#dragon mammon

[acronym49]

He found a cool coin n wants to give it to mc, but he's kinda embarassed

+ Speedpaint!

[samsaurwrites]

Molten Greed (Dragon!Mammon x Reader) - Chapter 1, "Burn"

picture credits: fire | eye | scales

You start to hear it then—the slow thrum, thrum, thrumming of monumental wings. Hear the ear-splitting roar that echoes across the mountain range and turns your blood to ice in your veins. It’s here— The dragon has come.

Once The Great Mammon has a hold of you, he's not likely to let go...

Tags: Alternate Universe – Fantasy, Alternate Universe – Dragons, Dragon Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Possessive Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Greedy Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Blood and Gore, Kidnapping, Magical Bond, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Read here or on AO3.

1 | 2 (coming soon)

You awaken suddenly. Violently. Bolt upright in your bed and suck in jagged, gasping breaths that fog in the silence—the stale midnight air. Your hair is slicked to your forehead, to the back of your neck, legs still tangled in the thin linen of your bedsheets.

Your heart hammers dully; a relentless thud, thud, thudding that shakes you, that makes you dizzy.

You glance left, then right—gaze sweeping anxiously across the darkness of your bedroom. You can barely see. Can only make out vague shapes, forms that seem to shift and move: the desk, scattered with books and papers and ink; the wardrobe, worn and scratched but sturdy still; the armchairs you like to read in and the hearth that usually warms you while you sleep.

You shudder, every hair standing on end. You look again for what woke you; for what may be lurking in the inky blackness of the far corners.

Heart beating faster, chest heaving up and down and up and down, you cannot shake the feeling of dread taking root in the pit of you stomach, fingers clenching so tightly in your sheets that they shake and tremble.

… But you don’t see anything. Don’t hear anything.

You blink once. Twice. Unable to slow your breathing. Unable to will yourself to relax, to lay back down and fall asleep.

Another shiver—an ugly, vile thing—snakes its way down your spine, coiling tight around your lungs, your throat; a shiver that has nothing to do with the chill, nothing to do with the darkness that surrounds you.

A shiver that makes you sick.

Then you see it—see something.

Off in the distance. A looming shadow that soars over the mountains that ring the city, swooping over pines and firs that shudder in its wake. You stumble from your bed, tripping over the sheets that trail behind you, just barely managing to catch yourself against the stone frame of your window.

Its image warbles, distorted by imperfect, wavy glass—but it’s unmistakable.

The glimmer of obsidian scales, gleaming in the moonlight. 

You start to hear it then—the slow thrum, thrum, thrumming of monumental wings. Hear the ear-splitting roar that echoes across the mountain range and turns your blood to ice in your veins.

Gooseflesh ripples across your arms, your legs, and your stomach plummets. Tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You want to run. Need to. Need to find someplace where you can hide, where it can’t find you; where it can’t rip you apart, limp from limb; where it can’t bite you in two or crush you underfoot or burn you alive.

You want to wake up.

(This has to be a nightmare).

You want to, you want to, you want to.

But you stand frozen. Rooted in place as terror’s bony fingers claw at you, digging deep into flesh and muscle, dragging you down to your knees—shaking, helpless.

It’s here—

The dragon has come.

Alarm bells blare in the distance, a discordant, sonorous sound that rouses the keep, the city—and then you remember your parents, you sister; then you find the strength to force yourself to your feet.

You sprint from your bedroom, wrapped only in a thin sleeping dress, feet bare. Throw open your door and burst out into the hall, out into the chaos.

Servants and guardsmen and staff race through the hallways. Pushing and shoving, shouting and screaming—for order, for their loved ones, for help. Most prepare. Grabbing weapons. Barricading windows, doorways. Herding women and children and the elderly down below, deep into the keep’s hold where they may yet be safe. Some cower. Curled up in corners or huddled beneath grand staircases, weeping, praying.

Though to whom, you don’t know.

You dive into the crowd. Fight against a sea of bodies that surge the opposite way—towards the hold, towards safety. You call out for your sister. Scream her name. Grabbing whoever you can, whoever will let you.

Someone must have seen her. Someone must have taken her below already.

Most wrench away before you can ask—tearing their arm from your grasp, shoving you backwards, pinning you in place with seething, resentful glares.

“Please!” you shout, “will you please just—”

The ground lurches beneath you. Suddenly. Violently.

“It’s on the walls!”

The keep creaks, whining and groaning, wood and stone and mortar threatening to buckle underneath the weight of the beast, underneath the force as stone is ripped from stone by fierce and unforgiving claws.

You scramble to your feet.

Run—urging your legs faster, faster—as glass shatters and fire explodes behind you, blowing you forward.

You land hard. Sent skidding, rolling across rough stone that bites and cuts. All at once, the air is forced out of your lungs. You feel something pop. Something that sends pain ratcheting down your arm.

You drag yourself upright. Scramble up onto your feet. Heaving, gasping, cradling your arm against your chest. Adrenaline surges through you. Keeps you moving, keeps you stumbling down the hall while the sounds of battle rage at your back—steel clashing against scale; the rip and tear of armor, of flesh; screams and cries and roars that deafen you.

You cover one ear with a shaking, bloodied hand and you run.

