blog dedicated to drabbles, ideas, and short things I don't feel like posting on AO3. for full fics find me on AO3 @RanbowKng follow my main account @MarktheKng
Hiya!! If you're here to make a onshot request, please check my does and don'ts for requests in chapter one of this fic. If I ever do receive a request it will be added to this Oneshot book
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I think I failed the majority of them and barely scraped out of half those classes alive, anyways! I'm writing again and it's none of the WIPs I said I would!
Holy shit you are cooking so hard. I do have to ask though. Smut, yes? Or were you thinking something else? Either way it's peak but I fear that I have never seen someone have so few ingredients and yet cook up an absolute masterpiece.
My physical notes of the translation got ripped up cause I was the genius who accidentally put stickers over the words without thinking. So I'm leaving it here cause I need them for a WIP.
DISCLAIMER: This is NOT a completely accurate translation as some lyrics were changed for rhythmic and also personal reasons. This is NOT an accurate version of the song and I am NOT claiming to have written the original song either. These are simply the lyrics I translated cause I got bored.
Just a heads up, there are bots going around on AO3 accusing people of using AI. Considering the timing, this is likely AI bros' retaliation for AO3 users calling them out for scraping their work. Examples of what you might be sent:
Screenshots from here.
If you get a comment like this, just report for spam and delete.
This happened to me on Monday! Just to note, they seem to be using the usernames of real AO3/Tumblr users, which is creepy and upsetting, and also a weird way to sow discord in our communities.
The boy awoke in a puddle of his own blood, at least, he assumed it was blood, until he realized his blood wasn’t this sticky, and never tasted this sweet. He would have panicked, he really would have, but he had so many other things to worry about. For example, he was supposed to be dead.
This is Ambrose, at least, this is a more grown up version of Ambrose. His memories remained, his body had not. He was bigger, well, he was taller. It was strange, he felt out of place in his body, but not in his brain. He didn’t feel younger than his body, he just simply wasn’t used to it, could you blame him? The poor boy just got his own skin back.
Realizing he was awake, he quickly reached for his face, feeling for flowers. He couldn’t feel those nightmarish black petals forcing their way through his skin against his fingers. Actually, he couldn’t even feel his skin.
He knew his face had felt heavy, but he didn’t realize just how heavy it really was until he was peeling this thing off of his face. He finally managed to pry the object off of his flesh, holding it in his hands. He took a good look at it, feeling his heart sink as he observed every detail.
It was a mold of his face, well, his old face at least, though he didn’t recall his skin being purple in color. If anything he’s been known to be paler than a ghost. There had only been one opening for his left eye. Not that it really mattered, what appeared to be a giant magenta button stitched on with pink and blue thread seemed to speak for itself. It wasn’t strange to him to be reduced to only his left eye, he was half blind long before all of this. It was strange looking at the mask, the yellow thread stitched over the mold of his own mouth was familiar, and the flowers covering the mask were uncannily similar to the one’s he had been ripping out of his own skin not long ago. The only foreign aspect were the tears under the opening for the left eye.
The more Ambrose looked at this cast of his face, the more it became familiar. This hadn’t been a mold of his face, this was his face.
He reached to touch the skin currently on his face. He couldn’t see himself, but frankly, he didn’t want to. He could only imagine that the feeling of scarred skin under his fingertips was only an indication of pure disfigurement. A face only a mother could love, he was certain that was what anyone with the misfortune of seeing him would think. He looked at the remains of his old face, wondering just how much uglier he had gotten since childhood.
And to think his mother spent all this time, all these resources looking for a way to get rid of the flowers.
Was this the solution his mother was looking for? Was this all she would have had to have done? Could he really have avoided being put to sleep all those years ago? How many must have passed by now?
He stood, his mother would be thrilled to hear this. He wasn’t sure how he got out here, but he’d have to get back to the manor at once. His mother must have been worried sick about him after all, her baby boy stuck like that for so long, she would be thrilled to see he had been cured.
“Mother!” He turned towards the manor, his voice croaked as he yelled out but it was still unnaturally cheerful, “Mother it’s me! I’m alive! The flowers are gone! Perhaps now father will…”
The manor was on fire. Where his home once stood was a roaring inferno.
Ambrose’s face fell, his soft brown eyes widening as they reflected the unyielding orange glow. His home, what was left of it, was dying before his eyes. Did his mother know? Or was she among the flames, her screams lost in the crackle.
“No…No mother please,” Ambrose fell to his knees, watching the flames roar. He was a distance from the manor, but just close enough that the flames warmed his skin. He wondered, did the humans know fire could hurt him? Did they know it could kill him just as easily as it did them? Perhaps this was their way of finding out, “No…no! Please! Why!? Mom!”
He screamed at the flames, the flames roared back. He wanted to deny it, but he knew it was true. If his mother really had survived, he would not still be awake. He would still be among the hundred if not thousands of children she had done the same to.
