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beommieternity · 4 months ago

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𝕬𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

SYNOPSIS: It was said that angels were the messengers of god sent to spread his word. But no one could have thought that their god was anything but benevolent.

And the angel has no choice but to spread evil, even if it costs him his life.

—In which, Choi Beomgyu rules a dystopian land with fragmented memories, people and hearts.

PAIRINGS: choi beomgyu x reader

CHAPTER WARNINGS: ANGST, implied violence and abuse, violence and abuse, hallucinations, implied induced memory loss, murder, gun use, minor character death, imprisonment, more violence, blood, kind of unproofread/unedited (pls let me know if I forgot anything!)

WORD COUNT: 4.1k words

Notes: I thought I'd let you guys have it early while I'm still not too busy, cause apparently I will also be unavailable on the 20th

———————————

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1

The air was thick, thick with a silence so palpable that your breaths became ragged. All that surrounded you was nothing but silence and an eerie, creeping darkness. There was nothing to see, and there was nothing to hear, but there was something to feel.

Your wrists and ankles ached, only being soothed by the uncanny coldness of metal and damp concrete. Your arms stung; the pain akin to having been dragged against rough terrain. Your throat was dry, and your hands felt calloused. Your feet pulsed as if you walked for miles, but the last thing you recalled was watching television at home. Your heart raced as you slowly woke up from your dazed state and gained sobriety.

You were rendered blind and deaf, with no recollection of events prior to your circumstance. You were laid on the cold floor, the stone damp with what you could only describe as filth. The air reeked of the stench of fresh and dried blood; shivers traveled down your spine, you didn't know whose blood it was.

Am I dead? you pondered. But the pain felt too fresh, too raw. Your body ached too much to be dreaming, yet your mind was too aware to be dead. Questions flooded your mind as your open eyes that can see nothing but black darted across a sea of emptiness. Your breaths grew shorter, faster, and the sound of ringing filled your ears. Your heart thumped loud and hard, as if wishing to break free of the chains you were in. You thrashed against cold metal and concrete, not hearing the clanking of chains made by your own movements. You had no voice; all your throat could muster was a miserable croak pleading for help. Your gut started to ache as you moved more and more, the pain so blinding that all you could do was writhe inwards, unable to give yourself any comfort.

And there was nothing you could do. You were fatigued and confused, all that was left for you to do was your already strained eyes and succumb to the unending darkness.

Time ticked, and you grew number to the aches of your mind and body. You have lost all sense, the only thing left for you to feel being the smell of iron. You could no longer tell if your eyes were open or closed, nor could you feel if the small pebbles on the concrete floor piercing your skin. There was nothing to hear but your shallow breaths as you teetered between awake and asleep.

But then there was sound.

The hard, and almost calculated steps of a person in a far-off distance, followed by an entourage of inferiors. The air shifted to one of fear and command, your breath hitching as the steps slowly grew louder. You heard chains shift, and small voices pleading for life and death. The once silent darkness grew louder by the minute, yet the first step you heard remained your only focus. The steps were consistent, almost following a metronome's increments per tick. They were heavy, the sound of each step softly echoing against what you assumed was nothing.

Then it halts.

The pleading and rustling carried on, repeated words almost sounding like a chant, yet the silence grew thicker as soon as the steps halted. You felt the shadow of a presence loom over you, and you were certain it was the one whose steps caught your attention.

A deep voice spoke. "Open it," the voice was firm, the tone undeniably masculine. The sounds of metal against metal followed by a soft creak hummed through your ears. A few more steps and he came closer, and what loomed over you before finally towered over your pitiful figure on the ground.

He was close, eye level. Your eyes were still rendered blind yet you could feel the intensity of his gaze against the darkness. His short minty breaths hit your burning skin, and you could feel his hand trail your face. It was gentle, almost loving, as if he was admiring a delicate sculpture presented before him. You stayed still, cautious of what was to come from the stranger.

A sharp pang hit your jaw as clothed fingers gripped your chin, and a small groan escaped you.