Bare feet pounding against stone. Choking on the stench of charred flesh, on smoke. Legs weak and burning. You run until the screaming isn’t quite as loud. Until the heat isn’t quite as blistering. You run until you’re crashing through your sister’s door and shouting for her to come to you, quickly.

In the beat of silence that follows, you start to think that maybe someone else found her. That maybe she got out. That maybe she’s safe. But then you hear whimpering. Hear shifting and shuffling and then she crawls out from behind a toppled dresser. Limps towards you, covered in soot and debris, and collapses into your open arms.

You cup her face. Barely notice the jolt of pain in your arm as you hold her close. As you cup her face and quiet her crying, smoothing your trembling fingers over her hair.

She’s bleeding, you notice, from an ugly gash on her forehead.

But she’s alive. And so are you.

“We need to—” you start, just as something massive collapses outside, crashing to the ground with such force, sending shockwaves so strong, you lose your balance and fall to your knees. The stone above you shudders, your sister shrieks, and that spurs you back onto your feet.

Coughing, you pull your sister along as quickly as her limp will allow. You intend to join the others, to hide away below the keep—but the way you came is part of what collapsed. Filled now with fire and smoke and death. You see blood, pooling between the stones; see legs, arms, hands, sticking out of the rubble; hear screaming, sobbing.

Pleading.

You stagger backwards. Back into the wall. Open your mouth to shout, to warn your sister not to look, but you break off into a violent coughing fit instead.

The smoke—it’s everywhere. Too much, too thick. It blankets the hallways, swirling and churning. You yank the front of your dress up and over your mouth and nose, but it hardly helps. The smoke stings in your eyes; it coats your throat and seeps into your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Keep her safe.

You run, as best you can. Drag your sister along with you, as best you can, while she stumbles and sobs, tears cutting tracks through the soot caking her face.

Keep her safe, keep her safe, keep her safe

You feel sick.

Feel dizzy.

Wake up.

Feel your steps growing slower, more uncoordinated. With each step, each tug on her arm, each pull away from the carnage. The flames.

Keep her safe.

You have to keep her safe.

You feel along the wall, moving as quickly as you can. Eyes burning. Flinching shut involuntarily.

The entire keep shakes. A sudden, lurching movement that has you stumbling blindly forward. The dragon must have landed again, because the ceiling begins to shudder under its weight. Cracking. Crumbling. Raining dust and small chunks of stone down on you. On your sister. Impacting against your head, your shoulders; cutting into your skin.

Soon, you’re able to find what you are looking for and collapse—from relief, from exhaustion—against the carved wooden door to the throne room; double over as a hacking cough wracks your shoulders.

You try to open it. Brace your shoulder against it and shove, but it’s stuck. Hardly budging, even when you throw your weight against it over and over and over again. You glance behind you, panic roiling and writhing in your stomach as the fire creeps closer—growing larger and hotter, consuming everything in its path.

You beat your fist against the door. Hear the ceiling above start to fracture—

Wake up.

Beg and scream and shove as spiderwebbing cracks splinter and widen overhead—

Wake up, wake up, wake up—

You don’t want to die—

Then finally, finally, the door gives way.

You and your sister tumble inside, landing in a crumbled heap seconds before the ceiling collapses in on itself, sending great swaths of dirt and rubble and fire surging up into the air.

That sound—the crack of stone, the bending snap of wood—it’s the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

It leaves you reeling; leaves your ears ringing, your fingers numb and trembling as you stare at the place you’d stood mere moments ago.

“It’s okay,” you hear yourself gasp, reaching out to grab your sister’s hand. “It’s—”

Then, you hear it roar. Closer now than it was before.

So, so much closer.

You scramble to your feet. Moving on instinct. On adrenaline. You yank you sister backwards. Towards the throne in the back of the room. Shove her against it and shield her with your body as the dragon crashes through the ceiling.

You stare, frozen, as it swoops down towards you. Barely comprehending the beast before you;

the black scales edged in glittering gold; the monstrous, leathery wings and the midnight webbing veined with silver; the claws, flared and caked in blood and gore.

Wake up.

Just before it lands—it shifts. Morphs.

Lands on two feet instead of four. Looking almost…

Almost human.

Except for the scales that cover its ankles, that travel upwards, covered by a dark, slim-fitting trousers; scales that taper off around its hips and give way to smooth, tanned skin. Except for the pale white tattoos that curl along the planes of its torso, its abdomen; the corkscrew horns that part snow white hair.

Almost human, you think—except for the slit pupils engulfed in molten gold, the ones that flex and dilate and darken when they settle on you.

It stops, only a handful of feet away from you now, and you hide your sister behind you. On your knees. Muscles tensed. Breathing jagged, haggard. Skin covered in a layer of dirt and sweat and blood. Your blood.

Hers.

The beast—the monster—in front of you looks human, but it isn’t.

You know that it isn’t.

It crouches down, makes itself smaller before it opens its mouth. Before it starts to speak. A low, velvety sound that makes your eyes grow wide in disbelief; makes your grip tighten on your sister.

You can’t understand what it’s saying—not past the ringing in your ears, the sound of blood rushing behind them.

It cocks its head to the side, watches you like it’s awaiting an answer.

“W-what?” you stammer, eyebrows furrowing, voice weak and watery.

