SoS: The Mortal Coil

A blog for the ongoing development of the Hosted Game Son of Satan: The Mortal Coil. SoS:TMC follows the story of your archangel as you deal with the trial of tribulations of pretending to be a human detective, all while raising a boy who is a descendant of Satan. Make allies, enemies, find love or a new purpose as you choose your journey.

[sosthemortalcoil]

Dashingdon Retirement - Where Can I Play?

Hello everyone! Thank you for all the messages about dashingdon. I am aware, and if you want to play an "old" version of the game, you can access it here: https://dae-kalina.neocities.org/Son%20of%20Satan_%20The%20Mortal%20Coil The reboot I am planning to host on cogdemos.ink. Keep an eye peeled here for news on that front.

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Kiss It Better

Cinnerman, from the discord, requested a nsfw m!Gabriel and Michael

Michael crawled into your lap as soon as you started kissing him, as if his weight can hold you down, keep you here with him. It’s strange to feel the short hair beneath your fingers as you slide a hand over the top of his head to cup the back of his neck, a reminder that he’s changed.

You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.

“Gabriel,” he groans, fingers haphazardly dancing across your chest, as if unsure where he wants to touch first. “I want—I want all of you.”

You can feel that much pressing into your stomach. He keeps making short, aborted thrusts with his hips, as if trying to fight against the base urges coursing through him.

“I want you too,” you remind him. You catch one of his wayward hands and slide your fingers through his, squeezing his hand. It’s difficult to try and be the cool and collected one, but one of you needs to steer this encounter and Michael’s ‘references’ are a bunch of books written for horny teenagers.

They do nothing to help him cope with the feelings he, as far as you know, hasn’t explored with anyone. For him it’s always been you, or no one.

“Slow down,” you pant as he makes a noise of frustration. His neatly manicured nails tug at the collar of your t-shirt.

“I don’t like these clothes,” he whines.

“If you give me a second, they’re really quite easy to take off. Nothing like some of the older fashions. No stays, no hosiery, no doublets—”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Michael states petulantly, tugging, again, at your shirt collar. “I want it off now.”

Well, this shirt is already a lost cause, his insistence causing the fabric to strain and tear, leaving it loose and sagging. “Take your shirt off and I’ll get mine,” you offer, releasing his hand to grab the hem of your top and yank it off. The sound of small objects hitting the floor follows and you tense, glancing to see what you knocked over.

It’s the buttons from Michael’s shirt. He’d been too impatient to bother pulling it over his head or undoing them, opting for the quicker route of ripping it off.

“Okay, we can’t go about ruining all of our clothes,” you protest. Finding a comfortable shirt that fits well is harder than you’d expected. Sure, you can get it tailored, but finding the time for that with everything else—your son, your boyfriend, your work, trying to make sure you don’t give your cover away and invite a horde of demons upon the city—is another activity on your ever-growing list.

“You’re not going to need them,” he grunts, struggling with the button on the front of his pants. He gets it done and immediately goes to jerk down the zipper. “I didn’t even bother—ow!”

It takes a moment to realize what happened, and when you do, you have to look away to stop from making an inappropriate laugh. “I think—” You have to stop, clear your throat, and try again. “I think we need to get you some underclothes after this.”

Still beet-red, Michael manages to get his zipper down, wincing the entire way.

Expression mostly under control, you help him pull out the wounded member, power surging through your fingers, soothing the abrasions on his tender flesh. Once that’s done, you leave your hand there, stroking him tenderly. Michael’s mouth drops open and he groans, the red in his cheeks not abating the slightest.

“W-wait,” he stammers, fingers searching for your zipper. You stop his hands, squeezing them.

“You know humans have a thing they do,” you whisper, guiding his hands to your bare skin.

“Humans do lots of things,” Michael replies, though there’s less of a bite to his tone than usual. Probably because he’s distracted by tracing the contours of your chest, staring oddly at the strangeness of your belly-button before refocusing on your nipples, amused by the responsiveness of them.

“But I think this one will catch your interest.” You interrupt his wanderings, and Michael’s attention returns to your fly. Again, you stop him. “See,” you continue, ignoring his pouting, “When one of them gets hurt, someone close to them will offer to kiss it better.”

“So?” Frustrated, he tries to shove a hand inside the band of your pants but he doesn’t get far.

“So…” you reply, getting his attention by cupping his sac. “Wouldn’t you like me to kiss your boo-boo better?”

Michael blinks, slowly processing your offer. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started rolling the soft skin in your hand, enjoying the way he trembles at your touch.

“I—I’ve never heard of that as an effective healing method but one must test it to find out. So, we shall have to experiment,” he agrees, leaning into your hand, eyes fluttering closed and a blissful smile crossing his lips as you slide your fingers over the crown.

It takes a moment to roll him off of you and onto the couch, his whine at the lack of stimulation assuaged with a kiss on his lips. Then you kneel between his legs, smiling up at him. He bites his lower lip, hands fisting on his thighs as he watches you, almost bouncing in his spot.

“Someone is a little eager,” you murmur. You brush your thumb across the head before you lean down to kiss the tip, enjoying the sound of Michael sucking in a breath and then forgetting to exhale.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” you remind him, worried that he might just.

“I can’t promise that,” he squeaks. “I don’t—I’m not—how am I even supposed to think—” His voice rises and cuts off as your slide more of him past your lips, sucking on the head of him. “Oh, oh, Gabriel, I—”

Hastily you pull back, glancing up at Michael. His expression changes from rapture to confusion in a few languid blinks. “Wha—”

“I didn’t want your first time to be over so quickly,” you explain, resting your head on his leg.

“That’s—I wouldn’t—”

Raising one eyebrow, you brush the tip of your nail over the crown again. He shudders and gasps, lips moving but no words coming out.

“I want you to enjoy yourself, Michael. But I think you’ll get more out of it if we can make you last a little longer.”

“I have plenty of stamina,” he huffs churlishly.

You grin. “I look forward to seeing how much.”

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Who Wears the Crown

@justtobefrank requested a nsfw Alice x m!Gabriel. Alice gets her revenge(?) for Gabriel attempting to dethrone her as the Prank Master

“Oh please. Prank Master? Because you got one over on me?” Alice scoffs as she steps through her apartment door, flinging her currently bright green hair over her shoulder.

“I do believe the accepted protocol is that when someone defeats the reigning champion, regardless of the arena in which they fight, that the new victor becomes the champion,” you reply, following her into her apartment.

“You know, this is why it’s probably a good thing you don’t talk a whole lot around everyone else. You haven’t quite grasped the local vernacular.”

You shrug. As far as you’re aware, the Babylon matrix your shell is equipped with allows you converse like any human would. Then again, Alice isn’t just any human.

“One day I’m going to figure out what your deal is,” she threatens, ditching her jacket on the back of a chair. She leans over, giving you a generous view of how tight her pants cling to her rear, as she undoes her boots. Straightening up, she kicks them to a corner of the room.

“Stare much harder and you’ll owe me a new pair of pants,” she comments.

