eros

HIS NAME had been Alaric.

Poor, innocent Alaric who had cried and begged for you to spare him. Twenty four year old Alaric who was three years younger than you, who had a whole life ahead of him to lead. His poor sister who had wept piteously when the newspapers spoke of his death; when they put in the details — a suicidal event; falling from a balcony; no, there were no security cameras, and multiple cuts on the deceased’s arms with a history of depressive episodes — and his poor father who had roamed around the streets, bottle in the hand. A string of feverish words had left his mouth in a daze; why, why, why my young son.

You had smiled at first, thinking of the way Alaric’s warmth had left your hands. His blood that had stained your skin, reassuring and sticky in a way that made your cheeks blush. You had caressed his skin as he had twitched, looking at you like you were a monster.

“How dare you.” You had spoke so softly, so sweetly. Two days ago you had caught him with another woman. “I gave you everything.”

“In hindsight, you stalked me,” he had moaned in pain, the clockwork of death ticking closer, “You ruined my life! I never should have agreed to go out with you!”

His hand had tried to slap you, but because of how weak he was — an endearing trait, you thought with amusement — it resembled an oscillating pendulum instead, moving back and forth uselessly. His tone, redolent of desperation and anger, made you laugh merrily; it was the most emotion he had showed you in a while.

“Your life has always been mine,” you had cooed, “you are mine.”

And you hadn’t even — murdered Alaric. You had merely guided him slowly; he had been the one to kill himself, had he not, staring at you with such acrimony and hostility that your heart had skipped a beat. He had rushed to the balcony feverishly, shaking his head, spewing dirty vulgarities at you. They were melodious words to your ears; soft, mellifluous. You had listened, mesmerised.

“Go on, jump,” you had murmured sweetly. You thought he wouldn’t have done so, because dear, pitiful Alaric had been so rebellious in your relationship with him, refusing to do your bidding. He had all this strange paroxysms of weeping, weird times where you would wish to help him but he would merely break down or howl. Ah, the mystery of human minds: Alaric never seemed to understand your efforts.

But he did. At twenty four, right before your eyes, Alaric had stared straight into your eyes, filled with roaring, beautiful anger; and his body had toppled right over the edge.

And you had watched it deadly, in veneration and reverence; that thump sound that followed had been godly.

**

Over the course of a few days that feeling had died, turning insipid and tasteless. You thought of Alaric, who you had goaded into dying. Essentially, you were a murderer. Essentially, you were evil.

You thought of Alaric’s bright laughter. The sallow complexion he had following the days you had become his boyfriend.your breaths coalescing.

Pity, pity, pity.

This empty feeling must be grief, you thought. You were never that good with emotions, naming them after poring over textbooks. Doctors had said you would never understand them, but Alaric had been you understand. Your feelings with him must have been love.

And now there were perforations in your soul. You had longed for the sublime; for the peaceful, tranquil feeling you had gotten when you had let love corrupt you. When you had allowed its brutal nature to swallow you whole.

What did people do when they grieved? You searched it up online. They went to psychiatric hospitals, they went to therapy. You thought those were fancy words for the doctor. You stumbled upon posts explaining how to deal with insurmountable grief and read countless aching stories of people who lost their loved ones in freak car accidents, who lost their husbands and wives and mothers and fathers from old age, from cancer, from brain aneurysms that struck one day have never gave them mercy.

Not one of them had murdered their loved one. Online forums and posts are not helping, you thought, as you shut your laptop down. You clicked your tongue, tapping your table listlessly.

A doctor. A doctor would be the cure. Yes, that would work.

**

HIS NAME was Joseph. You found him on the internet, under glowing reviews that spoke of his honeyed tongue, of how readily he had helped them; of how he was so charming, so gentle. You had studied his profile, deciding that he would do just fine. The expensive sessions were nothing to you; you weren’t particularly rich, but you didn’t have a desire to save money. Life was fickle, and you went about it as you pleased. You didn’t eat much, choosing to opt for a box of cigarettes and perhaps an apple or two. The juices would haemorrhage your tongue, and you would frown in displeasure.

“Expunge this sadness within me,” you had told Joseph during the first meeting with him. He was tall, well built, had brown hair swept into a clean, tidy hairstyle. His features were beautifully handsome, and you suspected they had helped with the numerous of illuminating reviews.

“You say you’re grieving,” Joseph said calmly, studying you with intelligent, thoughtful eyes. “When did the deceased die?”

You thought long and hard. His spirit had died a while ago, but his body had died about two weeks ago. Or was it three? Or four? You couldn’t remember. All you could feel were your feelings, raw and ambivalent, bubbling within you.

“Maybe four weeks ago?” You guessed.

“You don’t know?” He asked, curious.

“Not really,” you shrugged easily. “I saw online that grief does that to someone. Messes with you. Alaric was so precious,” you sighed.

The vestiges of his name lingered in your tongue. It felt bitter. Awful. You frowned again, and your breath rattled.

“Oh, Alaric,” Joseph spoke slowly, “he was my patient. Surely you don’t mean Alaric Rivers?”

“I do.”

“What a small world,” he had smiled pleasantly. “The man you spoke of visited for me for reasons related to depression.”

“Isn’t there a clause for confidentiality?” You asked, mystified, and also rather surprised at this coincidence.

“My patient is dead,” Joseph chuckled.

You thought he was a light hearted doctor. Acquaintances had rushed to wish you condolences, all viewing you cautiously like you were a time bomb about to go off. They told you that they were there for you and they were so sorry and they knew loss could be incredibly hard on an individual — but Joseph did none of those. It was like he had seen death in its very essence; everlasting, forever. It was like he had ripped mortality open and had seen its finite, fickle nature.

You decided he was a doctor that was good. You could rely on him. You did like how he laughed at it, just like how you had smiled so widely when Alaric had first jumped off the building. Who could blame you? Alaric had always been disobedient — and then he had went on to jump. Was there not a touch of mirth in the situation?

At least the doctor could understand!

“I thought it was a coincidence at first, when you said your name was Y/n,” Joseph said, “Alaric mentioned you. You must be the esteemed boyfriend.”

“He talked about me?” You asked, pleased.

“Of course.”

“What did he say?” You asked eagerly, the words tumbling out of your breath, “tell me, tell me!”

Joseph’s eyes softened, and he laughed. “That’s for another day.”

After the session, you booked another.

This man was useful. This man was one of the real doctors, not the ones who prescribed you pills and medicine that only made you throw up.

This man would help you eviscerate the sadness within you. Oh, right. The correct term would be grief.

**

In the next session, Joseph told you that Alaric said that you were an incredible boyfriend. That you clearly adored him.

You nodded. Joseph spoke the truth; you had loved him so dearly. You had gone so far so as to break his legs so Alaric didn’t need to go for that work event he didn’t want to go for, right?

Alaric had always been so ungrateful.

**

“You are one of the most intriguing patients I’ve ever had,” Joseph smiled. He did a lot of those, but they varied. Some were light, charming. The ones that made the nurses at the front desk giggle and fall over their feet. Most were unsettling, but you liked them those were genuine.

This was session six. The grief was leaving you. You thought of Alaric with fondness, and consoled yourself with the fact that he had loved you back. That was what Joseph had said. Doctors could not lie to their patients. Alaric had been swathed in depression and sadness; of course he would jump. Maybe you weren’t a murderer, after all. These sessions really were working; you were grateful to Joseph for everything he had done for you.

“Really?”

“You feel no guilt,” Joseph murmured, “you don’t even know yourself.”

Now, that wasn’t the fairest thing to say, you thought, offended. Where was this even coming from?

“An interesting specimen indeed,” Joseph continued softly, “you said you locked Alaric up, broke his legs, and threatened to kill yourself if he ever left you. You said he would cry and shake whenever you two slept together, and he was constantly ridden with nightmares. You say you gave him sleeping pills which you carefully crushed in his water so he wouldn’t know.”

“He had a plethora of problems he went through,” you said sadly. How upsetting for Alaric. You hoped that in his final comments, he got some peace, some closure.

“No guilt,” Joseph repeated, his eyes gleaming, “none whatsoever. A psychopath.”

“Calling him a psychopath is a little too much,” You said.

Joseph blinked.

Then he broke off into laughter — into peals of laughter that left his body shaking, leaving his body doubled over. He laughed so hard that tears pricked his eyes, and he continued doing so; uproarious, genuine, full of mirth. You wondered if Joseph had gone crazy.

And when he finally looked up at you, his eyes were murky. And so full of — what was that — ah, amusement. Joy. Affection.

And if you had squinted closer, you would have seen something blooming within. Something that, similarly, bloomed in your own eyes.

(Obsession.)

“My darling Y/n,” he laughed and laughed, “I wasn’t calling Alaric a psychopath. My dear, I was calling you one.”

**

How offensive!

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t want to hear it,” you said. “Take your words back, doctor.”

“Y/n,” he cajoled, “this is our sixth session; shall we leave the formalities behind? Call me Joseph.”

Something had switched in his tone, in his behaviour. You ruminated upon it, trying to think. What was it? It mirrored your own behaviour, but then again; you were bad with naming emotions. Whatever; it would come to you later. You would search it up.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Joseph.” You said, chagrined.

“Let me tell you about some things, Y/n,” Joseph said, “I know you killed Alaric.”

**

“He jumped off,” you said, “out of his own will.”

“You brought him to,” Joseph replied merrily, “you murdered him.”

“I didn’t,” you furrowed your eyebrows, “what are you even saying?”

“My darling,” Joseph begun, still smiling, “Alaric came to me about you. The minute I saw your name — and then it was confirmed when his name left your mouth — I knew you were his boyfriend. Well, his ex boyfriend. He did not say he loved you. He was terrified of you, Y/n, he hated you. I lied, Y/n, because I was so amazed at how unbothered you seemed by it all — by his death —"

“I was grieving —"

“You were not,” Joseph said, leaning forward, “here’s what I think. Shall I hazard a guess? You were happy when he died, because it felt like you had control over his last moments. And then you felt emptiness, because you no longer had a victim. You no longer had someone to fixate over. And you mistook that for grief.”

“I did not murder him,” you said at last, your eyes blazing, “I did not do any of those things.”

“I have files, transcripts,” Joseph smiled at you gently, “all of which will point to you as his abuser; and it would reopen the case. You could get arrested. You would get arrested, if I sent them in.”

You looked at him, eerily calm. You tilted your head. “And would you?”

Something within you disappeared, completeiy effaced. The grief, gone. The guilt, gone.

Nothing within you. An empty husk.

Joseph’s eyes glittered. “As it appears, I’ve taken an incredible interest in you. Fondness.”

“Wonderful.” You said dryly.

“We are one and the same,” Joseph said, “twin flames. I have my obsessive tendencies, you have yours. We latch onto something and tear it apart until it becomes ours. Until its ruins belong to us.”

“Is that so?” You looked at Joseph.

“I thought I had gotten over it a long time ago,” Joseph laughed, “but then you came…and something tells me you won’t break as easily. Not that I intend for you to break.”

“Not that you can break me.”

“I’m sure you, even in your unbothered state, would not wish to rot in prison.”

“Are you threatening me, Joseph?”

“I am giving you a choice,” Joseph said sweetly, “choose me; give me the reins of your body and spirit and heart — or I send the evidence in.”

It sounded like a vow, a marriage proposal. And maybe in a way, it was.

“That’s very little of a choice,” but your heart was starting to speed up — thumping wildly against your chest. The feeling of being alive again.

Joseph laughed. “It is.”

And then he had pulled you towards you, and —

**

At home:

Google; what does it mean when someone has an unhealthy or compulsive preoccupation with a single thought, feeling, or person? It completely fills your mind, often making it difficult to stop, think logically, or let go…

The screen loaded for a blip of a second. You thought of Joseph, who had started to fill every inch of your thoughts.

Obsession.

You had gotten the word for it.

You thought of the blackmail; the way his desire reached deep within the roots of your soul, the way it had corroded him. The way his hands had curled around your waist; around the expanse of your skin. It’s unrelenting, brutal, brusque nature.

You traced the marks left on your collarbone; harsh, painful bite marks. The bruises littered on your skin. The way he had claimed you, salacious and wanting, the way you had felt obsession entrench you again, this time all consuming, darker, wilder.

Malicious, malignant, malevolent, you thought. And so the two of you would waltz to death together, intertwined. The inevitable march towards fate, towards hell. Sins layering and building slowly upon each other.

Let’s destroy and tear each other apart.

Two can play the game.

**

hope everybody enjoyed!!! it’s been incredibly long since I attempted any yandere x yandere. hope this didn’t disappoint!

Arranged marriages are never popular — true love has been romanticised of late; and there’s the horrific scenario of marrying someone whom you hate.

