#lucifer writes

[of-libertas]

“ Oh, gods. ”

Before him in the mirror was a body, scrawny, uncharacteristically pale, breaths were shallow, as black veins adorned his arms. Each and every scratch upon his torso, every scar upon his being, all discoloured and mottled. His eyes, they darkened at the sight, black residue gathered at the edges. 

His muttering was in vain; surely, this was a godless realm, one that would curse this blight upon him.

[of-libertas]

@aterribleterriblefate @nottthebestdetectiveagency @macoro28 @the-haffling

Bastion was quiet after those events, after the siege and everything that followed, and that relative silence, Veneficus was thankful for. Nights were sleepless, the memories of deaths past infected him like a plague, and then... a light, it’d filter through that endless void and he would see again.

It was a short while after everything calmed that the others saw fit to leave; a scant couple of days since the incident, his elven companion (love interest? Boyfriend? Ven wasn’t sure, Ven didn’t care, so long as he lived) left the city, a self-serving desire to bolster his own reputation fuelled him, whilst Ven and the various Warlocks saw fit to oversee his sister’s recovery, of which proceeded as smoothly as it could’ve gone, he thought. Pigdug, arguably the sweetest half-orc Ven had ever met left with Riardon; Elibrix, too, vacated after a while, as did Moonstone. 

Ven supposed it was just him and the books, now. Page after page, scouring through information, first typically wizardlike tomes, then he moved onto the magic of Druids, but neither offered any explanation to his... condition. The Warlocks themselves could only describe it as a “corruption”, caused by negativity given a tangible form, yet they too were stumped by the blackened residue left in his eyes on that fateful day. Each day, a calm emotions spell washed over him, permitted by himself, and every day, he’d further his craft; the people saw his grandiose displays of fiery mastery, magic used simply to shock and amaze, should he the need.

He was content--mildly.

No burning, no pain, the glass staff lay gathering dust in the corner of his quarters. It was time to wait, he guessed, and when the others saw him again, he’d be stronger, readied for whatever the future would hurl at him. 

Something was missing, though. Something was always missing--not knowledge, not power...

Would it truly be too much to admit that he missed somebody?

No, nevermind.

[lucifercommasatan]

Title: crop circles in the carpet

Summary: Carlos has a nightmare. Cecil is a good boyfriend and comforts him.

Rating: G

#: fluff, mute!Carlos, Cecil has telepathic shenanigans

Read on AO3. ↓↓↓ Continue reading on Tumblr ↓↓↓

--

The first thing you note when your consciousness groggily swims back to you is that he's shaking. Perfect, beautiful Carlos is shaking. His harsh breathing beats against your chest like a second heartbeat, and you crack an eye open, concerned.

"Carlos?" You wonder aloud, blinking the hum of sleep from your eyes and scanning the room. Everything seems normal; no human sacrifices tethered to the far wall, no unwelcome bloodstone rituals being chanted, and the singular window at the edge of your room is held firm with iron bolts, as always.

A tinny whimper resonates from the body curled against you. Gently, you lace pale, pianist fingers through thick, obsidian locks. You imagine Carlos's hair is the darkness itself - vast and divine and lapping at your hands playfully with shadowy tendrils. You coo reassurance, propping yourself up to get a better look at him. Mocha eyes are screwed shut tightly.

"What's wrong?" You press, planting a singular, gentle kiss to the crinkle in his forehead. His eyebrows are knit together, like locked branches. However, they part when your lips retreat.

His thoughts are blinking by at possibly millions of miles per hour. You try to focus on a single one, reaching into the vast abyss of his deliciously brilliant brain, and pluck it from him. Oh god the needles the needles the needles, he's jabbering. You feel yourself tense up, but brush it off. Trembling, he pulls you close once again, face pressed against your collarbone.

So many and the rippingscratching sounds and no medicine medicine medicine. You've grown used to the repetitious pattern Carlos thinks in.

You clutch him tighter, rubbing soothing circles over his shoulderblades. You hum lightly, trying to soften the mood, and whisper sweet nonsense into his ear, hoping to calm his nerves. Thank you, he's whispering - the word ghosting off his lips with no sound. Thank you thank you thank you but they were dressed in white and the chemicals were like acid and-

His shoulders start to shake and you feel the wet dribble of tears against your chest. You shush him, kissing his head again and again before capturing his lips. You slide into a slippery rhythm until his tears stop and you feel him become lightheaded. You break the kiss, and he rolls on his back, looking up at you. His hair is mussed and his hands are wrapped around your waist, for the most part.

You feel warmth bloom from everywhere his lips had been moments prior.

"It's okay," you coax. "You're not there anymore, you're here." You press your forehead to his and enter his mind - his gorgeous, perfect mind - and you feel chills run down your spine as you ghost past the prominent memories. And suddenly you're showing him, showing him love and warmth and kindness and peace and how there's nothing more than just you two laying in bed, cuddling, in this current moment, and that's all that matters and that he's alright.

You're so close to him you can feel the smile on his breath as you pull back. His lids droop heavily, and he makes a raspy noise in the back of his throat - a contented sigh, you imagine.

You know he hates you seeing him like this: this vulnerable. But he's so inexplicably weary he doesn't even attempt a fight this time. And slowly, you watch as the perfect, amazing man you love falls back asleep, soundly.

You kiss the sleepy scientist's mute lips and think he's absolutely neat.

[holydemoniic]

                The thing that appeals me most, the beauty that attracts me to you most, is nothing I could possibly ever put down. Not to pictures, words, songs, limericks, nothing could possibly curl itself up into a comfortable spot and those are the words to describe you.

                The grace that piles itself, into a large mountain of what makes you primarily you, my love, is nothing the minds eye can conjure.

                As often as I wonder about how to think of you, the first word my mind thinks of is pure and utter ‘beauty’, and that cannot comprehend anything that makes you the special gem that stands out to me. The gem I would wear with me, proud. The gem I would constantly cherish, cleaning it off. It has a blemish or two, and those would not bother me, for you are my gem.

                The thing that appeals me most, is everything about you.