#amon x reader

author's notes: This is Amon/Reader focused, with some hints of Bolin/Reader and Mako/Reader if you choose to interpret it that way. The reader is an earthbender & the Avatar.

Expect some canon divergence and non-compliance. Mostly because I wrote the reader to be an earthbender, which *technically* breaks the Avatar cycle. Just pretend there was a waterbender before him, idk. Anyway!

I'm bad at titles, so this is a lyric from Thanatos by Soap&Skin.

Warnings: canon-typical violence/blood/injury, in-universe prejudice against nonbenders; drugging, kidnapping, loss of consciousness; mentions of torture.

Being the Avatar is stressful. 

That’s the understatement of a millenium. And, ironically, few people would believe it to be true. The wide majority of the world seems to fashion you as some kind of unstoppable superhuman, sent to enlighten the masses and prevent all conflict.

The reality of the situation? You feel as if you’re buckling under the pressure. That’s the funny thing about being the Avatar—you can never do quite well enough. Saving a city? Expected. Apprehending an unspeakably dangerous enemy? Part of the everyday routine. You’re not necessarily desperate for praise, but you do wish people would attempt to understand how difficult your life is. You’re constantly being hunted, pulled in different directions and stretched far too thin. 

Is a peaceful existence really so much to ask for?

Apparently so. 

RADIO BROADCAST [to: Republic City duration: 00:45:36]

Radio Host Next up, dominating the charts for the third year in a row—

Suddenly, there’s the harsh sound of static. You wince and flinch as the audio crackles for a long moment, before falling eerily still. The voice is different now, deep and ominous. 

Amon This is Amon, leader of the Equalist Party. 

For centuries, benders have created persecution. The cycle of death, despair, temporary stalemates… Benders fall prey to it, and everyone becomes a victim. Segregation permeates the very moral fiber of this city. 

Republic City is supposed to be a place where benders and nonbenders can coexist. A place of peace and harmony. A place for everyone. 

And yet, the only unity witnessed… is that between benders. 

Now, it is time to take back our city… and our world. 

Join me. 

The audio clicks until the radio host can be heard laughing awkwardly. 

Radio Host Well then! Apologies for the interruption, folks. Now, as I was saying… 

You turn the radio off and sigh, rubbing your hands over your face.

EXTERIOR – Pro-bending arena. You’re attempting to get into the building to see your friends, only for a veritable swarm of paparazzi to be blocking the entrance. The moment you’re noticed, they’re immediately hounding you. 

Reporter What do you have to say about Amon and the Equalists? 

Reporter 2 Is it true that you’ve cost the city thousands of Yuan in property damage?

Reporter 3 Who should we be relying on? 

You try to push your way through the crowd, but it’s a giant crowd of people. You’re moments away from airbending out of there when you hear a familiar voice. 

Mako Leave him alone. 

Mako wraps an arm around your shoulders and manages to lead you through the crowd, until you’re safe within the confines of the building. You exhale measuredly. Mako’s arm lingers for a few moments, before eventually falling away. 

You Thanks for that. 

Mako (glancing back at the crowd) Are they always like that?

You Sort of. It’s gotten worse, ever since Amon showed up. 

Mako (frowning as you continue walking) Yeah, what’s that guy’s deal?

You Supposedly, he wants to free the world of benders. Or something like that. 

Mako leads you through the building, until you find yourself standing in the training area. Bolin looks up from what he’s doing, a friendly smile on his face.  

Bolin Oh, hey, dude!

You Hey. 

Bolin Surprised you’re here! Mako says you hate this place. Well, he says a lot of things about you, actually—

Mako (interjecting) Okay, that’s enough. 

He turns to you. 

Anyways. Since you adamantly refuse to be a pro-bender—

You (interrupting) As I should, because bending isn’t a game and this kind of commodified entertainment only gives the Equalist Party more ammunition—

Bolin yawns. 

Are you yawning?

Bolin Yeah. We’ve heard this spiel from you a million times now!

You scowl at him. Mako seems to be resisting the urge to laugh, but he straightens up when he sees you looking. 

Mako (clearing his throat awkwardly) Anyways. Since you adamantly refuse to be a pro-bender, we figured you could at least help us with our training. Right?

You …Fine. 

Bolin whoops. Mako grins. 

Mako Great. Let’s see what you’ve got, then, Avatar.

INTERIOR – Pro-bending arena, training area. Ten minutes later. Mako and Bolin are both breathing hard—Mako has his hands on his knees, while Bolin is sitting on the ground. 

Bolin Spirits, you really weren’t messing around. 

Mako Yeah, that was…

He seems moments away from saying something else, before frowning and shaking his head. 

…Exhausting. 

You I kicked your asses. You can just say that. 

Bolin (mournfully) You did. 

Bolin makes a show of hopping to his feet before rubbing his backside. 

Even my butt’s sore! 

Mako Seriously?

Bolin Oh, seriously. You wouldn’t believe—

Mako Maybe another time. 

Bolin (blinking before remembering your presence) Oh. Right.

TV BROADCAST [To: Republic City duration: 01:31:16; ongoing]

Reporter Oh! That’s quite the move from competitor Ko of the Bau Ling Buzzard Wasps—

The feed glitches and stutters, before revealing a shadowed figure with their arm extended. They hum and step back a bit to investigate themself in frame. A hood obscures their form and a mask covers their face. Their voice, however, is all too recognizable. 

Amon Hello, Equalists and others. 

Your heart jumps a bit. This is the second time he’s hijacked a broadcast in the few days. His supporters are growing restless, and Republic City has seen several riots and unruly protests since Amon’s first appearance. The Council has been up in arms about how to get rid of the threat, with Tenzin’s pragmatic and reasonable approach contrasting with Tarrlok’s insistence on violence and Vao’s harmful legislation. You frown and stare at the screen in front of you, feeling more than a bit uneasy. 

Amon I grow weary of this constant back and forth. Benders remain ignorant and irresponsible with their power, while the vast majority are forced to skulk in the shadows and survive off their scraps. 

No longer. 

Amon reaches somewhere off-screen and pulls, his hand fisting in the scruff of a man’s collar as he yanks him into view. 

Amon (with a punctuated gesture) This… is Councilman Vao. 

You choke on a gasp. Amon continues unimpeded.

