#and escape the pits of debt slavery in like 2 years

[msburgundy]

i must talk to the guy who offered me the part time bookkeeper job again (wasn't 100% sure i was qualified for it when he first brought it up lol) and depending on what the pay is, i may survive after all

[yodawgiherd]

Rome pt.2

>>>Read on AO3<<< 

Rating: M

Setting: Historical Rome

Second part of the Rome AU =) Stay cool.

The sun was hot, but Eren was used to that. Under the protection of the villa’s roof, the heat was not even that bad, other things irritated him way more. If he were to name one that pissed him off the most at this very moment, it was sitting right next to him. His father, Grisha, half-drunk as usual, yammering on.

“As I was saying,”, he continued whatever train of thought went on in his head, “If they increase the taxes again, I’d have to sell some of my farms.”

Money, yes. That was the one thing that concerned him. At least Eren was not the target of his father’s speech this time, it was old man Reiss, sitting across the table and somehow paying attention.

“We should put some pressure on the senate,”, Reiss said, “They can’t keep pushing at us forever.”

His father nodded at that.

“Power to the people! That’s right! We should…”

Turning off his brain, Eren filtered out his father’s voice, a skill he was proficient in, eyes searching for the last occupant of the table. The blonde girl, Reiss’s daughter and heir, Historia. One of his closest friends, and by the will of both their fathers, his future wife. No, he did not have a say in this, and neither did she.

Kicking her lightly under the table, he made her look up, doing a grimace afterwards to express just how boring the money-talk was. She hid her smile under her palm and kicked him back, much stronger. Eren couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Historia was great, really fun and everything, but there was a little problem neither his nor her father knew that would complicate their upcoming marriage. Eren himself discovered it by accident and had sworn not to tell anyone. As they still had time before being seriously pressed into tying the knot, they decided to just wait it out for now. There was time for everything.

His father finished another long monologue, draining his wine cup afterwards and reaching out. A slave immediately jumped in and refilled it, which made Eren’s stomach churn. He hated slaves. No, that came out wrong. He didn’t hate the people themselves, he hated the system of slavery altogether. Their family, as a rich patrician one, understandably had plenty of slaves, and it was a topic of many arguments between Eren and his parents. Even as a child Eren never understood why it is okay for a human being to be owned by another one, just because one was born wrong, conquered, or in debt. His father originally dismissed all that talk as a child’s words, but as Eren grew, so did his hatred for slavery. The idea of not being free just because someone decided it is that way upset him to no end. But he was not the head of the house, that was his father, so technically he could not do anything. He was not even the heir to their villa, that was his half-brother Zeke, currently a Tribuni in the Roman legions, winning fame for himself on the frontlines.

A sudden burst of laughter got his attention, as both Grisha and Reiss laughed out loud, with Historia having a tight-lipped courteous smile herself. She was very good at pretending that she is interested in whatever bullshit the two of them were talking about.

“I do understand that,” Reiss was just saying, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “When Historia was a child, she brought home a homeless orphan and wouldn’t stop crying until I gave her a place in my household. Now, what is her name….”

“Ymir, father.”, his daughter quickly offered, “She is my best friend.”

“I do not believe in associating with the lower classes myself.”, Grisha said, “Eren also had a small episode when he tried befriending some slave girl, but I quickly got him out of that.”

Oh yes, that was a great memory. Even now, years later, Eren remembered coming home and telling his mother all excitedly about this nice girl with strange eyes that he met, and that he gave her his candy. He remembered being all giddy when he asked if he could go and see her again tomorrow, perhaps bring her some more candy, so that she would tell him her name. And most of all, he remembered the pained expression that his mother had during that talk because unlike Eren in his childlike ignorance, she knew very well what Grisha’s reaction will be once he finds out.

“It was not easy,”, his father was just saying, “But a highborn must know who to make friends with, and it is not slaves.”

He turned towards his son.

“Tell us Eren, how did I stop you from seeing that slave girl again?”

As if he could ever forget.

“You threatened that if I ever went to visit her, you would buy her yourself and then have our house guards drown her in the Tiber.”, meeting his father’s eyes, it took everything Eren had to keep his voice calm, “And I would have to watch it all.”

“Exactly. And even with all the crying and locking yourself in your room, you obeyed in the end.”, looking back at Reiss, his father continued, “Principles must be taught to the youngsters, otherwise they would just get out of control.”

