#oc: asmodeus

[kaleidoru]

Forest Church Sermon with the High Priestess

[sancta-seraphina]

[ANGELTOBER 2024] Day 1 - Ossuary

Featuring Asmodeus with a halo made of bone.

Please check out patreon or instagram for additional lore regarding both this piece and the neat ossuary in my novels.

[patreon] [instagram] [ko-fi]

[bardic-tales]

Crucible of Faith - An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic

Summary: Bianca becomes trapped in a horrific dreamscape where Asmodeus, her father, torments her.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC)/Sephiroth

Other Characters: Asmodeus (m!OC)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Body horror, captivity, crucifixion, desecration, disassociation, emotional manipulation, hallucinations, helplessness, intrusive thoughts, mind control, non-consensual restraint, religious imagery, self-perception issues, strangulation, stigmata, supernatural horror, trauma, tentacles, unconsciousness, violence, vivid nightmares

The air was warm and wet, thick with a putrid smell that assaulted her senses.. The rancid stench of copper and rot slithered through Bianca’s nostrils as she took her first breath.

The Abyssal Plane pulsed beneath her bare feet like a beating heart. Its surface was not earth, not dirt, not stone, but flesh. Glossy, moist sinew stretched across the land. The veins beneath it glowed faintly with bioluminescent ichor. Every step she took echoed with a wet squelch, and with it, the sound of whispered laughter pressed against her ears. Father.

She knew this place. Knew it from her dreams as a little girl. Knew it as she went mad from the fear and knowledge she wasn't quite human. She KNEW this place.

“Asmodeus.”

He stood tall. His obsidian wings unfurled, billowing like a tattered war banner lost eons ago. His long black hair floated in the stagnant air, but, most of all, his smile was cruel and familiar. His eyes, once the same as hers—gold and slitted—pinned her in place. The Prince of Lust had come.

��My daughter,” he purred. His voice once sung the hymns of the Creator. “Or should I say… Amara. Your true name, child.”

“No,” Bianca whispered, her voice shaking. “This isn’t real.”

“Oh, but it is.” His feet didn’t touch the ground. “You brought yourself here. Or rather, your fear did. Look.”

The ground convulsed. From its moist folds emerged tentacles: wet, pulsating ropes of muscle and teeth swaying and trembling among the ground like fat slugs. They slithered toward her, coiling and uncoiling with each ground they took.

“You belong here, with me,” Asmodeus continued, stepping closer, the shadows wrapping around his wings like a cloak. “You always have. Even he can’t help you now.”

She flinched as the tentacles lashed forward. One wrapped tight around her stomach; another, constricted around her throat. She gasped as her feet left the ground. The air ripped from her lungs.

“He sees only what you let him,” Asmodeus hissed. His eyes glittered like molten gold. “You hide your truth from him. Even now.”

“That’s not— He’s with me. This is our dreamscape. Not yours.”

“No, Amara,” he cooed, tilting his head as the tentacles lifted her higher. He levitated above her. “It’s only you and me.”

Bianca writhed, struggling against the restraints as the tendrils twisted her arms outward, stretching them taut. Her body contorted. Her back arching unnaturally as she was cruxified in midair and held aloft by the obscene embrace of the Abyss.

Then came the pain.

Blood began to seep from her palms and her feet: the stigmata. Her lifefluid dripped from her toes and hands onto the bloody ground. It wasn’t divine. It was desecration. Her body convulsed violently, as her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Opening her mouth in a scream, the tentacles were stealing her very life from her. Like a crown of thorns was set upon her head, crimson gushed from five punctures upon her forehead.

Above her, Asmodeus reached up, his clawed fingers extended.

“Let go, my child,” he whispered. “Return to me. You were never meant for salvation. Never meant for him. You were born in this place.”

He curled his hand slowly. His claws brushing the crown of her head. She could feel him inside her mind, like worms crawling beneath her skull.

Bianca wept. And then—

A silver flash.

The air ripped open. No. The very SKY tore asunder. First, the black and silver tip of an odachi. Then, with a boom, a large jagged ebony tear crossed the heavens as far as she could see.

