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outoftimewriting · 4 years

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Imagine (Son of Hades! Percy; Godswapped! Big Three's kids) Son of Neptune AU (2/7) or (7/12)

Hello! Before reading, check the PJO AU and the TLH AU - the links are on the masterpost - because they are essential to this one. Don't forget to check the warnings before reading. Review and make suggestions! And have a good reading :))

TW: This post in special has sexual harassment, racist slurs, and mentions of whipping.

Perseus wakes up in a semi-destroyed building full of wolves with a black ax in one hand and a Warhammer in the other. And that's just the beginning of the worst months of his life - or the only months of his life he can remember.

Then everything hurts - too much, like his skin is melting from his bones and his eyes are being gouged out. His skin feels like it's melting, and he promptly passes out.

He has no idea of who he is - except his name, but he might just know it because the wolf woman told him - and the talking wolves don't know - or can't tell him anything else. Either way, Perseus is getting nowhere.

Oh yes - he is also pretty sure wolves aren't supposed to shapeshift. And rope you into training - which, he must've been a bodybuilder or something because he is pretty good at wrestling.

Shoving the wolves into the ground and destroying the monsters that try and defy Lady Lupa's pack are the highlights of his week.

Lady Lupa is... - Lupa is everything he knows. She is the one who, for some reason, let's him stay. She tells him about the gods and the monsters - about how she found him in her doorstep after her home was sacked by Earthborn.

How he must be the sign of the Olympus that Lady Venus promised her. The one who comes to help.

Perseus doesn't know her - he doesn't know who she is or if she is telling the truth. But he has well-trained powers that he has no idea how to utilize, nowhere to go and no way of searching for his family - no one knows who he is, except for his first name (which sounds wrong).

And he tried to run away once - it didn't end well, because monsters are immortal - and everywhere.

Lupa tells him he had a curse upon him, so he has to train himself all over again now that it's gone. It doesn't sound like the truth, but he prefers Lady Lupa's carefully crafted half-truths than sleeping in the streets.

Lady Lupa teaches him - and tells him to expect the signal of the gods. They will guide him - even if they give him no answers.

Perseus doesn't like the gods much. They've left him here - which is a good place, but not his home, wherever it is - with no idea of who he is or what to do - except train and learn.

Mother Lupa - as most call her in the Wolf House - educates him like one would an unruly puppy. She corrects everything - from the way he addresses the gods at evening prayers to the way he sits - and he obeys.

Because in the midst of all those wolves? Perseus is just another puppy. So he sits and read hours of Vergil, Ovid and Horace in ancient Latin out loud - even if he would prefer not to.

Sadly - he does not have an opinion. Lady Lupa won't hesitate on using her whip on him. Oh yes, she has a whip - a black whip, which she uses to educate them. His back hurts sometimes when he rests upon the cold floor.

He prays to anyone - his godly parent - who is some Underworld God if his hold on shadows and stone means anything - or a friend, someone who's missing him, anyone really, for them to come and gives him answers.

It doesn't happen.

So he trains and he trains. He has no idea how much time has passed - how much time he has been slashing and cutting and killing, how much time he has heard every detail of Julius Caesar crusade through Europe.

It's still cold when the gods send their signal - they send him a maiden. She holds her hand to him like he is an old friend - and he goes.

She makes him only one question - "Do you want peace or answers, Perseus? Choose carefully, for no path will be easy, but the harvest comes for those who plant the seeds" - and when he answers, she climbs to his back and flowers create a path in the ground.

She doesn't talk anymore. He follows the trail and the girl threads her fingers through his hair, humming to herself a melody only she is able to hear.

In the way, there are two gorgons. Lady Lupa taught him about them. It's an easy battle - until he discovers that they just don't die. They keep reforming, like evil pottery.

They attack again and he picks up his ax to continue racking them into bits, but she tightened her fingers in his hair - like one would steer a horse.

So before they reform, he runs. Perseus runs - with a beyond beautiful maiden on his back (which would be really uncomfortable, if he wasn't so pissed with the gods for giving exactly no answers) doing nothing but play with his hair and eat granola bars - and he gets to a military outpost.

At least, it's what it looks like. There's a wall who must be at least 20 feet high. Its not a normal wall - because he can see eyes in its crevices, looking at him.

Perseus is really tired. There are people there - he is seeing them, do they think he is stupid? - and he has a person in his back.

So he kills both gorgons again with his stone spikes - he is pretty sure the guys that aren't opening the doors can deal with them when they eventually reform - and shadow travels inside.

He doesn't do this often - it takes a lot out of him and he might end up stuck in the wall if he is too tired, but he is too angry to care.

Perseus could've destroyed their door. He should've, really. It might have stopped those people from surrounding him with weapons.

These people - the people looming over him now that he crossed the barrier, who are using togas just like him, so different but so familiar - would've let him die for nothing. Perseus growls - a bad habit he picked up living only with wolves for an undetermined amount of time.

He should kill every single one of them. He should open the ground - and let it swallow them, let their bones turn to dust, return their weapons to molten metal.

But the maiden tightens her fingers in his hair, and he obeys - because Perseus has been well trained, and he doesn't bend.

"Who are you?!" A boy with a bow asks harshly, and Perseus wants him to rip him apart - he is so done. Perseus is a Roman - is what Lupa taught him - and Roman wolves don't roll over.

"Lady Lupa sent me." They don't look like they believe him, but they take him to their leader.

He feels like an alien - behind the wall, there's a whole new world - hundreds of people stare at him with a mix of fear, disdain, and curiosity. It feels familiar.

Perseus is reluctant to leave his weapons with a statue - specially while entering the territory of people who won't protect him and might try to kill him, but he is not one for scandals - so he thanks Lord Terminus, and goes on.

They enter the Senate after walking for about an hour - his head held high, even with the extra weight in his back - in the middle of the session. Lady Lupa would find this appalling.

Everyone turns to them - the tall black muscular man, dressed in a dark red toga, with a woman in his back also clad in a toga - they look like normal citizens, and yet, somehow, completely foreign.

Their escorts - a black girl no older than fourteen and the archer, that must be around his age - kneel to the Praetor - but as soon as they start explaining, they are interrupted.

Their promagistrate - a man Perseus will later learn is named Justus - looks at them once and shrieks.

"Lord Pluto!" They call him, and the whole Senatus knee down "Lady Ceres!"

The goddess he didn't recognize comes down of his back, chuckling to herself. All gods are mad - Perseus thinks, but keeps stoic in front of the government of this Rome copycat, else they kill him for disrespect or something.

"Rise!" She starts "You're almost correct, child of Justitia. For I am Ceres, but this is not Lord Pluto."

The promagistrate seems offended with Perseus somehow - like it's his fault the man is an idiot.

"This is his only mortal son and my daughter's champion, Perseus of Styx. He has been under Lady Lupa's tutelage in her command." This was new.

So his father was the king of the dead himself - which was not surprising. But he was apparently Lady Proserpina's champion - a goddess who left him with Lady Lupa, apparently with his father's, Lady Venus' and Lady Ceres' approval.

Perseus (apparently, of Styx) wants to tear Olympus apart. He wants a lot of things - but for now, he shall observe and do what it's told of him.

Ceres leaves him under the "care" of the Romans. Immediately, the Praetor takes him to be interrogated.

He tells her the truth - or at least, what he can bender: He has been with Lady Lupa as long as he remembers. Yes, he is trained. He can control earth, shadows, metal. Sometimes, vines and skeletons. No, he doesn't have a last name. No, he doesn't know Jason Grace.

In return, the woman (a daughter of Bellona with brown skin that he feels he should know) explains where he is.

This is Nova Roma - and they are in Jupiter's Capitol, also known as the First City of Twelve, where is localized their Forum Romanum - which is composed by the Comitium (where the Senatus is localized), the Pluton Denar Domum (their bank) and a temple for all the gods - decorated with gardens and founts mainly used by the politicians in session and augurs.

The other non-military districts are Juno's Urbs, where most families live; Minerva's Scientia et Quaerere Centrum, which contains schools, colleges, libraries, and research centers; Phoebus Apollo's Salutem Receptum, a whole district for health care and who mainly takes care of cleaning the city; and Vesta's Forum Boarium, where the temples reside, including the Hearth of Rome, with their sacred fire.

Then there the indirectly of military nature; Ceres' Agris, fields who produce all food of the city; Mercury's Via, where communication and post are handled - also, the main place for entertainment; Vulcan's Caminus, the forges and armory; and Neptune's Militiarum Equestri, battle horses, pegasi, hellhounds, elephants, wolves and hounds.

There's also the military ones: Venus Victrix's Feminam Lorem ad Bellum, the training camp for girls; Mars Ultor's Masculum Lorem ad Bellum, the training camp for boys; and Diana's Venari, a forest they use to hunt monsters.

Praetor Arellano shows him around. The praetor shouldn't be doing that, but he seems to be important enough - he got here with a goddess in his back after all. His step-grandmother?

"Everyone is involved in the war effort - Everything for Rome. Everyone capable is obliged to join the training as soon as they're eight. When you're ready, you join the Legion, for fifteen years, in any capacity. Some - the ones with specific talents - join the field healers or the forges."

"Most join the legionnaires. Later in life, some go to college - training to farm, teach, own business, plan buildings, weave, research, write, go exclusively into politics, or become doctors - for either animals or people. Some never leave until they absolutely have to - it's an honor to serve Rome."

"You are neither a son or legacy of any construction or any health deity, so you'll go directly to be tested by Mars Ultor's Masculum Lorem ad Bellum - to see if you are qualified to be a soldier or if you need to undergo more training, and how much."

"A fight, Praetor?" He asks, as respectfully as Lupa indoctrinated in him, even if he hated this situation from the start.

"It's part of it, yes. But a fighter is not a soldier - you'll be expected to know rhetoric and show resilience, to be able to think and strategize. Put on a good performance - the Centurions choose which Cohort you go."

Then, she explained the Legion and its Five Cohorts - and the Centurions - before leaving him with one of his escorts from earlier. He doesn't think it matters much - if one of the Praetors is from Third Cohort and their last Praetor, from Fifth, while the Consul himself was from Fourth - what does it matter?

The guard seems uncomfortable in his presence - as if she knows exactly who he is. She introduces herself - Hazel Levesque, daughter of Jupiter. And part of the Fifth Cohort - mainly because of the previous Praetor - the one who's missing.

Her buddy, the archer, - Frank Zhang, unclaimed - is also part of the Fifth Cohort. But it's not him they meet - it's a boy way too familiar to be a coincidence - three times today.

"You know me, don't you? You know where I come from?" He snarls, and the boy denies it.

Shadows start curling at his feet - and he's told later that his eyes darken to black from their usual forest green. Perseus is a second away from killing the little lying gremlin when Praetor Arellano shows - and he immediately reverts to parade rest.