It blinks at you, slowly, lazily, before its eyes crinkle and it starts to laugh.

“I said,” it stands again, smirking now. “If ya come with me, I’ll leave everyone else alive.”

You stare at it, incredulous.

“Come… with you?” you repeat slowly, once out loud, but over and over again in your head. “I-I don’t… Why would I—"

“’Cause,” it interrupts, taking one slow step after another, closing the distance between until it’s right in front of you. “I’ll leave, and I’ll never come back here again.” It peers around your shoulder, behind you, glancing disinterestedly at your sister who cowers and shakes.

“She’ll be safe,” he says. “They’ll all be. And you—” it takes your wrist and yanks you to your feet, all strength and corded muscles, capturing your waist and pulling you flush against it. “You get to be one of my—” it the tip of your nose with one finger.  

“—Pretty.”

Tap.

“—Little.”

Tap.

“—Treasures.”

Tap.

You stare up at it. At burning, smoldering gold that threatens to swallow you whole if you stare too long. Tears sting in the corners of your eyes; welling up, spilling over, rolling unbidden down soot-stained cheeks.

Your vision is hazy, swimming in and out of focus. Blurring in time with your frenzied pulse, with the throbbing in your shoulder. Your thoughts slow to a crawl, mind steeped in smoke, in smog.

Any moment now, you know you’ll wake up—

—you have to.

“I… I don’t trust you,” you whisper, choke out past the burning lump of coal in your throat. “How do I… How do I know that you won’t just—”

Wake up.

“You don’t have to,” it hums, hooking a finger through the strap of your night dress, sliding it up and over your shoulder, back into place. “I’ll make ya a promise I can’t break.”

You have to—

It lingers, tracing the shape of your collarbone. Its touch is warmer… Softer than you expected.

—wake up, wake up, wake up.

“Okay.”

Its face breaks into a grin. One that is too broad, too sharp—too full of pointed teeth.

Whatever it says next, you don’t quite hear. Not when its pointer finger settles on your sternum, pressing gingerly into your skin. Not when a pain—sharp and searing—pierces through the center of your chest.

A strangled cry rips its way out of your throat, and your muscles seizing up. Pain crackling and sparking like lightning. Knocking the wind out of you; making your knees buckle and your vision darken.

The dragon catches you. Holds you against it while you burn from the inside out. 

You think you hear it whisper—

“Mine.”

Then, as suddenly as the pain began, it dissipates; settles to a dull throbbing.

Woozy, you look down. Feel faint when you see reddened, angry flesh; when you see what looks like burn scars. Singed into your sternum, just above the swell of your breasts—two arched wings, flared and encircling a seven-pointed star; one ringed by runes, ancient, indecipherable. You go to touch it, reaching towards the mark with trembling fingers, but the dragon catches your wrist.

“Don’t,” it murmurs, softly, gently. And something inside you urges you to listen.

You nod meekly. Look down when it takes hold of your hand, lacing your fingers together; when you catch a glimpse of the same mark burned into its palm. Then, you look towards your sister. Slowly, in a daze, you meet her wide, tear-filled eyes and manage a weak smile.

A fragile one. One just on the verge of snapping in two.

The dragon tugs you away. Further and further away.

Keep her safe.

It says nothing more as it hoists you up. As it shifts and grows and you find yourself seated in the middle of a broad back; grasping at darkened, shiny scales as it flares its wings and kicks off, leaping up into the sky.

Leaving your sister behind.

… This will keep her safe.

You cling to it. Wrap your arms around as much of its neck as you can. Watch numbly as your city, your home shrinks and smolders, pinpricks of light flickering and flaring in the darkness. You watch until it disappears behind the mountains. Until you can’t bear to keep your eyes open any longer. Until the wind deafens you and you don’t have it in you to stay awake any longer.

Thanks for reading!! You can check out my other writing here.

[linuxealcipher]

I can't believe I haven't been drawing more dragons for smaugust.

Anyways have this art I did for silly times.

The orange dragon isnt my oc, it's based on @moemoemammon obey me Mc. The dragon design is my silly creation. For both of them.

[ruewrites]

DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS CLASSES FOR THE CHARACTERS BECAUSE I'M A NERD

Lucifer

Devotion turned Oathbreaker Paladin

Far Traveler Background

Mammon

Arcane Trickster Rogue

Charlatan Background

Leviathan

Storm Sorcerer

Hermit Background

Satan

Berserker Barbarian

Investigator Background

Asmodeus

College of Glamour Bard

Entertainer Background

Beelzebub

Rune Knight Fighter

Bodyguard Background

Belphegor

Death Domain Cleric

Bereaved Background

Lilith

Circle of Stars Druid

Amnesiac Background

Diavolo

Drakewarden Ranger

Noble Background

Barbatos

Long Death Monk

Butler Background

Mephistopheles

College of Lore Bard

Noble Background

Simeon

War Domain Cleric

Writer Background

Raphael

Eldritch Knight Fighter

City Watch Background

Luke

Paladin of Devotion

Cook Background

Solomon

Order of the Profane Soul Bloodhunter (Archfey Patron)

Endless Soul Background

Thirteen

Battlesmith Artificer

Experimenter Background

[justaweasel]

Headcanons but I'm a big fat nerd

I've seen a couple times here that Satan totally got hooked on DND (Levi too probably but this isn't about him right now), so I just imagine that his rare gemstones collection is a huge compilation of DND dice that he has and only the brothers know that it's just DND dice.

