber shops before your wedding and once every month, routine trims and beard oil.

"Oh don't pretend you don't know luv, look at you! Even with ya short height everybody can tell, ya make such an unconvincing girl, sweets but that's alright. Everybody strays sometimes, not ya fault ya never had anyone to guide ya right, ya just trust me, alright? Ya just trust me."

He burries your face in his crotch to muffle your noises as he shaves your head feels you go limp with shame.

He pities you, he doesn't know what it's like to be seen after a life spent hiding, to be in the light after two decades of chasing it.He strips you off your skirt and blouse there, pockets your jewelry and wedding band takes out your I.D and taps your picture there.

"Ya recognize her?"

Your lips twitch, mishapen face scrunched up in shame.

"No, ya don't, ya never did..."

He thinks for a second, what to name you, who to make you, how to love you.

"Tommy, Tom Price, ya recognize that?"

You nod and he brushes the hair off your scalp as he leads you back to the car, lays you in the back seat to stew, throws his uniform jacket over you.

"Wait-"

He looks down, at you half hidden under the jacket, pulls it further, tucks you in to hide a body that's of the past.

"Yes luv?"

"What's you name?"

He smiles and huffs out a laugh that's been brewing for weeks, weeks and weeks of watching you, feeling your yearning eyes burn kisses on his skin.

"Jonathan, Jonathan Price, ya can call me sir."

[velarisbynight]

Watch From The Shadows While You Laugh In The Firelight

Azriel x Eris

Day 1 of @azrisweek : Contrasts

a/n: in honesty I just wanted to play around a little with Eris being the one keeping to himself and Azriel comfortably moving about in conversation 🩵🩵 (also just Eris being cold on the outside but clearly in love with Azriel during his inner monologue)