“I was not—”

“Oh, you weren’t?” She turns, arms folded across her chest, her lips curved in a smile that spells trouble of the best kind. You swallow, warmth kindling in your stomach. “Well why the hell not? It’s a damn fine ass, and I know you like it.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Butt is rather the point.” A juvenile joke, but Alice has no compunctions about being crass or juvenile.

“I thought the point was that you now have vengeance to plot.”

“Vengeance? For green hair? I should have seen it coming. I underestimated you. Bribing Stephanie is nearly impossible. It’s a feat that few can accomplish.” She stalks towards you, grabbing your tie and winding it around her fingers. The way she teases the silk, stroking and twisting it, rubbing it between her fingers ever so slowly, has you wetting your lips in anticipation.

“I would love to know how you pulled that off. It might even be worth something.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, grey eyes bright as if she shines with an inner light.

“Something?” you echo hopefully, eyes moving back to the dance of her fingers.

She chuckles, a low throaty sound, and moves away, stripping off her shirt as she goes and tossing it to the floor in the short hallway from her entry and kitchen to her bedroom. “I don’t know. It depends on the quality of your information.”

You trail after her, hesitating before scooping up her shirt and tossing it into the hamper. Alice sits with her legs crossed on the bed. You recognize the sheer black bra and know she’s wearing the matching underwear. Her ‘get-laid’ set, as she calls it.

“The quality of information is dependent upon the skills of the interrogator, is it not?” you ask, hovering before her. She reaches out and hooks a finger in your belt, dragging you to her.

“Oh, but I am a very skilled interrogator,” she says, sliding the belt off and staring up at you from beneath half-lidded eyes. “I can tell already you’re going to give me everything,” she emphasizes her point by dragging her nails over the zipper of your slacks, “that I want.”

You wait, breath bated, but she leans back, snapping the belt lightly in her hands, attention on the plain black leather and completely ignoring you.

After a few moments you plunge your hand into your pocket, pulling out your trump card. “The hair was only part of the play. As you often say, have multiple balls rolling.”

Alice’s eyes dart briefly to the keychain and away, unable to hide her interest. “Pick-pocketing Kain? You do like to be punished. He’s going to make your life miserable when he finds out it was you.”

“I did not pick-pocket him. He left it unattended to make some comments about your… roots.”

Alice raises an eyebrow. “So, I was a part of a larger plan? Getting better.”

She leans forward, slipping the buttons of your shirt out, the belt still loosely clasped in her hands. “But you were going to tell me how you bribed Stephanie.”

“I found a book she had a great interest in.” Not technically a lie, but not the full truth either.

Alice digs her short nails into the skin of your chest, hard enough to make you groan. “Spare no details. Stephanie has a great many books, and access to more than most people could ever read in a hundred lifetimes. What is so special about this one?”

“It was thought lost when the Library of Alexandria burned down,” you admit, cheeks flushing as her hands turn gentler, sliding your shirt off your shoulders. Her hands continuing their path down your arms, all the way to your wrists, tugging them forward, as if she’s going to permit you to touch her as a reward.

“A very rare book. I’d love to hear how you came by it,” she murmurs, kissing the inside of one wrist before binding your hands together with the belt. “Don’t tell me yet; I’m only getting warmed up. It’s not fun if you go giving up all your secrets so easily.”

She tugs your hands down, and you follow the motion of the gesture to your knees, sitting obediently on your heels.

“You know,” she whispers as she stands and leans over you, “if you want me to run you through your paces, you can just ask. I mean, lean and green is a look but you don’t have to try so hard. I don’t need an excuse to make you beg for me.”

Her pants slide down her hips and she steps out of them, striking a pose with a cocky smirk. “You are so easily riled up, you know that? Tie you up, put on some nice underwear, and you start raising a flag like you’re calling out an SOS.”

She lifts a foot and grinds the ball of it on the front of your pants. A debauched moan answers her action, your cheeks heating further as the friction sends sparks shooting up your spine. “I’ve got half a mind to make you come like this,” she admits.

To your mingled relief and dismay, she stops. “No fun in letting you get off so soon.” She settles on your legs, playing with the zipper of your pants. “I am supposed to be punishing you, aren’t I? You want me to take you over my knee and tell you what a bad boy you’ve been?”

Leaning forward, she scrapes her teeth over your earlobe. “I’m going to have my fun, Gabriel. But you need to grow up.”

With that, she stands, moving behind you. “If you stay there while I take care of myself in the shower, I’ll rethink my position,” she offers. “But only if you don’t have too much fun listening in. That would defeat the point of a true punishment.”

Something hits the top of your head, half-obscuring your vision. “Looks better on you!” she calls as she turns the water on. With a shake of your head, you watch the damp, lacy panties slide onto your lap and swallow thickly. Whatever plans she has will be well worth the wait.  

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Fool Me Once...

@ironicapathy requested a breakup/makeup with stoic!m!Gabriel and Aelius. Special appearance by Israfel.

Aelius should have known better than to trust an invitation from an angel, and an archangel no less. He shouldn’t have accepted it.

But he is weak. The contact from Israfel had filled him with such a surge of excitement that he couldn’t help himself. A masochist, Iro would tell him. He must be to enjoy inflicting more wounds on his broken heart.

The chance to hear something about Gabriel from a source so near to him was too much to resist, and so here he is, sitting and waiting in a bar. He wished the meeting had been at his place, or the Garden, but he could understand why an archangel wouldn’t want to frequent an establishment that was demon-owned.

He refused to visit the uptight atrocity run by the werewolf alpha either, though, and they couldn’t meet in the cop bar. So they’d found a dark water-front bar, with oversized round booths and so few patrons it is a wonder the place remains open. Though, if the occasional sounds he hears when a door opens somewhere are any indication, this place is a front for some sort of illegal gambling hall. Probably fae, if he had to guess. They love gambling and secrets, and you couldn’t throw a shoe without hitting one in this city.

The perspiration from the glass has formed a thick ring of water on the table, making it look like his glass floats on the surface. Israfel is late. He should leave.

The door opens and his head jerks up, giving away his anticipation. It’s not the tall archangel though, just a random human who looks already past his limits. Sighing, he slumps back against the booth.

Only to jerk upright as a familiar figure slides in.

“Hey.”

Aelius tries to get out of the booth, only to run into another figure. There’s the blasted archangel who had invited him here, blocking his escape.

“Please stay,” Israfel pleads, hands held upright in supplication. “I am sorry for the deception, but I feared if I told you of the truth you would not come.”

The angel is damned right he wouldn’t have come if he had been told the truth. Demons and angels didn’t belong together. They were natural enemies, oppositional forces. Dating one was a new level of foolishness, even for him.

It had imploded, like it had to. They were too different. Not that Gabriel seems to care. The man was never good with emotions, and Aelius had grown tired of the guessing game. It was a game he could never win, because even if he guessed right, he was reminded of how ephemeral this relationship had to be. The lifespan of a single mortal, if that. Once the boy was grown, once Gabriel had done his duty, he would go back to Heaven. Back to Heaven and back to killing Aelius’ kind.