The graveyard was cold, it was always cold out here. He couldn’t live somewhere that he could feel warmth, the humans would only kill him. He grew to hate the cold, he’d give anything to feel only the cold, to do away with this painful burn from the flames for the rest of his life.
He sobbed as the moldy fabric of his pants soaked in the morning dew off the grass. The graveyard was silent, a sound he wasn’t used to. Usually his mother would be humming, or frogs would be singing, or owls sending their regards through the trees, all while the wind breathed down their necks, but it was silent. His sobs filled the air as he felt his world burn before him.
“No…mom, why?” But he already knew why. From the moment he had been born to the day he’d die, humans have it out for him.
Ambrose and his mother were demons. His mother had been alive to witness the execution of thousands of demons, all under the guise of cleansing the world of sin, she told him horror stories of how the humans ransacked her home, forcing her to abandon the man she was supposed to marry and the children she had taken under her wing to survive.
He remembered every detail of the story, a young demon with eyes of gold and a heart of silver, his hair as red as roses and a voice as warm as silk, promised to her by her family as she cultivated her magic. All while caring for two young girls, one with hair bluer than the sky and the other with hair greener than grass, who came to her for protection.
He remembered the way her face fell as she recalled the end of her life, the way her lips quivered as she remembered her husband. A part of him used to wish he could have gone back in time to save her from the misfortune.
But her face would light up once again as she recalled how she met his father. A human.
Ambrose’s father, well…he didn’t want to talk about him. No matter how good a memory got, no matter how happy he seemed when looking at his own son, he always was overshadowed by the way he screamed at his mother, the disgust as Ambrose’s wings began to grow in, and the abandonment.
And now, the humans have everything from him. His home, his mother, his face, it’s all gone. He had nothing. No more promises that one day his mother would teach him witchcraft, no more helping to find a cure for the disease he didn’t realize would one day be his own downfall, no more love. It was all burning with the manor.
He held his own face in his hands. The hardened tears started to hold a meaning to him, leaving him to wonder that if he shed this face, there be more tears? Or would there even be room for the horrid sight beneath? The fire roared, the sound of the building collapsing in on itself ringing through his ears. That’s it, no more home, no more mother, it’s all gone.
Ambrose didn’t know how long he spent weeping in the graveyard. He didn’t want to know. A part of him hoped he’d just die there and be able to reconnect with his mother in the pits of Hell, but he didn’t. There can’t be a story without a storyteller, a title he would give himself along the line, despite knowing there would be no audience to perform for.
All he knew was that he had been there long enough to not notice a human walking up to him.
The man had neat brown hair, kept short and laid back. His expression was cold, adorned with a thick handlebar mustache. He carried a cane in one hand and a magenta umbrella over his head in the other, despite the lack of rain. His suit was well tailored, the medals over his left breast acting as an indication of his power. He approached a gravestone, laying several objects over the person who was laid to rest.
Ambrose didn’t notice him, he was too busy weeping.
The human, however, noticed him right away. It’s not exactly like a boy with large, raven-like wings and unkempt violet hair could be ignored very easily, especially not when he was the loudest thing in the graveyard that night.
Of course the human would recognize him, someone had to bring the boy into the world.
“Ambrose?” The man’s voice was gruff, a hint of audacity in every word he spoke. He lowered his umbrella as the grown up version of a face he thought was long gone sat before him, “Is that really you?”
Ambrose failed to notice the man, even as he spoke, his ears were filled with his own sobs as he watched the remains of his house get turned to dust.
“Ambrose,” the man spoke again, approaching the boy, “Goodness, Ambrose, is that…are you…” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he only felt bone beneath the fabric of his shirt, “My god…”
Ambrose finally turned around to meet the man’s eyes. Sure enough, he was met with the face of his father. He didn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him. What was he meant to do? It’s not like all the resentment he’d built magically disappears when he shows his face at his mother’s death.
Ambrose stayed silent, knowing his appearance must have frightened his father. His eye trailed to the mosaic of stars above them. How could the heavens paint such a beautiful picture over such an unjust scene? Do they not remember how they had assigned their demons to protect humanity just as urgently as their angels?
“My boy…my dear son…you truly are alive!” His father bent down to reach his level, his arms outstretched for a hug. Ambrose jumped backwards, not wanting the man’s disgusting hands all over him. He felt no pity when the man’s face fell. He lost the privilege of being his father long ago. This stranger had been posing a threat as much as any other human would.
“I have been this entire time,” Ambrose spat, his eye piercing sharper than the sword his mother’s executioner had likely drawn in her final moments, “Mother begged you for help.”
“Lenora…” the man’s voice trailed off as he was reminded of her, the love of his life, “By God was she brilliant! She kept you alive!”
“You left her,” Ambrose hissed once again, his mouth forced into a sneer, “You left us! And now look at what you humans have done to us!” Ambrose sat up, his eye burning with pure hatred, “My only home is gone! My mother is dead and it’s all because you couldn’t overcome your obnoxious human ego!”