word count: 1.1k ~

~~~~~~~~

Shadows flicker on the walls, and he’s grateful for even the slightest extra cover of darkness he’s afford in his corner.

Around him are nothing but open faces and the tingling sounds of laughter, and Eris feels as though he would rather rupture his own eardrums than listen to another grating second of it. It’s so sincere.

“You look surprisingly out of control, away in your corner over here,” a voice says, a voice he would never be able to forget the agonised screams of that he’d been able to hear long after steel had sliced through flesh and bone, cleaving a head from fair shoulders that had no doubt been loved, and treated with the tender kindness he knows his youngest brother was not forced to purge from himself.

“Lucien,” Eris greets, unable to quite rid his tone of that sharp ice, so accustomed to harbouring any sort of warmth far away from his frozen surface. It doesn’t seem to bother the male, though, basked in that almost imperceptible glow that had gilded him even as a boy—the surest sign he was different from the rest of them. Set apart right from the get go.

“Where’s your mate? You’re usually joined at the hip,” Eris muses, idly swirling the effervescent liquid in his glass, watching how his brother’s mechanical eye clicks and whirrs, and he finds himself slightly frightened at his inability to recall how Lucien had appeared before the High Queen had carved it out.

“I could say the same for you,” Lucien returns, “it’s unlike you to be without your shadow.”

The comment prompts two amber eyes to instinctively glance across the room, instantly seeking out the set that possess such an innate understanding it had utterly overwhelmed him at first.

Azriel is speaking with the High Lord, and General of the Night Court, shadows spooling freely about his wings, sprawled lazily over the broad width of his shoulders like a small but vicious feline, dressed in his usual black that’s accented by the lone ruby cuffs at the hem of his sleeves. The twinkling of the gemstones pushes his hand into action, passively raising as the pads of his fingers graze the silver and azure jewel hanging from the highest point of his elegantly arched ear, subconsciously playing with the subtle match.

“Yes, well, not all of us have the freedom of time at our fingertips,” Eris replies quietly, unable to entirely guard the note of resentment in his lowered voice. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d be jealous over someone else. Much less over your own mate’s happiness,” Lucien replies, matching the low tone. Amber eyes slice into the singular russet one, sharp, honed, and ready to draw blood. But Lucien stands his ground with that quiet resilience that’s been instilled in him since he was young.

Lucien’s own eye momentarily flicks over the male’s shoulder, and neatly groomed brows narrow almost imperceptibly, before glancing to where Lucien’s looking. Elain is sat on the sofa made to hold two bodies but is occupied by the three sisters, her eyes twinkling as laughter rises from between them, a look of nostalgia written across their features, utterly at home and relaxed in the presence of their family.

“I’m happy she can laugh,” Lucien murmurs, while Eris watches silently as the three continue to chatter, oblivious to their observers—maybe not as oblivious as he thinks though, knowing better than to underestimate. “I’m happy she is with her family.”

Eris’ throat tightens uncomfortably, slowly choking on the sickly warmth in the air, dry and raspy with heat and familiarity. The kind of comfort he doubt he’ll ever get the chance to see within his own court. Glancing back to his youngest brother, he catches the softness in his one russet eye, and understands he is truly happy for his mate.

“You’re a better male than I am,” Eris says quietly into his drink, eyes closing briefly under the pretence of taking in the richness of the wine, unable to stomach looking him in his eye.

“I grew up only having to protect myself,” Lucien replies, equally hushed, like speaking too loud might fracture whatever delicate thread is slowly beginning to sew the bridge back to its ropes, stitch by stitch. “You grew up having to protect all of us.”

Sharp amber eyes cut into honest russet, instinct calling for him to fall back onto bladed and honed words, but Lucien’s finishing off his drink. Walking past him, and laying his hand on Eris’s shoulder. “Enjoy the night.” And with that he’s blending seamlessly in with the chattering trio, welcomed with open faces and one particularly warm smile.

His throat rolling, Eris again glances across the room to where his mate is conversing with his…family. The word carries a sour taste in his mouth, foul and unpleasant as it slides down the back of his tongue. Eris’ eyes narrow as they lock with hazel, but the ice is quick to thaw beneath the soft look, the fondness that’s making its own rare appearance in the Spymaster’s normally guarded features, and softer still are the lips that curve almost imperceptibly.

Neither has to speak, and even without the bond between them Eris would understand the look. The invitation to join him in speaking with his…family.

To join in with the warmth and familiarity that’s thickening the air he’s struggling to even breathe in.

A dark brow raises, and his own narrow in response, at once showing displeasure at the tender challenge in his mate’s gaze, as if daring him to step forward.

Eris inclines his chin to the male, raising his head to slightly look down his nose at his mate as he accepts the invitation, managing to keep his legs from crumbling beneath him as he closes the distance between Azriel’s arm and his side, scarred fingers settling with warm familiarity over his ribs.

“I didn’t think you’d stand to stay this long,” Azriel murmurs beside his ear while the High Lord and General make polite discussion, offering the allusion of slight privacy.

Eris glances up into that swirling hazel, unable to help himself anymore.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” he murmurs, allowing quiet to lengthen between them, sharing the intimacy of silence. Dark eyes twinkle in the firelight, and Azriel leans forward, as if to press his lips to Eris’s brow, but is interrupted by a pointed cough coming from the General.

Eris makes no attempts to lessen the ire in the scathing glare he levels at Cassian for interrupting, but Azriel merely rolls his eyes, hand lightly squeezing Eris' waist, again conversing in that silent language they share. Later, together.

It’s enough to soothe him, for the moment.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 45)

“Sooo Hal, what exactly do I do here?” N asked nervously, twiddling his thumbs as they walked through the halls.

“I’ll be giving you a shortrange frequency that you’ll monitor, our office takes reports from concerned citizens, and Khan, Dale and I take the ones most suited for our respective teams.”

“Crime here is usually pretty tame, petty theft, b and e’s, vandalism. Occasionally we’ll get more serious calls, domestic violence, occasional homicide, though that’s gotten rare thankfully, or an odd “crime of passion”. Hal continued, N listening intently, he understood most of that, but “crime of passion” seemed to escape him.

“Crime of passion?”

“Couples getting too frisky and damaging one or both of them. Usually young ones who dunno what their doing. Most of the time they just dunno how to disconnect and panic, not too big a deal.”

Except N was still lost, he knew what all those words meant separately, but together they made little sense in his processors. He blinked. He wanted to ask what he meant by “disconnect” but at the same time it felt like a private question, not one he should be asking to his boss on his first day of work. Maybe he’d ask Uzi, or Thad, whichever was less embarrassing.

“How’s your daughter doing by the way? Khan mentioned she was having mobility problems when she was first transferred.” Hal asked turning yet another corner to go down yet another hallway, it always surprised him how large the bunker actually was, even if over half the rooms seemed to be empty. A pang of guilt entered his core, how many of these empty rooms were his fault? Or V’s?

“She’s fine now, she was just a little stiff, now she’s clinging to Uzi like a little monkey.” N gave a soft laugh thinking about his family at home, he always missed the both of them even if he wasn’t gone for very long, he supposed that just came with having a job though.

“Ah, yeah, sometimes that happens… when my son was printed into his toddler body we had to take him to the medical wing and they had to do surgery on his neck for him to start moving.”

“I didn’t know you had a son, I’m sorry, I’m sure that scared you both.”

Hal seemed to slow down for a moment, like he just caught himself doing something he shouldn’t before sighing.

“I did have a son. He’s… agh, nevermind that, we’re here.”

He banged his fist on the steel door, sending the grating noise through the hall, they waited for a few moments, only for nothing to reply back.

“She probably has her damn hearing aid turned off again.” Hal grumbled, before knocking as hard as he could, enough to send a vibration through the floor that N could feel through his feet.

“I heard you the first time! Go away!” A croaky, static filled voice called back, sounding irate and just a little bit scared. Hal rolled his eyes.

“It’s Hal, Mrs. Hopkins, you called us in to check out a break in.” Hal put on a very practiced customer service smile, N felt a minuscule shiver go up his spine, being reminded slightly of J, before it dissipated, here, it actually made sense for someone to have that kind of forced smile, and it wasn’t being used exclusively to make him uncomfortable.

The door opened quickly, the drone responsible being so old her casing had started to yellow, her eyelights were white, behind a thick pair of glasses. And she leaned on a cane, she shook with just the effort it took to stand and she adjusted her glasses as she looked at them.

“Good morning Mrs. Hopkins, what seems to be the problem today?” The way Hal asked the question alluded to his multitude of visits, she didn’t immediately answer, instead looking up at N squinting.

“You’re a tall one. Are you new?” She asked, prodding him in the stomach with her cane, he grunted, still trying to keep his polite smile even as he glanced over at Hal for assistance.

“She can’t see very well” He whispered up into N’s audio receptors, covering his mouth with his hand. “Probably a good thing, don’t give yourself away.”

N nodded and smiled again, extending his hand to shake the old woman’s hand, having to crouch down slightly to do so as she was hunched over her cane. She took it, her casing was freezing and felt like sandpaper, N made a internal note to not live this long.

“Hello Mrs. Hopkins, I’m N, it’s nice to meet you ma’am.” He said, and the ancient drone looked at him again, before her face grew into a kindly smile.

“How polite! And such a handsome young man. I hope Hal here doesn’t ruin you.”

The man in question’s eye twitched, before the moment was gone and he cleared his throat, clearly wanting to be done with this as soon as possible.

“You called us in for a break in?”

“Hmm? Oh yes! I was woken up last night by some footsteps. Above me! Someone was clearly trying to steal my fortune!”

N looked around her apartment, the couch was antique, plush and covered in so many blankets and throw pillows that it was hard to see the color of the actual seating underneath, the coffee table was decorated with a lattice of lace, making using it as an actual coffee table near impossible. The same could be said for most the the apartment, nothing here screamed “valuable”.

“Right, okay.” Hal replied, tense but still playing nice, N decided to help him out, he may have been tired of dealing with this lady, but N wanted to make a good impression, to both his superior and this lady.

“Where did you hear the footsteps Mrs. Hopkins? I could go and check for any signs of forced entry.”

“In my bedroom of course, how else would I hear it?” She answered, and N nodded, turning to Hal who seemed to be asking what he was doing, N gave him a smile before leaning over to whisper at him.

“Even if nothing happened, she believes something did, let me just check out her bedroom and the vents, then we can tell her that nothing was there.”

Hal nodded, seemingly agreeing with this plan, he sighed, before adjusting his posture.

“Well we take every report seriously, may we investigate?”

“Be my guest, and if you find the little hoodlum, tell them to get lost!”

Both officers made their way to the bedroom, which at first glance, had nothing amiss. Aside from the abundance of rather creepy porcelain dolls, all staring at them from various angles, N felt unease, and also the need to voice it.

“Whyyyyyy….” He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for Hal to hear it and he snorted in response, giving him an amused smile.