Whoosh.

The sword cleaved through the tendrils. Blood-black ichor sprayed into the air. The tentacles recoiled with an unearthly screech.

She fell and landed as a strong arm wrapped around her, steadying her. Sephiroth.

His silver hair cascaded like moonlight. Those mako-glowing eyes burnt with fury. His hand gripped Masamune tight, the blade still humming with otherwordly heat. A blue magical glow enveloped the long, thin blade.

“She is not yours,” Sephiroth snarled, positioning himself between Bianca and the pulsing mass of the Abyss. “You will not touch her again.”

Asmodeus’ grin didn’t falter. “Ah… so he can enter your dreamscape, Amara,” he said, as he licked his lips. “How intimate.”

Bianca clung to Sephiroth, trembling as her vision cleared. The pain, the stigmata, the shame. It still ore in her soul.

But he was here. And this time, she wouldn’t face her nightmare terror alone.

@themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[irradiatedvulture]

Hello spg fandom, have my Becile bot. Look at him even

[saturday-byte]

Chat I relapsed again

These are a little wonky bc I started them in a moving car and then got too tired to fix the poses sorryyyy render as. Apology

Lou belongs to @ai1dennn , Bowtie belongs to @themindelectric4 , Bobbin belongs to @clockworkmadness , Sparky belongs to @steambot-sparky , Asmodeus belongs to @ghostlykermode and Tenrec belongs to @grubbylilgoblin

[chouettechou]

When your girlfriend drags you to the oil fields to look for scrap.

[eldritchcryptids]

I love your ocs so much that I literally stim so hard when I see them even if I know nothing about them

omg im so glad u love them!! i love the silly guys from my brain too!!!

here's an oc art dump (of varying quality) just for u anon....

[faerie-rosethorn]

was working on this last night waiting for rollover so I could do my dailies before notn ended

just finished it up now <3

my favorite guy in his Tired Old Man phase <3

[chimerabal]

Dragons use special characters to surround proper nouns in their writing. In their own language, it's a dedicated symbol, and how often it is repeated around a singular name denotes respect. In human scripts and text, they use either a star shape, the asterisk, or emojis (if available). It is considered polite to mimic this convention when writing about a dragon.

For example, *Asmodeus*, is humble by dragon standards, and only requires one symbol. To get around formatting that uses the asterisk as part of it's code, xe will type 💭Asmodeus💭.

Places, the names of non-dragons, and anything else we would capitalize also usually gets one set of symbols.

Most dragons double up, this gives them wiggle room to show respect or disrespect when referring to others in their text through how many symbols the author uses for the subject.

In draconic speech, the symbol is "spoken" by breathing smoke the first time the subject is brought up in convo. When a highly respected name is spoken, the speaker will simultaneously exhale a large amount of smoke. If a powerful dragon is to address a crowd, it is expected that the audience will fog the room as the speaker makes their entrance. Likewise, saying a name and not producing any smoke is an insult. If the speaker mentioned prior had bombed their speech... like just did a dogshit job... then they would be applauded off the stage in a cloudless room.

Three or more symbols is usually reserved for individuals with some sort of globally renowned rank, or with great power. It is also a sign of great respect for a dragon to surround another's name with more symbols then their own. Young dragons who are just learning social rules also often use 3+, or exceedingly odd, symbols; and they will exaggerate the usage of these characters to dunk on friends. It's a way to find oneself, but by 200 years of age most dragons drop this in favor of a more universal symbolage.

***Pygmalion*** is both young and egotistical. In written documents, he will allow *Asmodeus* to retain xeir desired symbolage, but in contrast will also bold his own (***Pygmalion***). 🤖‼️🚷Pygmalion's🚷‼️🤖 emojis are ridiculous and I'm never going to use them.

When both xeirself and *Pygmalion* are referenced, **Asmodeus** will double xeir own symbols. **Asmodeus** never refers to *Pygmalion* with triple, as he is not a dragon and will not be referred to as such.