As he stood he began to cough wildly, his lungs feeling heavy. He was quickly brought back down to the ground by the sheer force of a cough alone, gripping his dampened shirt in agonizing pain. The man moved to help him, but Ambrose simply held up a hand, shooting him a glare, warning him not to come any closer.
The man’s face was brimming with regret, “I have been a great fool son, but I don’t wish to see you in pain.” He looked over at the gravestone he had been paying his respects to before a hopeful look brimmed on his face, “Perhaps not all is lost.”
“All was lost the moment you walked out,” Ambrose grunted, sitting on his knees to continue scowling at this stranger of a man, “Nothing can remedy the damage done.”
“Her spellbook,” Ambrose’s ears pricked at the sound of those words, “The lost texts…I had stolen them from her, long before she and I had fallen for each other.”
“Where are they!?” Ambrose demanded, leaning closer to the man.
“With their rightful owner,” the man said, his eyes glued to the gravestone, “And now, they’re yours.” From his mother’s grave, the man picked up a leather-bound book, a black velvet cloak, and a white chrysanthemum, “These flowers were her favorite.”
“I know,” Ambrose said, never looking away from the treasures this man was holding, “She loved them because they had looked nothing like the flowers growing in my face.”
The man shook his head, chuckling, “She loved them long before we had brought you into this world my boy.” He picked out a flower before returning the rest to the stone, “She always wondered how something so beautiful could be so tragic. I told her that God mourns the beauty he can’t obtain, that’s why she had been born a demon.”
“Then what of me?” Ambrose spat once again, “Was I born out of a reminder that the world is ugly and humans are failures to the Great Master?”
The man sighed, “You are a wonderful thing to come out of such a hopeless case. Your life is a product of love, and your suffering is a product of greed…my greed.”
“I know,” Ambrose turned up his nose, taking the book and cloak from the man’s hands, “Don’t make yourself out to be a victim when you were the perpetrator of tragedy.”
The man looked at the boy with overwhelming pity. Whether it was for the boy or himself was unclear. He simply sighed and held out a hand for the boy, “Your clothes are soiled my child. Come with me, I’ll have an outfit tailored to your needs.”
“Your people will kill me,” Ambrose flashed a glare at him.
“They’ll have to go through me first,” the man said. When Ambrose looked up at him with a softened gaze, he smiled gently, “Let’s go home my boy, You deserve better than to rot with her.”
Ambrose didn’t know what to make of it all. He wanted to bawl in his arms and beg him to help make all the hurt go away. He wanted to rip the man limb from limb and leave him bleeding on the pavement so he could begin to conjure in his mind a fraction of the suffering he had put them through. He wanted the world to just stop spinning for a moment so he could at least be sure his feet were still planted firmly in the ground.
“I want a suit like her dress,” Ambrose demanded, his gaze hardening once again defensively, “Demonic suits are colorful, intricate, expensive! I want a suit indicating that I’ve come of age!”
The man chuckled, holding out his hand further, “We can arrange that. Do you wish for the same red as her corset? Perhaps the silver of her dress?”
Ambrose felt a genuine smile forming on his face. Was this really happening? Has his father truly come back? Was there a chance he’d finally get to live among humans? The thought thrilled him in ways he couldn’t understand.
“I wish for a blue undershirt, perhaps a red waistcoat, maybe even a purple overcoat!” Ambrose demanded, “And pinstripe trousers! Like the ones you wore!”
The man’s smile grew wider, “My son…”
Ambrose eagerly reached out to take the hand of the man before him, “Father…” Before he could grab a hold of him, he was sent reeling backwards, gripping his mouth as he hacked violently.
“Ambrose!” The man bent down to his son’s level, too scared to lay a hand on him, “Talk to me son, what’s happening?”
Ambrose lurched, coughing one last time before moving his hands, revealing a petal darker than the night sky, along with splatters of his blood dripping through his boney fingers. His eyes widened in fear as he looked up at the man, his heart racing a million miles a minute.
“Dad…” his voice had grown higher pitched and his breath sporadic as he looked up at the man, “What’s happening to me? Dad!”
“Dear god…not my baby…” the man dropped his cane to put a hand over his chest, looking at the frightened boy, no different from the one he left behind other than he had grown taller and far more scarred.
“Dad,” Ambrose looked up at him in desperation, “I’m scared… I don’t want to die dad!”
“I know Ambrose, I know,” He looked around, hoping for help. No one would dare step close to the grave of a demon, “I swear to God I’ll fix this…”
Ambrose coughed once again, blood and petals forcing their way through his esophagus, burning his throat as he practically vomited the horrid things. He felt his chest seering in pain as he looked up at the man before him, “Dad…”
The man’s eyes went from pity to regret, his pain nearly matching that of the dying Ambrose. He curled his hand into a fist and let out a breath, “A curse by my own hands, solved by my own…” He got down on his knees, waiting for the boy to stop choking before speaking in the same tone he had used to put him to bed, “Ambrose, look at me.”