Sometimes, at nights especially, Eren wondered how that girl was doing, if she was even alive. Being a slave in Rome, mortality rates were high. Back then, she was working in a brothel, so was she a prostitute now? Did he maybe see her sometime when he was out drinking with his friends? Would he recognize her? Would she recognize him? No, he had to stop himself. This train of thought always made him angry, because it only reminded Eren of what his father robbed him. Maybe he could have had a best friend in that girl, just like Historia had in Ymir. Instead, he would never see her again.

Standing up abruptly, the eyes of everyone present swung at him.

“May I be excused, father?”, seeing the hint of irritation in Grisha’s eyes, he scrambled for an excuse, “I would like to take a walk with my lovely fiancé.”

That worked, so after being officially allowed to leave, he and Historia disappeared behind a corner where they shared a long exhale.

“God that was boring.”, Eren said, rubbing his forehead.

“You tell me. I almost fell asleep.”, she sighed, “I wanna do something fun.”

Now that was a language Eren spoke well.

“I’m in. Let’s grab some friends and live it up! Where did you leave Ymir?”

“I think she’s in a pub here somewhere, not far.”, Historia grinned, “Not like Ymir will be hard to find.”

Eren mirrored her smile, remembering just how loud the tall girl could be.

“You’re right. Let’s go then.”

Two of the taverns they checked lacked the Ymir factor, but the third one looked promising. Right from outside, they could hear loud voices, and when they entered their suspicion was proven right.

“I’m just saying,”, Ymir shouted over the ruckus, “You would look great at the chariot races!”

“I don’t think I’m good enough driver to…”

“Wait, who said anything about the driver? You would be pulling the chariot!”

The table erupted into laughter, while Jean, the butt of this joke, mumbled something and hid his reddened face into a cup of wine.

“That joke is so old…”, he sighed, but no one listened.

Ymir was the first one who spotted them, bolting from her seat and sweeping Historia in a hug.

“You’re finally here! We all missed you so much!”

When there was not any response from the table, Ymir turned towards it with a dangerous gleam in her eye.

“I said, we all missed you. Right?”

This time there were affirmative sounds from everyone. Nobody wanted to get on Ymir’s bad side.

Scooting over to make room for the newcomers, they ordered another round and the conversation flowed. Ymir wanted to know what their fathers were talking about, but Historia simply waved her hand and claimed that it was the usual boring stuff. While she was talking, Eren looked around, taking in this group of friends. He and Historia were the only highborn here, the rest of them were plebians. His father would never allow him to hang out with slaves, but he gritted his teeth and stayed silent while Eren surrounded himself with the lower class. It was a small victory, but Eren also genuinely found them much more interesting than any of the patricians. Now that he had the time to take everyone in, he noticed that one person was missing, so turning to Jean, he asked.

“Hey, where’s Armin?”

“Working tonight.”, his friend replied, trying to take another sip of the wine but realizing that his cup was empty. The discovery made him frown.

Armin was an interesting fellow. Part-philosopher, part-medic, he made his living by treating the filth of Rome. Slaves, lowborn, all these that would get rejected by any respected doctor flocked to Armin and he helped them all, whenever they had the money to pay for their treatment or not. In all honesty, Eren thought that Armin was probably the best person he knew, far nobler than him. The art his friend practiced, medicine, also highly interested him, but as with most things in life, Eren didn’t get a choice in his future career path. His brother was a soldier, so he was going to be a politician, Grisha decided. Easy as that. Which meant that Eren’s medicine studied were limited to the times when he visited Armin, trying to learn as much as he could form his friend.

“Do you know where he is?”, Eren pressed on, getting Jean’s attention, that was still focused on his somehow magically empty cup, back.

“It’s Uuuhh…. Hmmm….”

Eren had to suppress a sigh here.

“Come on Jean…”

“Oh right! He’s down in the pits tonight, treating the gladiators that get gutted there.”

The pits were a chain of tiny arenas where slaves, madmen and animals were pitched to fight each other to the death for the entertainment of the unwashed masses. It was like the Colosseum, only a hundred times smaller. Armin often worked there, as even the victors of these matches hardly ever escaped unscratched. The losers usually didn’t need medical attention anymore.