You may recognize him as the proponent of the BEC: Bending Employment Clause. A prejudiced policy that adversely impacts nonbenders. As with all else, benders are incentivized for something they have absolutely no control over. And the rest? The rest are punished. 

(looking down at Vao) I ask you, Councilman… Do you believe your cause is just? 

The councilman is nodding his head frantically, trying to speak through the gag around his mouth. Amon tilts his head, in what would be reminiscent of a smile if he weren’t wearing a mask. Your stomach stews. Truthfully, you never approved of the BEC. But even your status as the Avatar has limitations—and governance is one of them.

Amon (smoothly) I will take your silence as a ‘no’, Vao. Well, allow me to be the purveyor of justice, then.

In a surprisingly quick movement, he is standing behind the council member and yanking his head back. The man’s eyes are wide. 

For a moment, there is nothing. 

Amon (to the camera) Are you watching? 

Then, Amon pushes a thumb to the man’s forehead. His finger settles on the side of the councilman’s face. The guy is shaking, petrified of what will come. 

You suppose it’s unrealistic to expect anything visible. After all, despite the theatricality of Amon’s performance—because it really is a performance—it is remarkably simple. Councilman Zao slumps to the floor, barely catching himself. He’s quick to push himself up, reaching out and extending a hand. 

Instead of fire, there is… nothing.

Amon You may go now. 

And welcome to normal life.

Councilman Zao doesn’t even bother removing his gag, instead taking one look at Amon and promptly scrambling away and out of sight. Amon hums, staring at some area off-camera before returning his attention to the viewers. 

Amon Now. There is the problem of the Avatar. 

A sharp zing runs up your spine. You instinctively straighten up from where you’re seated on the couch, your heart starting to beat faster. 

Amon He has returned to Republic City, or so I’ve heard. 

A brief pause, which seems to stretch for a lifetime. 

I now speak directly to you, Avatar. If you’re listening, I invite you to speak with me. Only speak—nothing more. We can have a civilized discussion, I am sure.

Meet me on the island at midnight. Alone.

I’ll be waiting. 

The broadcast goes fuzzy again before the reporter is back, commentating on the pro-bending game. You blink at the screen in disbelief, reeling from what you saw. Did that really just happen? 

There’s the slightest sound of footsteps. It’s Tenzin standing in the doorway. You look over your shoulder at him. 

Tenzin It’s a bad idea. 

You What? Talking to him?

Tenzin Yes. His desires are not nearly so simple. 

You You’re right. 

But we need more information. 

Tenzin It’s risky. There’s no saying he’ll keep to his word. He could do some serious damage. 

You (frowning) I’m not expecting him to keep his word. 

Tenzin But you’re expected to keep yours, no? He wanted you to go alone. 

You (huffing) Who said anything about going alone?

Tenzin stares. Then a nod. 

Tenzin You’re learning. 

You smile.

You walk into the museum at Aang Memorial Island at approximately 11:59 p.m. You aren’t surprised to find Amon already waiting for you, his hands clasped behind his back as he stares at an exhibit. He turns to face you. 

“Right on time,” Amon says smoothly. “Please, join me.” 

You reluctantly move to stand at his side, a short distance from him. Amon’s head faces the display again, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching you. You try to pretend not to notice, instead looking at Avatar Kyoshi’s robes in the display case. 

“There is so much history here,” Amon states. “I must admit, the very concept of an Avatar is intriguing. A god amongst mortals.”

Your lips twist into a frown. You catch your reflection in the glass as you stare at the remnants of Kyoshi’s life—your life. You’ve seen her memories before, just as you have seen glimpses of the other Avatars before you. But your connection to Kyoshi feels stronger. 

“What do you feel,” Amon starts, breaking you out of your thoughts, “when you enter this place?” 

A loaded question. Your fingers twitch at your side. Your throat burns. Your next breaths feel more difficult. “Grief.”

“Grief,” Amon echoes, his face turned toward you now. You meet his eyes through the mask. “Not pride, not envy.”

The seconds drag on. Neither of you speak. Amon is the first. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. He takes a step away, circling the next display case. You watch him study it, gritting your teeth. Your connection with the spirit world seems particularly strong in this museum. It makes sense, given that there are numerous artifacts of the past Avatars in here. But still. It’s a bit inconvenient, considering you need all of your attention to be focused on Amon. You can’t—won’t—let him get the better of you. 

Of course, the past Avatars have never cared about your desires. Roku’s voice reaches your ears, a solemn whisper in the otherwise empty museum: “He is hiding something. Be careful.” 

“I know,” you snap. An impatient noise leaves your lips and you scowl at the artifact, as if it can somehow answer for its owner’s thoughts. 

“Pardon?”

Amon’s voice grounds you in the physical world. It takes you a moment to remember yourself and your surroundings. You’re in the museum on Aang Memorial Island, speaking with the leader of the Equalist Party in an effort to understand him better. Right.

You don’t answer him, instead taking a deep breath and focusing on the conversation. You don’t have much time—the Council did not appreciate your agreement to this encounter with Amon. Then again, they don’t really approve of anything you do. 

“You’re quite the influential figure these days,” you remark languidly, attempting to get the conversation back on track. And that’s an understatement: Amon has been hijacking broadcasts several times a week now. There are regular rallies for him, protests around the city… The list goes on. The man has fashioned himself a modern-day prophet.

“An unfortunate side effect of seeking truth,” Amon reasons. Something about him standing there, in this sanctuary for your past lives and preaching at you… It turns your stomach. You breathe in and out, attempting to keep your anger in check. “You share the burden, I suspect.” 

“Sure,” you acquiesce somewhat listlessly. Keep calm. You need to stay calm. “I’m not the face of a sociopolitical uprising, but whatever.” 

“Sociopolitical uprising,” Amon repeats. 

“Sociopolitical, economic, et cetera,” you confirm with a nonchalant hand gesture. You’re pleased to see him track the movement warily, as if you’ll attack him. “That’s what it is, no?”

“You are correct,” he nods. 

“I don’t disagree with you, by the way,” you say before you can stop yourself. There’s that tunneling in your ears again. Your past lives aren’t happy. Then again, they never are. Overly cautious, all of them. Blinded by their departures from the human world. “Nonbenders have always been discriminated against.” 

Amon is silent. 

“And bending is dangerous,” you acquiesce. The silence is almost starting to prickle now. You continue. “Of course it is. Power in the wrong hands has always been harmful. But what you’re proposing… is nothing short of eugenics. And arguably even more dangerous.” 