It helps that there’s a war plaguing your nation, and everyone is eager for a distraction — the libraries are now packed with people engrossed in romance novels; who desire to plunge their head in some sort of whirlwind, fairytale romance that inevitably finishes off with peace and riches and perhaps a tender kiss.

But you can’t say that you mind it terribly — arranged marriage, that is — as even though your parents have married you off to a respectable general officer, who works at the frontlines of the war, and who is fairly well off. The first meeting you shared — his name is Dorian, you learn, aristocratic on your tongue, the two syllables weighted and heavy — had been cordial, unassuming. Both of you had been polite, and he had opened the door for you, had cut your steak into tiny pieces for you to eat easier — had overall been a dream.

I’ll treat you like royalty, he had promised, his tone silky, unhurried, filled with reverence, like a prince, Y/n.

It was a heavy promise — one that belonged to those romance books that condemned arranged marriages and left it all up to fate; to the mingling of souls — but you had taken it anyway, full of mirth and delight that you had gotten so lucky. Newlywed couples struggled to obtain new houses, but perhaps because Dorian had high social standing now due to the war — but he had swept you gaily along to a mansion sequestered within his land — land that sprawled along the expanse of a forest. Inaccessible to many places, but he had kissed you on the forehead, reassuring you that this place had everything you ever wanted, and you suspected that the everything he referred to was him.

It was a normal marriage at first; a surprisingly amiable, beautiful one given the fact that it had been arranged. Dorian returned home with blooming flowers that tickled your nose, he kissed you on the forehead with great tenderness and affection — and similarly you returned this love readily, grateful to your parents for obtaining such a wondrous match. You’ve heard horror stories of violence; of bloodshed within the walls of people’s homes; and you’ve shuddered, thanking the gods that you’re so lucky.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

That is, until the day he hit you.

**

Your first thought is that it is going to leave a scar; Dorian is powerful, first of all; owing to his military training, owing to how well built he is. And so when the blow connects to your face; when you feel the innocuous tendrils of pain bloom on your cheek, burning and searing through the veins of your body, you choke.

Blood drips from your mouth; you must have bitten too harshly on your tongue. All you can think is: it might leave a scar; it’s so painful and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts terribly.

You think of the events that transpired before that, of Dorian’s sallow expression, his anger slowly rising, irritation spilling over the boiling point; the nascent of his emotions that led to this. His inordinate anger.

“What’s this talk about you going to the library?” Dorian had said, when he had kissed your forehead and had set the groceries down. You hadn’t noticed then, the cracks in his demeanour already; the perforations that littered his attitude as his eyes glittered and watched you. Observed you. You had been blissfully none the wiser: unaware of how Dorian held you askance.

“It’s been a while since I went there.” You had answered casually, studying the groceries he had brought home. Always of the highest quality, which reminded you how privileged you were, cooped up within his embrace with nothing but the finest. Dorian had made good of his promises. “I miss everyone; Joy, Malcolm — I haven’t stepped out of here in a while.”

“We have a library here,” Dorian had said, spitting the words out with surprising vitriol, and you had jumped: “I built one for you, did I not, darling? Because you said you loved reading.”

“Well, yes, but I do miss the social aspect of it.” You blinked your eyes, surprised at his tone, redolent of anger and not the gentleness you were always so accustomed to. “Meeting my friends.”

“You have me,” Dorian said quietly. The calm before the storm; equanimity before violence. If only you knew sooner, you could have ducked. You could have avoided his brutal, malicious blow.

“I do,” you said softly, “but I miss them, too —"

And then that’s when he had hit you; a swift, decisive blow — one that sent you crumpling to the floor, wheezing and holding your battered cheek, eyes tearing up. Your breaths came out ragged, your voice came out hoarse as you managed to stutter a what, and Dorian looked down at you, posture imposing, eyes sharp.

“You have me,” he repeated, and then smiling, seemingly taking pleasure in your perilous, pernicious state, “you have me, Y/n. Why miss other people?”

You stared at him, unable to believe just what you were seeing. A monster, a monster, a monster.

“Now, don’t overreact.” Dorian reached out towards you, clicking his tongue irascibly when you flinched away. His gloves caught your side of the face, and pain shot through your spine, lumbering, slow, as he brushed away your tears. “I married you. We are husband and husband, tied together. Your time is unalienable; it cannot be transferred to others, and I wish not for it to be. You are mine,” he said consolingly.

You had choked. A pained, grievous sound had escaped your lips. Perhaps the slap had been extra painful because the wedding ring he had on his finger, glittering, expensive, and proud had been the one to hit your cheek. Dorian always had his idiosyncratic moments; moments where his voice was too soft, insidious, dangerous — moments where you saw the promise of violence but it never came true. Moments that were lurid, shocking — but there would be a swift kiss in your cheek, a devoted sigh, an enamoured expression.

But now it did, you thought in despair, and the first bite of acrimony hit you then; the pure fear and rage and anger — and now it did.

Four months into a blissful, happy marriage, and everything had crumbled down.

**

You can’t remember how long it has been; this insidious, insipid cycle — or when it’s started. But everyone is a slave to something, and in this case you’re a slave to this very marriage, which has been tossed to the ground, upended on the streets. There is only bitterness that fills you. The nasty, unholy feeling you must purge.

Dorian never apologised. No; he truly saw it as part and parcel of your marriage. He was a paranoid man, steeped in fear that one day you would leave him for another, terrified that you would one day be desecrated by someone else. But ironically, it was this paranoia that made you want to run; to fill your incredibly lonely self with human connection, because you missed your family and friends so dearly.

But each of your attempts to run had been stymied by him. Each time your cold, clammy hands reached for the extra key in his jacket that hung loosely by the side — he would appear, imperious, chuckling, amused at your temerity, at your sheer courage. He would say, in a sonorous tone, you just never learn, do you, Y/n, and then the cycle would repeat again: the violence, your shudders, the comfort that followed afterward that made you feel debauched. His personality was a rupture of the otherwise sublime, angelic beauty he had.

You are foolish, Y/n, he tells you when you two are in bed, and he is holding you, and there is a brief moment of respite that betrays your mind — you are foolish. I am in control.

**

The thing about humans is that they are tenacious beings. You do not give up, because general or not, violence or not: you must stop this. You must end this now, before you douse a bottle of gasoline on yourself and self immolate. At least then you will die of your own terms, not by nursing your forever open wounds and groaning and not by his hands.

It’s the advent of the war party — this marriage has lasted through the whole war, and now Dorian is receiving a prize for contributing as one of the heroes — that makes you plan. It’s custom that a spouse would follow the other to the party, but Dorian, of course, would rather leave you here than bring you outside, to the wandering eyes that would look at you, to the gazes that would tear you down. He calls this an altruistic act for you, but you beg to differ. But you nod your head. Look adoringly at him, despite the pernicious ache that tears you apart inside.

But this is your chance. You have been waiting for this day forever, have been counting down the days, looking at the calendar — because you’ve made a copy of the key out of clay; and you plan to use it. Clay made from the soil of potted plants; water taken from the taps — all melded and left outside to harden and to become a perfect replica. All done in the areas that cannot be caught by the cameras that litter every expanse and inch of the room. You’ve memorised where they are by now; some hidden slyly between couch cushions, some in plants.

Your heart is beating fast. This is it; this is it; this is it. The words are a mantra, dancing in your head. You feel sick, beyond anxious, but you hide all of those feelings when you kiss Dorian goodbye, congratulating him and even coyly patting the front of his uniform — an act he so dearly loves. You can see what he’s thinking; that you’ve finally become docile. That you’ve finally become good.

Be good, he says before he leaves, like it is a reminder.

You nod your head again.

**

Your plan nearly works; oh god, it does. You’re already out of the house by then — fleeing, running, not allowing to get your hopes up but shit, it’s so close; the exit — and you’re running fast and your heart is burning and your lungs are choking — and —

So close

So close

So close

“Now I am the foolish one,” this utterly furious, ravaged voice is what tears you from your thoughts, throws you into the deepest despair and solidifies your descent into this perennial cycle of violence once more — “to leave you alone. You’ve gotten smart, have you? If I was a second later, you would have left.”

It’s raining, cold and bitter, and you’re shivering, hair damp, clothes drenched. Your thoughts are turning delirious, bereft of reason, bereft of hope.

Doom awaits you.

Dorian

Dorian

Dorian

“You will regret,” Dorian says, and his voice is so soft, so quiet. But in it lies terrible, terrible anger that you will not be able to coax out of him, that you will not be able to negate. The anger he had at the past escape attempts cannot be compared to this; it is disparate — because for this one he had trusted you. “Oh, Y/n, you will regret.”

So far

So far

So far

**

This time round he makes sure the punishments stick to you.

This time round the agony is so painful that you feel yourself shrink, turn timorous, turn into a coward.

This time round the anger is so sharp, like it’s been sharpened to a needlepoint — that you accept it, let it corrupt you.

This time round you give in to him. To his veneration, appetence. To his hunger, that scoops you hollow, that makes you anew. To his control.

This time round you become fully his.

**

“Do you wish to go out?” Dorian hums, “it’s a sunny day, isn’t it, Y/n? Don’t you want to go to the library?”

Your thoughts are a soft murky spot in your head, swimming between broken fragments and torn memories. The bruises lay on your skin; scars littered across every orifice. Dorian holds you sweetly, kissing your forehead.

“I have you,” you tell him, “why would I ever need that for? And we have a library.”

He laughs; and oh god, you love that sound. So melodic, so assuring, so comforting. (Surely the shiver down your spine is because it makes you giddy with happiness. There are some things the body cannot unlearn.)

“I was prepared to get you the wheelchair.” Dorian says gently, “but we can stay here, if you’d like.”

Of course you’ll love to stay here. Your legs don’t really work the same anymore — all broken, battered, crushed to bits — and it’s Dorian who attends so well to you, despite the fact that you can’t move around the same anymore. You don’t remember what caused that, but it doesn’t matter: you are still loved by your husband. The vows are still there; til death do us part.

This, in the end, is still a fairytale romance.

—

Secrets are burdensome, heavy little things.

There’s a secret that Y/n constantly keeps close to his heart.

It’s something he keeps locked under his fragile tongue, never to be said aloud. He’s not even sure if he should know about the secret, considering the terrible contents of it; but at the same time, he often thinks to himself that it is impossible that he’s the only one he knows about it. Y/n cannot help but wonder often if other people are blindingly oblivious, or if they’re like him and simply too scared to say anything about it.

After all, no one dares to claim that the crown prince, heir to the noble, grandiose empire, is a demon. Or a more accurate description: no one can claim that the crown prince is a madman who stalks the corridors of the palace every night murdering and killing, skulking for prey. Those words are blasphemy; they are traitorous: and yet they are right.

The Crown Prince, Rein Sterling — is blessed, beautiful, and beloved. In the same vein of those adjectives; he is malignant, malicious, and merciless. He’s a brilliant actor, Y/n thinks, in the sense that he masquerades perfectly in midday; all light, genteel smiles and graceful movements. The servants giggle over him — fawning, adoring, and his parents fuss and praise. He is a paragon of a ruler, generous and cheerful.

Y/n wonders if he’s the mad one, for being so terrified.

But how can everyone treat that like a human, like His Highness? Does no one not see the terrible, foreboding glint in his purple eyes? Do they not see the crimson matted on his golden hair; the blade he pushes through the numerous fallen bodies? How about his bloodied attire? Surely some must see it in the morning; when it is to be washed. What about the corpses?

Y/n wonders if he’s hallucinating the scenes that plague him; the scenes turned nightmares that keep his goosebumps prickling on his skin, that tighten his throat and tears the oxygen from his lungs. He remembers them. The sound, the view — the crunch of the bones, the soft laughter, the mutterings. Y/n remembers the crouched figure; the bloodstains pooling on the floor, the wrangled limbs. He remembers fleeing; his steps clumsy and on his breaks erratic and oh god, Y/n thought he wouldn’t survive.

His mornings are unpleasant, filled with sticky sweat and choked breaths, days peppered with awkward moments of ducking his head when the prince walks by. Y/n keeps his head bowed and chalks it up to respect and manners when really, he’s fucking scared.

He’s unsure when he started being so acutely aware of this. Y/n remembers mentioning to a fellow servant flippantly: of the disappearances in the palace. Unnamed servants, advisors, nobles disappearing; bodies undiscovered. He remembers the shaking of the head, the genuine confusion. He remembers thinking he’s hallucinated, before the next night rolls by and the killing is back again.

Y/n remembers the first time he’s stepped out of his room, hearing that thud outside; he remembers — him. He remembers rubbing his eyes; and then finding out that the figure bathed in blood and rubbing his cheek absentmindedly— smearing red all over his pristine skin — was the prince.