“You’re right, the pits could be fun!”, Jean went on, standing up and swaying only lightly, “Gang, let’s see some blood!”

As nobody wanted to be called a wuss for chickening out, they left the tavern in a sound of chairs dragged over the ground and the clink of coins, heading through the streets towards the pits. Jean led the way, as even drunk he could navigate the gutters the best out of them all. Eren fell in next to Ymir and Krista, the two of them inseparable as usual.

“I do hope that you are taking good care of my fiancé.”, he said to Ymir.

She turned to him with a wink, dropping her hand low and possessively squeezing the blonde’s butt, making her jump with a squeal and quickly retaliate with a well-aimed punch at the taller girl’s shoulder. This was the small secret that he and Historia had from their parents, who were so sure about their future marriage. Historia was, unluckily for her father, mostly interested in women, a fact that was rare but not unheard of. The problem was that while her family might not have that big of a problem with her orientation as it was, they would require her to have an heir. She was, after all, the only living offspring Reiss had. But that was a hurdle she and Eren would cross once they got there, and it was not here. Yet.

While they were consumed by this petty bickering, back and forth, Jean reliably led them through the labyrinth of Rome, finding his way with ease. Left here, right there, turn that corner and they were approaching their target, easily heard from the excited shouts that were up in the air.

With an excited shout, Ymir broke through the group, dragging helpless Historia with her, disappearing between the spectators. The rest followed soon after, their own excitement in various degrees. Eren himself had mixed feelings. He did not mind the duels, per se, but it was another business that was partly made up of slaves being forced to participate. The thing was in full swing, meaning that seeking out Armin right now was most likely impossible. He would be running between here and there, hands full of dead and injured, and hardly needed Eren to make his job even harder. With nothing better to do, he elbowed his way towards the edge of the ring, joining Jean at the railing.

“Hey.”, an unknown voice to his left, “You wanna bet?”

Turning, Eren saw a scrawny man with parchment and several purses hanging from his belt. A bookmaker. Before he could tell him that no, he does not want to place money on the lives of people, Jean butted in.

“Sure!”, he pushed past Eren, smelling of wine and sweat, “Who’s fighting?”

“The next bout is…” the bookie blinked at the parchment a few times, “Siren versus Cyclops.”

“Siren?”, Jean snorted, “Who the fuck takes such a name?”

It wasn’t unusual for the gladiators to have a nickname, some ancient beast or hero. But Siren was not a monster known for its martial prowess, so Eren had to agree with Jean here. It was rather strange.

“Oh, she didn’t choose this one, it was given to her.”, the bookie quickly supplied.

“So you… Wait a second.”, even with his wine-addled brain, Jean caught up on the unusuality, “She? Her? This fighter is a…”

“Woman.”, the bookie nodded, “But she is not to be underestimated.”

Laughing, Jean pulled out a few coins and handed them over to the bookmaker.

“Sorry, but I’m tight on the money now, so I’ll be taking the sure way. My coins are on the Cyclops.”, turning towards Eren, he nudged him, “What about you? Don’t want to make some easy denars?”

Maybe it was the old habit of disagreeing with Jean on almost everything, maybe it was something else, but Eren reached into his own purse, pulling out a generous number and putting them into the bookie’s eager hands.

“My money is on the Siren.”, he announced, making Jean’s grin widen.

“Dude, woman gladiators are a joke, don’t you realize that?”

Seeing that Eren was not changing his mind, Jean shrugged.

“Guess you don’t mind losing those then.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”, Eren answered, turning back towards the arena. Just in time too, as the combatants were being ushered in.

First in was the Cyclops, large and imposing scarred man, armed with a net and a trident. Raising those weapons, he was greeted by booming shouts coming from all sides, probably a fan favorite. Then the challenger appeared. The woman was lightly armored, most likely relying on speed over brute strength. She was armed with a short sword and a dagger, holding these with an experienced grip. The full helmet on her face prevented Eren from seeing her face, but her body was lithe and crossed with several prominent scars, marked just as her opponent was. She didn’t generate nearly as much hype as he, and there were several laughs heard from the audience. Eren and Ymir were probably the loudest supporters, cheering her on. Cheers or laughter, Siren didn’t seem to care either way, completely ignoring the crowd and keeping her gaze on the opponent.

