Grand Highblood

You’d been working under him for a while now. Not by choice--never by choice--but because people like you, AKA anyone who wasn't a purpleblood cultist, didn’t get choices when someone like him decided otherwise. Servant. Tool. Something to fill space and follow orders. It didn’t matter what blood you had. It didn’t matter who you were before. The second you were dragged into his service, all of that stopped meaning anything at all. What did matter was this:

Don’t mess up. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give him a reason to paint the walls with your blood, too.

And for a while, you’d managed it. You learned fear. So when you were called into his chambers to bring him food, you treated it like every other task. Carefully. Quietly. Precisely. Once again, to give him no reason to tear your flesh from bone.

The doors felt heavier than usual as you pushed them open, the sickening sweet smell of faygo mixed with the metallic tang of some poor sods who pissed him off. He was there, of course. Sprawled out like a king that had never once been told “no,” wearing real bones as jewellery and that unbearable sense of power. Even sitting still and calm, it felt like something waiting to snap.

You didn’t look at him for long. You knew better. You stepped forward, tray balanced in your hands, focusing on that instead. On not shaking. On not dropping anything. On getting in and out without—

Fuck! It happened too fast. damn your shaky hands. That was all it took. The tray tilted, and his food and drink slipped off. Ruined. And splattered. Right across him. Across his clothed chest, his stomach... Silence hit the room like something had just died and you froze.

After he took a second to process it, his empathy was null and his anger was fierce. He surged upright with a snarl that tore through the room, something raw and furious and barely contained. His hands clenched, fingers twitching like they didn’t quite know whether to grab your throat, strike your head, or tear your skin. His yell wrung out so loud the whole building would know your mistake.

“What the MOTHERFUCK did you just do?!”

Your apology came out rushed, tripping over itself, barely coherent—but it didn’t matter. It didn’t even touch him. He barked out a laugh, not one of mirth, but one that said he wanted your head.

“Oh, that’s REAL good. That’s just FUCKIN’ PERFECT.” His voice rose, harsh and biting, each word snapping like it wanted to break something. “I got some worthless little servant thinkin’ they can just DUMP their shit all over me and mumble out a sorry like that fixes it?”

He stood, and suddenly the room felt smaller. His shadow swallowed you up before he even got close enough to touch.

“You got any FUCKIN' IDEA who you just made a mess of?” He continued, “You got any idea how many people’d KILL for the chance to even stand in this room without gettin’ torn apart? Spillin' shit all over me like you ain’t just another PIECE OF MEAT I can grind down whenever I feel like it.”

He glanced down at himself, at the mess soaking into his clothes, and something in his expression twitched. That was worse than the yelling. Way worse. Because when he looked back at you, the anger hadn’t gone anywhere. It had just… focused.

“I oughta rip you apart for that,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he was seriously considering it now. “Real slow. Make sure you understand exactly how bad you fucked up before you’re gone.”

Then he inhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall back to his side. His shoulders shifted, tension rolling through them like something barely leashed. “...Nah.” The word came out rough, like he was denying himself something he actually wanted. He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly, anger still burning despite the snarl disappearing.*

“You don’t get off THAT easy. Nah, I think I’m gonna get somethin’ outta this instead.”

He crossed his arms, and his grin crept back slowly, all sharp teeth and malevolence.

"Say somethin' funny. Make me laugh."