And the prince had turned around, his purple eyes glowing and oddly red. They seemed to miss Y/n completely, looking at him but not quite seeing. And Y/n had realized immediately that there was something else within the prince. Something menacing had taken his body — something that was wearing the prince’s skin but wasn’t him.

Something so awfully wrong. Something shaped in the wrong form; like it shouldn’t have been created. Like an endless, black hole had taken the place of something else. Instinctively the word grew in Y/n’s head.

Demon.

A demon had taken over the crown prince’s body.

The prince — that innocuous thing — had continued to look at him, unmoving; unbothered. He had smiled. And when Y/n had done absolutely nothing in return, just staring stupidly at the figure — the demon had let out a soft sigh, rolling his eyes. He had dropped the body and had licked the blood on his fingers, turning around. Y/n caught the back of his figure; saw the way the red stubbornly clung to his luxurious clothes.

“Pity,” the prince had murmured in that silky tone of his, “For a moment I thought he did see through me. That would’ve been nice, but it does not matter anyway… I shall let him go. My appetite is sated.”

Y/n had been spared, in a lucky turn of events. That day, the demon had been full, his hunger whetted.

And now Y/n lives, but he will not tell the tale.

**

Y/n can recall some things about the crown prince — the real one. He’s not too sure when the exact switch occurred, or why it happened. But he remembers the crown prince being almost meek; though everyone took it as a delicate, endearing trait. He’s so sensitive, they said. They took it as gentleness, though Y/n had always rather disliked it; the passiveness of the prince’s nature.

It doesn’t surprise him that much, in a way, that the weak crown prince would allow a demon to take over his body. Y/n’s read about it in storybooks; supposed legends and fables — of summoning circles supposedly making your wishes come true. Perhaps the crown prince had been sick of this perennial cycle where there was only endless coddling. Perhaps he had wished to be strong, and had gotten sucked into the insipid, insidious world of demons. It is safe to assume, probably, that the real crown prince is long gone and dead, his soul buried in a grave.

The issue is that the way the demon and the crown prince acts is light and day, but no one seems to notice. It’s not a flawless transition at all; everything about the demon screams madness and power — and yet, and yet —!

The demon must find all of this painfully amusing, watching the humans be blissfully unaware of these obvious changes. Y/n wonders if the demon chuckles and laughs about their foolishness to himself. He wonders if the smiles on the demon’s face are genuine in the sense that he’s mocking them: the humans, that is.

Y/n reads of demons with his curtains closed, candle flickering feebly. His fingers catch minuscule paper cuts where his hands palm through weathered, old pages of diaries and journals. If anyone catches him they’ll say he’s plotting, he’s mad. He gets his books from forbidden sources: the warded off places in the Imperial Library where he will be executed if anyone finds out of his activities.

Why is he researching? Why is he entertaining this foolishness, this innate curiosity that will herald his demise; that will usher in his downfall? Is it because Y/n’s life is so boring, he must tempt it with a little game of death?

He does not know what will happen. He does not know what can transpire. The nightmares do not stop. The research does not stop, either; neither will relent. Y/n thinks he is going a bit mad, a bit drunk on delirium, on the dark knowledge he breathes into his own soul, the evil that he invites into his body, that he nurtures.

Y/n knows this is sinful. Y/n knows dabbling in this will change his life. Y/n knows that he should stop, that he is lucky to have been spared that day during the killings.

But he can’t. He won’t.

**

“His Highness has a fiancée, and she’s coming to visit,” someone tells him one day, when Y/n is wondering about the origin of the new decorations along the walls, opulent and gorgeous. He’s been clueless about the things going on in the palace, far too distracted by Rein Sterling. It’s a bit embarrassing to be so wholly consumed.

Y/n almost laughs, but he stops himself in time.

“Oh…I see,” Y/n chokes out.

A demon, having a fiancée. She’ll be lucky if she survives the wedding night, if they even get married. Rein’s probably going to kill her, the demon that he is, and then wipe everyone’s memories and pretend it never happened. Y/n’s learned that demons are capable of manipulation, the altering of memories; the nasty work of changing and erasing them completely. Memories are what makes a person whole. They consisted of a patchwork of events: of people, of emotions. You rip that away, and they become hollow, inhuman.

This work of disassembling the memory is why no one ever suspects the demon. Y/n’s still a little confused on why the manipulation hasn’t worke on him.

The person he’s talking to is called Mark. Y/n sees the name on his badge; Mark’s popular, he finds out, and he likes to gossip and socialise. Y/n might have cared a little in the past, but he’s too absorbed in all of this finicky evil things to focus on anyone else right now.

Mark looks sympathetically at Y/n. “You had a thing for His Highness, didn’t you?”

Y/n’s eyes widen until they look like saucers — impossibly big, comically large.

“What?” He sputters out.

“You look at him all the time,” Mark teases him. “It’s alright; everyone’s got a little crush on His Highness. It’s one of those inevitable things you grow out of.”

“I do not have a crush on that thing,” Y/n manages to say, his words soft and horrified. He forgets his manners.

Mark looks at him reproachfully; “you’re lucky nobody heard that. Don’t be so defensive to the point you’ll use such derogatory language.”

If only everyone knew of his true identity, Y/n laments. If only they knew the truth that their beloved crown prince is a monster.

“I actively avoid his gaze.”

“You used to,” Mark says, “quite funny; you being so shy. But recently it’s like you’re fixated. Like he’s so interesting that you can’t keep your eyes off him. Smitten, hm?”

Oh. Has it looked that way, then? Rather unfortunate; rather creepy, but Y/n supposed it comes with the fiery curiosity. He hadn’t even realized it; he’s still too terrified to actively look at the prince — the demon. He still can’t sleep, not with those horrid nightmares. Not with his blankets twisting and turning around his body like they’re a noose and he’s stepping to his death. Not with the silent screams and murders happening in the corridor, with those red eyes.

“He is beautiful,” Y/n shakes his head. “But you have the wrong idea.”

Mark sighs dreamily. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“You have work to do,” Mark says, miffed, “don’t be so spaced out. You’re been…” he chews her lip, suddenly looking nervous, “I don’t know what you’re doing, actually, and… well, be careful.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

“Mark.”

Y/n’s brain is like mush; all soft and tender and strangely distant from the world. He thinks of the malevolent, vile things swirling in his head, thrumming beneath the surfaces. Pulsing, alive, unpleasant.

He feels like he might throw up. All of a sudden he shivers, and the good natured spirit leaves his body, and Y/n feels somber, quiet, dismal. Y/n rubs his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n manages, but he stumbles as he walks away, and he wonders if he will remember the conversation he just had.

**

The dark magic he’s been researching is obviously affecting him in some way. It’s an unquenchable thirst. Something he keeps in his mind now. It’s distorting the relationships he has, bit by bit, the ultimate destroyer, the ultimate weapon. The one that will kill him. Y/n must have been friends with countless of these people before, but now he does not — he does not remember their names, their faces. He does not —

(He does not even see them anymore. They are dead bodies.)

Y/n sobs at night, encumbered by bitterness and misery. He wonders why he had chosen to step out of the door at night. Y/n, for all his bravado in searching up all those demonic things— is a coward; he trembles; he cries. He’s bruised, battered, torn, hopeless.

Do they not see, is the thought that haunts him, that continues to do so. Do they not see that a demon has taken over the crown prince, do they not —

He repeats his name to himself, lest he forgets.

“I am Y/n,” he says, and the first sentence is usually understandable, legible if he would write them down, “I am Y/n.” He feels foolish, petulant, a little dumb. There’s mirth, at first.

And then afterwards; in quick successions; “I-I-” Stammering, trembling, remembering the unholy splatter of blood, the absolute gruesome macabre; the waltz with death; his own dead body —

Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. That is his name.

He moans, groans, rolls around in pain. He regrets it. He refuses. He throws up; the bile rises in his throat. Y/n agonizes. He longs, yearns, to be comforted; to have this darkness coaxed out of him, to have it tamed and leashed. I didn’t have this at first, he thinks. But associating with these demonic forces changes your mind. I knew it then, but from the moment I locked eyes with Rein, I was cursed; doomed.

Y/n wonders if the demon knows of his pain, his horror, and if he laughs at it; all teeth glinting with flesh wedged inside. Demons are not cannibals; but they are not impervious to human flesh. They will hunt, they will eat, they will seek pleasures in earthly things and toss them away. In the end, demons cannot exactly feel, they lack the capacity for that. They are non altruistic beings drunk on the capability to inflict pain on others.

“Why,” he begs, “why does this happen to me?”

The shadows slinking around his room will not answer his questions. They seem to mock him. Laughing. Scowling. Giggling. Naughty, naughty, naughty, for venturing into such territories. You knew this would happen! But you are getting claimed! You are getting taken; Y/n!

Y/n clutches his head and rocks himself into an unpleasant sleep. He wakes up with a scream — he does not know if it belongs to him.

**

Layla is her name — the prince’s fiancée. She is beautiful and too innocent to be a victim. She hooks her arm around Rein and she is oblivious to the darkness swirling in Rein’s eyes. The prince seems cheerful at the prospect of her prey — he is hardly angry. Y/n stares at Layla, seeing her beautiful black hair and glittering blue eyes. If blood gets stuck in her hair, nobody will notice. The princess catches Y/n’s gaze and her cheeks turn pink. She manages a little wave, thinking Y/n is ogling at her, but he is not. The man beside her — his presence is suffocating.

Y/n doesn’t want to turn his head. He doesn’t want to move. He will not — he will not have eye contact with the absolute monster who shouldn’t be here and who’s only pretending and how cruel and callous and completely wrong.

He sees Rein’s mouth open. Y/n must leave; he must leave now before his gaze will be forced to trickle upwards to see his full face, and Rein’s expressions will be the death of him. Rein’s tiny eyes that are not purple; gleeful and glittering as he derives joy from fooling all of these humans. From wearing this human’s skin and earning their love.

Words are forming. Rein raises his hand, fingers curling. He points.

Y/n is at the receiving end of it.

“You there,” his voice is light, and Y/n feels tears already welling up in his eyes, “it appears Layla needs some drink. Will you fetch some for us?”

Y/n cannot move. He thinks he might cry; this sudden explosion of tears that will startle Layla and will blow his cover. His lips tremble; his knees feel like they must give out —

And they’re heading into his direction now, and they’re —

“Poor thing,” Layla says, “he’s shivering all over!”

“Ah, yes,” Rein murmurs, and his lips curl into a smile, “nervous, isn’t he?”

Y/n steps back; Rein steps forward.

“Let’s not trouble him,” Layla says prettily, scratching her neck, “He looks unwell. Is he feverish?”

“You are thirsty; you say?” Rein looks at Layla then, his voice sweet. “Absolutely parched, is that so?”

Layla sighs. “Yes. The trip here wasn’t the best. Before leaving, I only had a single glass of lemonade, and I have yet to sit dow here for a cup of tea. I hear that the rose tea in this Empire is absolutely excellent —”

Rein looks bored, that empty smile still on his face. Y/n shakes all over, clutching the edges of the fabric of his clothes.

“Y-Y-Your Highness,” he finally says, “I-I can get you the drink you want; I can —”

“That won’t be necessary at all,” Rein says in an oddly fond tone, one so sickly sweet it could give Y/n decay in his teeth. “Thank you.”

Layla looks confused, opening her mouth to speak, but then —

Rein flicks his hand in a lazy, smooth motion — and for a moment nothing happens. Y/n is ready to exhale — yes, of course; nothing can happen, it’s broad daylight and it’s foolish to think that Rein could do such things when it’s not at night, he can breathe easy and still fetch the drinks and escape —

Layla chokes a little.

“Pardon me,” she starts, looking surprised, “something is in my throat.”

“I must really get you a drink,” Y/n begins, “if you would let me…”

“Y/n,” Rein says, and the weight of his name on the demon’s tongue sends complete shudders down his spine. It should not sound this sacred, it should not be so whispered, so intimate, so sensual. It should not sound —

“Look,” Rein whispers excitedly, “marvel at her.”

Layla begins scratching her throat. Then she starts to dry heave, and tears form in her eyes.

“It’s unpleasant,” she starts to murmur feverishly, “it’s uncomfortable. Ah, I’m so sorry for my lack of manners. I don’t know what has come over me. My throat feels so strange…”

“A miracle she can still talk,” Rein’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Don’t you agree, Y/n?”

(How, how, how does the wretched demon know Y/n’s name?)

And then there’s red. Swimming in her jaw. Coming from the gaps of her teeth. She gurgles like something's absolutely choking her, and she starts to cough. The red keeps pouring out non-stop, like she’s a broken faucet and it won’t turn off.

“Her thirst should be sufficiently satiated,” Rein turns to Y/n, and Y/n’s eyes cannot leave the gruesome sight. It’s either that or Rein, and so he cannot — he cannot tear his eyes from the convulsing princess, the poor delicate princess who was so polite, so needlessly innocent.