In a state of fear and confusion, he looked up at his father. The pain and fear were racing through his veins, begging for an answer, an end to the suffering, anything. All he was met with was the realization he hadn’t lost everything just yet, but he would very soon.
“I need you to listen carefully son,” the man said, looking at him through an unmoving gaze, “You will take my clothes, at least so you have something clean to wear. You will read your mother’s spells. And no matter what, you will protect yourself. Understand?”
“Dad, please…”
“I already lost her! I can’t lose you too!” the man shouted, “Do you understand?”
Ambrose felt tears forming in the corner of his eye as he nodded sorrowfully, “Yes father.”
“Good,” he nodded back, his rage subsiding, “The umbrella, your mother made it. It will protect you from all danger. It kept your mother hidden from sight when travelling to meet with me and should do the same for you. Only one person will be able to see through this spell.”
“Who?” Ambrose asked, the blood dripping from his mouth like a well.
The man opened his mouth, but closed it to shake his head, “I pray for your sake she doesn’t exist.” He moved closer to the boy, his eyes filled with nothing but compassion and love, “Promise me that even though you’ll take everything, you’ll at least leave me my medals in the grave? It’s unbecoming of a mayor to be buried without them.”
Ambrose wiped the blood from his mouth before nodding, “I promise. I-” He retched, a fully formed flower escaping with a spew of blood.
“Good,” the man hummed before grabbing Ambrose in a hug, holding him tightly, knowing of the Hell he was about to go through, “I love you son.”
Ambrose looked up, meeting the eyes of his father, “I love you too dad.”
As they looked over each other one last time, black boils began to tear through his father’s flesh. A sickly rash took over his skin as the pressure in Ambrose’s chest finally started to subside. His father pushed backwards, clawing at his face as flowers ripped through his flesh, blood spitting out of the wounds as his face became a mix of black petals and crimson liquid, both making the skin beneath pale by comparison. Ambrose remembers how much it hurt. He remembers how much he wanted to rip out the flowers and crush the petals beneath his feet. He remembers how much it hurt to try and fix what couldn’t be saved.
His father writhed in agony, screaming and ripping at the petals. But that’s what the disease wanted. When one petal is torn, another flower blooms in the flesh, tearing through the skin to sprout as it roots deep in your blood vessels. Eventually they begin to sprout in your brain, eating it alive and rendering you no more than a zombie. Once it reaches the senses, you die, your body covered in the dark petals and your face no longer recognizable. He collapsed on the ground, gasping out his last breath with no final words to leave behind.
Ambrose got to work, stripping the corpse of its suit, all black, no pinstripes on the pants for once. The one thing he hadn’t wanted. He threw the cloak over his shoulders, pinning it around his neck before pinning his father’s medals to his chest, providing the only color his outfit would receive.
“You promised to come back, guess we can both forget a promise we made in an instant,” Ambrose clicked his tongue, kicking the head of the corpse as he lifted the umbrella over his head. He wanted the humans to see his corpse like this, to know that the demonic race was not gone, and there would be no limit to the rage he harbored for their hate.
He picked up his former face and the spellbook before he walked towards the human town with his heart set on transforming every building, built on a foundation of warmth and security, into ash and dust. That was, until he stepped on something squishy and covered in the same sticky substance he had woken up in.
It was a doll, no more, no less. It’s felt was dark brown and the hair made out of yarn was in dark braids no thicker than a needle. The doll was of a girl Ambrose didn’t recognize, small black fabric bunches stitched into its face. No buttons had been sewn over its eyes, but the small bead glistened in the moonlight, her outfit being blood red, but darkened by the sap it was laying in.
Ambrose felt his heart begin to race, his blood rushing and his head pounding as he looked down at the doll. He stepped backwards, half expecting it to jump up and rip his throat out, the other half of him knowing everything was irrational, and his fears were irrational. It wouldn’t happen again, it couldn’t. Look at the stars! Look at the grass! Look at all the very real things around, not covered by a sheer veil. He wasn’t going back, he wouldn’t.
Glancing at the doll once again, he gasped before spreading his wings, ignoring the blinding soreness beneath the raven black feathers and took flight, dashing into the woods where no doll-or any fabric monstrosity for that matter-could reach him.
Fifteen minutes later, someone else picked up the doll.
A boy with skin a color uncannily similar to the fabric of the doll he picked up out of the sap, but striking gold hair pinned in a high ponytail opposite to hers. He twisted the doll in his fingers before humming, too focused on it to see the flower covered corpse before him.
“Corbin!” A voice from the woods called out to him, “Get back in position!”
“But…Maria…” the boy said, his grip on the doll becoming tighter, in spite of the sticky substance between his fingers.
“Quit talking about her like she’s alive! We have work to do!” The voice grunted, “Do you wish to join that…thing!”
The boy took a deep breath before returning to the woods, pocketing the doll next to his crossbow carefully, “Right away father.”