“Such careful words, Avatar,” Amon eventually remarks. “And for what audience?”

At the pointed question, you smile slightly. “I’m sure there are more here than just the two of us,” you say, glancing around the sprawling hall. There aren’t any other people that you can see, but you know they’re here. Amon wouldn’t be stupid enough to come alone—he needs some firepower if he wants to defeat you. 

Not that you’ll ever let that happen. 

“Ah,” Amon remarks, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You’re correct. My party… Your party…”

Something on your face must give you away, because he laughs. 

“You brought guests,” Amon remarks knowingly. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose neither of us played fair.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Amon doesn’t speak. He’s giving you a chance to voice your thoughts. 

“That scar,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, nodding at his mask. Before you can continue, there’s a dark chuckle. 

“You’ve done your research,” he says. “I’m honored.”

“Is it real?” you continue. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“I feel like we’ve seen that story before,” you say diplomatically. Bearing the visible facial scars of a cruel firebender? That isn’t a new narrative. 

“Perhaps,” Amon relents. “But Fire Lord Zuko had a means to defend himself. My family and I did not.” 

“Okay,” you acquiesce, backpedaling. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Amon repeats, a note of something complex in his voice. “You say sorry. You. The Avatar.” 

“Um… yes,” you settle for saying. “I’m… sorry that happened.” If that happened, you think to yourself quietly. Still, on the off chance that he’s telling the truth, you don’t want to brand yourself an enemy just yet. 

A hum. “You are well-spoken,” he acknowledges. “Still,” Amon continues calmly, “there is only so much one can accomplish through discussion.”

“Yeah,” you agree. You’re blurting out your thoughts before you can stop them. “And what have you done to help your cause?” 

“Excuse me?” Amon says nonchalantly. He’s giving you a chance to rescind that remark. 

You don’t. “You heard me,” you say instead. “You’ve just been a figurehead up until this point. Rallying the people, yes. But you haven’t so much as lifted a finger to promote or enact genuine systemic change.” 

“And you are the authority on such things,” Amon remarks.

“No,” you admit, “but at least I can acknowledge it. Not to mention, I serve as an advisor to Republic City officials. I’ve spoken out against harmful legislation and prejudice. I have regular discussions with the members of the council and advocate for everyone—especially nonbenders.” 

“So it seems like one of us didn’t do his research,” you finish with a slight huff. You look at Amon after that, curious to see his reaction (or lack of one, more like). Indeed, he’s silent. Whether he’s stunned or irritated or even paying attention, you’re not sure. That mask makes it impossible to discern what he’s thinking, which is probably the point. You’re about to keep going and hammer the point home when you spot movement behind him. Your eyes widen of their own accord. Tarrlok, the Council representative for the Northern Water Tribe, is advancing on him. 

“Finally accepting the truth, Avatar?” Amon asks, misinterpreting your shock as fear. You can hardly hear him over the roaring in your ears, the drumming of your own heart as you watch Tarrlok advance on Amon’s turned back. Suddenly you understand why the council members allowed this conversation. 

They don’t want Amon imprisoned. 

They want him dead. 

Tarrlok locks eyes with you, nonverbally urging you to keep silent. His arm cuts a swift path through the air, reeling back as he’s now moments away ending Amon’s life—

You don’t think. You just shoot a hand out, letting fire shoot out of your palm.

Amon has to admit, he didn’t know much about you. He knows the Avatar, or so he thought. But he did not know about you, clearly. Each word you utter just seems to convince him of this unsettling fact. You listen to him, you understand him and acknowledge his arguments. You accept that there is discrimination, you maintain that you’re fighting back against it. 

Amon is feeling less and less motivated to rid you of your bending. Because that ability is dangerous, yes—as you acknowledged. But you’re right: it needs to be wielded responsibly. And you have aptly proven, through the course of this short conversation, that you are responsible. You aren’t a single-minded superhuman with a hero complex. You’re just a man. A man intent to protect whoever he can. 

And while he still has his doubts, your next move convinces him. Unequivocally. 

Because Amon doesn’t sense the foreign presence behind him. He’s so distracted by this conversation, by you. You’re entirely different than he thought you would be, and now he’s starting to question every unshakable conviction he thought he had. 

Then your eyes lock on him, and the sheer rage in them is enough to make him freeze in place. Your eyes are practically glowing, an eerie composure passing over your face as you promptly extend a hand. And Amon feels the prickling heat at the side of his face, dancing up his cheek. He thinks you just missed. The Avatar, missing someone right in front of him. Ironic. Benders really are foolish, aren’t they?

Then he hears a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of someone hitting the wall. And he immediately moves, turning so that you’re in his field of vision while exposing what was behind him: a council member. Tarrlok of the Northern Water Tribe. His brother.

Understanding practically hits him in the face: You saved him.

“This isn’t what we discussed.” Your voice, almost unsettlingly calm, rings clear in the nearly empty hall. There’s a tense line to your shoulders. You’re leveling the man with such a hard gaze that Amon can actually see him second-guess himself, even if for a mere millisecond. 

“You had your ten minutes, Avatar,” Tarrlok says dismissively.

“Tenzin,” you say, as if imploring the nearby airbender to see reason. 

“Tarrlok,” the airbender says calmly, “we do not strike our enemies down when their backs are turned.” 

“Yes, we do,” Tarrlok says fiercely. 

“No, we don’t,” you insist, actively standing between Amon and the councilman. Amon’s eyebrows furrow beneath his mask. What are you playing at, exactly? He doesn’t get the chance to ask before you’re extending a hand and summoning a rock formation from the ground, which promptly sends him flying. 

Amon can’t react before he’s brutally tossed into the surrounding waters. His collision with the water is painful; his lungs burn as he swims up to the surface. He treads water and coughs. 

…You saved him. Then gave him a means of escape, all the while pretending as if you were still fighting him. 

Maybe Amon really does need to do his research. 

Then again… maybe not. You’re just a small wrench in his plans. A narrative foil. He’ll overcome you soon enough, dispose of you efficiently and take over the city. 

When he finally makes it back to headquarters, clothes soaked through and nearly shivering, he heads to the bathroom and removes his mask. Amon holds it in his hands, overcome by a sudden unfamiliar sentiment as his thumbs explore the rough surface. There, on the right cheek of his mask: a scorch mark. From your fire. 