She doesn't ask - and he doesn't volunteer an answer. He leaves the guy trembling - and flustered, for some reason - and goes with the Praetor to his "test".

Hazel is having a very bad year. A very bad life, to be true, but mostly, a bad year.

She died, and she was walking aimlessly for years - until she met a boy. She thought, initially, that was a god - for his beauty was insurmountable.

He talked with her - he was named Perseus Jackson. He was powerful and kind - but still a mortal, so she latched into him. Hazel isn't a good person - her mother always told her that - and she used his kindness to drawn just a little of his powers. Just enough.

When the Doors opened, she was strong enough to escape - even if she left Perseus drained for a week, apparently. Hazel didn't go far - she got caught by Ceres.

Ceres - who was in her greek form - took pity of her and brought her to Hazel's father and stepmother, pleading for her usefulness in the war to come. The dead aren't their domain - but as long as Pluto didn't discover it, they would turn a blind eye.

Her brother - who was the first bridge between the two demigod settlements - took her to Nova Roma. She adapted - she learned about the ending of segregation and the world they now lived - and made friends - Frank and Jason.

But she never forgot the boy who gave her the chance, the chance to be more than the cursed child Marie Levesque told her she was. Her curse is supposed to be washed away by a descendant of Pluto.

Perseus gave her a chance, and now he is probably her salvation from this poisoned existence. He is in Nova Roma, and both Hazel and Nico are too ungrateful, too proud, too involved in the gods' plans to help him.

Her father's curse rang true - for children of Zeus aren't supposed to control unaltered energy through minerals. Metal is not theirs to use - and Hazel is paying the price.

Perseus does well in his test - so well, the First Cohort wants him. He is not generally rude, but the way Octavian - their apparent Centurion and Leader of the Augurs (the priests of Apollo) - calls him "Excellent, for a colored one with a graecus name" makes him mad.

So he rejects Octavian - no one gets to mock his name, the slur for greeks matched with the blatant racism almost makes him clock the guy in the face - and, since no other Centurion wants to go against the white supremacist, he joins the Fifth Cohort.

"Well, there's the place for filth, anyway. What could you expect from a nigger ape, like that one?"

If in the training that followed, he left Octavian unconscious - well, everyone turned a blind eye. Perseus saw the Praetor laughing discreetly from where she was polishing her spear.

He is given a bunk to sleep on, a probatio tablet and a date - it's March 18th, 2012. He remembered that, when he ran away from the House of the Wolf, was still January's first week.

Almost three months for the gods to bother with him, and he has no guesses how much time he is missing. Did his family give up on him? Did he have a family?

Perseus doesn't know. He spends the next weeks following the army's routine - wake up with dawn with the horn, muster, morning prayers, then the morning drills - stretching, an obstacle circuit of three miles with a lake in the middle and running five times around Ceres' Agri.

After the drills - which Perseus and Hazel bond over hating, because there's a lake - they go to breakfast, then classes - for the younger ones. Perseus is old enough (and did well in the school tests), so he has a free slot where he allots his power training - under Praetor Arellano's watchful gaze, as she tries and brings him to his full potential.

Reyna (as he is allowed to call her during free time) also does power training - she has a different kind of charmspeak - the kind that makes people motivated or defeated. She can make armies have a burst of energy, or drop-down with exhaustion - possibly. Nova Roma has very few wars nowadays.

There's lunch, then weaponry training - where he kicks Octavian's (and all of his little friends who look down on Perseus because of his name, his lack of family or his skin color) ass with pleasure every single day - followed by weapon cleaning - which always takes forever because Perseus has both an ax and a giant Warhammer.

On Wednesdays, they have horse and pegasi riding. Both Perseus and Hazel have it slightly different - she mounts a venti, Tempest and he mounts a hellhound, Spot. On Fridays, they have hunting lessons in Diana's Venari - which always end up with some Apollo's child or legacy waving their victory in everybody's face - except for that one time where Frank and Perseus joined forces and won in an hour.

At four p.m. every day, those who did well enough get to have two hours of free time before evening prayers, which can either be followed by dinner or competitions - wrestling and gladiator games are really popular on weekends.

Then, if it's Sunday, they are allowed to go to Mercury's Via to drink, party, dance, go to karaoke - whatever, if they're over fourteen. It seems young - but Perseus has seen younger kids, at the training camps, sneaking in wine.

If it's not Sunday - they are free to do anything if they don't drink and are in bed by 21h30. You are only excused of the routine if you are escalated for border patrol - generally twenty different people every day. Perseus's patrols are on Thursdays - because Reyna loves him. Octavian's are on Sundays - they're just not on Saturdays because he has Augur functions and is excused of everything on Saturday.

Saturdays are days of prayer - there's no training and no feasting. They go to the temples and see the Vestal Virgins - a custom Perseus though would be outdated by now - and do basic chores - like washing their togas and sheets, mending their leathers, or airing the blankets.

When Hazel's brother leaves, he actually bonds with the girl - over being a child of the Big Three, of having big expectations thrust upon them - and consequently, with Frank - who is also his bunkmate. They spend their free time on the small fountain that overlooks the aqueduct, just in front of the Vesta Temple.

It's weird to see the Vestal Virgins - they are six girls between 8 and 24, wearing white stolas and veils, of incredible beauty and vowed to modesty and chastity. They spent their days tending the fire and giving blessings, cleaning the temple, and visiting the Senatus.

They didn't choose to be priestesses of Vesta - Vesta herself chooses them, and they have to leave their families and vow their lives away for thirty years. The other priests are there of free will - they never join the Legion, if they choose to serve a specific god.

Perseus goes to his father's, Lady Proserpina's and Lady Ceres' temples regularly - if only to ask for answers. His father's priests treat him as royalty - which, to them, he probably is. There are not even legacies of Pluto, as far as they know.

Every Sunday, Perseus goes to the Comitium - while people don't generally like him, he is good in rhetoric, and well respected for a probatio - so they hear him. He is good at politics. Reyna looks like he is measuring him, when he rises to debate - like he can be the next Praetor instead of the campaigning Octavian - who the Senatus is divided into loving or hating his guts.

Perseus is happy - or something. He hates not having memories - not knowing who he is, who his mother is, pains him. He has friends - Frank, Hazel, even Reyna and Dakota, his Centurion, who lives half-drunk in wine most of the time - and a life.

It doesn't feel like his life. By the third week of his staying in Nova Roma, he starts having dreams - a blonde boy, doing everything Perseus is doing now. He is afraid of telling anyone. Perseus is already called slurs by Octavian and his hateful friends - he doesn't want to attract attention now that he is settling.

By Reyna's pictures, he finally names the blonde in his dreams. It's Jason Grace.

Jason Grace is, for lack of a better word, graceful. He is loved by everyone - so different from Perseus, who is more feared then liked - and a troublemaker - if the vision of him being whipped in Mars Ultor's training camp is to be believed.

Romans don't hesitate in corporal punishment on children. Nor in adults, either - misdemeanors are punished harshly. Perseus is lucky Octavian has no direct authority over him - the number of times he put him on his ass would get Perseus bleeding on the floor for days.

However, he didn't escape the whip completely. In his fourth week on Nova Roma, Hazel is disrespectful to one of Octavian's friends - he called her a "good piece of monkey meat" and touched her ass, so she kneeled him in the balls. Reyna is out on a mission - and the guy just happens to be Questor Cicero.

Questor Cicero is twenty-eight - and everybody believes him when he tells them Hazel kneeled him without reason - a grave offense because it can affect his descendants. Hazel gets sentenced - by the Consul, in absentia of the Praetor - to a hundred lashes.

Everyone is obliged to watch - and neither Perseus nor Frank can last after she sobs. They rise from the crowd and volunteer to take the rest of her punishment. The executioner of it - a girl named Domitia - is surprised and asks why when they rise up to take Hazel's place - not a lot volunteer, generally older siblings or partners.

Hazel protests, while she is taken by a daughter of Aesculapius, Lavinia - "No, Perseus, no, it's my fault, Frank, I can take it, please!" - But he doesn't care to hear. Hazel is a child, and something stirs inside of his memory - No child shall suffer under his watch. - He wants to stop Frank - the boy is only sixteen - but there's no stopping the guy about his best friend.

"She could take it. I just don't want to see her, or anyone I care about, do it. She is too young. A child - one that shouldn't feel the injustices of life."

"That's my best friend. I won't let her pay for something she didn't do, and I won't let Perseus do this alone."

It's rational enough that no one will see weakness when she starts whipping them. Domitia is a good girl - they become a sort of friends after it, but Perseus can never understand why the daughter of Nemesis would dispense unfair punishments.

Perseus endure the whole thing awake - the forty-five lashes, under the jeers of Octavian and his friends - and they walk out of the stage supporting one another, before collapsing in a pool of their own blood, in the arms of Caelius - the youngest of Apollo's offspring working on the hospital.

They take both of them to the UTI - he doesn't remember a thing. He wakes up three days later - they aren't allowed to use any magic to heal him, or anesthetics to numb his pain. He suffers for a week, while his godly blood slowly heals him.

Hazel sits by their bedside - he and Frank are in the same room - her own back fully healed by now - and tells him stories about how Dakota kicked Octavian's ass in training in their name, or just plays with his hair. Sometimes, when she thinks he is asleep, she cries - it's heartbreaking.

Reyna comes back by the time Frank is out of the hospital - Perseus moved to much and his stitches came out - and is fueled by rage. This kind of punishment is hers to give - and with through interrogation before - and she has been trying to eradicate them for years.

She does insist on an interrogation with Aurum and Argentum - perhaps because she knows what a sweetheart Hazel is. She uncovers the whole story - how Cicero called her names and sexually harassed her - and the guy is stripped off his post and exiled - sexual harassment is a crime punishable by lashing, but together with lying to a court of law and supplanting his direct superior - oh well, he is not coming back for the next five years.

With Hazel's absolving, the doctors are allowed to heal them with magic - but it's too late. They can repair the nerves and muscles, take away all the pain - but the flesh will remain scarred.

Their backs are now a crisscross of scar tissue - it's a reminder of Nova Roma's failings - and he revels on taking his shirt off to drills, even if Frank is ashamed of it, for some reason.

Praetor Arellano thinks "Perseus' loyalty to the Roman Law and his Cohort" is enough to give him an SPQR tattoo instead of his probatio tablet. He didn't cry when they put the mark of his father on his arm - just later, in his bunk, for the eleven-year-old that was tattooed together with him.

After the tattoo, Perseus discovers he has money. Like, really, lots of money in the bank - which is named after his father, who is their patron god - and apparently filled his account with denars. Perseus solves to donate part of it - and part of it he keeps because his wages as a foot soldier are meager.

