There were no mirrors in the Raven’s hovel, but after a few weeks confined to a rough pallet of straw he found his feet and allowed them to find a stream that he could drink from. He was weak and sore as a hatchling, and she had croaked that he looked like one, too, damp and raw and nervous. When he found the water he fell to his knees in the snow and drank as much as he could stand, although it was colder than water had any right to be. He was still thirsty, his throat burned and bruised from screaming, but he couldn’t make his hands work right and he was sure that if he leaned down again he would let the water drown him.
In the stillness of a sluggish place above a leaf-choked dam of stones, though, he did catch the first glimpse of his own face.
The familiar shape of his bones showed through the waxy skin of a man who hadn’t eaten properly in too long. Ash blond hair hung stringy around it, a far cry from the nimbus of gold that had always framed his features, and a hint of patchy stubble crept sullenly across his jaw. Green eyes burned like marsh-lights in deep sockets over smudges of exhaustion.
What he noticed, though, was a single silver tear-drop just below the left eye, shining brightly in the crisp winter light that threw the rest of his face into such sharp relief. He reached up and brushed shaky fingertips over the spot and he could feel it, like a bead fixed into his skin. It was tender to the touch, and the skin around it was raw and red. He leaned further forward to get a better look, and sucked a sharp breath in at the sight of his throat and chest, where a constellation of simlar marks were healing sluggishly.
The silver had been his halo, once. It had melted even as it sat in the air above his head, and congealed into perfect little pearls where it burned into his skin as he fell. His wings were gone as well, but he found he didn’t miss them much; the robes of office had been a burden more than anything. He was relieved to find the Name and the Light gone from his mind, leaving his thoughts private once more, but when he saw the silver in his skin, he thought he might understand the profound loss described by the Fallen who had gone before him.
nc1701 answered: walking by two guys fighting outside a convenience store
Bread, milk, a bag of sunflower seeds, and a half pound of bacon—her sole indulgence—and she would be on her way. The mark wasn’t arriving in Orlando for his financial summit for another day and a half, so she had plenty of time to scout out the locale. She shouldered the door of the bleach-scented Qwik-e-mart open with her bag of groceries, and found herself in the midst of some pointless argument.
A tall man was shouting something at a stockier companion who clutched an athletic bag to his chest. She frowned. They were no concern of hers. She tried to step around the tall man, but then he made a serious error—he chose that moment to lunge toward his friend, knocking into Jessamine instead. The milk carton burst when it hit the ground, and she could imagine the man’s head bursting the same way.
No matter how satisfying that might be, though, it would be an unnecessary expenditure of energy, and an extremely unhelpful source of attention. Instead, she glanced down at her dropped bag and then up at the tall man with narrowed eyes. He was about to shout something at her, she could see the way his vocal cords bunched in preparation, but then he saw her face and fell silent. His mouth and eyes both widened, just like some prey animal faced down by a wolf, and he stepped back with a stammered apology even though he towered over her slight shape.
He and his friend both found somewhere better to be.
Jason had innumerable safehouses hidden across the city, from tiny bolt-holes to proper living quarters, giving him a strategic network of hiding places from which to watch Batman and Robin work. Every now and then one would be compromised and he’d have to shut it down, but even so, not a single living soul knew that the Red Hood maintained a semi-permanent presence in Gotham. Everyone thought of him like autumn storms - violent, destructive, and seasonal. Soon now, he’d show them how wrong they were.
Red Hood is looking for a new sidekick, and Batman’s latest Robin wants to spread his wings. The only thing keeping the two apart is a minor difference in ideology…
Six bullets in the strip club, five of them in flesh—it couldn’t have been Jimmy Piccolo’s first time shooting a gun, but he’d never been arrested on assault or murder. There hadn’t been time to examine them closely, but most crooks with guns kept at least a magazine of eight. Two bullets left. Possibly a second gun, if he was smart, or fewer rounds, if he was stupid, but it was best to assume at least two more bullets.
Silas didn’t always have time for him. He was a busy man, after all; the faun was the most expensive and still one of the most popular whores in Elysium. He saw as many as three clients in a day, though he liked to take a few days off each week as well, and even when he wasn’t about the House’s business he had his own affairs to look after. Valko wasn’t quite sure what those affairs were, since they didn’t pertain to him and had never been a topic worth discussing, but there were regular phone and video conferences with various creatures whom he condescendingly referred to as ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ and weekly updates from a strange, pale young man that appeared to be some kind of personal assistant. Sometimes one or more of these associates would appear in person and take up his whole day, doors locked tight and Valko left to entertain himself elsewhere.