"Could you tell me your name?" the man spoke, his voice cold and daunting. Your legs grew weak and your jaw slack. Your name? You didn't know your name. You stayed silent, mouth slightly ajar against his grip, mind numb from thirst and hunger.

"Answer me," he hissed, venom laced in his every word. "Or so help me, I will put you through what I already put you through before."

"I- I don't know," you squeaked, words hitching in your throat. It was the truth. You didn't know who you were, or where you've been, why you're here or how you got here. All that you remember was the darkness welcoming you from the moment you woke up.

Your mind grew hazier as his grip tightened against your face, you could hear his sounds of disbelief, as if this was the most ironic situation he could be in. And in his impatience, he tugged at your eyes, voices of disapproval following behind him.

"So, you don't know who you are, but could you per chance recognize me?"

Blinding white flashed before you, barely registering that you were finally able to see who you had been talking to.

Right in front of you was a man with dark eyes so piercing, they almost swallowed you whole. His dark hair cascaded against his neck, a great contrast to the stark white uniform he was wearing. His face was mesmerizing, seemingly sculpted by God himself, in a way he actually was. It wasn't something you would easily forget.

And in that moment, it was impossible to not recognize such a face. Choi Beomgyu. Choi Beomgyu, descendant of the Messiah that had saved the world from imminent destruction and its cruelest fates. Choi Beomgyu, the current chief in command of the disciples, the head angel tasked to spread the Messiah's word and benevolence. Choi Beomgyu, the man who was given the highest regard for not only his poise and elegance, but also his capabilities as a leader. Choi Beomgyu, the man loved by all.

Yet here he was, gripping you as if you were some filthy beast to be treated with no respect.

You could do nothing but stare, confused at this turn of events. Who on earth wouldn't recognize him? But a sinking feeling engulfed you when you stared at him. His eyes, so dark, they were almost black; their usual warmth that one would see during city gatherings was gone. His hazel irises that glowed in sunlight eclipsed into an abyss in this strange place. His gaze and the almost playful smirk that danced across his pink lips was dangerous. Almost as if he was hoping that you'd answer incorrectly if there was a correct answer at all. The answer was clear to you, but is that answer the one he was hoping for?

"With that look in your eyes, I already know the answer."

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and his head dropped into a low chuckle. His gloved hand let go of your face, and returned to his side.

"One final dosage and she should be free to leave. Make sure she has no recollection of this place, and make sure no hiccups occur when you're transporting her. Is that understood?" he stood up from his place in front of you, shadow towering over your figure once again. His words were cold, venom seeping in as he uttered his final phrases, his tone sending a warning.

The soldiers stiffened, eyes darting between each other, nervous.

A click was heard, and even with just his back facing you, you could see a gun being pointed at the chest of one of the men.

His voice was low, guttural, harsh. "I asked you, or was I not clear?"

The man stumbled back as Choi Beomgyu inched closer, gun being poked at his chest after each word. The soldier tried to remain unfazed, clad in a black uniform with gold accents, the gun almost merging in color. There was irony in the scene, a sad and pitiful irony.

In front of you were two men: one clad in the uniform and color of "heaven," cocking a gun with sinister intentions at a man covered in the representations of evil and greed.

"Alright, not answering? Let me rephrase. Why did you not follow protocol?"

"I believe I followed it to the best of my abilities. Sir," he answered with conviction, eyes refusing to waver yet refusing to meet his superior's.

It was not the answer Choi Beomgyu was looking for.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five gunshots echoed through the halls, and the wailing in the background ceased in an instant. Blood pooled on the white tile outside the prison cell, while it seeped through the textured concrete inside. The air reeked of it, and it all came from the body of the man dressed in darkness.

Beomgyu was heaving. His breaths were the slightest quicker and shorter, and his eyes, almost glassy, showed the slightest bit of shock. There was the almost unnoticeable tremble in his fingers as he put his gun back in its holster. The slight scrunch of his eyebrows as he watched the body bleed. Almost as if he was in disbelief. Something so easy to miss, but it was there. The fear was there.

"You should have followed protocol…" he muttered to himself, unheard by everyone else. A sigh escaped him as he stared.