A few years back Mammon tried to steal Satan's "gemstones" and was mildly disappointed when they were just some dice. But then he realized that they're pretty and his crow instincts leapt in (also nerds on the internet will pay A TONNN for dice, just look on Etsy).

Solomon is suspicious of the true nature of Satan's collection and will always try to get a good look at it. Satan isn't ashamed of his collection but really likes to fuck with Solomon.

Though, his collection isn't a complete lie, he does have dice made from gemstones (that's a real thing just so everyone knows), the dice are just kept somewhere safe as having them in a pile will wear them down much faster. He can also use his metal dice as paper weights.

Satan also uses his sharp edged d4s to prank Lucifer. He'll place them outside Lucifer's door and watch as Lucifer's foot basically gets stabbed with the force equal or even greater than stepping on a Lego. Satan always washes those dice afterward (gotta get old man stink off of them).

Bonus! Levi, Satan, and Solomon all love DND. They're trying to get Diavolo into it too but his schedule is too hectic for sessions to last too long. One time, they got Simeon to be a DM and they were hit with the most heartclenching, blood pumping, juiciest, most well written out storyline ever. They'd love for Simeon to do that again but Luke is getting curious and Simeon wouldn't want him to find out about all the "other" aspects of DND (other = seducing the dragon, and how they could've possibly gotten out of that dungeon alive).

[iisasarcasticlittleshite]

An Innocent Mistake (Part 5)

"And what, exactly, do you think you are doing?"

MC yelped, leaping off the coffee table in a perfect imitation of a cat seeing a cucumber.

Levi, Satan and Mammon sat bolt upright on the sofa, the third eldest hurriedly hiding his DDD behind his back.

Lucifer arched a brow, catching sight of a scaly tail skulking behind the sofa in a hurry.

"W-hey! Big brother!" Mammon cried nervously, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Fancy seeing you here!"

Lucifer smiled dangerously. "I live here too, remember, little brother?"

"Yikes!" Leviathan squeaked, pushing back into the sofa as if he could disappear into it.

"Levi, the phone, if you please."

The otaku vehemently shook his head, hiding his mouth behind his hand. "You'll never take me alive, villain!"

Satan rolled his eyes, unbothered by Lucifer's scathing glare. "Good grief, could you two act any guiltier. And as for you, MC-"

The dragon let out an indignant growl, now firmly tucked in under the sofa, he was almost surprised they still fit.

Lucifer contemplated his next move carefully. It was no use pushing Satan or MC, the human is impervious to him at this point, and Levi may short-circuit if he pushed too hard.

Therefore...

"Mammon?"

The second born yelped, and predictably, cracked like a fresh egg.

"Levi was usin' MC to spy on that movie bein' filmed at the café downtown! I was gonna sell the footage for a pretty grimm and Satan wanted to see if he could use 'em to spy on you!"

"Baka."

"Idiot."

Lucifer smiled in satisfaction. "I'll deal with your punishment later. For now, MC, come here."

The dragon slid out from under the sofa, the camera and harness still strapped to them.

They stared up at him defiantly, as if daring him to punish them. Lucifer is only too happy to oblige, and holds out his arm expectantly.

The dragon rolled their eyes, sharing a look with Satan before obediently flying onto Lucifer's arm, allowing him to remove the camera from their chest, which he of course, confiscated.

"Wait for me in my office, understand?"

MC whined, but one look from the oldest had them reluctantly flying off, leaving the three demon's to Lucifer's lecture.

Lucifer knew he could go on for a while, still, he didn't expect what he came back to in his office.

He loosened his tie as he stepped in, the day's stress began to feel heavy. MC being trapped as a dragon didn't help matters, even when they did their best to stay out of trouble, they just can't help it.

As amusing as it is to have them clawing up the faces of demons that poke fun at those they love, he wants his smiling human back, and soon.

He looks at the fireplace, expecting to see MC curled up in the armchair in front of it, but they aren't there. His eyes dart to his desk, and soften, as he found the little dragon sound asleep, spread out over his paperwork.

They're on their back, legs in the air, wings spread across the width of their desk. Mammon was right, they really had grown.

MC started off the size of your average housecat, with a wingspan about the length of one of his arms, but now, about a week into their winged experience, that wingspan has doubled.

Solomon claimed not to know how to reverse the transformation, let alone how to translate the after effects of such a thing, for all he knew, MC wouldn't stop growing until they turned back, or they could turn back all on their own.

Lucifer reminds himself that this is Solomon, an infuriatingly persistent man.

Distracting himself, he admires the pattern of scales down MC's belly, the curve of their claws, how they slightly reflect candle-light.

Even as a dragon, his MC finds a way to be captivating.

Still, they are sleeping on his work, and their tail is perilously close to his ink well.

With a reluctant sigh, he brushed a finger over the arch of their horn, coaxing open those familiar eyes. "Comfortable, are we?"

MC blinks up at him, and for just a moment, he swore he could see his human smiling up at him, before the dragon nibbled gently at his gloved fingertip.

"Come, if you're going to sleep, at least do it out of the way."

He sat at his desk, softly patting his thigh.

