swordhardy | NOCT OVERFLOW

[ Malachite falls into slumber and Rokurou tumbles into hell.

A godling's sleep that hadn't influenced a daemon before strikes deep now, its jagged blade cutting deep into weak flesh and charred bone. Spiraling, turning its brutal edge and scraping up, going for the core and dragging out the worst in dribbling ruby and cracked onyx. Colors branded into his flesh, marking him as half a creature and half a man—but different now, spreading bloodink fingers over previously untouched plains. Their reach has no end,

Black and red stain tanned skin, print across a weathered page. Leathery dark breaks that don't quite match the blight that cakes half his face; wings crack from jerking shoulder blades, burning their way past fresh gaping wounds, transformation unkind and terrible in spades. Blunt nails sharpen, go black as the rest. Normally sharp teeth are a mockery of the wide spread of razor behind freshly pale lips, cruelty behind the beauty of visage, human half of his face still stately as ever. Hair gone thicker, it piles heavily in waves, long and down around his back and shoulders. Silky, as though a blessing God hadn't deigned to take away.

Daemon and devil knotted together as one, luring in the innocent with a lovely golden eye and thick drooping lashes before sharing the bite of a monster's maw. He aches, feels the weight of something cursed settling upon his flesh, but that's nothing new. Just different now, a devil's weight different than that of a daemon. Yet they're monsters cut from the same cloth: selfish, brutal, and damned. From in the soul to out, he can feel it. All the cravings a monster has, all the aching to touch what he can't have. Wanting wanting wanting. Wet hunger soaking in his mouth. Craving something that lacks a word, mind too muddled with unrestrained desire to properly find it.

Only one bubbles to the surface amid the firestorm, throbs along with every ache, each starved pang, brilliant as a stubborn heartbeat when all else fails: Xing.

Xing Xing Xing Xing Xing. Where is he? Where is he?!

Rokurou wants him. Needs him. Needs to taste that strong body, run his forked tongue across scars and sculpted muscle, sink his teeth into every spot he can find to mark him as one dragged along to hell for the ride. Memories flash across his mind's eye—strong legs spread wide, muscular core flexing with labor, hard dusky nipples against a backdrop of scars, pursed mouth with the prettiest cupid's bow, narrow nose, little beauty mark beneath his eye begging to be licked, soft downy hair—it all goes straight to his cock. Fuck, and those eyes. The loveliest shade of purple. Delicate lilac framed by handsome, dark lashes.

So beautiful. There's nothing about the erune he doesn't like. If he could, Rokurou devour every little piece. Worship him from his ankles to his thighs to his belly and up, leaving no part unscavenged. He's never needed religion when the only thing he wants to believe in lies between Xing's thighs, laced in his pleasured sighs, found the way he groans and gasps and shivers when he comes and then falls into sweet afterglow. A mouth that demands to be kissed, a body that begs to be loved.

Groping along his cock to jerk off, mind filled with nothing but Xing, Rokurou notices that that's changed too: thicker, bigger, curved in a way that almost hooks, barbs ribbing the base just ahead of his balls. Strange to the touch, an uncomfortable chafe against his palm and fingers as he pumps, panting, tearing into his own bottom lip until it bleeds because Xing isn't here. Not here, by his side, where he should be. It's unacceptable. Cold. Lonely, so lonely—he can feel every inch of the damned mark that encompasses his body, singing him out as a thing not meant to be loved. It doesn't mean he doesn't want it, craving for Xing and everything he can give only getting deeper.

The orgasm that comes isn't good enough. It rings hollow without being dumped heavily into Xing, sweet form caught beneath his embrace, trapped so that he can't ever escape. The image of his lover twisting beneath him, panting and exhausted and filthy, isn't enough to satisfy more than this—something the devil realizes as he wipes his hands clean, another pang of hunger almost dropping him to his knees. It hurts. It hurts.