He brushes it off—or at least, he tries. The mark is stubborn. His thumb comes back sooty. 

Amon’s jaw clenches. He places his mask off to the side, resigning himself to getting another.

Tarrlok is not happy with you. Of that, you are certain. 

Tenzin was kind enough to engineer an excuse for you to head off, shortly after the whole Amon encounter. The airbender quickly pulled you aside, leading you off the island and back home. The boat ride back was silent for a few minutes, before Tenzin finally broke through the quiet. 

“You defended Amon,” Tenzin notes. It’s hard to tell how he feels about that—his voice is flat and calm as always. 

“Yeah,” you agree, not bothering to deny it. Tenzin saw it. It was obvious. “Didn’t feel right.”

“Why?” Tenzin asks.

“It just… didn’t,” you say somewhat lamely, struggling to find an accurate explanation for it. You’re not about to admit that it was instinct, that some part of you didn’t want to see Amon killed. “We don’t kill our enemies unprovoked.” Or, at least, you don’t. There is a responsibility to being a bender—and the Avatar, at that. Amon is right about that much. 

Tenzin is quiet. “Correct,” he then nods. “Holding one’s conviction when tested… That is the true challenge.” 

You blink owlishly. 

He almost sighs. “You did well.” 

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Uh… thanks.” 

“Just be careful,” he cautions you. “Tarrlok is displeased.” 

“Yeah, I could tell,” you huff. Tenzin’s lips quirk slightly at the edges, and the silence is more companionable after that.

Well, safe to say, Tenzin is going to kill you. 

He advised you to be careful. 

You were not careful. 

And now? Now you’re paying the price. 

It happened in a flash: you met with Tarrlok to discuss a recent council proceeding, only for him to turn on you. And while your reflexes are more than adept, you weren’t prepared for his bloodbending. You’re not quite a good enough waterbender to be able to bloodbend yet, and despite your best efforts, you can’t resist the puppetmaster’s pull. You’re sent lurching forwards to your knees in front of the man, looking up at him. 

A sneer overtakes his lips. Tarrlok twists his hand and suddenly you’re baring your neck to him. You’re practically thrashing against the unseen control being exerted against you, but your opposition is futile. Tarrlok reaches into his desk and procures a syringe, filled with a questionable liquid. And your heart sinks to your stomach, fear returning like an old friend. He’s going to drug you. 

You try to will your mind to fight back, to take control. But it doesn’t work. It’s like you’re a phantom trapped in skin and bone, a passive observer to everything that’s happening. Tarrlok gives you a cold look before promptly plunging the needle into your neck. 

As the Avatar, you’ve endured many attempts on your life. Attempts to kill you, to rip your powers from you, or even both. You’ve been tortured, nearly burned alive, hanged… the list goes on and on. It’s not an easy existence, being the Avatar. But being drugged? That’s a new one. 

And you’re afraid. Because you’re accustomed to physical violence, to fire and water and air and earth. You are not accustomed to feeling like you’re going to fall over, like you’re going to be sick in a feverish and dazed haze. 

You’re really getting sick of these near-death experiences, you think to yourself as you crumple to the ground in what feels like slow motion. And this one is quickly starting to approach the brink, a lot faster than you’d like. 

You blink and you’re being carried down what looks like an endless shadowed hallway. You can’t move, can hardly even breathe. Another blink, and you’re thrown into the trunk of a car. 

Will you be left to rot here? To die of suffocation, thirst, exhaustion? 

Normally, you’d be able to break through your confines with enough concentrated effort. But you’re too dizzy to see straight, too weak to do much more than press your hand to the wall and push. The metal groans and creaks under your fingertips, but it’s not nearly enough. Barely a dent. 

Your head falls back to the floor and you fall prey to the weight of your exhaustion. 

It’s time to pay his brother a visit. 

No. It’s been time. Amon hasn’t seen Tarrlok in years. But he knows his brother needs to be taken care of, before things get out of hand and another faction rises in Republic City. His brother is power-hungry, a skilled bloodbender who could create a new world under his order. 

He huffs, his breath visible in the cold air of the nearby mountains. It’s ironic to think that Tarrlok was this close all these years. Then again, Amon never would’ve visited him without reason.

Now, it’s a different story. 

Now, he kicks the door down with no pretense. He locks eyes with his brother through his mask and wonders, albeit distantly, if he recognizes him. Amon then decides he doesn’t particularly care, as his brother attempts to bloodbend him. It halts him momentarily, before he’s continuing to step forward and corner his brother. 

Blue eyes flash with fear. 

Amon reaches out. His thumb pressed to Tarrlok’s forehead, he inhales and promptly rips his power away from him. 

For a moment, he swears he sees Tarrlok’s eyes flash with horrified recognition. But he’s soon falling to the floor, unconscious. Amon stares down at his brother, feeling… next to nothing about what he’s just done. 

Now to explore. 

He finds Tarrlok’s study. There are notes upon notes of his plans to vanquish and destroy the Equalists. Amon’s stomach churns at the written proof of his brother’s prejudice. He crumples up the note he’s looking at and throws it into the corner of the room, before carrying on with his investigation. 

The remaining areas give him no useful information. Amon feels something like anticipation prickle along his skin as he heads down the stairs, unreasonably convinced that something important lies concealed in the basement. A single flickering bulb is the only source of light, creating a space drenched in darkness. Illuminated in the center of the unfurnished space is a metal box. 

Amon’s eyebrows furrow. He steps closer. The sides of the box are unremarkable, save for the one facing him, which appears to be the door. There’s an elaborate lock on the thing, in addition to several different ropes and cables around the handle of the door. His brother was always paranoid. 

There’s only one person dangerous enough to require such fortifications. 

Amon heads up the stairs, grabbing the key from his brother’s jacket pocket before returning downstairs. As the key turns in the lock, there's an almost earsplitting whine as the metal hinges creak. When the door swings open, Amon immediately steps back. 

It’s you. You’re crumpled on the ground, your back facing him. You show no sign or reaction to his presence. Naturally, Amon is skeptical. He contemplates his next move for a few moments. 

“Avatar,” he states, his voice loud in the empty echo chamber of the basement. 

You don’t respond. 

“I know you’re awake,” he says. A lie. Amon doesn’t know—in fact, he’s starting to suspect you really aren’t. But he’s not about to reveal any deliberation on his part. So instead, he sneaks closer with another step. 