"No matter what you look like, this is always your place, menace."

MC purred, playfully swatting him with their tail before curling up in his lap, resting their chin in the crook of his arm as he muttered a spell to start his record player, and worked in peaceful comfort with them in his arms.

Part 6

[ivediedmorethan20times]

concept art

concept art for an Obey Me! au fic I’m in the process of working on with @authormars

Lucifer: Peacock phoenix

Mammon: Kitsune

Leviathan: Basilisk

Satan: Zheng

Asmodeus: Cat Sith

Beelzebub + Belphegor: Nandi bears

Diavolo: Western dragon

Barbatos: European dragon

[grand-romantic]

Reactions to my MC roasting the life out of Belphagore for ever assuming he had any chance to be in my vicinity

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 9: [DRAGON AU] lucifer / bonding

ao3 link

note: quick note/clarification just in case: ik has nicknamed lucifer and mammon "boss" and "goldie" respectively, so those are the dragons she's referring to in her narration!

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

“I’m not having any part in this,” Lucifer had said. “This is to be your responsibility only,” He’d said.

He’s… not entirely sure how this happened in the first place. At some point over the last few weeks, he’s gone from disapproving overseer of Mammon’s inexplicable adoption of a human child, to that same child’s primary caretaker.

Mammon is usually in charge of finding her a spot to sleep, but it’s Lucifer who makes sure she eats at the same times as them, or escorts her to the stream every morning so she can wash her face. Occasionally, he brings her strangely-shaped rocks, or sticks and flowers from the forest, so that she has something to play with.

He’s not sure why he feels the need to intervene. He’ll blame Mammon’s incompetence - and the child’s rather unhappy habit of walking straight into mortal danger.

The latest in her series of mishaps involves fish, a river, and a very panicked Levi. Lucifer is - as usual - surveying the territory when his brother comes racing up the hill, and dumps the human in a soggy heap at his feet.

“What now?” He asks, mildly aggravated, then pauses. This isn’t the first time she’s taken a tumble, but this is the sorriest state he’s seen her in so far.

“It’s not moving!” wails Levi, bounding in distressed circles and getting water all over the rocks. “I think— I think I killed it, Lucifer!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He replies, a little distracted by his running. “What hap— will you stop that?!”

Levi skids to a stop. His barbels twitch anxiously.

Lucifer ducks down and nudges the child with his snout. When she doesn’t respond, he puffs a cloud of smoke into her face, then tries again. This time, she makes a bubbly sound.

“Is it alive?” Levi asks anxiously.

“Stop calling her an it, Levi,” He grumbles, then straightens up. “She’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” Levi relaxes. He regards the little human for a moment - nose twitching - then flicks his tail and bounds off again.

Lucifer watches him go and heaves a silent sigh. He’s been seeing a new, fickle side to his younger brothers as of late. They can’t seem to decide whether or not they enjoy their new ward’s company.

Well, except Mammon. Perhaps this is the upside of being simple-minded - he doesn’t seem to care about everything that comes attached to the word ‘human’ for dragons like them.

Lucifer isn’t so naive, but it’s hard to look at this half-drowned little creature and think ‘dangerous’. It’s even harder to think ‘cruel’, ‘murderer’, or anything else in between. Still - best not get too attached.

“Up you get.” He attempts to nudge her to her feet. She just coughs pitifully and slumps back onto the ground. “We can find you a sunny spot to dry off in.”

The child - predictably, considering she can’t understand him - doesn’t move. She looks rather ill, actually.

Lucifer thinks for a while. The child blinks up at him with far-too-large eyes as he clicks, ignites the fire in his chest, then settles down beside her.

“Don’t get used to this,” He warns her, which is completely futile, and he knows it. “It’ll be a hassle if you get sick.”

The human doesn’t respond, of course, but manages to prop herself up enough to huddle closer to his side. He finds himself blowing idle smoke rings as he waits for the heat to dry her off.

“Be more careful next time,” He says after a while. “Leave the fishing to Levi.”

The child looks up at him cluelessly, then makes a series of chirpy noises. This is, in particular, is something new to him - he’s used to hearing human language from a distance, in gruff shouts from steel-clad giants, or shrill shrieks from beige-clothed merchants.

The way the child talks is almost musical, lilting from one register to another. The strangest part is that, sometimes, he feels like he might understand.

He supposes he’s a little glad that she doesn’t seem frightened by the growls of dragon-speak. He’s found himself unconsciously making adjustments, anyway - speaking softer, trying not to make the sounds too harsh, as if trying to imitate a human register.

He’s almost dozed off by the time he remembers why he lay down in the first place. He looks down. The child’s gone and fallen asleep, still curled against his side. For some reason, the sight makes him think of baby ducks.

Lucifer contemplates this for a while. Well, he supposes there’s no helping it. Humans must get their rest, especially small ones - otherwise they won’t grow properly.

Which means he might as well stay here. If he’s needed for something, surely it can wait.

-

Boss definitely seems like the most frightening dragon of the lot, but he’s actually pretty easy to get along with - as long as you follow the rules. If he starts rumbling, proceed with caution. If he’s blowing smoke rings, you could start hitting him and he won’t even care.

At least, that’s the impression I have. My fists are of inconsequential force to a dragon with near-impenetrable scales, though, so he might not have even noticed.