“I’d be paranoid too with all these eyes on me while I slept.” Hal whispered back, sighing and scanning the room, running his hand over one of the only clear spaces on the large wardrobe that held the vast majority of the dolls.

“Seems clear to me, any difference on your end son?”

N scanned the room in both infrared and thermal, but neither showed anything out of the ordinary, but even still his eyes locked to large vent in the corner of the ceiling, he didn’t know why something felt off with it, but it was giving him some weird vibes.

“Lemme check the ventilation, she did say she heard it above her.”

Hal nodded, looked into the doorway to ensure Mrs. Hopkins hadn’t entered the room and have a thumbs up to N, who let loose his wings and zipped up the shaft after carefully removing the grate in his way.

He had always hated climbing through the vents, not only was it dusty and he’d have to spend an hour cleaning out his olfactory and audio receptors later, but it was a tight squeeze, even without his wings, his shoulders scraped the sides of the ventilation shaft uncomfortably.

It was almost impossible for a normal drone to get up in here unless they had a ladder or also had the ability to fly, so he doubted he’d find anything accept a colony of robo-roaches.

When he got further in however, that feeling of unease watched over him again, like something or someone was aware of his presence and he was disturbing them, but rationality still won out, the chances of somebody being in these vents were astronomically low.

Then, the vent opened up a little, allowing him to crouch instead of crawl, to his left was a slowly rotating fan, his front the vents continued forward, but to his right, there was indeed something out of the ordinary. Caught on one of the seams of the welded metal was a ripped piece of red cloth, stained with multiple layers of oil, the freshest layer though, smelled of iron, and seemed to create a glaze of crimson on top of the multiple layers of dried oil. Blood.

He plucked it from its resting place, dread mixing in with confusion, the oil made some sense, maybe whoever had been here had been injured and using this scrap as a bandage, but the blood made less sense. The only time he’d seen blood recently was when that weird fleshy thing under Doll’s bed bled when he poked it, well, and Uzi’s… head… injury.

He looked back down at the red strip, before he remembered what Doll usually wore, that red cheerleading outfit.

His dread grew, becoming a cold weight around his core, Doll was here? In the bunker? Sneaking around the vents doing who knows what and clearly some type of organic based on this blood. What did he do? V was here, she wouldn’t be expecting Doll if she just dropped down from the ceiling one night and tried to off her. And what about Uzi? She was home alone most of the day, taking care of Tera. Oh Robo-God, Tera, she’d be completely defenseless if the Russian decided to come after her as well.

You must go home, your family is in danger!

He wanted to, his worry sinking it's claws deep into him, but he couldn't just leave, Hal was still waiting for him, and he was on the job.

Who cares? Their safety is more important!

The voice was loud and demanding, far more then it had ever been before, it caused ringing in his ears, but still he had to control himself.

Then he got an idea.

He simply called his girlfriend, he was a phone. And even though his hands were shaking and the urge to go home was strong, the voice ceased, seemingly content with his choice.

“N? Why are you calling me through my system? Are you okay?” At the sound of her voice his worry lessened and his core soared, she was okay, Doll hadn't already come for them.

“I-I found a scrap of cloth in the vents. It's Doll's. S-she's somewhere in the vents, please warn V.”

There was silence on the other end, enough of it that he could hear his daughters light giggling through the other side.

“I fucking hate it here!”

Next ->

[moonsandmobilityaids]

The Flu Part 3

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You get the flu. But for someone with your immune system, the flu is never just the flu. Warnings: Flu Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The morning light seeps through the high windows of the hospital wing, illuminating dust particles that float lazily in the still air. It's quiet, a stark contrast to the usual bustle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. On any other day, you'd be out there with the rest of them, rushing to class or laughing in the Great Hall over breakfast. But today is different. Today, you lie immobile on a crisp white bed, your body heavy and unresponsive.

A dull throb pulses at your temples, matching the rhythm of your heart. Your skin burns hot against the cool sheets, while tremors run down your spine, leaving a trail of chills in their wake. You swallow hard, your throat raw and parched despite the glasses of water Madam Pomfrey insists you drink. The fever has its hold on you, refusing to let go, clinging with an intensity that tightens around you like a vice.

Madam Pomfrey hovers nearby, her face etched with concern as she consults another healer—a tall, stern-looking man who casts worried glances in your direction. Their voices blend into a low hum, words indistinguishable from the static buzz in your head. They speak about you, of that you're certain, but the meaning slips away before you can grasp it, lost amidst the fog clouding your mind.

Beside you, three figures sit huddled together—James, Sirius, and Remus. They've been there the whole time, taking turns keeping watch by your bedside. Their shoulders are tense, postures rigid, every so often casting anxious looks toward where you lie.

"Y/N...," James murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. It reaches you, distant and distorted, as if carried on the wind from miles away. "We need you to be okay."

Sirius' hand finds yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your palm. His touch is grounding, a beacon calling you back from the edge of consciousness.

"We're right here," he says, though his tone lacks its usual bravado, replaced instead with a quiet desperation. The reality of the situation hangs heavy in the air—the girl they care so deeply for reduced to this state, each breath drawing shallower than the last.

Remus watches, his knuckles white where they grip the armrest. It's not supposed to be like this—you're not supposed to be lying there, pale and motionless. He wants to do something, anything, but feels helpless in the face of your illness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, frustration mounting.

Madam Pomfrey moves with purpose, her steps echoing off the stone walls of the hospital wing. The stern-faced healer beside her follows closely, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. They've been at it since morning—concocting potions, casting spells—all in an attempt to break your fever, but nothing seems to work. Your body fights back, resistant to their efforts.

"Stay with us," James murmurs, his voice a soft mantra that circles the room, weaving through the silence that stretches between each agonising second. Sirius and Remus echo his sentiment, their own pleas adding to the symphony of worry that hangs heavy in the air.

Madam Pomfrey's hand hovers above your forehead, her touch light as she checks your temperature once more. Her expression hardens as she pulls away, confirming what they all fear—the fever hasn’t broken, and your condition is worsening.

She turns to the boys, her gaze meeting theirs with an unwavering intensity. "I need to speak with you three," she says, gesturing towards the far corner of the room. There’s a gravity to her tone that leaves no room for argument. With hesitant glances back at your still form, they rise from their seats, following her with heavy hearts.

Once out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Y/N's fever isn’t going down," she begins, ignoring the way her voice wavers. She clears her throat, pushing forward despite the knot tightening in her stomach. "And the infection... it's spreading."

Sirius' grip tightens around the edge of the chair he's leaning against, knuckles whitening under the strain. Beside him, James swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to process the information. Remus remains silent, eyes fixed on the ground, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

"The problem is Y/N's immune system," Madam Pomfrey continues, her words measured and precise—a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within each of them. "It's too weak to fight off this kind of infection."

This isn't the first time you have been in such a state, and they’ve seen you confined to the hospital wing before, pale and shaking, after another bout with your chronic illness. But never like this.

"I've done everything I can here," Madam Pomfrey admits, her voice barely a whisper now. "But given the severity of Y/N's condition and her weakened immune system..." She trails off, the weight of her next words hanging heavily in the air.

"There’s only one option left." She meets their gazes again, her own reflecting a mixture of determination and regret. "We have to transfer Y/N to St Mungo’s."

"You can't mean that," Sirius says, his voice rough with disbelief and simmering anger. He looks ready to argue, to insist there must be another way, but even he knows that Madam Pomfrey wouldn't suggest such a drastic measure unless it was absolutely necessary.

Remus is quieter, his jaw tight and hands clenched in his lap. He knew this was a possibility—had feared it, even—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it all too real, the words slicing through the thin veil of hope they've been clinging to.

All three boys turn to look at you, lying so still on the hospital bed. A mix of fear and helplessness flickers in their eyes as they take in your pale complexion, the dark circles under your closed lids—a stark contrast to the vibrant, lively girl they know and love.

"Y/N," James whispers, as if saying your name could somehow anchor you to them, keep you safe within the castle walls. But there's no response from your motionless form, only the steady rise and fall of your chest offering any reassurance.

"St Mungo's?" Your voice is barely a whisper, the words slipping past your dry lips with effort. The thought of leaving Hogwarts—your home away from home—sends a pang through your chest, sharper than any physical pain you've experienced.

"I know it's not ideal," Madam Pomfrey says gently, her hand still resting on your forehead. "But we're running out of options here at Hogwarts."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not of fear, but frustration. You want to protest, to say there must be another way, but deep down, you understand the severity of your condition. And despite the swirling emotions threatening to consume you, one fact remains painfully clear: staying at Hogwarts could mean letting this illness take an even greater hold over you.

"Okay," you manage, though the word feels heavy and tastes bitter on your tongue.

Madam Pomfrey gives a small nod of approval, relief briefly flashing across her face before she resumes her professional demeanor. "Rest now," she instructs. "We'll make sure everything is ready for the transfer."

You want to argue, to tell her you're not tired—that sleep won't help. But that would be a lie. Every inch of your body aches; exhaustion seeps into your bones, pulling you further under its spell. Fighting off the infection has left you drained and weak, each breath more laborious than the last.

James watches as Madam Pomfrey walks away, a hollow feeling settling in his stomach. He glances back at you, lying so still on the hospital bed, your face pale and drawn. Despite the distance between you, he can see the subtle tremble of your hands, the slight furrow in your brow—a testament to the battle raging within you.

Sirius stands rigid beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to ward off the chill creeping into the room—or perhaps the reality of your condition. His grey eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and confidence, are clouded with worry.

"This doesn't feel right," Sirius mutters, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of unease. "There has to be something else we can do."

"I'll arrange for the transfer within the hour," Madam Pomfrey declares, her tone leaving no room for argument. It's a sound you've grown accustomed to over the years—firm yet caring, always with your best interest at heart.

The next time you open your eyes, there's another figure standing by your bed—a healer from St Mungo's, dressed in lime green robes that seem too bright against the stark white of the hospital wing. They move with calm efficiency as they check your vitals and prepare you for transport.

