nestingdevil | (no subject)

HIT ME WITH...SOMETHING IDK

hey boss man
found this
thing
can we keep it

( and what did he find, pray tell?

just this harmless-looking thing right here! )

"Laid low, evading capture. A lifetime on the run.
Don't know the day when I last saw the sun."

The change of the next millennium had brought with it a renaissance of sorts; where technology reigned supreme and superstition had turned the corner towards more mainstream entertainment. No longer did the masses fear what lurked behind every corner. Science had given them the answers to their questions and explanations for whatever went bump in the night. It was an admirable and impressive half truth. A way to calm the herd and keep progress on the ever-chugging train track towards advanced civilization.

But not everyone was on board. And those that still held on, those that still knew, still believed, were the very reason he'd ended up here in the first place.

Greed watches one of the copper pipes hanging above him. He'd noticed the slight crack in it months before. How it rattled whenever the sink a few floors up switched from cold to hot; the way it groaned and whined whenever the weather took a turn for the worse. Today, it's a few healthy inches of rain giving it trouble and as the sliver of a window in the basement's upper corner films up, he catches the small crack bleeding out again. The steady trickle of water, a thunderclap in all his silence.

A tired smile teases on his face. He should have known better, really. Avarice - for him, it meant honesty. Everything he was, everything he is: it's clearly defined. What he wanted and craved, forever worn on his sleeve. Mortals, however, came with the complexities of their small moments on earth. And when one is faced with the idea of being lost for eternity? He can't blame them for being desperate. For deciding to fight, claw, beat, and escape from a cage of their own making, no matter what could be the cost.

The deal had turned a corner as soon as he was summoned. Usually, he knew when someone was going to give him a call. There'd be a hint, a visit, anything. This, however, came with more than a touch of desperation. The man had been frantic when he first arrived: sweaty skin, ringing hands, eyes bulged out like saucer plates on the bad end of a cocaine line. It was if, finally, he knew his end was coming and it was time to clean the ledger and get all that red, Lord all that red, out, out, out.

When the priest showed up, Greed had laughed. Really laughed. After all, what could an average holy man really do?

He hadn't anticipated the angel masquerading as a demon hunter and that.

Well -

Greed lifts his hand, bringing with it a thick chunk of industrial-grade chain. With a snap of his fingers, he calls what he can from the world. A single cigarette crackles between his knuckles - its tip smoldering and smoking from whence it came. He brings it to his mouth. What little he can savor, he does, and while a familiar sensation burns at the back of his throat, his eyes retrace the long pipe again. No, he hadn't been prepared for that little surprise. It wasn't one of the ones he knew, far from it. A new white-collar hot shot looking to climb the ranks. But he, she, they had everything they needed to get the job done. And in the end, he was bound, chained, and dragged down into the bowels of some God (the irony) forsaken basement of a church miles away from his previous destination.

That was in what humans called July; when the humidity really set in and the roaches of the world multiplied in the hot, persistent damp.

Greed winces as his wrist turns just enough to let him exhale through his teeth. The shackles against his skin have been treated to an almost militant schedule. Fresh holy water first, blessed wine second, and a touch of real divinity to seal the deal. Honestly, under any other circumstance, he would be impressed by the whole thing. Each detail of his imprisonment is perfect; the execution of it, air tight. And isn't there a story the mortals used to tell once upon a time? The man of Greece who once tricked death -

His teeth bite into the filter of his smoke, squishing the padding and warping it into a tangled, lumpy mess.

With the chill of winter months forgotten, the warm, stretching days of summer bring about a different kind of commotion. Humans (be them locals, tourists, or those on an unholy sabbatical) crowd the 'Nest throughout the day. Most have come simply for a drink or the peculiar name; a place off the beaten path with enough localized charm and vague appearance that curiosity often won over caution. However, for those who knew what it stood for, it was a place to offer up their patronage. All throughout the day, the Sin is constantly in and out. Hour by hour, minute by minute, he reappears behind the barback only to disappear again into one of the building's many backrooms; his private deals and struck bargains saved for more intimate settings.

By the time night rolls around, most of the patrons have either shuffled away on their own or have been coerced into doing so (namely through Roa's heavy hand), leaving the establishment quiet into the lull of the morning. Shrunk candles and lazy smoke sag sleepily in the dim; their wind down, a perfect match for the welcome silence. Yet, isn't it true?

There's always a calm before the storm.

Despite all of their attempts, it was only a matter of time before someone (or something) came knocking. It starts with a simple hush: the candles go out with a sudden breeze, the electricity hums and vibrates.

And that is when everything goes south, south, south.

The door to the front blows wide, sending bottles and glasses alike smearing like wet paint across a wall. Because what's on the other side aren't their usual guests, oh no. There's a group of them. A group of them with scowling looks and enough distaste and disregard that it's all too obvious that they aren't here for anything good. While most of the group appears to be in somewhat of an order (the way they similarly scan the building with a cool sense of superiority), the smallest stands out like a sore thumb. They're slim, slimy; a tiny thing with long, spiked-black hair and a ghastly expression that's sourly bitter.