He didn’t mope or whine about it. It wasn’t his business, and Silas wasn’t his property or his master. He had his own customers, just a few each week, and he still retreated to the wine cellar sometimes for a nap, or to spend the night if it had become clear that the door wouldn’t be opened again until morning. He didn’t need Silas’s validation on a daily basis to survive. He was his own creature with his own goals, after all, even if many of them had become suspiciously well tied to the faun.
Most nights, though, he was welcomed back into Silas’s suite for his lessons or just to enjoy a meal, or to play. They exhausted one another, always testing and pushing, and the pleasure and the pain were exquisite. Silas might keep him tied to a wall for hours, or keep him in a collar and a muzzle and let him lounge around like a proper pet, or fuck him until he saw stars and begged for relief. They were well-matched in both temperament and ability, and more often than not they collapsed to sleep in a single tangle of elegant limbs on Silas’s broad bed—he’d even allowed Valko to spread his reindeer skins across the foot of it. You might almost mistake it for a relationship, despite their strict and shared refusal to allow any terms of endearment or commitment to enter into it.
If they woke up in the night, sometimes, and found each other in the dark, no one else needed to know about the way they held one another as though the whole world was wrapped up in their bodies.
Valko was nocturnal by nature, and the primal lust Silas brought out in him had dragged him back to his earliest habits even after years spent adhering to the strict cycle of day and night in the ‘civilized’ world. He stirred at the slightest movement, and faced with nothing but the dark and the quiet and the stillness they reached out in a language more meaningful than words. He laid claim to Silas with lips and tongue and sharp, moon-bright eyeteeth, and in turn the faun tangled his clever hands in the short, thick hair he’d insisted Valko let grow enough that he could grab it. He rutted against Silas and growled against his skin as he pushed a finger and then two inside him, and he learned how to make him gasp and groan at a touch. He held Silas tight to his chest as he fucked him, panting and whimpering with need. He watched the faun’s eyes, dark and drugged with pleasure, and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks as they writhed, chest to chest, and when they both came he had to bite back the urge to howl with wild, adoring joy.
They always nodded off eventually, once more tangled, but this time a little closer together. In the morning, their sweat-dampened bodies and the stained sheets would be washed without remark.
Tan was unaware of the drama unfolding around his father and his father’s long-time lover. The tanuki preferred to keep out of supernatural matters entirely, except for those that pertained to some of the more exotic recipes on his menu. Sure, he’d keep cases of smuggled dragon eels in the shop basement and had a pair of thick fire-proof gloves on hand for wrangling ember cows, but he wanted nothing to do with the petty grievances that occurred between immortal species. He was nearly impossible to offend and forgave easily, and his only enemies were rival restauranteurs who still found him a pretty likable guy.
Business was brisk as usual and the tanuki had no complaints, save for the fact that he’d been too busy lately to brave the dating pool. He’d just implemented his summer menu, and with his patronage increasing every week he was kept hopping with intricate menus and difficult-to-find ingredients. He kept a very small staff, preferring to work with only those he knew he could trust. As such, he had just one Fox on staff, and he was a tame one and just a lad yet.
It was this little Fox who stood by the door during closing time to see the few remaining patrons out and take a few last-minute reservations and pre-orders for the next day. He was almost all white from head to toe, having come from fur-fox stock, but smatterings of gray on his tail, arms, ears, and the brush of gray freckles across the bridge of his nose betrayed his tameness. No one quite knew where tame Foxes had come from, and neither did the Foxes themselves, but it didn’t much seem to matter. They were a generally agreeable lot, lacking the rapscallion nature of their older, wilder kin, and this youngster was no exception.
Even when we’re not hanging out on tumblr, the Fox and the Nightingale is there for you!
This is the first bit of what should be an extended foray into Rom’s favorite kink. There will be lots of D/s and suitporn and blowjobs and buttsex.
Wolfie owns Rom, and I’m responsible for Kyu and Silas.
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The suits, Kyu explained to Silas over coffee, were an important part of the illusion. They couldn’t simply look expensive. They had to be expensive, high-end, tailored, and entirely disposable. Kyu and Silas had to look and act like men who could afford to treat several thousand dollars worth of clothing as nothing more important or valuable than a condom.
That they were two such men did not diminish the importance of the illusion.
On the afternoon of Rom’s birthday, Kyu left his lover a very specific set of instructions, and then took Bianca to her sleepover appointment, promising he’d see him later that evening. He’d passed on the instructions several hours in advance of when Rom would actually need to begin preparing himself, a decision he’d calculated down to the minute. Rom had just enough time to pass through simple excitement and into anxious, nervous arousal, simultaneously eager for and nervous of the night he’d planned with Kyu.