"Dispose of him," he said, feeling the words getting caught in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Two men, wearing the same uniform, carried the body away, wordless.

"As for you," he turned to face you. His face suddenly seemed to sag, his eyes drooped, and his right covered in blood. His white coat was covered in deep red splatters. He looked disheveled, uncomposed, a more striking contrast than blood on white cloth. "Five more dosages. She is not to remember anything that transpired today and the days before. Prepare her profile for discharge in the meantime. Assure that her injuries heal until then."

You looked at him, in disbelief. A man was dead, and nobody is screaming at the injustice. Choi Beomgyu killed him, with no remorse, no hesitation. Who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you?

And he looked back, the same dark eyes, the same soft features, the same white branding, now with blood scattered around it. It didn't make any sense. The disciple of the Messiah, an Angel, killed a man. Choi Beomgyu, known for his kindness and grace, was a murderer.

There was no light, not in his eyes nor on his stained porcelain skin, as his eyes met yours. Your mouth was ajar from the events, yet his face was even more stoic than it was before.

He turned, abruptly, as if running from your gaze.

"And put her blindfold back on, she has no business to be seeing the dungeons."

Then he was gone and darkness welcomed you once more.

—•—

You awaken in your bed. Your head was pounding, and your throat ached from dryness. Your eyes scanned to see your room: a bed covered in navy sheets, books neatly stacked atop one another, an empty bin, photos of family and friends on a string hung on the wall, cabinets with articles of clothing hung on its handles, white curtains bright from the light outside. A photo fell from the wall, the wooden clothespin that held it on the string losing its grip. Your sheets smelled faintly of an unfamiliar fabric softener, and your room was organized. Too organized.

An odd feeling washed through your system. "What happened?" you whispered to yourself. You couldn't recall anything from yesterday or the weeks, or the months before that. Everything felt like a blank slate, and you were just born with nothing to fill in the gap.

There was a knock on the door. "Sweetie, come on down, breakfast's ready," a voice spoke from the door, tone cheery and warm.

"Mom?" you softly spoke to yourself, in disbelief. It felt surreal, the fact that your mother was just outside your door, asking you to eat breakfast when you didn't even know what you ate the day before.

You stood from your bed, slowly, cautious to what may come your way. There was a faint hum outside as you put your ear against the door frame. The scent of waffles wafted through your senses as it seeped through the gaps between the hinges.

A light growl came from your stomach, and you decide to let weakness consume you.

The smell of food was stronger outside.

You trudged down stairs, taking caution with every step.

There was a welcoming warmth in the air, the scent of batter being toasted in an iron, and the sweet aroma of maple syrup that was poured on steaming bread entered your nostrils. There was a light zest as your mother put fresh fruit on a plate. The kitchen was consumed by warm sunlight and your mother’s faint humming, with birds outside seemingly singing along as they chirped and danced around on the decades old tree in your yard. The walls were tinted orange, and your silver fridge turned into the shade of cool bronze from the yellow light of the sun. It was bright, calming, reassuring.

It almost made you believe that this gaping hole inside of you was only the result of a nightmare.

You shook your head at the silly thought. What you felt wasn’t the result of some odd farce, you were sure of that. Right?

But what happened yesterday? What happened in the past week?

You went to the new coffee shop down the street, it was pretty good.

“Sweetie, you went to the new café down the street, right? How was it?” your mother asked, a sing-song tone in her voice. “Your father was hoping to buy his morning coffee next week there.��

You went to a coffee shop yesterday? How come I don’t remem—

“Sweetie?”

You turned to look at your mother, her face tilted in hinted confusion. “Are you alright?”

The scent of caffeine was suddenly hard to ignore as the pot your mother was making came to a full boil.

You went to a coffee shop yesterday, the one down the street. The coffee was smooth. The beans used were high quality, and its aroma was impeccable. But it was bitter, so horribly bitter that the only taste you could compare it to was dirty dish water.

“Uh… yeah, I’m fine. Still a little sleepy, is all,” you answered, your voice barely audible. “The coffee was fine, nothing special. It was a little bitter for my taste, but dad does like his coffee really bitter.”

