A/N: Hello, reader! First and foremost, I’d like to thank you for stumbling across this book; your support, even if it’s just a mere read, motivates me beyond bounds! This story began because of a passion-cry within my own life, and I hope to do my best in spreading this world throughout its lifecycle of production~
I'm not gonna lie, I'm second-to-clueless on how this app works. I assume that comments/feedback exists--I came from Wattpad, I should mention--but beyond that, I'm hopeless. XD! Despite that, though, I'll do my best to respond to comments/feedbacks as they come, and I appreciate your engagement nevertheless!
All in all, I hope you enjoy Counting the Stars!
- Mewtwo (Also, make sure you check the description!!!)
”Are you suggesting pain, my lord?” The room was silent. Four candles lit every corner, their flames eerie and dim. Two figures were inside currently: A small Riolu lying flat on his back along with a shadowy, bright creature.
“Yes...” the Riolu trembled, his face pale and hidden. “J-Just... Nothing I can’t hide from Cresselia. A-And nothing permanent—” A pause. “Or, at least, not anything harsher than a few inches...” Even that wasn’t entirely true.
Solus knew he couldn’t ask the demon to kill him—that was strictly beyond his contract!—but tonight, nothing felt better than tasting his own blood.
Sacrificing whatever parts of himself those claws could tarnish.
“You want me to hold back, then?”
There was a curious chime behind the question. The demon, with his master lying frailly beneath him, couldn’t help but grin. Ever since Zeraora had struck a deal with the Riolu’s soul—whom of which was halfway dead, suffering a pain far greater than life—he’d enjoyed every bit of their time together.
Every day, in fact, the prince only lost himself more. Increments of genuine joy were becoming scarce, days of productivity even scarcer. The night he took his own life—or, in better words, tried to—was the night he met Zeraora. The same night he signed the contract, struck the deal, and promised his soul away to the demon forever.
“Y-Yes... W-Well, no, Zeraora...” He bit his lips, gazing into that lustful, untelling grin. His voice was so terribly gentle, too; delicate, plagued with misery. “Just...please don’t be easy on me, okay?”
A genuine request, the measly child looked terribly unsettled. That taste of fear—an aching conscience, one that had never fully restored from the icy depths of the sea—delighted the monster. A sudden urge to lick his lips overtook him, and he breathed a quiet growl in the boy’s ears:
“Let me get this straight, Solus. You wish for me to hurt you, intentionally, and leave a physical trace of it so you can feel a sense of empowerment? Is this what you desire?”
“And I’m free to do whatever it takes to achieve this, so long as there’s no irreversible damage and it maintains proper positioning?”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“I said yes, okay!” Finally, a hint of frustration matched his words, and a hitch in his voice warned of tears refusing to spill.
Zeraora could feel himself slipping. In exchange for saving the prince’s life, written in fine bold print by the hands of the devil, he had become a permanent part of Solus’s soul for good. Any request the broken Riolu had, no matter how uncanny, Zeraora was inclined to follow by spiritual arrangement.
That is, of course, if it didn’t include killing the young master. That was his only boundary; the Riolu would have to die by his own means, and whenever that happened...
He’d finally have the boy’s soul all to himself.
“Before you start...” A singular eye peeked open. Zeraora could hear his master’s heart pounding, could taste that bubbling unrest from the Riolu’s breaths. “O-Only stop if I pass out. If I say stop or anything... Don’t worry about it...”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Master Solus~” The Riolu flinched, recoiling under a sudden paw at his chin. He turned in slow-motion to his side, finding an unused cloth dangling conveniently over his bedside, and grabbed it with tension.
“I’ll gag myself, then, so I can’t speak. H-How about, if I tap three times... Then you can stop.” Nodding, almost to reassure himself at this point, he stuffed the dry cloth past his lips slowly. Zeraora watched it all with a hidden greed; the helpless, submissive scene riled something deeper within him!
With two hands firmly on the side of Solus’s head, the demon targeted his ruby-gaze at the masochist-infected child. Signs of Solus’s decline had been evident to the spirited-mythical for months now. He used to be much stronger; used to put up a fight and cry without shame.
This recent month had been nothing but isolation, however. Solus, especially in the early days of his emotional decline, began relying on the keen hell-walker for everything. Often times, Zeraora dressed him in the mornings, roused him from bed, and bathed him on especially traumatic nights.
This past week was by far the worst it had been, however; Solus merely did as he was told throughout the guild, returned home, and locked himself in the guest room until the next morning. This was an endless cycle until, finally, he called the demon to him for this very unique request:
For Zeraora to make him feel whole again!
To do whatever the hungry-demon so desired—to feed just a tiny bit of his soul to the starving predator, a little tease for what was to come very soon, at this rate. The moment a shaky breath eased from the vulnerable prince, Zeraora forced a nod.
“Very well, Young Solus. A warning, though; I will not be gentle.” The boy only twitched some more, not answering with words but giving him all the merit needed. Positioning himself to a more optimal stance, Zeraora forced his master’s lonely eyes to gaze deep into his lustful smirk; to let Solus know what he had signed up for. Remind him of the contract, remind him of his own suicide, and remind him of those he let die out in that village!
A gentle kiss along his neck, the demon bent over his chest and whispered sweetly into one ear: “Rosie died because of you...” He dragged a cold tongue down the boy’s cervical, feeling him shudder and clench each side of the sheets with desperation.
The night that followed was one of tears, agony, and loneliness, much like every other night since the day he was swallowed by the sea...
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