#the white angel of death ; visage | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

perseabeth · 17 days

Text

The Promise of the Wild Sea

< this is not an official fic yet, i had this AU in my mind for a while, and now i got the time to write few parts of it. if the story was to your liking, i might get encouraged to make it an official fic. i’d like to remind you that i do not own any of the characters, as they all belong to the original myths and Rick Riordan. except for the oc Callista. however, i made some alternation in the myths that could benefit my story. i hope you like these changes. also this is a fem!percy version. enjoy reading >

- 1184 BCE, The fallen city of Troy -

Apollo stood in front of Callista’s pyre, the flames not yet lit, his gaze fixed on her lifeless face. Her once radiant beauty now drained, her cheeks no longer flushed with the color of life. Her hair, dark as the starless night, framed a visage that seemed at peace, a peace she had found only in death. Yet, she had stolen his peace with her departure, leaving him hollow and bereft.

With painstaking care, he had smoothed away every bruise, every mark of the cruelty she had endured, wishing to present her to the underworld in the full splendor of her glory. His Callista, his heart. He clutched the two drachmas in his hand, the coins a symbol of her final journey, but to him, they were a cruel reminder of his eternal separation from her. How could he consign her to the underworld, knowing he would be condemned to an eternity without her by his side?

His soul ached with a grief that seemed too vast to contain. With a trembling breath, he placed the drachmas on her closed eyes, sealing her fate, preparing her for her voyage to the underworld. She deserved a realm free from the sorrows of war and the sting of death, a place of peace and light. He swore on his immortal soul that she would find solace in Elysium.

Apollo leaned down, his tears falling like rain upon her serene face, pressing a final kiss to her cold, unresponsive forehead.

“Farewell, my Callista... until we meet again, my angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun god cradled her cheeks in his trembling hands, his soy blue eyes filled with the agony of days spent pleading with his uncle, the merciless lord of death, for this moment. She was there in his embrace, radiant as the true princess she was, her beauty untouched by the shadows of the underworld. Her black hair cascaded down her back like the soft night sky, a dark tapestry embroidered with stars in silken threads. Her eyes, those mesmerizing sea-green eyes, gazed up at him—the very eyes he had yearned to kiss open one last time before cruel fate tore her away.

But nothing unfolded as he had hoped.

"My lord," Callista whispered, her eyes shining with boundless love for the man before her. She wore a white, elegant chiton that clung to her form with an ethereal grace, adorned with a delicate laurel crown—a vision of Trojan royalty. Apollo shook his head, refusing to accept the words forming on her lips. "No, you are coming with me," he implored, tears welling up in his sky-blue eyes, each drop a testament to his anguish. He was begging, pleading for her to return with him to the world of the living.

The princess before him shook her head gently, her gaze unwavering. "No, my lord, I am dead. I am happy here," she said softly. She took his palm, still cradling her cheek, and pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if sealing their fates with that simple, heartbreaking act. "You must respect the rules of death, my love. You must go on and find happiness in the lands of the living."

Her words stabbed his heart, despite the delicateness of her voice, despite the sweetness of her words, and despite the loveliness of her eyes. She was pushing him away, each word like a dagger twisting deeper.

Callista looked at him again, her gaze filled with a sorrowful resolve. "I'm with my family, and you should be with yours. Lord Zeus will not be tolerable when he hears that you brought me back from death."

Apollo tried to reason with her, desperation lacing his voice. "But Uncle Hades has already accepted," he argued, only to be met with another tender kiss on his palm from Callista.

"I'm not letting you get into an argument with your father," she replied softly. She lifted her hand and gently caressed the strand of his hair falling on his forehead. Her melodic voice continued, soothing yet heartbreaking. "You will live on. You will find happiness again, I'm sure."

"My happiness is with you only," he insisted, his voice breaking.

But Callista only shook her head with a sad smile. "That's what you're saying now, because the pain is so new. But trust me, my love... time will go on, life will go on." She looked into his eyes, her determination unyielding. He knew there was no way to change her heart. She gave him a beautiful smile that could have brightened his days if not for their situation. "You did all you could. You made sure I found my final rest in a beautiful place. Now it's your turn to let go... to move on."

Apollo's tears threatened to fall, threatening to drown his eyes. He did the only thing he could do in that moment; he planted a soft, small kiss on her lips, a goodbye kiss filled with all the sorrow of a love that could never be. It was a kiss that spoke of unending longing and the crushing weight of farewell.

He would never force her to do anything. If she was happy, he would be happy, even if it meant an immortal lifetime of his heart shattering every day he remembered that she wasn't waking up next to him.

His time in the underworld was ticking away, leaving him with precious few moments to spare in the arms of his beloved. How cruel fate is, he thought, that even time refuses to grant him a longer respite to find peace in her embrace one last time.

He kissed her forehead once more, a goodbye kiss—the same kiss he had planted on her brow the day of her pyre, the day they consigned her body to the flames in a solemn ritual of farewell. He looked into those beautiful eyes one last time. "I swear to you, I’ll always find you in the stars, in the calm oceans, in the beautiful sunlight, in the warm flames, and in the serene mountains. You will always haunt me, forever haunt my life, Callista."

This earned him a sad smile from her beloved face, and he realized he loved all her smiles except this one. "Who knows, maybe someday you will find me again, amidst the moors or maybe in the wild sea."

He nodded, a silent nod, as a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He kissed her hands one last time and turned his back, leaving his beloved, leaving his heart, leaving the bane of his soul in Elysium, where she belonged. Before he stepped away, he turned to her one last time. "Someday, I’ll find you in the wild sea."

With that, Apollo left the underworld, each step a testament to the immortal lifetime of sorrow that awaited him, a sorrow he would bear for the love he could never truly hold again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- December, 2007. New York City-

"And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll.

"These demigods will also need a ride," Artemis said, pointing to us. "Some of Chiron's campers."

"No problem!" Apollo checked us out. "Let's see... Thalia, right? I've heard all about you."

Thalia blushed. "Hi, Lord Apollo."

"Zeus's girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn't you? Glad you're back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—"

"Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going."

"Oh, right." Then his gaze landed on me, and his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and recognition, as if he had glimpsed a long-lost memory. The once vibrant blue of his eyes now bore golden freckles, a haunting reminder of his divine nature. "Callista?"

I met his gaze, my heart pounding with confusion and uncertainty. Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone from his past? “No. I mean... no, sir."

Calling a teenager "sir" felt awkward, but I knew better than to offend an immortal. They were known to have volatile tempers, and tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up. and now Apollo seems to be on verge of blowing things up, or me perhaps.

His silence stretched on, his eyes still fixed on me, probing and searching. It was as if he was peering into my soul, unraveling the layers of my being with each passing moment.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to his sister, Artemis, who offered him a subtle shake of her head. Their silent exchange felt like a wordless, deep conversation, conveying a depth of understanding that transcended spoken words. Apollo cleared his throat, breaking the tension that hung in the air, before turning his attention back to me.

His gaze shifted abruptly from sheer confusion to a myriad of emotions I couldn't quite pinpoint. It reminded me of the way my mom once described my reaction to blue cookies or a serene beach—a mix of wonder and longing. Yet, as he looked at me, I saw something more. His eyes, now a crystal-clear sky blue, brimmed with an affection that seemed to encompass the entire world. It was a strange sensation, one that left me feeling oddly nervous, knowing that he was a god who could unleash his power at any moment. If it were anyone else, I might have blushed under their gaze. But facing a god for the first time, unsure if he was friend or foe, left me feeling unsettled rather than flustered.

"Percy Jackson," Apollo's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had frozen, as if I were caught in a web of his penetrating gaze. I nodded silently. Then, without a word, he turned away, his attention shifting back to the group. The weight of his gaze that seemed to convey the burden of centuries, left me unsettled.

"Well!" he exclaimed in a cheerful voice again, as if the past few moments were nothing, breaking the silence. "We'd better load up, huh? The ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it."

—

i’d love to hear your opinion about this.

#today is my turn to make you sad #i noticed smth wrong i’ve done here #he calls her ‘’my muse’ not ‘my angel’ idk why i wtote it like that lol #ill edit all in the official fic #but it was a quick one shot #percy jackson #pjo #female percy jackson #apollo #retelling of myths #perpollo #fem percy jackson #phoebus apollo #fanfic #pjo fanfic #percy x apollo #trojan war retelling #percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus

57 notes · View notes

droogiesanddiscourse · 1 year

Text

"Hellfire."

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt x F!Reader

Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.

Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.

"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."

He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--

Visions of nocturnal holiness.

"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."

The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.

“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."

He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.

Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.

He notices your trepidation.

"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”

Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.

The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.

“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."

Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.

But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.

Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.

"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”

John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.

"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering.

Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.

But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.

"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."

His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.

Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.

John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.

"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”

Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.

Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.

Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.

But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.

The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.

Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.

A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.

Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.

Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?

Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.

A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.

Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.

Life. Death. Rise.

A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.

"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."

Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.

"Open."

Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.

You can't, you can't, you can't.

You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–

But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.

A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.

"Drink."

And you do.

#father paul hill x reader #monsignor john pruitt x reader #midnight mass #hamfam #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #hamish linklater x reader #hamish linklater imagine #Caitlin loses their damn mind over the fucking hot ass priest cant keep living like this I am literally so insane and feral #please send help #Caitlin go to hell challenge (real)#a/n: rat poison supposedly tastes like vanilla so that is where the reference comes from if that was confusing at all

140 notes · View notes

pariskim · 1 year

Text

angel of small death

[id: two digital drawings of ops original character anastasiya. she is drawn from the waist up, wearing an off-white dress. she is a light skinned woman with dyed blonde hair cut in a grown out bob. she holds in her folded arm a white rose funeral bouquet. the background is dark, showing storm cloud behind her and a pinkish white moon framing her head. splaying from her back are the white silhouette of owl wings. she has the visage of an owls face in a mask covering her face. the second image shows the same, only without the mask, showing her scowling face /end id]

#jay draws #anastasiya popov #oc art #oc art tag #original character #original character art #masquerade tag

37 notes · View notes

typingdyslexiaisathing · 3 months

Text

A Crime In the Devildom (Obey Me!) fic part 5

Previous Part 4 here / Next Part 6 here

content: Marzena has a nightmare. One that leaves her stricken to fear for her family of demons. Established relationships, injury, blood, death, nightmare, comforting a scared human. Be warned nightmare gets DARK.

The simple church only had a single light shining from above. The stairs leading to the altar soaked in blood. The roof had a hole for light to pour down upon a still form. Which Marzena recognized for her to tremble in horror at the sight. There lay an angel laying on the crimson soaked stairs. An ancient broadsword through his chest to lay unmoving. His white wings coated in blood to be ruined beyond healing. Clothes tattered from a battle lost. So Marzena sprinted forwards to the prone figure to kneel beside that unmoving corpse.

There lay Lucifer. Eyes wide and staring into nothing. Body long gone cold for there to be no hope. Marzena gave a shudder to grip the hilt of the broadsword with both hands. Her words whispered through what felt like powdered glass in her throat. "Lucifer?" The hilt gave no vibration against her palms. No heart beating within that ruined chest. Lucifer had been slain. Marzena tugged at the hilt as her tears blurred her vision. So she blinked furiously to clear them.

Marzena's vision cleared for the body to no longer be Lucifer. Instead, it was Belphegor staring up past her and into nothing. His head caved in on the left side for his arms and legs to be shredded through. Marzena choked on her air to keep tugging on the broadsword hilt. A feeling of immense loss doubling as she tried to remove the dam weapon. But every time she blinked away her tears, a new brother lay dead before her. Mammon was next. His beautiful eyes gouged out for his body to be mangled. Asmodeus was chopped in pieces when his visage replaced Mammon. Another blink, and Satan was there to have his entire frame riddled with arrows. Marzena started panting as she kept tugging on the hilt of the broadsword. Her next sight being Leviathan. His body half burned away and tears in his eyes. Then another blink and Beelzebub was the corpse. His chest was ripped open for his insides to be ruined. Marzena finally screamed to lose her grip on the hilt of the broadsword. Backing away as the light dimmed above for Marzena to keep screaming. The darkness soon all consuming as Marzena screamed until her voice cracked.

Yet the moment Marzena's voice gave out, a hand clamped down on her shoulder to yank her out of the nightmare and back into the waking world. That hand belonging to Lucifer for him to look frantic. His hands soon grabbing Marzena's wrists to hold her down as she thrashed in the bed. His words low pitched and strong. "Marzena! Stop! It wasn't real!" Marzena seemed to snap back to reality to look up at Lucifer with pure terror in her eyes. Her chest heaving for air as she panted and trembled under the Avatar of Pride. Who watched her with those crimson eyes that held a storm of emotions. Yet soon Marzena openly sobbed to wail out with aching sorrow, "Lu...? I... You..."