[flavisims]

многое может случится за неделю в отпуске

[kaleidoru]

let's play a different game, this time i get to win

[clartidk123]

Chat i spent twenty minutes in the shading if ypu dont like it im actually gonna kill you/hj

[bardic-tales]

Title: Bloodlines and Battlefields

Pairing: Bianca Moore / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Azrakiel (Lord of the Abyssal Incubi), Mordecai (mentioned)

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2251

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII (AU / Crossover Elements)

Tags: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt / Comfort, Whump, Enemies, Soulmates, Established Relationship, Anxiety and Mental Health, Magic and Fantasy, Parallel Universe, Supernatural

Warnings: Graphic violence, implied past torture, possession, psychological manipulation, possessive dynamics, dark themes

Summary: When Azrakiel dares to stake his claim on Bianca once more, Sephiroth stands between them, proving with blade and fury that she belongs to him and no one else.

Author's Note: This story is set in the Final Fantasy VII universe, but which specific game or timeline it aligns with is entirely up to the reader's interpretation. Elements from various installments may be present, but no single version is definitive for this narrative. Additionally, to clarify an important aspect of Bianca’s lore. Azrakiel and Asmodeus are one and the same. The name Azrakiel reflects his celestial past, while Asmodeus represents the demonic force he has become. I decided to use Azrakiel to illustrate that Sephiroth isn't up against a normal opponent.

Also, I was so tempted to have OWA as the theme song of this. But we're going to go with Lux Aeterna. It has the dreamy and slightly uplifting beat that would accompany this.

1.

The Northern Crater was a tomb of silence. The jagged, ice-bound walls glistening with an unnatural sheen, reflecting the dim, sickly glow of Mako veins coursing beneath the frozen ground. It was a place where sunlight dared not tread: forsaken and cold. The air was bitter, unmoving, as if the world itself held its breath. This was Sephiroth’s domain, their and Mother’s home, carved out in defiance of Shinra and the Planetary Defenders.

But a slow, deliberate stride fractured the silence. Azrakiel, Lord of the Abyssal Incubi, moved with the fluid grace of a serpent. His obsidian wings folded behind him, as his eyes of molten gold scanning the darkness. His black hair cascaded over broad shoulders, like a dark halo framing a face too beautiful for any realm but the Abyssal.

“You’ve trespassed far enough,” came a voice. The tone was bitter, commanding, and drenched in contempt.

The dark smoke, heavy and choking, unfurled like a living shadow, laced with streaks of poisonous violet that shimmered with an unnatural light. Sephiroth emerged, his black leather coat gleaming under the dim light and the silver pauldrons catching the light as he raised his gleaming Masamune. A bright, lethal light glinted in his cat-like eyes, reflecting the moonlight and promising danger. A chill deeper than the ice snaked up his spine as the black feathers fell like whispers of death around his boots.

Azrakiel’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Sephiroth. How quaint. Does the lion now guard the lamb?” His voice was smooth, a velvet mockery. “Or perhaps you believe Bianca is yours by right?”

The silver-haired god’s pupils contracted, a quiet storm brewing beneath his impassive façade. His grip on Masamune was steady, controlled, though tension coiled beneath his skin like a viper ready to strike.

“She is,” Sephiroth said. His tone edged with calm finality. “You’ve taken enough from her.”

Azrakiel chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that resonated with the sinister sweetness of poisoned honey.

“Taken? I only reclaimed what was already mine.” With the chilling satisfaction of a predator who has successfully stalked and captured its quarry, his golden eyes gleamed brightly. “She carries my blood. She is bound to me.”

Masamune sang through the air. It was a whisper of death so swift that Azrakiel barely had time to shift before steel kissed flesh. A thin line of crimson blossomed on his cheek. The demonic blood sizzling upon contact with the frozen ground. The ice hissed and steamed, and the scent of burning sulfur curling into the cold air.

With a voice as cold and glacial as the alien cells coursing through his veins, Sephiroth made his declaration. “Your claim is void. Flesh and blood are irrelevant. She belongs to me.”