“What do you want?” he demands. Israfel had never said to begin with, and because Aelius was a fool, he hadn’t asked.

“To talk,” Israfel explains. He doesn’t move from blocking the booth, so Aelius sighs and scoots further back from the edge.

“Well, I am here. Go ahead and say what you came to say.”

Israfel glances over to Gabriel, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of Aelius. He can feel the man’s gaze burning into the back of his head, and only petty satisfaction stops Aelius from staring right back at him. Let him look. Aelius will not grant him the satisfaction of peering back, of getting lost in those eyes he knows so well, of tracing those lips with his gaze in lieu of his fingers…

He catches himself before he turns further in the seat, staring steadfastly straight ahead, not looking at either archangel.

A small smile flits over his lips. What do you get when a demon walks into a bar with two archangels?

“The meeting was for you and Gabriel to meet,” Israfel explains. “A necessary deception if the two of you were to talk.”

Aelius is a demon. Deceptions are part of his daily routine.

“Job accomplished then,” he murmurs. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. He knows firsthand however that even angels are liars.

“Aelius.” The low rumble of his name sends heat washing through him. He closes his eyes tight, removing the temptation to look at him. His name said like that conjures memories of warm hands on him, holding him like he’s precious. Lips skimming across his neck, moving lower as Gabriel showed him that he knew Aelius intimately.

“What do you want?” he demands, voice barely audible. To cut open the jagged wound, to line it with salt and make sure that nothing would grow in his heart again? If so, Gabriel is doing a fantastic job of it, the dull edges of his words sawing through the remains of his defenses. He’d been the one to let the enemy in, to give him the keys to the gates.

Of course, it would be nearly impossible to remove him.

“You.”

A single word. Gabriel isn’t a verbose man, isn’t ready to pour his heart out to the demon like most humans. The man keeps everything close to his chest.

“Too bad. That’s off the table.” If only his words didn’t shake and tremble like he was some hellmutt coming face-to-face with the terrible light of an avenging archangel.

“Well, the only thing on the table is a drink that looks like you’ve abandoned it to a slow demise by evaporation.”

That startles a laugh out of him, today’s brown eyes opening. Fool. Embracing his own destruction. The pull is too strong, and he turns, meeting Gabriel’s gaze.

“What are you doing?” he whispers. The obstacles between them haven’t changed. Gabriel is still one of the heavy-hitters for an entity that sees demons as little more than cockroaches.

“Getting the love of my existence back,” Gabriel answers.

A sob leaves him, his hand pressed in a fist to his lips. Don’t say that. Do you like pain so much? Are you so determined to make both of us suffer?

But he’s always been weak. He’s always been susceptible to offers too good to pass up. It was how he got where he is now.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” he tells his angel, even as he slides into the man’s lap, grateful now for the size of the booth. Israfel clears his throat but he ignores the sound. “I’m still a demon, and you’re still an archangel, and I—”

He doesn’t finish, lips descending on his and interrupting his words. Aelius grips the side of Gabriel’s head in an unforgiving hold, nails making crescents along his temple, all gentleness discarded. The anger, the fear—he hasn’t let go of it yet.

“Take me home,” he hisses against those rough lips, tongue flicking over the indents he’d left with his teeth. “I’m not sharing you tonight.”

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Breakdown

@hushibe requested an unspecified Gabriel comforting a sad Michael

You can’t remember the last time you saw Michael sad.

Angry, yes. Disappointment is almost his default. Frustration you’ve glimpsed enough that it’s a wonder he had hair left from the way he would tug at his braid. At least with it gone he has fewer ways to torment himself, but you often see him reaching for it out of reflex.

However, you can’t recall him ever looking so small and sad.

It’s a mark of the state of disrepair your relationship has fallen into that you can’t fully trust what you see. Sure, the knees tucked to his chest, the wings curved forward, hiding most of him from view, are signs pointing to an angel in abject misery, but it’s like approaching a coiled serpent.

You don’t want to be bitten.  

“Michael?” You keep your voice low, approaching slowly from the front, hands held low and out to the side, trying to appear as minimal of a threat as possible

His head raises, and you’re surprised to see his eyes red and puffy.

“Gabriel,” he sniffs, and swipes a sleeve already dark with tears and snot across his cheeks.

“Here.” You pick up the box of tissues from the coffee table and offer it to him. He stares at the box, brow furrowing.

“It’s—here.” You pull out a tissue and crouch before him, using the corner to wipe away the lingering tears. “And then you can blow your nose into it.” Tissues are hardly a new invention, though they’ve evolved from handkerchiefs that you would wash. Maybe it’s strange to him because he’s never had the need for them before. If you’re too busy being angry, then you never have to worry about crying, you suppose.

He takes it, frowning as he rubs it between his fingers. Then he blows his nose noisily and you look away, feeling rather uncomfortable with the whole situation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You look back at him, and the last of your wariness fades. “Come here,” you murmur, giving up and sitting on the floor. Michael slowly drops one leg down, toes stretched out as they search blindly for the floor. The second his foot makes contact, he launches himself into you, sending your back into the hard coffee table.

“Hey, it’ll…” Be okay? You don’t even know what it is. Or why he’s seeking comfort from you.

No. That part you do know, but it’s an uncomfortable truth you aren’t sure you’re ready to acknowledge. Once, you knew how to be close to Michael. Once, the two of you were close. It’s not impossible to grasp that dream again.

“I’m here, now,” you offer softly as he buries his face against your neck, hands fisting in your shirt. A broken sob leaves him and he burrows painfully closer, bony joints digging into soft spots as he makes a valiant attempt to crawl inside your skin. Incoherent babbles spill out between body-shaking cries, but what you can make out a single, disjointed sentence: you’re still here.

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: While You Were Away, The Boys Did Play

@grimaugur requested a warmup with Ramiel and Michael while they were waiting. Non-specific Gabriel, very nsfw.

Ramiel strips off his shirt, groaning in relief as he pulls his wings into this plane.

Michael scowls at him, arms folding across his chest. “Do you have to pull those out?” he complains, deliberately not looking at the soot-like color of the Fallen’s wings. His eyes can’t help but dart to them, though, glimmers of something illuminating the darkness of them.

“No,” Ramiel responds, raising his eyebrows as he hooks his thumbs into his waistband before shoving his pants down. “But I’m going to.”

Michael squawks and turns his back on Ramiel. “Gabriel isn’t even here!” he complains, his cheeks red. A warm laugh washes over him, and he bristles, knowing it’s at his expense.

“I can see that.”

“Then why are you getting undressed already?”

A hand touches his shoulder, and Michael wishes he’d pulled out his wings if only so he could smack Ramiel in the face with them.

“There are more than two people in this relationship, Michael,” Ramiel reminds him. “And you’ve done a great deal more than see me naked.”

“I’m not here for you,” Michael hisses, whirling. “What would I want with a Fallen,” he shoves Ramiel in the chest, advancing on him, “who abandoned his siblings for a fling, who was never there when he was needed, who thinks that he can Fall and yet everything will be just fine and dandy!”