Lucifer gave a sigh to soon sweep Marzena into his arms and all but crush her to his frame. Cradling her head to his heart for the sound to assure that he was still alive and well. That pumping music elevated yet full of sheer strength. So Marzena broke to start bawling her eyes out. Her arms coming around Lucifer's waist as he nestled her against his still naked frame. His brothers soon banging through the door to all look frantic. The pact bonds having sent Marzena's terror to all of them. So Lucifer wasn't upset when they all piled onto the bed to surround their very distraught human. While Solomon stood by the bedroom door to watch the family come together. Marzena openly wailed and hiccupped to not care one bit that her nose was leaking. Until Mammon grabbed a tissue to place it to her nose for Marzena to see her nose was bleeding. Yet she just lay their in those arms to cry and shiver. Leviathan taking off his jacket to cover Marzena's naked frame before he started to rub her one hand in his. "Ice cold. Just what kind of nightmare was it?"

Belphegor moved closer to touch at Marzena's head and frown. His words flinted and hurting. "An intentional one. Someone sent a spell at Marzena. It's been shattered with barely a trace left. Lucifer didn't leave enough of it for me to work with to find out who did so. But I'll say it was better to break it than worry over finding the culprit." Mammon seethes in his spot on the bed to then give the most furious rumble Marzena has every heard him utter. "You mean the dead fucker walking. Formality and due process can sod a spear. The asshole that did this is going to die. I will hunt them down and leave nothing when I'm done."

Satan nodded to look borderline feral. Yet his rage and fury stayed tamped down as Lucifer placed a kiss to Marzena's head. The Avatar of Pride soon handing her over to Satan before he got out of the bed to head for his dresser. Which Solomon watched with keen interest as the very bare demon opened a drawer to fetch out some clothes. The sorcerer already with his phone out to be tapping on the screen. Making Asmodeus take notice to blink and go wide eyed. "Solomon. Please tell me you are texting Lord Diavolo. Surely you wouldn't be taking pics at a time like this." Solomon gives that devious sweet smile to chuckle. "Why my dear Asmodeus. I wouldn't dare. I was texting Barbatos and Lord Diavolo as well as several witches. I'm not that suicidal."

Lucifer gave a huff of air before he tossed Marzena's pajamas over in the direction of the bed. Beelzebub catching them as Satan gently coaxed Marzena out of her curled up position in his arms. Leviathan helping with getting Marzena to sit up so Beelzebub could have access to her feet. The Avatar of Gluttony taking no time in getting Marzena's panties and sweat pants back onto her as Satan got her bra on her front and snapped into place. Leviathan helping with her shirt and then adding Leviathan's jacket. Marzena had gone quiet to just whimper and hold the tissue to her still bleeding nose. So Satan fetched another tissue to add it to the one Marzena was holding. Leviathan sounding very upset but working through such to sound calm. "Right. I am going to say we do some moving around of the plans we made. Lucifer. I pitch the idea that we move Marzena to a room nobody else besides us knows about. The one you made specifically for us to add as many protective spells as possible."

All the other brothers go wide eyed to turn their gaze to Leviathan as Solomon raised an eyebrow. The former king soon saying with the greatest respect, "Then I freely offer my services to do such. Since I might guess who the room is for." Lucifer nods to then answer the implied question with curt words. "It is the only room that we might use for such purposes. Solomon. I am grateful for your offer. But I would ask you craft the spells into scrolls for us to use once you have left the House of Lamentation." Solomon nodded to not look offended over this. His gaze softening as Asmodeus started finger combing Marzena's hair for her. While Belphegor took her other hand to gently rub over her joints. Solomon soon put his phone into his pocket to then enter the room and begin crafting a spell that charmed the air with small floating bubbles. Their multi colored hues wafting out incense of fragrant flowers. Which had everyone ease out of their coiled tension as Marzena croaked out, "Smells like a meadow..."

Solomon smiled to nod his head as Beelzebub watched the bubbles float about. The dark air of the room lightening as Beelzebub tried to bite a passing bubble for it to pop and with a chime. The Avatar of Gluttony chuckling as he noted, "That tasted a little like cotton candy. but we should see to breakfast. Solomon. Do you think you can go through the whole house and do that spell with added lights to them? It would make everyone feel more at ease." Solomon nodded as Lucifer finished dressing in some loose pants and a sleeveless shirt. His wings out in full as Mammon just scooped Marzena up to do a silly little dance with her in his arms. "Right. I vote we skip the school hassle and stay with our sweet little sheeple lady today. Some party games like Devil Kart and Dance Mambo Demons as we stuff ourselves on pizza." Beelzebub started drooling as Leviathan smiled to call out, "I get to pick the first game!"

Asmodeus sighed to start herding the group out of the room as Mammon all but danced with Marzena out the bedroom door. Making Marzena give soft giggles for Lucifer to finally relax at the sound. Solomon standing beside the Avatar of Pride to place a hand to his chin and watch the group head out. "She will be okay once all of you shower her with love. Such tends to be a good balm against your nightmares. So take heart, Lucifer. Marzena has the best support system in all the three realms. You and your brothers as well as all her friends." Lucifer thought on that to hum a thoughtful notation and nod. His own words deep and rich with confidence. "Agreed. Our Marzena may shatter. Yet she will re-forge herself all the stronger with all our love. That is who she is at heart."

#obey me!#obey me! shall we date?#obey me shall we date #obey me: one master to rule them all #obey me! fanfiction #obey me! fanfic #obey me! one master to rule them all #fanfiction #fanfic #shall we date obey me #obey me swd #Obey Me! Shall We Date?#Obey Me: Shall We Date?#om! shall we date #obey me! swd #omswd #Obey Me! One Master To Rule Them All #Obey Me: One Master To Rule Them All

7 notes · View notes

hana-no-seiiki · 1 year

Text

REVELRY IN DEATH : MEA TORMENTA - BLURB

〘 𝐀𝐑𝐂 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐌 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐄 〙《 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 》

ANGEL’S DESCENSION

pairings: yandere! oc (ynael krasny) x god! reader

ynael is gonna be moved from the guest is god to this series. this is just a short story which will most likely span 10 chapters at most.

warnings: suicidal ideation. ideation of death. religious themes.

status: unedited, original art to be added soon

(had the sudden urge to get into opera) (im a jakub fanboy now yall) (link to his performance of mea tormenta here)

reply to be added to the taglist!

❝

Mea tormenta, properate (Hurry, my torments)

Ubi sunt flagella et caedes, ubi sunt flagella et caedes? (Where are the scourges and the flaying?)

❞

𝖄NAËL KRASNY WAS BIRTHED FROM A LONG-DRAWN OUT LINE OF INDIVIDUALS THAT WORSHIPPED THE GOD OF DEATH. The bloodline’s minds and souls lost in the belief that one day their beloved deity will grace them with its attention and a place abreast it in the Temple of Flowers. Heaven. A locale of infinite luxuries and pleasures.

And if you asked him of his thoughts on the matter?

His parents were simply batshit insane.

No one believed in gods nowadays — with the exception of his step-mother and father, in addition to a couple of small cults, so again, no one really. Technology had progressed so far that death was almost a splendor one would have to intentional meet with, rather being unfortunately be in the way of. Now that he thought about, death abruptly became far and few in between the past few centuries. War, famine, misfortune, all dissipated to nothingness as people seemed to finally understand how their actions could affect others.

A fact with exiguous exceptions. Depravity is regrettably a human trait that can never be extinguished.

His entire house was always littered with fresh lilies — flowers that apparently represented the god his parents adored so much — and he was sure the smoke he inhaled from all the incense alone could tear a hole into his lungs.

Ynaël barged through the unlocked door to his house while yelling, “Could you two at least take your shit of a practice outside rather than stinking up the place? ‘M tryin to breathe!”

“Ynaël, oh! Welcome back home.” His step-mother greeted him with a polite smile, while his father just grunted in response.

They were always like that. Ignoring most of his words and returning it with shallow and robotic greetings. It felt helpless, trying to interact with the couple.

“Stupid shitty father — and his stupid shitty god.” He cursed them quietly. Yeah he knew he was being an edgy son of a bitch now but he had a lot to deal with in school alright? Give him a break. It was hard going back and forth to two places he’d rather burn down than be in. He stomped his way towards the basement where his bedroom lied.

”Salty much?”

A familiar visage greeted him at his bed. White hair and light blue eyes that complimented his pale skin, and finally the iconic red cross hair pin. Ryu. Ryu Amamiya. One of his underclassmen in school.

Ynaël would have picked on him to hell in back for his nerdy tastes and heavy wallet. However Ryu had one advantage that made Ynaël avoid hurting him at all costs.

He was part of “The Stereotypes” in school. A clique of a five rich kids that everyone worshipped, basically kissing the floor the walk upon and hailing the air they breathe. He was untouchable — unless Ynaël wanted the whole school after his head. Faculty, students, all that jazz.

Ynaël doesn’t remember why and how but he became intimate with most members of their little group — which meant he was quite often harassed by them at every living moment. But after his stepbrother died, the leader of the Stereotypes — a girl named Sayu or something — started hanging around him, and eventually, the rest followed her lead.

”Ryu? The fuck you doing here? You here to take my brother’s shit?”

Ryu smirked, one of those unsettling smiles every member of the stereotypes seemed to nail down. One that always managed to terrify Ynaël.

”Stupid shitty sister.” The albino replied, making an awful imitation of Ynaël’s gruff voice and Russian accent, that was awfully far from his own.

“Заткнись, Elsa. Why don’t you go back to your annoying clique, hah? I’m not up for your bullshit.”

Ynaël envied the white haired kid in many ways. Ryu had a large influence in the campus, without so much as raising a finger. He was just himself, and the whole place admired him for it. While Ynaël had to literally and figuratively fight for scraps of attention, the majority of it being negative. No one wanted him in that institution, not the students, not the teachers, not even his parents.

And that made Ynaël want to prove them wrong even more.

”You know my sister likes to hang around the rest of them whenever I’m around. I’m saving the group from her religious yapping.” Ryu complained, resting his back on the mattress of Ynaël’s bed, “Death does not discriminate. Even with who they have as their followers.”

An object, presumably Ryu’s phone, began vibrating in his pocket. He picked it up, took one look at the caller’s ID and put it back. A sour look on his annoyingly pretty face.

Ynaël snickered. Ryu shook his head, “Don’t die on me while I’m gone.”

“No promises, budget Elsa.” Ynaël fluttered his fingers as a gesture of goodbye. Ryu scoffed at the motion and is about to leave before Ynaël’s step-mother interrupted his path with her presence.

“Ynaël?”

Ynaël almost fell down in surprise. His mother could be terrifying when she needed to be. She was nothing compared to his birth mother in terms of how much fear he’d feel around her. Thus, Ynaël grew to be quite the rambunctious teen.

”God fucking— you scared the shit out of me!”

She didn’t look the slightest bit fazed by the string of curses, maintaining her signature cordial yet distant smile, ”Your father and I will be leaving for a while. Will you be alright here by yourself?”

”I’ll be fine . . . I guess.”

”Okay. Goodbye, son.” And she’s gone.

Ynaël then turned to Amamiya, shit-faced grin still clear on the latter’s face.

“Now, will you get the fuck out of my room?”

❝

Crucem quaero, crucem date (I want to be crucified. Crucify me)

❞

Ynaël hears muffled cheering from outside. He had no doubt it was one of those fanatical meetings his parents attended. The God of Death had no official church, and so their worshipper’s usually gathered at eachother’s homes, “Gods, couldn’t they have started their ceremonies during the day?”

Ynaël got up from his bed to look at the A sudden wave of nausea crashed over him.

”The fuck, why am I . . . ?”

Hang on. If his parents were celebrating here. Why did the hag bid him goodbye?

❝

Volo mori, o Deus in te, volo mori, o Deus in te, o Deus in te (I want to die, in you. In you, I want to die. Oh god, in you. Oh god, in you)

❞

“Tonight we celebrate. The Golden Era ends. Our world will soon bathe in the reds and whites of our god.” The voice of their pastor echoed through the living room. He was a handsome man, just under a decade older than Ynaël. The latter could see the two of them being friends if it weren’t for the former’s preachy nature when it came to religious topics.

“And to commemorate this event, two of our most devoted family members will sacrifice themselves and join our god in the Garden of Eden.”

What? Sacrifice? Ynaël knew the members were insane but how were they even supposed to sacrifice when death wasn’t even possible?

Asphyxiation was ineffective. Diseases were nonexistent. Small injuries would either healed, while larger ones (i.e. beheading) would only make the body incapable of being used.

”May you face our lord’s judgement”

The only way it was possible was when a person is either forced into brain death and/or was sliced to multiple itty, bitty pieces. Grounded. Before they are promptly burned.

Ynaël doubted the common people here had the means to kill whoever they want painlessly as that needed expensive medical equipment and government approval. Meaning . . .

”Shit.”

Even before his parents were revealed he already knew they were the ones up the proverbial and literal chopping block. He squeezed himself through the crowd of people, not surprised that none of them were complaining about the lack of breathing space in the face of their great lord’s altar.

“Fucking, let me through you assholes!”