Because out of all the Sins, isn't it just Envy to be so, so rotten.

When the fight breaks out, it's messy. Feathers and tar, fire and smoke: they fill up the space in a blackening cloud, swallowing up everything and smudging the insides as angels and devils alike claw in a clash. Some people try to make an escape when one of the angels cuts them off with a gouging slice, leaving the head of the party split from the stomach upward. Bido (who had been near the front) starts to scramble away. Butt first and terror in his eyes, he shuffles blindly through the blood and gore. Bits of what had been a person stain his hands, and as the angel makes for him, the small creature swallows deafly at his own, coming demise.

He doesn't expect it when the angel falls face first onto the floor.

"Just who the fuck do you think you're messing with?"

Greed's voice rolls out, ushering in a thick tornado of soot. With one foot on the angel's back, his body leers out of the dark. Giant horns peel from his skull to grind at the hallway entrance, causing the wood to splinter like bite marks. The angel makes a noise into the floor, but as they try to stand, the Sin presses harder into its back; his raptor(ed) toes digging, just digging, to find a bit of flesh.

"Sorry, I don't think I caught that - " Greed's mouth hardly opens when he talks. Instead, his teeth grind together, causing wafts of ash to foam over his gums. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? You do know who I am, right?" Mountains of gold pillow under his foot only to grow, wither, and melt like flowers in a sped-up drought. They meet the constant stream of spit running from his mouth and forehead in a flurry of pops and hisses. For that crown of his is a molten one. A thing of desire spiling out, stretching further, to burn everything it touches.

Avarice is all consuming, hungry, and corrosive. It shouldn't be surprising that it's true namesake is the same.

Another pile of coins erupts on the angel's back, withers, and seers into its flesh. Greed leans in closer.

"Where's Envy?"

On the outside, the building's in a sad state of dilapidation. The heat's cooked the old brick to a chalky kind of white. Like the bones of a beast long-since dead, they loom baked and forgotten; the stamp of a former business, a faded memory. Even the windows don't give much away. Nailed-in boards cover what had probably once been full panes of glass back in its prime and the shutter-door tin around front's pocketed in rust holes that gap and gasp as if trying desperately, so desperately, to take a breath. The town's a ghost. A tomb. One empty, quiet, and made of dust.

It goes against everything he is, being back here. The garage had once been his haunting ground; a place he lurked, did business, and turned a would-be profit. Those times had been different. He still had a mild connection with them back then. Not friendly, not in line, no, but a cordial kind of relationship where one of them could drop something in his lap and instead of trying to kill him, all they asked was, "How much?"

Funny, how life comes full circle.

Greed pushes a chair back, making it tilt unevenly on its legs. The man he has strapped to it looks like he's seen better days. His skin is sickly and blue; the sweat sticking to him is filmy like soap scum. His eyes, though: those are the most telling. Even under the cop-bright swing lamp, they glow a smokey kind of green. A neon toxic, poisoning with otherworldly radiation.

The Sin leers forward and as his claws grip and hold the edge of the lamp, his jaws curl upwards. The cigarette in his mouth all but illuminates his smile in a fluorescent, wet-slick sneer. "Hey, hey," he snap his fingers in front of the man's face. "No, you don't get to quit on me just yet, friend. We've still got some things to talk about."

In response, the man spits a glowing wad of wet onto the floor, painting the concrete in a blacklight smear. Greed merely looks at it, and with a petulant look and an exasperated grunt, he swipes the tip of his boot over the spittle. "Ehh - see, that wasn't very nice," he slurs his words through curtains of smoke. They part over his face as soft as a graying blush, kissing and dusting his expression.

The devil sighs, removing his cigarette. "I get it. I really do. But that sibling of mine did something pretty stupid, even for them. And because they couldn't help themselves, and because you don't seem too different, we've now found ourselves here." He inhales sharply, causing a flutter of leftover smoke to wind on the corner of his mouth. "So, I'll ask you again. Where is Envy now?"

"I told you to fuck off - " The man hisses. Where his voice should be hoarse and dry, the tone of it is thick. Gurgled. It splits in two in his throat: one, that sickness. The other, a desperate, raspy sound like a drafty window or a gas leak. The man is sick, and not in the normal way humans get. That bright, throbbing green in his spit, the way his veins squirm like worms, the corpse(y) shade of his skin. It's a cancer. An envious leech, consuming everything he is, everything he was, until there's nothing left. The deep bruises under his eyes sink into his sockets and a foam slowly froths and shrinks on his lips, slicking the cracks to a gross, Vaseline sheen.

Greed's frown dips. He shakes his head and ashes his cigarette on the man's thigh. "Yeah, already too gone, aren't you? That's a shame - " With a vacant look, the Sin leisurely begins to crush his cigarette into the other's forehead. Twist by twist, grind for grind, he drills the ember into the man's skin; the hiss of flesh and burnt hair crawling in whiffs of green disease.

Mob well, my friends. 🥂

no subject

text / i feel like being stupid and you have to deal with it

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