Ramiel has no more room to retreat, his knees hitting the back of the bed. For once, Michael can’t read Ramiel’s expression, those whiskey colored eyes giving away nothing. Michael hates how they look, and with one more shove, sends Ramiel backwards onto the bed.

“I know what I’ve done,” he rumbles, reaching for Michael and tugging him down on top of him. Michael catches himself, hovering over Ramiel. He’s keenly aware of the Fallen’s body beneath his own, warm and firm. “And you know love isn’t the only reason people have sex.”  

Michael swallows, the words for the next retort fleeing as Ramiel begins to unbutton his shirt. “But I want it to be,” he mumbles as he has to sit up to let Ramiel tug the shirt off of him. It goes onto the floor.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ramiel asks, one side of his mouth sliding

It should be an easy answer. There’s only one right response.

But instead, Michael’s head hangs, his chin touching his chest. “Why are you making me do this?” he asks.

“I’m not making you do anything, Mymy.” That’s not Ramiel’s nickname to use. It should upset him that he would borrow it so easily but instead it makes him reach for Ramiel’s hand, bringing it to the button of his jeans. He hates these modern clothes.

“We’re both in love with Gabriel. This isn’t—”

“It’s not cheating to get started without them,” Ramiel replies, soothing him. “No more than when you two have fun without me, or Gabriel and I without you.”

“When did—” Michael stops himself. Ramiel has a point.

“Besides, you know what Gabriel really likes?” Ramiel pops the button of his jeans, and slowly tugs the zipper down. Michael makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine as Ramiel drags a finger over the front of his pants. “Gabriel loves seeing their lovers getting along. It’s not enjoyable to be in love with people who hate each other.”

“I don’t hate you,” Michael protests.

“I know.”

Michael gasps as Ramiel kisses his throat, teeth scraping across his skin. He pushes his hips forward, demanding that the hand lingering on his boxers do something to address the problem Ramiel is responsible for.

“You hate yourself,” Ramiel continues, and Michael tries to pull away, to deny it, but he’s suddenly being flipped under Ramiel. The Fallen’s wings unfurl, and he stares up in awe at the constellations swirling in the black feathers. When had Ramiel’s wings gotten to be so… so pretty?

“You hate that you enjoy something you think you shouldn’t. You hate that you don’t hate me, because I’m a Fallen. The enemy. You hate that you always felt like an outsider in our nest, that Israfel and I never cared for you as much as Gabriel did, that you felt like an interloper.”

Michael wants to tell Ramiel off, wants to tell him how wrong he is but he can’t. He can’t because he’s grabbed Ramiel’s long locks and pulled the infuriating Fallen to him, crashing their lips together in something too harsh and disjointed to be called a proper kiss. Their teeth clack together and he tastes iron as someone’s lip gets cut, turning the kiss bitter.

Yet it’s perfect.

Ramiel gentles the kiss, and it must be Michael’s lip that’s cut as the Fallen pulls the lower one between his teeth, sucking on it, tongue swiping repeatedly across the tender flesh. Michael’s fingers dig into Ramiel’s shoulders, holding him close, desperately clinging to the Fallen.

He’s tired. Tired of expending all his energy doing the ‘right’ thing. And Ramiel is right. Gabriel does positively glow with happiness when they see Michael and Ramiel getting along. This is just an extension of that.

“Ramiel.” He sighs the Fallen’s name as Ramiel pulls back, hair falling in a dark curtain around his face. Now his eyes seem golden, glittering like the stars he swears he’d glimpsed in the darkness of his wings.

“I’m… I’m trying,” he explains, and it’s not enough but he doesn’t know how to let go of this.

“I know you are, Mymy.” One large hand cups his face, thumb stroking his cheek. It’s oddly comforting, and Michael can’t process that right now. Instead he turns his head, catching Ramiel’s thumb with his teeth and sucking on it, meeting the Fallen’s gaze as he swirls his tongue over the pad.

“Is that how you want to play?” Ramiel’s voice is lower, and Michael shivers. Yes. It’s easier if he lets Ramiel do the work, if he surrenders to the sensations and shuts out his thoughts.

Somehow his jeans are kicked off, with the boxer-briefs following. He bites his lower lip and gasps, forgetting how tender it is right now.

“Let’s give that lip a break, hmm?” Ramiel swipes a thumb over it, and Michael can tell he wants to help but that’s something he’s not quite ready to feel.

“Can you—” His voice is hoarse, and he can’t finish the question.

Maybe Ramiel understands, because he moves, letting Michael sit-up. The Fallen moves to the head of the bed, and pats the top of his thighs.

Michael looks askance at Ramiel’s arousal, lips pursed tightly. “Really? That got you turned on? A kiss? No wonder—”

“Michael.” There’s an edge of warning there, and he shuts up. Right. Getting along.

He crawls on top of Ramiel’s thighs, heart pounding. “Do you want me to—” His question is cut off as Ramiel pulls them flush together, lengths touching.

“That’s a good angel,” Ramiel says with a smirk. Michael scowls, but the expression melts into a blissful moan as Ramiel slides a slick hand over their cocks. He hadn’t even seen him grab the lube.

“You can—you can touch it more like—”

“Show me.”

Michael reaches down, hesitating before covering Ramiel’s hand with his, showing the Fallen how he likes to be touched. Their heads are bent together, watching as their hands move in tandem, and it’s a strange thing. He feels like he should look at Ramiel but it’s easier to not watch, to focus on the glide of their hands over soft flesh and—

“Well.”

Michael jumps, eyes flashing fully open, almost falling off of Ramiel’s lap as he scrambles to turn around. Ramiel rights him, but doesn’t let him go, one arm wrapped around his waist.

“Care to watch the show?” the Fallen asks.

Gabriel leans against the doorway. “Love to.”

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Feed On Me

Elyyle on discord requested a nsfw healer Gabriel with a wounded Aelius for his BLM donation prompt.

The blood burns as it hits your skin, hissing and evaporating like steam, leaving behind pockmarks of wrongness.

“Stop it.”

Aelius bats away your hands, but the attempt is feeble, like the bite of a newborn baby human: toothless. There’s no vigor, no energy in his motions. The pallor of his skin is unhealthy for a human and even though he’s a demon, this much blood can’t be good.

“Gabriel, I said stop!”

He shoves your hands away again, and you lift your head to give him a look full of fear. “I can fix this,” you say, but it’s a reflex. You don’t believe it. He’s a demon. None of your training, none of your existence has taught you how to help demons.

His eyes have gone a milky white. Like a corpse, you think, as he brushes a dark curl away from his face. There’s an ethereal edge to his normal beauty, sleek and dangerous, a reminder that no matter what face he wears, he’s a predator, a hunter, a creature that feeds on others to survive.

“Not like this you can’t.” For all the blood drenching him, Aelius’ voice doesn’t waver. There’s no fear, no terror in his words. No hands reaching desperately for you, trying to pull power from you in a desperate bid to survive. “If you try to heal me with your Grace, you’ll finish what they started.”