The night grows darker, the fire still roars, and the boys continue to walk in paths opposite to each other.
The boy awoke in a puddle of his own blood, at least, he assumed it was blood, until he realized his blood wasn’t this sticky, and never tasted this sweet. He would have panicked, he really would have, but he had so many other things to worry about. For example, he was supposed to be dead.
This is Ambrose, at least, this is a more grown up version of Ambrose. His memories remained, his body had not. He was bigger, well, he was taller. It was strange, he felt out of place in his body, but not in his brain. He didn’t feel younger than his body, he just simply wasn’t used to it, could you blame him? The poor boy just got his own skin back.
Realizing he was awake, he quickly reached for his face, feeling for flowers. He couldn’t feel those nightmarish black petals forcing their way through his skin against his fingers. Actually, he couldn’t even feel his skin.
He knew his face had felt heavy, but he didn’t realize just how heavy it really was until he was peeling this thing off of his face. He finally managed to pry the object off of his flesh, holding it in his hands. He took a good look at it, feeling his heart sink as he observed every detail.
It was a mold of his face, well, his old face at least, though he didn’t recall his skin being purple in color. If anything he’s been known to be paler than a ghost. There had only been one opening for his left eye. Not that it really mattered, what appeared to be a giant magenta button stitched on with pink and blue thread seemed to speak for itself. It wasn’t strange to him to be reduced to only his left eye, he was half blind long before all of this. It was strange looking at the mask, the yellow thread stitched over the mold of his own mouth was familiar, and the flowers covering the mask were uncannily similar to the one’s he had been ripping out of his own skin not long ago. The only foreign aspect were the tears under the opening for the left eye.
The more Ambrose looked at this cast of his face, the more it became familiar. This hadn’t been a mold of his face, this was his face.
He reached to touch the skin currently on his face. He couldn’t see himself, but frankly, he didn’t want to. He could only imagine that the feeling of scarred skin under his fingertips was only an indication of pure disfigurement. A face only a mother could love, he was certain that was what anyone with the misfortune of seeing him would think. He looked at the remains of his old face, wondering just how much uglier he had gotten since childhood.
And to think his mother spent all this time, all these resources looking for a way to get rid of the flowers.
Was this the solution his mother was looking for? Was this all she would have had to have done? Could he really have avoided being put to sleep all those years ago? How many must have passed by now?
He stood, his mother would be thrilled to hear this. He wasn’t sure how he got out here, but he’d have to get back to the manor at once. His mother must have been worried sick about him after all, her baby boy stuck like that for so long, she would be thrilled to see he had been cured.
“Mother!” He turned towards the manor, his voice croaked as he yelled out but it was still unnaturally cheerful, “Mother it’s me! I’m alive! The flowers are gone! Perhaps now father will…”
The manor was on fire. Where his home once stood was a roaring inferno.
Ambrose’s face fell, his soft brown eye widening as they reflected the unyielding orange glow. His home, what was left of it, was dying before his eyes. Did his mother know? Or was she among the flames, her screams lost in the crackle.
“No…No mother please,” Ambrose fell to his knees, watching the flames roar. He pushed the tangles of his violet hair off his forehead in hopes it would change the view. He was a distance from the manor, but just close enough that the flames warmed his skin. He wondered, did the humans know fire could hurt him? Did they know it could kill him just as easily as it did them? Perhaps this was their way of finding out, “No…no! Please! Why!? Mom!”
He screamed at the flames, the flames roared back. He wanted to deny it, but he knew it was true. If his mother really had survived, he would not still be awake. He would still be among the hundred if not thousands of children she had done the same to.
The graveyard was cold, it was always cold out here. He couldn’t live somewhere that he could feel warmth, the humans would only kill him. He grew to hate the cold, he’d give anything to feel only the cold, to do away with this painful burn from the flames for the rest of his life.
He sobbed as the moldy fabric of his pants soaked in the morning dew off the grass. The graveyard was silent, a sound he wasn’t used to. Usually his mother would be humming, or frogs would be singing, or owls sending their regards through the trees, all while the wind breathed down their necks, but it was silent. His sobs filled the air as he felt his world burn before him.
“No…mom, why?” But he already knew why. From the moment he had been born to the day he’d die, humans have it out for him.
Ambrose and his mother were demons. His mother had been alive to witness the execution of thousands of demons, all under the guise of cleansing the world of sin, she told him horror stories of how the humans ransacked her home, forcing her to abandon the man she was supposed to marry and the children she had taken under her wing to survive.
He remembered every detail of the story, a young demon with eyes of gold and a heart of silver, his hair as red as roses and a voice as warm as silk, promised to her by her family as she cultivated her magic. All while caring for two young girls, one with hair bluer than the sky and the other with hair greener than grass, who came to her for protection.
He remembered the way her face fell as she recalled the end of her life, the way her lips quivered as she remembered her husband. A part of him used to wish he could have gone back in time to save her from the misfortune.
