It was amazing how Molotov’s words, by having so much power over Dylan (in strange ways), they rendered himself completely powerless against him.

One word— escaped maybe in the throes of passion— could effectively fuck up days, weeks, even months of progress with Dylan’s awful personality. 

Currently, the offending word had been a breathy ‘master’. Molotov, fogged in passion, had thought it might spice things up while Dylan mercilessly teased and tormented him. He had not taken into account Dylan’s insatiable tendency toward power trips, and a title like ‘master’ was one that definitely triggered these. He had gone from teasing to almost violent in a minutes. 

“Dylan, stop,” Yet his protest was stopped by how weak his voice seemed. At this point, he was scared. Molotov usually enjoyed being dominated, beaten, and abused in bed but something was wrong. When Dylan yanked on the leash, it was a king disciplining the naughty princes, it was a tyrant demanding absolute obedience from a pet. 

“Did I say you could speak? A slave does not disobey his master.”

A shiver ran down Molotov’s spine, “Dylan-“

“Do not use my name. Call me master.”

Molotov bit his lip. The collar was tight around his neck and Dylan was insistently pulling on the leash  It hurt, it was hard to breathe, and above all, it made Molotov very uncomfortable. This is why he hated collars in bed. They gave too much power away. They changed men. 

Dylan’s hands on his back, face, legs… his hands on his entire body did not bring Molotov their usual pleasure. They were possessive and too rough. They gripped his jaw like an object and shoved his arms and legs as if they were boneless. Eventually, Molotov was no longer able to keep himself quiet, “What happened to that moral code you held in such high regard?”

Dylan recoiled as if Molotov had struck him, in turn, Molotov  flinched and tried to turn his face to the side, scared of an incoming blow of retaliation. 

Instead, though, Dylan just sat back and regarded Molotov. Quietly removing his collar, he got up and left. Molotov laid on the bed, still naked and still moderately aroused, but also coming down from the adrenaline rush of pure fear that had occurred for him.

Whimpering quietly, he pulled the thin blankets up over his face.

His fangs would snap shut inches away from my throat. Oh, of course he didn’t need to kill me physically— murderers have other ways and he has many— but somehow, he could never bring himself to anything.

A glower. A snarl. Pacing in the dark. The pale light shows how his muscles ripple as he moves to and fro, fixing me with the gaze of four burning coals. He could kill me with one paw swipe if he desired.

Nothing satisfied him. He couldn’t decide. I was too low to him. I had to die painfully. Nothing was painful enough for him.

I would live to suffer another day.

i gave nevicata the feminine form of his name on purpose e/c he’s just so beautiful

[design tentative]

song inspiration

Nevicata, the demon in white. He dresses in varying degrees of white and pale gold.  He is a decidedly powerful lord of sin— primarily lust and sloth. He disdains violence. He feeds on creating lust and sloth (not necessarily at the same time) in non-demon beings. He prefers angels, of course  but often settles for humans (as it is hard to seduce an angel).

He has a passive aggressive personality and loves to tease and play with his food. He does not get very emotionally attached to his food, often feeding on one and moving to another, but he can become deeply interested by special cases. He has no interest in causing angels to fall completely, so he is especially careful with his angel meals.

He benefits from having a very ‘pristine’ appearance that prevents him from having to use ridiculous amounts of magic to disguise himself. He does not appreciate the company of other demons, much, preferring the company of quiet intellectuals.