Living with dragons is a lot more ordinary than I thought. I had images in my head of them smashing mountains and eating boulders for fun, but mostly they just hang around and play - just like people do.

Apart from Boss. He seems to spend most of his free time standing silently on the mountain peak, staring out into the horizon. Sometimes he goes out hunting, and sometimes he goes for a fly around the forest, but mostly he just… watches.

He’s much more considerate than he looks at first glance. Less brutal killer, more affable-but-irritated caretaker. I knew all the dragon horror stories couldn’t possibly be true, but it’s nice to be vindicated.

I want to try returning the favour, but I’m not sure there’s anything I have - or can get - that a dragon would want. So I pay a little extra attention to what he gets up to the next day, and I note something useful.

Sometimes, while he’s land-watching, the wind whistles through the mountain ridges in just the right way to produce a little song. When that happens, he closes his eyes, and puffs out contented little smoke rings until he notices someone looking. So…

Goldie has a lot of shiny things in his cave. I don’t quite dare touch his main hoard, but he leaves a lot of the less precious-looking things unorganised by the walls - which means there might be something I can use there.

He’s clinking happily through his coin collection when I slip into his cave. He grunts in greeting, then goes back to organising them by colour.

“Hi, Goldie.” I stoop and squint at something small and bony-looking. “Do you think you have a flute or something around here?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Rhh?”

“It’s— ah, don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” I set aside something that looks like a watch face. “...oh!”

A pan-flute - it’s a little dusty, but not damp at all. I try blowing an experimental little melody. I’m no maestro, but I still think it sounds lovely.

Goldie makes a chittering sound. His spines flatten back as I test just how high the pipes can go.

“Oh— sorry!” He makes a show of ducking down and covering his head with his wings. “Did I hurt your ears?”

He peeks a single blue eye out and trills. It’s funny - neither of us really know what the other’s saying, but we always seem to get the message across anyway.

The next day, as soon as I notice him flapping off to find a vantage point as usual, I scramble after him. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I feel like his spot today is a lot easier to navigate up to than usual - less vertical rock faces, less jagged edges.

I sit down on the ledge beside him. He’s radiating heat, as always - his crimson eyes flick down to me, and stay there.

“I’ve got something to show you,” I announce, then pull out the pan-flute. “Listen.”

His tail flicks cautiously. I bring the flute to my mouth - slowly, so as not to alarm him - and play him a little tune.

Just as he does when the mountains whistle, he closes his eyes and relaxes. The smoke rings come soon after that.

I play through all the tunes I can think of, then improvise a few new ones. Some time after I lapse into silence, Boss opens his eyes again.

Something about him seems to have shifted. A little nervously, I give his dark scales a pat. He snorts (there’s another puff of smoke), but doesn’t look irritated at all.

“Do dragons have names?” I ask him. He just looks at me.

I tilt my head to the side, as if listening to something, then point up at him. He stares for a little while longer, then makes a rough, crackling sound, and looks off into the distance again.

Then he looks at me. Then to the sky. It takes several more tries before I realise he’s trying to draw my attention to something.

“Sun?” I muse. “Is that your name?”

He doesn’t react. I try again. “Sunny?”

Nothing again. What else do you call the sun that’d make a good name for a dragon? “Hmm… Morning-star?”

Or something that means the same thing?

“Lu…cifer?” I try.

He blinks. Then his wings flick up, and he exhales - blowing what I can only assume is a pleased puff of smoke into my face.

I beam up at him. “Do you wanna hear another song?”

I don’t know how much of the question he understands, but his eyes light up when I pick up the pan-flute again. He settles down in that way that so reminds me of a cat, and lifts a wing to shield the bright morning sun from my face.

Lucifer likes music. That’s good to know.

[hexlix]

the scariest villain in the entire setting, everybody.

[dragons-daily]

[acronym49]

Rest in peace, dragon au Mammon

[samsaurwrites]

Molten Greed (Dragon!Mammon x Reader) - Chapter 3, "Fall"

picture credits: fire | eye | scales

You start to hear it then—the slow thrum, thrum, thrumming of monumental wings. Hear the ear-splitting roar that echoes across the mountain range and turns your blood to ice in your veins. It’s here— The dragon has come.

Once The Great Mammon has a hold of you, he's not likely to let go...

Tags: Alternate Universe – Fantasy, Alternate Universe – Dragons, Dragon Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Possessive Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Greedy Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Blood and Gore, Kidnapping, Magical Bond, Mind Control, Extremely Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Read here or on AO3.

1 | 2 | 3

Time melts away like candle wax. Slow and sticky, it drips in warm rivulets that roll down your arms, your legs, drying opaque against your skin. It slips through your fingers, settling over your consciousness like a fog. You lose track of it—time. Quickly, slowly, you don’t know—mind wavering, trembling between wake and sleep.  

You notice the torches never dim. You wonder why that is.

You lay on one side, cloak wrapped around you, part of it bunched up underneath your head like a pillow, one arm dipped into the water, sweeping back and forth carelessly. Mindlessly. You try to count the seconds, try to count the number of times you blink, the number of times you breathe.

But you lose count. Over and over and over again.

You blink. Inhale—one thousand four hundred fifty five.

Roll onto you back.

