THE DEVIL'S BRIDE ââ JENNIE
» » SYNOPSIS: A priest fell to his knees, wept before Satan's child itself and he wasn't as pure nor sinless as people thought he was. Meanwhile, Y/N arrived at the musicians' nightânetworking event looking beautiful and guilt-edged relevancy that she was aware that she hasn't entirely earned.
» » pairing: devil!jennie x artist!fem!reader
» » genre: supernatural-horror romance, dark comedy, satirical work of fiction and psychological thriller
» » what's in here: jennie being casually terrifying, themes of death and soul collection, brief depiction of a morally compromised religious figure, supernatural elements, morally ambiguous protagonist, themes of dishonesty and manufactured success
» » author's note: basically a filler chapter and I'm so sorry that I took over three months to complete the 5th chapter and this is very boring I'm sorryyy and ISTG I'LL HAVE THE CONTINUATION READYâŒïž
prev | next | the devil's bride m.list
A theology carved in stonesâin walls and soaring pillars. That was how one might describe it: a passage between earth and heaven, architecture as devotion, silence as the sermon. The vastness of the space was almost eerie, the kind of eerie that pressed gently against your chest and reminded you how small you are.
The distinct scent of beeswax candles mingled with the sweet, earthy perfume of incense and somewhere beyond the nave, a choir's distant singing echoedâwas beautiful and irritating all at once, the way holy things often were.
Her shiny heels; Christian Louboutin, soles the color of fresh blood, tapped against the stone cold floor, each click echoing too long, as though the cathedral was announcing her sudden arrival. She walked until she reached the wooden door of the confessional, gripped the knob and pulled it open, stepped into the dark little box like a cat exploring somewhere it absolutely should not be.
She sat with her legs closed, ladylike and her handbag resting beside her, the picture of propriety.
âFather,â she began, âI have killed a person,â
What a wonderful way to open a confession.
In the adjoining booth, the priest sat clutching his Bible and his rosary. His breath caught. He had heard many confessions over the decadesâinfidelities, thefts, envies both petty and catastrophicâbut this one reached across the partition and took him firmly by the collar. Not for the crime itself, though partly. For the voice. It was unbothered.
His eyes flickered to the latticed screen beside him.
âDid you intend for this person to die,â he asked carefully, the shakiness in his voice barely contained, âor did your anger get the better of you?â
On the other side of the partition, her long red hails tapped a slow idle rhythm against the wooden wall. She shifted, crossed her legs. âIt was work,â she answered.
âI don't get paid for it. So I suppose it was entirely intentional.â She spoke about it the way one might discuss a mildly inconvenient errand.
The nonchalance did not go unnoticed. The priest swallowed. He steadied himself, kept his voice level, choosing his words with great care. âDo you feel the weight of this soul upon your own?â he asked. âDo you truly regret taking a life made in God's image?â
A pause. On her side of the booth, the woman raised one perfect eyebrow. She inspected her nails with faux curiosity and let her bottom lip push forward in a small, thoughtful pout.
The priest nodded even knowing she could not see him, it seemed the appropriate thing to do. He pressed forward, navigating the conversation carefully. âWhat did this person do to warrant their death?â he presented his next question, testing water one careful toe at a time.
There were small perforations carved into the partition between themâlittle holes meant for whispered dins and quiet absolution. The woman leaned forward and brought her lips close to them, her voice dropping to something soft. Intimate. Intended only for him.
âHe was a stupid, stupid pig,â she whispered pleasantly. âHe sold his soul to my father in exchange for a longer and more prosperous life. But the stupid pig overstayed his welcome and Daddy sent me to collect what was owed.â
Then she giggledâa small, bright, delighted sound, utterly incongruous with everything she had just said, it was clear that she was enjoying thisâenjoyed watching the color drain from a face they couldn't see.
A sharp, high-pitched ringing detonated in the priest's earâsudden, impaling into his ear. He slammed his palm against the side of his head, the Bible momentarily forgotten on his knee. The sound wasn't loud in the usual sense. It was ear deafening.
Heat rushed over him. Cold followed immediately behind it or they arrived togetherâsimultaneous, his rosary beads pressed into his palm.
She rolled her eyes, gathered her handbag and stepped out of the confessional box.
She strode across the stone floor with the unhurried elegance of someone who had never once in her existence been late for anything that truly matteredâwhich given the nature of her work, was entirely plausible.
Behind her, the booth door swung open with a bang and the priest stumbled out, struggling to keep pace. His balance, unfortunately did not cooperate. He went down. One palm flat against the cold stone, his long vestments spreading around him like a fallen flag, his Bible still clutched in one white-knuckled hand.
The woman stopped mid stride. She tilted her head, she did not turn around yet and she allowed him a moment.
