popping in to say, that after a year of brainrotting about them, i have finally written andreil fic. hurt/comfort beach date with a healthy dose of neil's mommy issues, with a lot of softness to balance it out 🫂🌊
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
happy valentine’s day to all my aros out there 💚 this is the cover i drew for a mini aroace sunny fic which you can read here! :) https://archiveofourown.org/works/53762437
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Here is my first bit of writing! It is about my OC Zephan! A DND character I made for a campaign that unfortunately had cancelled. Here I wrote a little bit of his backstory. I edited it a bit but it may still be choppy. I loved this boy and all the writing I did for him.
This story came out when my DM asked "dude your angel looking oc hates being called angel? Why?" so that was the inspiration for this one! In this fic he is young. I'd say around 8? Maybe even younger. But in the campaign I was in he was a full grown guy. Around 20 perhaps?
Hope someone enjoys it!
~Pix
Warning: bullying, blood, mention of unsavory work, poverty
Why do you hate being called an angel so much?
There was no reason to really hate his mother. After all she never hit him, never tried to starve him, and she in her way raised him. He was much better off than a lot of the other halflings in town. Many had been abandoned before they could even think. Nonetheless there was a presence of simmering anger towards that woman. When he looks at her flirting with any man that appears to have heavy pockets, something burns. When he hears the noises they make in their small shack of a house he is overcome with tremors. His hands couldn’t hold steady as he covered his ears, pressing them tightly against his skull until he couldn’t bear to hear anymore. Those “business days” are when he often spends his time outside, trying to get away from the noise of bed creaks.
He used to spend his time playing with the rocks on the ground, simply tossing them into the sky and catching them. He’d look into the bookstores but the clerks inside would never let him in. And the libraries were often “member’s only” but he saw many humans go in and out. He was always ushered out no matter what his intentions were. Perhaps they saw him as another street urchin with sticky hands too willing to steal. But the books inside seemed to glitter as he stared at them through the window before he was simply shooed away like a feral cat. When this would happen he’d sometimes draw on the ground, but he was never accompanied. The children seem to avoid him is what he realized. Not even the adults approached him. He paid no mind to them but the constant whispers of strangers often struck nerves.
“Look, it's the angel child again.” One would chatter.
“The whore’s god child.” One would murmur.
“Should we consider it a blessing or a curse...after all who knows what else that whore can attract.” One would whisper.
He tried to ignore them but they were always so loud, so constant, and so damn stupid. When adults whisper, their children harass. They were often sparked by their guardian’s distaste and hesitation for a creature such as him. A parents’ hate allowed the growth of a child’s prejudice which anyone can see with the way Zephan sat alone in a corner of the square drawing symbols in dirt.
After a while of playing alone a group of children approached him. Zephan could hear the crunch of shoes upon dirt as his stick drew another shape. He was busy trying to draw a bird opening its wings akin to his own. Though the peace of drawing was disturbed once dirt was kicked up into his face. The pebbles sting as it finds a new home in his topaz eyes. His hands go to his face despite the dirt already dusted upon his tan features. He sputters and stands up, rubbing away at the dirt on his cheeks. It was already smearing across his cheek.
“What’s up angel boy?” one of the kids mocks him, looking smug at whatever dumb thing they had said. Zephan’s eyebrows furrow and instead of giving a response he scoffs. There was simply no point in entertaining the likes of those who disdain him. He looks away instead, focused on trying to wipe the dirt off his face and rid the stinging in his eyes. Plus these idiots wouldn’t understand a word he would say anyways. With that sentiment he takes a step in the other direction, attempting to walk away from something he knew would get uncomfortable quickly. Though as he tries to walk away he feels a shove against his back. His wings stretch out quickly in order to catch himself but instead his palms scrape against the dirt and he falls straight onto his stomach. He coughs and looks behind him, a glare fixed onto the “leader” of the group who was now laughing at his predicament.
“What angel boy? Can’t speak?” The kid’s voice was insufferable and Zephan went to wipe his cheeks again. But the smell of iron coming from his hands makes him notice he probably just rubbed blood onto his cheeks. His face scrunches up at that thought of muddy blood now decorating his cheeks. He tries to get back up again but the kid decides that he should be kept down and kicks him on his side, forcing his small body to turn over onto his back. The sound of ringing was in his ears as pain seemed to hum against the skin that was already starting to bruise. Zephan lets out a grunt as the kid decides to put his leg onto his sternum. His topaz colored eyes lock with black colored irises as the kid continues to put a little more weight onto his chest. Zephan's wings were haphazardly sprawled against the dirt behind him and he winces as he feels the pebbles stab against the plumage and skin.
“For an angel you sure are nasty looking!” More weight is pressed into his chest and it's getting harder to breathe. The other kids didn’t stop him despite some of them looking a bit more nervous. Their eyes darted between him and the kid with his foot on his chest. However, other kids who shared the same sentiments seem to find joy in the pained expression that Zephan’s face twists into. Seeing the little winged boy on the ground and covered in dirt must’ve finally given that power trip those kids wanted. Seeing him struggle must be the only exciting thing these kids have going on in their lives. With such thoughts Zephan could only feel sick of it. He didn’t think he deserved any of this treatment. What could he had possibly done this time to offend such a dimwitted crowd by drawing in dirt? His anger continues to bubble though he tries to extinguish it. Extinguishing it for that feeling would do no good for him..right?