You're barely conscious, hovering on the edge of awareness. The pain has dulled into something distant, but it lingers still, a constant reminder of the battle being fought within your body. Even so, you try to focus on the voices around you—the familiar cadence of James' worry, Sirius' attempts at levity, Remus' quiet strength.

"Y/N." The whisper comes from beside you, where James sits, his hand reaching out to grasp yours. His fingers are warm and slightly calloused from countless hours spent gripping a Quidditch broom handle. He doesn't say much else—what is there to say?—but his worried expression speaks volumes.

Across the room, Sirius paces, each step punctuating the silence like a metronome ticking away seconds. His brow furrows, lips pressed into a thin line as he runs a hand through his hair—an attempt, perhaps, to physically shake off the helplessness threatening to consume him. He stops mid-stride, glancing back at you, then quickly turns away again, unable to hide the concern etched onto his features.

Remus stands a little farther back, arms crossed tightly across his chest. His gaze never strays from you, watching every move the healer makes with a hawk-like intensity. If he's afraid, he hides it well behind the stoic mask he wears, but the tension radiating from him betrays his true feelings. This isn't how it's supposed to be—you're not supposed to be lying there, pale and weak while they stand helpless, waiting for news that could change everything.

"Stretcher," the healer commands, wand at the ready. A floating stretcher appears beside your bed, its surface shimmering slightly with protective charms. The boys watch as the healer carefully levitates you onto it, their eyes wide with apprehension.

"How long will she have to stay there?" James asks. His voice is steady, but his grip on the edge of your hospital bed betrays his worry.

"And can we visit her?" Sirius adds, arms crossed over his chest. He's trying to appear nonchalant, but the slight crease between his brows gives him away.

"What about treatments? What are they going to do exactly?" Remus questions, his tone quiet yet persistent.

The healer looks up from her task and takes a moment to address them. "It depends on how Y/N responds to the treatments our team provides," she explains patiently. "We'll be placing her in a specialised ward designed for those with compromised immune systems."

"Compromised—" James starts, but the word catches in his throat, leaving an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Yes," the healer continues without missing a beat, understanding the gravity behind his unfinished question. "Given Y/N's current condition, stronger potions will be used—ones that aren't readily available here at Hogwarts. We'll monitor her closely, adjust the dosage if needed..."

She trails off, returning her focus to securing you onto the stretcher. Her movements are deliberate, each one serving a purpose—to ensure your safe transfer, to maintain your stability, to offer a sliver of hope amidst the uncertainty.

"We'll take good care of her," the healer reassures them, though whether it's out of professional duty or genuine empathy, they can't tell. All they know is that you're being taken away, beyond the stone walls of Hogwarts, into the unknown.

Despite the assurance, the words hover like smoke, thick and suffocating. They cling to every corner, seeping into the cracks, offering little comfort against the chill that has settled deep within their bones. Can this stranger truly understand what you mean to them—their girlfriend, their confidante, the girl who fits so seamlessly into their lives?

“She will be okay, boys," Madam Pomfrey reassures them softly. "St Mungo’s has the best healers in our world. I'll keep you updated on her condition."

You feel James's hand tighten around yours again—a lifeline amidst the storm that threatens to consume your thoughts. His voice breaks through the fog of fear and pain, a beacon guiding you back from the edge.

"We're here, Y/N," he whispers, his breath warm against your cool skin. He lifts your hand up gently, pressing it to his lips. His eyes are full of worry as they meet yours, but he forces a smile onto his face—a shield against the despair that looms over all of you. "We won't leave until they take you away."

Beside him, Sirius stands tall and resolute. His usually playful features are drawn into a serious expression—one that speaks volumes about the gravity of the situation.

"See you soon, baby," he murmurs, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. Even now, with everything at stake, he manages to hold onto the hope that things will get better—that you will get better.

Remus is the last one to approach. Unlike the others, his goodbye isn't filled with empty promises or forced optimism—it's quiet and gentle, like the man himself.

"Just hang on a little longer, Y/N," he says, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. His touch is comforting, grounding, even though you can barely feel it through the numbness that has spread across your body. His eyes, a soft mix of concern and reassurance, never leave yours. "You have to fight this... for us."

[ms--lobotomy]

I wanna smoke with Angron so we can get high and he eats me out

This one's for you and @undeaddream. I can fix him, (puts a bong in his hands) (sorry this came out on 4/21, the edible was sensational though)

Summary: You smoke a bowl with Angron to try to get the nails to stop hurting him.

Word Count: 1865 (oops)

Content Warnings: drug use, sploinkin' (nsfw), this is my first time writing Angron so I tried, blood, more "good girl" talk because I go absolutely apeshit over it, what I assume is rough sex, female reader so sorry if one of my lovely requesters is not a girl, I can write another version where you smoke him out and it doesn't get wild (like this at least)

Image Credit: @squishyowl (doubly tagging you because you did want an Angron fic at some point. Teehee!)

There wasn't much outdoor space in the Imperial Palace. You were situated on a bench big enough for Primarch or human, on the terrace at the top of your client's wing. It was far overgrown and untrimmed, it was clear that not many visited this area. The single moon of the planet was out tonight, tinged slightly yellow. There was a slight breeze, and you closed your eyes as you felt it on your skin. You had a job to do, the largest one you've ever had at that, but it was nice to be outside tonight.

"You here?" you heard someone bark from behind you. You snapped your head around to see none other than your client, a man--no, demigod-- by the name of Angron. Steel implements extruded from his head, and he bore a pained expression. Scars adorned his face and neck; the rest of his body was obscured underneath brass armor. He was accompanied by a few of his sons, helmed men equipped with bloodstained armor.

"I'm here," you replied, shrinking back into your flesh. He was large, very large. You'd heard of his temper; if you were to mess up even once, you would likely be ripped in half.

No matter. You pulled out your equipment. You had a bottle of water, a funny-looking glass implement, a fancy little lighter with an imperial Aquila on it, and a grinder full of a green flower cultivated on ancient Terra. You were one of the only researchers on the planet that dealt with ancient botany. You were told sometimes that you were one of the best, but if you were to come into contact with Angron, you were clearly more disposable than the others had let on.

He stared at your materials, coming in closer. "What's that."

"Oh!" you exclaimed. "The glass thing is a bong, and--"

"What kind of name is that."

"It's..." you started, your face going warm. Oh no. "It's just what the ancient Terrans called it."

"Do you think it'll help?"

You paused, and looked up at him. His eyes were garnet red, and he stared with an intense expression. He fiddled with his gauntlets a little bit.

"I'm not sure, to be quite honest," you replied. "But it's safe, and trying it will at least not hurt. Unless..." you paused, looking at him. "On second thought, you might need to take bigger hits than me."

"...You're supposed to hit it?" he asked, looking at the glass tool. As he wound up to throw a punch, you put yourself between it and him.

"Not like that!" you exclaimed. "It's how you inhale the smoke. See, you're supposed to mash up the flowers, put them in the bowl and burn them while you inhale."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well... maybe," you said. "It's not going to hurt you to try, at least!"

"If you say so," he sighed, rubbing his temples as you prepared the first bowl. You ground up more of the bud. When it was finally shredded, you put it in the bowl. You felt his stare at your side, but you didn't know whether it was at you or your equipment.

"Here's how you do it," you said. "You put it up to your lips, and inhale..." your voice became muffled as you put it to your lips. You stroked the lighter a few times before a flame came out, lighting the shredded flower on fire. As you inhaled, you felt smoke filling your mouth. When you felt like you couldn't bear it anymore, you exhaled.

"And... exhale," you said, a substantial cloud of smoke leaving your lips.

"Just like that?" he asked.

"You may need to inhale for longer, but yeah," you said, handing off the bong. "Here. Take a hit while it's still burning."

He put his scarred lips to the mouthpiece and inhaled, far longer than you could. He exhaled, a cloud more befitting of a man of his statue escaping him. His furrowed brows raised, and he nodded a little bit.

"Can you light it up again?"

You lit the bowl up as he inhaled again. This time he held it in a little bit before he let it out. You'd debated on telling him whether holding it in would do anything, but he would probably be okay... okay as he could be, at least.

"I..." you started as the pungent cloud hit your face. "I think we need to put more in the bowl." You gestured to the bowl, which was beginning to deplete. You looked up at Angron, whose expression was starting to relax further. After you'd taken a hit, you passed it to him.

The next few hours became a blur. You'd passed the bong between the two of you, getting higher with each puff. At some point, he'd pulled you in next to him, putting a heavy arm around you while you were smoking. You leaned your head on him, the metal cool against your flesh. Soon, one of you put the bong down between you.

"Leave now," he barked at his sons. They immediately turned around and went through the door at the other end of the terrace.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, one of his hands running through your hair.

"Not great," he admitted, "but better."

You looked up at him. His sclera were reddened, but yours didn't feel much. Despite how high you were, you'd been smoking long enough that this wasn't an issue anymore. He was looking down at you with something you hadn't seen in him before. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on. You saw him lean down to your level and plant a kiss to your lips. You put a hand to his armor and leaned in as he added his tongue, barely fitting in your mouth. He was rough, unpracticed. After a while, he pulled away, grasping for your hands. His expression was still stern, but there was a reverence in his eyes that you hadn't seen before.

"My Lord?" you asked, shivering in your seat.

"Angron," he corrected you. Even his voice bore the scars of his previous life, something you've all but heard of. He got up and knelt in front of you, still towering over you. He then went in again, his large hands grabbing at the fabric of your shirt. You let out a pitiful moan as you lifted your arms, letting him take it off of you along with your bra.

He bit your bottom lip, and you let out a little cry, grabbing for his shoulders. He wasn't gentle, and you knew that it was going to leave a mark later. He pulled back. A little bit of blood fell out of your skin, and he smirked. He pushed your hands back with his, pushing them behind your head as he bit you lower and lower, sometimes drawing blood.

"Be careful," you cautioned as he stopped at your nipple. He swirled it in his mouth as he looked up at you, grinding it with his teeth, but thankfully he did not draw blood there. He did the same thing on your other side, and you cried out, your hands tightening around his armored ones.

He bit your on your stomach a few times before he tugged at your pants. He shifted a little bit, hitting the bong with his knee and knocking it over. You looked down there for a moment. It wasn't broken, praise the Emperor. You raised your hips, and he pulled them off roughly, ripping them in some areas along with your underwear. He leaned over to snarl in your ear, giving you goosebumps.

"Good girl," he said, prying your legs open. Moans led to shrieks as he began to feast, roughly rubbing your apex as he held you down by the waist. He explored you as you came on him for the first time, trembling under his touch.