Hazel, on the other side, is brimming with remorse - and protectiveness. She will do her absolute best to protect Perseus Jackson - this is the second time he saves her. She can't tell him anything - but she can make his life as easy as possible.

Hazel dreams about Frank - Frank, and a terrible price that is a piece of wood - and she thinks she likes him, even if he is older and braver than she'll ever be.

It's June 18th - and Perseus has been in Camp for three months when the war games take an unexpected turn.

Frank is leading the Fifth Cohort - Dakota is hangover somewhere - and their battle formation is impeccable. They also have the two biggest powerhouses - Perseus and Levesque.

Hazel - while a child of Jupiter - is unable to fly - or any air or climate control. Her power lies on energy - publicly, she controls lighting and thunder - and can get bolts to basically incinerate whole canons or dismantle phalanges.

Perseus, however, can raise skeleton soldiers to fight for him - and stone spikes to block his enemies. His vines are of no use - the First Cohort has two sons of Ceres who out-do him any day. He can also use the shadows to confuse their rivals or make the ground tremble - under the cost of their own stability.

Frank is very proud of having such powerful and amazing people as friends. He didn't expect Perseus of Styx, the boy who didn't have to fight to be recognized - the one who came with a goddess at his back and muscles in his arms and a father on his blood - to be friends with Frank.

He is a very okay guy, you see. Frank had - has - three best friends, but no one openly dislikes him. He doesn't have someone - he has no use for quick tumbles under the cloak of darkness, and that is all people like him can ever have.

But he is not like Perseus or Jason. He doesn't defy Octavian. He was too anxious to muster the courage to volunteer to take Hazel's punishment alone - Perseus had to do it first.

He is not like them. He isn't anything like his mother. Frank feels happy, at least, that at those little things like war games he has better strategies than anyone else. It was Perseus who motivated him to take the lead while Dakota is otherwise incapable - under Hazel's cheerful applause.

This time, there are elephants involved - Perseus loves elephants - and they burst through their rival's doors - the 12th consecutive victory for the Fifth Cohort since Perseus arrived.

Gwen - the only openly ficatrix girl that Perseus knows, a Jewish daughter of Venus Genetrix - dies probably by Octavian's hand - and doesn't stay dead.

This evokes Lord Mars Ultor - who claims Frank, gives him a quest to find Letum and ropes Perseus into it - "Your father's domain, your responsibility" - so they choose Hazel as a third member - because who else - and get in a car to go to Alaska.

Before that, for Dakota's negligence, the Fifth Cohort is passed to newly-coined Centurion Frank - with Hazel as his second in command, while Gwen - who is not respected because of her preferences - steps down the second position to go study - apparently, she wants to be a teacher.

They have to be back by June 24th - or die. That gives them six days - it's at least two days going and two days back from San Francisco to Alaska, so they have two extra days to localize and rescue Letum.

Hazel, Frank, and Perseus battle the karpoi in Mendocino - this time, they're easily defeated, because no one leaves Hazel alone. Frank actually kills a lot of them - under the sheer appreciation of both his very supportive friends.

They see Polybotes army - and run away in their car, which crashes in the front of the R.O.F.L.

Perseus IM's Reyna - he thinks it necessary, for she is their Praetor, their leader. Hazel is right by his side - and then goes to call her brother - which he doesn't stick around for, examining the drachmas - the weird graecus' coins that Perseus recognizes

Iris remembers Perseus of someone. He doesn't know who, or why, but that night, for the first time in months, he doesn't dream of Jason Grace. He dreams of red hair spilled into the snow, blond curls around his fingers, a mechanic leg whirring in his ear, a spear coated with blood, shoes with wings and pan pipes - and wakes up crying for a past he doesn't remember.

He hugs the tie-dye bag against his chest - and cries. Perseus doesn't care - his chest literally aches with missing, for someone he doesn't know.

Frank doesn't ask questions when he finds Perseus crying. Frank cried a lot when he first got to Nova Roma.

"Are you missing someone?"

"I'm missing everything" And that's how Frank discovers Perseus doesn't remember anything at all.

Everything spills up - Lady Lupa's house, the dreams about Jason, the way he just dreamed of what could possibly be his friends, and what if he was a graecus like Octavian said - and Frank does not judge him.

He knows what it is to have a gigantic secret pressing upon his shoulders - and he has known Perseus for three months now. He knows Perseus is a trustworthy person.

"We'll discover who you are - but if you don't like it, we won't judge you. It doesn't matter what your past life has been like, it doesn't matter if you're a graecus - you're one of us now."

Because Frank is the absolute best - Perseus can't think of a friendship he deserves less than Frank's.

They trade stories about their rage against the gods - things they would never be able to utter at home. Their lives, their insecurities, their shared hate of Octavian's racist ass - everything they can share.

Frank tells Perseus about the piece of wood - which is very important when Perseus tells Frank that, sometimes, he can conjure a weird green fire of which he has little control over, so is better to keep that wood far away from him.

Some things are kept in secret - Frank is not sure Perseus will be repelled by his preferences, by the way, no woman ever caught his eye - and Perseus is afraid of telling Frank about the way that, sometimes, he wants to see the world burn, skeletons beneath his feet and blood coating his hands.

They travel through Portland - which means half the journey is done - and meet Ella - which Perseus immediately wants to take away from the creepy old dude because that's a child.

Ella is hungry and cold and in pain - and neither Perseus nor his quest mates are having that.

So he does a gamble with Creepy Old Dude and Lady Terra - which he isn't sure is in their side - and kills him. Because he is not dealing with a creepy old man who is trying to capture children, even if those children are monsters.

They take Ella with them - she's such a small, innocent girl-bird. They can't send her to Nova Roma alone - they would either kill her, hunt her or use her as entertainment - and they can't stop the mission, so there's that.

Hazel and Frank are sharing memories - with each other and Perseus. Perseus himself has no private memories to talk about - except for his dreams of Jason, which he already told Frank and now relays to Hazel.

Ella says is because their destinies are connected - says that their curses will be gone by their hands. Frank gives Hazel his piece of wood - "I would give it to both of you, but your fire is weird" - And Hazel tells them about being dead.

Perseus has an inkling of suspicion - that maybe - just maybe - he brought Hazel back. Maybe that's why his memories are gone. Either that - or he has a sibling, and wouldn't that be amazing? Siblings, cousins - a giant family. Just for him.

He doesn't ask though - because Hazel is sad and he is not an insensitive ass.

They head to the Amazon Headquarters - where Perseus has the amazing idea of going in, even if he knows Amazons just have one utility for men - sex.

They get caught - just this time, while Hylla does recognize Perseus, she is grateful. Perseus did kill Circe, yes, but he didn't free any pirates - Hylla and Reyna sailed away and never got any trouble.

Hylla is grateful for Perseus - but she cannot help him or Frank - Amazons are misandry warriors, and they are too young to be lovers, but too old to be reliable to let go. So they lock them up, and Hylla and Hazel make a plan to free them.

Otrera is dangerous - because the Amazons will follow anyone, they aren't connected to any goddess. So, when Perseus shadow travels from his cage with Frank, Hylla helps Perseus - who is way too tired - to mount Tempest - Hazel's venti - so that they can reach Letum - or, how Hylla calls him, Mors.

They go North - then further North - to the house of Frank's Grandma.

Everything goes the same - Frank's Grandma is cryptic, Mars appears, the house catches fire, they flee. A bird is seeing flying out of the window - but if it's her or no, they don't know.

Frank and Perseus discover they are related - by a lot of generations, but does it matter really? They are shield brothers - and fight in the same Cohort, for the same Rome.

Hazel feels lucky - both her best friends are related to Pluto. Both can be the one to save her - and she really hopes is not Perseus, for she can't own him any more debts.

Frank tries to control his abilities - and between Perseus' own training and Hazel's unwavering belief on him, they get him to shapeshift. Some. He is not good at it at all - but he'll get there.

They don't fear Hazel - not even when gold slips between her fingertips. Perseus calls her sister, for their connection shall be forged on metal and fire.

They fly to Alaska - this time, Perseus entrusts Ella to a General skeleton and tells him to take her somewhere safe.

During the travel, they cuddle together - all three of them - to share body warmth. Hazel is flushed - for she never had such close contact with a boy, least a boy she really likes, like Frank.

Frank, on the other side, has never been so close to a boy as he is to Perseus now. Perseus is just a brother to him - but he can't help but blush like a virgin maiden.

Perseus observes the situation with confusion - for he doesn't understand Hazel's flustered expression - which makes her look a lot like her brother any time Perseus even glances at the guy - nor Frank's blushing cheeks - which must be because of the cold.

Perseus almost drowns on Earth - the single thing he fears the most, in his own element. It pains him, and he wants to destroy Lady Terra for her trickery and mockery.

They stay in a little motel, just out of the way. No way that Frank nor Perseus would make Hazel go back to where she was abused and mistreated.

They shared basically everything in the past few days - they know almost everything about each other. Hazel tells Perseus she knows him - but is under oath to not tell anything.

Perseus is frustrated - but that is Hazel. Soft, trustworthy Hazel. She isn't doing this to hurt him. Her brother, on the other hand, can go to hell. He obviously knows Perseus - but lies to him. Explicitly. Nico Di Angelo is as bad as the gods are in Perseus' eyes.

He can't sleep - he keeps dreaming of the Earth swallowing him like it did many of his enemies - and Frank hugs him as Hazel inches closer to their shared embrace - it feels, for the first time since he woke up, like family.

They fight against Alcyoneus. Frank frees Letum - waisting part of his life on it, literally - Hazel takes on Alcyoneus - vengeance for herself - and Perseus raises an army to fight against the Undead Roman one - it's easy to defeat them, and then turn them against the giant once he has the Twelfth Legion Eagle.

Perseus - and his army that is getting harder and harder to maintain - helps Frank (who has finally managed to shapeshift) and Hazel to drive away Alcyoneus - and finally kill him, once he is out of Alaska.

They head back to Nova Roma - Hazel on her venti, Tempest, with Frank as an eagle and Perseus mounting Spot - the hellhound he was able to call from Nova Roma - pushing a chariot of Imperial Gold weapons - something rare and essential.

They meet Mrs. O'Leary - another hellhound - Blackjack - a hellhound that can speak with Perseus - Ella - who apparently found safety - and Nico Di Angelo with the cyclops Tyson - which immediately spark Perseus memories, even if he has no time to think about it.

Perseus leads the Romans - they look at him, and see the boy that has spent three months with them and three months with Lady Lupa, the boy who has been invaluable for Nova Roma's safety - their own Julius Caesar, their Augustus.

He fights against Polybotes one on one. Polybotes may be the bane of Neptune - but Perseus is also an earthshaker. He makes the Earth - Lady Terra's earth, who they are oh so proud of, the earth that swallowed him - fight against her own son.