You recoil, hands jerking away. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind; you know better than to use Grace around your boyfriend. Still, the idea that you might, that you could so easily cause harm where you seek to help, haunts you.

The sense of foreboding grows. His blood wouldn’t sting against your skin if you were using the shell correctly. It would drip down, leaving trails of black ichor, but it would not hurt.

You could have killed him. One moment of inattentiveness, one careless, desperate moment and you would have fallen back on old habits. You would have filled your hands with light and burned him to nothing.

Edging away in horror, you almost fall off the edge of the tub, but he’s fast, grabbing onto your arms and dragging you back violently to him, sending you crashing against his chest.

“No, Aelius, I can’t—I almost—”

“You didn’t.” He speaks with a careful, measured tone, like he doesn’t feel the pain at all. “It’s pointless to torture yourself over something that didn’t and won’t happen. Believe me. It’s the easiest trick in the book.” A weary smile drags half of his full mouth up before it crashes back down in a grimace. Pain draws harsh lines on his face, his brows pinching together, his disconcerting eyes hidden as he leans on you, gasping.

“Aelius,” you whisper, voice breaking. You’re supposed to be a healer. You are an archangel, a powerful being who can make the earth tremble at your feet but you can’t fix your heart as he bleeds in front of you.

Aelius isn’t a human, though. He’s not a mortal any more. He’s a demon.

“How—how do I fix this? Souls? Do I—can I raid a hell or—or do you need fresh ones or—” Each idea sounds more reprehensible to your own ears but you don’t care. You’d known dating a demon was a terrible idea, that it only worked because you were pretending to be something you’re not.

“Calm down.” Hands slide over yours, and warmth chases away the cold threatening to smother you. You stare at his eyes, but they’re not the cool white of before. They’re soft and gentle, inviting you to lose yourself in them.

“How are you using your powers on me?” you ask. “No—why? You need to help yourself, Aelius. I—I can’t.”

“My silly angel,” he whispers, his smile beatific. “I am helping myself. Or did you forget one of the tried and true ways an incubus can feed?” He draws your hands to his chest, placing them over his perfectly smooth skin. You frown. There had been wounds, terrible gashes. Something flickers at the edge of your vision and you narrow your eyes—

“Gabriel.” His voice is smooth, warm, enveloping you in its familiar embrace.

“This is how you help. This is how you heal me.”

His lips are closer than you remember them being, barely an inch from your own. With a smile, you close the distance and kiss him, groaning as he slips his tongue into your mouth. A lap full of demon is a very nice way to cope with… whatever had been bothering you before.

Feeding. He’s feeding on you.

There’s a brief flash of anger, hot and roiling, and instinctively you reach for the power to smite this impudent wretch who would dare—

Aelius pulls away with a wince, licking his lower lip. You’d split it with your teeth, without meaning too.

“Hey, I… I need you to not fight it. To trust me,” he says, blinking at you slowly and reaching up to run a hand through shadow. They coalesce into loose coils of hair but you’re not so sure anymore what’s real and what’s not. Or, rather, what’s on this plane of existence and what lies hidden beneath.

“I do trust you.”

“Good.” He leans back down and you lick apologetically at the swollen lip, but you taste no blood. “Sorry. It’s… easier to feed. Like this.” Now his voice is high, nervous, the pauses indicative of his reluctance to show you his true nature. Aelius plays at being a human, and well, but not tonight.

“Don’t be sorry.” Your words are clear, full of conviction. The haze obscuring your thoughts is easy enough to wade through once you know what to look for, but you don’t fight it. You welcome it with open arms.

“Take what you need, love.” This time it’s your turn to smile. “This has to be my favorite way of healing.”

“Only me,” Aelius adds quickly, settling on your lap. “You only get to heal me like this.”

“Only you,” you agree with a small smile. He can be terribly petty and possessive about the most ridiculous of things.

And then there’s no more talking as his mouth slides over yours again, drinking deep. You’re short of breath when he pulls away to kiss the side of your neck, unnaturally so. As healthy as you are, one kiss shouldn’t leave you panting. You don’t dwell on that thought for long though as his hand slides down, palming you through your clothes.

“Not wasting any time, are you?” you ask with a breathy laugh.

“You’re not going to last long,” Aelius murmurs before he sucks a mark against your collarbone. You don’t remember taking your clothes off but he’s suddenly touching bare skin, stroking you to full attention.

“Hey now, I am perfectly capable of lasting,” you protest.

“I know. But I need a lot of energy. Don’t worry: it’ll still be mind-blowing. You just might not recall the grand finale.”

Your demon leaves more hickeys scattered across your skin as you roll your hips eagerly into his hands, your noises of pleasure getting louder as his strokes become faster.

“Wait, Aelius, what about—”

Your question is interrupted by another fierce, draining kiss. “Your pleasure is mine,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly harsh tug to your length. You think you reply, but you’re not certain as he demonstrates that some demons have more than earned the reputation for their skills.

And then you come. Your back arches, your hands scrabbling for your lover, trying to cling to him as you find yourself untethered, lost in pleasure, pulled down into a warm haze. You’re not sure if you remember being carried to bed, or if you constructed the memory later upon waking up, wrapped around a whole and healed Aelius.

Of course, then you’d found you’d been asleep for almost a week.

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Ethereal Music

@thindol requested a Zaria fic for their BLM donation featuring Zaria’s powers. Not specified Gabriel x Zaria

You lounge across the couch—white, the only person you know who has white couches, another one of the underpinnings of her wealth—watching as Zaria sits down at her harp. She looks to you, studying your languid repose with a sharp eye.

Getting her to agree to this had been a trial. But you want to hear her, the actual her, not the human veneer she puts on. She’d warned you of the effects, and you’d accepted the risks. You’re not a mortal after all.

The first step isn’t entirely pleasant, a sort of dislocation of your energy within your shell. It’s not enough to slip outside of the fleshy protection of your skin, but it’s enough to let you passively access more of your Grace, enough to hopefully protect you from the mind-altering effects of her voice.

Long fingers dance across the thin wires, and at first you don’t hear anything, but you can feel it, resonating along the edges of your Grace. Closing your eyes, you lean into the sensation, and slowly the sound swells in your ears as you adjust your auditory receptors to hear the appropriate frequencies.

It takes a touch more of your power than you probably should be using, but surely the low-level power you’re giving off will go unnoticed. If it isn’t, well, you’ll have your evening interrupted by either an extremely irate guardian angel overseer, or some other uninvited guest.

Her strumming is loose, the sounds beautiful but not forming any sort of coherent piece. Opening your eyes, you can see the tight line of her mouth, the only sign of her nervousness. She’s good at closing herself down, at hiding her thoughts and feelings behind an impassive mask. Society has taught her to hide herself away, to be practiced, perfect in every interaction. More-so because a single lapse, a moment of anger could easily have major repercussions. Sauti ya hila weren’t a populous race, and few resided in this plane, but there’s a reason humans fear sirens.

