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Who is Rire?

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Who is the Rire?

He’s the man that sits across from you at the bar, whiskey in his hand, smile on his face, and soft, soothing voice carrying its way over to you as he speaks.

He’s the man who will wrap his arm around your shoulder, muttering in a murmur that never shows too much of his teeth, whispering close to your ear, sweet promises of nothing and everything.

He’s the man you wish to worship, that’s a thought you’ll have in your head and it’s odd, you’ve never wished for it before, but God, do you wish to be embraced, loved, fucked raw by this stranger who you met a few minutes ago.

Thoughts that won’t cross your mind again, but the seeds are laid, and when he follows you home, when he has you pushed up against the wall and lavishing your mouth with hungry, but patient, kisses, you think of them. Worshipping, fucking, devoured, dead.

Not your thoughts.

He’s distracting you, but he always pulls you back to those thoughts, to those ideas, and there’s a smell of something sharp, ozone, smoke, and you’re pushing him away with your hands, up against his face, get those soft lips away from you, and there’s sharpness against your fingers, yellow, bright yellow and slitted, staring right into your soul.

He’s the man who smiles at you from right in front of you, wide, hungry, nothing patient about his hunger, nothing kind left from the kisses.

He’s the man who watches you as you run away, screaming, into your apartment. Never chasing after, oh no, but he saunters, slowly, in the direction you are. Gives you a lazy grin as he enters the same room as you, as you push him away, as you run away, run in circles.

The front door leads to the living room.

The bathroom door leads to the bedroom.

The kitchen door leads you to the bathroom.

He’s the man who tsks and hums, who softly whispers in your ear even as he’s not nearby that you are such a silly human, what do you think that you’ll gain from this? Freedom? He has you trapped, he has you caught like a pig ready for slaughter.

And there, you stay, and you’re screaming, and you’re begging, no more, please let you wake up.

He’s the man who plants seeds into doubting minds, the man who devours the way the mind breaks, who watches as humans suffer.

He’s the man who wraps slender tentacles around your ankles and pulls you along to the kitchen, who grins as your mind crumbles, gets built back up again with each defiant scream, kick, flailing, crumbles, and gets rebuilt.

He’s the demon who’s leaning against the counter with a cup of tea with the Leviathan’s Cross on the front, a mockery, a flattery, because he’s the king who rules them all below, the one who creates contracts, buys souls, the one who waits and wanders and hungers and bathes in the crumbling minds of humans.

He’s the one who stands and watches you at night as you wander your way home alone, he’s the footsteps in the woods after darkness falls, the face that watches you through the window when you’re home alone.

He’s the demon who sips his tea like a bastard as you scream at him from the floor, as you cry, as you trash around, trying to free yourself from the tentacle with a tight grip around your limbs, and there’s fangs, no, your teeth, blunt, human teeth gnawing on the slippery appendages, gnawing on your flesh, trying to gnaw your way out.

He’s the demon who only smirks as you bleed, as you tear your own artery open, who only smirks as you realize through your rage, your panic, what you’ve done, what you have caused, and the wail pierces through the apartment, unheard.

He’s the demon who wraps his tentacle around your wrist, stops your bleeding, who yanks you up and only hums at your screech, pulling you up high.

He’s the devil who tells you the deal. Soul or death.

He’s the devil who doesn’t cry over spilled souls, as you deny him.

He’s the devil who, without warning, lowers you onto a solid tentacle. Hard, spiked, pressing you down, pulling you down with the black tendrils wrapped around your ankles, who lets it pierce itself all the way up, up through your body.

He’s the devil who wipes your tears away, as you plead for him to stop, get away from you, please, who grants no mercy as he presses his thumbs into your eyes, who grants your blindness, a small mercy.

A part of you think it’s a small mercy.

And you thank him, the devil, as he presses himself into the eye socket, thank him as he trusts himself deep, and you thank him as he plants his seeds into your brain, into your thoughts, and you don’t even wonder how you’re still alive, mind only focused on one thing.

You love the devil.

You wish to die.

And the devil, Rire himself, pats your head as your head follows after as he slides out, as if hungry for more, and the devil himself, the one who you love, is the one who tells you that you were a mere bore, as you slip into darkness, death.

Darkness and death where he awaits you, smiling, you, screaming. A win, for him.