stephen rolled his eyes, expression turning to that of slightly coy. truly, did the demon know him so little? at least the two of them were friends, enough to where stephen could say things without his PURPOSEFULLY prickish filter.

              “   if it was, would i not be wearing it now? it’s just a shirt, daimon.   ”

          This time he chuckles, nodding as he did so and leaning back slightly in his place.           ❝Sure, but you could get away with it. I have a job now,               I have to look respectable ... sometimes. I hate shirts.❞

              stephen gave a soft laugh, rolling his eyes in FOND amusement at daimon’s opposition to proper clothing. —well, a shirt, at least. 

              “   is that not why i wear a robe at home?   ”

          He pulls his mouth to the side in response, a laugh threatening to bubble up. A smile remains, however, genuine and unforced; rare as it would have been otherwise.           ❝Think it would be acceptable to wear a robe all the time?❞

a drabble for xhellstorm​ based on this art ( NSFW ) of their’s.

caution! this is full of sin below the cut.

it wasn’t OFTEN that stephen wore jeans, seeing them as restricting in all the wrong places at the absolute worst times possible. what if anything were to happen, and he was stuck fighting off magics in these? with a soft sigh, he was just about to give up on buttoning and zipping up his pants before a strangled noise left him at the sudden warmth of familiar hands wrapping about his waist— keeping him in place, for whatever he was about to do. 

Keep reading

stephen needs a canon gf/bf in his run

standing still.

          Absolution. The unmistakable evidence that the deed was done and there would be no going back painted in red streaks along the wall. That last word, and the look in Stephen’s eyes was going to HAUNT him for the rest of his eternal life; he would never forget his own betrayal. Curse Manwe! Curse the Valar! Curse them for giving him the power to pass from world to world. It would have been more merciful just to obliterate his soul than open his possibilities to this. He would never regret his memories, he could not dishonour Stephen that way, but he would give anything to be in his place. Anything to alter the course of faith and assume the role that the Sorcerer would have taken if he had lived instead. Why couldn’t it have been HE who destroyed the world? Why did it have to be someone who had already suffered so much? Was Stephen always doomed to this heartbreak? To never find solace? To die by the hands of someone he’d trusted with his soul?

           The knife clatters to the floor beside his feet. A few flecks of blood spatter onto his shoes but he doesn’t even notice. His ears are drowned by the sound of a roar and flames ignite around him as if hell itself is coming to claim his soul for repentance of his crimes. His bones lock in terrified paralysis – oh god. How could he have anticipated that the only other friend he had in this world would bear witness to the blood on his hands? He can’t move when he realises it’s Daimon who’s charging at him ; Daimon who’s set the world around them on fire in tandem to the guilty flames sprouting in his own mind.

           He has just enough time to stumble out of the way of sharp claws mere inches from his own heart. Feet stumble back – the knife is sent spinning across the room. Legolas has no choice but to withdraw his sword ( unable to fetch his bow, though it would be of little use against the other ) and aim it upon his companion. Was he also going to have to kill Daimon as well? Was this day then destined to bleed with the blood of the only two important people in his life? If this was a joke, he wanted no part of it. He could only think to try and find a way to injure but not kill him. Perhaps an injury would bring him out of his maddened state long enough for Legolas to explain himself… and maybe it would do nothing but anger him more. He took stance with the tip of his blade pointed in the direction of the demon’s throat, and spoke quietly, a desperate plea.

                                                        ❛ Please don’t make me do this. ❜

          ❝Stop--❞           Rage, burning hatred, pain, suffering, loss -- they were familiar to him. In ways he wanted to pretend didn't stab his heart or keep him awake at night. In ways that he thought the rest of humanity might not fail him over and over again ( they always failed, always disappointed him ). He ruled Hell to keep these things in check; he created Hell out of these things. Suffering so unspeakable he tortured evil with it, projecting the own wounds of his battered life unto them.

          It was the fate of demons to be taunted with salvation, only to have it torn away. It took all of these years for Daimon to realize that it was his fate as well.

                    ❝Taking --- ❞

          ( A blind charge, bloodlust soaking through every action, every pore ) Yes of course he tried to hide from his fate, even convinced himself he had escaped it for a time, but the proof was here; dead on the ground and pointing a blade at his throat. It is the fate of demons, the wicked and damned, to suffer unimaginably; to have nothing to their name but agony and isolation.

                              ❝Everyone -- ❞

          ( The blade pierces his flesh but the demon presses forward, undaunted, the very Visage of Hell itself; come to life by grief and loathing )

                                        ❝I love!!❞

          Even as he is impaled the flames engulfing his body burn at the blade and his demonic magic sears around the wound. Claws thirsty for recompense sought out the elf's blood, driving forward with all the force a Demon King was capable of and tearing into the flesh he otherwise revered.

          Normally it would have been his instinct to pry further on the subject – after all, he knows very little about Daimon but has consented to allowing him to open up on his own – yet he can already judge by the demon’s answer that it was better to just drop the conversation entirely. & so he did, resting his head on his shoulder instead and smiling faintly.

          ❛ How long has it been since you arrived here? I didn’t even hear you enter, and you aren’t quiet about it. ❜ Certainly not; he’d never forget the first time they met when he turned around and the first thing he’d seen was half of the other’s body sticking out from behind the fridge, covered in blood and cursing about something or other.

❝Dunno--- ten minutes? Wasn't paying attention.❞ He answered, mind wandering, taking another drink. With a rumbling chuckle his head leans back just slightly, before rolling to the side, cheek resting lightly against the elf's hair. ❝I'm stealthy when I wanna be.❞

          ❛ Speak, child. Don’t waste my time. ❜

          ❝Gimme back my damn wizard!❞

The Little Things

☃ How my muse fares in cold mornings ❤ Does my muse ever daydream about a life with someone? ✖ Does my muse start the fights or do they finish them? ϟ  How often do they get sick? ☛ Would they bite their nails or clip them? ۞ Do they believe in a higher power? ☁  Are they ticklish, and how ticklish? ♧ Do they remember their dreams? If so do they write them down? ☣ What would be a super power they would choose? ⊗  Describe your muses laugh! 

there’s a quick AVERSION of cerulean eyes, lashes softly hitting tanned cheeks as he clears a tightened throat. he’s STARTLED but it’s { muffled } and abruptly shoved aside. 

                         ❛ your eyes. they’re r e d. that natural? ❜ 

          'Well isn't he an observant one?' the thought crosses the         half-demon's mind heavy with sarcasm, but it's not anything         that's uncommon. The eyes tend to set people off pretty easy.         He's used to it, and his response mirrors it with it's casual delivery.                                 "Nope."

      “ Well, I’m obliged to give you credit; after all,            at least it is not a fish joke this time – however            uncreative it may be. ”

          “Go on then, give me credit. A simple thank you for          saving Ancient Atlantis, maybe; I’m not too picky.”

          ❛ The answer is no, before you            even ask. I can only guess you’ve            shown up because you want som-            ething. ‘ ❜

          “---------!!”