#corrupt!satanael

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were a princess out of a fairy tale.” Ren’s voice flows into your mind as you look up into a face that, to you, looks like God took a hammer and a chisel to a slab of stone, and produced his face as a result of His handiwork. It’s a face you recognize, a face you’ve become so terribly and deeply well-acquainted with. It’s his face; Ren’s visage is staring back at you. A soft smile curls his lips; there’s a flash of white as he bares his perfect teeth to you in a small, fiendish grin. It’s his face, Ren’s face, down to the masculine curve of his jaw, to each frizzy lock of his hair that’s as dark as the night sky, and it’s him, him, him who’s staring at you. Or at least it would have been him had it not been for a few tiny details: his eyes and his clothes. You recognize that hue of blue that possesses Ren’s eyes when he’s happy, but for a moment and only a moment, there’s a flash of gold shimmering in his gaze. Gone is the leather clad “self” of Ren you’ve come to know as Joker while he’s in the Metaverse; gone are the crimson gloves you’ve come to be so terribly, wonderfully familiar with; gone is the white and black domino, bird-like mask; gone is the telltale smirk that once possessed his mouth, a pair of lips that you long to feel against yours once again. In place of Ren’s—Joker’s—leather tailcoat is a uniform that vaguely gives you vibes of a general in the military meeting, strangely, a cross between a general and a fictional prince charming. Midnight blue and gold embroidery, in the form of a snake, winding around the sleeve is in your peripheral vision; a black silk tie, a folded collar, and a wolf mask greets you when you look up, staring into his face. Again, your eyes linger a few moments longer on Ren’s—Satanael’s—mouth than you mean to, and you don’t miss the corner of his lips quirking up, clearly amused. If only to relive memories that are like a passing dream to you now… If only to remind yourself of simpler times, of happier days… You watch as his back curves, dipping as he bows to you while having a hand is held out. A silent offer for you to take; a quiet offer he is willing to take, with or without your say-so. “May I have this dance?” Your eyes peer out from the slits in the mask you’re wearing. You blink slowly; your lips purse as you frown. He sees it and you know that he can see it, but you can’t bring yourself to care about that right now. Begrudgingly, you raise your hand, noting with a listless glare how the corner of his mouth tilts up a bit, showing off a bit more of his pearly whites. He’s amused; he’s pleased. He’s watching, watching as your hand continues to rise until, finally, your palm, your fingers are resting in his hand. And now you return the favour: you watch as the hand he’s holding, your hand, is raised to his lips. A slow kiss that’s so faint, so light that you shouldn’t be able to feel it but you do, is pressed to your knuckles. “Then shall we…?” It takes you all but a second to realize what he’s talking about. Your suspicions are confirmed when his free hand is raised, taking your other one in his possession. You follow suit by raising a hand, resting it on Ren’s—Satanael’s—shoulder and, once more, you’re graced with an obvious but teasing hint of a smile from him. A hum tickles at the back of his throat, and there’s a gentle shimmer in his gaze as he looks down at you. For a moment and only a moment, your mind paints you a picture of a caged lion, the king of beasts’ ire soothed only by the calming strokes of the watching over him through the glass window that is his safe place, but also his prison. It suits the corrupt demon lord surprisingly well. You remember his grand entrance all too well: you remember how he descended from the skies with a grace that wasn’t of this world; you remember the way the barrel of his gun, and Ren’s gun, shone as they both pointed at a false god; you remember thinking how beautiful the pair looked as that very fake deity was toppled off of its throne, a throne carved from fool’s gold. You remember thinking that perhaps, the world would be okay, so long as Ren and your friends, your fellow Phantom Thieves and their confidants, were there to make sure that your sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. You remember feeling glad to leave the world, feeling pride pricking at you as you remember taking a hit meant for Joker. You remember your vision fading to black. You remember your allies calling out to you, but no voice was more clear than Ren’s. And then you woke up. Naturally, logic was quick to smack upside the head right then and there, when your eyes fluttered open and you were staring up at the ceiling of your room. You weren’t staring up into the worried faces of your friends; you weren’t staring up into a sky of pure black. You weren’t succumbing to your injuries; you weren’t dying. You were—and are—very much alive. As if what had happened hadn’t taken place. But your memories, they mock you. Your recollection of the past year is laughing at you as you continue staring up into a visage looking back at you, forever sneering at you with its awful, wonderful familiarity. “You are my—our—most treasured darling. You are ours, whether you wish to be or not.” There’s no escape for you now. There never was a way out.