With help from Terminus - and lots of backup from the army, his army - Polybotes is gone. The monsters - defeated.

There are thirteen dismemberments and fifty-three gravely injured. These are rushed to the hospital, while the other 184 soldiers rest and prepare for the burials.

Thirty-eight dead - men and women alike - plus nine that succumbed to their injuries. They do the procession - followed by cremation and the burial of the ashes in the temple of Pluto.

What follows is the eulogy - and the laurels. The families who have dead members are given money and prestige - it bothers Perseus. Is not enough - it won't fullfill their childrens, siblings and friends places.

Then come the laurels of the living. Frank, Hazel, Di Angelo, and Reyna are awarded Civic Crowns - the second biggest award any commander can win for battle. Everyone else is rewarded Golden Crowns - the fourth-highest decoration of battle, for their bravery.

Perseus himself is the most celebrated - he not only wins a Grass Crown (Corona Obsidionalis) for being credited for saving the whole Legion - he charms the Senatus with his acts of heroism - enough that they give him the Praetor Peregrinus title - for he also has a reputation of a good politician, as he often spoke on the Forum - while Reyna holds to the Praetor Urbanus one.

Frank himself also gains a promotion - he is now Legatus Legionis - the overall Legion commander - a title that was vacant since Jason Grace rose to Praetor, but with him missing for six months - it is time to fulfill both positions. Hazel raises to be Centurion of the Fifth Cohort.

The Consul holds the ceremony for both of their awards - where they vowed to serve Nova Roma with their lives, to put Nova Roma above their personal lives and interests - and later, they feast.

Perseus is happy with his new position - While Reyna is in charge of all judicial matters - the matters of the law - he is in charge of all defense, war and foreign matters.

That's why - when Lady Juno gives back his memories - he is infuriated. Not only he has a whole life waiting for him - one that conflicts directly with his new life - he has now a giant pile of paperwork.

The first thing he does - still in his toga praetexta, the worst garment to ever be done, even if he pities Reyna for having to use a stola on most occasions - is to punch Nico di Angelo in the face.

Then he hugs him. The boy apologizes - stuttering through words - promise to make up for it - and promptly leaves to not be seen again.

Perseus goes to the Senatus, and tell the truth: Lady Juno has sent him a vision - and in the war to come, they have to fight alongside the greeks.

Octavian wants to discredit Perseus for being a graecus. It doesn't work - for the Romans love their new Praetor - and Octavian wasn't even in the battle.

That night, Perseus doesn't even remember Jason Grace - he is just a shadow of some dreams he had for two weeks, more nightmarish than not. He dreams of Nico di Angelo - who is walking around ruins - and fears for the life of the boy who betrayed him.

He doesn't think much about it.

Perseus shadow travels to his mother - not yet to Camp, he is not ready to see them yet, and Hera/Juno told him they are coming, so it would be a waste of his energy - and hugs her for about four hours before his duties call him back.

She is happy to see him alive and well - even if she doesn't like he is fighting in yet another war for the gods. He doesn't like it either - after this, he is retiring and making them promise to never bother him again.

Perseus spends the next days preparing - for his friends, for his two lives to collide - and working his very difficult political job - Nova Roma is a homophobic and racist place, and he won't stand for other people like Gwen to be killed for it - he isn't tolerating "ficatrix" instead of lesbians or the clearly prejudiced priests anymore.

He has a long way to go. But it's fine - he and his friends are the government. Talking about his friends...

"Call me Percy"

69 notes · View notes

yandere-society · 4 years

Text

pjm | “carnal lechery”

pairing: yandere! vampire! jimin x novice nun! virgin! fem. reader

rating: M

genre: yandere au, supernatural (vampire) au, smut, angst

word count: 10.5K

Headline: Halloween Night Massacre; Police Baffled By Murdering Spree

warnings: yandere themes, dub con, angst, graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, oral (m.rec & f.rec), bonding, blindfolding, biting, loss of virginity, virginal blood worship, overstimulation, use of feathers and chains, mentions of blood, graphic descriptions of slaughtering, mentions of religious cults, mentions of christianity, mentions of sacrifices, gore.

synopsis: Attempts to precede his arrival made you ornery as he slipped like thin air from your fingers, even when you’d have him so close. You had almost ultimately fixated in your mind that you’d never know your secret admirer. Meanwhile— mysterious murders, disappearances and uproars about the return of the most fabled coven of vampires: ❛The Rouge❜ leads you to expect your imminent death. However, you do not expect the turn of events and the appearance of the one you’d been seeking for.

admin: @unfurlingtwinklingstar

It was one of those macabre mornings when you’d find an oh-so-familiar garland at your doorstep.

The very same kind of flowers that you’d prefer for decorating your little reading nook with, would lay wrapped in a delicate paper foil. The dew on its petals would appear golden as it would kiss the ray of dawn streaming through the porch of your fern-scented cottage.

A feverish shiver would run through your spine at the sight of a caramel-colored envelope right underneath the lavender foil in anticipation of what this letter would say about you.

It would be hard to persist the laden need to find the giver first when the lovely pink petals would almost frown at your resistance.

You cherished calla lilies. There wasn’t a day when they’d not sit on your vase with their trimmed stems soaked in lukewarm water, smiling as they bloom.

Every Friday, this was to be expected. Yet, you weren’t fully comfortable with the handwritten cursive that’d make your fingers slack at its message.

The meander cursive masked the obscene descriptions of your curves, the filth in the mind of the writer was impeccably reflected in the flow of the dark ink.

The first time you had gotten such a letter, you had a recurred session reading it with obscure scrutiny, only to find the title ‘Third youngest of the Rouge’ in the sender name column.

The letters had chanted your name like a prayer, it’d beckon for you to have a taste of the kind of pleasure that you were trying to celibate yourself from, the kind that’d be a sin to indulge in.

It made your body thrice warmer, your body blazed into a pretty rouge like the robes you wore during service hours in the church.

Eroticism and romance were taboo subjects to conventuals and canonesses at the convent of Volterra. Being a novice in service to the almighty, you were taught to be a holy carmelite, a slender benedictine, devoted especially to scholarship and liturgical worship.

But the intimate descriptions highlighted the black traces of sin in the depths of your soul as if the devil awaited his chance to stand erect and applaud in sheer satisfaction at the sight of your crumbling control.

Sucking in shaky breaths, you grab hold of the stirrer and kindle the crackling flames dancing in your fireplace.

Without a second thought, you toss the expensive pieces of poetry into the topaz flames and watch as the fire comes to life and blazes the parchment to ashes.

You were considered too much of a vestal to submit to this admirer of yours.

The choirs at the convent church were different compared to other choirs that didn’t sing hymns. Their voices were almost like the angels’, high notes soaring over the clouds, graceful notes dancing on the staves, they sang for the almighty only.

This was halloween at the monestery. Whilst the town wore spooky robes and went around sharing treats in exchange of spared tricks, you sang along with your fellow sisters, honouring the almighty and paying tribute to saint Marcus.

You sang along, keeping a low voice and swaying to the gentlest harmony in devotion. The stanzas are clutched to your heart and you cherish this moment when you feel the string between you and your god. You cannot fathom how satiated you feel. Your mind strays to your past, when you were under foster care.

You were a doting, little child despite how the other girls prayed for a future where they can possess expensive goods and glittery jewelry. You only kept away from their notions of want and sinful desires for pleasure even as you became an adult.

You chose to bake cookies, share blankets, study the Bible, smile and croon at the praises the church would give you, rather than read obscene novels and join the young woman of your age in subjects that were atrocious in the eyes of the holy.

Sister Siena walked you to your dwelling at the convent’s residence while she chattered about her moss garden and herbs that could treat flu. You listened quietly, letting out little nonchalant hums. Gardening wasn’t a subject of your interest and you were much more fatigued to feign enthusiasm.

“The halloween rituals might probably need an addition of prune juice, don’t you think?” she asks while you unlock the latch and walk into your home.

You let out a small smile and usher her in whilst nodding to everything in your surroundings. A little envelope peeks out from the gap between the floor and the hallway door, making your chest tighten at the realisation.

A letter from your mystery admirer was unforeseen and definitely unwelcome, especially in the presence of a fellow nun in your dwelling.

The attention of sister Siena is brought back at the sight of a cream-coloured envelope with a rather unfamiliar stamp on its surface.

Her olive eyes narrow to two slits and makes perspiration bead out and down your clavicle in fear. In the blink of an eye, the envelope’s seal is torn and the letter is perused by the chestnut haired female at once.

Her response however, gives you a cursory shock. Her lips turn into a smile and she stares up at you, eyes in awe as if she had witnessed the grand work of Caravaggio.

“You have an admirer”, she infers and you scour her face for signs of offense only, to find nil. She seems rather, glad.

“I— I usually burn them there” you point to your fireplace and her shoulders buckle in a brief fit of giggles, as if you had shared an anecdote.

“Who would pray to have a vestal nun? It is like counting the stars.” she mumbles into her mug of tea, eyes flickering from your face to the letter, absent-mindedly.

You shrug and get seated opposite to her, straining your eyes on the flickering flames that warms your numb, cold toes. You sigh in bliss at the tranquil frame of your nook and almost the next minute, your eyes flutter shut and you sink into the lulled sounds of the crackling fire.

Unbeknownst to you, the young nun seated at your opposite has her nerves ossified at the glimpse of the sender’s title. Comprehension of ‘third youngest of the rouge’ sends her mind into frenzy. Dismay sinks into her heart and makes it thud and toll like church bells at the realisation of the plight that you have been pulled into and she shudders.

Without so as to even a noise, the letter is slid into her crimson tunic and the envelope is thrown into the fire.

The coolness of the midnight is deceptive; the sun has barely risen and this altitude is always cooler. Siena’s destination is low down and deep into the interior, well away from the onshore winds. When she reaches, the heat of that region makes her compare the temperature to her kitchen’s, on a baking day— like a friendly warmth instead of the inferno it always is.

Her footsteps are ushered as the heels of her moccasins rap against the laid out cream carpet in dull thuds, her breathing is in a frenzy too for, hundreds of thoughts swarm in her head at once.

Siena is cold to the bone despite striding across the blazing heat of the deep, dim chambers of the three elderly canonesses, at the convent. The canonesses— head nuns are rather reserved and hostile about their roles in the society.

Before the 17th century, such chambers were often considered clandestine— precisely, before the battle of Tuscany. The battle held a significant place in history, for how saint Marcus and his veterans fought and impeded entire Tuscany off of sanguinarians— a term used to describe vampires.

The rise and fall of the most fabled coven of vampires was inscribed in the olden scriptures and was forgotten to tell tales about wizards and curses as of the present. Siena had studied about them at school.

The mere image of the counts brings shivers down the woman’s spine and she shudders as she holds onto the letter and walks, toward the canonesses’ chambers.