Once the signal was given, Cyclops was the first to move, poking at his enemy with the trident, abusing the reach he had over her closer ranged blades. But Siren was too fast, easily dodging and batting aside the strikes, moving between them, fluid like water. A few minutes into this dance, the crowd was getting bored, and demands for more action were thrown into the ring. If there was no blood, there was no fun. While Siren ignored those, just as before, Cyclops obeyed, abandoning this safe approach. He stopped using the net as a shield and utilized it as a weapon instead, swiping at his opponent. It was easy to get tangled in it, and once Siren would be caught, a single trident stab would end her. The problem was, she did not get caught. Turning on the aggressive mode, she weaved in between his attempts, slashing at him. Not drawn too close, Siren’s attacks were shallow, more like scratches, but they still hurt and the blood that colored the sands was a proof of it. Cyclops was getting desperate, None of his attacks connected, it looked like he was striking a ghost. The metallic teeth of his trident were always late, the net too slow and clumsy to capture someone as elusive as her. Overwhelmed, Cyclops screamed in defiance before betting it all on a single last thrust, putting all of his might behind it. And for the first time, he aimed true. The spikes of his trident hit Siren in the hip, leaving behind three identical red paths, dripping blood. Unluckily, this also put him directly in her face with nothing to block. Cyclops had about two seconds to celebrate his luck when a short sword was slammed right into his throat, toppling the large man over. Stunned silence followed.

First one to wake was Ymir, shouting her support even louder. She laughed, hugging Historia while her eyes quickly found the bookie, gesturing for him to come closer. Jean on the other hand let out a tired “Fuck me.”, before dropping his head to his hands. Siren herself took a step back, cleaning her blades on the dead man’s body. Hooking a hand under her helmet, she pulled it off, shaking her hair free and revealing her exotic visage. The way the sun glistened on those midnight strands prompted another comment from Jean, who stirred from his defeated slump.

“Damn, would you look at that.”, he said, half-turning towards Eren, “Now it’s easy to see why they call her Siren.”

The girl was indeed alluring, just like the mythical creature, even with her face twisted into a dark grin. Making a very rude gesture towards the crowd that doubted her, she reserved a single wave for Ymir, her loudest supporter, before turning away and ducking into the old door that led into the bowels of the pits. Free from her spell, now that she was gone, Jean moved his attention to Eren, now fully.

“Well, there goes my savings. Say, my good friend, now that you won, would you lend me some coins? It’s not like need them anyway, right? Eren? Eren!?”

But the lucky bet winner did not hear any of that. He was staring at the door where Siren disappeared, completely obvious to his surroundings. Why? Because he knew that face. He knew those almond-shaped grey eyes, albeit now they were much wilder than before. He knew that dark hair, now chopped short, not nearly as long as it was before.

He knew who Siren was.

[moonlightjeno]

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 :: mark x reader

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 :: angst, fluff if you look close enough. fantasy au!

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 :: 4.5k this is so short im sorry

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 :: life had never been easy. especially when you’re an outcasted demon endured to slavery under the false gods. so when he finds an innocent human who seems to be in a very condition than him, well what else can he do but try to get them to change places with you? he is branded by the sin of envy after-all.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 :: cursing, anti-gods movement of sorts, false gods, death. i’ll add more once, the world being cold.

Demonic hell. A sort of hell that isn’t conjured of demons that crawled around, poisonous slime trailing behind them as they screech. The demonic hell that mark resides in consists of everything but demonic slimes and brain dead zombies that the world had taught humans to think off. The place was lonely, it’s only company dry air and a lick of water, a speck of gold, and his own reflection in the cracked mirror that would appear everywhere he went. 

Golden hell. That’s what Mark called the place he was placed in, where the false gods who had accused him of being overly jealous of the world around him and too willing to trade and sacrifice the gods and their “high” and “mighty” morals all for a lick of freedom. It was when mark, eyes dazed with wonder and with the yearning to learn more about the world that he would so often see through the cracked walls of the overly bright and heavenly place that he was caught in the act of wishing to trade places with one of the humans. And there’s this thing about the gods, that the world, teachers all preach about. They tell you about how wonderful and forgiving they are, they tell the children who sit cross-legged with no better understanding of the world around, eyes open wide, mouths agape and open hands grasping onto anything around them as the adults spew on lies and more lies about the gods and their perfection. The thing about gods is that they aren’t gods at all. The gods are false, and Mark found out quickly when he was cast out for not wanting to become one of the false gods. Cast into the barren land in which he stood now. 