Xing. Manna. Xing. Manna. He's had enough Manna built up to get by and yet somehow he's starving for it, bloodied mouth growing wetter with saliva with the thought of dragging it from the erune. Parched, starving, Rokurou stumbles for the door and breaks through haphazardly, ignoring his lack of dress—nothing matters but finding him.

Leathery wings beat hard. Tacky blood leaks down his naked spine, slick across callous skin. It weaves down all of his limbs, a patchwork make of creature and man, marking him as other amidst the crowds of the downtrodden and flora-wearing. Other gembonded have turned as well; some have luring scents, beckon to him with curled fingers and tilted mouths, promising that they can slake the hunger that drives him as long as he plays his part and satisfies theirs ... but he turns away, frenzied in his search, desperation mounting to a breaking point until it finally tickles his nose.

A delicate scent. Lovely, fine, like the sweetest perfume. A touch of earthiness, like freshly cut grass or a crisp morning dew. A feminine draw, velvety petals falling from stalks in shades of purple and blue. Geraniums and lavender. Coaxing, potent blend that he would know anywhere; a rush of heat sluices through his body as he turns heel, following the thread of that aroma because he knows, instinctually, that it will lead him to where he needs to be. To who he needs, a little piece of salvation broken off from the rest that's meant for Rokurou and Rokurou alone.

It leads him to a garden. A hidden alcove of blooming flowers, neon specks against a backdrop of emerald. Hidden away in Eden—Rokurou should have known that's where Xing would be. Though it's hardly a private place, with other patrons mulling about quietly, Rokurou makes no heed of them. They don't exist. Not in his tunnel vision, not as he follows the red string of fate toward his other half. For all he sees, they're perfectly alone in their own cut of heaven.

Xing is calling for him. Everything laced into the erune's scent begs for Rokurou to find him. Cloying, dizzying, a sweet honey cultivated just for him. The irritation that welts along the devil's skin doesn't fade, but the knowledge that his lover is signaling a beacon for him to find soothes his ire somewhat. The pining only grows.

When he finally finds Xing set against the flora, the devil wastes no time. Desperate for contact, he winds muscular arms and clawed fingers from behind the other man, already dirtying his ethereal glow with viscous, merlot ichor. A snare that will never relent, tight in the clutch of possessive sludge that pushes through his veins.

If there was ever a question of their fated affair, finding Xing knotted up into something so celestial cinches it. Two halves of a whole: dirty monster stained by sin and darkness latching onto beauty that he should never touch. Marring it with his essence, quick to press a bloody kiss against white hair, tickling his nose into its thickness and inhaling deeply. He's always loved Six's scent, but something about it now is especially addicting. So thick, so rich, so inherently Xing that it goes straight to his head ..... and his cock, which is already twitching back to life, hard shape pressed into the curve of his lover's ass. Wanting Six to know how horny he is already, Rokurou ruts his erection into the cleft of those plush cheeks, grinding his exposed dick over clothes.

You can't drop a ravenous man in front of a banquet and expect him to behave. ]

So this is where you've been hiding. [ his comment comes as a guttural sound, all broken glass and scattered rubble. ] You should always be by my side.

[ Dragging nails catch on the front of Six's shirt, ribboning fabric in their slow downward drag. Tucking his mouth in, his hot breath tickles the erune's cheek, the edges of his shark-sharp teeth a warning brush. I'm starving and only you will satisfy me. ]

Because you're mine. Did you forget?