Rom didn’t know to frame it in the right terms, but by passing along the list Kyu had primed him, mentally, for submission. By the time the appropriate hour came around, Rom had already begun to drift into the appropriate headspace from anticipation alone. He didn’t even question the instructions as he dressed for the evening, donning form-fitting black leather pants over his bare ass and a fairly tight t-shirt that showed off his musculature handsomely. They were, he noticed, Kyu’s type of clothing, a little too fitted for his tastes, and though Rom rarely worried about such things, as he examined himself in the full-length closet mirror, he felt too obscene to leave the house.
Good morning, tumblr. Have the setup for some long and delicious OC porn. Also you should follow our OC writing blog.
It had taken remarkably little effort to track down the rogue doctor once Wily put his mind (and machines) to it. The Sniper units, led by his favorite commander, had dragged a frightened, pallid man into the building, and he was disturbed by how little triumph he felt at seeing Tom shivering on the sterile tile floor of his lab. He could bring the fire back, he knew he could; hadn’t he turned Tom’s own beloved Son on him, without so much as touching his circuits? He could make anyone into what he wanted.
He began much the same way he had with Protoman. He was gentle. Calm. Reasonable. Even sympathetic, once in a while. He explained quietly that Tom was unwell, that he needed help, and that he was there for him. He showed him how beautiful the city was, and put on his best sad smile as he said it was all for him, that he’d only wanted to make the world better like they’d always said.
The hallucinogenic horrors that pumped from the IV to Tom’s brain whenever Wily wasn’t there to soothe him didn’t hurt, either.
He sat at the table in his personal apartment across from Tom, smiling and chatting about the news from the city below as he cut his steak. Tom sat motionless, responding only when prompted, and even then his words and movements were slow and mechanical. Even his own robot had proven more emotive, once he’d been broken of his hate and turned in on himself to depend on Wily. The smile broke into a scowl and the man who turned the wheels stood up abruptly to pace to the windows like a caged lion. Tom didn’t move.
For once, Wily didn’t know what to do. He thought having Tom here, keeping him close, would be enough.
The more powerful supernatural creatures are equipped with quite possibly the most extensive array of protections in existence.
That’s not hyperbole. That’s just the truth. Immortals are probably the most paranoid beings there are; just because you can live forever doesn’t mean you’re going to, but without the absolute inevitability of death they have a hard time accepting the possibility. So they spend an enormous amount of time and money on avoiding it, trying to game the system that’s already been awfully generous.
They weave spells and glamours and tricks and objects that will protect them from other magics. They’re fireproof, immune to diseases or poisons, they absorb the energy of lightning strikes. The arm themselves against blades, against arrows, against needles filled with something nasty. They learn how not to breathe so they can’t be harmed by gases that choke. They learn to detect lies, to ferret out deceit in those they deign to spend their time with, proof against betrayal from within. It’s impressive, really, the lengths they go to in avoiding the spectre of death, because these immortals fear the unknown above all else.
The lock their hearts or their souls away in other places, secret them under the earth or behind locked doors or somewhere so seemingly insignificant no one would think to try it. They use emeralds and chicken eggs and chests and caves to hide away their truest essence, and kill all who helped them hide it so no one will know where it’s gone. They tear their bodies apart in search of secrets that will bring them back to the grave if all else fails.
They’ve lived for centuries, most of them, millennia even. They have perfected the art of hoarding their years. In doing so, most have been ruthless. They have made enemies. And those enemies hire me.
You’d be amazed by how few of these high and mighty immortals are prepared to deal with a .50 caliber hollow-point to the back of the skull.
Name: Zachary Harper (Zach), given name Bianca Marie Collins
Race/Species: Demon, formerly human
Age: Approximately 130
Affiliation: Seven Deadly Sins (Splinter group/underground rebellion bidding for control of Hell)
Build: Lean but not delicate
Coloration: Albino. Pale skin, white-blond hair, eyes are blue at the rims and peachy-pink near the pupil with a sunburst of gold. His horns are bone-white, and his veins show like a circuit board in blue through the skin.
Clothing Tendencies: Zach doesn’t give much of a shit about what he wears, but he does tend towards whites and light colors so that he can throw everything in the wash with a cup of bleach and call it clean. He mostly lets his girlfriend pick out his clothes, but when left on his own he defaults to white button-downs over t-shirts and the most comfortable jeans he can quickly lay hand to.