Exhale—one thousand four hundred fifty… fifty…?

You start over. One, two, three, four—

You don’t know how long its been. Since it left you here. Since it did… whatever it did to make you feel like that, to make you react like that. You don’t know how long it’s been since it took you. Since it attacked your home, since it brought with it a wake of ruin.

Your stomach tells you it’s been a while. Long enough that it aches and growls. Long enough that your mouth feels so dry and sticky it makes you sick, and then you’re perching on the edge of the pool, on hands and knees, gulping down handfuls of water, even though the taste is bitter and turns your already empty stomach.

You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth, fighting back a grimace.

Hungry.

Your stomach growls, so, so loud in the silence of the cave; so loud compared to the sound of your breathing.

You sit there, like that, for a while more. Until your legs start to go numb, after they do. Thinking. Remembering. Worrying at your nails, at the blood you fear is still caked there. Then, you find yourself tracing the brand at the center of your chest, noting the shape, the feel of the raised skin beneath your fingertips.

Your breathing quickens.

You remember the kiss. You can’t help it. You remember the way his mouth molded to yours, violent in its desperation; the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way he tasted. You remember the fog and the heat and the pull. The feel of his hands on your hips, pulling you closer, tighter against him—

Want to, want to, want to—

Your fingernails dig into your chest. Trembling.

You want to forget.

You want to scratch it off.

Sick. You feel so sick.

Made a mistake. You think; feel like the room is spinning. Feel like a thousand spiders are wriggling around underneath your skin.

Should have let him kill you. Should have let him eat you. Should have let the castle crush you or thrown yourself down the mountain or drowned yourself in the pool or—

A noise from the tunnel rips you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you whip your head towards the sound.

The silence that follows is paralyzing. You wait, breath stuck in your throat, heart in a frenzy. You wait for it to show itself. Wait for the burn, for that nettling pull you can’t ignore. Shoulders tensed, eyes wide and unblinking—fists clenched so tightly your fingernails nearly draw blood.

You wait—you don’t know how long—until your breathing slows, until you can hear past the dull thudding in your ears. Only then do you dare unfold your limbs and rise onto shaky legs. Only then do you creep towards the sound, one cautious step at a time, and peer into the tunnel beyond.

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust. Takes your stomach merely an instant to recognize what lies on the ground in front of you.

Food.

A bowl of steaming stew. One that smells meaty and hearty and filling.

You lurch towards it, and then stop yourself mid-step, jerking away from it like a puppet on strings. You force yourself to pause. To listen, as your stomach grumbles and your mouth waters. The smell is nearly overpowering, rich and fragrant and warm, and your headache worsens.

You wait as long as you can and. Wait as long as is physically possible, waiting for the trap, for the catch, before you snatch up the bowl and retreating back into the cave.

You try to listen while you eat. While you devour what was given to you. You try to keep watch on the tunnel while you slurp down hot broth and shovel chunks of meat and vegetables into your mouth with your fingers. But you quickly lose focus, lose yourself in the first taste of food in what feels like days—months.

You eat quickly, and the bowl is empty almost before you realize it. You drop it off to the side, licked clean, and listen to it rattle against the uneven floor. You lean back against the wall, content, for the moment, with a full belly and a slaked thirst.

Satiated.

Soon, your eyelids begin to grow heavy, whole body wrapped in a gentle, pleasing warmth. You consider sleeping. Weigh it against the effort it would take to stay awake, against the mindless boredom that would surely be your only companion.

You start to drift, to wander in that familiar space between wakefulness and sleep. Lost in thought, lost in daydreams—of warm summer nights, of the sour taste of beer, of laughter and fast paced melodies, of glowing meadows, flowers stained silver by the moonlight.

A fierce scraping sound jolts you back to the present. The sound of claws against stone—a sound you’re all too familiar with. Your lungs seize up, filling with a rancid, creeping dread. You hear the sound of wings unfurling. A sound that sends chills down your spine, that tramples the marigolds and the hibiscus, whose sweet scent lingers still in your mind.

You stagger to your feet, hurrying down the tunnel, arriving to the entrance just in time to see the dragon soaring away, a glittering obsidian slash across the sky.

You swallow thickly.

You wonder where it’s going. Wonder whose home it will destroy next.

And then, you wonder if now is your chance to escape.

You stand there. Watching as the beast flies away, as it shrink and shrinks and shrinks until it disappears entirely into the darkness.

Now.

Heart in your throat, you edge towards the mouth of the cave, hand against the wall—step after step until your toes are only inches from the ledge. And then you look down. Then, you feel your stomach flip. Feel dizzy.

It’s a long way down.

The wind whips and howls, near sentient in its malevolence, its screams and cries for blood. The snow makes it difficult to see, difficult to make out anything but distance and danger, and the chill cuts into you, piercing deep, seeping into your bones, your marrow. But—you think you see a crag, an outcropping closer to you than the hardpacked ground further down.

You think you see a way down.

A way out.

You step away, turning your back towards the mouth of the cave. You stare. At the darkness, at the depths of the cave that you haven’t dared set foot in yet.

This is your chance.

Quickly, you make your way back to the hot spring room, swiping a torch from the walls to light your way. You return to the main chamber and pause—hesitate—for just a moment. Just long enough for the brand between your breasts to throb; just long enough for a whisper of guilt to bore itself into your chest.