It is dark when she arrives; gnarled trees hung low over the baronial church, creaking ominously in the howling winds. The heavy oak doors broke open, echoing around the empty church.

The moonlight shone through the heavily cracked stained-glass windows, casting an eerie glow onto the dusty alter. Thick cobwebs hung on every surface and her footsteps sounded deafening on the cold stone floor.

Two elder ladies sit perched on their carpeted thrones with their veils over their heads and backs turned toward Siena. They hold hands in a circle and mutter chants to themselves.

Siena’s eyes capture the silent movements of their fingers and the incessant nods of their heads. She gently walks— almost stalks, until one of the elder canonesses perk at her arrival and seek her to sit with them.

The chamber walls radiate off its warmth and the conversation is lulled as Siena breathes out her concerns with utter respect, her expression remains composed despite her rapid breathing.

The canonesses nod with eyes widened at the size of fire lanterns, their fingers tremble slightly in comprehension of the magnitude of issue that the young nun had brought to them.

In the next hour, right on the death of halloween, nuns and monks are summoned from the monastery and a ceremony is held right in their place to seek peace once again.

The seven Rouge sanguinarians, the fabled coven of vampires have returned to Volterra.

The four canonesses sit in a circle and one of them draws a circled figure at their center. The symbol seems ominous to Siena, it seems almost like a satanic pentagram. A silver crucifix is fixed right at the junction of the chalked lines and the series of chants begin.

For almost a quarter of a hour, Siena sits— rooted and in the careful look-out for queer changes in the surroundings. The next minute, one of the canonesses jerk as if she had felt a foreign presence and collapses on the canoness next to her.

The chamber queerly begins getting chilled as the chants get more louder in unison. Whooshing noises of the wind soon fills the chamber and an eerie figure settles through the open window, making Siena freeze, petrified.

At the end of the hallway stands a slender yet, robust, almost surreal, young-looking man sheathed in a heavy, scarlet cloak. His eyes are shut, as if he is in deep thought, and once they open, they make Siena jump out of her seat in fear.

Skin almost translucent, a bloodless hue, reminiscent of cave dwelling creatures that never saw the light of day, as pale as the living dead, as pale as a corpse. His bleached skin was as white as a sheet of paper next to the sleeve of the black woolen sweater, his orbs seemed bloodshot, yet, they held a life of their own like the burning rouge of a ruby.

“Third youngest of the Rouge”, Siena hears a canoness announce, the latter’s voice seems both startled and in disbelief.

“Ann. Fancy seeing you there, you seem older than in our last meeting, don’t you agree?”, the young count seethes and takes steps toward the eldest of all the canonesses.

Siena stares at the duo, perplexed. The two seem to know each other like old acquaintances yet, their eyes hold an unexpressed rage that she does not fathom.

“I am afraid greetings will have to wait, Park. You and your brothers must be well aware of the treaty you have broken.” Ann almost hisses, stepping in front of the rest as if she is unafraid to emphasize her point.

The ethereal man quirks an eyebrow at Ann’s actions in disapproval yet, curls one side of his mouth in a smirk, eyes reflecting a certain devilish glint.

“Ah. You accursed humans never seem to learn, do you? Fifty years ago, we made a pact. For our coven to never be disturbed by you humans, in exchange for us to move our grounds”, he accentuates the words and sets his eyes on Siena, making the latter freeze.

“Twenty years ago, there was a lovely young woman with round orbs and curves more enrapturing than the meanders of Tuscany’s hills”,

At the mention, something turns in the face of Ann as it hardens like wilted musk. Park further continues walking and retracing his steps, eyes glued shut and jaws clenched in raw rage.

“She was bonded to one of the youngest counts and the war—” he pauses in his steps with his sculpted back turned toward the canonesses, as he stares blankly ahead, grieved.

“The war, it killed her. She lost her life, she died in vain. She was destroyed by her own race. The pact was shattered broken at that moment, that moment when the light left her bewitching eyes.” he croaks a bit, shoulders slacking as if the memory was his venom.

“She was innocent yet, she was killed. By your people.”

There’s a shadow casted in the slender man’s eyes and it was quite clear. The rage for revenge that was cloaked in it.

Even whilst his back was turned, his head seemed calculative of the canonesses’ immediate response. Ofcourse, humans never seemed to learn.

Ann’s eyes reflect death and almost the next second, she strides forward with the silver crucifix in her hand and tosses it at the empty black space where Park stood, moments before.

The next second, a heavy, red, mushy liquid is splattered onto Siena’s face as she screams and crawls toward the exit, horrified for her life.

The canonesses’ throats had been cut and they lay like butchered animals in a waste of blood. One corpse had slipped from the low throne to the right of the door and lay staring up at her, the mouth open, the head almost cleft from the body. She saw again the severed vessels, sticking like corrugated pipes through the clotted blood. The second was propped, ungainly as a rag doll, against the far wall. Her head had drooped forward and over her chest a great mat of blood had spread like a bib.

Tuscany’s most esteemed dignitaries of the church society lay like ghoulish mannequins, the esophagus and arteries sticking out like so much corrugated and rubber tubing. The smell that vapoured from their bodies could only come from slaughtered animals.

Thick, warm blood crawled into Siena’s throat and clawed at her air sacs like muck. Spewing with every glance at the mass slaughter, she struggled to wipe away the splutters of blood stuck to her skin and crawled on her limbs not any different from a five-sensed mutt, heaving and croaking for mercy.

Her pleadings for mercy fell upon deaf ears. When the bone of her ankle was seized to pull her toward the ghoulish young count, Siena thought the night would take away the last of her breath.

Her jaws were clasped in the count’s fingers and her eyes were a hair away from the orbs of death. The young count was sheathed by the moonlight in a silvery halo.

Without the traces of blood on his mouth, skin resembling the late winter and rage on his sculpted visage as red as his name, anyone could mistake the monster to be an angel.

His temper was on a hair-trigger and his eyes were lethal.

“You will run to the town’s mayor. If you want your soul to be spared, you will run there and shout to those mucks that the Rouge have returned”, the count spewed venom with each word.

“You will throw this parchment on their faces and demand that they comply to every syllable that’s scribed in the sheet!” he speaks, spelling out thunder claps and boulders at the poor nun.

“If not, Tuscany will have every breathing and crawling creature slaughtered like its canonesses”. He warns and whooshes away like smoke— ungraspable by bare hands.

Even in the wintry morning when town folks discussed the daily’s headlines with an uneasy settlement in their guts, you pursued boiling tea and folding your blankets neatly, unmindful of their great fear.

The afternoon too was eerily quiet and folks everywhere preferred to speak in a whisper and contain themselves in their abode. It seemed rather dubious and as heedless as you were, you never perceived that your innocence would lead to your downfall.

The sun sank lower in the sky, draining away the golden hue of the warm and gave path to a velvety dark night. The same moment when the crickets came out to chirp, dusky colours subdued in the fading light as shrieks and collective roars were heard at the heart of the town.

You, along with some of your fellow nuns peaked at the commotion and threaded through the crowd that swarmed in front of the Mayor’s office. On the board was a derogatory notice. Although, the crumples and rusty stains gave away the fact that the notice wasn’t pinned by the authorities. Its calligraphy looked eerily familiar to you.

“Tunic as red as our coven’s name, skin shining like beacon, tresses sheeny and burnished, eyes like the forest floor and gentle flowers with mirth, feminine curves softer and untouched like a laden bush of peony,”

The fear is a weight on the Mayor’s ribs and there exists a dull ache in his eyes, an unwillingness for his mouth to lift past neutral, to charge against but, words are lost in the hollow of his throat. Fear stills his lips as he pursues it to read out the rest.

“—The young vestal nun with a name that echoes across valleys of Tuscany, the one who dwells in the only fern-coated cottage near the gates of the lush forest.

Bring her to the place where human ritual pyres blaze, those who dare do otherwise, prepare to meet death as painful as a swine’s.

Against you rise, prepare to pay a deathly price.” he ends and mutters hurriedly in the commissioner’s ear and you notice the skeleton of his wrinkled fingers tremble at the slightest.

There’s a hushed eruption of conversations that bubbles ever so slowly amongst the townfolk at the astonishing notice and you freeze, petrified when eyes stray toward you, almost accusingly. You realise, with horror, they’ve recognised the vestal nun in the description.

You breathe heavily and your gut begins to twist into an uneasy coil when the commissioner’s fingers point directly at you.

Your desire to evaporate heedily rushes into your mind and something akin to being a criminal overwhelms you. When you step away to sprint far, you are seized by heavy men as they haul you off the earth by your limbs.

The thousand pair of ears at the town’s center fall deaf to your scattered pleadings— screams. Heartlessly, they drag you to the threads of your last few breaths and you helplessly submit, falling prey to your fatigue from the endless stream of tears that races down your rosy cheeks.

Your wails are unheard as the elder women of your town shield you from the public view, sit you in a warm creek and wash you in the clear stream, no different from a creature to be sacrificed for their religious rituals.

You croak out the last of your pleadings before the sun sets, and the women only watch you with nothing more than pity in their eyes.

Their hands are hurried as they strip you and dress you in the most rouge of all cloaks in the town, steam your hair dry, stain your lips with sliced beet, trace the lines where your lashes lie with charcoal.

Other than the sizzling charcoal that dries your tresses and your dull sobs, the creek is silent even as the herd of women stand together.

When you are sat and tied to the sacrifice stone, you shriek with more violence than gales. The ties that bound your limbs to the stone would not come loose at the desolate way you cried.

You sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until your throat closed on itself and you felt the heaviness on your eyelids. Fatigue beckoned you and you obeyed, submitting to it unconsciously.

The stillness of the air seemed to suck even the sound of the chain’s clanks when you moved your limbs into the nothingness of the cave. Even the trees seemed not to rustle as if they were tense with nerves for what was to come.

You jostled awake when the trees rustled and a strong wind blew from nowhere, chains rattling at your limbs’ sudden motion.

Trees stood naked as they had before, but their twigs curled in a distorted way, as if the tree itself screamed in pain.

The sky was a mass of grey cloud, again so ordinary for autumn, but instead of letting small shafts of light through they emitted an ethereal glow.

The wind was just as bitter as before, coming straight from the north, but the scent was something else, metallic almost, with a tinge of acrid burning.

The fire that kept you warm flicker, casting an ominous glow throughout the tunnel, causing shivers to ripple across your body. You drag your legs across the surface of the sacrifice stone, gathering yourself into a ball.

Wind streams through the tunnel, waking the bats in the cave, twirling them in the air, only to drop them off into the void. All signs of life vanish from the tunnels that were once so full of warmth and the fire becomes extinguished.

You peer as you stare at the mangled stone beneath you.