If you jump at him, he just may have to reveal his bending. But at this point, that’s a risk Amon is willing to take. There will never be such a perfect opportunity: he has you vulnerable in front of him, with no one for miles. 

Another step. Still nothing. The air buzzes, the lightbulb ahead flickering ominously. 

Amon reaches out and takes your wrist, raising it high before letting it fall. He expects it to pause mid-air, as you turn and fight him. Instead, it falls to the floor of the cage with an ominous thud. You’re unconscious. Or, at least, you’re doing a damn good job of pretending. 

Amon stands there for another minute or so, before finally placing a hand on your shoulder and turning you around to face him. What he sees is enough to send his heart racing again, albeit for different reasons. 

There’s dried blood across your face, bruises scattered across your arms. Your eyes are closed; you’re breathing so quietly it seems as if you’re not even alive. You look like a shell of a person, barely tangible. Amon’s chest stews as he sees evidence of your attempted resistance: a dent in the wall, as if you tried and failed to metalbend. 

You’re a native earthbender. If the rumors about you are true, you are the most proficient metalbender alive. There are only two practical reasons for your failure to escape this cage: 1) it’s built of unusually sturdy material; or 2) you are in such a sorry state that you can’t even bend. As Amon looks down at you, he suspects the latter.

He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. He could end it all right here. He shouldn’t even be hesitating. Yet here he is, taking a step back and looking around the basement as if some explanation for his brother’s behavior will become clear. 

What he finds gives him a new sense of dread and disgust. There, lying neglected on the table in the very corner of the room, is an empty syringe. 

Suddenly, it all makes sense: your unresponsiveness and failure to escape; your absence over the past few days. Tarrlok drugged you. 

Amon isn’t sure why that disquiets him so much. Maybe it’s the nature of it, the thought that his brother would want you to rot in a metal cage, dying in a dusty basement where no one will find you. Again, why is that upsetting?

You’re a worthy opponent. That’s all it is, Amon thinks to himself as he returns to the cage. He crouches down before you, saying your name. There’s barely any recognition there, as if you’re teetering on the edge of death itself. 

When he reaches out to place a hand under your jaw, it’s as if he’s hit with a harsh breeze. You inhale sharply and Amon lurches backward, adopting a defensive stance. You’re pushing yourself to your feet, an awkward and robotic stilt to your movements as if you’re being puppeted by someone else. 

When you lift your head, Amon’s breath catches. 

Staring back at him are glowing white eyes. When you speak, your voice doesn’t sound like your own—it sounds deeper, almost ancient. You utter one word, and one word only. 

“Noatak.” 

Amon’s blood turns to ice. He’s frozen in place, everything slamming to a halt as he tries to comprehend how—why—you know his real name. He stares at you. You stare back, your eyes almost blinding in the dark space. 

“I’ve known many who went down your path,” you continue, your voice unnaturally deep and gravelly. “They all met the same fate.” A quiet strength takes your shoulders, pulling them up as you stand across from him. You… No. Someone is inhabiting your body. A waterbender. Is this Kuruk, the last waterbender Avatar?

“Who are you?” Amon asks, a note of genuine emotion in his voice. “Kuruk?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, you step out of the box. It’s strange, watching as your bruised form is inhabited with such inhuman energy. It’s as if the spirits are speaking straight through you, as an Avatar long past warns him off his path. 

Amon’s jaw clenches. You take a step closer. 

He’s close to shoving you back, even bloodbending you to exert his control. But he doesn’t.

You settle a mere step away from him, eerily still and silent. Amon finds himself compelled to stare into your glowing eyes, the sight so bright it nearly rips tears from his own eyes. A whisper echoes throughout the space. His heart is thundering in his chest. 

Then, like a puppet cut free of its strings, you collapse. There is no fight in you, as Amon deftly catches you and lifts you into his arms. No fiery outburst, no strong stream of water or gust of wind to send him flying. Only silence. Cloying, unnerving silence. 

Amon wants to be pleased with this turn of events. By all accounts, he should be pleased. But seeing the mighty Avatar reduced to this… It’s more troubling than he would like it to be. Amon’s jaw clenches as he is once again reminded of how you protected him. You did it quickly, as if through instinct alone. There was no fanfare. You expected nothing in return. 

Now, here you are. The Avatar, reduced to a defenseless heap of limbs and uncoordinated blinks. 

Blinks? 

“Avatar,” Amon says, looking down at the bender in his arms. A god amongst men, the protector of those who can’t protect themselves. There comes that pointless question, as Amon looks down at your shivering form: Who protects you? 

He doesn’t care. It’s good that no one is protecting you—it will make things all that much easier for him. Amon should just press a thumb to your forehead now, take your unprecedented power and rid the city of its hero. 

Instead, he heads up the stairs. Walks out the door, makes his way to his brother’s car. He sets you down in the backseat, his hand moving towards your face of its own accord. His thumb finds your forehead. Amon takes a slow breath, closes his eyes. It’s time to rid himself of the Avatar once and for all. 

Just as Amon starts to exert more pressure, there’s a whimper. Not his. 

His eyes fly open, looking down at you in disbelief. You’re still out of it, absolutely no concept of the amount of danger you’re in. There’s sweat clinging to your brow; a persistent tremble to your otherwise unmoving limbs; a helpless slump to your form. No remnant of the spiritual strength that inhabited you before, nor the strong perseverance and determination you wield in your waking form. 

Amon pulls away.

RADIO BROADCAST [to: Air Temple Island duration: 00:09:96]

Amon I have something of yours.

Something valuable. 

Or should I say…… someone.

The intercom clicks. Bolin and Mako stare at the screen disbelievingly, exchanging a look of dread.

You wake up to find yourself in Amon’s arms. You try to free yourself, to fight back. But your limbs aren’t cooperating. Your muscles feel stiff and useless. The most you can manage is a weak twitch of the fingers, a tiny flame roaring to life in your hand.

Amon exhales. You can feel his chest almost rumble with the gesture. Is he laughing? You can’t tell. You can barely see, let alone make sense of what’s happening. You have so many questions and absolutely zero answers. You’re exhausted, malnourished and dehydrated on top of being weak and disoriented from whatever drug Tarrlok slipped you. 