"Nngh... Angron..." you moaned, grabbing at the sides of the bench. As you were working your way up to your second climax, he pulled away.

"I may need to pull off my armor for this one," he said, peeling his gauntlets off first. You watched as each piece came off, falling to the grass with a loud thud each time. He ripped off his bodysuit, leaving the tattered fabric on the dirt. He was just as scarred over the rest of his body, scars trailing along everywhere. As he knelt down in front of you again, you absentmindedly touched one of them rippling across his chest. He grabbed your wrist, and your heart stopped in your throat.

"I'm sorry--" you started before he led your hand along the scar.

"This one was from right after the nails," he said, an almost-grimace on his face. He trailed your hand to another one. "And this one was--"

"Are you sure you want to get into this?" you asked, your other hand shakily finding its way to his face. He leaned into it, not unlike a cat would, and closed his eyes.

"You may be right," he said, his hands finding their way onto your shoulders. His grip was tight and rough, even this was going to scar you. "Let's finish the job then." He had a smirk on his lips as he moved his hands to open your legs again. You whined as he rubbed himself against you, before finally slipping himself in.

He immediately went in as far as he could, eliciting a little scream from you. "A-Angron!" you exclaimed as he pulled himself out before ramming himself into you again. Your face scrunched up in pleasure, and you grasped for anything you could reach before your hands trailed towards his chest.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you off of the bench and onto his lap. He sat up as you straddled him, pushing you on and off of him. Your eyes rolled back in your skull and your face lay against him. He wasn't gentle, you knew that you were going to feel it the next day. You came on him a second time, shivering as he sped up with you. He started grunting as well, a deep, guttural noise.

Not long after he came in you as well, twitching inside of you. You felt each twitch as he filled you up. He remained in you, but there was a little bit of white liquid coming out of you. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing your head into his chest as he panted. You wrapped your arms around him as well, but you couldn't reach your way around him. He ran a hand through your hair as you spoke.

"Are you doing okay?" you asked, your voice small and tired.

"Please, let's do this again," he rumbled.

You had done your job somewhat, but you weren't going to tell your higher-ups that you had relations while on the job. In fact, you might lose your place if they found out. Sure, you had the backing of a Primarch, but your superiors might still have a problem.

You ran your hands along his back. "Of course."

[blue-cassowary]

Another "Glass Body, Steel Wings" fanart because I'm still not normal about this fic by @devinephoenix

I redrew Ichigo because the first one I did was uhhh not my best

Then showed the backside of his outfit because, why not?

Then another scene from the fic where they do the wild aerial waltz (I based the drawing on two fighting eagles because I still suck at fighting poses)

Part 1 :)

[johannestevans]

Powder and Feathers

Hey, do you like fucked up fallen angels?

Do you like even more fucked up fallen angels than the first fallen angel, who are transmasc manipulative French bastards who love to do both murder and assassination? In the mood for a dark romance, perhaps, where said angel fixates on just some guy and decides to bring him home and obsess over him forever? Do you like cats, also?

Do you like on and off toxic and supportive sibling relationships? Do you love complicated and completely hypocritical relationships with the Catholic Church? Do you love revolutionaries that tell lies?

Do you love cuckoldry and self esteem issues? Do you love when rape victims can't separate the sense of being seen as desirable from their sense of self? Do you love t r a u m a ?

Did you by any chance read Victor Hugo's Les Misérables and internalise way too much of it?

If the answer to any or all of the above is yes, I think you might really like my serial, Powder and Feathers, which is about all that shit and more, and you can read it online for free!

Rated E, M/M. WIP. It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short - thank God - but at least there's enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime. That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Read on Ao3 (free) / / Read on WorldAnvil (free) / / Read on Medium (paid)

First chapter here:

When the Great Fall happens, it happens all at once.

It does not feel like falling: instead, it is as if the very world comes up to meet it at speed, launched with impossible speed, and when its feet (feet! feet!) are struck from beneath by the awful ground, it screams. For the first time in its existence (for before now, it has never lived) the angel feels pain.

Many new experiences happen in one rush, in one singular moment: it fills lungs, which it never had before, and feels the cold air rush down a new throat to inflate them, feels it sting; it feels the desperate soak of the rain on its skin, trickling down its body and flattening the feathers of its wings; it screams, and it is chilled to find that the noise that comes forth is just that, just noise.

Corporeality cloaks its body in a new skin, made of flesh and bone and hair and blood, and it screams, and screams, and screams.

The rain comes down from the heavens in heavy, steel-grey sheets, buffeting its fresh skin, and it comes down so heavily and so hard that every drop stings. The new flesh is delicate, and the bruises ache as they bloom to the surface, staining the pale expanse: it is gasping, its two arms (two arms!) clutched about its naked chest (a chest, filled to the brim with treasures, two lungs, a heart, a heart!), and its two wings (blessed normality!) curve inward to shield it, even as it drops to its knees in the grass and the mud.

It is alone on the hillside, and it aches, for it has never been alone before: it has only ever been one amidst legions, one amidst an ordered unit, and here, in the grass, upon the earth, the loneliness takes its heart (a heart, though, really! what next? what next?) and cleaves it in two, pours salt into its veins, and its sobs are guttural and heaving, wrenched from its throat.

Time passes.

It has never experienced time before, time as a thing that moves, time as a river that washes over its shivering skin, and it has never experienced such cold as this, cold that eats beneath its flesh, burrows into its bones, the only bare semblance of warmth coming in the tears that eke out from beneath its eyelids, so hot on its cheeks it thinks it will burn, it will burn—

It does not burn.

Exhaustion overtakes it, and it falls still in the mud, the filth clinging sticky to its skin, forming as sludge in its feathers.

When the rain stops, and the sun rises, it does not stir.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

“Jean,” said a low voice, and Jean-Pierre stirred slightly, raising his head. His mouth was dry, and waking brought him once again to the sickening ebb and flow of the water beneath the damned vessel they were on. His sleep had been fitful, rolling over and over without any space to do so, and he’d barely been asleep for what seemed like a few heavy, black moments before he was being poked at. “Jean, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, sitting forward, and he felt Asmodeus’ hand cup his cheek as he tugged him forward, out of the awkward bunk Jean-Pierre had been crammed into. “Why did you wake me up?” He sounded tired and plaintive, he knew, but Asmodeus was not deterred: he met Jean-Pierre’s gaze and smiled. “I haven’t slept in—”

“We’re here,” Asmodeus said softly, and Jean-Pierre stumbled in his haste to get out of the bunk.

His clothes were rumpled and he was still in his shoes, falling over himself on unsteady feet, and as the ship rocked beneath their feet on the back of a small swell, he felt himself gag, and hid his mouth against the crook of his elbow.

“I have your case,” Asmodeus said. “Colm is already on deck.”

“He would be,” Jean-Pierre muttered, and Asmodeus clucked his tongue in disapproval, but still he smiled: he always smiled, did Jean-Pierre’s brother. Jean-Pierre thought at times that it was the coldest smile on Earth.

The journey from their cabin – a small recess upon the damnable ship where Jean-Pierre had spent the entirety of their journey from New York, staring into space and vomiting in turns – up to the ship’s upper deck was excruciating, and Jean-Pierre walked with a heavy haze of nausea wrapped around him like a cowl. His stomach was empty of anything but bile: therefore, it was only bile that he tipped down the side of the ship when he reached the deck’s side and vomited.

“Jean-Pierre,” said Asmodeus, but Colm was already behind him, and Jean-Pierre grunted as Colm put his arms around Jean-Pierre’s waist and tipped him over his shoulder, carrying him to the gangplank that led from the ship.

Perhaps he should have been embarrassed, but he wasn’t, not really: he fisted his hands in the fabric of Colm’s shirt and pressed his face against the hard flesh of his brother’s shoulder as Colm moved quickly with him. The nausea lingered even once they were settled on the safe, sturdy ground of the dock, and as they waited for Asmodeus to join them – Colm had swiftly bypassed a great queue of people, smiling and waving them down as he passed. They had been charmed by him. Traditionally, people were very charmed by Colm.

“Here,” Colm said softly, and pressed a bottle into Jean-Pierre’s hand, the plastic cool against his fingers and moist with condensation. Jean-Pierre drank from it heavily, half-collapsed as he was on top of Asmodeus’ antique chest, his knees up in line with his chin, and leaning into Colm’s side.

Colm was warm, heavy, solid, and Jean-Pierre leaned his sweated brow against the hard line of his waist without shame for the people that turned to glance at them as they passed on the dock. Asmodeus’ trunk was a huge thing, easily big enough for all three of them to sit on if they wanted to, but for now Jean-Pierre settled on it himself with Colm stood beside him, holding his own case – a leather case, vintage as Asmodeus’ own, though by decades instead of centuries.

They both seemed quite apart from Jean-Pierre’s own luggage, which was a cheap white plastic affair, and looked quite silly held in one of Asmodeus’ massive hands.

Asmodeus was tall, strapping, handsome: possessed of squared shoulders and a narrow waist, dark skin and finely-chiselled features, he rather resembled a model at the worst of times, but now, descending the gangplank from the ship in the Dublin sunshine, wearing a tight grey suit and a pink shirt open at the neck, he looked ever more so.

Jean-Pierre’s polypropylene suitcase could only detract so much.

“Feel better?” Colm asked softly.

“Mm,” Jean-Pierre hummed. “Just— hungry.”

“You’ve barely eaten in two weeks,” Colm murmured. “I’m not surprised you’re hungry. We’ll get something to eat before we go find the house.”

Jean-Pierre nodded his head, pressing his face into his hands, his elbows against his knees, and stayed like that as Asmodeus stepped toward them. No matter that he was on solid ground, he still felt very much like it was moving underneath him, and he wondered if the nausea would ever cease.

“Better?” asked Asmodeus, and he reached out to touch Jean-Pierre’s hair, touching it where it had come loose from its sweat-soaked bun. Jean-Pierre grunted a sound that was neither an affirmative or a negative, but took the elastic Asmodeus offered him, and reached up to tie it back. “You’re alright, Jean-Pierre. We’re here. No more sailing. Let’s go eat something.”

“I’ve no appetite,” Jean-Pierre mumbled.

“Here,” said Colm.

“Wait, no, don’t, you don’t have to—” Jean-Pierre exhaled a breath without meaning to as Colm brushed his knuckles against his cheek, and he felt the nausea, the unsteadiness, the desperate sickness, drain entirely from his body. With the next breath he took in, though still tired, he felt reenergised.

Colm looked quite pale.

“You needn’t have done that,” said Jean-Pierre. “I am no child, unable to withstand the weight of my own feeling.”

“You need to eat,” said Colm, green about his gills as he coughed against the back of his hand, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back the visible urge to vomit. “Let’s go.”

“There’s a taxi waiting for us,” said Asmodeus, smiling his cold smile, and Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but feel a desperate affection for both of his brothers as he stood to his feet, putting one arm on Colm’s shoulder and squeezing even while Asmodeus gestured toward him. “Take your luggage, will you? It doesn’t suit me.”