A heinous laugh echoes throughout the tunnel, rebounding off the crumpled walls, and you crawl closer to the wall in sorrow. Like the cave, your soul is too abandoned and then all fades to black.

You shut your eyes and sit, quivering in fright as footsteps echoed menacingly. There was a hoarse breathing heard dully and you began to hear your own whimpers.

At an unexpected chime of the hour, through the empty night, a gentle voice calls out your name.

Your arms tighten around your body and the curtain of your hair falls around your face, shielding your view of the silhouette growing in front of you.

“Tuscany’s most loveliest lily”, the voice shallows into a soothing whisper and a woody fragrance tickles your nostrils. Your mind ticks at the familiar syllables uttered out and something blossoms in you besides fear, your features contour into slight puzzlement.

“I climb so high, lost in the sensation, I succumb to the scent of the stream that runs in your veins”, you listen more closely.

“I cry out in pleasure, my body on fire, I cling to your scent, hunger feeding my desire”, by then, you are sure of the stanza. It was what licked your insides, it was what beckoned you to sin. The lines were your admirer’s.

Then, it pauses.

The voice is gone, so is the scent. You push your tresses off your eyes and cautiously look in the dead of the night that seemed alive a few moments prior.

Something creeks and rustles at the faintest— right behind your neck, causing its hair to stand. There’s something behind you. Or rather, someone.

Your eyes shut at the feeling of a cold breath tickling the locks of your hair. When a thick strand is pulled and a deep inhale is heard, you whip to find only emptiness.

There’s a few moments of listening to only your anxious breath and thuds of your breathing heart before a fine piece of silk is wrapped around your eyes.

You let out a startled scream at the sudden hindrance of your sight and the feeling of a glacial pair of brawny arms sheathing around your waist. A set of black dots disperse in your vision and your mind is lulled by a hushed, smooth voice into your ear.

“Found you, my little fawn”.

You regain consciousness in a dimly lit room, on a lush, oak-coloured duvet. With the movement of one leg the tell-tale clink of wine bottles rouses you and one blink of the eye tells you that your head is just as bad. You squint, dry mouth sticky with thick saliva and your legs are immediately pulled to your chest at the queer recognition of the place.

You feel as though you have lived a very long time in this colossal manor.

The Manor grew out of the manicured lawn like an infant castle. It’s nascent stone walls were a pale grey and were barren of the moss or ivy that clung to the walls of the older homes in the village. Its large oak door was double wide and was sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars. The entry way was grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center.

As seconds advance, your mind harks back to unfamiliar images in the same space— a young woman in an elegant frock chortling as she gets chased by a burly yet, slender man who looked youthful as well.

His laboriously chiseled face, cheekbones that had near pierced his flesh had led to sunken eyes, puddles of avarice set about them.

Dark hair covering his head, long and fragrant with rose thorns.His chin, one such extremity which sought to put his cheekbones to shame, it succeeded in its purchase to pierce its own flesh. A small scab could be seen about it’s exit, to which his hand tended to itch.

A thick, velvety cape traces his sturdy steps— chasing after the woman and you gasp when her face comes into your sight.

It is you.

Only, more alluring in the gown that hugs your— her curves. Her laugh is unceasing and sultry mostly, seductive.

Your eyes dilate when you see her unhitch the ties holding her robe to her curves and like a vixen, she steps out of it, lying back on the duvet, beckoning for the ethereal man to her.

He seemed ravenous, his irises iridescent as they turn from raven to crimson at the sight of the slick between her legs.

She seemed brazen, like a cur in heat, in need of flesh when she crawled upon the alluring man, rolling her hips into the air provocatively, she caused the balls of the man to get filled, none similar to your dainty facet.

She takes his girth into her lips, making the count seethe in pleasure, her tongue wrapping around its head, she makes him bellow like a buzzard when she takes him deep into her throat and teases his balls.

He looks feasted, satiated beyond syllables when she licks every inch of his hard wood and takes him to a state of druken stupor.

Your breathing comes out in strained huffs as you watch him take her— you as he presses his lips against her skin and utters words that make her keen and bawl in pleasure.

You watch as their naked flesh twist gracefully into one and something else begins to unravel in your memories.

Where there should be blank space is blank memories, like a soft beige wall bereft of photographs. It brushes through the subconscious, recalling memories that bring out the deepest spark of nostalgia of the soul.

You recall every single one of it, your eyes shut intuitively and you sink into a rather familiar abyss of lost memories. In it, you hold hands with the same man who appeared moments prior. Only now, you know his name.

The one who loved you past all the years that went like streams to the sea, in all your lives as a mortal.

“Soft. Your hands. Soft and warm - on my face, on my chest, in my dreams, in the umbrella of dawn, under the first streams of morning light. Your hands in the pitch black of night, muscles and tendons dancing between each other in a lover’s dance. Fingertips like matches grazing my skin with flame, our scars being the measure of our love. I bare my scars, because I remember the time when your flame danced on me forever, before your hands turned to ice.”

All of your admirer’s words make sense to you. The lost passion, the lost memories, the lost life of yours as the light left your eyes when humans attacked the manor you had peacefully lived in.

There was a deep cut in the skin of your neck from the shattered pieces of glass and a heavy cry escapes the throat of the man at the dreadful sight— you, on the Jimin’s thighs, in his arms as he cried for you to not leave him.

You had smiled and reached your hand to his cheeks, engulfed his lips in one last passionate kiss before your eyes shut on its own, soul departing your frail body.

You see him, your past lover begging for you to return, you see his brothers lifting you into your grave.

Shudders rack your body and your cheeks are wet when you open your eyes to the present, to find the shadowy, familiar presence sitting right across you, his arms prop his chin upright and his eyes drink you in.

Jimin steps from the shadows, stealing your breath and the heat from your skin. Suddenly your defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops.

Before you can draw in the air your body needs, you have melted into his form. You feel his firm torso and the heart that beats within. His hands fold around your back, drawing you in closer.

You feel your body shake, crying for the missed time the two of you will never make again, crying to release the woe of long years in separation.

He caresses your cheeks and wipes the tears with a calloused finger, even this roughness brings more relief than your heart can hold. He is eating you with his eyes, running his hand through your hair, as if he cannot quite fathom you are not part of an almost forgotten dream.

When he kisses you, it is sweet, gentle, and it tastes of your tears. You want to speak but all you can do is croak,

“Jimin”.

His mouth paints a soft smile and he kissed you once before folding you in his arms again.

“My beautiful peony, my little fawn, my love, my heart, my entire world. It was never your fault”, he mutters and you keen closer to him, pulling his mouth to yours once again. You close your eyes shut at the feeling of his tongue twisting with yours and your knees lose strength, sending you spiralling into his arms.

“Oh, how I missed having you close to me, seeing yet, not being able to ravish is a curse” he whispers and you feel the heat pooling in your core when he noses at your jugular and inhales your scent.

“The scent of your blood remains heavenly through the ages” he sings, arms digging further into the curve of your waist.

“And this musky arousal—”

You gasp when you feel the tips of his nimble fingers brush the crotch of your undergarment, relishing in the heat of your wetness.

“This time, I’ll have you breathing for eternity, little fawn. I’ll turn you into what I am”. He declares with a stern voice, consuming the breaths that escape your lungs.

When you stare into his crimson irises, you pray for his touch, beg for what he promises. “Claim me, my lord. I’ll spend an eternity in your arms. Touch me, make me yours”.

Surely, it would be yes. The count was a notorious rake and libertine. He was called a thorough and absolute rouge, true to his name. How could he possibly turn down the chance to debauch the most delicious little fawn tempting him to revel in her taste?

With one kiss, Jimin swooped you off the floor and completely into his arms, transporting back to the cave you were sacrificed in.

He had planned for the entire town to hear your wails of pleasure. When you felt and heard the rattling of chains around your limbs, you shrieked, startled.

“No need to be afraid, my lovely fawn. I only wish to show these mongrels who you belong to”. Jimin expounds, making your core clench in need.

“Touch me, my lord” you scrounged like a fox, coaxing the ravished count with the tantalizing motions of your hips.

“Disrobe for me, little fawn. Take that sheer robe off, I want your naked flesh”, Jimin snarls and his mouth waters when your dainty fingers scramble to untie your gown. You sputter, your cheeks flush a vivid red at his grimy words.

Fear. Nerves. And illicit, forbidden, wrong physical desire. You felt it all at once.

Jimin bent to you and pressed his lips to your neck. The oddest jolt of fire leapt from there. It rushed through your veins like flames licking at the sky.

His hair tickled the bones of your cheek as he stroked and hollowed his mouth along your throat and reached the rim of your ear. He brushed back your hair. Surprisingly, his breath was cool. Almost icy. You had heard women speak of men blowing their breath by their ears—something that hadn’t sounded at all enticing—but the maids had described warm breath. Jimin’s breath was cold.

Still, the brush of it did feel surprisingly … good.

He nibbled your ear, making shivers tumble down your spine. He stroked the exposed skin at your collarbones. Goodness, how could it feel so hot—like a candle’s flame flickering close to your skin?

He tugged your cowering hands away to expose the swell of your breasts. His body tightened with arousal at the sight of your full, generous curves, erection bucking against his stomach.

Pushing you on the boulder, he ravaged your mouth, letting his hands venture down to the cleft of your arse. You bucked at the foreign feeling, gasping at the feeling of his tongue suckling the soft flesh of your lips into his mouth. His tongue curls around yours and he suckles it too, making you melt into a puddle in his full hold.

His mouth traces your throat and when it ghosts over the curve of your breasts, you shudder and your skin breaks into goosebumps.

He suckled. God, you were delicious. And you were moving beneath him. You arched to press your breast to his mouth.

Your scent reached his nose. And, he was lost. Lost in want. He rolled over you, coaxed your legs apart with his, and settled between, caressing your sweet cunny all the while. You gasped at the feeling of his thumb rolling your pearl and whimpered when his middle finger found your entrance, dipping to revel in your slick insides.

Oh goodness, he had flicked that most sensitive place—the little bump that lay between your nether lips, and you almost rolled her eyes back into your head at the pleasure.

Your hips arched up. He stroked you a little harder, as if he had known the rocking of your hips was a wordless signal that meant: I am begging you for more.

Then he slid his finger inside you. Between your nether lips, parting them gently. Goodness, he was inside you. You were doing the most intimate thing possible. With the man who remained an enigmatic admirer in your mind until the touch of his fingers tainted your soul, with the man who held your heart for eternity.

“Open your eyes.”

The first things you saw were thick, velvet-soft black lashes and gorgeous crimson eyes. Eyes that glittered at you in the firelight. “I want your eyes on me” he ordered huskily.

Then his finger slid deep inside, and you gasped at the sudden sensation—an intense quiver that rushed through you. You heard a shocking wet, sucking sound as his finger thrust in and out. It was the sound of your arousal.