“You won’t hurt me.”

Her eyes flash to yours, wide with surprise that she can hear you. You’d pitched your voice to the same range as the harp string, startling her.

“Suggestion is… a powerful tool. We are meant to… prey on those who hear us.” She’d told you about how she’d fought with her mother to spend time on earth, to live and work here. How her mother had considered it perfect for honing her hunting practices.

How she’d muzzled herself, how she’d swallowed her words as much as possible. Stay quiet, work hard. But she spoke in other ways, with her body, with the way she dressed, with the written word.

“Oh, am I your prey now? Kinky.”

She snorts, one side of her mouth twitching up in an unbidden smile. It’s not as good as her full-blown smile where the white of her teeth flashes against her dark skin, her whole face lighting up with joy, but it’s a start.

This time when she caresses music from her harp, the sound has purpose, sliding into a soft, deep lullaby. After a few stanzas she begins to sing, an ethereal, haunting sounds that bypasses every safeguard you’d put in place. The sound builds, swells within your chest and though the lyrics are nothing you understand, no tongue spoken by the native inhabitants of earth, you know what the words say.

Your eyes fall obediently closed as her power washes over you. You can’t fight it; there’s nothing tangible to push back against. Who doesn’t want to close their eyes for a bit? Let your worries drift away to be replaced with the echoing chords. You find yourself humming along, impossibly, to this song you’ve never heard before, a smile curving your lips.

The urge to tell her how exquisite her playing is passes, replaced by a knowledge that it’s better to sit quietly lest you disrupt a single note of this masterpiece. That would be a trespass not easily forgiven, since she’s deigned to give you a personal recital.

Somewhere in the deep, infinite recesses of your soul something stirs, a warning, a discordant cry that clashes horribly with the peaceful waves of sound washing over you. But like an undertow, before you can surface you’re pulled deeper, drowning in the song.

A hand shakes your shoulder and you stir, brow furrowed as you stare up into a pair of anxious violet eyes. Amethyst, some might say, but not the cloudy version you see most often. No, this is like the deep purple of a geode cracked open, pried from the depths of the earth but glowing within.

Her hand points at you and then her thumb moves in a circle, and though you’re fluent by this point it still takes a moment to process her question.

“Yeah,” you croak while nodding, your voice dry like you’ve been out for hours. In fact, you feel like you’ve rested for days, though you have no recollection of falling asleep. Her shoulders sag and her eyes close, the tension bleeding from her features and leaving them slack.

Reaching for her, you cup her cheek, waiting until her eyes open again. Love you, you mouth, refusing to let go of her face and your other arm too weak with lingering drowsiness to move.

She sighs, shaking her head.

“That was a dangerous request,” she signs, her eyes narrowing to convey her displeasure.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sitting upright and signing back.

Her lips purse and you know she disagrees with that statement. It’s why she wears contacts more often than not. It’s why she hates to speak unless absolutely necessary.

“You are no monster.” Not human, certainly not, but neither are you. And she doesn’t hunt humans. When she uses her powers, sparingly, begrudgingly, only when all other avenues have been exhausted, it’s for the greater good.

She has a human heart, you think.

And, while it might be the lingering effects of her voice—it’s interesting to note how easily she affected you, and you wonder if it’s because of your relationship, since Sauti ya hila usually appear as exquisite specimens of humans, the better to lure them in and then devour them—but of all the ways you’ve contemplated your own ending, dying to nourish her isn’t such a terrible fate.

“I know. But power is a temptation, and I prefer to avoid unnecessary temptations,” she signs back, her motions subdued, small and tight. “Let’s not do it again.”

“I had a good nap though,” you reply cheekily as you coax her into sitting on the couch beside you. “And I like listening to you be yourself.”

She shakes her head, folding her long limbs onto the couch like a tulip closing its petals at night as the light fades. “That isn’t me.”

“But it is part of you, Zaria. And I don’t want you to feel like you ever have to hide any part of you from me.”

She leans forward, pressing her forehead to yours, pushing until you’re once again flat out on the couch, Zaria hovering over you.

“You are so sappy,” she signs, and then leans down, letting her lips spell her love out against her skin, her hands finding new chords to play, evoking fresh notes from your lips.  

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: Ballet Class

@angel-headed-quipster requested a nsfw short for their BLM donation featuring m!Gabriel and Michael.

The door to the nearly empty studio opens.

You meet his eyes in the mirror as you roll onto your toes, up until you’re en pointe in fifth position. As the delicate piano chords ring out from the small stereo, you perform a traveling bourrée, modifying the steps as you rapidly shift your weight between feet to take you to your nighttime visitor.

“Why?” he asks as you stop your line in front of him, sinking back down to the balls of your feet. No more practice will be done tonight, not with the way he’s looking at you.

“This is how humans grow wings,” you answer, folding gracefully down to the floor, already working on removing your pointe shoes.

Michael scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Fancy—” he waves a hand at the studio, “—steps? Not that impressive if you ask me.”

“That was but one move.” You dangle the pointe shoes in front of him. “Trust me when I say you couldn’t do this right now.”

“I could too.” His reply is too fast for him to have actually thought his response through, a kneejerk reaction to a perceived challenge. With a sigh, you shake your head, and begin to go through your cool-down stretches. “I could!” he insists.

“No, Michael. This isn’t something you just do. The bourrée? That’s hard work. You see steps on your toes in a line. I’m thinking about how close my thighs are, how I lead with my back foot, how I keep time with the music and all of this while in a very demanding position. You can’t just pick this up. If I said first position, you would have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s not a step most male ballet dancers even do.”

Michael scowls, and then joins you on the floor, helping you hold your forward stretch. “I get it,” he grumbles. “Humans are talented. But it’s not wings, Gabriel.”

“I didn’t perform any jumps, love. Nor do I have a partner, here.”

“I’m your partner,” Michael says, brow furrowing.

“Ballet partner. Some moves require two people. There’s… a lot to ballet.” Too much to feel like trying to educate Michael on the subject.

“…it sounds intimate.” His chin is tucked to his chest, and he’s not meeting your eyes. “You spend more time here than you do at home, Gabriel.”

Ah, jealousy. That’s a familiar enough emotion from him, albeit expressed without his usual volatility. An improvement, if a small one.

“Do I?” you ask, tilting your head, a secretive smile pulling at one side of your mouth.

“Yes!” Michael exclaims, head snapping up, eyes flashing with irritation. “You work long hours, then you take care of Daniel, then you come here! To an empty studio with some canned music to stare at yourself in a mirror for hours on end doing—fancy walking! You’re never home!”

“I like my fancy walking,” you say, sitting upright and rolling one shoulder in a shrug.

“More than me, apparently,” Michael says. He catches your look, and bites his lip. “Sorry, that’s not—”

“And I spend a lot of time at home,” you cut him off. “Because my home isn’t glass and steel, Michael.”

He blinks at you, trying to figure out where you’re going with this. His hands twist together, betraying his nervousness.

“You are,” you answer.