He stares. A corpse lies before him, and the other side, the grin reaper, the sinful demon.

Y/n flinches.

Rein’s fingers travel to his jaw, pressing down on it. His fingers are tender as they caress his skin.

Y/n dissociates. The fear that blooms underneath his skin cannot be quelled; it’s like a poisonous branch, with tendrils spreading deliciously through his skin, coursing through his veins. They thump and burn.

“It took me this long to find you,” Rein says, and his voice sounds so adoring, so light — jubilant, merry, “I should’ve known that night. You saw me that day, didn’t you?”

Y/n snaps his head up — he knew — and shakes his head repeatedly. “Y-Y-Your Highness,” he stammers, the tears slipping from his face now, “n-no.”

Rein sighs and shakes his head. He clicks his tongue. “You tremble,” he says, “it’s cute that you think you can lie. How could you? You liked me enough to research about me.”

How did he know? How did he find it out? Why? How? Will he torment me now, will he kill me? I don’t want this; I don’t want to die — or perhaps I do, to be released from this — ever since that day I’ve been living in hell —

“I thought I would observe you for a little while longer,” Rein continues, pleased. Ah, his arms are moving now, his voice cruelly soft. His hands are wrapping around Y/n; his palms neatly fitting around his waist. It feels like the demon can devour him whole, tear him apart with his veiny, strong hands and dig into his carcass, sink his fangs in. It feels like Y/n can break, fragile thing that he is; flesh and bones all surrendered to Rein.

“But I was afraid you would get the wrong idea…” Rein continued, “seeing me with Layla. I saw your crestfallen look as she approached you. So I decided perhaps it was time for me to finally embrace you; shower you in my affection.”

It was you who I’m terrified of, is what Y/n wants to say, but every inch of his body won’t move. He can’t speak, he can’t defend his name. His body is still being crushed into a hug, a boneless, mindless sensation. His lips are dry. He can’t see now; his vision is blocked but that image of dead Layla is still there, and the noises of he gurgling, choking —

Y/n whimpers, and it only makes Rein — it only makes this demon — kiss the top of his head, and lightly tousle his hair.

“Poor thing. Are you tearing up?” Rein giggles, “poor darling; you must have been so scared.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Y/n says, his voice hoarse. The tears fall from his eyes. “Your Highness —”

“I have not,” the tone spirals into one of utter seriousness, “you have a rather sly tongue,” Rein hums, “worry not; I could always do you a favor and cut it off. It would make your life far easier; wouldn’t it?”

“Your Highness, why —”

“Why?” Rein echoes. Another kiss, this time plastered on his forehead. The hug is bone crushing. “Do you know how tiresome it was to inhabit this rather useless body?” His hands brush against Y/n’s back, and he trembles. “He wanted to be stronger, but it was a far-fetched goal for a boy so weak — which is why I ended up being summoned. This body is handsome, beautiful; yes,” Rein says carelessly, “but demons are always beautiful, so it was not exactly a bonus. I was so bored out of my mind…”

Y/n is silent. He stills. Even his thoughts are quiet. He cannot think, he cannot…

He wants to throw up. Take his blankets and cover him. Hide.

“…but you came!” Rein says cheerfully, “you looked at me that day; all frozen and terrified. How adorable. I’m glad I didn’t kill you that day. Then seeing me wasn’t enough for your darling heart: you went on to do your own little research. You allowed the darkness to take your mind; your dreams. Your soul. An exceedingly romantic declaration,” he says dreamily, “what a brilliant proposal, Y/n. And your stares have been so noticeable.”

“I —” Y/n stops abruptly, words dying in his mouth.

Stupid, stupid him. He has pored over those books but failed to read the most important part. He neglected the most crucial part, the most interesting and intricate and intriguing.

What else but courtship? What else but vows? Demons cannot feel wholly; but they have passion; they have desires. They are twisted; utterly wrong, they are like gangrene with rot that sticks to their souls. But it is there. It is present.

And now Y/n had teased it out of Rein through his fear, through his foolish budding curiosity. He’s splayed out the demon’s soul and has imbued it with this webbed emotions. With this desire; the hot headed, feverish rush of desire.

“Ah, no take backs,” Rein frowns. Y/n feels that lips move against his hair, “are you disturbed? You must have been, by Layla. Or by Mark, even though I’ve sufficiently gotten rid of him. You must rest,” Rein cajoles softly, “come, my darling; shall I lead you to the bedroom?”

“Scared,” Y/n shakes his head and continues to hiccup, “I’m scared.”

“Of who?” Rein says, fondly exasperated. “I am right here, my sweet.”

Of you.

Y/n is not exactly pliant under Rein’s touch: he’s frozen stiff; his muscles commanded by the demon, every contour, every inch surrendered to him. Or perhaps it’s better to say that it’s been ripped from him; this merciless act of giving something to him without consent, without permission. But consent is no concept to a demon; it is a fickle social abstract invented for the comfort of humans. The demons will not care of the ramifications of stealing; to them — humans are inferior, humans are theirs from the start.

The act of ownership.

That’s the first moment that Y/n truly feels he does not belong to his own body; that his own body does not belong to him. He’s a leashed lamb, trailing after the shepherd, rope around his neck.

He feels it tugging. Y/n cannot go the other way, or his neck will snap.

Death or suffering. Not much of an option, really.

**

The room is magnificent, befitting of a prince.

That’s the bed that Layla was supposed to be ravished. Dainty, delicate, demure maiden who slinks under the covers, who waits for her equally perfect husband. They both shall be meek; peering at each other in the dark, kissing each other tentatively, with mutual, endearing inexperience. Their lips will find each other and miraculously become hungry, slick, greedy, and they will indulge in pleasure.

That is not the case tonight. The bride is dead, and Y/n looks at the expansive room, his pupils wavering. Wondering what he’s done to deserve such a crude fate.

Rein is nipping at his ear, humming a tune that Y/n doesn’t recognize. It sounds like death.

“Humans are quite weak,” Rein says, and Y/n feels his limbs weaken, nearly collapsing on the floor. He can feel, he can very vividly feel Rein’s hot breaths against his ear, voice sickly sweet. He does not know if this is considered lucky, if this horrid misunderstanding — courtship, of all things — is to be laughed at.

The demon had kissed him. Whispered tenderly to him, called him pet names. He had taken him so gently, with that firm grip of his — had led him to the bedroom, had —

“You’re quite a fragile thing, hmm,” Rein says, “beautiful. Look at the way you shake.”

“Your Highness,” the plea falls from Y/n’s lips. “Your Highness, I —”

“Shh,” Rein smiles, “I apologize,” he says flippantly, and the ironic thing is that he doesn’t sound very sorry at all, and Y/n isn’t even sure if demons can feel sorry in the first place; “did you feel neglected? Isolated? I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” Y/n stutters his answer out, and he’s being honest: of course he wouldn’t mind one bit. He won’t mind if Rein drops dead now by some miraculous action, if he himself passes out and if Rein ignores him —

“I have realized this thing the humans call fondness,” Rein looks at Y/n, “why, seeing your efforts: how could I not reciprocate?”

It is a terrible mistake, is what Y/n wants to tell him. Everything is. Everything is a lie, a hoax, messy jigsaw puzzles all now together but placed in the wrong order. This wasn’t supposed to happen, when Y/n had read those books and had studied them vigorously, convincing himself it was for education, to survive better. Studying the dark magic — looking at the spells, researching about demons is a risky move; he knows that: but oh, how could Y/n ever anticipate this morbid turn of events?

Rein leans down, and his breaths are hot against Y/n’s; coalescing, entangling, intertwining. Y/n’s heart drops when he realizes soon after that the demon has kissed him; thankfully chaste; though the hunger swimming in Rein’s eyes speak otherwise. Demons love pleasure, after all: they will bask in it. And pleasure is different from love.

The kiss is soft — not entirely unpleasant, in a sensory way — though it makes the tears in Y/n’s eyes burn; it makes him recoil and shudder, though the firm touch around his body will not allow him to do so.

Trapped, he thinks dismally, I’m trapped.

Rein seems to study him delightfully — Y/n’s reactions, horridly, seems to give him a wild, unfettered delight; and he does that again — pressing his soft and yet firm lips onto Y/n's. There’s no obscene sheen of saliva just yet, no tongue, no wet noises — but still, Y/n —

“You are inexperienced,” Rein smiles. “Wonderful; darling. I was afraid that if you had spent time with another, it would’ve been rather foolish. After all; you don’t court someone after having already tainted yourself, right?”

Y/n just stares at the ground, unable to move. Rein’s fingers press on his lips. It’s not yet bruised.

“I’m tired,” Y/n manages, and it’s not even an excuse; it’s the truth. His bones are heavy and so is his heart. He wishes for the bed to come to his coffin, for his lungs to stop working.

Rein tilts his head. “Tired,” he repeats tonelessly.

This is when Y/n feels absolute fear, the feeling climbing up his spine, his body wrenched by a sleazy, sudden burst of pure terror—

“Of course,” Rein sighs, “I did bring you here for you to sleep well. I forgot how weak humans were,” he mutters.

“W-Weak,” Y/n repeats, stammering. Please, let him sleep. Please, let his body remain his for a little while longer; his sanity is gone, his heart is breaking. Let his body remain his own.

“They die so rapidly,” Rein continues, and his eyes are bored into Y/n’s own, “so quick; like lightning. Didn’t even put up that much of a fight, when I surprised them at night. And nobody noticed the disappearing, except for you,” he clicks his tongue. “Not much of a good species —” he smiles at Y/n, “though perhaps that is subject to change. You’ve been immensely impressive, my dear.”

Y/n swallows. “T-Thank you.”

“So modest,” Rein remarks. “Well, you should dress and sleep. Do you want me to help you?”

The correct answer is yes, hanging tautly in the air between the two of them. But Y/n can’t bring himself to say those words. To begin with, it’s hard; terribly hard, Y/n finds, to reconcile the fatality of the man’s gaze along with his tender actions.

“I’m all dirty,” Y/n says at last, “please don’t — trouble yourself, Your Highness.”

“Hmm, I am disappointed,” Rein says quietly, “but —” an abrupt crescendo of his tone, “but! Since you’ve been so darling; I shall let it slide.”

Y/n breathes a shaky sigh. Thankfully, Rein doesn’t seem to notice, and instead presses one more feathery kiss on Y/n’s forehead, his tight clutches slowly loosening. He looks adoringly at Y/n.

“My little human,” Rein says silkily, “I shall join you in bed later. Fret not: if your anxious mind is worried about what others might think, they shall not know.”

Rein’s treating him like a pet to be reared. Y/n supposed that these are all humans are to him; pets. Like dogs, cats — are humans just that, too? In the way yes, as all animals are living things and they eat and breathe.

For now — Y/n — has slipped out from any immediate danger. He doesn’t know if that’s a thing to be grateful for, but the truth is; everything is simply delayed.

Rein is inevitable.

That much has been established.

**

When Y/n’s all washed, he climbs reluctantly to bed. The sheets are soft; softer than anything he’s ever experienced before (the idea of him being in the prince’s bed is laughable), to the point he feels a sharp feeling of envy — quickly replaced by dread — as he lies there, heart thumping against his chest.

He can’t help but feel he’s waiting for death. Lying there, like a sacrifice, like a piece of meat. Like a hunk of flesh ready to be devoured; like he’s waiting for his life to bleed out from every orifice. Y/n swallows, his throat filled with bile. Despite the comfortable bedding, he feels incredibly uneasy — tonight, he wishes to be left alone. He prays for nothing to happen. Oh, god please, let nothing happen.

He’s tired, Y/n knows. Bones heavy, eyelids slowly shutting. Like there are forceful, gentle hands pressing down at his eyes, willing him to fall asleep — willing him to be a willing prey, because he knows that demons do not care about the state of their prey. Or would it be better for Rein to take him when he’s already asleep, so he won’t feel the pain, the unmerciful act of having something wholly taken away from him? The act of ripping off his body, feeding it to Rein. Pushing it into his mouth, surrendering his claim over to him, handing over the reins.

Someone else, take me away, Y/n begs, body curled around the pillow, body crumpled. He’s terrified, he knows, the sense of horror permeating through his exhaustion, keeping his mind awake whilst his body cries out for rest. He does not know yet, but the dark magic is swirling, dormant, eager. Eating away at his soul with a sadistic soft glee.

Of course, his pleas go unanswered: nothing happens.

Y/n lets out a little sob, wondering where it all went wrong. Where he fell so prettily into the hands of Rein. When the demon decided to spare his life just to stake a sleazy, slow claim on him.

When his life decided to spiral downhill, from the moment it took over him.

I’ll join you in bed later, Rein had told him. Sort of a promise. Y/n tosses and turns, sleep refusing to wrap around his mind.