“Let your moans out, little fawn. I wish to hear your sweet voice” he coaxed.

Biting your lower lip, you whimpered. You didn’t want to speak. The pleasure his wizardry brought was fervent, it felt foreign yet, acutely compelling and delicious. It made you drool, you needed him, flesh, bone, heart, soul.

His hand moved and he stopped stroking the little nub that vibrated with such intense feeling. You gasped in frustration.

He wrapped his hand around the shaft of his erection—you could feel the brush of his fingers against your stomach as he took hold of himself. Then, with his hand tight around it, he stroked the head of his erection against your nether lips. They had stuck together, resisting him, but he gently eased them apart.

Your arms were splayed on the mangled boulder beneath you and your eyes appeared to have gotten a taste of heaven, hands clenched in tight fists, toes curled and digging into Jimin’s hips at his ease into you.

Deeper he went, and his manhood stroked a place inside you that made explosions of light in front of your eyes. Then a twinge of pain rushed through you and you gasped in shock.

His fingers traced the curve of your cheek. “Shh, my fawn” he whispered. “Easy. It will hurt when I go past your little maidenhead. But after that it will be very, very good.”

“Jimin—”

He thrust. You squealed. You clenched. You tightened. You wanted to back away. But you couldn’t vanish into the boulder. Nor could you push him off. There was a searing pain that burned the walls of your insides yet, the delicious stretch of his girth brushed the softest tissue that made your mouth open wide, soundlessly and expose your luscious throat for his mouth to marr.

Jimin’s lips suckled every inch the clammy flesh of your shoulders and breasts— until lilac bruises respired in its wake. The perked peaks of your breasts were soft and toothsome in his mouth. And the tiny heels of your palms digging into his chest felt euphoric, he wished for it to caress his veiny member instead.

His nose nudged into your sternum, imbibed the scent of rushing blood to your breasts. His eyes shut as he sniffed deeply, his fangs grew in length and a gravelly groan rumbled from his chest at the redolent aroma of your blood.

“You feel warm and soft, my delicious little fawn. I could forever inhale this toothsome stream running through your veins”.

Without stalling, Jimin enveloped the teat of your breast into his mouth and laved, before piercing his honed fangs into the soft flesh, guzzling at the divine, rouge liquid that leaked onto his pearly teeth and sharp tongue, making you hiss at the feeling.

The feeling was gut-wrenching at the onset, it made you scream into Jimin’s shoulders.

He pressed against you, seating himself all the way inside, and he didn’t move. He stayed motionless, and he rained kisses on your forehead, cheeks, lips. It was hard to feel pain with such glorious kisses stealing your breath. And little by little, the stinging sensation ebbed.

A few moments of incessant suckling and your strained huffs at the strokes of his tongue on your tormented peak unfolded a queer pleasure, obscure to be produced by human males.

Soon, each suckle and lave from Jimin’s mouth pulled you to the white, hazed edge of pleasure and you cried out in ecstasy. Your cheeks were riddled hot, body spasmodic, in graceful waves as you began to roll your hips.

You whispered, “More”, Then you saw his sculpted visage.

He looked starved, ravenous. He looked raw, ravaged, tormented. His eyes were wild. His mouth was a slash, bracketed by harsh lines. He looked as though his control could snap in a heartbeat.

“My lord?” you called for him.

“You are tight, sweet, and perfect, my fawn. So no, I am no longer all right.”

You let your arms slip from his neck, but your legs were still wrapped around him, and his groin, hot and hard, was pressed tight into you. Then came the gratifying wave of pleasure as Jimin rolled his hips into yours, his girth slipping in and out of you, wholly, fulfillingly.

Gods, he was huge. The thick, hot, pulsing hard muscle of his legs throbbed against your thigh. His big manhood twitched inside you— feeling as thick as your arm. He groaned, kissing you fiercely as he moved his hips and nudged his swollen head further inside, almost into your cervix. You cried out, feeling it pulsing into your drooling slit.

With a moan into his lips, you strained your thighs and allowed him to pound in and out of you, the thick, slick shaft of his cock sliding wetly out from between your lips as you groaned throatily.

“Have a screaming orgasm, little fawn.”

He circled his hips as he said it, stroking his long shaft within you. He planted one sweet, sensual kiss after another on your lips, and kept your gaze locked with his.

You watched a smile touch Jimin’s full, handsome mouth. Then groans deepened the lines framing his lips. His eyes glowed as if they were on fire, and his deep, throaty moans … You drink all of them.

You were weak with pleasure, yet driven to rock with him. You clung to him, arching your hips, panting. Your nipples had hardened, and each thrust brushed them against his chest. Lips tingling from kisses, breasts throbbing from swift brushes, your quim pulsed … and fire raged in you, hotter than fire and you screamed as you came, body spasmodic.

He held you as his lips slurped at the slop of blood from the punctured marks on the peaks of your breasts.

It is when he pulls out of your body, he turns. This time, his eyes travel below your navel and licks at your core. There’s a thin stream of his release that flows from within you and there is a whit of warmth that seeps along with it, making his stomach clench with carnal hunger.

Carnal lechery for your blood and the musk of your release, it blows like a breeze over him.

Your fragrance consisted of a scent that represented freshly cut timber, like the damp forest after a rainy day; you smelt heavenly, like fresh-scented pine and honey, he wanted to indulge in the depths of the hint of cinnamon-like musk it produced.

It is the blood that reflected your lost virginity, your lost innocence. You are no more vestal, he has made you sin.

In the depths of night, your eyes were dew, scattering the nascent rays, ever illuminating the dark in his soul and he lusted vigorously for the taste of you, to let him be consumed by everything you offer to give him.

And so, he chains your limbs again, and blinds your vision for the nonce, for your senses to get heightened, for your slick to stream like nectar from ambrosia.

You gasp quietly at the impairment of your vision.

His fingers pluck a pair of pampas grass fluttering in the wind and when you feel it caress the tiny puncture holes at your sensitive nipples, you whimper, your slick caressing Jimin’s chest.

His lips find purchase at your inner thighs, fangs shallowly sinking into the soft flesh. The feeling makes your toes curl and you croak his name out in pure bliss.

“How delicious, your scent is divine, my fawn” he growls and pulls your core to his nose with vigour while you attempt to slither away, shyly.

“Trying to escape my grasp is useless, little fawn” he warns, making you cry out at the feeling of his arctic breaths blowing over your sensitive core.

“I’ll catch you faster than the wind could sheath around you” he gutturally breathes and spreads you beneath him, holding your soft thighs in his metal hold.

He moved lower, his breath teasing over your thigh. And then, you felt it, and the moan of pure ecstasy tore from your lips.

Jimin’s hot, wet tongue delved between your lips, dragging slowly and wetly up every bit of you until it flicked across your aching clit. You moaned in pleasure, crying out as his powerful hands pushed your legs wide apart and his wicked tongue pushed deep between them.

With a moan, your eyes flew open to see his face hovering above your delicate and exposed core. His eyes glinted wickedly at you, and you watched, panting in pleasure as he slowly licked his lips clean.

“Like nectar,” he growled. “Lie back, little fawn. Lie back and let me taste you.”

He moved back in, and suddenly, you moaned loudly. The feeling was like nothing else you had ever felt — this perfect, electric feeling of his icy tongue teased over your lips and clit. His wide, strong tongue dragged up and down your pussy, making your whole body arch and tremble for him. You balled your fists and cried out into the flickering firelight of the cave.

He slid his tongue deep inside, spreading your lips with his fingers, dragging your sticky wetness up from your opening to slide electrically across your aching clit. You arched my back and cried out as his tongue made contact there. It curled at your bud, bringing whimpering mewling sounds to your lips before sliding down through your folds again. You stiffened, and then moaned as you felt that hot, wet tongue slide wickedly against the opening of your arse, making you gasp as it slid over the sensitive ring there.

You couldn’t believe the sensations flooding your body at the touch of this rough, powerful, demanding, gorgeous man — from the rouge who was gentle to a creature with hound-like lust for your dripping arousal and blood.

His tongue pushed against your opening, pushing in to curl sensually inside of you. His thumb moved to your clit, his growl rumbling through me as he teased your little bud and tongue-fucked your slippery core, making you clench and arch your back off the stone under you.

You screamed as the orgasm exploded through you, hips bucking against Jimin’s perfect mouth. Your core clenched at the invading tongue, spasming around its thick wetness while the orgasm ripped through me. The famished count hungrily growled and pushed his tongue deep inside, tasting all of your virginal blood as the aftershocks exploded through you.

Slowly, he pulled away, his lips trailing over the little seam of your inner thigh as your whole world spun under you.

The feathery leaves of the pampas grass caressed the seams following his mouth and you felt his arms lifting you onto his lap, straddling him. He gently entered you again, mouth tracing the prominent vein at your jugular, tongue teasing it.

You shook and rippled around his thick wood, chains rattling loudly as you bite at every inch of his skin that your mouth could reach.

“I am going to turn you, my sweet fawn. Tonight is perfect, the moon is hidden and the branches sing for us. Let it all out, scream my name” they are incessant breaths against your jugular and you clench around him, hearing him cry out his devotion for you.

“I am ready, my lord. Turn me, I— I belong to you!” you cry out as the tip of his girth brushes your most sensitive spot.

Then the whooshing wind caresses your bare bodies, you feel the chains loosen and fall to the ground while Jimin embraces your shaking body entirely, increasing the pace of his inhuman thrusts.

His mouth takes yours and swallows your pleasured pants, yours tongue mulls his own when he feels your fingers thread through his soft locks and dig into his scalp. His hold on your hips are deathly and when he feels you clench and pant harder, he bites into the inside of his cheeks, closing his eyes as his blood trickles from his mouth, into yours.

Your throat closes at the repulsive, metallic taste and you gag, making Jimin tighten his hold on you. He twists your tongues together and urges you on, making you swallow down the thick drops of his blood.

When you feel his member caressing that sensitive spot of your insides once again, you gulp faster and Jimin smiles blissfully into your mouth as his tongue traces the sharp lines of your protruding canines, they course rapidly into pointy knives and he relishes in the sharpness of your fangs, tongue drinking your breaths in.

There’s an ethereal glow of light sheathing around the two of you. For a nonce, the bright, golden-silvery stratum panelling over you in particular makes the deep, dark abyss of the night seem like day. The round curves of your orbs sparkle an aurish dust and makes you look more beguiling than any other supernatural power to ever exist.

Jimin feels the illuminance and shuts his eyes in ecstasy for the warm streams of your blood chills into familiar ice, the same temperature as his. Your thrusts are gentled and you cry out in a new found lust for Jimin’s blood.