“Your rescue party is on their way, undoubtedly,” Amon says calmly, almost sounding bored. His grip on you feels too tight, he’s too close, everything’s spiraling and shaking and spinning— 

“Rest, Avatar.” Amon’s voice rings in your ears, even as you give in to the unrelenting darkness. “And consider us… even.”

Seeing Amon walking across the empty, dimly-lit street with you in his arms… It’s a haunting image. Bolin’s gut churns, fury rising in him quickly. He clenches his fists. 

“Let him go!” Bolin demands immediately, the earth rumbling beneath him as he struggles to keep his cool. His brother Mako echoes his gesture, flames dancing across his palms. 

“Careful,” Amon says, his voice cool and calm as always. His eyes are dark beneath the mask. He takes another step. “Or you’ll hurt your friend here. Though he isn’t exactly… uninjured.” This comment prompts Bolin to glance down at you, noting your nearly lifeless appearance. 

Bolin growls. Mako places a hand on his brother’s chest to prevent him from surging forwards. His eyes are locked on Amon, even as he speaks to Bolin. 

“He’s right,” Mako says grimly. “We can’t hurt him. Not yet.” 

“I hate it when you make sense,” Bolin scoffs, reluctantly releasing some of the energy he’s wielding. “But I still don’t trust this, for the record!” he pipes up, staring at Amon with furious eyes. 

“This is not about trust,” Amon remarks smoothly. “This is a simple exchange.”

“An exchange,” Mako echoes skeptically. Bolin feels the same. It makes sense that Amon wouldn’t just give you up and expect nothing in return. But what does the guy want? Mako asks as much. “Then what are we providing?” 

“Time,” Amon responds simply. 

“Time,” Bolin echoes. He exchanges a confused look with Mako, before the realization slowly comes to him. Amon is buying time for his Equalists to flee. They had just been attacking somewhere else, after all. A police force and a few powerful benders were sent to take care of them. But, in light of this turn of events, they’ve been called back to procure you. 

“Let go of him,” Mako says forcefully, his orange-yellow eyes dancing with anger. “Now.” 

A brief moment passes, with nothing but the hum of the city’s electricity to keep them company. Then Amon sets you on the ground. Bolin is surprised and unnerved to find that Amon’s movements are slow and careful, almost gentle. He lays you on the ground at his feet delicately. Delicately. And while Bolin is grateful the guy doesn’t give you a concussion—of course—he’s suspicious. Skeptical of the way Amon is looking down at you. Even though they can’t see the man’s mask, they can see the precision in his movements. None of his gestures are ever meaningless. And that one, just now?

Troubling. 

The moment Amon stands back up, Bolin immediately bends the earth to send him flying backwards, giving Mako a chance to run up to you. Equalists suddenly spring forth from all sides, leaving them surrounded. Mako is in a half-crouch next to you, his hand briefly moving to cradle your face before he’s dragged into the fighting. Bolin and Mako are gradually pushed back, until they’re forming an impromptu protective circle around you on the ground. And just as Bolin thinks they’re going to be overpowered, there’s a harsh gust of wind. 

Tenzin stands tall a short distance away, his expression sincere as always. And… perhaps, a little bit angry. Bolin isn’t fooled—the man acts like a stoic mentor to you, but he’s practically your parent. He’ll never admit it, of course. But Bolin and Mako have been witnesses to Tenzin’s increasing concern during your absence—the way he paced the halls of the temple restlessly, the unusually sharp set to his shoulders. 

The Equalists are sent back with Tenzin’s attacks. This time, Bolin gets a chance to kneel down to get a better look at you. 

You… don’t look good. 

Well! Scratch that, you always look good. But Bolin is pretty worried about the sweat beading at the edge of your neck and temples; the unresponsive way you just lie there; the pulse thudding at your wrist, which feels far too slow to be healthy. 

Over the chaos, and the sounds of Tenzin and Mako fighting off the enemies, Bolin’s eyes find Amon’s through his mask. The man’s voice is subdued, but it rings in his ears all the same. He’s making a break for it. Bolin grits his teeth.

“His time will come soon enough,” Amon says, taking a step back and beginning to retreat into the shadows. “I will not be so generous then.”

Bolin wants nothing more than to go after him, but he knows better than to leave you alone in such a vulnerable state. He bites back a curse and feels at your wrist for your pulse again, before saying your name imploringly. No response. He says it again. Still no response. 

Growing a bit panicked now, he shakes your shoulders gently. There’s a slight sound. Bolin’s heart seizes and he shakes you again. 

“Come on, come on…” he chants like a mantra, “work with me here…” 

You feel heavy. 

That’s the only way you can really describe it. Your eyelids sting and burn with each blink. The world around you is still maddeningly hazy. There’s a dull recognition of pain shooting through your limbs, of skin scraped and bruised and raw. But above it all… fatigue. 

There are voices in your ears, warped and distorted. It takes you a concerted effort to make out what they’re saying. And the speaker seems to notice your growing awareness, because they’re suddenly crouching down before you. 

“Hey,” Bolin says. He sounds relieved. He runs a hand through his curly hair—and is his hand shaking? You’re not sure. You can’t exactly trust your observations, what with your vision so blurry and grainy. “You’re back.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you keep quiet and instead try to focus on getting up to a sitting position. The effort immediately provokes discomfort, your limbs and muscles stiff. It’s coming back to you now, slowly but surely: the Equalists, Tarrlok kidnapping you…

Amon setting you free. 

Did that really happen? You remember being slumped on the ground of that metal cage, drenched in sweat and shivering. You remember your stomach aching and gnawing, your throat dry and parched… the dull ringing in your ears, as if your body was warning you that you were approaching your limit… 

Amon saved you. 

Or so you think. Again, it’s all a bit fuzzy. 

“What happened?” you manage to ask Bolin, your voice raspy and dry from lack of use. 

Bolin just shakes his head. “Later,” he says. “We gotta get you home.” 

Home. Home sounds good. Home sounds great, actually. You try to push yourself up a bit more, suddenly renewed with energy—or, more accurately, desperation. It’s been a long… however many days have passed. 

“Easy, buddy,” Bolin says with a concerned frown, extending a hand. “You’re looking a little shaky.”

You blink and manage to grasp his proffered forearm, allowing him to pull you up to your feet. This clearly isn’t a good idea, as your muscles immediately scream in protest and your vision grows fuzzy. 