But her face would light up once again as she recalled how she met his father. A human.
Ambrose’s father, well…he didn’t want to talk about him. No matter how good a memory got, no matter how happy he seemed when looking at his own son, he always was overshadowed by the way he screamed at his mother, the disgust as Ambrose’s wings began to grow in, and the abandonment.
And now, the humans have everything from him. His home, his mother, his face, it’s all gone. He had nothing. No more promises that one day his mother would teach him witchcraft, no more helping to find a cure for the disease he didn’t realize would one day be his own downfall, no more love. It was all burning with the manor.
He held his own face in his hands. The hardened tears started to hold a meaning to him, leaving him to wonder that if he shed this face, there be more tears? Or would there even be room for the horrid sight beneath? The fire roared, the sound of the building collapsing in on itself ringing through his ears. That’s it, no more home, no more mother, it’s all gone.
Ambrose didn’t know how long he spent weeping in the graveyard. He didn’t want to know. A part of him hoped he’d just die there and be able to reconnect with his mother in the pits of Hell, but he didn’t. There can’t be a story without a storyteller, a title he would give himself along the line, despite knowing there would be no audience to perform for.
All he knew was that he had been there long enough to not notice a human walking up to him.
The man had neat brown hair, kept short and laid back. His expression was cold, adorned with a thick handlebar mustache. He carried a cane in one hand and a magenta umbrella over his head in the other, despite the lack of rain. His suit was well tailored, the medals over his left breast acting as an indication of his power. He approached a gravestone, laying several objects over the person who was laid to rest.
Ambrose didn’t notice him, he was too busy weeping.
The human, however, noticed him right away. It’s not exactly like a boy with large, raven-like wings and unkempt violet hair could be ignored very easily, especially not when he was the loudest thing in the graveyard that night.
Of course the human would recognize him, someone had to bring the boy into the world.
“Ambrose?” The man’s voice was gruff, a hint of audacity in every word he spoke. He lowered his umbrella as the grown up version of a face he thought was long gone sat before him, “Is that really you?”
Ambrose failed to notice the man, even as he spoke, his ears were filled with his own sobs as he watched the remains of his house get turned to dust.
“Ambrose,” the man spoke again, approaching the boy, “Goodness, Ambrose, is that…are you…” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he only felt bone beneath the fabric of his shirt, “My god…”
Ambrose finally turned around to meet the man’s eyes. Sure enough, he was met with the face of his father. He didn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him. What was he meant to do? It’s not like all the resentment he’d built magically disappears when he shows his face at his mother’s death.
Ambrose stayed silent, knowing his appearance must have frightened his father. His eye trailed to the mosaic of stars above them. How could the heavens paint such a beautiful picture over such an unjust scene? Do they not remember how they had assigned their demons to protect humanity just as urgently as their angels?
“My boy…my dear son…you truly are alive!” His father bent down to reach his level, his arms outstretched for a hug. Ambrose jumped backwards, not wanting the man’s disgusting hands all over him. He felt no pity when the man’s face fell. He lost the privilege of being his father long ago. This stranger had been posing a threat as much as any other human would.
“I have been this entire time,” Ambrose spat, his eye piercing sharper than the sword his mother’s executioner had likely drawn in her final moments, “Mother begged you for help.”
“Lenora…” the man’s voice trailed off as he was reminded of her, the love of his life, “By God was she brilliant! She kept you alive!”
“You left her,” Ambrose hissed once again, his mouth forced into a sneer, “You left us! And now look at what you humans have done to us!” Ambrose sat up, his eye burning with pure hatred, “My only home is gone! My mother is dead and it’s all because you couldn’t overcome your obnoxious human ego!”
As he stood he began to cough wildly, his lungs feeling heavy. He was quickly brought back down to the ground by the sheer force of a cough alone, gripping his dampened shirt in agonizing pain. The man moved to help him, but Ambrose simply held up a hand, shooting him a glare, warning him not to come any closer.
The man’s face was brimming with regret, “I have been a great fool son, but I don’t wish to see you in pain.” He looked over at the gravestone he had been paying his respects to before a hopeful look brimmed on his face, “Perhaps not all is lost.”
“All was lost the moment you walked out,” Ambrose grunted, sitting on his knees to continue scowling at this stranger of a man, “Nothing can remedy the damage done.”
“Her spellbook,” Ambrose’s ears pricked at the sound of those words, “The lost texts…I had stolen them from her, long before she and I had fallen for each other.”
“Where are they!?” Ambrose demanded, leaning closer to the man.
“With their rightful owner,” the man said, his eyes glued to the gravestone, “And now, they’re yours.” From his mother’s grave, the man picked up a leather-bound book, a black velvet cloak, and a white chrysanthemum, “These flowers were her favorite.”
“I know,” Ambrose said, never looking away from the treasures this man was holding, “She loved them because they had looked nothing like the flowers growing in my face.”