His jaw drops. While he’s busy processing that, you take out your hair-tie and comb your fingers through the sweat-slicked locks, grimacing at how they stick together. Fortunately, there’s a shower attached to the studio, and at this time of night no one else is in the building.

“When you’re done attempting to catch flies, I’ll be in the shower.” Demonstrating how much control over your human shell ballet has given you, you rise slowly, deliberately, to your feet. Your arms, following the motion of your body as you rise, move fluidly up, hands snagging your top as you go. The soaked through shirt hits the floor, leaving you in nothing but a tight pair of leggings.

It does nothing to help Michael with his current predicament, though now the look is less awestruck and more hungry.

“Coming?” A wicked grin curves your mouth. “Sorry, let me clarify: coming with me or coming by yourself?” A terrible pun, but you can blame Alice for that. If it’s a dirty joke, she’s usually the first one to make it. You’re just trying to keep up.

“Wha—oh.” He scrambles to his feet, ungainly as he chases after you. More to show off than anything you spin away from him, laughing as he stops, staring as you do a mock pirouette, choosing to be lazy as you tease him.

“Come on, Michael. Can you dance a little for me?”

You stop against the doorframe, knowing the picture you make with one arm touching the top of the doorway, your slender frame leaning against it in a gentle curve, hair brushing your shoulders.

“Or perhaps you want to see what other kind of dances I know?” Your tone is pitched lower, sultry and seductive. Not that Michael needed more of an invitation.

He catches up to you, hands going around your waist, tugging you to him for a fierce kiss. It’s much improved from his first tentative kisses. Now he knows how to use his tongue, and whether a consequence of the workout or his attentions, you feel your knees go weak.

Apparently, the doorframe will do for his purposes as he slides one leg between yours, letting you grind against his thigh.

“I like these pants,” he whispers against your neck, pinning your one hand against the frame. He slides a hand down, inside your waistband. “They don’t hide anything,”

You gasp as he grabs ahold of you, showing you that he might not know the first thing about human dances, but he has learned much about the vertical tango. His hand moves in quick, short bursts, the friction on the verge of too much.

The final straw is catching sight of the pair of you in the mirror. His body curves around yours, a solid block contrasted against your drawn-out figure. Every iota of his attention is on you, his teeth marking the junction of your shoulder and neck as he jerks you off, his breathing heavy, desperate.

You come with a growl of his name, free arm wrapped around his neck, using him to hold you up as you sag against him.

“I think you should carry me to the shower now,” you murmur, tugging on his earlobe with your teeth.

“If you admit that this is a better workout than dancing alone,” he replies, stubborn about this point.

“Well, this has hardly been a workout,” you counter. “I think I might need a little more evidence to be persuaded.”

Belying the size of his human form, he lifts you with ease. “I think I can manage that.”

[sosthemortalcoil]

BLM Donation Shorts: First Flight

@lychee-days requested a fluffy short with Michael as thanks for her donation.

A small hand shoves you between your wings. “You first.”

“I do not want to!”

You can’t see anything below the ledge you’re on, and the thought of falling infinitely fills you with more dread than contemplating a quick end against sharp rocks. Besides, you could probably be picked up by a caretaker even if you crashed, so long as you landed on something solid.

You can’t be rescued if no one can find you, though.

“I told you. Gabriel is too scared,” one of the cherubs from a neighboring nest whispers, loud enough that everyone hears.

“Gabriel is only a cherub,” Michael says, stepping between you and the fledglings, scowling, hands clenched tight.

“You are only as strong as the weakest in the nest,” another cherub chimes in.

Which makes you the weak link.

“Gabriel is not weak!” Michael shouts. You lean forward over the abyss, a small whine building in your throat. Maybe Michael doesn’t think you’re weak, but the rest of the nests in your area think it’s ridiculous that you’re babied and coddled. Dead weight, grounding your nestmates.

The argument escalates, but you’re not focusing on the words. Taking a step back, you suck in a deep breath, shaking in terror. Maybe you’re not as strong as Ramiel, or Michael, or Israfel.

But you’ll keep trying, keep working at it until you can look after them too.

Another deep breath, and then you launch forward, springing off the cliff edge with a half-jubilant, half-terrified scream. You force your wings open but the force of the wind tearing past pushes them too far back. 

Now the screaming is pure fear, your mind reaching for your siblings, desperate for them to save you.

It’s impossible, but you swear you can feel them beside you. This time your wings flare and catch the wind, slowing your descent. Tears stream down your cheeks. You’re still stuck, still going to go down—

“Gabriel!”

A small figure, only a little bigger than yourself, almost plummets past before crashing into you. For a few heartrending seconds you’re sure that both of you are going to go down together, but then Michael grabs your hands.

“Beat your wings!”

You flap them, panicky and quick, but it works, and now you’re hovering.

Michael’s skin lights up, Grace flaring in an uncontrolled burst of delight.

“Gabriel, you are flying!” he cries.

“I am flying! I am really flying!” It’s as surprising for you as it is for him.

Laughter warms you as he squeezes your hands, eyes crinkled as he beams at you. You squeeze his hands back, your own laughter, breathy and a touch shaky, joining his.

“You are amazing,” he declares. “But you did not have to prove anything to them. They are merely jealous because you are special.”

You let go of one of his hands so you can get better bearings on your surroundings. “I did not do it for them,” you tell him. “I did it because I want to be strong for you.”

Michael is momentarily stunned to speechlessness, staring at you with wide eyes. “We are stronger together, though. Thank you for jumping after me,” you tell him, squeezing his larger hand tight.

“Always,” he whispers.

[sosthemortalcoil]

sosthemortalcoil​:

Black Lives Matter

Everyone should be familiar with the concept of ‘All evil requires to win is the apathy of others.’ The time for action is now.

This blog and @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​, who I’m teaming up with, are for the development of games. We want to do our part to support Black Lives Matter. To that end, anyone who donates and notifies us will receive a short prompt.

For those who can donate:

Send a screencap of your donation (see image below). Must have confirmation id and time stamp.

Minimum donation: $5

Include your tumblr url or discord id if you would like to be notified of the completion of your prompt

The prompt itself: character(s), scenario, tone.

Characters may come from @sosthemortalcoil​, @bloodmoonrisinggame​, and @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​.

 ~250 word prompts.

No gore. No NSFW except–

Five NSFW slots for donations over $30. @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​ is not included in this. The word count on these will be 1000+ words.