Within a few seconds, you topple right over. If Bolin hadn’t been paying attention, you’d be an aching puddle on the ground. But when your world tips, he stabilizes you before picking you up as if you weigh nothing at all.

You’re much too tired to protest. In fact, closing your eyes sounds nice right about now… 

“Hey!” Bolin exclaims, his voice loud in your ears. You wince, leaning into his warmth a bit. You’re freezing. Your friend gives you a sympathetic look, eyes gleaming with worry. “No sleeping on me yet.”

“Trying not to,” you manage to say. Bolin’s stern demeanor breaks in an instant, something like fondness in his expression. 

“I know,” he reassures you. “You’re doing good. Just a bit longer, okay?” 

His confidence and certainty are enough for you to latch onto his words. Bolin seems to know what he’s doing, which is more than you can say for yourself. You reluctantly try to keep your eyes open, watching as Bolin looks around the street. 

Eventually, the background noise starts to settle down and fade. This is only making it more difficult to stay awake. Fortunately, there’s soon another voice capturing your attention. 

“Are you all right?” Tenzin asks, the serious expression on his face morphing into one of uncharacteristic concern. His hand grasps your cheek. You can’t do much more than blink up at him. I’m fine, you want to say. But the words are lodged in your throat. 

“Tarrlok drugged him,” Bolin explains, after seeing the tense look on the airbender’s face. Tenzin’s expression darkens at that. The two of them start conversing in low voices, indiscernible to you. 

Not to mention, you’re fading fast. They both notice. “Get some rest, dude,” Bolin urges you, sensing that you’re moments away from slipping into unconsciousness. “We’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Not able to come up with an argument, you drift off into an uneasy sleep.

At the edges of your dreams, Amon’s mask lingers, his shadowed figure sneaking in and out with dangerous ease. His words ring in your ears, long after you finally succumb to unconsciousness: 

Consider us… even.

endnotes: WHEWWWW i've been loving whump lately. and CFS is kicking my ass, so, you know. exhaustion whump. obviously.

also holy shit, this is way longer than i meant it to be. ayyyyy. happy spooktober mwahhaha

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As someone who was born a Mythical Creature, He never really did get the whole "being empathetic" thing, especially regarding humans.

It's not like He hated humanity, but more of, He does not care. And at times, disregard is worse than hate. Besides, using others to reach higher had always rewarded Him.

Nevertheless, the Angel of Time went by His long life wistfully. Careful, but in a way that entertained whatever crazed philosophy and understanding of the world He had.

Parasitizing humans to make His own clan? Been there done that.

Use His godhood to participate in geopolitical situations? If it benefited and entertained Him, why not?

Preventing anyone from overtaking His position? Of course-

Well, that was one of the problems that had the ever present smile on His face to sour.

Contrary to popular beliefs, Amon is not always successful in His little hunts for His fellow Marauders. Sure, most of them losing control due to some 'changes' to the potion formula always guaranteed success, that did not mean that there are a few outliers.

Some of those members of the little club called Hermits of Fate have been mostly safe, but most of them were not much of a threat to Him.

That old man Pallez is definitely a bit more hard to find, but He was also a fellow angel so it was not much of a surprise.

No, what gets the Marauder Angel's ire is a certain saint who somehow, and someway, managed to escape His little recipes of mishaps directed at mischievous little Maurauders who do not know better.

For a saint, you are quite young. A girl figuratively and literally in her 20s, yet have already reached one of the pinnacles of a Beyonder even before you turn three decades old.

Color Him impressed, but He really did not pay attention to who or what you were but the fact that you are not special stood out.

You are born like any other human did. You also did not belong to the Jacobs, Zoroast or any other Beyonder families that had control over the Maurader pathway. And you also just started your journey as a Beyonder a few years ago, so, really, you knew nothing.

At least, that is what He thought.

But now look at you, somewhere He actually could not guess, having digested your Seauence 4 potion within a year and have already became a saint with no struggle at escaping him at all, as if outsmarting a thousand year old Angel is everyday life.

Should He feel insulted or challenged is something He really put some thought into. After all, when has He ever been forced to crawl just to find someone supposedly insignificant and weak to Him?

"Well if it isn't my zealous brother."

The blonde priest, kneeling on a pew said nothing at the greetings as the familiar youth that sat beside Him who was garbed in a long black robe flowing on the stone floor of the cathedral.

"Why, has your search succeeded?"

"I think you would know by now if it did."

A few silent seconds surrounded the cathedral, before Adam opened His eyes, blue irises swirling with complicated emotions and knowledge in a way that only higher-beings could do.

"Hm, whatever it is you are doing, just ensure you do not lose your reason."

A mischievous smile is all that appeared on the Angel of Times' face, as He adjusted His monocle before starting to head out of the door.

He shrugged it off, not offended whatsoever, just confused as to why His brother would care about a meaningless hunt. Surely, He had more things to talk to Him about other than a puny little saint right?

"I know. Don't worry, this will be over soon, my zealot brother."

"Such obsession can be the downfall of intelligence. Do not let the frustration pull you to your demise."

'Does he think that I act like a petulant child?'

The feeling was not one of anger, but of confusion, which was valid. He was anything but illogical, Amon was a planner, one with patience and intellect that precede even His fellow Beings of power.

A day that He starts thinking like a brute is the day He turns mad.

Of course, His brother knew of the thoughts in His mind, as a soft smile is all that plastered on the face of the deity.

"Do understand that my intention is to remind, not to doubt."

"Of course."

With a sing-song voice, Amon left, His mind already running simulations and thoughts on His next steps.

His brother had never been one to involve Himself in His schemes and vice-versa. However, now, Adam's curiousity on His little hunt was entertaining to say the least.

"Well, then I guess I should make this hunt more entertaining for the audience then."

"It's been a while since I have been to Bayam."

The avatar mumbled to Himself as the youth stood out in His black robe and witch hat amongst the locals. Truly, Bayam is a place where the Angel rarely appears, due to of course, uselessness sake.

Why visit a place He would not find memorable or entertaining at all?

Though, He was here for a reason. One that ensured entertainment. See, a little birdy told Him of a familiar little and slippery worm that has found refuge in the city.

Why, it was perfect, He thought. Such a place that is both humble yet raucous would surely avoid suspicions, right? Perfect place for a High-Sequence Beyonder to continue the round of hide-and-seek.

Amon enjoyed this game, truly He did. But, it was getting a bit old now was it not? It was such a waste for him to keep on giving time and energy just to chase someone who has yet to become an angel.