“I know,” Jean-Pierre murmured, smiling slightly despite himself, and he took the case Asmodeus pushed into his hands.

***

“What is it?”

“I found him out by the wheat field—”

“What is it?”

“He looked so… I couldn’t leave him, Maman, I couldn’t—"

The voices were heard through new ears, and the owner of them stayed very, very still, digesting the sound, the physicality, of all it now was. It could feel it: each sound exiting a throat, moving forth with a breath to fill its sails, and the sound expanding outward, stopping where it reached the dirt ground and the thickly padded hay, but bouncing where it hit the hard wood of the building wall. Sound: this was sound.

Sound, before now, had been but a theory, a concept: sound, now, was real.

Before now, a voice was a Voice, and such things as words came imparted heavy in the very mind, understanding instantaneous. Communication happened to other beings: angels Knew, for that was their purpose.

Now, it Knew nothing, and knew even less, and it heard the soft whimper that came from between its dry lips, hissing over its dry tongue. The sound was pathetic, lowly, and it tasted its shame, felt it ring within its body.

It lifts its head, feels the pain that suffuses its very form, and it exhales, staring forward.

“My God,” whispered the human before it, and it watched distantly as the human moved its hands, two fingers tracing a line from its forehead down to its chest, and then from shoulder to shoulder. What it meant, the angel could not possibly know, and it stared down at its own hand, which was caked with mud. The skin was red-raw beneath its blanket of muck, and the hand, as he regarded it, shivered.

“Come,” said the voice of the other one, which was lower, and it felt the touch against its cheek, and it cried out, keened. The touch was so warm, and more than that, it was the touch of life, a soul under that warm skin, a soul— “Oh, hey, hey,” the voice said, and it said it in the angel’s ear, for the angel was wrapped tight around its body, sobbing against the speaker’s chest.

“Jules—”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Jules said, and the angel desperately curled its wings around them, pressed its face closer to the breast of the one called Jules, but it was not the same: it was used to being in amongst the natural graces of a thousand angels, a hundred thousand, and this was but one human soul, just one. “He barely weighs anything,” he said, and when the angel felt the pang of sympathy, the new emotion all but knocked it down, its knees buckling. “Oh, hey,” Jules said, and his hands alighted firm on the angel’s waist, gripping it to keep it upright, draped as it was about his neck. “Alright, here…”

The angel didn’t let go as the human Jules gently pushed it backward, bringing it down to sit upon the hay again, and it heaved in gasps of air, feeling the instinct although the practice was new, and it looked, for the first time, at his face.

Jules was a human: a man, perhaps approaching thirty years of age. His cheeks were dusky and tanned with hard work in the sun, and his hair was long and messily cut, drawn back from his face, tied at his neck and put back behind his ears. His nose had been broken before, the angel thought: it had seen humans with crooked noses, like this one, but never from down here, beneath the firmament, only from Heaven.

It had never been to Earth before.

It reached up, touching Jules’ cheek with its palm, feeling the heat, feeling the regular flow of his blood in his veins, and it shuddered in an uncertain breath. Jules had deep brown eyes, and it could see in their depths concern, concern and sympathy, and curiosity… The emotions flooded over it like a wave, and it closed its own eyes, gripping tightly at Jules’ shoulder. Their bodies were flush together, and the angel could not stand to pull away, but it heard the noise of the other human, and it looked at her.

She was older, it thought. It saw in her face the same dusky skin, the same shape in the mouth, and it felt the similarity in her blood, and his blood. This was Jules’ mother…

It remembered the first of them, Eve, remembered her heavy with child, and holding the first of them against her breast…

It looked to Jules, and Jules smiled at it. It was a small smile, and it watched his lips curve up to form it.

It hesitated. It felt the face wrapped around it, felt it, and it forced its mouth to move, feeling the strange pull of unfamiliar muscles (muscles! muscles! it had never needed muscles before!), at its cheeks, at its lips…

Jules’ smile deepened, and his gaze came from the angel’s face to its wings, which are… They had feathers, now, and the wings sprouted from between its shoulder blades, expanding outward. It had never had feathers, or shoulders, before, never, it never… The feathers were a golden-brown, and Jules reached up, his fingers brushing against the soft down, and the angel gasped at the strange touch, the strange sensation.

“It could be dangerous,” the mother said. It could feel the anxiety radiating from her, and it leaned closer to the other, feeling his quiet confidence, his warmth. This emotion, this too was new: pleasure.

“I don’t think he is,” Jules said softly, fingers still brushing through the feathers, and the angel’s eyes fluttered closed, its face falling against the human’s breast once more, its nose pressed as tight as it could be against the rough wool of its vestments, its fingers gripping tightly at the fabric. “He’s just frightened, and scared. What happened?”

It didn’t respond, not until Jules’ fingers came away from its wing, and instead touched against its chin, pushing it up to look at him. It stared into Jules’ eyes, into his beseeching expression.

“Can you talk?” he asked quietly, not unkindly.

It had never talked before. It knew only the Word, knew instructions, had put forward messages, but it had never wrapped lips and teeth and a tongue about its speech, and made it audible. But the human Jules had asked it, and were it silent, that would be a lie, would it not? It could talk, it thought: it had a tongue, and lips, and a larynx, and a voice…

“Yes,” it said. The sound was soft and mellifluous, though slightly hoarse, and it made Jules smile again, wider this time. It liked that smile. It liked! Liked! “Fell,” it said. “Was…”

It trailed off.

To Fall was the great punishment: to Fall was to err, and be found judged.

“Did nothing,” it said, overtaken in its own perplexity.

Twin confusion radiated from Jules and the mother alike, and it closed its eyes, the emotion uncomfortable where it touched its consciousness.

“What are you?” Jules asked. His hand, once more, trailed through its feathers, pressing into the down this time, and it clung to him tightly, not daring to let go. His voice was full of wonder: so too was his heart, and the wonderment made it think of blessed creation. It kept its eyes closed, clutching all the harder at this human, at this man, at this soul. It felt such sorrow it could scarcely stand it, and it felt as if it weighed it down.

“Fallen,” it said again, its voice dull even to its own ears. “Fallen.”

"Oh," Jules said, as if he understood, although he could not, he mustn't: his hand curled in the angel's hair (hair? hair!), clutched at it, and drew it closer. He felt the angel's sorrow, it thought, and took such pity on it, such pity. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and the angel didn’t hear as he went on, talking to the woman, the mother, perhaps talking to the angel itself. It heard nothing but the slow beat of the heart beneath its ear, and without really meaning to, the tears a hot and sudden streak on its cheeks, it began to weep.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

“… a roast and a pint of milk,” said the waitress, who was named Rosetta, although she was wearing Sandra’s name badge ever since Sandra had gone to work in the med supply factory to keep guys from looking her up on Facebook, and set the plate and pint glass in front of Colm, who gave her a winning smile. She smiled back, even though she didn’t usually smile at men, didn’t really want to encourage them – she didn’t know why she felt like he was safe, why he was alright, but for some reason, she felt that he was.

Jean-Pierre reached up and rubbed carefully at the edge of his temple, trying to work away the threatening headache building there. Two weeks in a cruise ship’s cabin had left him isolated from people, who all felt their feelings so very loudly, so openly, and all at once, in a half-full restaurant in the early afternoon, it was overwhelming, now.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” Rosetta asked Jean-Pierre. “We do have other vegan options, if it’s that.”

Jean-Pierre looked at the rosiness in her cheeks, the set of her mouth, her wide eyes. He had evidently been looking at her for too long, because he felt the wave of uncertainty come from her, and then he heard Asmodeus say, as if through a wall of water, “He’s okay. Thank you, Miss.”

Rosetta nodded, walking back toward the till, and Jean-Pierre stared down at the fruit platter spread out in front of him on the table: melon, pineapple, strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, oranges, even a few pieces of starfruit.

“Do you think if I ask, they’ll have dragon fruit?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“We walked past twenty-two restaurants before we saw one with a fruit platter,” Asmodeus said mildly, taking a sip of his tea. “So I doubt it.”

Jean-Pierre picked up a piece of starfruit, putting it in his mouth and chewing, feeling the acid sweetness burst on his tongue, and although they both did their best to hide their relief, he could see some of the tension go out of Asmodeus’ shoulders, and see Colm’s clenched jaw relax.

“Vegan options,” Jean-Pierre said mildly.

“Dublin’s very cosmopolitan these days,” Colm murmured, giving him an easy smile, and Jean-Pierre smiled back before he focused himself on his food. The nausea had passed quickly, once Colm had taken it for himself, and he ate with gusto, albeit a gusto Jean-Pierre tried his best to tune out, as he did the slightly overpowering smell of the gravy.

Asmodeus had just ordered a salad, like he usually did when given the option, and Jean-Pierre watched him pick through for the cherry tomatoes, spearing them with his fork and dousing them in the vinaigrette before he ate them, one after the other, before he’d eat the rest.

Colm, on the other hand, ate from his plate in a clockwise motion, taking a morsel from each section as he went around it: a piece of beef, then some carrots, then broccoli, then potato, then Yorkshire pudding, then back to the beef… One could set a clock by the way Colm ate from his plate.

He felt the emotion swell in his chest, a deep and warm affection for the two men beside him. Colm said, in an idle tone, “We love you too, Jean.”

Jean-Pierre smiled, but his nose wrinkled as Colm picked up his pint glass and began swallowing down mouthful after mouthful of thick, white milk.

“I don’t know how you can do that,” Jean-Pierre muttered.

“We don’t all have your delicate constitution,” said Colm cheerfully.

Asmodeus reached out, plucking a grape from the side of Jean-Pierre’s platter.

“Hey!”

“It’s a sharing platter, Jean-Pierre,” rumbled Asmodeus, but as payment, he offered Jean-Pierre his fork, speared with the last of the cherry tomatoes, and Jean-Pierre laughed as he took it.

***

The angel shivered as Jules gently dragged the cloth over its skin, scrubbing at the flesh before he rinsed the cloth once more. The water was brown with muck by the time his work was complete, and he was swift about dragging the towel over its skin to dry it.

“Good that you didn’t get your feathers dirty,” he said quietly. The mother – Marguerite – had gone back inside, and they were alone inside a small hay barn. It could hear the sound of animals, now that it listened for them, and felt their signatures behind the wooden partition: two cows, each lain down to sleep for the night. “Are you in pain?”

“Do not know,” it said, because it was true.

Jules gave it a long, long look, and then he gently set the towel aside, reaching out and touching its feathers once more, absently, like he could scarcely stop himself. Immediately, it was forward again, in the human’s lap, its face buried in his neck, and it heard him sigh softly.

“Can you put these away?” he asked.

“Don’t understand,” it said.

“These,” Jules said, and his fingers carded through soft plumage on each side, making the angel sigh, its wings fluttering with quiet satisfaction. “Can you hide them?” It thought about this for some time. Hiding. Nothing hid, once upon a time: the animals of the world lived in harmony, and Eve and Adam hid nothing, for they had no shame.

So much had changed, since then, and yet for the angel, then and now were so recently just a matter of perspective, the direction in which one pointed one’s gaze.