The man shook his head, chuckling, “She loved them long before we had brought you into this world my boy.” He picked out a flower before returning the rest to the stone, “She always wondered how something so beautiful could be so tragic. I told her that God mourns the beauty he can’t obtain, that’s why she had been born a demon.”
“Then what of me?” Ambrose spat once again, “Was I born out of a reminder that the world is ugly and humans are failures to the Great Master?”
The man sighed, “You are a wonderful thing to come out of such a hopeless case. Your life is a product of love, and your suffering is a product of greed…my greed.”
“I know,” Ambrose turned up his nose, taking the book and cloak from the man’s hands, “Don’t make yourself out to be a victim when you were the perpetrator of tragedy.”
The man looked at the boy with overwhelming pity. Whether it was for the boy or himself was unclear. He simply sighed and held out a hand for the boy, “Your clothes are soiled my child. Come with me, I’ll have an outfit tailored to your needs.”
“Your people will kill me,” Ambrose flashed a glare at him.
“They’ll have to go through me first,” the man said. When Ambrose looked up at him with a softened gaze, he smiled gently, “Let’s go home my boy, You deserve better than to rot with her.”
Ambrose didn’t know what to make of it all. He wanted to bawl in his arms and beg him to help make all the hurt go away. He wanted to rip the man limb from limb and leave him bleeding on the pavement so he could begin to conjure in his mind a fraction of the suffering he had put them through. He wanted the world to just stop spinning for a moment so he could at least be sure his feet were still planted firmly in the ground.
“I want a suit like her dress,” Ambrose demanded, his gaze hardening once again defensively, “Demonic suits are colorful, intricate, expensive! I want a suit indicating that I’ve come of age!”
The man chuckled, holding out his hand further, “We can arrange that. Do you wish for the same red as her corset? Perhaps the silver of her dress?”
Ambrose felt a genuine smile forming on his face. Was this really happening? Has his father truly come back? Was there a chance he’d finally get to live among humans? The thought thrilled him in ways he couldn’t understand.
“I wish for a blue undershirt, perhaps a red waistcoat, maybe even a purple overcoat!” Ambrose demanded, “And pinstripe trousers! Like the ones you wore!”
The man’s smile grew wider, “My son…”
Ambrose eagerly reached out to take the hand of the man before him, “Father…” Before he could grab a hold of him, he was sent reeling backwards, gripping his mouth as he hacked violently.
“Ambrose!” The man bent down to his son’s level, too scared to lay a hand on him, “Talk to me son, what’s happening?”
Ambrose lurched, coughing one last time before moving his hands, revealing a petal darker than the night sky, along with splatters of his blood dripping through his boney fingers. His eyes widened in fear as he looked up at the man, his heart racing a million miles a minute.
“Dad…” his voice had grown higher pitched and his breath sporadic as he looked up at the man, “What’s happening to me? Dad!”
“Dear god…not my baby…” the man dropped his cane to put a hand over his chest, looking at the frightened boy, no different from the one he left behind other than he had grown taller and far more scarred.
“Dad,” Ambrose looked up at him in desperation, “I’m scared… I don’t want to die dad!”
“I know Ambrose, I know,” He looked around, hoping for help. No one would dare step close to the grave of a demon, “I swear to God I’ll fix this…”
Ambrose coughed once again, blood and petals forcing their way through his esophagus, burning his throat as he practically vomited the horrid things. He felt his chest seering in pain as he looked up at the man before him, “Dad…”
The man’s eyes went from pity to regret, his pain nearly matching that of the dying Ambrose. He curled his hand into a fist and let out a breath, “A curse by my own hands, solved by my own…” He got down on his knees, waiting for the boy to stop choking before speaking in the same tone he had used to put him to bed, “Ambrose, look at me.”
In a state of fear and confusion, he looked up at his father. The pain and fear were racing through his veins, begging for an answer, an end to the suffering, anything. All he was met with was the realization he hadn’t lost everything just yet, but he would very soon.
“I need you to listen carefully son,” the man said, looking at him through an unmoving gaze, “You will take my clothes, at least so you have something clean to wear. You will read your mother’s spells. And no matter what, you will protect yourself. Understand?”
“Dad, please…”
“I already lost her! I can’t lose you too!” the man shouted, “Do you understand?”
Ambrose felt tears forming in the corner of his eye as he nodded sorrowfully, “Yes father.”
“Good,” he nodded back, his rage subsiding, “The umbrella, your mother made it. It will protect you from all danger. It kept your mother hidden from sight when travelling to meet with me and should do the same for you. Only one person will be able to see through this spell.”
“Who?” Ambrose asked, the blood dripping from his mouth like a well.
The man opened his mouth, but closed it to shake his head, “I pray for your sake she doesn’t exist.” He moved closer to the boy, his eyes filled with nothing but compassion and love, “Promise me that even though you’ll take everything, you’ll at least leave me my medals in the grave? It’s unbecoming of a mayor to be buried without them.”