"I could be searching for that special Seer, but no, I have to keep on searching for that little worm."

With a dramatic sigh, He continued His walk. To anyone who may see Him that knew Amon, they would definitely be a little taken aback as to why He is willing to travel normally by foot, instead of using His abilities.

However, who could truly understand how His mind worked sometimes?

Truthfully, Amon did not know why He was doing this either. The closest answer to such a question is probably because He wanted a rather dramatic ending to such an entertaining cat-and-mouse chase.

He has never felt this exhilirated before, and He wanted this feeling to last as much as possible. As a born Mythical Creature, Amon was not someone easily satisfied.

For long, He is hailed as someone powerful. Whatever He wanted, He got either through influence or His own powers. It was kept in His mind that as long as He was patient, He can get anything He wanted.

And so, He is always willing to wait. Wait for the right time to get what it is He coveted.

However, this was different.

The plans He always made were almost always sure to succeed. Sure, He had to wait for a long time, but His gamble and plans are always victorious in the long run mainly because He knew what to do and what not to do.

Knew the right things to say to His enemies to convince them. The right actions to make them fall to their knees and give up.

But He could not do the same to you.

He can never get a read of you. No matter how the River of Fate flowed, you seemed to be able follow its flow in a way that can still make you avoid Him.

Everytime He has been close in catching you, the floor disappears on Him and He would realize then that He failed once more.

He cannot plan to get you as well, as seeing that most of the time, you would notice His plans ahead of time and make a counter to escape and run away.

You are the only thing He wanted but could never get. Someone whom He is not confident at catching.

And that did touch His pride a bit, for better or worse.

"Heh, but now, it is all over."

And it will be. He has ensured that no loopholes could so much exist in His plan. Fate was on His side, and He could feel the now familiar satisfaction coating His pride at this thought.

As He stood before the dingy apartment that you supposedly lived in, the smile on the Angel's face turned sharper, until its genuine spark slowly vanished.

Not wasting any time, He turned His feet to leave, of course, not before stealing a piece of paper that He could not even use to track you down from inside the apartment (probably written by someone whom you controlled through stealing).

'Not today, Mr. Angel of Time:)'

AHAHHAHA Get fooled Mr. Error:)

A - Aftercare (What they're like after sex)

Amon's the kind of guy that gets up early the next morning and makes you breakfast. (Provided he doesn't have to immediately fuck off because the police are on his trail or because he has Equalist business to oversee) If he has the luxury of time, I think he'd actually be pretty gentlemanly. Help you wash off and/or change clothes if you're really wiped out (which I imagine he could certainly leave you, I mean we all know how crazy athletic this guy is), could even give you a massage afterwards (dude a massage from this guy would go crazy hard, he knows *all* the pressure points)

M - Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

I've had this image in my head for months, but I feel like the biggest turn on for him would be prolonged physical contact. Specifically, guiding your body during a training session. Like I think he'd just get more and more enamored with your body as the session went on, and eventually it'd just turn into a different kind of "physical activity".

O - Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc;)

I think he's definitely more likely to want to receive than give when it comes to oral, not really out of reluctance or lack of skill but just the fact that he practically never takes that mask off and that includes in the bedroom. The mask 100% stays on during sex and that'd make it pretty hard for him to go down on you. If you're close enough and he trusts you enough, though...maybe.

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs, etc;)

♡ Astaroth’s kink is perfect for literature lovers!! If you write erotica, he will gladly proofread your work, going so far as to enact the scenes and his suggested revisions. Another time, you asked him to read you a “bedtime story” and he complied after much pestering. He accepted your book and read it aloud in his soothing voice…then upon reaching a raunchy scene, he looked up from the page, met your cheeky gaze, and joined you in bed <3

♡ Once you were done kink-shaming Glasyalabolas, you decided to indulge him. His paraphilia is creepy, to say the least, but you knew what you were getting into. The best method? Play dead. You can’t resist the occasional moan or involuntary shudder, especially when he is touching you, but it certainly does wonders for his arousal. You’re his Ophelia, his Sleeping Beauty—beautiful, voiceless, and completely at his mercy.

♡ The only thing Paimon enjoys more than your blood is the sight of your body decorated with cute bandages!! Once he’s had enough of you, he will treat your wounds and present you with a set of printed Band-Aids. Here, would you like a pink one for your finger? What about a heart pattern for your thigh? A smiley face on your neck? Even better, what if your Band-Aids match the stickers on his horns? Take your pick~

♡ Sometimes, you wonder if Amon gives you tasks which he knows you will fuck up. There are telltale signs—his constant gaze, a hint of a smile, empty reassurances which somehow lead you to his bedroom. It begs the question: How would he react if you were to make a mistake in bed? Would he still smile after you “accidentally” touch a sensitive spot or ruin his orgasm? How will he react once he realizes you’re doing it on purpose?

♡ If Marbas were to cite an example for the term “heaven and hell,” it would be your moments of intimacy. He encourages you to restrain him to the best of your ability—tying complicated knots, using strong materials, testing his new set of regular restraints—then use his body as you’d like. It’s difficult to say who enjoys it more, especially when you are relishing the sight of him beneath you, totally submissive and desperate for your touch.

♡ Considering your history, your sadism towards Gabriel is warranted. So once he is defeated, in a church no less, you waste no time in humiliating him. If he refuses to yield, it only takes a few minutes to bend him over the altar and force him to face the image of his God. How does it feel to be watched by the passive, artificial faces of his creator and fellow angels? At any rate, the stained glass casts such pretty shadows on his defiled body~

♡ Of course Minhyeok knows your underwear preferences. The color, the style, the type of fabric, every detail. So when he finds a black lingerie set in your closet, he recognizes it as a new purchase—but for who? The next thing he knows, he is visualizing the lingerie on you and  calling you for answers. Whether or not he understands your invitation, that specific underwear will frequently disappear from your room.

♡

Sitri fic ๑ Lucifer fluff ๑ More headcanons

Fun fact, a day after I wrote Glasyalabolas and Sitri’s headcanons, they came home in my gacha pull. D-Did I summon them?? (´⊙ω⊙`)

So far, my favorite devils are Leviathan, Sitri, Astaroth, and Satan but the other characters’ paraphilias are…….interesting to write about, to say the least. Cheers to more hornii xD