1. Gone! Available

2. Gone! Available

3. Gone! Available

4. Gone! Available

5. Gone! Available

NEW

1. 800 x 800 px portrait head shot (flat colored) from @feather-x-crown​ for a $30+ donation. (STILL AVAILABLE)

PLACES TO DONATE

Reclaim the Block (aims to redistribute police funding to help the minneapolis community)

Twin Cities DSA (provides fresh groceries and hot meals to people in minneapolis)

Snap 4 Freedom (working toward divestment from the prison industrial complex)

Black AIDS Institute (end the black HIV epidemic with direct services and advocacy)

Black Visions Collective (seeks to expand the power of black people across the Twin Cities metro area and Minnesota)

Know Your Rights Camp (educate minority communities on their rights and legal options)

Campaign Zero: (identify and promote effective methods to end police violence)

NAACP Legal Defense Fund (a legal fund for racial justice)

Communities United Against Police Brutality (Twin Cities-based resistance and support network to deal with police brutality)

Showing Up for Racial Justice (organizing protests and campaigns for racial and disability justice)

National Health Law Program (legal representation and assistance for low income and minority communities)

Lake Street Council (direct cash to businesses affected by demonstrations in Minneapolis)

Pimento Relief Fund (providing black business with insurance relief after white supremacists set them on fire during the protests)

Dignity and Power Now (fights for dignity and respect for incarcerated peoples and their communities)

Southerners on New Ground (black queer support charity)

Audre Lorde Foundation (focused on social and economic equality for queer people of color)

Innocence Project (exonerating wrongfully convicted, often for racial reasons, people)

Most of these links take you directly to the donation page. Please look up these organizations to learn more.

We understand not everyone can donate right now. There are other ways to take action, such as:

Text FLOYD to 55156 to demand all four officers involved be charged and arrested.

Contact your congresspeople to ask to them to support Reps. Pressly and Omar’s resolution condemning police brutality.

Reblog this post or a similar one with resources to assist others in taking action

Raise donations by watching youtube videos, such as this one

We hope this is a starting point, one that will lead you to many other resources. Thank you.

Hey guys, @feather-x-crown​ has offered an art piece as a donation reward (details are above)! Limited rewards have also been updated. It’s amazing to see people donating and spreading the word; keep it up!

[sosthemortalcoil]

Black Lives Matter

Everyone should be familiar with the concept of ‘All evil requires to win is the apathy of others.’ The time for action is now.

This blog and @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​, who I’m teaming up with, are for the development of games. We want to do our part to support Black Lives Matter. To that end, anyone who donates and notifies us will receive a short prompt.

For those who can donate:

Send a screencap of your donation (see image below). Must have confirmation id and time stamp.

Minimum donation: $5

Include your tumblr url or discord id if you would like to be notified of the completion of your prompt

The prompt itself: character(s), scenario, tone.

Characters may come from @sosthemortalcoil​, @bloodmoonrisinggame​, and @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​.

 ~250 word prompts.

No gore. No NSFW except--

Five NSFW slots for donations over $30. @at-sixes-and-sevens-game​ is not included in this. The word count on these will be 1000+ words.

1. Gone! Available

2. Available

3. Available

4. Available

5. Available

PLACES TO DONATE

Reclaim the Block (aims to redistribute police funding to help the minneapolis community)

Twin Cities DSA (provides fresh groceries and hot meals to people in minneapolis)

Snap 4 Freedom (working toward divestment from the prison industrial complex)

Black AIDS Institute (end the black HIV epidemic with direct services and advocacy)

Black Visions Collective (seeks to expand the power of black people across the Twin Cities metro area and Minnesota)

Know Your Rights Camp (educate minority communities on their rights and legal options)

Campaign Zero: (identify and promote effective methods to end police violence)

NAACP Legal Defense Fund (a legal fund for racial justice)

Communities United Against Police Brutality (Twin Cities-based resistance and support network to deal with police brutality)

Showing Up for Racial Justice (organizing protests and campaigns for racial and disability justice)

National Health Law Program (legal representation and assistance for low income and minority communities)

Lake Street Council (direct cash to businesses affected by demonstrations in Minneapolis)

Pimento Relief Fund (providing black business with insurance relief after white supremacists set them on fire during the protests)

Dignity and Power Now (fights for dignity and respect for incarcerated peoples and their communities)

Southerners on New Ground (black queer support charity)

Audre Lorde Foundation (focused on social and economic equality for queer people of color)

Innocence Project (exonerating wrongfully convicted, often for racial reasons, people)

Most of these links take you directly to the donation page. Please look up these organizations to learn more.

We understand not everyone can donate right now. There are other ways to take action, such as:

Text FLOYD to 55156 to demand all four officers involved be charged and arrested.

Contact your congresspeople to ask to them to support Reps. Pressly and Omar’s resolution condemning police brutality.

Reblog this post or a similar one with resources to assist others in taking action

Raise donations by watching youtube videos, such as this one

We hope this is a starting point, one that will lead you to many other resources. Thank you.

[sosthemortalcoil]

can we still send asks? or would you prefer we dont?

If you have an ask, please do send it in! I do read them (and no matter the content, the fact people still send things always gives me a burst of motivation and feels), even though I haven’t sat down to reply to any in a while. Work has been exhausting and with everything else going on I’m afraid I haven’t been as productive as I would like. 

To that end, a fun(?) fact about my writing process. I write a scene, but I loathe fluffing word count (this is a me thing; I understand for many people it’s easier to copy-paste and change a little bit for different variations of a scene). So after writing, I will go through variations and try to cut down on any repetitions that might go towards the word count without representing new information.

Here’s an example.

Scene before editing (for this example; the real unedited scene had more tiny discrepancies that didn’t add any value to the differences. I’ve already pared the scenes down so I tried to recreate one for the purpose of explaining.)

Word count: 407

Scene after editing:

Word count: 282

That’s 125 words of repetition, i.e. padding. 30.7% This mostly happens around choices rather than branches. Because I want to give as accurate a word count as possible, one that actually gives you an idea of how much content is unique, I spend a pass doing this.

[sosthemortalcoil]

I just wanted to know if you're still working on SOS The Mortal Coil?

In short, yes. I haven't had time for the tumblr much lately, and the update is difficult to push out as I spend a lot of time trying to pick up from my last short session working on the game, but this game isn't going anywhere and will be completed.

[sosthemortalcoil]

What do all of the handwriting samples say? I can read some of them but I'm very bad with handwriting that isn't extremely simple.

Answered that here! Sorry, should have had that up in the first place. Thanks for reminding me to do that!

[sosthemortalcoil]

Handwriting Key

Some people (quite understandably) would like to know what our dear ROs actually wrote. So here is the key to all the notes.

1. Don’t forget to pick up Daniel. Sabriel

2. Do me a favor Don’t die --Alice

3. I require your presence. Ryder

4. Be careful. Also left coffee for you. Love Ramiel

5. Te amo, mi angel. Siempre --Leo

6. Ran out of socks. Stole yours --Iain

7. Hurry home. I’m waiting. Michael

8. Love you! Be careful today --Stephanie

9. Pick up some prosecco on your way home. Zaria

10. Refill the coffee -- Charleston

11. Amor vincit omnia. Aelius

12. Darling if you are reading this, Think of me. Iro

13. I don’t like writing like this. Rather type. Karyn

14. Always and forever yours. Love, Tom.

15. Take care. See you soon, Tadea.

[sosthemortalcoil]

Hello, how many ask do you have? Thank you very much for taking your time to answer them.

A lot. Currently sits ~1000 between drafts (which includes some reblogs buried down) and inbox.