Warnings: Belphegor. Might be considered creepy, I guess.
/o\/0\/o\
Gleaming ivory teeth glint wickedly from between thin lips, a derisive chuckle singing out teasingly like a dreadful, hellish melody. Long, snow white fingers trail across sallow cheeks, leaving behind thin streaks of crimson. The pallid fingertips shine eye-burning scarlet, and he admires the effect the blood's brilliant color has on his long, thin fingers.
Such a shame it is a commoner's blood. What filth. Shishi, oh well!
He smirks and bends down, brushing his hand through glassy water. Red rolls off his fingers in a cloud, contaminating the clear crystal. He almost thoughtlessly brings up a graceful, well-wrought hand, pretty wrists and sculpted bones sheathed in winter's frost. A small smile twitches on his lips as he gleefully runs the fingertips across his victim's face, caressing the cheeks and flitting across the eyelids.
The demon grins, baring gleaming teeth. Golden, chaotic hair obscures his eyes from view, the richest rays of the sun itself. Insipid yet undeniable colors flood his face and skin, pale, flawless satin flushing with warmth. Blood slips slowly down a pointed canine, splashing against his lips.
I'm psychotic and bloody and Hell, I want to play.
The knife slices so clearly, so elegantly, home, drawing thin lines that seep his greatest pleasure through, streaming in thick torrents to pool at his feet, soaking in between his bare toes. He watches with rapt attention as gurgles pipe from the dying man's throat. He laughs as the bright light of life is extinguished once and for all. Pleasure, heavy and addictive, courses through his veins in pumping excitement as he bends down and feels the pulse die beneath his palm, and he croons jubilantly as the heartbeats fade into nothingness.
He thinks smugly of how many men and women of the mafia call him barbaric, a heartless murderer, even, as he slowly licks away the drying blood that coats his fingers, dragging his tongue across slick skin.
I don't care, I don't care!
After all, what do commoners know? It is only to be expected that they, mere plebeians, do not understand the pleasure, the refined elegance of killing, the one and only beauty of brilliant red welling beneath mutilated bodies. Who are they to question what is life?
Not that it matters, the Prince thinks to himself as he flicks another silver knife into the wall, his sensitive ears straining to hear the resonating twang. They troubled the prince not, the thoughts of these insignificant ants, these petty musings of fleeting life. All he requires from the paltry mortal existence is what they alone can provide; their screams, their terror, their blood.
Ah, blood…
There is something truly beautiful about the way blood flows so easily over his fingers, he muses, as it gleams crimson, the world's purest ruby. He giggles just thinking about it. Oh, how the Prince enjoys the shrieks brought forth by a mere flick of his royal wrist, how he adores how easily a small effort can send his beloved blades carving into soft flesh, rending exquisite contours that leaks life away, how he enjoys the way a storm of glistening, razor-sharp wires can rip screaming souls into oblivion. The echoes of the dying is his favorite music; the sight of demise his favorite scenery.
Laughter rips itself from his throat, a gleeful, demented descant that sings of sadistic bliss. When he's in this state, this state of heavenly ecstasy, the world is his. Here, in his realm, he can't lose. Here, he is God. They can fight him, can struggle against fate itself with all their might, but the end is always the same.
After all, he is a Prince.
/o\/0\/o\
A/N: This was meant to be a characterization ficlet, and I'm actually reasonably proud with how it turned out, considering that it's my first time writing in this sort of way. Sadly, my friend who beta-ed commented that I made Bel sound like a vampire. *gets shot* XD
Playlist: Arashi no Ouji (Belphegor-Fujiwara Yuuki)