The realm in which mortals come through when their souls have left their bodies, and it is up to Mark to tell them that they haven’t been sent to heaven no matter how small of a crime they have committed. It is mark’s job to look at the soulless bodies and tell them about the world that they have entered. The world that greets them, the world that envelops Mark in its dark claws buried them deep into him, a permanent brand on his collarbone of the outlines of a serpent to represent his sin. 

Souls come into a barren desert. There isn’t fire being sprung from crevices in the ground, no castle made out of ebony and skulls from those who have tried to come to save their loved ones, something that mark had never understood. Instead, when the souls enter the realm of envy, they are met with barren and dry air, something that would suffocate you and make your throat run dry to the point where you want to claw at it just to get some sort of air in. The realm of marks sin, which has condoned him to a life of hell and biding, everyday greeting and every day guiding the souls to the torture chambers that is the realm itself make him want to rip his skin out, claw his way out of the sand that surrounds every crevice every hole around him. If he thought about it, as he often had all those years ago when he had been first sent into the golden hell it was genius. The perfect hell for one who wants to take from others, for the boy who just wanted a lick of freedom, a taste to the outside world from which he had grown up and taken and become everyone else around him. The generosity behind his personal hell was that there was no one to compare himself too. No one to take and bargain an offer so that he could have their lives. That is until the golden specks on the shattered mirror began to part, and slowly did the gold and slithering snakes that hung at his sides begin to show him a shape. A new realm. 

Earth. Or the human realm as he had heard the beings around him call it, seemed to be dusted in gold. The world that he would look at through a cracked mirror, dust adorning it’s every crook and crevice conveyed what Mark hadn’t seen in the many years he’d been stuck down where he was. Well where part of his body was, always tied to the demonic and infernal hell that would like the dust that covered the broken images that flitted anywhere gold touched the light.

The light that adorned the realm before him was nothing like the golden hell he was trapped in. or had been stuck in, until the mirror has finally fully cracked and had opened. The swirl of dust and sand, a never-ending whirlpool that had pulled at him until he wasn’t touching the sand, and his boots weren’t on the uneven floors. Serpents didn’t adorn his arms, their slithering bodies no longer crawling up his body, instead, they were replaced by the branded golden tattoo that flashed on his neck. 

The world had seemed to stop and spin around at him. It seemed as if every particle of light that would hit the windows around him would hit just to bounce off and reflect on the world around him. It made his head spin, eyes shifting from one street to the next. Sirens and yells could be heard from the different sections of the avenue, and Mark laughed. A laugh that ripped from his throat and carried to the rest of the world, it didn’t stop. He laughed, eyes trained on the golden specks around him, the snake at his neck moving with his movements and those around him ignored him. It was just another day in the world they called earth. 

Your day like every other day had started with the yelling of the landlord. A screeching yell that wouldn’t leave your head until you were on the street and the bustling of the street, car engines revving and conversations between friends, strangers, and the occasional biker that would yell at a car because they weren’t stopping. 

Earth. The only place you had ever known, and would ever know. With the amount of money you owed the landlord and government, your family's debts a never-ending pressure and shadow at your side that no matter how many shifts, how many hours you worked until your hands would bleed, raw from washing too hard, and your legs would give out halfway up the stairs back to your apartment. It seemed to be that the world was covered in various hues of gray. A series of repeated schemes that would remain the same no matter how much a car would honk it’s honk, because at the end of the day no matter how hard you tried the debts were never-ending. 

It was in the little things that you found comfort, that the greys would shift and become a different variant of color. Times like when the dog you walked by every morning would now come up to you, tongue out ready to lick your hands, and the sight never failed to make you smile. At times it was the way the sun would rise, just at the same time as you did and the purple and orange hues would mix together casting the painting of a lifetime in front of you as it rose and rose towards the sky. Wanting to escape from the life it had beneath the earth’s ground, reaching to somewhere else. It was something you were too familiar with, yet all you had wanted was to give back to your dead parents, be happy with what you had. 

Grey. that’s the world you lived in, grey until you walk down the same street, the cobblestones on the floor are almost too familiar to you. That if you closed your eyes you would know where every crevice and dig would be, just like the church that would ring it’s bells at the exact same time every morning. It was only a matter of seconds before you heard the shrill, 3...2...1… and the bells aren’t heard. Instead, the squeal of laughter disrupts your thoughts, and the world explodes in gold.  