At last, after a stretch of torturous minutes — or hours, Y/n does not know: he hears the soft footsteps of someone coming into the room. Y/n’s eyes burn, and he readies for this inevitable act of having himself taken apart —

But a soft kiss pressed onto his forehead, his breaths hitched — arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer. A breath exhaled.

No attempt being made. Just — just holding him, like they exist in a domestic, delicate space.

Which they don’t.

Y/n notices the fingers holding his waist, colored with blood. With red. His nose stings at the smell.

“Sweet dreams, darling,” Rein whispers into his ear, and Y/n forces himself to relax against the steady thrum of the heartbeat pressed against his back.

That night, Y/n had waited in anticipation, he waited with bated breaths, thoughts scrambling for purchase, body trembling. He had felt phantom pains littered across his body; sacred parts not meant for taking, and he had felt it anyway: thighs shivering, lips shaking, eyelids burning.

But Rein had not made a move.

**

When Y/n awakes, he cannot help but wonder if it was all a cruel, crude dream.

He must have dreamt this line of events. The demon, finding out about his existence — the demon, seeing through him, mistaking his feeble attempts or survival for courtship. The demon, recognising the black tendrils of darkness spreading through Y/n, a quick disease — and loving it, adoring it.

The demon, who had held him in his sleep like he was something precious, with carmine stained fingers; a life for a life. The demon who —

The demon who could not feel, and yet claimed he did.

This cannot be real. This must be his imagination working overtime. Surely, Y/n will awake from this dreadful day, and he will be awake in his solemn servant chambers, feeling cornered again as everyone around him sings praises of the prince who is not who he truly is. But even then, feeling cornered is better than — than being cherished in this nonsensical manner by a malicious, malevolent being.

Anything is better than what went down. Anything…

Y/n stares at the luxurious ceiling.

A tear falls from his eyes. He reaches out, a fragile attempt to test his body health — and he does not feel any muscle ache, except the full throbbing of his head, so he knows he was lucky last night.

This is reality, he thinks with despair. The endless beauty of the room that surrounds him: it’s the prince’s room, after all. So this means he is still a prisoner. But —

Y/n reached out to press his fingernails against his skin. A strangled groan falls from his lips: his nails are so sharp that they leave a faint trickle of blood, and the mild pain is enough for him to realize that he’s still here, that he’s still a victim to all of these frankly ridiculous happenings, and…

Y/n sits up fully, and numbly, completely numbly, he punches the pillow. His knuckles burn, despite the softness. He does it again; and again — and when the agony becomes a murmur in the back of his brain, he slams his head against the headboard, pain whizzing through his muscle.

Y/n gasps, tearing back and clutching his head. And yet the agony is such a darling respite: he does it again; doing it until the red soaks his skin and he stares at it in horror.

His vision blurs. He feels his vision sway, and watches as the pristine bed sheet is matted with his blood, his pain, his sorrow…

Y/n wants to howl. Wants to make an animalistic, wretched sound that will tear from his lips.

But it continues to burn, everything does.

“F-Fuck,” he manages to stutter out, wheezing, “ah, fuck!”

The vulgarities bring him some sort of clarity. Evil goes to clarity for him to completely still when the doorknob shakes, and the door opens.

Fear encumbers him. Y/n starts to tremble when Rein stares at the mess — all bloodied sheets, his messy hard —

Rein starts to laugh, shaking his head.

“Is this a gift you prepared for me so early, Y/n?” Rein says calmly, walking over and brushing Y/n’s hair lightly. “I didn’t know you would even offer your own blood as a treat.”

Rein licks a stripe on Y/n’s crimson cheek, humming. “So sweet, darling,” he whispers hotly, “so sweet of you. And your bed hair is so adorable. You are so cute…”

Y/n’s breaths catch in his throat, especially when Rein releases Y/n from his grip and turns around, unbuttoning his shirt.

Y/n stares. The previous prince had been weak, but clearly, the demon has been putting in the work. Does he get vitality from the humans he kills? His muscles are evident, arms having swelled up impressively, and his torso is refined, and —

Rein catches Y/n’s stare and he tilts his head. “Is it a pleasant sight, Y/n?” He says sweetly. “I have yet to see yours; your undressed body; that is.”

Y/n immediately whips his head around.

Rein only laughs; an empty, hollow sound that sounds too much like he’s mimicking how it’s like.

“Feel free to roam,” Rein sighs softly, “within the place, of course. And of course, the imperial physician will have to attend to your injuries. Does it hurt terribly?”

In all his fear, Y/n has forgotten that he has bashed his head in. The sudden pain startles him — he groans, and Rein clicks his tongue sorrowfully.

“What a thoughtful gesture, but you are too careless,” Rein says, “but remember; your body is mine, which means that your injuries are too. Don’t be too reckless with your body, alright, Y/n?”

Y/n nods his head shakily. Rein doesn’t seem to care about him being in pain, only about the act of ownership — which is — to be expected, of course, considering how he genuinely can’t feel and empathise and the only string connecting the two of them is —

“I’ll be off, then,” Rein says, smiling lightly at Y/n. “Take care.”

Feel free to roam, he had said.

But it’s a reminder; the palace is nothing but a golden jail. A golden birdcage. And only Rein had the keys to them.

**

After the physician attends to him, leaving Y/n a bandaged mess, akin to a mummy — he stumbles out. Rein has made no effort to elevate his effort despite his claims of love, and Y/n has duties to attend to. People send him glances as he shamefully steps out of the chambers.

He has worked so hard to be invisible, yet here Rein was, undoing all of his hard work. Y/n’s mood sours, and a wave of bitterness takes over his body; he bites his lip.

“He spent the night with the prince…”

“Who knew His Highness’s tastes would extend to even the lowly folk of the palace? Does this mean that I had a chance —?”

“Don’t be daft. Perhaps —”

The mutterings are endless, ceaseless. Y/n thinks scornfully to himself that they do not notice the fact that their prince is a demon, and yet they gossip about these events so tritely. All of this anger only makes his headache even worse, and he clutches the wall to regain his balance.

“Fucking hurts,” Y/n manages to hiss out. The fear is deflating. Rein isn’t here right now. He isn’t —

Y/n managed to squirm and move slowly towards a little corner of the palace. He has a broom and a bucket next to him, if anyone stumbles upon him and accuses him of not doing his duties — but for now, those stay useless as he sinks to the floor in relief.

Finally alone, Y/n thinks, and his body relaxes. A shudder escapes from his lips, as he thinks about Rein’s touch, that hot, warm touch — the lips pressing to his body, the tongue licking —

He groans, a pitiful, guttural sound. He has a few minutes of reprieve, laying on the cold, comforting ground, before his peace is interrupted. Y/n doesn’t feel the deadly fear that encompasses his body whenever Rein draws near to him, and so he sighs in relief — before he looks at the person who has entered.

It’s the young butler. John is his name; an innocuous, plain one. He must be here to chastise Y/n for not doing his duties. He operates like a head maid — he keeps his eyes on the servants, and manages them well.

“Sorry,” Y/n says tiredly, “I was just resting.”

To his surprise, John seems — he seems hostile, like he’s ready to lash out at him.

“You mere bedwarmer,” he hisses out, “you do know that you’re a lowly servant; right?”

“I- I did not —”

“Lies,” John says, “everyone says that they saw you stumbling out from His Highness’s room. His Highness is so pure, so delicate. How have you tainted him?”

At these words, Y/n cannot help but — he cannot help but keel over and laugh, and then he huffs. An anguished scream nearly leaves him, but Y/n keeps it in.

“Pure,” Y/n repeats, the anger growing, “delicate?”

“Say it. What dastardly methods have you -”

“You’re blind!” Y/n screams; “you’re all blind and foolish. You clearly do not see that frolicking in him. He is the one who has — the one —”

Why? Why? Why? Why am I so unlucky? What have I done to deserve this, why is it that all I can do is lament my fate? Why is it that all I can choose to do is wallow in my sorrow; drown in my misery? Why?

He feels it, rather than acknowledging it. The spread of something insidious, swirling around him, threatening to burst. Y/n feels his vision black out for a moment — he sees his hands raising themselves up, even though he doesn’t think he’s in full control of them, he hears a faint whoosh, sound, descending from above; he hears a terrified shriek and the darkness is —

Do it, Y/n! Use me! Use the darkness you’ve been cultivating every night with your almighty curiosity! Use it!

Snuffed out.

Now the indomitable fear creeps into his chest; and Y/n whirls around, his vision having cleared —

“Ah, ah,” Rein says cheerfully, nuzzling his head into Y/n’s neck. “That would’ve been brilliant, but don’t waste it on people like that, hmm?”

Rein mutters something, and in a flash: John disappears. There is no blood, for once, only…

Only nothing.

Y/n tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving up and down. He tries to speak, except that — except that he doesn’t know just what happened; and he’s all out of breath; and Rein….

Rein looks extremely pleased.

“I’ve never been so proud of these urges.” Rein purrs, “of your urges. You have the darkness at your fingertips, despite being a mere human. Just like you have made me fall for you, you have seduced the darkness, too.”

But I did not ask for that, Y/n thinks desperately to himself, but you must know; that I did not ask for any of this.

**

I had been proud of those urges. What did that mean? That little comment sprinkled in the midst of his excessive praise — evidently, it had referred to that moment when Y/n could not think, and when he had completely fallen apart, giving his body to that darkness, letting it control him.

Y/n breathes out. He must be a hypocrite. He must be some sort of fool, for being so terrified of Rein, when he himself had been dabbling so freely in fake magic, and letting himself fall prey to it. When he had nearly become the murderer and Rein — the demon — had been the savior, the one to — take that sin away from his heads before its anatomy had been fully carved out.

Before Y/n had become a full sinner. But he already is one, is he not, toying with the biggest evil in the world: a demon.

The laugh he heaves out is completely despairing. He can’t escape from the dark magic which he had invited. He's in danger, Y/n knows: he feels his moral compass collapsing, and it doesn’t help when Rein praises him for that, when Rein cajoles him and tells him that he is proud.

After that, Rein has taken his mouth again, a wet, heated kiss — and Y/n had been completely consumed by it, eyes blazing over and his body burning.

And they had broken apart, and Rein had looked at him so lovingly then, and Y/n could not help but wonder which human he mimicked, with that love-stricken expression.

So, so proud of you, Y/n.

Y/n had soaked in that feeling for a while, letting the feeling fester in him, slather over her his skin.

So, so proud of you.

**

Later, Y/n finds that everyone — the people of the palace — calls him the consort. The prince’s betrothed; most beloved — a title just held by Layla, who nobody remembers. She is nothing now; only someone remembered by Y/n. He doubts Rein bothers to remember the victims. John is another name scraped onto the surface, having disappeared. At least, with Layla, there had been blood. But with John; absolutely nothing.

No evidence to show that he had ever been alive.

Y/n feels his sanity break little by little.

He weeps.

He cries.

“I d-d-don’t know,” Is what he slurs when a bottle of alcohol accompanies him, “what’s real. Am I living in a constant delusion, am I — am I even alive?”

Y/n won’t remember it when he wakes up, but Rein will pluck that bottle of alcohol from his hands, studying the cold, hard glass of it, seeing his reflection. And he’ll smile longingly at Y/n’s madness, thinking that it’s awfully cute, and he’ll shatter the bottle.

With a glass shard, he’ll prick Y/n’s hands. So blood falls out; so Rein’s doing a favor: that he’s reminding poor Y/n that he’s alive.

“You are, my sweet,” Rein coos, and he will keep smiling, because everything is so amusing and of course, only Y/n is beloved and worthy enough to provide such joy in his otherwise mundane life, “you are alive, and you are mine.”

Y/n; descending into madness. Y/n, as he scrambles for clarity in his darkness and despairing mind, trying so hard to find memories that aren’t broken and shattered.

“You are mine,” Rein repeats, tilting his head. He traces the blood on Y/n’s palm, spreading it and smudging it all over his human, brittle skin.

“Mine.”

He has not taken Y/n yet. No; he’ll let Y/n wait, so Y/n and him can fully enjoy it when it comes. After all, a prize must he earned; and oh, Y/n is so close to that.

**

In his bouts of madness that plague him at night, Y/n remembers his past. Something he hadn’t thought about ever since the demon had overtaken the prince’s body, but now he is reminded of it.

They say that everyone has demons of their own. Before Rein, there had been his family. His family who tormented him, who broke him before he morbidly repaired himself, the family who had first made the darkness in Y/n’s heart appear.

Yes, the darkness had been there, already. Rein; Y/n’s curiosity — had only drawn it out, made it all the more obvious. But it had existed; floating around aimlessly in his chest. In his soul.