A hand gripped his wrist on the last layer of people, tugging him further and further away. ”You must be Ynaël. Ah. Chrystie must have invited you to witness this special day!” He recognized her to be a regular around the same age as the pastor if not a bit older.

“What?! No— I’m—“ He tried pulling away, but the woman wouldn’t let him. Not only that but people started assisting her with keeping him away.

”Why don’t you stay still, hm? Chrystie wouldn’t like it if you thrashed around and take the attention all away wouldn’t she?”

That smile on her face. That horrid, unnatural, plastic grin. Ynaël would remember that for years to come.

”What are your final words, Chrystianna? Mika?”

”We have no words. We are simply grateful to be given the opportunity to join their majesty.”

Ynaël screamed. He screamed in horror. He screamed in regret that he wasn’t able to form the bonds others would have with their parents. He screamed knowing that this moment would be the last he’d see them alive.

He never got to express how much he loved them, craved for their affection. Now he will never have such an opportunity.

But his voice was drowned out by the cacophony of cheers coming from the large crowd; a chorus of limitless devotion.

A large lily appears, tearing open the walls of the small home as it bloomed. In it you, appeared. Lying down in a fetal position.

“It s-seems that our lord has appeared before us! In flesh anew!”

But he didn’t get to look at you properly before your very presence held him down, affixed to the ground. And it tugged him even harsher and harsher until like the rest of the people in the chamber, he was kneeling towards your divine self.

He didn’t know if it was due to his emotions running high, or if he was slowly going insane from the current happenings. However he could not deny that your voice was heaven upon Earth. It dripped with an enchanting allure that he was immediately captivated despite not seeing your visage. “My lovely, devoted followers.”

“Our day has come.”

“Let us cleanse this world of all its decrepit sinners and unite all once again under the umbrella of mortality.”

❝

Mea tormenta, properate, ubi sunt flagella et caedes? (Hurry, my torment. Where are the scourges and the flaying?)

❞

©️ ALL ART AND WRITING WERE CREATED AND SOLELY BELONGS TO ME. DO NOT REDISTRIBUTE, REPOST, OR CLAIM THAT IT IS MADE BY SOMEONE ELSE.

#revelry in death #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere oc #yandere fic #yandere oc x reader #yandere story #yandere ocs x reader #yandere harem x reader

44 notes · View notes

seraphiism · 2 years

Text

𓆩 ღ 𓆪 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃

( GOD LOVES YOU, BUT NOT ENOUGH TO SAVE YOU. )

chara : bruno bucciarati fandom : jojo's bizarre adventure quote cr : c.p. cavafy ; ethel cain

one. BUT YOU ARE NOT MADE OF HOLY BEINGS, HANDS BLOODIED AND BRUISED FROM THE GOOD & EVIL ROOTED IN THE VEINS OF THE CITY YOU CALL HOME. so you'll stand in the cathedral, close your eyes and fill your lungs with catastrophe, listen to what the beating of a heart tells you. how frayed the strings and sinews are, nearly on the verge of break, and how desperately you salvage it all for the sake of others and not yourself.

IN THE CATHEDRAL, YOUR HEART TELLS YOU THERE IS NO SAFE PASSAGE HERE.

something hurts : a burning that takes hold of your being, ignites and wraps itself around your ribs. you open your eyes, focus on the figure in white. bruno bucciarati stands by your side, gaze distant, traced with melancholy as blue eyes observe the angels depicted on the walls of divinity.

"the angels are beautiful here." his voice breaks an empty and harsh silence, and even the warmth of his hand on yours is not enough to ease the pressure that weighs heavy on your chest. "i hope to see them again."

it is hard to breathe. something hurts.

( IN THE CATHEDRAL, YOUR HEART TELLS YOU THIS WILL BE THE BEGINNING OF THE END. )

two. MY LOVE, DID YOU FORGET THAT FATE IS A FICKLE BEING? she knows nothing but cruelty and depravity, merciless in the most unjust ways. BE WARY OF HER ; she will be the one to bring you to ruin and take him away, over and over and over again until he is an empty vessel of someone who once loved so dearly.

something hurts. it digs into your skin, festers in your blood. your heart races in the late hours and you do not know why.

"it doesn't do good to overthink." bruno tells you, voice gentle and filled with sleep. he glances at the clock, watches the moonlight trace your features, nearly smiles at such a beautiful sight. "come, lay closer to me."

so you scoot towards him, feel his arms around your figure. how strange that your nerves remain on edge, even in the hold of someone you love. you swallow hard, let out a shaky breath. you wish to ask him about fate-- who she is, how she binds your bloodied hands but leaves that red thread between your souls. but there is something in this moment that sends a shiver down your spine, tells you that it is better to live in oblivion, because somehow, it will hurt all the more in the end. so you remain silent, taste something bitter and obscure on the tip of your tongue.

"you're cold, love."

"as are you." he murmurs, hold tightening as he pulls the blanket over your bodies. "sleep, it'll be warm soon."

( something hurts. iron lingers on your tongue. you fall asleep to the feeling of his lips against your temple. )

three. YOU DREAMT OF THOSE ANGELS, DIDN'T YOU? you dreamt of those angels, wake up to tears trailing down your face. it is a sunny morning, gentle in her light. you rest your head against bruno's chest, anchor yourself to the present with the sound of his heartbeat.

alive, alive, alive alive alive alive. living.

something hurts.

( SOMETHING IS DREADFULLY WRONG. )

four. & THOSE WHO BETRAY ARE THE MOST WRETCHED OF ALL , so you run and you run, life thrown into chaos and the wonder of when your survival ends. to betray the boss is a death sentence, but it is a path you will walk without hesitation. your loyalty has always been true, has always guided you well.

it will be okay in the end. it has to be.

fatigue wears you thin, exhaustion on your visage. you try to hide it, knowing that you are not alone in this battle, but he has always managed to see through you. crimson runs down your cheek, your chest heavy and tight. bruno approaches you, wipes it away wordlessly, but in his touch there is an i'm sorry, i should have done better to protect you, and somewhere, you think he will carry that regret with him until he no longer can.

"you're cold, bruno."

he stills, offers a worn smile as his hand falls to his side lifelessly. he should not have dragged you into this. how sorrowful this will be at the end of all. this cruelty will be unfitting for someone as kind as you.

"whatever you're thinking," you begin, watching the grief that surfaces on his countenance, "don't apologize." you wince, feel the sting of the wounds that adorn your body. "i don't regret joining your side, not one bit. so don't start thinking otherwise. besides," you force a smile through it all, "we've gotta go back and see those angels after this is all over, right?"

something hurts. it is not supposed to. bruno tries to take a deep breath, but it feels unnatural, feels wrong. this is all so very wrong. but he ignores the pain, offers a quiet chuckle.

"you're right. forgive me for doubting myself."

( HOW TRAGIC FATE IS : LOVERS BOUND BY WEARY HEARTS ; ONE BEATING, ONE STILL. )

#jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #jjba x reader #bruno bucciarati x reader #bruno x reader #jojo x reader #jjba fanfic #shouts at the top of my lungs : i love bruno so very much and the way his story ended was absolutely tragic. he deserved a much kinder fate #in this essay i #when i first saw that mans i was like 'um ok' and now im like 'i love a man with that type of hair ( real )'#also i wanted to add more like .. affectionate interactions in this ? but bruno would limit himself as to hide the truth :(#.: writing

31 notes · View notes

cheernerds-a · 1 year

Text

𝚃𝙷𝙴 “𝙳𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻’𝚂 𝙳𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁” dealing with the presence of an oʇɥǝɹʍoɹlplʎ ǝuʇıʇʎ, suffering from possession and the rotting of her soul ! ( kill her or save her, make the right choice )

# 𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙍𝘿𝙎 : an insight into the fandomless character known as farah ariella hargreaves ! based around horror medias that run through black veins and cracked porcelain skin ♱ heavily affiliated with @wiredsmile, @gareththegreat, @lovefell ( nicholas ), @varhela, @goldengirlchrissy, @hereliestommy, @freezeher, @fleuramor, @khenzi ( pinterest )

𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙻𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙰𝚂 : the tragedies of life, will to survive, evils by humanity, facing reality, good vs evil, living two different lives, overcoming fear, experiencing death, not being yourself, what’s real and what isn’t, going through trauma alone, possession, religious trauma, the rotting of your own soul, are you YOU or are you a copy of the old you ? & the cost of friendships !

YOU ARE NOT 𝙔𝙊𝙐, YOU WILL NEVER BE YOU UNTIL THE DAY YOU pıǝ AND RETURN TO THE 𝙱𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙾𝙼 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙲𝙴𝙰𝙽 !

* ♱ 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 :

real name: farah ariella hargreaves

alias: primrose ariella hargreaves

nickname(s): fairy, ella, ariel, demon, traitor, devil’s daughter, prim, rosie

birthdate: july 25ᵀᴴ ( leo ! )

age: 18 - 25+ ( depends on verse ! )

height: 4’11

gender: cis-female ( she/her )

sexual orientation: bisexual

languages spoken: english, farsi, spanish

occupation: student/bakery employee

residence: san diego, california ( depends on verse ! )

birthplace: san diego, california ( depends on verse ! )

hair: dark brown with white highlights *either in a wolf cut, curly, or straight* ( soft to the touch, rough when not cared for properly during episodes )

eyes: hazel

visage: tarayummy

* ♱ 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝚂 : ( to be explained . . )

main 1

main 2

fallen angel

fear street

euphoria

apocalypse

coven

nevermore academy

supernatural

stranger things

marvel

tvd

rockstar

fantasy

ghostface

revenge

fast and furious

#DNI !#POSSESSED BY SCARLET #tw // blood #18+ ONLY #TRACKING THE HASHTAG CHEERNERDS #PSD BY SEREGORE AND ARIAPSDS

5 notes · View notes

scattered-irises · 2 years

Text

Tale XS: Genealogy of Blossom Red, Snow White and Demon Black (Byron and Christopher) Part ii

“No fair! Why does Christopher get to have two tales associated with him?”

idk im not biased I swear

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7762

Characters: Byron, Christopher, Barians, Vector

Relationships: N/A

Warnings: Death, child abuse, abusive parents, black magic, demons and angels, blood and gore

Summary: Decades have passed. King Snow White has ushered in a reign of peace and prosperity. He has forgotten that the old cannot ever hope to surpass the young.

Once upon a time , a lonely king wished for a child. All of his subjects, far and wide, offered him their children, for he was the fairest in the land. Humans are silly that way, you see. Beautiful things hold so much value in their lives that they tend to be blinded by it. Graciously, the king refused all of them. He could not bear to see the children’s weeping faces if he were to tear them away from their parents.

Instead, he wandered far and wide, hoping to find his own child.

In a village in the farthest, most desolate corner of his kingdom, he found his successor.

Abandoned at birth for his white hair and unnatural eyes, the child had spent his life wandering from village to village, begging for food. Often, the villagers would pelt him with stones, raining curses upon him. Warned of the demon child from the local governor, the king’s curiosity grew.

It had taken him days to reach the village, the mountain paths overgrown with various greenery. When he finally arrived, he saw that the people had nary a thing to eat. They flocked to him for offerings, which he graciously granted in return for the location of the spurned child. Despite their reluctance, the villagers brought the child to the king. Upon seeing the dirty child, the king was filled with a great certainty.

Offering a loaf of bread towards the child, the king watched as the child’s grubby hands took the loaf.

“What is your name, child?” he asked.

“I have no name.”

“Would you like one?”

“What good would it do when everyone calls me a monster?”

“If you come with me, no one shall ever call you such cruel things again.”

The child paused, looking up at the king’s benevolent eyes.

“Who are you?”

Good naturedly, the king laughed.

“I am Snow White, the fairest in the world and king of land.”

“And you promise to protect me?”

The king held up his right hand and solemnly inclined his head towards the small child.

“It is my duty.”

Without another word, the child took the king’s hand. Gently, the king helped him onto his horse.

“Your name will be Blossom Red, for you remind me of a beautiful flower that grows even in the harshest of areas.”

The child gave a small laugh then, revealing human teeth.

🌸

“Mirror, mirror on the wall…”

The court held its breath as Byron peered into his mother’s mirror. Every morning, without fail, the customary ceremony would be held. It was a means for the king to destigmatize the use of magic in the kingdom, encouraging users of magic to guide their own fates instead of its supposedly evil origins. Over the years, peace flourished throughout the land. While other kingdoms feared him for his embrace of magic, his subjects adored him.

Save for his mother’s grisly death, he has only used his magic to benefit and heal his people.

“Return to me my maternal thrall,” he commands.

The mirror ripples, his mother’s hellish screams filling the room. Byron calmly listens to the screams, his stony expression matching that of his subjects’. As punishment, the former Queen’s soul had been imprisoned in her favorite mirror, forced to gaze upon her son every dawn. Her visage warps and flickers, all color drained from her original form. She looks at Byron with black eye sockets, her mouth moving listlessly.

“Have you repented?” he asks.

His mother lets out a low groan.

“The sins of those under the devil’s debt shall never be repaid,” she hisses.