Behind her, the priest trembled. His mouth hung open. Desperation had painted itself across his face, the kind of expression one reserves for moments of sincere theological crisis. He was sweating profusely. He looked up at the back of the woman who had just confessed a murder to him with the eerie calm of someone discussing the weather.
And thenâJennie turned around.
She looked down at him the way one looks at something interesting one has found on the bottom of a very expensive show. Hierarchy, after all, probably mattered.
âYouââ The priest choked on his own breath. âDid your father...â He dug his nails into his palms. â...send you here too?â His eyes were very wide.
The corner of Jennie's lips curled. Her fox-like eyes caught the light filtering down through the stained glass; all that colored holiness falling across something that was very much not holy and she glanced briefly at the enormous crucifix looming at the altar before returning her gaze to the trembling man on the floor.
One word. Devoid of emotions.
What happened next was, depending on one's perspective, either deeply tragic or darkly, horribly funny.
The priestâthe man of God, the shepherd of soulsâabandoned his Bible entirely. He got up onto both knees, hands pressed together, they were tremoring and he bowed. His forehead went to the floor. He was not praying to the God to whom he had devoted the better part of his youth. He was praying to the one he had sold his soul to instead.
It was perhaps the most honest prayer he had ever offered.
A sick little plot twist.
He wept. Eyes red, hair damp with sweat, he pressed his hands together and sobbed with the full-bodied commitment of a man who had just remembered, very suddenly, that all debts eventually come due.
âPlease,â he begged, looking up at Jennie. âPlease, don't take me today! I didn't mean toâ I was afraid of dying! I'm still afraid!â
Jennie looked at him. She let out a slow, quiet sigh. It was an icky display of desperation. She raised one finger and wagged it at him as if he was a child who made a small mistake.
âYou are one hundred and eighteen years old today,â she said, crouching down to his level with effortless grace. She placed one hand atop his head but not gently. âYour agreement with my father was to live another ten years. Ten years to repent. Ten years to be for forgiveness.â Her voice remained soft. Almost pleasant.
âBut instead, you went and made a separate arrangement with a lowly demon. To extend the extension.â She clicked her tongue. âDid you think he wouldn't notice?â
âI... I can give you the demon's name!â He sobbed palms upturned toward her like an offering. âPlease, not today... just not today!â
Jennie took his chin between her fingers and drew his face toward hersâshe was not gentle. Their lips nearly brushed and the light inside the cathedral shifted, as if the sky outside had begun to bleed bruise and black at the same time.
Like a storm about to brew.
âStupid,â she whispered softly, âstupid pig.â
Then Jennie shoved his face away, his head snapped back. She stood, smoothed the front of her cloth with one hand, flicking her hair back into perfect order. A long, theatrical sigh escaped her lipsâsetting down the weight of the situation.
âNot today, then,â she told the priest and her voice had shifted entirelyâlighter, almost cheerful. She grinned down at him, a bright and very pretty thing that did not reach whatever lived behind her eyes.
âI promised my insufferable human wife I would attend her big night.â She shrugged one shoulder, the gesture loose and almost fond in a way and began to resemble affection. âApparently that takes precedence.â
She straightened up, cast one last glare at the weeping, terrified priest on the floor of the cathedral and she turned back towards the door.
Her heels tapped against the floorâeach sound ringing out and the choir somewhere above was beautiful as well as deeply annoying ass Jennie was making her way to the door. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the world and the light swallowed her whole.
The sleek black sedan pulled up to the hotel entrance and Y/N stepped out with the kind of grace that comes from having practiced it, the door held open by a young man in dark clothing who kept his eyes appropriately forward. She looked exceptional tonight. She knew it. Jennie helped to choose the outfit she's wearing tonight.
The mirror in the card had confirmed it and the brief appreciative pause of the doorman had confirmed it again.
What she lacked, however, was her wife.
Jennie had told her in advance, casually, the way Jennie told her most things, as though the information were a small object being dropped into her hands from a great height that she would arrive at the function separately. On her own. In her own time.
Y/N had simply nodded and let it go. It wasn't as though she could actually stop Jennie from doing whatever Jennie wants to do. The mental image of herself physically restraining Jennieâarms wrapped around those shoulders, heels dragging across the floor, Jennie looking mildly inconveniencedâwas a little funny. She would have laughed if it weren't also a little terrifying.
A tall young man in black escorted her to the elevator. She stepped inside and pressed the button. The display numbers climbedâfloor by floor, digit by digit and Y/N watched the numbers rise with the quiet certainty that whatever this gathering was being held, it would involve velvet drapes, low lighting and wine with names nobody at the table could confidently pronounce aloud.
She was correct on all counts.
The elevator exhaled its doors open and Y/N stepped out into, there it is: flash of light hit her almost immediately from cameras, phones, the small bright explosions of people who recognized her and wanted proof of it. Her name, called out from two or three directions at once.