Hide them.

It felt its wings, drawing them inward, folding against its back, and then, a little more. It was difficult to describe the sensation, precisely, but it felt them fold in tighter, inward, and then there was nothing, just a blank expanse of rain-bruised skin. Jules’ hands slid over the bare flesh, feeling the blades of its shoulders, the back of its neck, and it clutched all the tighter at him.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“No,” it said. “We don’t have names.”

“There are names,” Jules said slowly, cautiously. “Michael, Raphael, Gabriel…”

It was still. How to explain? Could it explain?

“Not…” It stopped. It had never been an individual before, and it felt as if it had been cleaved away from its natural place, strangely empty when it drew away from the human’s breast, and it did not want to draw away. “Not me,” it said. The very word felt like a blasphemy, but what more did blasphemy matter anymore?

It could not Fall a second time.

“You need one,” Jules said.

“Why?”

“Because everyone has a name.”

“Not… me.”

“You need to,” the human said, and he reached up, gently drawing his fingers through the angel’s hair. It leaned into the touch, its eyes fluttering closed once more, and it felt the thumb that gently played against its scalp, the warmth of hard-worked, calloused fingers, a scarred palm.

“Where… is this?” it asked.

“Outside Chartres,” the human said. “France. Did you fall from Heaven?”

It said nothing, but its fingers gripped, without its permission, tighter at the human’s blouse.

“What… year?” it asked. It knew how time worked, it thought. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, and days… into the rest. It knew them. But—

“1732,” Jules said. Once, it Knew. The dates coincided with events, and there were so many different calendars, so many different philosophies of time, but it used to know what events coincided with what dates, and yet its mind was but a blank expanse, so empty, cut off as it is from the body of knowledge of the Host. It Knew…

But it didn’t, anymore.

“You choose it,” it said.

“I can’t choose it,” Jules said, sounding almost scandalised, and it felt the shift in its face as its brow furrows of its own accord.

“Why not?”

“Because— Because it’s your name.” That stung. The your, in the singular, the dreadful singular, the individual: it was just one, now, instead of legion. How could this be natural, be normal, to be but one body, one mind, one… soul? A soul! What a dreadful thing to be cursed with!

“You name one another all the time,” it said tightly, wishing it could crawl into its own skin and be hidden there. “Heard about it. You give one another names, and assignations, and diminutives, even.”

Jules stared down at it, apparently struck dumb by this retort.  “But—”

“You say I need a name, but now you will not choose one. Make your decision one way or the other.” There is a moment’s pause, and then Jules let out a low, rich sound, breathless and quiet. It leaned back slightly to look at his face, at the smile dragging at his lips, at his teeth. It liked that sound: laughter, it was laughter. “You laugh at… me,” it said, feeling its lips twist into a frown.

“You’re stubborn as an ass,” Jules replied.

“Oh.”

“Jean,” he decided. “Or… No, Pierre. Or— I can’t choose. There are too many names, all of them too common!”

“Jean-Pierre,” it said.

“That’s too common.”

“You said needed a name.”

Jules sighed, and again, it felt that trickle of warm indulgence, of fondness, the emotion that played soft over its skin. It ached, it thought: it could feel the shift of bruises beneath the flesh, the blood seeping beneath the tender skin…

“As an ass,” he said again. “Alright, Jean-Pierre: that’s that. How old are you?”

It considered this question. “Debatable,” it said.

“How can it be debatable?”

“Humans debate,” it said.

Jules sighed, still smiling. “Yes, but they don’t debate age: age is a matter of facts, one way or the other. You are the age that you are.”

“Oh.”

“So, how old are you?”

“Unknown.”

Again, the laughter.

“How old do I… appear?” it asked.

“Late twenties,” Jules said, after a moment’s thought.

“Very well,” Jean-Pierre replied. “Then I am late twenties.”

“No,” Jules said. “You need to pick a year, and a date you were born.”

“Why?” it asked defeatedly, astonished by the petulance in its own voice. It had never felt like this before: quietly defiant and… annoyed. It was annoyed, irritated. There was a heaviness at its eyes, and even as it mused on the thought, it felt its mouth open unbidden, feels strange, thick air pass from its throat through its mouth. Immediately, it frowned in perplexity.

“That was a yawn,” Jules said.

“Am tired?”

“Yes, I expect so.”

“Oh.”

“Come,” Jules said, and Jean-Pierre disobeyed. Was this what disobedience felt like? It felt good. Perhaps it did deserve to Fall.

It lingered in the hay as Jules rose to his feet, and Jules frowned down at it, his eyebrows furrowing. It looked up at him, unmoving, its mouth set in a thin, loose line. “Fine,” Jules said, and then he bent, and lifted.

Jean-Pierre let out a noise of surprise as arms came beneath its legs and its back, lifting it with ease from the hay bale and taking it outside, into the stinging cold of the early morning air, still dark, still with moisture thick in it. The black night was beginning to give way to red on the horizon. It did not struggle, however, as Jules brought it under the low stoop and into another building that adjoined the first, a house – a cottage.

“Jules,” said Marguerite. “Wh— Oh.” She stared at Jean-Pierre for a long moment, her mouth fallen open, and it felt confusion, fear, uncertainty, and then a curious calm. It was as if it was all smoothed away in her mind, and it stared at her for a long moment, not entirely comprehending as she crossed her arms over her chest, and nodded toward the wooden slats to the edge of the room, where a dog, wiry and brown and thick with fur, tapped its tail against the sheepskin beneath it.

Jules carried the angel to the bed, putting it down there, and he reached for a blanket, throwing it over its body.

“No—” it protested as the human draws away, feeling the dreadful cold, the dreadful loneliness, of the cleaved-in-two feeling set into place again.

“Lie down,” Jules said, and he patted the wooden board beside the angel’s breast. The dog wriggled forward, curling against its side. It was not the same as Jules, but still, life burst beneath its skin, and Jean-Pierre came closer, wrapping one arm about the animal and pressing its nose against the back of its furry neck. It didn’t smell like Jules did, like sweat and hay and wheat. It smelled different: this was how dogs smelled. “This is Anicroche,” Jules said. “She’ll keep you warm.”

It held the dog, felt her tail wag against its calf beneath the blanket, felt her warmth, and it pressed its head against her fur, feeling its softness against his skin.

“Where are you going?” it asked miserably.

“To work,” Jules replied. “There is labour that needs completing.”

“For how long?”

“Would you know how long how long was, if I told you?”

It paused a moment. The hand touched its hair once more, and it sighed, not opening its eyes. “No,” it muttered.

“Soon,” Jules said, and stood to his feet. It felt him draw further away, heard him talk in hushed tones with Marguerite, felt the separation as the two souls exited the cottage, and went outside. The dog remained.

The dog’s heart beat faster than Jules’ had, and her mind was a flurry of short bursts of emotion: new thing, curious, love, warm, friend, food?, food want, new thing, warm, warm—

It sighed, and it felt the dog’s mind begin to slow as she wriggled close against its chest, seeking its warmth. The angel allowed it, and it felt the dog’s drowsiness, felt her mind drift and slow…

This was sleep.

***

JEAN-PIERRE

Jean-Pierre heard the click of the door as Colm stepped out from the café, and heard his growl of irritation. “Christ, Jean, how old are you?”

“As old as you are,” Jean-Pierre mumbled against Asmodeus’ neck. “To the day.”

“You’re seriously going to carry him the whole way?” Colm demanded.

“It doesn’t bother me,” said Asmodeus, his tone easy, smooth, and mild: Jean-Pierre’s legs were wrapped around his middle and his arms around his neck, and one of Asmodeus’ hand kept a steadying grip under Jean-Pierre’s thigh, keeping him in place as they walked along. “The house is scarce twenty minutes’ walk from here.”

“You spoil him,” snapped Colm.

“I spoil both of you,” was Asmodeus’ reply, and Jean-Pierre heard Colm’s sound of frustration, but did not feel the wave of it, because Asmodeus drowned it out.

Asmodeus was not like humans or other angels, nor like anyone else besides: he was a pit of lacking feeling, a great, black spot on what might be called the radar of Colm and Jean-Pierre’s empathies, and in this blackness, now, Jean-Pierre felt comfort beyond measure, for it drowned out the cacophony of the rest of the world.

Pressed against this nothingness, being as it was a void that Jean-Pierre called brother, and loved beyond measure, he slept.

Chapter Two on Ao3 (free)

Chapter Two on WorldAnvil (free)

Chapter Two on Medium (paid)

[hiddentrails7]

I gave the BG3 origin characters Pokémon teams and put way too much thought into it, so I thought I'd share my nerdish thoughts. Maybe I'll do non-origin characters at some point, but eh, we'll see.

Oh, and there's some spoilers for the character stories, so read at your own risk.

(Teams under the cut!)

Lae'zel

(I couldn't not use this gif, sorry girlie)

Kommo-o

"When it spots enemies, it threatens them by jingling the scales on its tail. Weak opponents will crack and flee in panic." (Pokémon Sun)

An intimidating, armored warrior, just like Lae! Its shiny also reminds me of her, haha.

Zangoose

"It has feuded with SEVIPER for many generations. Its sharp claws are its biggest weapons." (Pokémon Diamond & Pokémon Pearl)

Just like the Githyanki's fued with Mindflayers, it has a big issue with Seviper's mere existence. They also give the same attitude vibes.

Scizor

"SCIZOR has a body with the hardness of steel. It is not easily fazed by ordinary sorts of attacks. This POKéMON flaps its wings to regulate its body temperature." (Pokémon Ruby & Pokémon Sapphire)

They're both well-armored! It is,, also just her vibe.

Bisharp

This pitiless Pokémon commands a group of Pawniard to hound prey into immobility. It then moves in to finish the prey off." (Pokémon Black 2 & Pokémon White 2)

A hardened warrior, like the rest of the team. It not only plays into the fact that she likes to take charge, but I don't think she'd ever evolve it into Kingambit due to her whole awakening with Vlaakith and learning about the prince in the prism, lmao. She's content with Bisharp.

Falinks

"The six of them work together as one Pokémon. Teamwork is also their battle strategy, and they constantly change their formation as they fight." (Pokémon Shield)

The ultimate unit. She doesn't care if they're little guys, they're forces of nature! Not to be trifled with!

Charizard

"CHARIZARD flies around the sky in search of powerful opponents. It breathes fire of such great heat that it melts anything. However, it never turns its fiery breath on any opponent weaker than itself." (Pokémon Ruby & Pokémon Sapphire)

Even if she doesn't agree to become Vlaakith's chosen, she seems like the type to get a dragon herself just to spite Vlaakith.

☆

Shadowheart

(Oh my beloved Shart)

Umbreon

"When exposed to the moon's aura, the rings on its body glow faintly and it gains a mysterious power." (Pokémon Platinum)

It is so she coded. She worships the moon/darkness, no matter what path you go down with her, so Umbreon is perfect!

Absol

"Although it’s said to bring disaster, in actuality, this Pokémon possesses a calm disposition and warns people of any crises that loom." (Pokémon Moon)

Another dark, kind-of moon-esk vibe Pokémon. They also have similar haircuts!

Trevenant

"Trevenant is very kind to Pokémon living in the forest. It doesn't even care if these Pokémon take up residence in the greenery on its head." (Pokémon Violet)

A Pokémon I just think she'd like. I like to think it'd try to protect her from wolves in the forest, but when she came into contact with Sharr for the first time it was only a Phantump.

Hatterene

"This Pokémon can read the emotions of creatures over 30 miles away. The minute it senses hostility, it goes on the attack." (Pokémon Sword, G-Max form)

I think it's a really funny image. Shadowheart wouldn't mind watching with a wine glass in-hand as her Hatterene beats the shit out of someone that won't leave her alone. Its interaction potiental with Astarion is peak.

Mawile

"It chomps with its gaping mouth. Its huge jaws are actually steel horns that have been transformed." (Pokémon HeartGold & Pokémon SoulSilver)

Has her vibes. Good for both versions of her. Has her ponytail (kind of). Makes sense to me!

Zoroark

