Death doesn't play games and neither does Orion Kingsley. Double cross him once and you'll never double cross him twice. He's as charming as the Devil himself and even more cunning. For decades after the murder of his wife he cruelly and unapologeti...
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Don't Fear The Reaper by Phlotilla feat. Mona Najib ⭄⭄⭄⭄⭄
1831
Pain coursed through the road map that is his blood vessels. Hijacked his arteries, took a joyride in his capillaries. Mapped out a city of mortality, all rules of the roads were gone. His screams, trapped in his throat by a thick, dark fluid. The beast aimed to kill, savagely ripped out his throat, while unaware he targeted the wrong man. But by a twist of fate has sired progeny. And quite the powerful offspring he will be.
Sputtering dark rivets of liquid from his mouth, he's dying, He can't help but be in awe at how much absolute agony he's in. Scorching, blood boiling agony. His roads alight with a foreign substance, corrupting his mortal blood with a curse. A curse that's turning his city, his body, into a war zone. He is a battlefield of flesh and blood. A curse he will sooner commit suicide than fall victim to around his growing family. Thrashing his large frame against the floorboards, now on his stomach in hopes to move, this only permits screams to tear through his esophagus, ripping his vocal cords to shreds, his voice gets lost in a haze of torment, like some sick fucking joke. As death approaches him so does the carriage carrying his family into town. At this point, death is both welcomed and rejected. One last deep breath and a suffocating pressure hit a climax, stopping his heart, ending his mortality in such a mere millisecond. His life, yet another insignificant loss in such a large scale point-of-view.
As his body begins to reanimate and he moves, it moans in protest from the rigor mortis that had already made itself at home in the crevices of his war-torn body. Cracking joints, like creaky floorboards, a deserted ghost town, houses collapsing in on themselves.
A strong thirst blinds him. He wants it to end, needs it to end, clawing as his throat. He swallows, the dried blood coating his throat acts as a spur, driving him to the edge of insanity. His throat constricts. On his knees, clawing at his throat, he sees red, feels red, needs red.
Vision lost to white, hot, hunger. Hearing overthrown by the very pumping of two nearby life sources. Sense of touch overstimulated, the brush of his nightshirt scratching at his chest, digging at the scars decorating his back, his fingernails scraping at his throat, the pulsating of fangs protruding from his gum-line.
There, two beating hearts, the outline of a warm body, red. Lost to euphoria. red, red. On his hands, on his lips, covering his lap. Iron, the smell of iron. Blood? Its blood. Not his.
"Orion." His name, whispered through lips he kisses every morning.
The candlelight on the nearby stand baths the scene in flickering yellow. His chestnut skin painted crimson. He skims a digit through the thick liquid puddling around his frame. The pool of red corrupted the integrity of his stark white shirt. It's painting his wife's neck in the shade of murder. Everywhere he looks, the shade of murder.
The last bit of life fading from her extended stomach.