“Oh? That’s great then! I’ll tell him to give it a shot,” your mother smiled at her small pun. “Speaking of, dear, call your father in for breakfast. He’s in the living room.”

You turn your head away from your mom, startled at your own words.

The memory was vivid, too vivid. As if it was something you actually did. Yet, your body has no recollection of doing so. But the taste of the coffee was so real, so bitter, so bitter you can almost still feel it against your tongue. But you don’t recall going outside, nor do you recall drinking anything. Yet, your mind was telling you otherwise, a voice echoing inside your head telling you ‘You had coffee yesterday, aroma so strong and beans so pure… it’s bitter taste sure leaves an impression, doesn’t it?’

You had coffee yesterday. The day before that you met up with friends.

You had pasta together, chatted about your jobs. You felt horrible, you didn’t have one yet. You were fresh off the podium with a bachelor’s degree and nobody was willing to take you in.

You graduated a few months ago, with Latin honors at that, yet here you are struggling because your resume is empty. No extracurriculars, no charities. You’re nothing but a textbook printed in human form, no experience or input offered. Just raw information with nothing new to offer.

You applied to another job yesterday; in the café you went to. Your parents didn’t know it. You hoped they’ll never find out. You didn’t want them to pity you any longer.

You’re so worthle—

Thud.

You stumbled out of your thoughts, hands seeking stability from the entryway walls. You were distraught, bothered. You almost forgot about the odd, unelevated floor of your living room. It was dark, the thick velvet curtains were drawn against bright window sills.

You heard the television humming softly in the background, its screen the only source of light in the small space.

“Dad?”

You looked up to see your father peacefully snoring against the morning news’ chatter. You inched closer, almost tiptoeing your way to see his face.

He was unfamiliar, haggard. His face was riddled with gray stubble; his eyebrows were furrowed as he muttered through his snores, a small line of drool slowly oozing out of the side of his mouth. His hair was messy and oily, as if he hadn’t showered in days. A bottle of beer was in his hands, its contents spilled on the floor.

Didn’t dad have a day job? What happened?

“In other news, the Palace of Eden has announced the name of the potential next archangel. Dubbed ‘the angel in stark white,’ the head of the disciples has been currently named Disciple Cael. He has been….”

Your eyes flickered to the old TV, pupils dilating at the intense light.

The image of a man was plastered on the screen: cheeks and nose tinted pink at the harsh cold of December winds, brows furrowed against the lights ahead of him, pale skin stained with the slightest hint of amber honey, an innate warm radiated from his appearance and the dutiful smile he sent out as he spoke through the podium mic of the mansion he called home. But his eyes were empty; its color reached depths no ocean could compare to, and no light dared to seep through. His smile never reached his eyes. His words never reached your mind; none of his sentences were decoded for you to understand, but his voice traveled like silk through your ears. It was akin to the finest chocolate you could find, smooth and light enough to melt on your tongue but with the right amount of bittersweetness to give its flavor more depth.

He was unnervingly mesmerizing.

“But could you, per chance, recognize me?”

“I don’t know who you are…” you murmur. “Are you…”

—•—

“Choi Beomgyu.”

A loud thud was heard across the room as Beomgyu hit the cold white walls.

“Do you have any idea what lengths I have gone through to give you this position?”

His father held his collar high, tight against his neck. His arms were limp against his sides as the older man spat profanities at him. His abdomen ached from each throw that was put against stomach.

“Why did you hesitate? Huh?”

Beomgyu couldn’t see anything but an odd blur of his surroundings. His ears rang from the impact, and the world was spinning before his eyes. A foot stepped on his ribcage, the pressure increasing with every passing second. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t hear. His body ached from fatigue and abuse. The floor was cold against his gloved hands, his clothed torso and his covered legs. His father’s foot was heavy and rough; its sole rubbed and dirtied his pristine costume with the blood and ashes of people who sat too close to the sun, yet never saw the gates of paradise. A futile effort, much like him never managing to escape the hellish clutches of his father. His ears kept ringing, no words his father spoke ever made it past his dizzying stupor. He felt his body being raised from the floor, and he was able to take in painful, shallow breaths. He felt a sharp pang against his skull, and warmth seeped into his hair. His vision morphed from haze to slowly consuming unconsciousness. The last thing he heard was his father’s harsh words, and he couldn’t see past the blurry haze of a man he once admired.