Edited 2021-04-19 03:17 (UTC)

[ this is a story that doesn't begin with a fall from grace.

the godling named malachite falls into slumber and thus allows for a series of (un)fortunate events to happen, just like dominoes carefully placed next to each other, one piece collapsing into next until there's nothing left. a sharp pain radiates from a pale, exposed back, sounds of bones breaking, skin tearing, all grotesque noises that can't cover up the fact that something is beating its way free from beyond its prison of flesh.

beautiful, ethereal feathery wings of white, stained in bright red blood, spread wide open like they've always meant to be free, scattering pieces of itself all over the empty space in a flurry that's almost reminiscient of powdered snow. if it isn't for the mess it left behind on body it belongs to, one can almost find this breathtaking, surreal — a striking sight that you can't just look away from no matter how hard you try.

xing (six—) barely looks affected by the metamorphosis he's slowly going through, downy hair somewhat longer now, silkier, frames his face so well until the ends of it sit right by the small of his back. velvety ears seem much larger, fluffier and easily catches the light coming from the sun. almost like a halo, crowning him as the sacred creature he's always been. the only things that look out of place are the clothes he wear, belts upon belts constricting his legs, not at all matching the aesthetic of someone who belongs to the blue skies above.

that suits him just fine, at least, because he's the furthest thing from pure. innocent. harmless. he might look the part, a picture-perfect representation of one of god's angels, but the blood on his hands, the crimes he committed in the past — these are things that can never be forgiven nor forgotten. these are sins that should have been showcased by a blight that stains his skin, marring the perfection it should have never been born with, but here he is, catching the eyes and attention of everyone else surrounding him.

it's not long before he's overwhelmed by the need to go. just go. anywhere is better than where he is right now, far away from where he truly wants to be. he takes flight almost effortlessly, following an invisible trail of red that leads him somewhere more secluded. appropriate. a garden of eden hidden away in the pulse of neon-bright signs and city skylines, a plethora of floral species that's brimming with life and vibrancy, to the point where he feels as though his presence shouldn't have been allowed refuge here in the first place.

his fingers reach out to caress the blossoms he can reach, wondering if it would be alright to cut its life short and crush its petals within his palms. there's something wrong with how stunning everything looks to him. is it because of the amethyst that has carved itself out on his frame that is causing this change in his perspective? is it similar to the way a lonely purple moon forced him to want so desperately that it's difficult to think of anything else?

he doesn't know. it's hard to tell.

but it's too late to figure it all out—soon enough, the sound of wings draw his attention away from the flowers, lilac eyes catching sight of mismatched ones, immediately drawn to the intensity of a daemon's gaze like a moth that has doused itself in gasoline, lured in by an open flame. xing doesn't even get a chance to say anything before the hard, solid shape of his lover's cock is pressed up against his ass, igniting an uncontrollable, terrifying desire from deep within him.

he wants it. he wants it, he wants it, he wants it.

he wants the daemon to fuck him so hard and deep until his mind blanks out, forcing him to think of nothing else but the shape of his cock, the way it feels deep inside of him. it doesn't matter how painful it'll be, doesn't matter if rokurou wants to rip him into shreds from the inside-out — if that's what the devil wants, then this little lamb is offering himself up for slaughter. ]

If I've forgotten...

[ there is an airy lilt to his voice, so far away from its usual low and neutral cadence. it's almost melodic in a way that doesn't quite suit him but it matters less and less as he turns his body around, delicate hands reaching down to grasp the large cock in their grasp, squeezing at the base. he doesn't give a damn when his fingers start to bleed, pinpricked by a sharp feature that delights him just as much as it scares him. ]

Then is it not your responsibility to make sure it never happens again?

[ defiant as he always is, at least that's one thing that hasn't been taken away from him.

rokurou might be making quick work of his shirt but he makes no move to help the process along, wanting to see if it'll irritate the daemon in a way that might draw out a more volatile reaction. the ones who happen to be milling around the garden are now slowly filing out, bothered by the presence of an angel and demon who have clearly forgotten about the rest of the world. ]

Edited 2021-04-20 02:43 (UTC)

ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs

ᴀᴘʀɪʟ 2021

sɪx: "the way that her hair fell down around her face, and I recall my fall from grace"

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ᴊᴜɴᴇ 2021

ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ

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ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ

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ᴍɢs, ᴍᴀʏ 16: "get ready for action, don't be astounded"