Archive of Our Own

angel/demon au where diluc is an angel. his wings are made of metal, it melts and gives way and manipulates into his infamous claymore. his hair is the color of blood that he sheds, his lips pulled in a snarl and his shoulders heaving as he stands amidst the battlefield alone. he is powerful, indestructible. he is a force of God that cannot be contained.

as all angels are, he is cold. he has no heart, no blood. he feels no sympathy nor does he love. all he feels is a burning deep in his chest, raging and snarling like a cornered beast. his skin is like ice, scars litter his arms and his armor has felt its fair share of blows. he is not unkind, but he cares not for the sorrows of others. Her word is law, and he is but a pawn in a game larger than he will ever be. diluc is many things, but a fool he is not.

many say angels do not have wills of their own, but this is not true. in the name of justice was he created, in the name of protection did he fight. in the name of revenge was his fall. his mentor, his father, killed for a crime he had no fault in - and with it killed the will to serve a Creator who turned so coldly on all that She made. a massacre, it was. stones of silver dyed gold with the tears She shed, as his wings were crippled.

his arms restrained by those he once called his brothers-in-arms, the one he truly considered a brother forced to watch as he is punished. in the name of revenge he murdered his own. in the name of retribution is his grace ripped from him, his wings unable to hold him as he free-falls through the sky, screaming damnation as he collides with the ground below.

his first sensation is warmth. it surges through him like a poison, that fire in his chest turning into an inferno that burns and burns and burns . something ugly bubbles in his chest, scratching and clawing and popping until something gives way. and then he feels something in his eyes. something in his mouth. he weakly lifts a hand to his eyes, he pulls away and it looks like water. then his hand drifts to his chin, his hand is red. it hurts. it hurts, it hurts, it hurts .

he opens his mouth, little fangs peak out beneath busted and bloodied lips, his teeth are red and his tongue is heavy as he screams his agony at the sky. then, the rain begins to fall. he flinches when it first lands on his skin, steam rising into the night. distantly, he knows this is his brother weeping for him, repenting in a way that he cannot. his brother was always more human than the rest. he closes his eyes.

he can’t feel his wings. he knows they’re gone. he feels… sorrowful. angry. hateful. he feels free .

angel/demon au where dainsleif is a demon. corrupted by that which he used to oppose, he is a sinner suffering eternal damnation for sins that are only his own to shoulder. he looks unkindly upon those who dare to call themselves holy. more blood has stained his hands than he can wash away. he fears his skin will be red for all of eternity.

he does not have the stereotypical horns and tail - he has only one wing, the other long since torn off and left to scar. it sits proudly behind his shoulder-blade, and it weighs of punishment for past mistakes. a scar is all thats left of the other, and oh , how it aches. there are days when he cannot move, paralyzed by the agony of losing what didn’t even belong.

he preys not on sinners or saints but those who have fallen. repentance, is what some may call it. revenge, is what he names it. the blood of a fallen angel has stained his lips so many times that his teeth remain red, as red as his hands. as red as blood can be when it drips free around the bites he inflicts upon his prey. he is not gentle, he is not soft, he is not kind. he is hungry, he is hurting. he is hunting.

dainsleif can feel when an angel falls, he can see the golden glow they cast, like a star crashing into the earth. red fangs revealed in a starved grin as he makes his way to the crash site. but what he sees gives him pause. there, laying sprawled out and sobbing as rain cascades down upon him, is the most beautiful angel dainsleif has ever seen.

a different hunger claws at his gut. he wants. he yearns . it is not this pretty angels blood that he wants. no. it is his red hands tangled in red hair, red teeth sinking into pale skin until red blooms forth. he wants to hurt and be hurt. he wants to destroy this fallen angel. he wants to pleasure and corrupt and keep him. this goes against all that he is, all that he has become. but he wants .

and its with a smile of bloodied teeth and cruel words that dainsleif welcomes him into the world, a tattered and ripped wing sheltering the trembling man as he escorts him to a church long since abandoned. he can feel the fallens hesitation, and he sighs. he can smell the anger, the hatred, the fear.

“don’t worry ,” he cooes, “ they’ll never look for you here .”