—

He heard cameras flashing in eagerness, people murmuring in anticipation, his father chuckling as the older man patted his back. He saw the crowd outside the capitol’s gates, civilians gazing at the palace doors in awe and hope. He heard children being scolded by their mothers as they jumped in piles of snow, children running and roaming free outside Eden’s gates. There were men with eyes squinted and brows furrowed, some with hands shaking from carrying an umbrella to cover their loved ones from either the winter sun or the light drizzle of falling snow. Everyone looked paler as bright white snow reflected onto their faces, with cheeks and noses tinted red from the cold. Within the gates were guards clad in black and gold, their weapons strapped against straight backs. It looked freezing, yet here they all were waiting for him to come out.

His hands let go of the heavy curtain, and he watched as it dropped from grasp and back into its initial state.

He hears the children, laughing and playing without a single care in the world. They were coming closer, and closer; their laughs growing louder and louder as they slowly morphed into cackling and weeps of men he used to mourn.

It will all come to a point that he will have to kill those children too.

And Beomgyu hesitated. No words came out of his mouth for the first minute that he stood in front of the expectant crowd. He could feel his father’s burning gaze, most probably aggravated at his silence. He couldn’t move as he stared at the people beyond the gates. There was a pit in his stomach slowly growing heavier, as if boulders were being added by the minute. He couldn’t speak as he felt the hands of the of everyone he’s ever killed clawing at his throat, wanting to get back from the pits of hell he’s burned them in.

Gloomy skies were overhead the people he was supposed to speak to, and there, just beyond the horizon was a hill with a singular ginkgo tree. It stood tall and proud, leaves as yellow as the middle of fall. Its leaves flew with the wind, and the little golden fans littered the dull heavens with stars.

He stared and calmed, the breeze that glittered was a sign. This was the path for him, and that breeze was leading him to a future as glorious as gold.

Was it? What foolish thoughts! It was what he was made for, his sole purpose.

He took a deep breath, and his mouth opened to speak. It was rehearsed, unconvincing. He didn’t believe anything that he was saying. It was for the best, for the sake of everyone who lived within the walls of paradise.

He looked at the crowd, listening to him in intent. The children were silent, eyes sparkling against bright lights and once more he hesitated. He saw the light in their eyes, reminiscent of his when he too was wee lad. He looked at everyone’s faces as he spoke, his own in a smile that was done hundreds of times before. But there in the crowd, was a woman, one with a face so unmistakably familiar, standing alone. Her eyes were sunken, and her mouth was frowned. Then it morphed into something more remarkable, something forever etched in the depths of his mind. Eyes wide, brows raised, mouth agape. Her hair was ragged and soaked. Her cheeks were hollow, and there in her chest was a bleeding wound, a small hole with blood gushing out of it.

It was the face of his mother as she died, contorted in disappointment and fear.

He blinked, and blinked, and blinked. The crowd slowly blurred but the face of the first person he has ever taken the life of stayed and remained as vivid as the day he shot her. He blinked once more, and his father was no longer beside him, the cameras were no longer flashing and his hands and clothes were stained brown and red from soil and his mother’s blood. Right beside him was a gun, his weapon, his guilt.

"Beommie, look over there. This should be your first time seeing a sunset, right?"

He looked at the horizon, hoping to feel the setting sun’s comfort, yet he was met with darkness, darkness so immense that he had no choice but to succumb to it.

—————————— note: alr hi i'm back! sorry that took quite some time, it's literally march now lmao. but I had a free week and typed like crazy so I hope you all liked it! i can't exactly say when chapter 2 will be but it will be on your way somewhat soon (???) anyway love you, bye <33 thank you so much for giving this a try :DD —sky

Taglist: @woncheecks @sxmmerberries

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