Azrakiel’s expression flickered: something between amusement and disdain. “You sound as if you believe it.” His lips parted in a slow, cruel grin. “Ah, but tell me something, godling. Where were you when she screamed for help? When I flayed her skin from the bone, when I shattered her voice with agony, and I they reduced her body to nothing more than a broken vessel?” He tilted his head. “You weren’t there. That pathetic wretch who called himself her husband came too late.”

A barely perceptible yet sharp edge of fury cut through Sephiroth’s typically calm demeanor, betraying itself only in the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor of his fingers as they tightened around the hilt of his ōdachi, Masamune. He breathed steadily, but his knuckles whitened.

Mordecai had failed her. He hadn’t been there to stop it. Once he had bled for Bianca, it was too late.

If Sephiroth had been there, Bianca would have never suffered beneath Azrakiel’s hands. Before a single blade could ever have touched her flesh, he would have carved the wretched beast into a thousand pieces, preventing any harm from coming to her. She would have never endured Azrakiel’s cruel, slicing blows, the searing pain a brand she’d carry forever, never been forced to stitch herself back together from the ruin he wrought, the rough thread scratching against her raw skin.

Azrakiel’s voice, smooth as silk, dripped with taunting mockery, each word a subtle sting. “And yet, you dare to claim her? As if she is yours?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Sephiroth stepped forward, and the very air around him seemed to still, gravity bending beneath the sheer force of his will. His shadow stretched long and distorted across the glassy ice, flickering with every movement, growing darker as the sun dipped lower.

“She is mine,” he repeated, his voice softer now, but far more dangerous. “And I am not Mordecai.”

Sephiroth spoke the very name with quiet, razor-sharp disdain. Mordecai, who had let her slip through his fingers. Mordecai, whose failure had allowed Bianca’s body to be torn apart, her soul fractured. Sephiroth would not succumb to the same weakness that had undone Mordecai; his resolve was absolute.

His lips curled into something that barely resembled a smile, all cold cruelty and unshaken resolve. “Now, allow me to demonstrate.”

The air split with the sound of steel and fury.

In a surge of darkness, Sephiroth was upon him, the wicked gleam of Masamune carving through the air with unholy speed, unleashing a torrent of brutal strikes that whistled past him. Each cut shrieked on the dark armor. There was a sudden burst of sparks that flew into the air, illuminating both Azrakiel and Sephiroth’s faces.

Azrakiel parried with a conjured blade of void-black steel. His wings unfurled to deflect and counter. The clash sent shockwaves through the desolate wasteland, shattering ice and flinging debris in lethal arcs.

Sephiroth’s eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure as his blade bit deep, drawing a hiss of blood that burned the ground where it fell. Azrakiel snarled. His eyes flashed with a light that seemed to devour the dark. His wings snapped out, creating a wall of force that sent Sephiroth sliding back. Sephiroth’s boots carved furrows in the ice.

But the One-Winged Angel did not falter. With a surge of black feathers, Sephiroth called forth his wing, eyes alight with godlike fury. The air vibrated with a dark resonance, suffused with Jenova’s power and Sephiroth’s will.

Azrakiel’s smile faltered.

“I will not allow you to touch her again,” Sephiroth declared, voice cold as the abyss, divine wrath simmering beneath the surface. “I will burn this world to its bones before I yield her to you.”

“Such passion,” Azrakiel mused, tone a mockery of delight. “It would almost be touching. If it weren’t so pitiful.” His wings beat once, and the surrounding darkness trembled. Runes ignited along his arms, searing the air with eldritch power. “But you forget yourself, Chosen One.”

Sephiroth smirked, tilting his head. “Do I?”

A feint to the left, baiting him into an opening. A flick of the wrist. Masamune sliced low, then high, carving through the air like a specter of death. The demon lord moved to counter, but Sephiroth was relentless. His strikes were a whirlwind of controlled brutality. A downward slash aimed to cleave through ribs. Parried. A thrust to the throat. Dodged by a hair’s breadth.