Ambrose wiped the blood from his mouth before nodding, “I promise. I-” He retched, a fully formed flower escaping with a spew of blood.
“Good,” the man hummed before grabbing Ambrose in a hug, holding him tightly, knowing of the Hell he was about to go through, “I love you son.”
Ambrose looked up, meeting the eyes of his father, “I love you too dad.”
As they looked over each other one last time, black boils began to tear through his father’s flesh. A sickly rash took over his skin as the pressure in Ambrose’s chest finally started to subside. His father pushed backwards, clawing at his face as flowers ripped through his flesh, blood spitting out of the wounds as his face became a mix of black petals and crimson liquid, both making the skin beneath pale by comparison. Ambrose remembers how much it hurt. He remembers how much he wanted to rip out the flowers and crush the petals beneath his feet. He remembers how much it hurt to try and fix what couldn’t be saved.
His father writhed in agony, screaming and ripping at the petals. But that’s what the disease wanted. When one petal is torn, another flower blooms in the flesh, tearing through the skin to sprout as it roots deep in your blood vessels. Eventually they begin to sprout in your brain, eating it alive and rendering you no more than a zombie. Once it reaches the senses, you die, your body covered in the dark petals and your face no longer recognizable. He collapsed on the ground, gasping out his last breath with no final words to leave behind.
Ambrose got to work, stripping the corpse of its suit, all black, no pinstripes on the pants for once. The one thing he hadn’t wanted. He threw the cloak over his shoulders, pinning it around his neck before pinning his father’s medals to his chest, providing the only color his outfit would receive.
“You promised to come back, guess we can both forget a promise we made in an instant,” Ambrose clicked his tongue, kicking the head of the corpse as he lifted the umbrella over his head. He wanted the humans to see his corpse like this, to know that the demonic race was not gone, and there would be no limit to the rage he harbored for their hate.
He picked up his former face and the spellbook before he walked towards the human town with his heart set on transforming every building, built on a foundation of warmth and security, into ash and dust. That was, until he stepped on something squishy and covered in the same sticky substance he had woken up in.
It was a doll, no more, no less. It’s felt was dark brown and the hair made out of yarn was in dark braids no thicker than a needle. The doll was of a girl Ambrose didn’t recognize, small black fabric bunches stitched into its face. No buttons had been sewn over its eyes, but the small bead glistened in the moonlight, her outfit being blood red, but darkened by the sap it was laying in.
Ambrose felt his heart begin to race, his blood rushing and his head pounding as he looked down at the doll. He stepped backwards, half expecting it to jump up and rip his throat out, the other half of him knowing everything was irrational, and his fears were irrational. It wouldn’t happen again, it couldn’t. Look at the stars! Look at the grass! Look at all the very real things around, not covered by a sheer veil. He wasn’t going back, he wouldn’t.
Glancing at the doll once again, he gasped before spreading his wings, ignoring the blinding soreness beneath the raven black feathers and took flight, dashing into the woods where no doll-or any fabric monstrosity for that matter-could reach him.
Fifteen minutes later, someone else picked up the doll.
A boy with skin a color uncannily similar to the fabric of the doll he picked up out of the sap, but striking gold hair pinned in a high ponytail opposite to hers. He twisted the doll in his fingers before humming, too focused on it to see the flower covered corpse before him.
“Corbin!” A voice from the woods called out to him, “Get back in position!”
“But…Maria…” the boy said, his grip on the doll becoming tighter, in spite of the sticky substance between his fingers.
“Quit talking about her like she’s alive! We have work to do!” The voice grunted, “Do you wish to join that…thing!”
The boy took a deep breath before returning to the woods, pocketing the doll next to his crossbow carefully, “Right away father.”
The night grows darker, the fire still roars, and the boys continue to walk in paths opposite to each other.
Everyone who reads my GaryJohn fics, I need your help. I'm thinking of writing a holiday special Oneshot for the nuclear family since there's nothing Christmas related in the main plot, but I also know it'd be really annoying to get a one off episode rather than the next chapter so I need to know, would you rather get that Christmas special Oneshot? A new chapter? Or something else? Finals are coming uk so pretty soon I'll be able to write like my life depends on it. K thanks bye.
Y'all if I wrote an x reader for faith the unholy Trinity would anyone read it? Also would we want it to be about Father Garcia or Gary? Okay thanks I'll go scurry under a table like a mouse now.
Joy is not the absence of tragedy and tragedy is not the absence of joy. There can be joy in tragedy and tragedy can bring joy. The absence of joy can be just that, and the absence of tragedy can spark turmoil. Escaping a situation won't make everything better and it might cause a loss in joy, but it's good to know that at least you're safe.
Chat if I wrote Who Framed Roger Rabbit oneshots about them being t4t, genderswaped, or swapping the gender of one not the other to make them either gay or lesbian, would anyone read it.
(also would anyone maybe read xreaders if I wrote them about my main fandoms? Huh what's that? *vanishes with the wind*)