Y/n remembers his family passing away, never really atoning for their cruel sins towards him. An iron pressed to his heart when he misbehaved; the heat that made him shriek, the lashes on his legs that leaked blood and grew into terrifying monsters that would haunt Y/n for the rest of his life, until Rein.

The yearning, the desperate need for warmth. The want for tenderness. The shame in wanting those things. Thinking of tenderness as pain as it was easier to see it that way.

One night Y/n grows desperate, as the nightmares that aren’t Rein make him sob.

He remembers Rein, who had held him before. Who had given him that warmth so readily.

I’ll take anything, the darkness whispers, I’ll take anything at all. I’ll take anything to fill up that hole your fault left. Replace them.

And so Y/n clutches at Rein deliriously, his brain feeling like it’s been shattered. From the time he smashed his head into the headboard — his head feels like it’s never been completely healed. He cries like a petulant child.

Like a lonely one.

“Help me,” Y/n begs, “the nightmares will not stop. Comfort me, please, caress me; love me.”

He strips away his dignity then. Offers it to Rein.

And so Rein does; he does it in a frenzy, he rushes in and captures Y/n’s lips and he pushes and pushes and he craves —

He adores this. Poor, pathetic Y/n finally comes to him for help.

“You have sacrificed plenty for me,” Rein whispers, “for your endearing little courtship. How could I not?”

Y/n’s hands loop around Rein. It’s warm. It’s—

It should not be. And yet. And yet.

The fingers that stroke his hair so slowly. The ones that sweep over the expanse of nape, making Y/n tremble. The hands offering comfort, though they should not —

Y/n sleeps, finally, a peaceful one. He exhales.

**

The next day the shame is absolute, unforgiving. Y/n remembers the way he had clinged to Rein, the way he had — had surrendered himself. And now he is in the room, seeing the food that Rein has left behind, obviously as a reward. A reward for giving my dignity and self respect away, in embracing the man I’m scared of; terrified of. Of pushing my humanity away.

And just like Y/n has abandoned his humanity, he abandons the food; he pushes the plate away abruptly, digs his fingers into his throat in revulsion. His eyes burn, disgust twisting though every fibre of his body, woven within his heart.

I had wanted it, needed it, Y/n thinks, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. I don't want it.

He rushes to the bathroom, throwing it all up. Each heave, each time he throws up — he thinks to himself, he tells himself, he assures himself, that this vomit — is his shame.

He’s throwing it all up.

**

Rein continues to be sweet. Little kisses pressed against his bare skin, and the way he smiles, brings dessert that Y/n later throws up. Y/n wonders where this patience has come from; why Rein hasn’t —

But the illusion of safety; of tenderness is broken when one day Rein saunters in, his smile still fixed onto his face but there’s blood everywhere, and Y/n can smell it, and Y/n can almost taste it; how unholy it is, how demonic it is —

Rein reaches out to Y/n and shoves his tongue down his throat, and Y/n’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He struggles, tries pushing Rein off, but the prince’s hold is completely unrelenting, not moving an inch.

Y/n can feel the prince’s arousal hastily pressed against his, he can feel the prince pushing apart his thighs and feels it wedged in between them —

He can’t speak; for his mouth is used.

And when Rein finally releases his mouth, Y/n crumbles, trying desperately to regain his breaths. Inhale, exhale —

“Mmh,” Y/n makes a moan, when Rein’s tongue expertly presses against his and when the pleasure is spurring his own body on, when he’s lost inside it like a pleasure puppet, when he’s —

“I’ve been so patient,” Rein nearly growls in Y/n’s ear, “I’ve been so patient and my patience wears thin.”

“Y-Y-Your Highness —”

“I’ve been so laughably human in the sense that I’ve waited, like a dog. Like a human.”

Rein’s teeth skims against throat; thumbing over the ridge of his jaw. It’s unrelenting, pushy in the sense it continues to take and offers nothing in return. It’s needy; he’s needy and greedy and his hunger is growing, it’s spiraling out of control.

At last, Rein takes his cock out, forcibly using his fingers to open Y/n’s mouth to push it in. Y/n shivers and trembles, shaking as he feels the length and girth of it completely push him to his limits — he feels how it presses to the back of the throat and makes him choke —

Rein smiles, breaths in, satisfied.

“Look how pretty you are.”

Of course, Y/n cannot answer.

**

That instance fills Y/n with contempt. Fills him with a sense of desolate despair. His mouth is raw and hoarse, and he can’t speak; he can’t even talk before the taste of it fills his senses and he wants to sob, cry.

What does he have left, when he’s stripped of everything he has? Is it a crippling sense of darkness, nothing else? Is he that —

Rein leaves him alone after that, for a while. He’s busy, Y/n finds; and it explains his desperate, heated rush for something. But it leaves Y/n to his own devices.

I’m human, Y/n tries reminding himself, I’m still human; and I still want to be human. I will not — I will not surrender to this taunting darkness that simply wants to take everything away from me.

And so he becomes utterly selfish (ironically, the most human he can be): and he befriends someone.

It is a death sentence for the person; Y/n knows. Him becoming close to someone else means death for them, because demons are possessive, and they crave, and they crave and crave, and they never let go. They will never relent. Never repent.

It makes Y/n sober to know that this is his fate. Death might be a better option. This is his life now; the empty end before him spreading to god knows where, the endless darkness.

Y/n cannot even remember the person’s name. But the person brings him temporal comfort, in the sense that — in the sense that he finally has normal conversations about the weather; about the food they eat, about their duties.

The comfort is short lived.

If anything this attempt only proves to Y/n how far gone he is: in the way that he cannot find any interest or budding curiosity in anyone else; not the way Rein and the darkness had completely taken hold of him.

I must be growing mad, Y/n knows.

A blistering, upsetting admittance; I am growing mad.

**

This act comes with its own repercussions and consequences.

Y/n doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rein furious, but he now does.

Oh, oh, the prince’s touch is absolutely bruising as he clasps Y/n’s hands, smile now deranged and not empty in the sense that it’s oozing anger; it’s oozing madness.

“I leave you alone for a while,” he snarls, “and this is what you do. Is that right, Y/n?”

Rein stalks towards him. His hands go around his neck; Y/n wheezes — the prince is strangling him. And yet Y/n knows that Rein will not kill him — no, this demon is far too entrenched in him.

Rein brings Y/n for a kiss, and this time it’s painful, as Rein bites on his tongue with vicious desire and draws blood out. Their lips are a mess; all bleeding and bruised when they part, and Rein’s hands press against Y/n’s hips, so painful and tight that Y/n lets out a pained groan. But Rein swallows that sound greedily and aggressively pulls his hair to make Y/n look at him.

“Look,” Rein says giddily, “look, Y/n, look at his dead body. Look at his eyes that I’ve gouged out for you. Look at his tongue which I’ve cut off for talking to you. Look at his wrangled limbs. Look at this sight.”

Y/n blanches, face turning white.

“You are mine,” Rein whispers, hysterical as he’s still smiling, absolutely mad. He breathes in Y/n’s scent, bites his neck so hard that blood trickles out. Leaves hickeys all over.

“You did this to me. You took my heart; you made it yours. You courted me. You were so sweet; so darling, so beautiful.”

Y/n feels sick to his stomach, for all the wrong reasons.

He yearns for this. He craves this darkness. He sins, wondering if running away is an option —

And at last, Rein takes him, fucking him roughly, not as a reward, but as a punishment. His cock is painfully large as it pushes into Y/n’s entrance, and the sounds are obscene and wet as the thrusts grow faster, as Rein completely consumes him; pleasure riddling both their bodies and as the tears continue to fall from Y/n’s lips.

Oh, oh. How dirty this is. How ruined Y/n is. How —

“Don’t you dare ever do that again. Remember,” Rein smiles, but it is now so empty; completely mirthless. “You are mine. Do not ever do that again.”

Y/n can’t respond, and so Rein coaxes him, tone now far gentler, “you’re learned your lesson, have you?”

The heat of his mouth enraptures Y/n again; he returns it with a pleading kiss, a desperate one. Take all of me, ruin me, so I have no parts left of myself to look at, to hate. Destroy me whole, not partially. Finish your job.

**

Y/n is reminded that Rein is a demon when Rein is unable to grasp the telltale signs that he’s upset.

Rein, after that brief altercation yesterday, has resumed to be merry and happy. Demons, after all, do not understand emotions, and Rein is no exception. He praises Y/n, saying that Y/n has made up for his mistake, that he wants to take him again, that he wants to love him again — and Y/n is subdued, wondering why he’s allowed this to happen.

I’m allowing him to do this to me, Y/n thinks angrily, I’m letting him do all of these to me. And I am upset, but of course, Rein shall never understand. He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.

Rein does impart him with a warning:

If you do that again, Y/n, I’ll rip the heads off everyone in the palace and fuck you in front of them.

**

Y/n obeys for a while (how could he not)?

He’s completely claimed by the darkness. Absolute non negotiable, brooking no argument; allowing no reason. He's ensconced in it, swallowed by it.

Who was he before all of this? Does he remember? Does he want to remember?

**

“The prince is a demon.”

The sentence sends Y/n scrambling for purchase, as he stares at the owner of the voice.

He stares.

Once upon a time Y/n had yearned for this to happen.

Bathed in a benevolent light that seemingly does not fit the status of a servant having just joined, this girl in front of him is radiant, gorgeous and beautiful. She has silky silver hair, illuminating golden eyes — and it makes Y/n’s heart ache.

Finally, a person who has recognized the fact he has been living with. And yet, too late. This makes Y/n bitter. Why is this happening now?

“I can help you,” she says, her voice desperate. “I see the darkness controlling you. You must have had a hard time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/n manages, voice sore.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “I am the High Priestess. The saintess. I can sense demons — the temple has been targeting this place for a while. I’ve just been sent here to eradicate him: the man who has taken over His Highness.”

The darkness ripples in Y/n’s chest.

A while? He thinks — a while, and yet they couldn’t come to save him sooner —

“My name is Myra,” she says quietly, “Y/n, please.”

“Go away,” he says bitingly, not recognising the person who he has become, snapping away at a person who can save him — “you’re too late, don’t you think?”

“The one who has claimed the prince is the lord of the demons,” Myra says quietly, “the most powerful. That was why we could not act so soon.”

Y/n doesn’t react, and his empty state makes Myra anxious.

“I understand; you must be shocked —”

“If the prince wasn't the lord of the demons, I would’ve been even more surprised,” Y/n laughs, “no, it makes so much more sense. Only someone as cruel as that could’ve…” he trails off.

Cruel; yes he is. But that man…

“Don’t butt into this,” Y/n whispers; “don’t.”

“But —”

“Don’t try to help me,” Y/n shakes his head, distraught, “leave.”

“I am the priestess,” Myra says resolutely, “I—”

“You will be murdered,” Y/n says softly, “he is powerful beyond words. He cannot be denied. Leave, please.” A beat. “Please.”

If Myra is shaken, she does not show it.

“My duty is to eliminate demons anyway,” she swallows, “I have to do this. For the sake of everyone here, for the sake of the people, for the sake of the temple. For the sake of you.”

It’s a noble thing to say, but it only makes Y/n’s stomach churn. Why? Is it because he’s worried for her, or if he —

(Or he realizes that he doesn’t want to be saved?)

Secretly, he knows it’s the latter.

**

Y/n refuses to help Myra. It means punishment for him too, and again he’s selfish; being more human.

“You have to do this!” She raises her voice at him, “you’re just — you’re just letting this happen to you.”

“I am,” Y/n says blankly. He thinks of Rein’s hands around his throat, this time strangling him to death. Not a bad way to die. What if Rein thinks he’s colluding with the temple? He’ll be extremely angry then. Y/n doesn’t want — he doesn’t want Rein to be angry at him.

“You’re corrupted,” Myra spits out, completely beyond control. You’re evil. You’ve let the darkness corrode you.”

“Yes,” Y/n whispers, “when did I deny any of this?”

A beat. The two of them are staring at each other, and the clock is ticking. Y/n closes his eyes. Any moment, Rein will discover this and —

“I pity you,” Myra says sorrowfully, and Y/n’s eyes fly open. If there’s anything he’s expected, it wasn’t this.

“I pity that you were led to this. That your circumstances have changed you; that you’ve been forced to do this to yourself. That you’ve somehow been entangled into this relationship beyond your control, beyond your consent.”

“I did this,” Y/n’s voice is hoarse, completely ripped into shreds, “do not pity me. Curse me; hate me — but do not pity me!”

“Y/n —”

“I was not — I was not forced!” Y/n screams; and he’s in agony, his heart is twisting and turning and he’s — shit, he’s dying inside, “I used to think that,” he says breathily; his loud exhales with his chest rising up and down. “And I was wrong.”

“Y/n,” Myra’s voice is so painful, so soft, “do not say that.”

