This idea has been stuck in my head forever. Seven drabbles. One for each of the Seven Deadly Sins.
I'm sure there will be tons of pairings. (I can pretty much promise thiefshipping. This chapter mentions peachshipping and revolutionshipping.)
Everyone will be OOC. By OOC, I mean dark. Very dark. Expect dark themes.
The rating is very subject to change.
Also, feel free to feed me ideas involving the other characters and what sin they should be assigned.
Vanity is a sin, and Anzu knows this.
Knowing isn't everything, though. Knowing isn't believing.
(And if you'll take the time to notice it, the word "lie" is tucked away, comfortably, in the middle of the word "believe," right where it thinks no one will care to notice it.)
And she rakes her fingers through her dark hair—a soft, sweet, lovely brown. The color of a small dear deer. That chestnut color of their large swirling doe-brown eyes. They way those sweet orbs look stuck in the headlights, right before a truck smashes into them.
She stares into a mirror; taking time to draw a brush through those lush locks of her's, and does her best not to study herself. Cut herself open and pick herself apart as she has so many mornings before.
But cut herself open she does, and always will do. Shoves needles into her icy eyes—not doe-brown, not soft, not lovely; but a cold hard blue (the color of corpses)—and rips them to shreds with her thoughts.
Anzu is an ugly little thing, but when she starts comparing her eyes to sapphires instead of rotting human flesh, she forgets this.
It all goes back to that "lie" that likes to hide inside of that word we all know and love.
And on her way to school, she looks. Every mirror, every piece of glass, every window—she seeks out her reflection. Has to make sure her hair looks perfect. Has to make sure her toothy smile is bone-white and her lips smooth and that they hold in all of her secrets.
She's mere steps from the school entrance, and she skims her hands over herself. Smoothes her blouse, perfects her hair, and hikes up her skirt just so—exposing more of the milky white expanse of her legs. White like an angel; the color of blank innocence.
If anyone knows anything about European monarchs they will know that in places like England and France, pallor is a sign of beauty. If one could see the blue of their veins webbing together underneath the soft, pale, skin of their wrist—they were considered lovely.
So, Anzu picks at the sweetsweet baby pink of her blouse sleeve. Inspects herself (cuts herself open) and double checks to ensure the blue rivers are still visible underneath a tangle of bright red slashes and purple watercolor marks.
Vanity is a sin, and Anzu knows this.
She smiles wide as a small boy with tricolored hair comes bouncing towards her. Between the look on her face, and the way she's holding her arms so close, he asks what's wrong.
Nothing, she says in a voice so assured that she even convinces herself of the lie. She leans in, and smears pink lipstick across his small forehead. The blood in his face starts pumping—cheeks soon matching the Tickle Me Pink that Anzu pressed against him.
(Anzu never wears red lipstick, because red attracts too much attention. Because she already has so much red slashed across her prettyvainlittle body.)
And as she seals it with a kiss, she tries not to think of the boy's other half and how she's not sure which one she loves more or less.
Being a vain little girl, she thinks she can have them both. Hold both of them close to her heart; love them both, kiss them both. If they can share one body, they can share one Anzu.
(And she'll drop her regal, pale, Snow White lids over her deadeadead corpse blue pools, and try not to realize that one doesn't know about the other.)
And, tonight,
Anzu will come home,
and she'll realize
how beautifully such sharp objects
can reflect her perfect image.
(Vanity is a sin, and Anzu knows this.)