He can feel the urgency in your gulps as you grow more hungry for blood, his blood. He shudders when you sink onto him again, tilting his head to pierce your fangs into his throat.

He groans at the pleasurable feeling of your mouth gulping his blood hungrily and he forces you to pause, for his eyes to drink in the birth of your vampiric form.

The moment you open your eyes and stare into his, his breath catches.

Your orbs are a beautiful, fierce topaz-crimson and there is a bleached tone added to the luscious sheen of your skin, when you lick the drops of his blood from your lips, exposing the knives of your fangs, he feels the carnal lechery for you boil in his heart and stir at his manhood.

You are fully turned, looking like the goddess of death herself, veiled in an ethereal halo in the deep, dark, inked night.

His eyes drink your appearance ravenously and he concludes. Carnal lechery for you, that’s what possessed him all those years ago, that’s what drives him to sink his fangs into your flesh and drink your sweet blood over and over.

You are turned and you are eternally bonded to him, there’ll be no mongrel mortal in this universe to take you away from him.

Autumn days wane toward the inevitable colder weather ahead, each nightfall coming sooner that the one before.

Seven days were gone ever since you were welcomed and brought to the Rouge’s dwelling, the rocky fort miles away from your grim, little mossy town.

Topaz leaves dangled from the shadowy skeletons of trees, each one like as ominous sword of Damocles. The river was almost ice, showing reflections of the heavy, ashy sky so thick. The chill breeze rattling at the closed windows of the fort seemed to cry autumn, the roads were moist with stealthy dew as the season deepens their graceful boughs will be the prettiest of charcoal sketches, drawing themselves tall, reflecting the light of a wintry sun.

You are huddled in the silky red sheets of Jimin’s large duvety mattress, the lines of your naked legs traced by the sheets. You lie fatigued after a thorough session of lovemaking with your mate while he wordlessly caresses your hair, eyeing your curves, breathing the essence of your hair as he licks the remains of your dried blood from your breasts.

The sudden slam of the door came like a punctuation. There were panicked calls all around in the veranda and one of the maids peek their head through the door to the master chamber, her chest rising and falling in urgency.

“Forgive me for barging in, master and mistress”, she breathlessly bows, making you both rise, startled. You scatter to cover your body with the sheets while Jimin groans and ties his night robes to shield his body.

“Master, we seem to have an intruder. The other masters summoned you to the court immediately”, she keeps her eyes low and Jimin barks at her.

“How would we have an intruder? This fort is well protected!” he grunts and turns to you, placing a soft kiss on your lips as you eye the maid scurrying away, bowed.

“I’ll be right back, my love. You might as well get dressed".

You smile and pull on your silky night robes to your body, mindlessly staring at the creaking trees in the wind while Jimin marches to the veranda, his booming commands slowly ebbing away.

For a few ticks of chime, you hear nothing but the rustling leaves, sparrows chirping at a distance and the echoes of voices downstairs. When the door to the chamber you lie in opens on the spur of the serene moment, you fall back and onto your elbows, on the cottony patchwork of the carpeted floor.

A loud gasp knocks your lungs at the sight of the familiar fern-eyed, thick woman looming over you, offering her hand.

Siena. She is puffing out harsh breaths and her legs tremble, hasten. She seems too afraid as her eyes cavort to the door in trepidation and you realise, she is the intruder.

“Y/N! Y/N. You should listen to me, you should run away, the one you are with is a monster!” she hastily whispers, gripping at your arm.

You yawp at her gnawing grip and attempt to pull your arm to yourself and grit your teeth. At the sight of your crimson eyes, Siena’s hold gets loosened.

“H—he turned you, didn’t he?” she utters in shock, something in her eyes clutches at her back again and she pleads you again. You sigh and move to the chamber’s doors, pulling the latch to lock and you turn to face her.

“I am sorry sister Siena, but I must ask you to leave. History does not tell the truth. The Rouge were innocent, it was the people who broke the treaty”.

You eye her pitifully. She had come all the way for vain.

“Jimin is by nature of laws, my soulmate. I cannot live apart from him, I am no longer one of the mortals”. You proclaim, clasping your fingers together.

“Now, please leave—”

“I am afraid you do not know everything” mumbles Siena quietly, her olive eyes swimming in a stream of exigency, her limbs still tremble.

“Who has Park claimed to have murdered you in the past, Y/N?”

The will to not let her affect your resolution faintly faltered at the sight of her tenacity, she shakes similar to a leaf jostled by storm gales yet, her eyes remain adamant.

“Tell me, please”, she begs to the extremity of crumbling, her orbs trembling just as much as her limbs do.

You release the air from your lungs and mutter softly— “Humans. The ancestors of our town. I saw it, the evocation of my past self, I was killed by the town folks”.

Siena shook her head, her face contouring into a brew of disdain as well as pity, you were almost uncertain if it was aimed towards you.

The whooshing gales and Siena’s voice seem the same when she mutters out what earth had not devised itself ready to hear.

“No, my dear. It was not the town folks who had killed you, it was the very man you share this bed with, the most conniving, astute count amongst his brothers— Park Jimin of the Rouge!”

And in that light the carpet of leaves became crooked, and all aurish colours vanished, the wind tumbling around the empty space. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest and your face morphed into one of disdain, you were abhorred yet, shattered to the ground like the dry twigs stepped on by passing carts.

You knew nuns took an oath to preserve and authentic despite the unembellished life they lead because you were one too. Siena was not lying, every single word of hers proves to be true only by the contours of concern etched on her face.

“H-how? I—” you flounder like a fish taken out of the pond.

Siena sighs dismally. “When I went to the elder canonesses on halloween night, the eldest of them apprised a hidden tale of a young town girl and her lover— Hyun woo whose throats were silt by the third youngest of the Rouge”,

“Only sister Ann knew the story behind it”. You listened carefully, feeling prostrated mercilessly.

“Park Jimin had found his consort and by the scent of her blood, he knew she was destined to be bonded to him by nature’s law. But, she was irrevocably in love with another mortal to whom she had been having love affairs with, even as she was taken against her will to the Rouge fort”,

“An infuriated Park had butchered the young woman’s lover in front of her whilst the woman pleaded and cried for the man’s life. As days passed, Jimin’s consort became coldly vacant in grief",

You were turned into stone at her words.

“She had ultimately repudiated to consummate their bond. The same night when Jimin had killed her to erase the memories of her lover, the town folks declared a war to avenge Hyun woo and rescue the young woman. Park Jimin had promulgated to his brothers that the woman was killed by humans, he must have recast your past self’s memories, Y/N! He is not the gentle lover you loyally surmise him to be!”

One time when you were blind in a tree, waiting motionless for wind to wander by, you dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on your back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from your lungs, and you lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That was how you felt at the moment, your ribs felt crushed into a mere refuse, fear and disgust of your past killer’s touch burned everywhere, the faded puncture marks on the peaks of your breasts, thighs, neck, shoulders felt as if touched by the flicks of flame, you felt abhorred.

Even the loud rap of knocks and thuds on the door to the chambers were heard, you were frozen into ice. Eyes teary, vision blurred, you fell to the ground, crestfallen.

Siena shakes you harder in panic at the sight of the door’s latch rattling violently, the sundry of voices with Jimin’s voice rack unpleasant shudders through her spine as she attempts to resuscitate you to the present.

A single squawk like a squall causes the doors to shatter as if hurled to the ground by a tempest. Park Jimin stands sited at the other side. There is not a sliver of a plinth to hold his rage in place, he looks irked to the brim of extremes.

“Seize her!” he barks and by the tick of a second, Siena is hefted into the air by a couple guards, their grasps cause her to bawl in pain.

“Y/N! My dear, what did she do to you?“ Jimin’s voice is mellowy as he gathers you into his arms, perusing your form thoroughly.

Like the mountain river under sunlight, like snow melting under the beaming sunlight, like the gentle song of the topaz leaves swaying in the autumn breeze, his voice was pleasant as beautiful as his perfectly sculpted face.

You shake away weakly from his grasp and his face withers, twinging a deep cut into your heart.

“You cold-blooded murderer, let her free”. You mutter, abhorred and stare at him, as empty as the ocean at night.

Jimin peruses Siena and you wordlessly, taken aback by your sudden disgust. When you see his head lift and lips curl to one side, you see the once loving mate of yours turn into the callous, blood-thirsty hound of a creature that slaughtered so many lives for its own illiberal gain.

“I see my little fawn has discovered the truth”, he heinously chuckles, making you swallow down in utter disgust.

“It was worth the effort, was it not?” he perches himself on his lush seater loftily, a wicked grin stretches his lips at Siena’s struggles.

“Now that I have the maiden of my dreams to myself”, he wickedly whispers, his sharp eyes travel down your body as he slips his lower lip into his mouth.

“I can debauch her to my heart’s content” his eyes are demanding as they meet yours, his slender fingers tipping against the mahogany handle of his seater.

“What causes you to think I would submit to you?” you spew the words like venom as the haughty count feigns hurt, crumbling to the ground.

In a blink of an eye, Jimin whooshes at an inhuman pace across the chamber to you, gripping your jaws tight from the behind as he has his own clenched. Your wrists are pressed together at your back and he presses his chest to your back.

You attempt to wriggle away at the bulge pressing into the cleft of your arse and you screech at his hold.

“What can be done by a little fawn like you, against me? There is a reason why I did not wait even for an hour to turn you that night”. He lilts mockingly, lips brushing the lobe of your ear.

“Oh, little fawn. I had become the master of your body, soul and mind duly after turning you. Every single thought that runs in this little head, I can hear it”. He declares, arms slithering around your body in a vice-like grip.

“After decades of longing, I finally had you. Would I not have prepared for the same mistake to never occur again?” he presses his nose to your jugular, breathing your scent. It makes him roll his eyes in pleasure as the heavenly scent tickles his lungs.

Your fighting limbs fall limp as his fangs pierces the skin of your jugular, taking little gulps of your sweet blood.

Siena screams as she realises the actions performed on you by the count. She seethes and cusses, fighting against the guards’ hold on her.

“Forget everything that makes me bad in your eyes, little fawn”, Jimin whispers pleasantly, making you fall into a lull of sleep with a soft hum.

“Only I am your love, only I am your lord, no other mongrel of a mortal owns you, forget it all, my one and only little fawn”, he sings soothingly, lifting you in his arms more delicate than a priceless treasure, cooing in adoration at the sight of your angelic face in peace and parted lips, memories flitting you away from him washed away profoundly.

In the course of a mo, Siena’s head is snapped and the poor nun’s body is embedded into the fertile earth heedlessly.

A famished count with an endless carnal lechery presses a soft kiss to your lips and envelopes you in a lover’s embrace, waiting for your eyes to open and say his name sweetly, oblivious to events that have unfolded a very few chimes ago.

Carnal lechery, it was what possessed him to possess you.

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