Iplier and Septiceye One-Shots/Imagines

God Syndrome (Host X Demon!Reader)

Suggested by: BellaSongTale (or whatever your new username is, because I can't seem to find it).

God syndrome: an unshakable belief characterized by consistently inflated feelings of personal ability, privilege, or infallibility.

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"Let's see... if I was a tiny dust-biting cowardly little maggot, where would I be?" you cackled, looking around the dimly lit facility for any sign of your prey. Then you heard it. A little hitch in a breath. A quiet sob. You laughed, feeling the shadows envelop you as you mixed in the darkness, ending up right beside the poor mortal who was going to end up as your midnight snack. You grabbed the man's neck, lifting him a few feet in the air. You made sure he was facing you, so he could see your pitch black eyes and jagged teeth, knowing that you would be the last face he ever saw.

"Hello, dinner...." you giggled, and sunk your teeth into his neck. You let go, wanting to watch the life leave his coffee-coloured eyes. "I would usually play with my food, but I have more important thing to do, got people to meet. You understand, I'm sure, being an important man. Well, not anymore." With a sardonic smile, you feasted on him, getting your fill.

"You're late," someone spoke out as you walked back to your special room in your camp in Hell. "You were supposed to be back here half an hour ago." You glared at the demon, with bright yellow cat eyes and a tail. You flicked your fingers, and he flew back into the wall, breaking his skull with the impact.

"I'm not late unless I say otherwise," you snapped over his corpse, looking around at any other demons that dared to challenge you. No one met your gaze, not even....

"Dark? Darkiplier and Antisepticeye?" you scoffed, staring at the demons in the back of the room. One was shirtless, another drying his hair. You walked up to them, and they stared into your eyes. "My, my. What a pleasure, seeing two of the most feared demons in Hell. Well, other than myself, of course." You ran your tongue across your pale lips, watching the Irish demon with a malicious glint in your eyes. For a second, no, even less, he allowed his gaze to flash to the ground in worry, but moved back just as quick as it went away. He had a reputation to keep, and you respected that. Dark, as well. Not even a flit. But you could see something in his usually cold, dead eyes. Not fear, not quite. Maybe he was... unnerved? Dismayed? No? You didn't know. Maybe he didn't either. After all, demons were not the type to dwell on mortal emotions. But you hated not knowing.

"What is that I see in those charcoal eyes, little demon?" you breathed, gripping his chin and moving his head closer. His raven black hair fell across one eye, and he blinked. Ah. He was intimidated. Something minor, for sure, but it was there, lurking in the back of his mind. It was a start, but soon, you would have them all bowing at your presence. Even Darkiplier, in all his glory. Then, Lucifer himself. You were going to rule Hell, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. So, with a quiet chuckle, you let go, and strutted away, knowing Dark and Anti kept their eyes trained on you like loyal guard dogs.

After you had taken a shower to get all the blood off, you crept into bed, and slept soundly with the screams of all the people you've killed filling your sweet dreams.

In the morning, you stretched, and went downstairs to see if there was anyone else you could scare.

"Move it, handicap," you snapped, pushing past a demon with a bloody bandage and blonde hair streaked across his hair. You didn't know his, name, but then again, you didn't care. He was injured, probably from one of the past few civil wars that happened these few centuries.

But in a fluid motion, he turned around and swung his foot under yours, too quick for you to comprehend. You fell to the ground, landing on your back, staring at the blind man in front of you. He was muttering strange sentences to himself as he stared down with you in what looked like mild amusement.

"And as Host highly suggests that (Y/N) not do that, the demon decides to attack once more-"

You lunged at him, not bothering to listen to what he was saying, swinging long, sharp daggers at his throat. And even when he was talking, saying something about the fight and your attacks, he blocked and grabbed your wrist, turning it in a way it wasn't supposed to go. You gritted your teeth in pain, and kneed him in the stomach. He let go of your wrist and stumbled back, immediately grabbing your shoulders and throwing his forehead into yours. You, once more, fell on the ground, rubbing the place he hit.

"...And with a quiet growl, (Y/N) attacks again, not wanting to be beaten by a freak of something that Host was...."

"Shut up!" you snapped. He paused his ramblings, and looked up to stare at you... or stare at you as well as he could. "What are you even talking about?"

"(Y/N) asks Host what he is talking about angrily, wondering why Host is acting strangely and why he is actually beating (Y/N) in a fight when they are one of the most well-trained demons in all of Hell."

"What are you?" you seethed, angry beyond compare. He just gave a small smile, and you finally listened to what he had to say.

"(Y/N) asks what Host's name is, in which he tells the demon that his name is indeed Host, and that he is Darkiplier's older brother, and, for a fact that should be embedded into (Y/N)'s skull, is not afraid of the demon standing right in front of Host."

"Host? That's you name? Really?"

"Host does not pay any attention to (Y/N), and instead says to them that they are no longer allowed to intimidate Host's brother, or any of his friends ever again."

"And why should I listen to you, Host?" you growled.

"(Y/N) asks such a simple question, which Host answers that if (Y/N) doesn't stop making fun of Host's brother, he will tell every demon in Hell that he can beat (Y/N) in a fight."

"It's your word against mine," you snorted. He simply pointed behind him, to which you looked. A small camera, you noticed, had been propped up against the wall, and you could only guess that Host had put it there before walking down the hallway. It was recording.

Your huffed begrudgingly. "Alright, alright. Just don't show anyone the clip." Host held out his hand for you to shake, in which you grabbed it firmly, and stalked away, still shocked that someone actually beat you in combat.

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Word count: 1127