He tries to lift himself at least to relieve the pressure off his wings.His elbow scrapes against dirt and rock as he tries to lay against these instead. The pain helps with a different focus instead of the boiling inside. But this damned foot on his chest makes itself known. As it continues to push him down, further and further into the dirt. The boiling continues to feel uncontrollable with each shove and snicker. Feathers feel as if they were being tugged off his skin. It stung, it hurt, it was stupid.
He wraps his bloodied hands around the kid's ankle. His face finally lifting beyond the covered foot and toward the other child’s face. Never breaking eye contact with the twerp, he tightens his grip. The kid stutters and tries to get off his chest but Zephan’s glare grows stronger. He felt hot. The simmering in his body was too much. His brows furrowed and when the weight of the kid’s foot was off as he lifted it, he rolled over. His grasp upon the child’s ankle didn’t let up as he twisted in the dirt dragging the other youngin down into the dirt.
Zephan quickly tries to get up with a grunt of effort. His wings splaying out, free from touching the ground and Zephan gains advantage by crawling on top of him. The angel child didn’t even think as his arm winds back and he lands a firm punch against the face of the other. His fists going over his head and meeting the child’s cheeks with a thud each time. Not stopping even as the kid starts to cry in fear between his punches.
All he sees is red as he continues to punch, claw, and pull at the child. His enemy’s face becomes bruised and battered. But Zephan couldn’t seem to find a shred of empathy when the child starts to cry for his mother. His face screwed up in wrath and anger. He felt his wings open up instinctually making himself appear bigger, stronger. And right now, he is. He’s the stronger child, he’ll survive, not these dumb dimwits. Not this stupid piece of shit he had to deal with for far too long. He can’t hear the other kids crying out to the adults for help. That the angel child has finally snapped and was about to smite these children off the face of earth. He couldn’t hear anything except for every thud that each punch echoes. It was oddly therapeutic. The rhythm of his punches made the boiling turn back into a simmer, and finally it was as if the water inside him had finally stopped rolling with heat. Though another thing had stopped too. The kid had stopped crying. He couldn't tell why but he felt someone grab at his arm. Stopping his punches and he was yanked upwards. He shouts at them, struggling. His arm felt like it was about to break as he was dragged off of the now unconscious child. He kicks and shuts his eyes as he tries to escape the grip of whomever tried to stop him from serving justice as he saw fit.
“Zephan stop!” the voice snaps him out of his blood lust. He opens his eyes to meet the eyes of his mother. He looked nothing like her except maybe her face shape and beauty. Her eyes were ordinarily brown, so unlike his topaz one. Her hair was the same color as the dirt on the ground, but it was kept as clean as it could be and soft looking. While his own hair was a striking silver. Too bright and too different in a town full of ordinary people. But even within the ordinary he could say that his mother was beautiful. Despite the ordinary that she was built with, she was a beautiful woman. Which was obvious with her reputation as the most popular and expensive whore in town. A beauty too fetching to not have a taste. To the point that her ordinary but beautiful had seduced even an angel to spend a time in her bed. Something so unnatural and unholy had resulted in the ugly Zephan built upon features that were too striking. Too loud, too bright, and too much of an outlier. Beautiful? Yes. But like her? Never
He yanks his arm back from his mother’s grip and turns around. Wiping the dirt off his cheeks again. His wings went back to his back and he’s shivering. He felt dirty. Dirty from the ground, dirty from being treated like that by dimwits. Dirty for being near his mother. He looks around him and sees the terrified looks he gets. Onlookers on the sidewalk stared into his soul and mothers were hiding their children from spotting him. Their eyes held fear, disgust, maybe even hatred. One of the older kids had ushered the rest of the crying children a little away from him and the boy he had knocked unconscious was being supported by what seemed to be an older girl. He assumed they were siblings. The boy’s face he had beaten was bloodied and turning purple with bruises. If Zephan could give a shred of empathy he would realize that the boy’s breathing was haggard. Perhaps it was already close to death with the way it was struggling to take a breath. He looked back at his mother whose face was also contorted in fear.
His own mother was scared of him. How typical.
He felt his lips quiver and a familiar sting of tears forming. His arm lifts to wipe them away before they fall and wet his cheeks. The boiling inside him had slowed into barely a bubble. And instead it felt as if coldness spread from his chest to his finger tips when he looked at his mother. Who could not hide her expression.
She looked at him like he was the monster. But he didn’t even DO anything. He-he did it out of self defense. He looked to the side again and the girl was cradling the kid that had been moments ago spitting in his face. He felt his face twist in disgust and guilt as he realized what he did. He felt his body shake uncontrollably and the innate being in him felt like it was mourning for what he did. He starts to sniffle as the tears were becoming so potent that he wasn’t able to wipe them away fast enough. But no one came to cradle him as he felt himself break down. His mom just stands there in disbelief and horror as her child cries after beating another until they are unconscious or even near death.
Zephan felt the whispers grow louder around him. And he covers his ears and crouches down. His wings open up and wrap around him to hide himself as he continues to shake and sob.
Angel child.
Angel boy.
Angel.
A N G E L
He’s heard it so many times but he knows that word means nothing. Actually it didn’t mean anything. It was just another word that meant monster in their eyes. When that name leaves their lips all he hears is monster. The books he read talked about heroes and angels defeating monsters and devils together. But what if the angels were also the monsters heroes have to kill? His sobs ransacked his body and he felt like he couldn’t breathe again.
“Angel” they say but all Zephan can hear is “You don’t belong here.”