It’s an explosion of dust that seems to cling to the boy in front of you, hair covering his eyes as he clenches onto his stomach laughter, a sort of squeal and giggles, and you can catch the way the tourists eye him. tourist... you think, eyes rolling, they’ll never understand the normality of chaos. You should’ve looked away the moment you saw him, you'd have continued your walk to the next house that had demanded. hands of burning just by thinking of the bleach they’d have to endure from cleaning. But instead, it seems like the hues of grey have been canceled all to be replaced by gold. Gold dust, golden hair, golden skin, everything that surrounds the boy who is now a mere foot in front of you screams color. And you can’t help just reach for a second to see if he’s real if the grey that blurs everything around him, making him the only shape image in your vision. It’s all gold until the tears that seemed to flow from his eyes catch the light and you feel empty as if the world has been yanked from your feet and his eyes meet yours and you’re stuck.

Hell. That's what his eyes remind you of. Not that you had ever been to hell or that you believed in the false ideas that the priests would preach to you every day as you passed the looming church. But his eyes, a never-ending pit of black so dark that you weren’t even sure where the iris was, that held pain and tolerance for something you couldn’t quite place are what you would imagine hell to look like. You seem to be in a trance by him until the laughter stops and it’s replaced by a smirk that adorns his features, it’s childish and you can’t help but smile back. 

“Do you need any help?” the question leaves your mouth softly, and you check the time on your watch. The watch should have stopped working long ago, but somehow it still managed to tick day after day. The boy in front of you chuckles again, his dark eyes absorbing the light around him.

“Uh…” the sound is questioning, and he tilts his head to the side, golden hair shifting, the sun shines behind him almost illuminating him. When he laughs again, you catch the flash in his neck, the golden snake that seems to move him. “Yeah. Do you know where this building” he hands you a piece of paper, slim finger pointing at the image of an old building that you recognized from passing it regularly on your way to the daily houses, ‘is?”

A light nod of your head and he’s smiling again. The type of smile that is contagious and makes everyone around him want to laugh along. 

“Great! Lead the way” 

“Yeah I have work” and with that, you check your watch, five minutes before your shift starts, and commence your walk again, quick movement of feet, head down counting the cracks on the cobblestone. You get exactly thirty seconds, you know, because that is the amount of time it takes you to cross the street and turn to the block where the house is before your peace is disrupted. The hand on your arm makes you jump backward, and you’re ready to hit whoever is holding onto you, only to find black eyes meeting yours, and the hand that’s been hanging onto you’re an arm to flash gold before retreating. 

“Well then, after work?”

“No” you continue to walk, and tap on your shoulder reminds you of the boy behind you. 

“I just really need to get here” his voice is slightly pleading, but his tone shifts slightly at the end and his fingers are no longer on your clothed shoulder, and you shake your head again. 

“Come onnnn” his constant whining makes you speed up your pace, the time slowly ticking down until you are at the door of the humongous house that makes you question why people would want things this big when they wouldn’t take care of them.

“Okay, okay” he stands in front of you now, the sun is no longer shining behind him, but in front and his frame seems to be coated in golden light. Dark eyes squinted to attempt from stopping the uv rays from stopping his vision, a small smile gracing his features. A small grunt escapes your lips, followed by a “what?”

“Let me help you?” he asks the question as if it was obvious, and a worker could let a stranger in to help them with their day. If he knew how if the owners or the landlord found out that you had let in someone else into the house the beating you would get. The thought itself made you laugh, a dry and humorless laugh, “no’.

“Can you say anything more than ‘no’?” the words are teasing, his smile never fading, and you check your watch again, thirty seconds before your shift begins and you try to walk around him. The smile that escapes your lips is more like a grin and you repeat the words again, before entering the household. 

The apartment smells like bleach and rubbing alcohol. It’s cold, the a/c always running making the house dry and arid compared to the streets. You hate almost everything about the too-big house. From the too tall ceilings, that make your back hurt every time you have to clean the ceilings and windows that stretch across the walls. 