“It was right of you to call me dirty, unholy,” Y/n shakes his head, tears slipping from his face. “It was true. I am dirty. I am wretched; torn everywhere and broken in all the wrong places. But I did this. I invited him, I let the darkness crowd my mind…for goodness’s sake,” he looks shakily at Myra: “I let him bed me!”

“Oh, Y/n,” is all she can say.

Y/n continues to shake, the raw, awful admission falling from his mouth. “It’s; it’s fucking wrong. I know that. But I am wrong. I had a choice to run from it then, to never open the books,” he moans, a guttural, agonized sound: “I researched, Myra. I —”

He had kept blaming it on others. On his fate, on his luck, on — on a billion other factors. But the truth is; he had done it. Y/n had opened the walls of his soul, had taken darkness by the hand and had taken demonic spirits into it. He had cared for it. Had —

“So you mustn’t pity me,” Y/n whispers, “if you care for me, then don’t. You can continue to hate me, rebuke me. You made efforts, but as you can see, here I am. Unmoving; unwilling to budge. I will walk to my downfall with him. I will…”

“Is it too late, then?” Myra says very sadly, her eyes wet, “it is never too late.”

Oh, but it is. From the day their bodies had shared a communion; a shared bond. From the day Y/n had found warmth in the demon. From the day the fear had twisted into something more menacing…from the day Y/n realized that overtime he had accepted it; wanted it, even.

He shakes his head. “Give up, Myra; it’s futile. I never should’ve let you do this in the first place.”

Myra’s voice is broken. “Do you love him, then?”

Love. Loving a demon. Loving something so wrong everywhere, loving a monstrosity that will ruin him. Oh, but that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s the wicked, heavy, and malicious truth. It’s cruel to admit, yes; it tears something from Y/n’s chest — but still, it’s the truth.

“I do,” he admits, and it’s sinful, rotten, and terrifying, “I’m sorry.”

Her face turns ghostly white, and Y/n sees it then; that Myra has finally acknowledged it.

That he’s beyond saving.

**

Myra will die. It’s a fact written in the stars. The temple can do nothing. Holiness can do nothing. Faith will shatter.

The world will do nothing, can do nothing. Y/n knows this.

Y/n stares at the mirror of the bathroom, watching as his reflection distorts and warps. Is Myra dead yet? Is she —

He’s tried cleaning his body, his hands, to rid themselves of the impurity. But no endless scrubbing can fix the mess that he’s become.

“Murderer,” he says shakily, looking at his reflection, “you’re a murderer, Y/n.”

He had practically led Myra to die. Led so many people to die, people who he can’t even remember the names of. He had done this.

“Wretched,” he says bleakly, voice so weak that it trembles. “You’re despicable. Fuck. You’re —”

Y/n stops, as he sees Rein appear at the corner of his reflection, leaning against the door. Their eyes meet each other in the reflection and Rein smiles sweetly. There’s blood splattered all over his clothes — Rein has made no attempt to wash himself off, instead wearing the blood of the divine like a badge of honour.

Y/n watches him, completely defeated, making no attempt to leave.

Rein comes to him, claiming him. He watches Y/n’s expressions and reactions in the mirror as he takes him all over again, as he elicits sounds of pleasure from Y/n and takes delight in them. As Y/n is sprawled, naked, on the bathroom counter as he’s forced to watch himself in the mirror as Rein ruins him; fucks him with a ruthless tenacity. Still covered in blood.

As usual, Y/n lets Rein take what belongs to him.

**

“You killed her, didn’t you?” Is what Y/n tells Rein one day, “Myra. She claimed she was a priestess. She was —” Y/n says tiredly, “a good person.”

Rein starts laughing, merry and light — but then he abruptly stops, watching Y/n’s expressions carefully.

“Oh, you weren’t joking,” the smile is completely erased from Rein’s face — and now he looks — he looks terrifying, face turned dark; face completely expressionless save for that smile on his face, that constant smile that —

“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n,” Rein exhales; the three words rolling off his tongue easily, “you really make me realize that patience is a virtue.”

“So you did kill her. The blood belonged to her.”

“You seem to forget,” Rein says softly, looking at Y/n, “that I’m a demon. Simply because I cherish you.”

Of course, Y/n thinks bitterly, I must always remember that he is a demon. I must always remember that he is cruel, that he is inhuman…

“I don’t forget,” Y/n says in response, tone listless. I can’t forget.

Rein hums, pleased.

**

Love is a terrifying thing.

Y/n is slowly making peace with the fact that he loves a demon. He is human. Love is possible for him. Love can happen to him.

And yet, Rein.

Rein is a demon. Rein is inhuman. Is Rein capable of love? Obsession and desire; yes, but love — that may be an obsolete concept. It may not be possible for Rein. Mercy and pleasure do not equate to love.

“Demons and humans share something alike,” Rein tells him one day, “they share souls. Demons are heartless, but humans have hearts. But souls…they are made one and the same.”

“Souls,” Y/n repeats, “souls…”

He wonders what they look like. Is he completely dark? Is he gone? Is this even — even human?

“They come in shapes and colours,” Rein says thoughtfully, like he has not brooded over this topic in a while, “I got to have a glimpse of it, for a moment.”

Y/n is curious. Of course he is. After all, it is his curiosity that has led him down this prickly, painful path. But the final stage of grief is acceptance, and he supposes he’s there now. Empty, but existing.

“What did it look like?”

Rein smiles at this question, reaching towards Y/n and hands circling around his wrist. The action bleeds affection, but Y/n wills himself not to believe in it. Desire and love are not the same.

“Ruby,” Rein says fondly, like he’s reminiscing a pleasant moment, “it was so red; so delightful. I even remember when it was made. A date that it was conceived. February fifteenth, if we go along a human’s perception of time.”

Ruby, like blood, Y/n thinks to himself, immediately shoving that awful thought elsewhere.

“Why do you ask?”

“I was curious.”

“What an endearing trait of yours,” Rein laughs quietly, “don’t you agree, my darling human?”

Y/n swallows. “Yes.”

**

The funny thing is; the date that Rein’s soul was made draws near. A birthday, of sorts. Y/n doesn’t think anything of it, at first, but in a startling turn of events he — he considers a birthday gift.

Deranged, he knows. The mere thought of it depresses him for a while immensely, as he’s acutely aware of how much he’s fallen. Going from someone who feared the demon, who condemned him, to wholly giving himself to him. To love him. What a joke; what a mess.

Y/n finds himself making a little ring that has the shade of ruby embedded on it. The date intricately etched upon it; a little line that only Rein’s sharp eyes would catch.

A gift. A ring. It’s such a tender, beautiful thing that doesn’t even make sense. Y/n laughs bitterly at it all. When he succeeds at it he feels the pride enter his body for a brief moment, and he allows himself to feel it. Another emotion besides the shame and pain and love he carries with him everyday, knowing he’s condemned to live the rest of his life entrapped by the demon.

Isolated from the world.

Y/n picks up the ring, admiring it, placing it upon his own finger before taking it off.

He is a demon. He is inhuman. He is completely —

(He cannot be in love.)

Don’t expect him to be sincerely touched by the gift.

If only.

**

Y/n is proven to be the most unlucky person in the world when the ring gets stolen on the 15th of February.

Of course it would; he was foolish in leaving it haphazardly. The ring — he had worked at it, had spent a considerable money to bring in the ruby —

What is it that he feels? Complete defeat, humiliation; that even after all the things that he’s endured the very thing that breaks him fully now is theft? That he’s shaking now, crying as he realizes that his effort is for naught?

Is this what truly breaks him? An act of theft?

It was my first admittance that I had fallen in love with Rein, Y/n thinks, made physical. A ring. But perhaps Rein wouldn’t have wanted that, anyway, would he?

Still. The thought of that glittering ruby ring, which he had slaved away at getting stolen:

It tears something at Y/n. It makes him distraught, shaken. He’s heaving, his tears bitter and his mind reprimanding him for his childishness, at how careless he was, that it is a ring and not deaths that made him wallow like this —

“What makes you so distraught?” Rein looks amused as he sees Y/n tremble, wiping away his tears, "what a crybaby you are.”

Rein’s — Rein’s teasing him; like this means absolutely nothing to him.

(He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.)

Rein has seen Y/n crying so many times that perhaps the meaning has been diluted and dissolved in his mind. But now it makes Y/n even more upset; when he is again reminded: this man is a demon. He cannot feel. He cannot love me —

“A birthday gift,” Y/n chokes out, because Rein does not like silence. “I got you a birthday gift. A ring. It’s what humans when they give it to the people they like.”

“…”

There is brief silence, before Rein laughs, and the hope finally plummets down Y/n’s stomach.

“You joke,” Rein says smoothly, “a birthday gift? I do not even have one. But that would’ve been adorable.”

“…15th of February,” Y/n says shakily, “you —”

“Then where is it?” Rein interrupts, “I do not not see it,” he smiles, “you are lying, then. Oh, Y/n. You had no need to lie. What are you trying to do?”

Another brief silence — before Y/n completely breaks down at the sheer unfairness of Rein’s words and the fact that this love he has denied for so long is the one that makes him so humanly weak and susceptible to emotions — though at the same time he’s so disgustingly selfish and inhuman —

“Rein,” he manages between his sobs, realizing he’s crying now, upset. Why can’t you be more human? Why can’t you truly love me? “I — someone stole it,” he gasps, “I wasn’t lying; there’s no point in me lying, I just thought it would be something nice to do —”

And in the most unexpected moment — Rein stands up abruptly, and Y/n peeks at him, expecting for the demon to be utterly bored, unaffected —

And he flinches.

Rein’s smiling still, but the anger now is different from the ones he’s displayed so far.

No; this one is dark, menacing, and…

Rein kisses his tears away, gentle and soft. “Oh, Y/n,” he says, “don’t be so upset. I’ll settle it. And I’ll bring you a little gift after that to cheer you up, alright?”

Y/n stares, his sniffles dying away as he just —

He watches Rein leave, with that unfamiliar brand of anger.

Almost like he had cared.

**

That moment that Y/n cries over the birthday gift — the ring, Rein feels something within him break, a thin, precious piece of his soul dying.

His voice is deadly when he speaks to Y/n. A sense of calm washes over him, though it’s false and it’s wrong and it’s utterly disgusting.

Humanity, he finds, is worming its way to the cracks of his soul. Rein feels rage, yes, rage, as an emotion; not as something he merely displays. He feels touched, painfully touched at the gesture of the present that his Y/n had so previously prepared, anger at the ring being stolen.

At someone daring to take Y/n’s previous effort and take it for themselves, even though everything that was Y/n’s belonged to him.

Humanity. This is what his humanity is. And yet this little piece of humanity will only serve to make him even worse. More evil, as now his — ah, yes: love, continues growing.

As now he is sure that he cannot live without Y/n.

Where had it started? When he had realized that someone had seen through the tiresome facade he put up as the prince? He had been bored out of his mind. And then, yes, there was that lovely courtship by Y/n. Y/n had always been so loving, and yet so endearing; in the way he had trembled and shaken.

Rein had always understood emotions in the literal sense. He didn’t know how they felt, but he could read them well. And yet, humans seemed to be the opposite. No one seemed to be able to tell who he was, all foolish and daft…except him. Even the sex, which was an inherently pleasurable thing — had stirred emotions within Rein. Had been insatiable, had made him crave endlessly.

The hunger that could not stop.

That would never be whetted.

Rein had not fully grasped it yet, that humanity was slowly beginning to bleed into him.

Y/n had scrapped him hollow. Made him anew.

**

Of course Rein finds the culprit and brutally tortures him.

Of course he does it slowly, ripping off his limbs, spearing him inside and out until his shrieks die beautifully in his ears. Until Rein tears his soul apart again and again and puts him back together so he can experience the same agony. Until the culprit’s blood rivals the ruby ring now sitting on his finger, precious and loved.

He does it until the man is a carcass, brutally mangled, beaten, tortured, unrecognisable. Until the man’s limbs stop twitching and the process repeats over. He took what I had, Rein tells himself, drunk on his power, on his rage; on his newfound humanity that will only make him ever more uncontrolled and incorrigible.

But he knows what this is now; beyond obsession, desire, and pleasure:

There is love.

Later, when he returns to Y/n, Y/n lights up when he sees the ruby ring placed on his finger. He has learnt not to ask questions, dutiful and obedient as he is. And yet Y/n too, has those flare ups of disobedience that are endearing all the same; that fiery spirit that the darkness loves too.

The darkness that they both possess are one and same.

**

Y/n has sinned, he knows. He’s been corrupted, damned for eternity — he’s filthy inside and out.

This love; this horrible, cruel, and disgusting he harbours, that he accepts — it will ruin him eventually. He knows that. It’s something he will not turn away from.