Then, pulse raging, you proceed deeper into the cave.

This tunnel is shorter, but no less winding. It’s easier, with the torch. No stumbling, no blindly feeling your way forward. You follow the path, through twists and turns until it opens into a massive cavern. Bigger than the central one.

Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.

And nearly every inch of it is covered in mountains of sparkling, glittering gold.

It’s a sea—no, an ocean of treasure. Rushing rivers and gilded meadows, soaring mountains and glimmering skies; stalactites and stalagmites branching from the floors and ceilings, spanning the open air in thin and twisted columns of dark stone; all of it stained a molten, glowing gold.

It steals your breath away. Stops you dead in your tracks, mouth going slack. Leaves you standing there, wide-eyed, lips parted, just staring. Then you start moving. Start searching through piles and piles of trinkets and gold and treasures, grabbing the things you’ll need.

You find boots first. Too big, but better than nothing in the snow you’ll be facing outside. Then you find an extra cloak, a bag to hold it in. A pair of trousers. A dagger that feels far too heavy in your hands. Then, you grab a handful of coins.

You’ll need some way to pay for your journey home.

Then, you set to cutting, using the dagger to tear long strips from extravagant rugs and gaudy clothes and anything else you can find. Set to braiding the thinner strips together; set to tying them all together in a long, make-shift rope. You work quickly, as quickly as you can, but your fingers tremble while you do so.

You don’t know how long you have. How long it’ll be until it returns.

With more treasure? With another captive?

That thought stops you, mid cut through a silken ballgown.

Should you wait? Should you try to save them too?

No. You shake your head. No, you can’t risk that.

This is your chance.

Your only chance.

~

It takes you hours to finish constructing the mechanism of your escape. Hours to tie together strip after strip of braided cloth, working until you have a length of knotted rope just long enough that it might let you reach the rocky crag you think you saw before.

From there, you’ll just have to hope you can climb the rest of the way down.

In the rest of your searching, you find a pair of gloves. Just like the boots, they’re too big for you, too long for your fingers, but they’re thick and leather and will help protect your hands from the rocks and the cold while you descend the mountain.

You coil the rope around and around, pulling on and testing each knots as you go, as anxiety twists and squirms in your gut. As it wraps around your lungs, your heart, squeezing so tightly you start to tremble.

Standing, you pat the pack on your hip, listening for the rattle of coin against dagger against canteen, a canteen that you plan to fill with snow once you reach the first outcropping.

You start back towards the entrance, torch in hand. One step, followed by another and another. Your legs feel heavy. Weighted and slow. You wonder if it’s the boots, the layers and layers of clothing you’ve piled on your body, but something else stops you.

Something roots you in place.

A mix of fear and dread and… and guilt?

You shake your head, grip tightening around the rope. Pushing past it.

This is your chance.

You come to a stop a few feet from the ledge. Stare out at the night, at the inky blackness, searching for any disturbances among the stars. Listen out for the thrum of dragon wings, for the roar that turns your blood to ice.

But all you hear is the wind.

You set to securing one end of your rope, tying it tight around one of the thick stalagmite teeth that border the mouth of the cave. You test it. Pulling backwards, leaning with all your weight.

It holds.

For now. 

Heart hammering, knees weak, you approach the edge. Toss the untethered side over the edge and watch it uncoil, whipping back and forth in the wind. It stretches, longer and longer and longer, until it doesn’t. Until it swings around in the open air.

You still see it, you think, an outcropping large enough for you to stand on, for you to continue your climb down, maybe ten or fifteen feet below your rope. But it’s hard to tell in the dark, in the snow and the wind.  

You sit down on the ledge of the cave, feet hanging off the side.

Don’t go, a voice whispers. From inside you. From around you. Quiet and pleading. Stay.

The brand on your sternum burns, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Blocking out the voice. Blocking out the pain. You clench your fists. Force your eyes open and check the knots again. Check the ties around your waist again. Check the laces on your boots again.

This is your chance, you repeat, over and over again.

Breathing quick and hard, you situate your foot on top of the first knot, looping the length of the rope around your palm.

Then, you look down. Growing dizzy. Sick.

You’ve never been afraid of heights…

But this is different.

This is lethal, death nipping at your heels.

You slide the rest of your weight off and onto the rope. Bite down hard on the inside of your cheek as the rope creaks. As it stretches and sways.

As it holds you upright.

A manic laugh bubbles up from your throat, sharp and watery.

You start to climb down, one foot at a time, using the knots at support, keeping a firm grasp on the knots above you. It’s slow and difficult and perilous, but you’re halfway down now, and you were right.

There is a ledge there. A place to rest your weary arms and burning thighs.

But the wind is vicious and howling.

It buffets you. Knocking you back and forth. Forcing you off the cliff face just to slam you back into it, bruising your shoulder, your sides against the unforgiving rocks.

Almost there.

Almost free.

The wind surges again. Violent and angry. Blinding you—weakening your grip.

And then you just—Fall.

Thanks for reading!! You can check out my other writing here.

[unlikelysaintdelele]

I can't help myself. I want the white haired one.

[mushroompancake]

Seven deadly princes of hell

[lichennthrope-fr]

New breeding pair!!

Blood/Maroon/Mint