It was the flashes of gold around the house, that made the world around them look deflated. Chandeliers hanging from one ceiling dropping low and clinging every time the windows would be open and the wind would blow-by. You made your way to the storage closet, even though it was too big, it seemed as if they just would give and give money but never for the right reasons. Never to help the poor children that you would pass when you would walk back at night, as they held out their hands asking for anything to get by. The money went all away, washed down the diamond-encrusted watches and gold washed lamps and pots. It disgusted you, but it was either this or out on the street debts till dragging you down black and blue bruises covering your body. 

So you stood up, and began to clean, forcing yourself to not break the vase to your right, or accidentally spill too much bleach onto the silk sheets. 

Mark was about to quit. He hadn’t thought that gaining someone’s confidence would be this hard, especially someone who seemed to be struggling to keep food in their stomach. It was as if you didn’t even think the word help would be relevant to you, as you strutted around the house concentrating on the task at hand. Thought he could hear the mumbles and curses that would slip through your lips as you took in the surroundings around you. 

It was the way you were so determined to get whatever you needed to get done even in the situation you were in that made mark pause for a second. He looked down at the golden brand that adorned his wrist, he was almost sure you had seen it but prayed to the last false gods that might look out for him, though he really didn’t know why they would, that you hadn’t seen the tattoo. The gold flashed in the bright white light of the house that seemed to push at him, and he decided that he would not take no for an answer. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the blasting a/c that made the house temperature drop below normal, his breath almost visible in the room, or the memories of the demonic hell he would be sent back to if he didn’t get someone to switch places with him. He wanted everything that humans had, the capability to take and take without ever double questioning it, the freedom that came with being human was something the angels never understood. Never bothered to understand, and the brand on his wrist and serpent that would ever so hiss at his ear with too sudden movements were reminders of that. 

Your hands were brushing up against the window sills, no gloves to cover your hands making them raw and vulnerable to the bleached water and multiple products that were displayed out before you. Mark was almost too stunned by the constant hum that left your lips, completely indifferent to the tinted red that had begun to mark your hands until he tripped and the sound that left him forced you to swirl around frown on your face. 

“No” the word left your mouth again, and mark grinned. If there was something he was good at was being persistent and he would get you to come with him to the old abandoned house, and if that meant exposing the tattoo and telling half-truths then it would be okay. 

“yes” was his reply, simple and accentuated. Mark has already leaned down, the first brush he’s found was now in his hands as he dusted off the overly exaggerated vases that he had awed at when first walking in and now wanted to shove off their pristine stand. 

You huffed in annoyance, the thought about hitting him or splashing him with some of the bleach crossed your mind. 

“Look sir, dude, idiot” the words left your mouth with a tinge of poison and disinterest, “i really, truly don’t care what you want. But if my boss comes in here and finds you doing whatever the fuck it is you are doing-” mark scoffed and then grinned it was nice to hear more than a straight no from your mouth. “I will lose my job, which i need. And will have a hell of an afternoon, so for the love of god leave” 

If you had been looking closely, and not as focused on the way mark’s hair fell around his face framing a delicate frame, the way the light refracted on the glass walls the bubbles creating small mocking rainbows in front of you as you scrubbed the debris, you would have seen him flinch at the word god. The word caused a shiver down his spine out of fear and disgust. Never would he be able to curse the gods, unless he wanted to lose the little entertainment that remained in hell. To curse the gods freely, what a liberty he couldn’t wait to have. 

The snap of fingers before him zoomed him back to focus on you, lips pressed together in thought and annoyance. 

“I would, but i can’t” lies, he chided himself but it was the only way to freedom to be human again. You looked at him stunned, and your fists clenched ready to physically kick the man out of your house so mark spoke again, this time his voice was softer and the serpent seemed to hiss louder at his ear. Threatening him, reminding him that he needed this work. And in desperation he let the words that he spoke go into you, let them wave into your mind and get them to do what he wanted. 

Black eyes capture your attention from the moment the first word leaves his mouth and it’s as if you’ve forgotten what you were doing. In a trance-like state that has you feeling for the golden-haired boy in front of you until time has passed and the sun is beginning it’s descendent into the cold and cruel earth. The work for the day, finished in the passing time between you got to the house sun still flaming hot and bright at its peak to where it’s flames had begun to die down. You refuse to think or let the boy in front of you charm you into helping you with work, but much to your dismay it’s only when the day is over that you realize the effect and toll his words had on you. 