Then Sephiroth shifted. A fraction of a second. Enough. Then Sephiroth shifted. A fraction of a second. Enough. With a cruel twist of his blade, Masamune sank into Azrakiel’s side with a sickening crunch.

The demon snarled, a raw, untamed fury emanating from his very being. With hardly any awareness of the pain, his arm, propelled by a force that spanned centuries, extended in a decisive open-palmed attack. The impact was devastating.

Sephiroth’s body rocketed backward, the force of the blow enough to shatter lesser men. His boots dug into the ice, gouging deep gorges as he skidded to a halt. Blood dripped from his split lip, smearing crimson against the cold.

And then Sephiroth laughed. Low. Dark. Devoid of anything human.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood against pale skin. His pupils shrank to razor-thin slits, as a wicked gleam lit his Mako-infused gaze.

“You’re out of your depth, old man,” he sneered. His voice was velvet laced with venom, dripping arrogance and something far worse: certainty. As if the battle had already been decided.

Sephiroth tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, before he continued. “This realm belongs to me. She belongs to me.”

Burning like molten gold, his eyes expanded, their pupils growing larger as dark mist curled around his form, emanating from his very being. Even the shadows themselves, behaving as if they were alive, obeyed his commands, twisting and turning as though they were living creatures. The air thickened. The pressure built, a suffocating weight pressing down on the North Crater, making it hard to breathe.

Then he extended a clawed hand and beckoned. “Then come.”

A deafening roar ripped through the air as the ground split open beneath them, the Lifestream’s green, glimmering light erupting from the fissure in a blinding flash. With a terrifying shriek, the air itself seemed to crack and break apart, as the ice, no longer a solid mass: fracturing, shattering, and finally dissolving into nothing.

2.

From her vantage point beyond the chaotic battleground, Bianca watched with wide, indigo eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her hands trembling violently; however, despite her fear and trembling, she remained rooted to the spot, choosing not to flee. She couldn’t. Not from him. He protected her.

The soul-link thrummed between her and Sephiroth. It blazed with incandescent warmth, an unwavering, glorious connection that filled her with unyielding hope and delight. The all-consuming, scorching rage that coursed through his veins burned through her as well, leaving her feeling consumed by his anger. A frozen dread gripped her, each breath a ragged gasp against the icy weight in her gut. However, underlying the fear, and at a level far deeper than the fear itself, was a conviction, a certainty, that had remained unshaken and unwavering throughout.

She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers digging into the leather vest hugging her firm, supple breasts, and felt the rhythmic echo that was not just her own. His heart. Steady. Unyielding. He was here. He had come for her.

Because he always did.

Her father, the man who had tormented her, the man who was her personal demon, the man who felt like a curse upon her life, stood against him; his golden eyes glowed with an unholy, frightening light. But Sephiroth had never been a man to bow before anyone.

She knew, without question, that he would win.

Her father, the man who had tormented her, the man who was her personal demon, the man who felt like a curse upon her life, stood against him. But Sephiroth had never been a man to bow before anyone.

She knew, without question, that he would win.

Between the brutal clash of swords, the deafening cries of battle, and the chilling wind whistling through the battlefield, Sephiroth’s eyes found hers—a sharp contrast to the storm of violence. A promise, silent yet deafening. It was a vow.

Azrakiel caught it. He saw. And he laughed.

“Ah, I see,” The demon’s voice, smooth as dark velvet, yet edged with a chilling cruelty, drawled the words. “Such devotion. A shame, really. It will be a pleasure to break it.”

Bianca’s stomach plummeted, a sickening freefall reflecting the despair gripping her. Pain consumed her, a relentless tide of memories dragging her under, leaving her gasping for air. The chains. The blood. The glint of Noctemaris plunging into her. Only after Sephiroth’s presence intervened was the intense emotional pain, which had once threatened to destroy her completely, painstakingly repaired and interwoven back together, piece by fractured piece. He had rewritten her into a force that no longer cowered to man.

Now Azrakiel sought to take that from her.

Sephiroth stood still, an unnerving calm in his posture, yet his eyes blazed with that bright green fire that glowed beneath his long silver lashes. Slowly and sharply, his lips curved into a smile, a smile that lacked any warmth whatsoever; it was a cold, sharp smile. “You won’t live to try.”

Azrakiel's smirk barely had time to fade before Sephiroth moved. A flicker. A shadow. Then the Masamune was upon him. And with a snarl, the battle raged anew.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[irradiatedvulture]

🎨🎸‼️ for the fanbot ask game

you can answer them individually (one per bot) or for all of them, as you wish :]

Ohohohoh, i havent gotten to chat about my bots in a WHILE so here we go. I did have to search the base of my brain for lore. But, here we go! Answers under the cut.

🎸Do they play an instrument?

Bombshell: She cant play shit. Music is not her forte at ALL

Asmodeus: He can! He can play the bass and the drums. If he could start a robot punk band, he absolutely would.

Moth: He can play the piano, doesnt do it often but he does enjoy it when he has the opportunity to play.

🎨what are their hobbies?

Bombshell: She tinkers on electronics (and other bots, with permission), and woodworks

Asmodeus: Ngl bro sets stuff on fire. Please, take his lighter away. He will arson.

Moth: As see above, he plays piano when not delivering mail. He also enjoys reading high fantasy books.

‼️something about the fanbot you want everyone to know

Bombshell: she has two different cores! Her main core is made of Teal matter (an unstable and highly experimental mixture of Blue matter and Green matter. I can go into it further later if anyones interested). While her alternate core is Red Matter, she usually has Red when shes either highly damaged, or experiencing PSTD-like symptoms from previous trauma shes experienced. Ive also had her for a LONG time, she was originally made in i think 2014/2015ish, back when i was still in highschool.

Asmodeus: at this point hes just me but cooler, im ngl. Amd he smokes, i dont know how but he does, it just works, if it effects him, i have no clue.

Moth: hes one of my oldest ocs! I made him originally in 2013. Hes since got a redesign since then but has stayed fairly similar to his original design.

[pixiedixiedo]

Helloo pixiedix.io do you have any angel OCs by chance

I do! I've been focusing more on plotting out the story recently so I don't have many rendered drawings of them, mostly just doodles (meaning instead of actually drawing I stare at the wall for several hours, locked in a vivid daydream rehearsing various scenarios with them in my head 30 times over). Ill definitely post more about them once I churn some art out in the future, but here are the guys I've developed the most

(anyone who happens to see this rn my apologies for the lack of Lucy's face, I am performing an autopsy on this post. It will be back to normal within a few hundred years. thx)

This is my baby boy Lucifer! They are very depressed <3. They used to be extremely shy but very sweet, but the war in heaven and their fall turned them bitter and aggressive. I've also heavily projected my autism onto them. (I ran out of pipe cleaners for his arm and have yet to find the right colors :(

This is Michael! Before the war in heaven he was upbeat and optimistic, but now he's become quiet and disconnected. Him and Lucifer are together; one of the big overarching plots of the story is how Lucifer's fall effects their relationship.

This drawing is older, but here is Gabriel! Them, Michael, and Lucifer used to be best friends many eons ago. They have always been more sensitive to others feelings, even before the war in Heaven when no one(else, besides Lucifer,) knew any kind of despair. This only made them feel more betrayed after the fall.

This is Beelzebub, my little emo punk. She is bestie boos with Lucifer, she's a social butterfly compared to them being mostly reserved. She is the confident and comfort for most of her friends, but taking care of everyone else's mental health takes a toll on her own.

This is Asmodeus, him and Raphael used to be a thing until he got kicked out of Heaven (a while after the war) for lusting for him. He has many many bad coping mechanisms, turns out getting high as the heavens isn't a good replacement for them.

But anyways thanks for asking! I could talk about my ocs all day, I love them so much, Im constantly spinning them around in my head...

[chouettechou]

Asmodeus · aka Mo · Bartender/Bodyguard · Former Corpo