"Each has the ability to fool a large group of people simultaneously. They protect their lair with illusory scenery." (Pokémon White)

While kind of leaning toward Sharr, it works for Selune as well! Shadowheart is also naturally a Trickster Domain Cleric, so a Pokémon known for tricks is great!

☆

Astarion

(My personal favorite character. I love him. He's soggy.)

Hisuian Zoroark

"With its disheveled white fur, it looks like an embodiment of death. Heedless of its own safety, Zoroark attacks its nemeses with a bitter energy so intense, it lacerates Zoroark’s own body." (Pokémon Legends Arceus)

Its a very Astarion Pokémon. It not only has wonderful hair, just like him, the entry above sounds a bit too similar to the start of the Cazador fight... heh.

Gliscor

"It dances silently through the sky. When it approaches prey, it can land a critical hit in an instant." (Pokémon Black 2 & Pokémon White 2)

Of course, it's vampire coded, and it also just has Astarion's smug, rogueish vibes.

Thievul

"It secretly marks potential targets with a scent. By following the scent, it stalks its targets and steals from them when they least expect it." (Pokémon Sword)

Astarion is a fancy man! Former magistrate! Thievul fits the high-class vibe and, of course, the thief aesthetic.

Froslass

"A Pokémon inhabited by the soul of a woman who died bearing a grudge in the snowy mountains. Legends of Froslass placing deathly curses on misbehaving men send shivers down my spine." (Pokémon Legends Arceus)

I think it'd be funny, if this Pokémon saw Astarion and related. Like. It feels empathy for this poor mf and just kinda sticks around. It REALLY wants to kill Cazador, but doesn't for Astarion's sake. It's cute.

Crobat

"The transformation of its legs into wings made it better at flying, but more clumsy at walking." (Pokémon Platinum)

Ugh the thought of Astarion befriending a Zubat in Cazador's palace and getting it to evolve via friendship is so nice. Also another vampire-esk mon.

Liepard

"Their beautiful form comes from the muscles they have developed. They run silently in the night." (Pokémon Black 2 & Pokèmon White 2)

It's him. As a purple and yellow cat. What do you want me to say.

☆

Gale

(My favorite boot-eater)

Alakazam

"While it has strong psychic abilities and high intelligence, an ALAKAZAM's muscles are very weak. It uses psychic power to move its body." (Pokémon Emerald)

Okay, Mr. 45 Defense 135 Special Attack. The og wizard Pokémon. Of course Gale has one.

Meowscarada

"This Pokémon uses the reflective fur lining its cape to camouflage the stem of its flower, creating the illusion that the flower is floating." (Pokémon Scarlet)

While, yes, it's a Magician, not a Wizard, I still think it works. Gale has a sassier side, which I thoroughly enjoy, and it reminds me of Tara in a weird way.

Delphox

"Using psychic power, it generates a fiery vortex of 5,400 degrees Fahrenheit, incinerating foes swept into this whirl of flame." (Pokémon Y)

Literally a wizard. Gale would love a little Fennakin.

...also, uh, Fireball.

Ditto

"With its astonishing capacity for metamorphosis, it can get along with anything. It does not get along well with its fellow Ditto." (Pokémon Moon)

Gale loves his duplicates: no need for spell slots if you have a Ditto!

...unless he needs Ditto to speak, of course, but Ditto can probably write instead!

Meowstic (Male)

"When in danger, it raises its ears and releases enough psychic power to grind a 10-ton truck into dust."

Another lovely Psychic type! It's also cat-shaped so that's a bonus for Gale. Simply a little guy.

Chandelure

"This Pokémon haunts dilapidated mansions. It sways its arms to hypnotize opponents with the ominous dancing of its flames." (Pokémon Sword)

I wanted a magic item reference, and I think he'd think it's cool! There's quite a few myths surrounding it.

☆

Wyll

(My first romance. He has a special lil place in my heart.)

Gallade

"A master of courtesy and swordsmanship, it fights using extending swords on its elbows." (Pokémon Diamond & Pokémon Pearl)

THE BLADE OF FRONTIERS—

Aegislash

"Apparently, it can detect innate qualities of leadership. According to legend, whoever it recognizes is destined to become king." (Pokémon Y)

THE BLADE OF FRONTIERS PART 2—

Oh, and I also think he got his from his father.

Corviknight

"This Pokémon reigns supreme in the skies of the Galar region. The black luster of its steel body could drive terror into the heart of any foe." (Pokémon Sword)

Haha. Ravengard. Get it.

It's also another knight aesthetic. Yippee.

Sirfetch'd

"Only Farfetch'd that have survived many battles can attain this evolution. When this Pokémon's leek withers, it will retire from combat." (Pokémon Sword)

Oh, another knight! What do you know.

...Blade of Frontiers part 3.

Lucario

"Not only does it perceive auras, but it has also gained the power to control them. It employs them in battle." (Pokémon Sun)

It's very him coded. I also really like the jokes where people compare him to a puppy. Lucario is a bipedal puppy.

The thought of a younger Wyll with a Riolu also brings me joy.

Ceruledge

"The fiery blades on its arms burn fiercely with the lingering resentment of a sword wielder who fell before accomplishing their goal." (Pokémon Scarlet)

Ah, finally. The Warlock pact Pokémon. It really fits him after getting his pact, imo. I like to think Mizora didn't give him a chance to evolve it into Armarouge instead, which upset Wyll at first, but he gets attached to Ceruledge. It's still his, after all.

☆

Karlach

(My favorite female character! She brings me such joy)

Emboar

"It can throw a fire punch by setting its fists on fire with its fiery chin. It cares deeply about its friends." (Pokémon Black)

She'd love this fucker, especially as a Tepig! They're both bulky as shit and deserve the world.

Haxorus

"While usually kindhearted, it can be terrifying if angered. Tusks that can slice through steel beams are how Haxorus deals with its adversaries." (Pokémon Shield)

Haha big axe. Haxorus is just very Barbarian coded.

...Also Karlach with an Axew <3.

Tinkaton

"The hammer tops 220 pounds, yet it gets swung around easily by Tinkaton as it steals whatever it pleases and carries its plunder back home." (Pokémon Violet)

Another big-weapon Pokémon, but I think she'd also just think it's silly.

Imagine Wyll meeting her with this little menace, since he has a Corviknight.

(Yes, I might've done that on purpose)

Arcanine

"Arcanine is known for its high speed. It is said to be capable of running over 6,200 miles in a single day and night. The fire that blazes wildly within this Pokémon's body is its source of power." (Pokémon Omega Ruby & Pokémon Alpha Sapphire)

Loyal fire puppy. Essentially Karlach.

Bewear

"This Pokémon has the habit of hugging its companions. Many Trainers have left this world after their spines were squashed by its hug." (Pokémon Moon)

THEY CAN TAKE EACHOTHER'S BACKBREAKING HUGS. THEY DESERVE EACHOTHER.

I also just really had a fun time running Bear-Rage Barbarian Karlach.

Darmanitan

"Its internal fire burns at 2,500° F, making enough power that it can destroy a dump truck with one punch." (Pokémon Black)

A very Karlach mon, in my opinion. She appreciates how angry it can be. She is also quite angry.

[tiredspirals]

Passing from shadow territory to arcane was not an easy journey.

Nestled between the two god's domains was the land of plague. The Scarred Wasteland and it's pestulant heart that beats kn the middle was not a place for the weak, it's denizens reveling in strength gained through strife. Disease and death was celebrated, at least in the sense that it uplifted those who survived the trials Plaguebringer inflicted on the land.

On the bright side, the skies had a consistent weather. Dry and warm, with no storms to contend with.

On the downside, being skybound did not save you from the constant wars that further scarred the wasteland. Beast on beast, dragon on dragon, leaving the sanctuary of a clan meant placing yourself on the forefront of an all out war. It truly was survival of the fittest, where wings of monstrous beings could easily blot out the sky as they descended on you. Indeed, brigands hungry for resources and plague ridden avians were constant threats to skyfairing ships.

Stars Aligned was by no means a fragile ship. She was sturdy, perhaps ready for war in another life, outfitted with a hard metal shell and a steel cage around her air balloons. Wing shredder ballistas lined the sides, ready for use against those who dared enter a dog fight with her. The weakness, Though, is her heavy set made her slower than lighter ships and slower yet compared to rogue dragons. She must be prepared.

The Sanctum of the Outcasts was the only stop for weeks around, and was one Rataskorn was fond of. In her days running wild with mirror packs, she could remember nipping at the heels of it's defenders when she was a spry pup, and recalled it's location well. Most would discredit the mirror's intelligence, but her memory was unmatched: she stood on the balcony of the ship, excitedly pointing every which way as she recalled even the smallest details of her life in the abiding boneyard.

So much fighting. So much blood. Good times.

The great airship touched down not far from the Sanctum, finding no trouble for parking in the endless space that stretched around it. Rataskorn bounded off, the voices of her peers making their to-do lists sounding like distant static to her. Her mind was long set. She knows what she must do!

She must find a suitable gift of the wastes for her beloved mate! This is more important than life itself. Yes, Hraes loved her sparklies and shinies. Shadow dragons enjoyed trinkets and curios, like the strange black birds that pecked at bodies. Yes, just like them! Like a strange black bird…

With dreams of Hraes wearing raven's wings, the mirror sped off across the arid land, the faraway cry of someone telling her to wait falling on deaf ears. Merchants of the Bazaar beware: a bull was coming for your glass shops.

[rius-cave]

Okay this can be a quite triggering idea but it's been in my head for ages now so I got myself to write it down. It's about severe physical injuries and mutilation so yeah I think it's better to clarify that-

So basically it's another Sinner Adam stuff, if he was reborn in hell and sinners found out who he is they will immediately go after him there's no doubt. In he's weakened state they would have their revenge. So what if they actually catch him? And this is hell, so sinners don't play around.

What if one day Lucifer has to open his door to be met with Adam's sinner form? But that's not the creepy part - the unsettling thing is that the man doesn't speak. He just stares. Lucifer invites him in, he just sits down. He offers him a glass of water or anything, Adam doesn't accept. No matter what Lucifer says or asks, he doesn't speak at all. It starts to get creepy, but Lucifer doesn't know what's going on. His body is hidden under his usual robe, and sure, he looks quite worn and beaten, he looks traumatized.

But there's much more to that. Lucifer has to realize that Adam doesn't speak because he's physically unable to. The sinners muted him (I didn't really think through how but it's possible I'm sure and it's fiction anyways so... Just for the gore lol)

But not only that, they severely injured him, to the extent of cutting/tearing his wings off. Discovering that would be quite a shock to Lucifer - how was this guy even able to come to his place on two legs???

Then he would have to deal with him, take care of him, help him heal (I mean he could surely heal Adam, he's an extremely powerful entity but if we suppose that he can't just heal him like that, at least not completely, or that it takes a lot of energy so he can't just help in one go it becomes more deep lol.) Besides, it's up to our imagination of to what extent could Adam heal. I see it as he would be definitely able to get his voice back, but... His wings? I mean, if they were cut off with angelic steel they won't grow back right..?

Either way it would end up being hurt/comforf. Oh and Lucifer would have to deal with Adam's psychological trauma too. Maybe it's hurt/hurt. Nevermind.

Oooo yeah I've heard of stories where a sinner Adam is basically just... Tortured and tortured to death over and over again before even reaching the hotel. Sometimes it's a bit too grim even for me but I absolutely understand the narrative purpose of it. I do think being a bit beat up would do Adam some good gkslglslgd. I'm sorry baby boy, the character development demands it 😔

I'd actually be interested in something like that happening well AFTER Adam and Lucifer meet again though. Like, if it happened right after Adam falls, I don't think Lucifer would actually give much of a shit about him. For the comfort to actually happen and all that, they'd need to have already passed through the initial hurdle of, well, everything else lol