She had almost forgotten what this felt like.
But it came back quickly, the muscle memory of being seen, of mattering in rooms like this. Her spine straightened almost on its own. A smile arrived on her face, it was genuine. Perhaps the current chapter was better than the ones that had come before it; she had known recognition once, years ago but not like this. Not this sharp and immediate, not this warm.
The small, honest part of her heart which is the part that still kept accounts, knew exactly why.
There was very little merit involved in her recent revival. Very little honest labour. The music that had put her name back into people's mouths had not come entirely from her own hands and she was aware this was the way one is aware of and with the specific discomfort of something one has chosen, for now, not to address.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to survey the room.
That was when she saw her or thought she did.
A glimpse. Jennie, leaning against the bar across the room, one hand curled around a glass of red wine, dark intense eyes catching the low light and holding it. Those eyes found Y/N through the rim of the glass, steady and red-tinged and then Y/N blinked, Jennie was gone.
Y/N turned, her eyebrows knitted together and she scanned the room again. The ballroom was full of faces and for a strange moment, she thought she saw Jennie's face amongst themâa flash of that particular grin, those eyes, surfacing briefly between strangers.
The room itself was beautiful in the way that expensive rooms always areâbathed in a honeyed, amber glow, the kind of dim that turns champagne into bubbles of rising gold. Shadows gathered nicely in the corners. The floor hummed with the sound of a trumpet and a brushed drum kit, jazz threading its way through the air like smoke, unhurried and warm.
Y/N felt something in her shoulders unknot quietly. Of all the genres she had moved through over the year, the RnB, the co-writing for other people's pop songs, the work that paid well and meant little but jazz had always been the one that felt like coming home to.
Around her, very attractive people in very expensive clothes were networking with the focused determination of people who had already decided the evening was an investment. They nodded at things they hadn't quite heard and laughed at punchlines they hadn't quite caught.
Y/N pressed the rim of her champagne glass to her lips and watched them with quiet, comfortable judgment.
âYou are...â said a voice beside her.
She turned and a fairly tall man had materialized at her elbow, whiskey glass in his hand, one finger raised in her direction as though he was identifying a painting in a gallery. His face, when she looked at it properly, wasâwell. It wasn't offensive. It was the kind of face that had tried reasonably hard and gotten about three quarters of the way there.
â...Y/N,â he finished, arriving at her name with a satisfied air of someone completing a puzzle.
His smile was small and seemed genuine, it reached his eyes. He rocked his glass gently just to stir the rock in his whiskey. Y/N offered a polite nod, a small dip of the chin.
âI'm sorry,â she said, the smile dimming just slightly at the edges. âDo I know you?â
âI was kind of rude, sorry.â He had the grave to look briefly sheepish. âI'm ONE. The name's River.â He extended a hand and Y/N shook it.
âTen months into producing and music-making. Still relatively new to all of this.â He added, gestured vaguely at the room with this glass.
She was quietly impressed. Ten months was nothing in this industry and yet here he was, at a gathering that most people spent years trying to get into. River reading her expression, grinned. He explained that the team he worked with had deep ties to several major labelsâfeels a bit like cheating, he said and chuckled.
Y/N laughed too and meant it.
They found a small table somewhere in the middle of the room and stayed there longer than either of them had planned. The conversation moved easily, back and forth, easy as the jazz beneath it. They traded stories. Horror, according to Y/N and River. Singers who had been difficult. Collaborations that had gone south magnificently.
River had a gift for a good delivery that made his worst anecdotes somehow funnier for how calmly he related them and Y/N found herself matching it, her posture relaxing, the champagne doing its quiet work.
She was having a good night.
River noticed something on her shoulderâa fleck of something, a small piece of lint or debris caught on the fabric of her cloth. He leaned forward slightly, hand already lifting to brush it away, a harmless and considerate gesture.
And then another hand appeared.
It arrived quietly from seemingly nowhere, settling over Y/N's shoulder, managed to simultaneously block River's hand. The nails were immaculate. Red. Perfectly manicured.
âUh-uh.â The voice was sweet and playful. âNot so fast, soldier.â
Y/N and River both turned.
Standing at Y/N's shoulderâprobably appeared out of the thin airâwas a beautiful woman. River didn't recognize her but Y/N recognized her immediately and with the particular mixture of relief and a deep personal exasperation.
The source of her revived relevancy, the architect of her comeback. The one she sold off her soul to through an unholy matrimony. The devil.
taglist (open): @saysirhc @somedaydream @chocolatestrawberrykryptonite @minaripenguu @fruityg0rl @itssrayy @rorovrorw @valuyhh @goofymickeyr @ohlexs @pikachuu115 @stewpidchezcat
prev | next | the devil's bride m.list