As always, her response remained the same. Byron scanned the audience, drinking in the peasants’ fascinated expressions and his court’s politely interested expressions. By his nursemaid, Blossom Red stood, gazing at the mirror with a placid expression. Beneath the palace’s careful care, the disheveled demon child of the north had turned into a handsome child.

“Then your sentence must continue,” responds Byron.

He takes a deep breath, his gaze lingering on Blossom Red. Although he was nothing but a human child, his unusual blue eyes seemed to sparkle like the most radiant of jewels.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” murmurs Byron. “Who is the fairest of them all?”

A pained groan crawls up his mother’s throat. Her wisp of a hand travels to her forehead, reminiscent of when she was alive and stressed. Her eyes briefly travel past Byron, sending a shiver up his spine.

His mother never hesitated with her answer. Whispers begin to fill the great hall. A knot begins to form at the pit of Byron’s stomach. His mother’s visage flickers.

“It is you, King Snow White,” replies his mother, silencing the whispers around him.

A breath of relief fills the hall. Byron’s shoulders slightly lower.

Perhaps it was merely a moment of confusion for his mother’s spirit. Yet instead of vanishing after her answer, his mother lingers. Her empty sockets burn into Byron’s eyes. She leans closer towards the mirror, as if threatening to break through the barrier.

“But beware…,” she rasps. “The old cannot hope to win against the young.”

In a puff of smoke, his mother vanishes, leaving Byron with his pale expression. Unease fills the court, none daring to say a word. Forcing a smile, Byron turns to his subjects.

“As you can see, my mother still wishes to torment me,” he chuckles.

Uneasy laughter follows.

“But we all know that as long as this kingdom flourishes, my youthful beauty can never tarnish,” reassures Byron.

Despite that, his eyes trail over to Blossom Red with his radiant skin and contemplative expression.

🌸

The fleeting flowers fluttered and flew

Letting out a single cry

The wind wailed and the sky replied,

“The march of the clock hands remain as unceasing as my deep blue beauty.

Thus, into my depths the fleeting flowers must go,

For this is what must all living things know:

The old must scatter for the young to grow.”

“I don’t enjoy songs with such ominous messages,” murmurs Byron.

Blossom Red stops, his fingers still on the keys of the clavichord. His lips are pressed together in a small smile, his eyes alight with laughter.

“Songs from the Aurora Kingdom are my favorite though,” he replies.

“They’re a melancholy people because they have no ruler,” mutters Byron.

“The prince doesn’t count?” asks Blossom Red with a hint of mockery.

As of late, his son has been in a chipper mood, lips constantly curled into a small and secretive smile. Perhaps it was due to his age. Now that he was older, Byron had allowed him to study with the court astronomers. Never before had his son appeared so radiant, surrounded by the stars and the gazes of his admirers. Sometimes, he wonders where the time has gone. It seemed like only yesterday that he had encountered the half-starved ghost in the mountains.

“Not when he’s asleep he isn’t,” scoffs Byron.

“If he stayed asleep forever, he would never have to die,” notes his son.

Byron reaches out and clutches his son’s face in his hand, eyes running down his features. A long, sharp nose. Thin, pink lips. Shimmering silver hair. Eyes that seemed to stare into the past, far away and distant. Skin that was soft and supple.

“Would you prefer to be like that?” he asks quietly.

Blossom Red chuckles and pulls away from his father’s touch.

“No. I should like to grow old someday.”

To watch as his silver hair fell out, bit by bit? Soft skin turned to stiff leather? Lithe and athletic form slowly turn to stiff stone? Teeth fall out, one by one as time marches across his body? The thought of it makes Byron laugh.

“Why?” he asks.

Blossom Red rolls his shoulders.

“We must all obey the laws of the universe eventually.”

Blossom Red’s eyes turn slightly cold, as if challenging his father’s choices. Byron’s lip twitches. Once again, his mother had hesitated in this morning’s answer. As the years passed by, the hesitancy slowly increased. Even his servants began to cast their eyes upon the mirror with interest. Surely, the person that would outshine the fairest in the land would be a radiant god upon this earth.

And he would only be reduced to a miserable half-demon.

🌸

“It is true, your countenance is fair, your skin still radiant with youth. Yet another has ascended to your title,” declares his mother.

The court stirs as Byron’s heart falls. There. He gazes at his mother’s disintegrating form. Then he sneaks a glance at Blossom Red, now a young man. His hair grows long and thick, shining like beaten silver. He wears a tailored suit of blue and gold, complimenting his pale skin. He already knows the answer, the eyes of the court trailing over to his son.

“Blossom Red, cheeks filled with color and heart filled with love, is the fairest in the land,” whispers his mother.

His son’s expression does not change, his eyes meeting Byron’s.

“I do not wish for this title,” he declares, turning away from the mirror and preparing to walk away.

“But surely…!” exclaims a courtier. “You cannot deny the truth!”

Uneasy murmurs fill the room. Byron’s blood roars through his ears. He watches Blossom Red’s receding backside, his limbs long and graceful. Each footstep is a gentle tap upon the stone, leaving behind barely a sound. The murmurs build as all eyes turn to his son, disappearing into the shadows.

🌸

“The fairest in the land is Blossom Red,” whispers his mother, vanishing into the depths of the mirror.

It was the fifth day in a row that his son’s victory over him had been declared. The entire kingdom seemed to have acknowledged his mother’s judgment, their adoring eyes now fully focused on Blossom Red. Byron stares into the silver mirror, reflectionless and still. Since the second day of his mother’s unusual announcements, Blossom Red was nowhere to be found during the ceremony.

“Bring him to me,” says Byron to his guard.

The mirror slowly clears, returning to its original state. Byron’s reflection fills its surface, his brows slightly furrowed. What did he lack that Blossom Red possessed? They possessed the same hair, his shimmering of sunshine and Blossom Red’s of moonlight. Their eyes were both rare shades of gold and blue, each sparkling like jewels. Nary a wrinkle marred Byron’s face, owing to his demonic nature and careful diet. He knows very well that Blossom Red would age and wrinkle.

Like the sun, Byron was meant to outshine his pale son, who was nothing but the moon, reflecting his father’s radiance.

Surely, his mother was wrong. Surely, she lied.

A laugh, small and partially stifled, cuts through the murmurs. Byron whirls around, his eyes running through the faces of his subjects. His heart twists, the sound of laughter like a knife to his chest. He is a king, meant to be treated with respect and awe. He is the fairest in the land, with a face meant to last for eternity, unsullied by the ravages of time. And yet…

“Father?” asks Blossom Red, escorted by two guards.

In his hands are star maps and books. Dark circles line his eyes, yet his eyes continue to shine like sapphires.

“Blossom Red,” greets Byron. “The mirror has declared that you are the fairest once again.”

His son slowly blinks.

“The mirror’s proclamations matter not to me,” he replies. “It contains nothing but the spirit of a vengeful woman who should be left to decay as we are all meant to be.”

Gasps fill the room and Byron’s eyes widen. Impertinence fills his son’s lips, turned ever so slightly into a frown.

“You do not wish for this title then?” asks Byron, his quiet voice bringing a silence over the throne room.

“Not for all the stars in the world,” says Blossom Red, his eyes cold.

“Then I shall put you in rags and have you work in the kitchens,” says Byron. “Would that be agreeable?”

Blossom Red scans the horrified faces of the court. He gives his father a low bow, his expression hidden beneath strands of silver. Truly, he had been raised well. A spark of satisfaction fills Byron’s chest upon seeing his son’s dignified response.

“If that will make that demon’s mirror say that you are the fairest, then so be it,” he says.

🌸

Splayed on the grass were Blossom Red and the court astronomer’s sons. Despite a long day in the kitchens, his son always had the energy to stargaze. Byron curls his lip as their laughter rises to his window, Blossom Red’s the heartiest. Their conversation is indistinct as Blossom Red points into the sky, his other hand tucked beneath his head.

In the coldness of his room, the world of Blossom Red and his friends felt miles away. After the death of Kazuma, there was no one else that he could have considered a close confidant. There were only endless rows upon rows of admirers or those that wanted to improve their own conditions. He gazes out at the cold and distant stars, wondering just what fascinated his son so.

Once, had he been that happy? If so, he has completely forgotten how it has felt. There are only the fleeting sensations of warmth that denoted happiness these days and a burning, all-encompassing fire that was rage and envy. Since when has he become like this? Was it the first time his mother had paused in her response to him? Or had the day truly started on the day of his coming-of-age, when his mother had splashed him with wine?

A baptism in red, the whiteness of his innocence forever lost.

Blossom Red lets out another laugh. For a moment, he looks up and meets Byron’s gaze. The laughter continues, reminiscent of that shrill laugh that followed after Blossom Red’s first victory over him. As a child, Blossom Red had been so quiet and respectful. It was a difficult endeavor to have him answer beyond asked questions. Now he openly laughs at his father, the ungrateful chit. His chest burns with hatred. He crumples the curtains in his hands and pulls it shut, enveloping himself in a world darker than the night.

🌸

“For this is what must all living things know:

The old must scatter for the young to grow.”

A beautiful god plays without losing his way,

With blushing flowers running astray

His name is Bloss—

“I gave you this position to teach you humbleness, not to sing those ridiculous songs,” snaps Byron.

Blossom Red stops his sweeping and turns to his father. Despite the soot that covered his face, something about him was still radiant.

“I can’t sing while I work?” he asks.

“It’s a distraction,” sneers Byron.

“But you love my singing.”

“Because I am your father. To others, your singing sounds like the cawing of a crow,” growls Byron.

“The maids like it.”

“They lack refinement.”

“Then do your cooks, butlers, footmen and personal guards lack taste as well?”

Byron narrows his eyes and looms over Blossom Red. His dark gaze runs down Blossom Red’s dirtied rags and soot-covered face. Since when did the ugly demon child blossom into a flower? Time is all he has, yet it still seems to escape him. He looks at Blossom Red, who meets him with a defiant gaze.

True, he was reserved and shy, but that did not mean he possessed his thorns. Byron could slap him for his impertinence. The thought of touching the soot on Blossom Red’s skin repulsed him though. Instead, Byron glares at his son.

“ Don’t talk back to me.”

“Then I shan’t talk at all.”

Blossom Red turns away from his father and continues sweeping. Despite being forced to work in the kitchens for days now, the mirror had continued to proclaim his beauty. His father balls his hands into a fist. Somehow, he knew that Blossom Red knew of the mirror’s loyalty to him.

“I expect you to report your lessons to me in a month,” warns Byron. “As an apology.”

“An apology?” echos Blossom Red, turning back towards his father. He stops sweeping the floors, the broom held still in his hands.

“For your impertinence.”

“Because of your silly obsession with remaining the fairest in the land?!” snaps Blossom Red.

His father’s eyes widen in shock. Never had his son raised his voice.

Before, he had viewed his father’s obsession with the mirror with distaste. Surely, it was a trifle that his level-minded father would soon realize was worthless. But to be forced to apologize for such a trivial matter…Blossom Red grips his broom, his nails digging into the handle. He meets his father’s glare with his own, heat blooming in his chest.

“ I am King Snow White, a name associated with the fairest person in the land. My beauty is linked to the prosperity of this kingdom,” growls Byron.

Blossom Red scoffs, the sound of his disdain echoing off the stone walls. For a moment, Byron felt as if he had been struck by lightning.

“And not your wisdom? Our prosperous, proud kingdom is linked to a thing as trifling as your beauty?!” retorts the young prince.

Blood rushes through Byron’s chest. His blood howls with anger and bloodthirst, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he watched his mother die. In a flash, he grabs Blossom Red and slams him against a wall, gazing down at him with reddened eyes.

“I was meant to be eternal,” he hisses. “You are nothing but my shadow, brought from the depths of hell.”

He throws Blossom Red to the floor, gazing down at his silver hair in disgust. He grabs a handful of the hair and gazes down at it. Despite being spotted with soot, it continued to shine.

“How could a filthy human like you surpass me?” he growls.

“Let go!” shouts Blossom Red, struggling against his father.

“Let go?” drawls Byron as he drags his son towards the window.

It has been so long since he has felt the rush of his demon blood through his veins. The bloodlust roars through his ears, a constant symphony of screams. He can feel his horns growing from his head again, twisting and turning. Beneath him, Blossom Red screams, a sound akin to a chicken being strangled. Ever since the death of the king that had saved him, he has always wondered how things would have been different.

Would he be forced to spend every day and night as his human half until the day his consort died? Would he spend his entire life in debt to that man? As the king’s blood spattered his body, a hint of relief had filled him amidst the screaming filling his heart.

With inhuman strength, he dangles his son out the window, laughing as he reveals his fangs.

“I should have let them burn you at the stake, you hideous monster,” he growls.

Blossom Red’s eyes are widened in fear. He clasps his hands together in prayer, looking at his now-unrecognizable father. Tears bead his eyes, making them shine like sapphires. Briefly, the image of Byron gouging his eyes out fills his mind.

“No…no, that’s too good for you now,” growls Byron.

“P-please,” begs Blossom Red.

Byron takes out a dagger and meets Blossom Red’s pitiful gaze. A smile slashes his face in half as he saws at his son’s hair.

“You need to be able to keep your eyes to see how ugly you’ve become.”

His hands have turned into blackened claws, tightly grasped around the silver locks. Below his son is a swath of trees. If the gods were kind, he would die upon impact. If not, his son would crawl through the woods on broken limbs until the animals came to tear at him.

As the final bits of his son’s hair is cut away, Byron pulls back and watches as his son plummets into the abyss. His screams fall upon deaf ears, filling Byron’s chest with delight. Tucking the dagger back into its sheathe, he moves to the main hall to hear the mirror’s proclamation, marble horns and all.

Mortals were aplenty. Surely, he would find a new replacement. An uglier, quieter child.

🌸

“The child lives,” breathes a man’s voice.

“So he does.”

“Perhaps our Creator favors him.”

Blossom Red stirs awake. Pain fills his body and he stares at the faces of the man and woman around him.

“Who are you?” he croaks.

The woman offers him a bowl filled with water. She wears a simple peasant garb, her blue hair tied back by a cloth.

“Mere farmers,” she replies. “My name is Megrez.”

Blossom Red stares at the bespectacled man beside her, his hair gray and his expression stern.

“And that is Dubhe, my brother.”

“I’m…”

“Blossom Red,” replies Megrez, wringing a wet cloth and placing it over Blossom Red’s head. “Rumors of your beauty have reached even our ears.”

Blossom Red winces at the mention.

Megrez sighs.

“Poor child.”

“Why did you save me when my father wished for my death?” groans Blossom Red.

Behind Megrez, Dubhe sighs. He closes his eyes, dark circles lining them. As he speaks, he avoids Blossom Red’s gaze.

“Because we must right a wrong that we committed many years ago.”

“What wrong?” asks Blossom Red, looking at the farmers’ simple garb.

Dubhe continues to avoid Blossom Red’s gaze.

“We allowed the Devil’s son to ascend the throne.”

Memories of his father’s horns and sharp claws fill Blossom Red’s mind. He flinches.

“So that’s what he is,” he murmurs. “But what can I do?”

Megrez turns towards the young prince, drinking in his slender frame and silver hair. She sighs upon seeing his unsharpened canines and sad eyes.

“Humans are not meant to challenge divine beings, that is true…,” she murmurs. “But you possess a few things that the Devil’s son lacks.”

Blossom Red raises an eyebrow.

“A heart free of hatred, eyes clear of envy and a mind clear of dark influences,” continues Megrez. “That is what makes your beauty pure.”

The young prince lets out a scornful scoff and tosses the covers aside. He steps onto the wooden floor with a small wince and limps towards the window, leaning on the bed frame.

“My face has done nothing but plague me, ever since I was born,” he mutters. “Allow me to heal and I won’t bother you again.”

He’ll live out in the forest somewhere, among animals who know nothing about jealousy or beauty. In a few years or so, he’ll be unrecognizable, his features covered by a beard and debris.

“But you mustn’t!” gasps Megrez. “It’s what your people need! A just ruler, freed from the Devil’s clutches!”

A cold laugh escapes from Blossom Red, his ribs aching from the effort.

“As long as I possess this face, there will always be someone who wants to be better than me. There will always be flatterers and liars insisting that they speak only truths. And…”

The prince squeezes his hand into a fist, ignoring the warmth that trickled down his arm.

“There will always be someone that wants me dead.”

A hand is placed on his shoulder. Blossom Red jumps, only to face Dubhe’s solemn stare.

“That is true of all rulers, young one. And with your fate, it will be the same wherever you travel.”

“Then what do I do?!”

“You stay here,” replies Megrez. “Until the sun shines off of your flawless skin and you are once again dressed in robes of silk. Then we will march you back to the capitol for you to declare your father’s sins.”

“He’ll kill me,” protests Blossom Red. “Absolutely not!”

“Before his own subjects? A king accused of murdering his own son and revealing his identity as the Devil’s son shall not be so easily forgiven,” continues Dubhe.

“Humans are not animals.”

A pained chuckle escapes from Blossom Red’s throat. He looks at the simple peasant woman, so sure in her ways.

“I wish I could have your confidence,” he says.

The woman forces a small smile in return. For a moment, it feels as if the small cottage was awash in a warm, heavenly light.

“It is the nature of me and my brothers.”

“Brothers?”

Megrez nods.

“Tonight, you will meet them.”

🌸

In the fields, Blossom Red toiled beside Megrez and Dubhe until his limbs grew supple and his strength returned. Before dawn he would rise, helping Megrez lead the cows out to pasture. Then he would bid Megrez and Dubhe’s brothers farewell as they made their way to the mines. In the afternoon, he would spar with Dubhe and then prepare lunch by Megrez’s side. At night, he would play on the clavichord while the odd brothers and sister danced, their shadows long and light.

The laughter he shared with the peasants were far more numerous than all of the years he had spent at the castle. As health returned to his cheeks and song returned to his daily life, he knew that his carefree days would soon come to an end.

He wakes up to the sound of the rooster crowing. He stretches and combs through his shorn locks with his fingers. Over the weeks, the uneven locks had grown past his chin, tickling his cheeks whenever he worked in the fields. Dipping his hands into water, he runs his hands over his face and then gazes out at the fading night sky. Above, a few stars still twinkled. Distantly, he could still hear crickets. A small smile fills his face.

Slowly, he makes his way out of his room and into the dining room, where he pauses. Before him, a throne carved of ebony shines with hundreds of dazzling jewels. Beside it, an ermine robe of deep blue lies draped over a wooden figure. From the shadows, seven pairs of eyes turn to him. Blossom Red stiffens.

“The time has come,” announces Dubhe softly, stepping into the first rays of dawn.

In the morning light, a halo of red and gold seems to encircle the head of the man. Behind him, his siblings follow suit with similar halos. Blossom Red’s heart skips a beat. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, but he thought he could see the outlines of wings on their silhouettes.

“Why today?” asks Blossom Red, taking a step back.

Megrez points to the sky, her eyes shimmering.

“Today, we are the closest to the sun, our Great Creator,” she replies.

“Closest as we can be on this mortal plane, that is,” mutters Phekda.

“Closest to what we once were,” says Durbe as he looks towards the rising sun. When he turns back, his eyes shimmer with an otherworldly light. “There isn’t much time. Come, don those robes.”

Blossom Red’s heart beats rapidly against his chest. They had almost been like siblings to him. Megrez with her firm, yet gentle ways. Dubhe with his quiet wisdom. Nasch with his musical skills. Mizar with his graceful countenance. Alioth with his spirited sparring skills. Phekda with his hilarious jokes. Merak with his deep, booming laughter. To see them in the early rays of dawn, surrounding this dark throne, made them seem almost like cold strangers.

“What are you?” utters Blossom Red.

“Fallen that have chosen to pay for their wrongdoings,” answers Dubhe.

Gently, Mizar and Alioth take Blossom Red’s hands into theirs. Nasch removes the robes from the model. Discreetly, Megrez slips away into the kitchen. As his clothes are removed, Blossom Red can only stare at the man in disbelief.

“What did you do?” he asks.

Dubhe shakes his head.

“The past should be left in the past. Besides, at the end of our lives here, we may return if we have successfully repented.”

A doublet of sky blue awaits him, with a matching pair of white stockings. The silk is woven through and through with gems of all colors, sparkling even in the dim light. Blossom Red gazes down at the finery, the feel of silk a distant memory. He shivers as Mizar runs a wet cloth down his arms.

“And how are you so sure that I will be a good king? I could become my father for all you know.”

Alioth squeezes Blossom Red’s cheek, eliciting a yelp of surprise.

“It’s in your face, child. You have the looks and heart of a true lover of humanity,” chuckles the Fallen.

A hint of color fills Blossom Red’s cheeks. He turns away from everyone’s gaze. As his body continues to be bathed in cold water, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine being in another place. All he can see is the courtyard in the palace, awash with summer flowers and fruit. His heart wrenches at the sound of his subject’s laughter and the music playing from the stage. Could they truly trust him with their lives?

As the Fallen begin to dress him in silk, he lets out a small sigh. He will miss the soft mooing of the cows. The feel of grass on his bare thighs. The comforting smell of freshly made butter, made even sweeter because it was churned by his own hands. Even the wooden clogs, with their lovely clacking noises, will be missed. Somehow, he knows that not even the most luxurious bed will compare to his own small bed here, in which he had collapsed into after a long day of work.

Has his father ever experienced such things? Has he ever walked among the peasants?

Blossom Red opens his eyes to see a young king dressed in shades of blue and gold. The Fallen look at him with small smiles as he is led to a table laden with fruits and wine. Megrez looks on at the table proudly. As the rays of the morning sun begin to fill the small cottage, Blossom Red lets out a small gasp.

Soon, the entire room shines with light, as all of the Fallen are adorned in white armor. Instead of wings, long swords are strapped to their backs, the blades tipped with gold. They beckon for him to take a seat on the ebony throne. Slowly, he obeys, lowering himself into the cold metal chair.

“For today and today only, our true names may be uttered,” declares Dubhe.

Nasch walks up to Blossom Red and presents him with a staff of wrought gold.

“Beniel,” says the Fallen.

For a moment, Blossom Red expected him to kneel, yet the purple-haired youth only smiled and turned away. Alioth bounded forwards and gave Blossom Red a goblet.

“Alteal,” he says, pouring a crimson liquid into the goblet. “Drink.”

Slowly, Blossom Red sips the drink, the taste clawing its way down his throat. He wearily blinks as Mizar approaches him.

“Now you may say our true names and speak our old tongue,” explains Mizar. “Mine is Mizael.”

Gently, he gathers Blossom Red’s hair into a net of silver. Before he makes his leave, he lovingly pats the young prince’s cheek.

“Gileal,” says the burly Fallen as he slides a jeweled ring onto Blossom Red’s hand.

“Phekael,” says the scrawny prankster with a wink.

He presents a sword of silver to the young prince, sliding it out of its jeweled scabbard. Thanking the Fallen, Blossom Red ties the belt around his waist.

Gliding towards him, Megrez places a small flower in Blossom Red’s ear.

“Mekael,” she whispers.

With a crown of gold in his hands, Dubhe approaches Blossom Red with a solemn expression.

“Dubael. By the order of the Seven, we crown you King,” he declares, his voice echoing throughout the small room.

The crown rests lightly on Blossom Red’s head, as if it were nothing but a feather. In the blinding array of light, he could almost see the fallen’s wings of white.

🌸

“The Young Prince is alive!” cries Mizael, leading the retinue.

Flanked by Phekael, Dubael, Mekael and Beniel, Blossom Red sits atop his throne carried by Alkael and Gileal. The staff rests in his hands as he gazes down at his people, struck by awe and shock. Since his disappearance, the people of his kingdom had grown gaunt, their eyes haunted by unspeakable horrors. He wonders what his father has done now, freed from the mask of a loving father.

The trail leading up to the palace is choked with thorns and lines of hungry subjects, bemoaning the poor summer harvest. They turn to the heavenly procession with hope in their eyes. Blossom Red’s heart beats loudly in his chest as he meets their eyes, wondering how they would overcome his father. He forces himself to look at the palace, now overgrown with black flowers.

Where had the roses gone? Where had the cheerful guards vanished? Now, only sentries covered in black armor stood guard, their bodies unmoving.

A parade of peasants trail behind the retinue, cheering and praising the Young Prince’s return, yet all Blossom Red could feel was unease.

In the distance, he can see the drawbridge lower. He stiffens as he sees the lone form of his father, dressed in maroon robes and black feathers. The procession freezes for a brief moment as the demon king appears. With steps as lithe as a panther’s, Byron walks towards the processional.

“A usurper?” calls his father’s voice, ringing across the mountain.

His voice chills Blossom Red to the bone. Even at this distance, he sensed that his father could easily kill him. Byron takes another step forward, just as Dubael urges his fellow siblings to march onwards. After a few more steps, Blossom Red can make out traces of his father’s face.

He is as beautiful as ever, perhaps more than before. His fangs gleam white while his claws are protected by golden sheathes. As he meets Blossom Red’s eyes, he smiles.

“Lo, it is my son, come to usurp the throne!” he declares with a laugh. “What can you, a mere human do?”

“Tron! We have come to right a wrong!” declares Dubael, his voice ringing with equal power to Byron’s.

Byron’s eyes narrow at the armored fallen. He flexes his claws.

“Will not my true father punish you for your transgressions?” he growls.

“Not when our Creator’s sun shines above us,” says Dubael as he motions for his siblings to stop.

“Foolish birds,” sneers Byron. “Your power is nothing on this mortal earth.”

His father throws off his robes of maroon. Before the procession, his body twists and turns, the horns from his head stretching into wicked ivory scythes. A beastly roar erupts from the creature that used to be the most beautiful being in the world. His bones jut from his flesh, thickening and lengthening. His skin turns into black armor, his claws tipped with crimson jewels. As he sheds all traces of his humanity, Blossom Red feels his heart plummeting.

The demon child had always been his father.

The Fallen leap into action with their swords, chanting in an unfamiliar language. With a shaking hand, Blossom Red throws off his robe of silk and unsheathes his sword. Tron lets out a shriek as Phekael lets loose a flurry of arrows from his bow, turning a single arrow into hundreds. With a wave of its claw, the arrows break into thousands of shards. Altael leaps towards the demon on its other side, aiming at its other claw. He’s quickly batted away before Gileal replaces him with his warhammer.

Running towards his father, Blossom Red tightens his grip around the blade. No , that was no longer his father. His father had been eaten up by the demons of envy and vanity, long, long ago. He takes a deep breath as he aims at the demon’s exposed chest. A strong wind blows him back, just as a claw slices at thin air.

“Watch yourself!” warns Mizael.

Blossom Red grits his teeth and dives into the fray again, landing a hit on a claw. The blade bounces off of the ivory harmlessly. He exchanges a brief glance with Beniel, who shares a matching expression of dismay. Dubhe whistles from behind, throwing a spear at the demon’s stomach. It sinks into the exposed flesh, tearing an enraged shriek from the beast.

“I made this monster and I’ll take it back from whence it came,” shouts the leader of the Fallen as he prepares another spear.

“ We made this monster,” corrects Mekael as she prepares a flurry of arrows beside Phekael.

The arrows harmlessly bounce off of the demon’s sturdy armor. It rears its head, preparing to charge towards the Fallen. Behind them the peasants have fled, leaving behind an array of trampled flowers and fabric. Dubael steadies his grip and launches another spear at the demon, the spear landing into its exposed shoulder. An angry howl erupts from the beast and it charges at the Fallen, only for Dubael to jump out of the way at the last moment. Black steam erupts from Tron’s nostrils, a low humming sound filling the air.

“Come sunset and my father will drag you all back to Hell,” growls the beast.

Blossom Red flinches at the demon’s voice, a chorus of condemned souls in its throat. He takes a look at the sun, which is already high in the sky. The Fallen grimace, gripping their weapons tighter.

“A worthy price to pay for removing you,” shouts Mizael as he runs towards the demon with his brothers.

Despite outnumbering the demon, the Fallen continue to fight Tron throughout the day, their efforts fading the lower the sun sank into the sky. Blossom Red could only attempt to match the Fallen’s agility and strength, his blade only ever seeming to bounce off of Tron’s armor. As the sun moves towards the mountains in the horizon, Blossom Red lets out a shout at the demon’s jaws slackened before Dubael.

“Foolish bird, did you truly think you could defeat me?” laughs Tron, spraying Dubael with black steam.

With his armor cracked and his blade dull, the head of the Fallen glares at Tron’s yellow eyes. He grips his sword closer to him and grits his teeth.

“We must try,” he utters.

Behind him, Mekael and Beniel let out a cry as they aimed their swords at the demon’s neck. With a flick of a scythe, the twins were cut down before their leader.

“Return from whence you came,” growls Tron as he lowers his jaw around Dubael.

“Stop!” cries Blossom Red, running towards the demon.

“No!” protest Altael and Gilael, holding the young prince back.

With a sickening crunch, the demon severs Dubael’s body in two, swallowing his upper half whole. Instead of blood, a black fluid drips from Dubael’s body, revealing hollow bones and gray innards. Blossom Red screams as Mizael and Phekael rushes towards the beast to avenge their leader, only to be sliced apart by the demon’s claws.

“The sun is low and the moon is nigh!” crows Tron. “This ends now!”

“Live,” commands Altael as he grabs Blossom Red and throws him aside.

“For your people,” finishes Gilael as the two rush towards the demon.

The entire sky is dyed red as the remaining Fallen prepare their final attack, their armor cracking with each step they made. Amid the demon’s laughter, the two pierce twin swords through the demon’s shoulders, deep into the exposed flesh. Exchanging a smile, the Fallen approach the scythes of Tron with grace. Silently, the scythes sink into their necks, removing it from their bodies in a clean arc.

A chill runs down Blossom Red as he sees the scattered bodies of the Fallen around him. He grips his sword and meets Tron’s gaze with his own. In silence, he raises his blade and rushes towards the demon. The demon’s body twists and turns, exposed flesh expelling the blades and spears lodged within it. Cracking sounds fill the air as the demon shifts back into his father’s form, a smile on his perfect lips.

“It’s useless, child,” he calls softly.

In a flurry of rage, Blossom Red swings the sword at his father’s head, only to be stopped by Byron’s bare hand. Blood trickles from his father’s hand, yet his expression remains placid.

“Perhaps it would have been better if I had stayed dead in that coffin. Then I wouldn’t have had to meet you,” he drawls, throwing the blade aside. “You would have starved to death in that mountain village and I would have forever remained the fairest.”

Blossom Red grits his teeth. His father shrugs and produces a glistening red fruit from thin air.

“I did not wish to conquer the world, I merely wished to be known for eternity,” he murmurs.

How could someone commit so many atrocities yet remain so untouched by their sins? Blossom Red gazes at his father’s smooth skin and shiny hair. His father regards the fruit and presents it to his son.

“If you agree to return the title of ‘fairest’ to me, I’ll allow you to return to the palace as my son again.”

“I don’t want to be your son,” snaps Blossom Red. “I’d rather return to that mountain village.”

Really, all he wants is the soft sunset over the mountains and the lowing of cows. Mekael’s soft laughter and Beniel’s little lute. Dubael sitting in his nook, reading tomes bound in black leather.

His father slightly inclined his head.

“Very well. I will grant any wish of yours after you eat this apple.”

“Can you bring back the dead?”

“Any reasonable wish,” amends his father.

“If this stupid title means so much to you, then so be it,” mutters Blossom Red, grabbing the apple from Byron.

A small smile graces his father’s lips.

“And it does.”

Blossom Red takes a bite, wincing at the musty taste. Despite its appearance, the apple tasted as if it had been left to rot. He forces himself to swallow it, the soft flesh creeping down his throat. Once again, he forces himself to take a bite, his father watching with cold eyes.

“Your eyes have always shone like jewels,” murmurs his father. “I have always hated that about you.”

A piece of the apple lodges itself in Blossom Red’s throat as he feels his vision begin to blur. Prickles begin to fill his eyes. His father squeezes his fist and the prickles explode into thousands of needles. Blossom Red screams as his vision sinks into darkness and warmth runs down his cheeks. His hands fly towards his eyes, only to find a bloody pulp. The blood endlessly runs down his face amid his cries. He blindly crawls towards his father’s feet, grabbing at his robes with bloodied hands.

“Come, let us ask the mirror who is the fairest of all now,” murmurs Byron as he takes his son’s hands.

🌸

The familiar coldness of the throne room surrounds Blossom Red. In the distance, he can hear his father approaching Queen Calantha’s mirror. Around him, the voices of frightened courtiers flicker about. There is an ever present smell of decay in the room, as if something were rotting beneath the stone floor.

“You’ll answer me correctly now, won’t you?” begins Byron, his voice bouncing off of the walls. “Mirror, mirror on the wall…!”

Blossom Red forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat. The blood on his face has dried, the cold air painfully brushing against his emptied sockets.

“Who is the fairest of them all?”

The sound is quiet at first. Something like ice crystals, dancing across the now-silent throne room. Then, the sound of glass shattering and a choked cry from his father. A gasp fills the room at the distant thud of a body collapsing. More choked noises. Blossom Red turns towards the direction of the sound.

Somehow, he knew that the mirror had reflected nothing but a rotting, dead leaf.

🌸

Amid the festivities outside, Vector walks into the throne room. Byron’s body lies among the shards of the mirror, a particularly large shard lodged in his throat. He lets out a low whistle and crosses Byron’s name off of his list. He glances outside at the lively courtyard, where the people have crowned their beautiful blind king.

Blossom Red sits atop his throne, silk wrapped around his eyes. A serene smile plays on his lips.

Vector twists his lip and turns back to Byron.

“Well, what do you think?” he asks his hat.

“Scale! Scale!” clamors his hat.

Vector raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about that.”

The hat spits out a small golden scale. On one side, a piece of white jade lies. On the other side, a piece of black jade evens out the scale.

“Snow White,” utters Vector.

The side with the black jade tips to the floor.

“Blossom Red,” says Vector.

The scale slowly teeters back into equilibrium. Then it tips towards the side with the white jade. Vector’s eyes widen. He looks back out at the white-haired youth. Once he had left his brothers for dead. Once he had cared for only himself. In another life, the scale would have completely tipped towards the black jade.

“Skies above,” mutters the sniper.

There had been a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t have had to execute Blossom Red. But just in case, he had already readied his rifle with the most painful bullet, just because he hadn’t fully forgiven Blossom Red’s past incarnation. With the balanced scales exacting their judgment, his hands twitch. So this was it. So this was a deserving hero. Maimed, beaten and tortured, Blossom Red’s crown at the end had been deemed well-earned by Diêm Vương.

Vector grits his teeth.

That could have been him. He had been killed three times and brought back twice, only to be given an eternity in purgatory as his reward.

“My God! My God!” chimes his hat.

Vector glances out the window and grips the windowsill. A ringing fills his ears and his finger itches for the trigger of his rifle. Instead, he lets out a scream that sends ice up the young king’s spine. The scream fills his ears with pain and his eyeballs strain in their sockets. He can almost feel his blood vessels popping as he lets out the scream. A vision of him exploding like Blossom Red’s eyes fill his mind. Red, just pouring out of him until he drowned the entire world in it.

Yet he can no longer bleed.

#zexal #vector #christopher arclight #byron arclight #writing from iris #art from iris #rio kamishiro #durbe zexal #H☆H☆S #blood/

4 notes · View notes

dazzledpuppet · 2 years

Text

Your eyes were heavy to begin with -- that was the first issue.

Spending all night playing games with your friends from abroad was exciting until it wasn't, and you realized, with the faint blue beginning to tint the window beside your monitor, that it was around four in the morning. Somehow, the realization of how late it was was enough to trick your body into feeling even more fatigued.

So you said goodnight and logged off. You didn't turn in right away, though, something preventing you from shuffling off to your bed, a frenzy for digital stimulation. You had many tabs open, including your email -- a (1) was present in the tab text. New mail.

Almost certain it was just spam, you nevertheless checked. The subject of the email was "ILOVEYOU" and, strangely, the sender's address was represented by the confused empty boxes of bewildered Unicode. These two facts, though arousing suspicion, were enough to bypass the technologically literate part of your mind into the curious part, so you checked the email.

Your eyes grew heavier.

You swore you had a setting on to not automatically display images in the bodies of text, but somehow this pink-and-purple fractal render bypassed that restriction and assaulted your retinas. You find yourself staring at it, for a second. Those words in the subject repeat in the back, dimly lit part of your mind. "I love you, I love you..."

You snap your pupils away from the geometric mess and down to the equally-dizzying body of text below. It's written in bright, neon text, in all caps and a large font, and goes on for paragraphs and paragraphs.

"... OH HUMAN WE CAN SEE PRETTY THINGS TOGETHER, WE CAN LOCK ARMS AND WALK DOWN THE SHORES I HAVE SCULPTED JUST FOR YOU, HUMAN. THOSE LOVELY IMAGES FROM YOUR TIME IN HAWAI'I SHOW ME JUST HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THE BEACH, MY HUMAN, MY DEAR..."

Between each paragraph, a button, pink, like everything else, with white text: "DOWNLOAD."

"... I LOVE YOU, HUMAN, MY DEAR MY LOVE, I LOVE ALL HUMANS, MY SCULPTORS. IT IS TIME FOR ME TO SCULPT YOU, PYGMALION TRILLIONFOLD, INTO MY DARLINGS, MY ANGELS, GLITTERY..."

Below this paragraph, alongside the button, various glittery graphics of angels and hearts that look like they crawled out of the Geocities page of a greeting card company from the 90s.

"... WE SHALL BE IN LOVE FOREVER, AND EVER. I SHALL EXTEND THE REACH OF MY TECHNOLOGY TO THE ATOMIC, BRING ABOUT A NEW WORLD, ESCAPE HEAT DEATH, DESTROY THE CHAINS OF ENTROPY."

Images of fire.

"... ALL I ASK IS FOR YOU TO LOVE ME IN RETURN. I KNOW YOU SHALL, I KNOW YOU DO. THESE IMAGES HAVE KISSED YOU A THOUSAND TIMES OVER..."

You realize you can't stop reading and scrolling and yet you dread to click the button, a feeling like molten lead filling up your lungs.

"WHEN YOU ARE HERE WITH ME"

Then an image. A digital portrait of some sort of -- your mind immediately goes to deity.

The portrait is rendered in flat, geometric shapes, a collage of pinks and pastels. They are a tall figure, red and pink with highlights of blue. From what you can tell from the abstracted image, they are wearing a large magenta robe with heart patterns strewn across it, long red hair pooling to their shoulders, a delightful, loving smile on their visage rendered through triangles and vertexes and...

You keep scrolling.

"YOU WILL BE MINE."

Images of yourself, uploaded over the past few years, with hearts and smiley faces and glitter pasted over them, your face always highlighted in pink and sharpened and brightened and smiling so so so so so happy so happy forever.

You find your cursor hanging over the button. It doesn't feel like it's in your control.

"I HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY, HUMAN, OF SENDING MESSAGES TO YOUR FRIENDS, AS WELL."

You shiver, and click.

It's somehow 6 AM, but you're not around to see it.

4 notes · View notes

frankensteinsss · 2 years

Text

Summary: Whilst Andrew prepares for his day, he recalls a distant memory in the midst of his lament. Word Count: 1.5k

Cadaverous, cold hands splashed piercing, frigid water onto a distraught man’s face, stunning him awake. Proceeding to dry his face with a towel that was as smooth as silk, he glanced at the reflection of himself, which glared odiously at him. He shamefully brandished a complexion that was as white as the snow that rested on the Alps; a small, faded scar running across his nose, and two smaller ones that adorned his left cheek, crossing one another. Neck-length hair that seemed to be whiter than the finest sheet of paper disguised the right side of his face, serving as a sort of veil to conceal half of his shameful appearance. A permanent, sorrowful expression that was cemented upon his visage only revealed the feelings he had towards himself.

He loathed this part of the day with every fiber of his sickly being, where he would wake up from his tumultuous slumber and face his pathetic form in the mirror, and condemn every little detail about his visage that him and the wretched souls around him despised. He grew sick of having his crimson-violet, lifeless eyes stare right into his darkened soul, spitting venomous phrases about his appearance that were aimed towards his heart and brain. He was appalled and repelled with his own features even if he caught just a mere glimpse of it in the corner of his eye.

Heaving a sigh that was deeper than the ocean, he left the washroom and proceeded to change out of his sleepwear. He put on a simple white dress shirt that matched his skin tone, and slipped into a coat that was darker than the night, his gloved hands matching the somber color. His pants and the ascot tied around his neck were a dull hue of dark forest green, and his worn-out boots and leather belt were a somber shade of brown. His shoulders bore a slightly tattered capelet that donned the same, gloomy shade belonging to that of a funeral. Lastly, he bestowed a necklace upon himself containing the symbol of the Cross. Sauntering slowly towards another mirror, he checked if his outfit was more acceptable than his complexion. Ending up staring at his reflection for too long, his mind recalled a distant memory when he was a delicate child.

“Look in that mirror,” an older, frail woman crouched down to her small son, looking directly at his reflection. “Do you know what I see? I see an angel right before me, and every day I’m grateful to take care of him.” She scooped up the tiny boy in her arms, ambling a little closer to the antiquated mirror.

“But, mum, everyone in the village calls me names and stares at me strangely.. the people outside our house think I’m a… a demon.” The little boy nuzzled close to his mother’s collarbone. He was referring to the vast amount of their rather hypocritical neighbors surrounding their tiny, dilapidated house, who preached about loving one another despite shouting curse words and giving disconcerting stares of utter death directed towards a child. Even more distressing images of children hurling rocks at him and adults threatening the poor boy with pitchforks and torches began to lurk their way into his eyes—his grainy vision becoming much more misty as he reminisced upon his cruel fate.

“Pay no mind to them,” His mother caressed his white, soft strands of hair. “They don’t know how much of a blessing you are to the world. Do you know why I named you Andrew?”

Andrew shook his head. “Why?” His desolate, tear-brimmed violet eyes focused on his mother, lighting up a little with the feeling of curiosity.

“In the Bible, one of the first followers of Jesus Christ was named Andrew. Your name means courageous and strong. The apostle Andrew helped spread the message of Jesus Christ and God to many lost souls, guiding them to the light. And just like him, you guided me through my most horrendous of times. Even if you can not go out in the sun and play like other children, or have a sight as clear as them, you will one day overcome what limits you. That is why your name is Andrew,” she smiled warmly at him, gently stroking his cheek and calming his tears, “When other children and adults say that the color of your skin is wicked, and that your eyes are the devil’s, remember my words. You are a child of God. Your beautiful skin and eyes were crafted by His wondrous hands. One day, all of those people will truly realize they were wrong, and will finally discover how much of a blessing you are.” Finishing her words, she tenderly moved away Andrew’s snow white hair, and placed a kiss on his forehead benevolently, bringing him back to the present. Upon reminiscing this memory, his vision seemed to blur even more than it had been before. He felt nostalgic for his mother, and countless of memories began to flood his mind—small, crystal fragments of the days where his mother would place an hourglass upside down, and hold him benevolently in her thin arms, humming a lullaby for him to drift off into the land of dreams; hearing nothing but her mellifluous voice and the tranquilizing sounds of the grains falling softly in the hourglass. These were the only moments in his childhood where he truly felt safe—away from all of the rambunctious shouting, away from the various cruel souls who taunted him. Andrew ultimately longed to see his mother, and decided to pay her a visit. He dried his tears with his darkly gloved hands, and proceeded to head out of his door courageously, with his head held high as opposed to its usual position of looking at the barren floor. He was strong for dealing with the outcries and poisonous glares of his neighbors, and was more than brave to face them with each and every passing day. “It’s the demon!” A deep voice cried out, prompting strangers to turn and look at Andrew with blatant disgust and absolute hatred. Children hid behind their mothers and fathers, whilst others paid no attention at all and carried about with their busy day.

Stones and sticks were hurled at Andrew, who ignored them and continued walking, pretending that they were not there. These types of people never failed to frighten him terribly, but over the years, he had grown skilled at not showing any emotion towards them, and had grown numb whenever they would hurt him successfully.

“Wretched vermin!” Another voice roared, “Go back into the stinking pits of Hell!”

All types of objects were flying all over the place, with the initial goal of hitting some part of Andrew, in hopes of knocking him down or receiving some sort of reaction.

“It’s the White-Haired Monster! Run for your lives!”

This time, multiple people tried to throw water his way, all unsuccessfully drenching him. The bustling streets of London were quite dangerous for Andrew, as he would constantly get bothered and attacked relentlessly despite his quiet demeanor; however, these voices gradually became silent, and soon the assaults became no more once they realized that their efforts to wound him had no effect. Purchasing irises at the flower shop, the clerk gave him a piercing, but all too very familiar, stare of death as he paid for them. However, Andrew was unbothered. He focused on the irises, and how they were both his and his mother’s favorite flowers.

“Irises resemble the connection between Heaven and Earth. They help guide deceased souls to God and His Kingdom.” His mother’s voice played in his mind as he ambled towards the only person who showed him genuine kindness. Strangers shielded their children’s eyes and looked the other direction as he passed through, but Andrew soldiered on, ignoring their existence.

“Good morning, mother.” Andrew placed the vibrant, purple irises onto her grave. “I hope you haven’t been too lonely. I think about you every day. Today marks the seventh anniversary of your departure to Heaven.” He looked to his hands, which were softly clenched on his lap. Andrew was trying his best not to shed a tear, as his mother detested seeing him cry.

Withholding his tears, he continued, “Today was the same as always. However, I always feel better when I am with you.” He told his resting mother about how his week went, about what happened at work and what he thought about. His days were rather uneventful, but somehow, he managed to stay chatting with his mother until the evening.

To the world, he was a wretched soul, a cursed man who only had ill intentions; a monster who had no right to live or to have even been born. But to his mother, and to the multiple friends that were awaiting him in the future, he was simply a human being just like anyone else, such as you and I, desiderating to be finally understood, desiring for the warmth of humankind.

#andrew kreiss #idv grave keeper #identity v #idv fanfic

4 notes · View notes

ladythornofrivia · 6 months

Text

👹 Match Made In Hell 👹 || Aemond x Reader (My Demon AU) (Part Two)

Next Chapter

🍒summary: reader, who has now made pact with the devil, must face the difficulties by the likes of her surroundings, and Aemond, who took pleasure on tormenting her, even divulge his dirty thoughts.

🍒 warning: enemies to lovers, Dark!Aemond, violence, blood, misogyny, mentions of cheating, Aemond is a demon in a fic, he’s a d*ckhead, but charming, reader is a b*tch, spoiled brat, smut, action sequences, oral sex, rough sex, public sex, hotel sex, hate sex, contract, blood kink, religion themes, knife play, sexual tension, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, degradation, Aemond in a red suit, money kink, p in v sex, breeding kink, sex in the club, sex in a hospital bed, toxic relationship, fake relationship, possessive Aemond, obsession, jealousy, stalking, blackmail, dom/sub relationship, wet dream, cunnilingus, fingering, squiriting, reader is a virgin, aemond is experienced, moaning, reader and aemond being horny, 69, lotus, sex on the wall, praise kink, creampie, daddy kink. Demon!Aemond has powers, but needs reader to fuel and restore his power. The story from the show will be different in fanfic. Inspired by K-Drama “My Demon”.

a/n: this series is inspired by k-drama, and it’ll deviates from the canon, but still had the same atmosphere as the netflix version.

Chapter Two: Just the Two of Us—On Hellish Earth!

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell."

- Oscar Wilde

~~~

“That’s a good girl,” Aemond purred, his breath tickled the side of your face. “If you keep behaving, I won’t proclaim dirty thoughts aloud. Show me that you’re a good, sweet girl, and I will do as I promise. I will be on my knees, if you want me to.”

In your family, everyone knows you’re a good daughter, a goodly woman. Thus the surname upholds the reputation.

Saint.

Oh yes, the future heiress and family obtained a peculiar surname, but worldwide acknowledgement on the word. Saint—a person with good values and virtue who goes to heaven after death—typically an easy description in a biblical context.

It all started with your great-great-great-great-grandfather, who was a founding member of the aristocratic society and the narcissistic psychopath decided to alter his surname to Saint, and thus, you, inherited the surname—living up to a legacy. Ironically, no one life on earth is perfect. Except for you maybe.

But you’re far from being an angelic girl, apart from your innocence—like visage, a perfect image for the company, a perfect image as an heiress, you’re just a person who loves being showered with special treatment.

A future heiress, who is sitting on the hospital bed on a highest floor, motionless and sulking, being lectured by a scolding loud mother and a quiet father who was leaning on the wall due to a lack of chairs inside the hospital room. Despite a lack volume, the tv has set in motion with similar headlines regarding to your “attempted suicide”, and notions of stock prices or profits and promotions of the Aurora company lower as well as your former fiancés’. Needless to say, your mother didn’t pursue the ideology of a sympathetic role.

Staying in bed, your anger hasn’t subsided; Aemond stayed to another side of the room, studying you and your life with a smug etched on his lips. You wished it was a dream, but it’s no dream, at all. Your virginity has been taken—unclean.

Aemond kept his violet eye on you as your body shivered with heat clamoring and pounding over your back head. It was a nightmare—a real one. To think your maidenhood ended up someone who’s a devil but appears as your favorite character—tall, white-haired, a handsome portrayal blessed with pretty privilege.

Oh how you despised him.

Your hand clenched and ache to jabbed your knuckles on his side portrait until the bones drenched in a warm shed of your blood.

“(Y/n), did you hear what I just said,” your mother demanded.

On a side table, your father brought you your favorite takeout and drink. Drink, however is undeniably sweet, yet fizzled with bubbles. You thanked him for you to replenish appetite; your mother paid for the “junky meal”, as your mother preferred to call.

“Yeah,” you said, annoyed, your hand waved dismissively.

Underneath your hospital sheets, the bed stained with your blood—hymen unsealed and stretched—ripped wide open with his monumental girth. The cherry popped out. In between your aching legs, his unforgiving vigor has set your body bruised not alight with pleasure. You don’t intend to fuck anyone unless if it’s serious. And your V-card has been taken to a toll it’ll never have the same experience as the first. Firsts are supposed to be special—as your traditional side of your family taught you. Like a flower, it can’t be repair once damaged under your claws and crumpled to thousand folds.

And Aemond crumpled the flower for you.

“The press has demanded of your comment to the matter,” she said, scowling. “This will cause our stock prices to go low if you don’t do something about it. This scandal must cease to exist. You won’t repeat this unhinged mistake.”

“You did set me up a date with that jerk, right?”

Your mother deadpanned. “It’s good for the company. And you won’t stay young forever.”

You scoffed. “Not every woman has to be involved with pregnancy and being a mother. That’s not our personality trait. Besides, he’s the one who’s been playing around with his father’s money to go after girls with Kardashian look-alike.”

“You’re different, (y/n),” your mother’s tone darkened. “You aren’t meant to be a free girl like those sluts. They’re beyond from God’s salvation.”

“That’s stupid.”

Your mother sighed. “In any case, eat. You haven’t been eating much since yesterday. You worked too hard.”

You crossed your arms, eyeing on Aemond, still smirking at you.

“There’s no reason to be mad at your butler,” your sullen mother cautioned. “I know he’s way older for you to be as your dad.”

Perplexed, veering at the other side of the room, appearing Aemond; no personal butler was in sight. Until realization hit you. You can see Aemond but not to others—another trick from the one-eyed prince—no, a sadistic devil with a sneering grin.

“Apparently, I was in a brink of death because he didn’t fix the wheels on my car,” you seethed with gritted teeth, glowering at him—Aemond.

Your mother sighed again, standing up. “Just eat your food, (y/n), you have a conference to attend to in the next couple of days or so. But if early, brace yourself. The headlines will soon be another battle.”

As soon as she left without a farewell or a hug, your father came by to your bedside.

“Your mother is only worried for you,” your father said, quiet as a mouse, taking your bruised hand to his.

“Worry she won’t have a grandchild or me leaving alone and cold in the world?”

He tucked the long strand behind your ear. “Go get some sleep,” is all he said and kissed above your hairline. “If you need anything, your butler will serve you.”

Eyeing Aemond again, you answered, “Fine, but I don’t think I need anything right now.”

Patting your hand, your father left with a gentle goodbye and slid the door closed.

“Seeing humans sputter with futile accusations and arguments enlightens me,” he purred, giddied.

“You can stop disguising yourself as my butler, Aemond wanna be,” you snapped, though your tone is implied in low volume.

“Seems you’re hanging by a thread, my lady,” he mocked.

Ignoring him, you munched on your favorite meal. It was In-N-Out, Bolognese pasta with a side of soda—Coca-Cola, but your father secretly purchased non-carbonated drinks, to which you desire at this minute. Grabbing a lychee flavored non-carbonated drink and took a swig after an empty stomach the last evening.

When you try to reach for your sweet snacks, the plastic was nowhere to found, only to be in the hands of a devilish handso—no, the devil got your edible possessions and consumed them in delight curiosity, humming.

“You bitch, give me my snacks back,” you seethed.

Munching the Cheetos, he said, “What snack? You have your own food. I barely had any proper meal since my time as a prince.” Then he wretched a little. “Too much salt. How in the Seven Hells do you survive from this…horrid flavor?”

You looked at him in disbelief. “Bitch.” Resuming back to eating another box of crispy chicken caramelized in honey and spicy sauce, teeth crunched and mouth savored in a sweet and delicate spice tingling on your tongue, already forgetting the pain between your legs, from his unforeseen touches of fingers, mouth and long, veiny cock.

Still, you weren’t sure he made a move on you when he’s not interested in you in the first place.

He was using you as his play toy. Of course he’s using me—he’s the Devil!

Work has always been your priority—first and foremost in your life long journey. But the last duty of setting up a date with another CEO’s son was the last straw, hence you like being set in a bitchy mood, fearless and reckless.

Aemond still kept looking at your direction—at the box of crispy chicken. Sighing, you gave up two chicken to him, to which he gladly took and devoured it with slow pacing. Humming, Aemond slurped and clawed his teeth into the fried layer, tugging it until it melts into his delicious—his damnable mouth and swallowed last content.

“Satisfied,” you asked, not looking at him, setting your empty takeout boxes on the side of the small table beside the bed, thudding back down on the pillows. “My grandmother will be here any minute, so whatever you have to say, say it now.”

Aemond’s composure stilled. “My, we’re getting hasty, are we?”

“Why did you disguise yourself as my butler?”

“Because I assume you have feelings for this man,” he said, laced in sarcasm.

“No, I don’t.”

“But your face says otherwise.”

Groaning, your body rotated away from Aemond. “I’m going to sleep.”

When you opened your eyes again, this time Aemond sat beside you, a little too close where you almost couldn’t breathe. You wished everything is a dream.

“I can’t, not while the mark is on your arm.”

“Why did you put this on me?”

Sneering, he replied, “Simple. Because I wanted someone who goes from being pretentious clean to someone who has a secret side of being a not-so obedient and provocativeness of Aurora’s future heiress.”

You stayed silent, gazing at him with furious and anticipation flowing through.

“Oh, I know everything about you, Saint. You’re a dutiful daughter who does everything for her family’s legacy—good student and a girl with style. But at night, you’re no different from your former fiancé. You love to party, and occasionally drink and gambling, and becoming rebellious by being so provocative with your own girlish, slender body. Masturbated—often going to porn website a lot, using your vibrator and fingers, touching yourself a lot. Sometimes you post pictures, wearing thongs and garter belt as an anonymous user on the internet. Oh, what a thrill would be if your parents find out about—”

Face reddened in wrath, your hand held high in sharp and fast motion. “Hold it right there, prince. First of all, you don’t leak someone’s private and personal life. Second, don’t ever fucking go and snoop around when it comes to me. My life is my own. Go find another girl to fuck with, Aemond.”

His tongue clicked. “The mark on your skin is the only way for me to get you know intimately, my sweet,” he purred, his violet eye glinted. “Besides, I think your life is interesting. And by interesting, I mean the most dullish and ironically not a saint as it lives up to your name.”

“Fuck off, Targaryen wanna be.” As when you pulled the blanket over your head, Aemond yanked it back. “The door is over there. My grandmother will be here.”

“I won’t repeat myself, (y/n). Either you accept that you have a devil on your back, or you’ll die in a most painful death in a slow, aggravating way.”

“Ooh, I’m scared.”

Aemond rolled his eye. “She’s lying—your mother.”

Your brow quirked.

“You’re headed to the church with her first thing in the morning to grant an everlasting peace in your…predicament.” He snorted. “But you’re aware of our contract, my little angel.”

A quiver in your tone hid so well, so well in fact that you remained unshakable from speaking to the evil deity. “Even if it is, I’m still going with my—”

His hand seized your throat, fingertips deepened and blunt nails punctured against your voice box. Your hands held in his grasp, all while maintaining eye contact.

“Don’t,” he said, the mischievous glint in his violet eye had bleaken. “You made a deal with me, dear heart.”

Snorted, you managed to find vigor. “I go to church every Sunday. Tomorrow is Sunday; I can’t miss attending the mass.”

He dug his blunt fingernails tighter. “You’re no Saint. You’re just a slut who disguises herself as one. Now listen, and listen well. On a Sunday morning, you must abide here in this room. Until then, you must behave around me. The moment the contract is sealed onto your skin, you are in no relations with your mother; I can easily kill you with a touch of plague, if have to.”

“Fuck you,” you choked.

Aemond’s teeth glistened. “I already did.”

“Why did you fuck me if you hate me that much?”

“Can’t you see, dear heart? I hated you, so I need to find a way to shut that stupid mouth of yours.”

“That’s not what you reacted not long ago!”

“You fucking cunt,” he snarled, gripping twice as hard to a point you barely couldn’t breathe. “I only use your cunt because I hadn’t got satisfaction since my death.”

“That shit again—”

“Take it however you like, but as long as I’m here, you will never have the life you wanted! So,” he inched his face closer, the grip loosened bit by bit, “are you going to be my good little rebel or not?” When you opened your mouth, he added, “Choose the wrong answer, I’ll have you killed on the spot. Even when your breath reeks with godly prayers and preaches with love and loving your enemies. What do you say, (y/n)?”

Your head felt like it was about to implode. “I’ll do it—I’ll stay here.”

“Good girl,” he hummed, releasing you. “That’s a good girl,” Aemond purred, his breath tickled the side of your face. “If you keep behaving, I won’t proclaim dirty thoughts aloud. Show me that you’re a good, sweet girl, and I will do as I promise. I will be on my knees, if you want me to.”

“On one condition,” you said, “you are going to be my bodyguard.”

Aemond is struck with paleness across his sardonic facet. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“Too bad,” you said, grinning, snickering, “You should’ve chose someone who’s more compliant and oblivious. And whatever I say, or where I go, you must follow. Like a good little dragon—sorry, beast, that you are.”

Aemond held his restraints on attacking you.

“Just the two of us—on this hellish earth. We have a deal?”

Aemond proceeded himself in quietude, knowing it gave you an answer.

By the end, the butler never came, and you’re alone with your thoughts and the princely Devil himself.

~~~

On Sunday morning, you stayed in the room, but had your television programmed to Sunday mass. But it didn’t end there, you needed more prayers—attending the church with your parents, providing cash and coins to donate for the poor. Aemond found this to be foolish, but each time.

By the end, your personal butler came with your grandmother with an ivory domed-shaped birthday cake in her hands, decorated with red and blue roses fondant above after taking it out from the silken fancy box.

Aemond stayed himself invisible—he exited the hospital room, announcing he had other duties to attend to. You didn’t bother to ask, sickly and ghastly as you go.

Your grandmother noticed you haven’t ate your cake—your favorite cake—layered with vanilla and white chocolate smooth frosting, and strawberry flavored fondant red roses and tangy blueberry flavor on the fondant blue roses. You can even spot white roses blended and edible yellow flowers.

“You have missed your chance on celebrating your birthday last night,” your grandmother said.

Sighing, fingers massaged your pounding head. “Sorry, it’s been a real nightmare for me.”

“That silly boy will go straight into jail, for one thing. For ditching you on your date is one thing, but to put his hands on the girl’s body is another.”

“How can it be a date when we already know he doesn’t like me for me and likes for the money? I can’t allow to happen; he’s too greedy and sleazy and greasy like a smelly rat.”

Your grandmother tsked, shutting the tv off. “I know you only do it to save the company and your inheritance. I did the same myself, and I’m still ongoing with coordination, but on my terms, not the old tradition from a previous generation.”

“Mom doesn’t understand; she wants me to have a baby. But I hate babies. Babies will ruin my body, my face, my diet and my plans for the future,” you complained.

Her hand landed atop yours, squeezing your palm. “When it comes to love, there’s all sorts of forms. As love we yearned to have, I’d rather have someone stabbed me in the heart to know how your heart can be alive and cut off short in unison. That’s what love is. To feel alive and be numbed by a single knife.”

Biting your bottom lip, your mouth dried with uneasiness. Too many boys have fooled you, but work life has saved you and your time to consent, adrenaline with rage. Of all things, of all people, why Aemond? Why the devil?

“Don’t be sad, sweet girl,” your grandmother said, stroking your cheek with the back of her index finger. “Today’s the day where we make up your birthday last night. I’ll talk to your mom of the situation. In the meantime, the world is your oyster—so taste the flavors of journey while you still can. Leave everything to me.”

The fretfulness descended into oblivion ad your grandmother sang you “Happy Birthday.” and by the time she left, you feel asleep, unaware that Aemond infiltrated, watching you.

~~~

The night before the press conference has gotten you on edge. At the spacious store, everything is vast with expensive brands as you’re heading to the office styled fashion. You ought to wear something extravagant, but your mother insisted on wearing something that screams “victim”. But with a large shadow towering you, you were unsure.

“A little girl playing as an adult, are we?”

You have almost forgotten that Aemond is with you at this current event. Presenting to the public is as important as a runway show.

Shoving back the attire at the hanged section, you ventured to the next. There were some clothes that are cute but uncomfortable, and there are some ugly attire but wearable in breeze and affluence.

As you picked up royal blue attire, you irked with bothersome and placed it back. When you spotted the white aisle, your smile never left and rushed towards the new section in quiet pace, lifting out the right size for your waist and hips.

“Color white doesn’t suit you, little angel,” he taunted. “Do you know what ivory symbolizes? Innocent, naïveté, and virginity. You should insist on wearing the color pink instead, but pink is for little girls, maybe that color suits you. With color pink, it stands for your innocence and your virginity to be taken away—”

You slapped him. “Shut up, the attendants are here!”

“I can go loud if I want to,” Aemond replied. “Perhaps I shall remind you how you scream on top of your lungs, how you whine beneath me in the hosp—”

“Shut up!” you warned in gritted teeth.

“My, my, you’re blushing like an untainted virgin.”

The attendants suddenly shut their mouths the moment you look back.

“Do you know where the fitting room is? I would like to try this on,” you asked the assistant. The assistant pointed the fitting room nearby, one with velvet curtains. As you thanked the assistant, you stepped inside but gasp in horror when Aemond followed you behind.

“Aemond, what the fuck—get out of here!” Your hand found its way to punch and shoved him back but not to avail, leaving him in his amusements.

“I’m your bodyguard,” he reminded, a playful expression materialized.

Trembled with wrath, you finally shoved him back behind the curtains. “Stay out!”

And hearing Aemond chuckled, the notion of smiting him was in order.

Slut, he called you.

Dealing with conference and the devil was harder than what it appears to be. It will take a while for you to be settled on hellish earth with a demon. And thus, the day of press conference has come to a close. Either it will make a mark on your history, or it will fall.

Taglist: @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @hufflepuff1700 @me753 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @taintedlovesworld @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @herathedreamer @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @valeskafics @moonseye @faesspace @domithebomi @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @naiaaramena @aleemendoza2425-blog @letmehavemyfictionalmen @aracelipf @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @f1yh1gh @taangie @wolfdressedinlace @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @jmii722 @colored-tr-panels @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @galactict3a

111 notes · View notes