Genealogy Group: Group Four
Personality: At his best, he can be brisk, efficient, and a little sharper than he might mean to be with others. At his worst—a bit more common—he’s an intensely private young man with no patience at all for those even half a step behind his quick, often biting wit. He’s brilliant, but he doesn’t understand other people at all, and that means that while he has plenty of business contacts it’s very hard for him to make or keep friends.
Strengths: He has a very quick and logical mind, able to work out puzzles and understand machinery with startling efficiency. He’s also a superbly skilled hacker, ducking in and out of info networks with ease and taking what he wants without hesitation. His new manifestation as a demon of technology has allowed this affinity to flourish, and he can take control of unattended gadgets with nothing more than a little concentration.
Weaknesses: His OCD has never been bad enough to land him in an asylum or on the streets, but it sure does make him hard to deal with for the average person. He has a fierce eye for detail, just as fierce a wrath for disorganization, and has been known to refuse to do business with anyone who has proven to be disruptive to the order of his life. He is uncomfortable with crowds, but not to the point of total avoidance.
Personal History: Born Bianca, Zach grew up with Rom on the wealthy side of L.A. and made his living as a hacker despite having little formal education and living on his own from the age of 15. The pair of them puzzled through the ins and outs of faking identities and corporations to support themselves, and this highly private and very specialized lifestyle allowed Zach to live primarily, if not exclusively, on his own terms. He and Lu have been an item since their late teens, and though they did get to grow old together they found no rest after death—Lu was forcibly canonized as an angel, and Zach was later dragged unwillingly back to life as her opposite. He found his way out of Hell and back to earth by allying himself with the Seven Deadly Sins as Lust(Silas)’s personal assistant. He has little active involvement in their efforts, since the politics of Hell don’t matter to him as long as he can stay with Lu, but he maintains all of their gathered information and finances. As a childhood friend of Rom’s, though, he wouldn’t mind seeing Trecius brought down at the end of the day. He maintains more ties with angels and non-affiliated supernaturals than he does with demons, but he can’t entirely escape what he is.
Name: Romney Cooper (Rom), given name Daniel Sidney Hartman III
Race/Species: Angel, formerly human
Age: Approximately 130
Affiliation: Heaven (Patron Saint of Rockstars)
Coloration: Chestnut brown hair, warm grey eyes with flecks of gold, California tan. His wings are buff and red, like a nightingale, and his halo is gold, double-layer, wheel-style.
Tattoos/Scars: “Lion Heart” tattoo on his back, a red 5 on his left hip, Christ-style puncture scars through both hands, small white nick on lower lip. He also has two silver rings in his right earlobe.
Clothing Tendencies: “Garage glamorous”—he favors leather jackets, jeans, vintage t-shirt, and motorcycle boots. Everything should be clean and he generally looks well put-together, but once in a while the “hang out all day in a superman t-shirt and no pants” impulse wins out.
Genealogy Group: Group One
Personality: An idealist and do-gooder at heart, Rom tends to be laid back and a bit cocky. He takes his job seriously, but spends his free time having fun that might be frowned upon by the heavenly higher-ups. He’s easily provoked if you hit too close to home and he won’t back down from a fight, but at the end of the day this stubborn bastard is just trying to make the world a little shinier than it was yesterday.
Strengths: Rom’s a loyal friend and sticks to his guns—even when giving in would probably be the wiser course of action. Physically, he can take care of himself but he’s no bodybuilder. Is playing guitar and singing a strength?
Weaknesses: That single-minded loyalty comes at a cost, and it makes him a very stubborn person. He can also have a short fuse when his selection of hot-button topics are the objects of scorn or his loved ones are threatened, and that smart mouth gets him into trouble more than out of it. His biggest weakness, though, is that at heart he’s quite insecure; he thinks the best of everyone around him, but it’s very easy for him to doubt himself.
Personal History: Rom was born to a wealthy family, but grew up in a tense household and lived his teenage and adult life completely estranged from his father and the sole caretaker for his 12-years-younger sister, Elly. He was a rockstar in his mortal life, retiring from tours at 29 and taking up work as a music producer until his death at 76. He was canonized amid debate, as he had never been terribly holy, but it seems to have been the right call; few saints take such diligent care of their mortals as Rom, and he also makes it his business to keep supernatural havens in line. He was captured at one point by the Hellmuse Trecius, but his longtime lover Kyu helped get him out and in return he helped clear the Fox’s name before the Dominions of heaven. He lives primarily on earth, with Kyu and their young daughter Bianca on the California coast, and you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn’t get along with him. He was close friends growing up with Zach, Al, and Dallas, who was his bassist, and those bonds persist. In secret, he’s a bit of a dork; he loves his techno-toys and takes the occasional weekends off to hit up major comic conventions dressed as Nightwing.