All of the deaths on his hands. A murderer, a wicked sinner, an executioner. The sin is grave, terribly grave. And so this is his punishment too, this is his debt to repay and this is his life to live. Choking, suffocating, filled with so much timorous pleasure and darkness he cannot even begin to comprehend it. His torment is his.

This love is his perdition.

**

A/N

**

He doesn’t remember the ruin; the blood soaked fingers that thread through his hair. Softly, gently, lovingly. He doesn’t remember his trembles beneath him, the soft, strangled moans, the claw marks left on his back. Y/n didn’t remember any of it — his memory is closed and bottled and gone and his mind is a mess. He remembers scratching at the door of the church for mercy, and being welcomed.

Y/n remembers first meeting him, the man clothed in white; the man with silky golden hair and cerulean blue eyes. The man who was so devastatingly and damningly beautiful that people stopped to stare at him; the man with the gentle smile that swallowed your rage. The man named Anton.

“Poor thing,” Anton had told Y/n, and his fingers had been warm then. Y/n would’ve mistaken anything for warmth; he was so horribly starved of touch and affection that even the simplest of words could feel like the sun to him. And so he basked in it. “Poor thing,” Anton said quietly, “you are at the mercy of God. At me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/n choked out. He knew the emptiness gnawing at his brain. Chewing at nothing, with a bottomless hunger that had yet not been satiated. His fingers had clutched at the priest’s robes; he had nearly cried out from reprieve at seeing another human; another life form. He had stumbled on the bare roads alone. Something about the priest had seemed so familiar and it filled Y/n with indescribable relief.

“You’re trembling,” Anton had murmured softly and gently in return, his fingers brushing Y/n’s cheek. “How fortunate, then. You have stumbled upon the one place that you can be saved. The only place you will be saved.”

Y/n had drunk his words in at the point of time. He had been — ah, what’s that word? He had been docile, yes he had. He had been so painfully and ridiculously pliant to the priest’s needs then, so much like a lamb that had been reared for him, the shepherd — that he now laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The priest, who had been so charming at first, was a vicious monster. The smile never left his face; that ineffable mannerisms he had that was so graceful; so powerful, so divine…and yet Anton robbed people of their lives so easily; with a careless flick and a sanguine, saccharine smile. His fingers were bloody when they traced Y/n’s back, when they touched his face…when they left a crimson, unforgiving trail.

He will kill me, Y/n always thought, he will kill me one day. He will murder me; like he has murdered so many of his foolish believers who throw themselves at his feet…

“When will you kill me?” Y/n had begged once, after the thirty eighth slaughter, after the last of the flames had been snuffed out and burnt carcasses lay on the floor again. “Why did you welcome me? Why did you — why did you let me live and why do you treat me so well? Why do you treat me like I’m special — when you are simply going to kill me?”

Oh, yes, Anton treated him so differently. During service Anton rebuked those who tormented Y/n for being a new believer. Y/n watched as others poured their savings out for Anton and he didn’t bat an eye at them. But with Y/n…why? Y/n’s memories had not yet returned; and he was beginning to accept the bleak reality that it would never do so. And so now he was left to spiral here, in this crazed madness where the priest ruled this place like a cult and he had no answers and only him —

I should never have come, Y/n found himself thinking over this all the time, I should never have been on that path, walking towards the church. This is not holy: this is not divine.

“Oh, Y/n,” Anton sighed. “Oh, Y/n.” He stalked towards Y/n; his large strides making Y/n flinch and cower and summon the last vestiges of his strength to bare his teeth; like a dog that had yet not been tamed. The priest’s hands were cold this time round as he tipped the (h/c)-haired boy’s chin up. “You will never die. You are the Chosen One. The one who is my most beloved ordained proxy. The heavens have chosen you. I have chosen you.”

His words were sweet, coated in so much honey that Y/n wanted to vomit.

“You kill all of them,” Y/n choked out, “you -you cannot possibly believe that what you’re doing is —”

“You don’t understand,” Anton said sadly, “not yet; it seems.”

“Murder,” Y/n finished, “it’s fucking murder- do you hear me? I can’t believe I ever listened to you- I can’t believe I ever thought I would — kill me, just kill —”

“You were like this before,” Anton’s tone had hardened, but it held that tone of wistfulness from before. Almost stern; like a beguiling parent chiding a naughty child. “Then I went through all that trouble to do that…and still you rebel; still you fight. How many lessons do you need to learn?”

“Fuck you,” the words had slipped from Y/n’s throat before he knew it, “fuck your murderous tendencies and your cult and your deranged —”

Anton had taken his arm then, in a grip so tight it bruised, and had forced Y/n to stare at those unsettling eyes of his. Y/n had swallowed; Anton had looked hungrily at him; with thinly veiled desire and fondness and reluctance.

Reluctance…?

“It pains me to do this,” Anton said calmly, his voice soft. “But it seems punishment is needed for you. I shall not do something as extreme as what I did the last time…but you do need to learn a lesson.”

“No,” Y/n whispered.

“You will be declared holy. You will be consecrated. You will be freed from sin.”

The lessons would be the start of despair; of torment.

**

Y/n remembers his attempts at fighting. He remembers clawing at locked doors that won’t budge; the endless darkness that he was drenched in, the protest of not eating food and water. He remembers the corpses lined up in his mind, relentless and determined to make him miserable. He remembers screaming; until his throat is hoarse and until he is sure the Gods have grown tired of his misery. He remembers cursing God at his pain; at his situation.

“Will you surrender yet?” Anton asks softly. He holds a starved Y/n; his arms the only flicker of warmth. Y/n’s head, on his lap, the hallucinations driving him mad. He looks at the priest; he stares. He feels emptiness, hatred.

Starving himself had not worked; he had been forcibly fed. He had tried to stab the priest with a knife, and it had melted into a puddle of wax.

“Sin is resistance,” Anton tells him, smiling so serene, so beautiful. “I will purge you of it. You are Chosen, Y/n: remember that. I will allow no one to taint you; no one to touch you.”

Y/n remembers slipping into a haze. He remembers lips against his own. He remembers being too weak to fight back.

**

Days become weeks; and weeks — they become something completely indecipherable; slipping elusively through the cracks of time. Y/n doesn’t remember Anton ever harming him — not physically, at least; but Anton torments him. Anton bathes him; dresses him in all white, and prays over him with hands that linger too long on the throat. Y/n feels the anger dying in his mouth: but it is so bountiful, so full that it wriggles between his gum like cavities. Anton’s obsession is so sweet it rots Y/n’s teeth.

He speaks of the prophecy; at how they united together through divine matrimony — “You belong to me,” Anton says sweetly. He whispers quietly and presses their foreheads together while Y/n squirms and sobs.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Y/n says deliriously, “I cannot. I cannot — I cannot accept this: I cannot — I cannot live like this. Let me go, Anton. Let me go —”

Who was he before this? Has he ever been a person? What had the outside been like?

I am utterly isolated, Y/n realizes and he weeps; he weeps big, grieving, loud cries. I do not know anyone else except for him; why has Anton imbued me with only the knowledge of him?

Anton tilts his head and his voice is flat as he speaks. “You still choose to rebel.”

“I —”

“Was everything I did for naught?” He says tonelessly. He looks at Y/n. “I have gone to this extent and you want me to let you go,” he says. His tone is terrifyingly dark and Y/n is shaking, and oh god, the mantra of please let me go repeats in Y/n’s head and he’s stumbling and crying and —

“I declared that I would make you holy,” Anton says, smiling. But it is without mirth; it is completely empty.

“And so I will,” Anton says, “perhaps it’s time to purify you.”

Anton takes Y/n’s hand; very very gently. He pulls Y/n away; for once Y/n is out of that dark attic and he winces when light meets his skin and he wonders if the word purify has a negative or positive connotation to it because he’s free, and he’s seeing the outside world, and —

Oh.

There are hands tearing at his robes, there are harsh kisses pressed to his collarbone and Anton is undressing and there is an — altar; an incense burning in a censer and its smells sweet…Y/n hallucinates a lute playing; a pipe…

“After this I will give you a choice,” Anton says cruelly with a smile; “to leave. If you can walk, that is.”

**

Y/n learns that his moans are loud; strangled, like his screams. Or perhaps his moans and screams are blending together and he doesn’t know which is which; but he does know that they are ripped mercilessly from his throat and at least the constant thing in his life is that he is offered no mercy.

“This is what I was supposed to do,” Anton says, his voice a sigh. His eyes are impossibly dark and his expression is so cold and terrifying and warm at the same time…his fingers ghost over Y/n’s body and he shivers; he feels the touch glide up to his nipples and he feels teeth rest at the curve of his throat.

I can feel his pulse, Y/n thinks. I can feel him…entering me…breaking me…all of him.

Y/n knows his scream is loud when the priest pushes his large cock into his body; when he feels his walls tighten around painfully around him like they’re welcoming him, the traitorous hardening of his own cock that is left untouched. He feels delirious, delirious with painful pleasure when the thrusts become forceful and Anton is moving, he’s moving and pushing into him and each time Y/n accepts him, Y/n’s hands go to his back and they scratch and claw.

Their kisses are ravenous. They are dotted with sin, lined with pleasure and desire that should not exist. It is the forbidden fruit; they are falling from the Garden of Eden and Anton has claimed him. There are bottomless pools of blood in Y/n’s vision when he looks at Anton; when he cries for him to stop! And yet his own body aches; wants more. Y/n arches his back still, feels the delicate curve of his spine bending in submission and he twitches his hips while Anton takes more; he takes more and more and he does not stop.

“You will not leave,” Anton says in between his thrusts; as he nips Y/n’s ear. He smiles victoriously above Y/n’s body. “After I’m done…you shall be complete; perfect. I have held back for you.”

“Anton,” Y/n cries out. The name is stuck in his throat, hoarded in his mouth. Why is it all he knows? Where are his memories? Where is the past, the before? Where is his identity — is Anton right; does it rest with him?

(Chosen; chosen, chosen. You are the Chosen One. Why run away?)

“My darling,” Anton says; and he laughs. “Do you want me to continue? You want choices, don’t you? There it is. Do you want me to continue?”

Y/n whimpers below him. “Anton,” he repeats. His mind is broken; he cannot think but god everything is empty and the church is all he has, and —

“Beg,” Anton says, his voice stern. His fingers thrum against the expanse of Y/n’s flesh. He waits to take him apart, to peel him like a fruit and to devour him whole. The bruises on Y/n’s hip have a dull sort of pain. He cannot think.

“Do it, Y/n,” Anton coaxes, tone gentler this time. He kisses the tears off Y/n’s face. “Be good for me. You can do that, right? You can be so good…”

“Please,” the word leaves Y/n’s mouth. “Please ruin me. Please purify me. Please save me.”

Anton crashes his lips onto Y/n; drunk off his declaration; his plea, his piteous, soft cries. He knew Y/n would come around one day. He knew Y/n had to; he knew it was their fates intertwined, their destinies together melding into a singular line. The sex that follows is even more overwhelming; but it is glorious, it is divine.

After it is over, after Y/n is sprawled on the stained sheets and the sweet smell of the incense continues to permeate Y/n’s nostrils… Anton cradles him; soothes him after it’s over.

“Do you still wish to run?” He asks. Then, a more brutal question; “Can you still run?”

**

Y/n is given a choice. He remembers the ruin; the divinity; the purification. He is sanctified, he is pure, he is holy. He is made new.

Anton smiles. “Darling; do you still want to leave?”

Y/n feels a barrage of soft kisses on his forehead. The priest is gentle. The priest is kind. He is chosen.

(Forgive me, Y/n thinks to whatever God who has ignored him, Forgive me, for I no longer wish to be saved.)

**

PAST

“You disobey me,” Anton said quietly. “You slit your wrists; you run away. I have no choice but to start over; to erase your reality. To start from point one.”

“Stop,” Y/n screamed, “do you have enough of this? Do you have enough of —”

“I shall erase your memory,” Anton said, sounding pleased with himself. “Yes; that will be brilliant.”

“I will always run,” Y/n told him through his despairing tears, through the haze of pain and through the priest’s clutch on him. “I will run from you.”

Anton stared at Y/n, before he laughed. He laughed for a good minute; before he stared at Y/n like he had said something so painfully amusing.

“My darling,” Anton shook his head, “my dear. You will never stray from the divine path. You will find me. You will be helpless; you will knock on my door and you will beg for me.”

“No,” Y/n choked out, “I will not. I will kill myself before doing so.”

Anton looked fondly at Y/n. “You funny thing. I will bring you from the dead. You cannot run from me.”

The priest kissed Y/n for the last time; the (h/c)-haired male struggled viciously, but eventually slumped in the priest’s arms.

Anton smiled. Ah; yes, Y/n was his. Nothing could tear them apart; he was God; he commanded the will of the universe. He would wait. He would wait to purify him; to make him stronger; to make him holy…

To sanctify him.

**