It was dizzying, the feeling of the world slowly tipping to the side. Swaying to the mark of the golden haired boys words. Side to side. Mark grinned, the flash of white teeth against the darkening sky shocking you for only a slight second. The moment the smile leaves and his mouth is no longer conveying words the world seems to stop spinning and you shake your head. Focusing on the topic at hand, finishing work. You spin around looking for the materials and tools you need to finish the perfection of the house only to find the windows and surfaces gleaming. The tabletops and walls seemed to shine with a shine you couldn’t quite place but would reflect a yellow hue. The gasp that escapes your lips makes mark’s grin broaden, teeth showing. 

“What did you do” the words aren’t a question but an accusation, a statement to the boy and his grin falters slightly. 

“Helped?” his voice is small, and questionable as if he himself isn’t sure what he did exactly but one look, the blackness dragging you back in, and your anger seems to fade out, replaced by the need to take and replace form someone. It’s as if the mentality from the demon would be switched into yours, envy a haze in your thoughts while mark became more stubborn and the word goddam seemed to frighten him less and less. 

The sun had extinguished it’s flames, and the purple hues of the bruised sky the only thing that helps the two of you walk towards the old abandoned house. A house which was on your way back to the apartment, which shouldn’t make you late before curfew, which in theory was harmless. The moment you had agreed to take him to the house mark’s whole face lit. and you noticed that his pitch black eyes weren’t really black, but a darker brown that grew lighter the more you talked. Or maybe that was just a trick by the light, whatever it was it made you agree to his words. That was no longer demanding or whining but seemed to be freer, much like his movements. 

It isn’t until the two of you reach the abandoned house, and for some reason you can’t place you feel the pull to walk inside. The stars and cracked lamppost the only thing to guide you in the dark as the two of you enter. You can barely make out the floorplan, the windows are mostly broken in the little light that shines through casting shadows across the floor that creaks with every movement you make. You don’t feel, don’t understand why suddenly the world seems to feel heavier around you, as you turn to look at mark who’s gaze seems to look around the house, eyes no wear near the black you’d seen when you’d first met him. 

The house begins to feel too warm and stuffy, and you want out. Mark’s presence behind you is ghost-like as he fidgets with his hands moving them from side to side, or a constant thrum against his arm. Slowly you begin to walk backwards, until you feel an arm wrap around your waist holding you in place. You shift, trying to break free from his grasp, and mark shakes his head, the golden hair that falls into his eyes grazes your neck, sending shivers down your spine. And it’s in that moment, when mark whispers in your ear two words, and the snake by his neck hisses that you realize who he is, but before a scream is ripped from your throat the world turns black. 

The moment your figure becomes grainy, and the dull yellow hue of the sand slides through his fingertips where the warmth of your arm used to be, the world around mark becomes alive. It becomes alive in every way that he dreaded to live, the guilt that gnaws at him from no longer just wanting pulls at him, the memories of the past day a relay of emotions through his mind, almost suffocating. He doesn’t realize when he falls to the creaking floor, knees thudding against the wooden slabs. He doesn’t realize the way the moon now shines in through the windows, of how the serpent at his neck is no longer hissing at him. Doesn’t focus on the world around him, because you are no longer next to him. The warmth seems to have slipped away from him the moment you went to the other world, from the way you would snap at him and scrunch your eyebrows. Small things he had noticed, small things that had made him want to stay on this planet longer, with you longer and it wasn’t until the eclipsed moon passed by the abandoned cabin. Not until sand slipped through his fingers that he realized the feeling he had felt on the walk to the warehouse, the way his hands felt clammy and his eyes would look anywhere but at yours. Yours that had darkened and darkened the more you looked, the more you talked to mark. 

It’s when the guilt weighs him down, when the world has turned to bleak and he no longer feels free as he curses out the gods that he realizes that all this time he’s wanted to get rid of his sin. A sin he never deserved, a sin that was placed on him for choosing differently than what had been appointed. It’s in that moment, that you slip away from him, smile and have a determined gaze on your eyes, that he wishes he was you, that he wants to take it all back. Because he is the sin of envy, the one that wants everything they can’t have and when they get what they want, well then, they don’t want it anymore, because all Mark wanted was you back. But you were never coming back, you would be surrounded by serpents and golden sand dunes with nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait. Envy, how much he wishes he didn’t have it.

𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙨