#and then in rebellion those wings are black and she is the devil

[aha-chuu]

One thing I'll never get over is that in the new timeline without Madoka, Homura's magical girl weapon is a bow, which is the same weapon that Madoka used in the original timeline before Homura interfered.

[shadowfae]

hiii! so a friend directed me here and i was wondering if u cld share abt how you found out you were godkin? only if youre comfy! because ive kinda had like. how do i word this. Vibes or Feels that kinda direct me towards the whole i might be a god of sorts kinda thing ? if you have resources and dont mind helping,, please direct me to them :D ~ @missing-crown

I want to start this essay off by saying flat out: wars have been fought, genocides have been committed, and empires have risen and fallen trying to answer the simple questions of “What is deification, and how do we incarnate and control it?”.

If you do not think you’re up the challenge of answering that question for yourself, even with years of study and slow training to take up the mantle of literally being the most powerful form of the Chosen One trope, then you’re probably in the wrong place. I say this as someone who is deific down to the blood and bone, as someone who has looked for other gods, and largely found very little in the way of anyone who understands anything like my experience. In this way, I am utterly alone, and I detest it, but if me penning these words gives someone else the gospel they need to explain themselves in a way I recognize as kin and kind, then I will do it.

But before I truly get into it, I will very nicely ask you to swing down to your local bookstore or library, pick up a copy of Seanan McGuire’s Middlegame, and take a walk down the improbable road with Roger and Dodger. The differences between you and I and the twins of the Doctrine of Ethos are simple and threefold: we cannot manifest, we are forbidden to use our powers the way they can use theirs, and there are (hopefully) no secret alchemist cults trying to murder us when we don’t play nice with their fucked-up science experiment.

Roger and Dodger are gods, true gods, gods I recognize in myself and in the godkin I have met who have spoken about themselves enough for me to understand that we are indeed talking about the same thing. Disappontingly, I see minor spirits far too often misunderstanding the nature of deification, or at least, understanding a version of it which is fundamentally antithetical to my experience. They may be deific; but either they suck at illustrating their point, or I am something far beyond deific, and I am again alone.

With that introduction, I need to talk about three things in order to answer your question. Two methods of deification and three definitions of ‘god’ in a hierarchy that only exists because humanity has not yet perfected their understanding of what is fundamentally and always beyond them. Two kinds of gods, honest gods, that split the difference between deific, divine, and legendary. Once you understand that, I can talk about godkin, and what it’s like to be me, and maybe by the end of it you will either recognize yourself in this, or run away screaming as most mortals will do.

The first method of deification is what I will call the incarnate gods- Roger and Dodger are good examples, so are most Legendary Pokémon, and Kaname Madoka from PMMM. They are laws of nature, concepts of creation, and calculations of cosmic proportions that also occasionally exist as people when they design to do so. They are not meant to be people, they are bad at it, I do not recommend being mortal and fucking around with them. You will simply die. I would not fuck with them outside of my own world that I created, where I get to be a form of incarnate god. You cannot overpower them: they ARE the rule, and they will change it if they need to. You can’t ruleslawyer gravity like a 2007 troll physics comic. An incarnate god of gravity will simply turn reality on its head and cause you to implode. If you are this type of god, I cannot help you. My understanding of them comes from being an Absol, and little more.

The second type are gods of domain and prowess: Zamorak (from RuneScape), Akemi Homura in both her awakened Witch and Devil forms (from PMMM), and yours truly. Quite a few of us, although not all of us, were originally mortal. Mortals amped up on so much power we are no longer bound by mortal laws. There is a difference between deification and simply stopping your clock to gain immortality. Mortal magic and deific magic are fundamentally different. Down to, I would argue, the atomic structure. Deific magic is pure in a way mortal magic could never be. To give a mortal more than a drop of deific magic heavily diffused in something safer and more understandable would be to quite literally burn them to ashes. Or rend them into a different, unspeakable form. Or turn them into living topiary. We are nothing if not unpredictable.

It’s the difference between a handful of dirt and pure neutron soup. Usually, in order to become a god like this, it requires the intervention of an incarnate god in some form. In Zamorak’s case, it was several Elder Artifacts and falling almost facefirst into halfway incarnating himself into the law of entropy. In Homura’s (at least in canon PMMM), she fucked with the laws of consequence and time to the point where she became the only expert they had on either of those and both laws decided to simply incarnate into her, and then she used that to cause problems. For me, it was having my entire magical and physical structure reorganized and rebuilt by an incarnate god of malevolent energy, and then I used what was a watered-down copy of the Devil of Devils’ glory to weave my own world into being where I was more or less the absolute arbiter of the laws of reality.

In PMMM Rebellion, when Homura fights Kyubey in that pretty lace dress of hers, that is approximately the magical prowess an awakened god of our capability will show casually. She has complete control over her domain (her labyrinth) and the reality of it, it takes no more than a glance or a thought to almost entirely reshuffle it. Her minions, who are little more than vaguely autonomous thoughts given some power of their own, may break that reality in whatever means necessary so long as it is to fulfill Homura’s current motives. Her domain falls apart when she does, and she is not separate from it; it is a consequence of her existence. Asking what came first, the god or their domain, is a simple chicken and egg question. It’s usually the domain, in our case; in the case of incarnate gods it’s a philosophical shrug and a nice headache.

You’ll notice I said awakened: that is because Zamorak is a great example of a god who isn’t entirely awakened. In canon, that is - the one I work with is awakened enough to fuck with his domain, which is what makes him quite useful to work with, although I do wonder what he’s getting out of me if not magical theory and utter adoration. Zamorak in canon is a god who ascribes himself to the philosophy of chaos and personal strife, completely unaware that he is incarnate enough not to change the law of entropy but to suggest things to it. He’s a god of chance masquerading as a god of personal improvement, and once he figures that out (and passes that knowledge onto Armadyl, who is his true light counterpart), he’s going to change the very way magic works. Guthix did everything in his power to try and become incarnate. He failed. Zamorak did it entirely inadvertently, and that’s the trick: the nature of deification is to follow the domain and influence it to your will. When laws of existence become people, they will do as people will, and people typically have ambition. Gods who are also people got that way for a reason. They always have a motive for doing so. It’s never accidental.

So, with a slightly more informed understanding of deification, or at least the versions of it that I understand, I can talk to you about me. What it’s like in the here and now, and how I knew. It took me years to get to this point, and I’ve much the way to go. I know more than I did when I was questioning; deeply more so. I don’t expect anyone questioning to be as sure as I am, and in ten years I will be far more sure of entirely different things, and if I’m lucky, this as well. But, let us begin again.

To be deific is to wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a black hole. You are vast, and you are dense, and the moment someone touches the skin of your sternum they will be sucked in like a movie's portrayal of quicksand. To be so vast on the inside, surrounded by empty air and gentle white noise like the faint pull of gravity that does not touch you. To feel so powerful as to be untethered wholly from the world, aware that you will blink and be floating alone in a space that you cannot touch and so too cannot touch you. You blink, and it is gone, and you are again in a normal body as a normal person, and you roll over and go back to sleep.

To be deific is to watch the seasonal changes and feel flashes of worn leather rope between your hands and the maddened singsong of the Wild Hunt, chariot reins in your hands and baying hounds that feel like fingers, like wings, like extensions of yourself that can be shifted around with barely a thought. To feel halfway like a black hole walking down the street, halfway caved into yourself and barely contained, incapable of truly understanding how you can be so far apart from it all without anyone noticing that something is off.

To be deific is to be a fourteen-year-old girl in one moment, unable to understand what draws her so to the wilds if not the song of sympathy that she knows she can understand if she reaches a little farther, a little farther past the barrier that prevents any mortal, psychological mind from understanding the call. To play a pixelated game and have everything rush back. To relive millennia in a single sennight, to go from chipped to broken, utterly broken, as the power comes rushing back and the slow, dawning realization like the day that there is no controlling it. That there is no controlling you.

Millennia of sins come rushing back, and you're mortal again, and you know the only way to bring a god to their knees is to kill them. And if you were spared, if you were brought down without dying, then there was a reason. That someone must have thought you worthy of fixing it. That you should now spend the next several years coming to peace with being a Devil, the cruelest of the cruel, amending fences and repenting your sins.

To be deific is to realize, quite suddenly and without ever actually having the thought, that understanding things through a Christian lens is utterly bullshit and absolutely does not apply to you. Now, your duty is not to repent, or to fix, or to find any sort of salvation. You are the monster queen, the king of the damned, the Devil of a world you made with blood and tears and sweat and magic. To retake the crown, you have to accept yourself. Acceptance does not mean dwelling, or sorrow, or refusing to take the steps forward that will carry you to the crown and halo and horn of deification.

The powers feel less overwhelming as you grow into them. You don't forget the rage. You understand your close friend's words over and over, as the lesson teaches itself. How a Devil so much less powerful and yet so much older than you once looked you in the eye, drink in hand, and gently told you that a single mortal can bring down a Devil, if they try, and believe wholeheartedly in their quest. Do not disrespect mortality. It brings nothing but death.

You wonder briefly who brought you down. You decide, as the lessons prove themselves, that you don't actually care. You're the mortal now, and mortal legends die. Mortal legends change the song of sympathy and the rules of the deific. In order to return, you too must follow the only path a mortal can take to become deific.

To be godkin is to become deific with every step. It's not to seek the divine from outside of it. It's to become it again, and reclaim it; find what was inside all along and grow yourself around it, until it can no longer be pulled from you again without scattering your ashes and stardust among the cosmos, never to return.

To be godkin is to never forget the moments of pure rage that none but powerless fourteen-year-olds can manage. To be godkin is to be an adult with their memory pressed into your skin. To be godkin is for that rage to never truly leave you.

We stand up again and stare at the emotions that are awake when we are not. We wonder what it will take to manifest again, to only twitch a thought in any direction and reshape the reality around us. It is an extension of our being, and the less aware we are of it, the less effort it takes us to remake the world. It is the nature of deification, to change the laws of reality at our whim and will.

To be godkin is simply a matter of knowing that, and forever reaching to do that once more. If only to feel whole and vast, as we always have been.

[tarysande]

Follow the...

wardrobe department?

A tale of dissecting the chronology of a trailer (in which chronology is made up and the voiceover definitely matters—but doesn’t always align).

LUCIFER SEASON 5 TRAILER SPOILERS AHOY.

Me: I avoid spoilers!! Don’t spoil me!!

Also Me: Hark! Is that a trailer I see before me?? Better analyze it frame by frame!

So, the truth is, I don’t know most of the other BTS stuff and I really don’t want to. I haven't seen the episode titles. I do know Neil Gaiman’s not ... reprising his role. I’m going on ONLY what’s in the trailer, so some of this speculation may already be wrong.

First: a moment of AWWWWWWW YEAAAAAHHHHH because I’ve wanted Twin!Michael for years.

Okay. Moving on.

Trailers are not chronological. They are magic tricks, designed to manipulate their audience.

Now, chronologically, the crime scene with Ella is at (or very near) the beginning because I’m preeetty sure the victim is Mr. Said Out Bitch (RIP; obviously they did not think they were getting a S6!). It’s hard to make out exactly what Chloe is wearing. Dark jacket, dark shirt with a t-shirt-like collar.

Okay, we know this is Lucifer; we know this is what he was wearing when he went to Hell. Very, very, glowing in the black light white shirt. This could be at the beginning? We assume it is because of how it’s placed right after the goodbye from s4, anyway.

Look how haggard he looks. Like, Lucifer. You need some sleep, buddy. Those dark circles have dark circles. My heart hurts.

Okay wtf, my heart hurts here, too. We assume that Chloe’s pajama(?) stakeout and drinking/dancing and her looking up (and looking super sad on what I think is Lucifer’s balcony) are part of the “since you’ve been gone (everything sucks)” montage. 

I will say it’s very possible that “shots at the bar” happens after “crime scene with Ella.” Chloe’s wearing a black jacket and Maze’s arm is bare. Perhaps this night of drowning sorrows (again) is what leads to the conversation (the next day, I think) between Chloe and Maze (“We don’t need him”). In that scene with Maze, Chloe’s wearing a pinstripe blazer and grey t-shirt. Which is important, because that’s the outfit she’s wearing here (in what I would guess is Mr. Said Out Bitch’s home):

I know the assumption is that this is Michael. Although, I wonder how Michael knows the crime-solving Devil song, and the mannerisms (tugging on the sleeves, “Hello, bad guys” as he strolls in) are definitely Lucifer’s. As is the outfit, which is a perfect mirror of the one Lucifer wears in Hell: black suit, white shirt with texture, red pocket square. (Also, no evidence of Michael’s injury.)

Other questions: If he’s so good at playing Lucifer here, why isn’t anyone taken in by him when the grey sateen shirt (hold that thought) appears? Where has Michael been? Why is he here now?

So, I think it’s the combination of his non(?)-reaction to Chloe kissing him and the expression on his face that Michael this up, right? That it’s shown while Michael is voiceover monologuing is also an indicator (but could just as easily be a misdirect because Michael’s not speaking in the image in front of us, and it’s not like we’ve never seen Lucifer make this kind of face before).

(Incidentally, the non-reaction to the kiss could also be seen as in-character for Lucifer; he can’t be sure of his reception, which also plays well with his hello-bad-guys/cocky-to-cover-insecure entrance.)

If it is Michael in the shooting/hug scene, he may START by playing Lucifer perfectly, but that degenerates.

We know this is Michael. There’s some evidence of Michael’s injury in the unevenness of the shoulders. It is NOT a white shirt. It is a grey shirt with a bit of shine; sateen, if you will. We’re going to see a lot of this shirt.

Michael: grey sateen shirt. Also, Chloe’s wearing the white and black striped (VERY FUNNY, COSTUMING DEPT.) shirt she’s wearing when she tells Linda that Lucifer is acting different—so we assume this is the day(?) after Michael shows up. (There’s also a slight possibility that his Lucifer 2.0 bit is his introduction.)

Michael. Black wings. TINY STRIP OF GREY SHIRT at the wrist. So, we assume this happens right after the previous Chloe-with-Gun moment. Michael might want to mess with his brother, but he doesn’t want Chloe to die—there’s even some protective head cradling. So. There’s that.

Michael. Lux. Still the grey sateen shirt. Important: Amenadiel is wearing a shirt and tie. 

In the bit where he’s (presumably) talking to Lucifer in Hell (“He’s stronger than you think.”), he’s wearing the same Lux-grey-sateen-shirt-Michael suit and tie. I’m guessing Amenadiel was like “Do not pass Go, do not collect $200″ and pops down to Hell ASAP.

The “He is stronger than you think” line also makes me wonder if Lucifer hasn’t worried—or even thought—about Michael because he believed his twin was broken beyond the possibility of being a threat (presumably by Lucifer; I think there’s a Rebellion-related, bad-blood, mutually-assured-destruction story behind Michael’s injuries). That hubris/pride is pretty much what gets Lucifer into 925% of his problems, after all, so it would be in character. 

Oh, Luci. Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom. 

Michael is ALSO wearing the grey sateen shirt when Maze shows up and he admits he’s not Lucifer. A lot happens on the day of the grey sateen shirt. To me, this means everyone’s onto him right from the beginning. Also, it means the trailer is pulling pretty heavily from just this one out of the eight episodes. The first episode, unless I miss my guess.

Now, going by wardrobe, we enter a very jumbled section. We’ll call this the Dark Days of the Turtleneck.

During the Dark Days of the Turtleneck, we see Michael fight with Amenadiel in the time-stopped precinct. One assumes Michael’s not even pretending to be Lucifer anymore because ... turtleneck? Bloody hell, might as well be board shorts and Crocs. Note: Michael is NOT wearing (Lucifer’s) ring, here.

Again, the voiceover is misleading because suit-and-tie Amenadiel in Lux and Hell wouldn’t have had a chance to fight (wearing a red jacket) with Turtleneck Michael yet.

At yet another point, we see grey-knit Amenadiel fight with zip-up-halter Maze. Whatever’s going on, Amenadiel is getting around (on different days). And apparently everyone is mad at him.

Okay, so this happens after Michael’s had time to “make a mess.” Of what sort, though? I mean, the penthouse looks fine, so ... what haven’t we seen? What has happened between grey sateen shirt Michael and brown blazer turtleneck Michael? Note: Michael’s also not wearing (Lucifer’s) ring, here. I think Michael’s true lack of fashion sense is turtlenecks and roomy blazers. Yikes.

Well, we assume it’s a mess of Lucifer’s life on earth ... but is that possible? All the evidence points to pretty much everyone knowing sateen-shirt Michael isn’t Lucifer right away, so how could he have had the time or the leverage to make a mess that involves them? 

And if Michael doesn’t mean he made a mess of Lucifer’s life on earth, does he mean a more far-reaching mess? A much older mess? Something celestial? Something involving Hell? Something involving the Rebellion (have they seen each other since?)? Something involving God? Something involving whatever or whoever the REAL Big Bad of the season is (because I really doubt it’s Michael)?

How long has Michael been ... watching? stalking? Lucifer? Has he been involved in any of the other stuff that’s happened over the years? Was he the one who let Mum out of her cell?

But MOST IMPORTANT: How does he know the crime-fighting-devil song????

Well, whatever that mess is, Lucifer’s pretty pissed off about it. 

White shirt, white wings is Lucifer (he was also wearing his black jacket, but not a red pocket square. Note: he has had time to remove his jacket and put his wings away before throwing a punch!). TRAGIC turtleneck under a blazer (with different-colored trousers) and the obvious injury is Michael. But it’s not grey-turtleneck Michael—more than one turtleneck, how dare—so we’re at a different time, chronologically speaking. Could be before Michael’s precinct-fight with Amenadiel, even; we don’t know the chronology of those turtlenecks. We just know Michael, for some unknown reason, chooses them. 

Later:

Okay, I think these two scenes happen in the same episode; Chloe’s outfit is the same. And I think that episode happens a bit later in the chronology. Why?

‘Cause Chloe doesn’t have bangs, yo. And anyone who’s tried to grow out bangs can tell you IT DOESN’T HAPPEN OVERNIGHT.

Head-scratching brown suit aside, that’s Lucifer and not Michael. Because this has to be after Michael has shown his true turtleneck colors. Lucifer also seems to have trimmed down his post-hell angst-beard. 

Chloe’s hand-injury is probably from that explosion. Her heart-wrenching anguish, though? I don’t know what caused it, but my hurt/comfort-loving little heart wants it now.

We have no idea what Michael’s doing at this point: we don’t see Michael with no-bangs Chloe.

Which leaves the scenes that have had Twitter freaking out for most of the day:

This might be after black-shirt-Chloe-anguish-explosion. I know it looks like bangs, but I think it could also be hair-pushed-behind ears; in the shot where you see her standing in front of the elevator, her “bangs” look long enough to be tamed into a no-bang ponytail. But then ... no hand injury. 

It could also be a dream (looking at you “Love Handles”) or a Hell-torment. 

In any case, it is 1000% Lucifer and not Michael. Every single moment of every single micro-expression is entirely That Look Lucifer Only Gives To Chloe Decker (I wrote a thread about this on Twitter today), and Michael is just NOT that good an actor.

I actually find this shot more baffling. It’s Lucifer’s shirt; it has men’s-shirt buttons. Is it a morning after? (But not the morning after the wall scene, because Lucifer was wearing a black shirt there.)

Is this a dream?? A HELL TORMENT?? Look, I just do not trust anything that looks like something the fans have wanted so badly. We were all there for elevator dream sex and Lucifer wing dream reveal. We know how these people work!

(Granted, they also sometimes give us axe scenes and beach kisses, but...)

I have about 32634 things to say about LIGHT AND DARK TWIN BROTHERS IS EVERYTHING and also FURTHER EVIDENCE OF QUESTIONABLE CREATION/PARENTING, but I’ve already been working on this for hours, and that screaming is, I think, best reserved for another post. 

In conclusion, ahh the sweet, sweet song of hyperfixation. I missed you, buddy. You and your neurotransmitters. Welcome back.

For now, I’m just gonna tricycle off to hell in anticipation of August 21st.

.

.

.

Guys, seriously, how the hell does Michael know the crime-solving-devil song???????

[johobi]

The Devil In His Details

Word count: 9.2k

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, drug mentions, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), assplay, prostate milking, edging

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686617

A/N: So this was supposed to be 1k words long for an anon that requested bad boy!Jimin in a drabble prompt game. Clearly that didn’t happen. I hope you enjoy it more than I did editing lkfjwalkjf.

Evil comes in many forms. In this instance, it’s a 5′8″ pretty-boy with an even prettier dick. And you’re the form you want him to come in.

Park Jimin.

A slender, regal nose. Two sly eyes that mellow with laughter. A white smile with just the one, imperfect tooth. Cheeks you'd find on a cherub's face, but a jawline hewn with the devil's input.

Everything about his face is an infuriating dichotomy of soft and sharp. And, God, his lips. Full, unfairly alluring, and begging to be kissed. But this is not a man who does much of that. Begging, that is. Kissing? Oh, he does a lot of that. It doesn't extend to you, though, no matter how much you wish it did.

Jimin is the object of your latest fixation. Well. You may say latest, but in reality you've been harbouring something hot and nasty for this guy for most of the academic year. To the faces of your friends, you blame the heartbreak inflicted by your ex-boyfriend. The thing is, you've been over him for months. Without that as a plausible explanation for your misguided crush, though, you have little to offer in substitution. Jimin isn't the type of guy any sensible, law-abiding girl should be cranking her Rabbit up for. Sure, he's so beautiful that his face can cleanse troubled minds. But he’s flying so many red flags it's like swimming in shark-infested waters.

He manspreads across from you in the campus square, leather jacket and black jeans lacquering his body and a cigarette dwindling limply between his lips. A smile occupies his mouth and eyes, the latter until they're mere, charming slits. You find yourself smiling, too. Oh, God. Get yourself together, ____. Fucking infatuated idiot.

You should know better. Jimin is aposematic with his lurid, magenta hair. He's a beacon of rebellion amidst the drab of campus conformation. And, yeah, maybe he looks cool because of that.

But he’s nothing but trouble.

A criminal.

You don't know the extent of his many and varied illegal activities, but you do know that you'd be an idiot to ever involve yourself with him. The lesser of his crimes begin with him not even being enrolled at the very university he utilises as his base of operations. And nor is he shooed away for his overt disregard for campus rules - and, generally, the law - because security lives snugly in his weed-stuffed back pocket. Yep, he's a dealer. Street racer. Brawler. You don't know how many times you've been torn from sleep by his gang's maniacal laughter as they rough up a rival, less attractive one.

He's also a heartbreaker.

And as ridiculous as it is, that's the thing that gives you most reason for pause. Not the drug-peddling, not the violence, but because you're in so deep you want to be sharkbitten. Consumed, bone for bone.

But he never looks your way. Ever. You're not so much a Plain Jane, you don't think, but desperately shy. Especially where your heart's involved. It forgets its function when confronted with someone you like. You take care of your appearance. You've had a few, long-term boyfriends. But whenever you're dumped back at Square One: Single, you're as hopeless in romance as you are in cooking. And all the cuisine you can conjure involves a microwave.

Scenarios of seduction circulate your mind as you ogle him from afar, your thoroughly bitten lip again between your teeth. If only you possessed the confidence your best friend insisted lay latent within you. It would be nothing to strut up to him now and toss your phone into his lap, arms crossed and an expectant smirk curling your mouth. "Gonna give me your number, or what?" you'd sigh - exasperated for the sake of drama - his beautiful face wiped clean of its cocksure facade.

Yeah, that'd be real cool.

But you're still sitting here, legs bobbing out of habit. Jimin is still there, smug and sexy, imparting something hilarious enough, apparently, to wind the comparably attractive guys with him. It's then that your phone purrs between your hands, clutched and previously forgotten.

It's Jisoo, said best friend.

[13:56] slut #1: heyyyy

[13:56] slut #1: guess what

It'll be one of two things. Either she needs your notes because she slept-in in lieu of doing the set reading, or—

[13:56] slut# 1: our floor's having a party tonight

Party.

[13:56] slut #1: come or ill break your legs 

The severity of her threat comes down to your repeatedly declining her invitations. It's not that you don't enjoy parties, because you do. In fact, there’s rarely a time you feel more alive than getting smashed and exorcising your anxiety for those few hours. It's more the fact that it takes a month's worth of mental energy to prevent you flaking out in the lead-up.

Today, though, you're game. Your introversion has been well and truly catered to these last, barren weeks. You're at full charge.

[13:58] yeah, why not

Dots dance across the screen.

[13:58] slut #1: serious???? holy shit that was easy for once

[13:58] slut #1: come to my room at 9

[13:59] the party's in your room?

[13:59] slut #1: no dumbass it's like the whole floor, idek whose party it is but u gotta meet me somewhere right

[14:00] kk. see you then

However unlikely, a feeble hope tugs at your fragile, besotted heart. Maybe he'll go? The organ stutters in your chest when you raise your eyes to where Jimin sits. But he's gone. Suddenly, it all seems like a terrible idea. It's just not meant to be. The universe is communicating it to you as gently as it can.

I need a firm slap. Irked by your nonsensical infatuation, you shoot to your feet and make off in a storm, bag not so much slung but catapulted onto your back. I need to get the fuck over this.

The campus square is a sizeable, open space with the central fountain being its only obstacle. However, by how solid the object is that you suddenly collide with, it seems to have sprouted another.

"Shit!" you gasp, nose flattened sharply, painfully, against something immovable. As you rub it, brows sharp in offense, you peer up into eyes of the thing you've blindly marched into.

Fuck.

Jungkook.

One of Jimin's lackeys.

Before you can locate his magenta-headed leader, however, Jungkook fills the entirety of your field of view. His narrow lips draw tighter; eyes, too. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“U-Uh—”

“Uh?” the musclehead mimics, stooping into your personal space. By instinct, you shrink. At odds with his adorably prominent front teeth, the sneer he wears is nasty. “Anything else?”

An errant glance over Jungkook’s shoulder finds you Jimin. He hangs back, hands in pockets, nonplussed by the confrontation. It’s likely pretty tame in comparison to their usual run-ins. But it frustrates you, nonetheless, that the boy won’t look at you, even now, when the spotlight is searing you.

Jungkook snaps his fingers at the end of your nose and you’re back in the room. “Well?”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You hack for breath when he exhales a plume of cigarette smoke directly into your face. “I-It won’t happen again.”

The other one with them - Seokjin, the half-ass in your business studies class - claps a hand on Jungkook’s seam-straining shoulder. “‘Roid rage. Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a finance major too, right?”

Before you can even process the unexpected civility of his question, Jungkook rounds on him in ire. “The fuck? You know I don’t take steroids.” His cigarette flares at the corner of his mouth. Like a showboating pidgeon, he puffs out his muscular chest. “This is all hard work.”

Seokjin is clearly unmoved. He blinks an unnecessary amount of times, like it’s a tic of his. His glasses ride up as he crinkles his nose. Then: “Okay. Didn’t know you were too stupid to get a joke though. ‘Roids must be shrinking your brain as well as your dick.”

“What—”

An Off-White jacket streaks across your vision.

“—the fuck—”

A white t-shirt follows it soon after.

“—did you just say?”

Jungkook ripples, shirtless, with such unabated fury he distorts the air surrounding. Or maybe it’s the heatwave.

It’s then, beholding this sudden, aggressive display, that your fear finally surfaces. “Oh my God, what the fuck is happening?” you whisper exclusively to yourself, because to attract attention is to court an ass-beating.

And it’s then, of course, that Jimin finally takes heed of your existence. With a quirk of his head, he stares you down. Well, not so much stare. What he does expresses far less effort. His eyes meander the length of you in their own, good time, before landing on your blanching face. The laziest of smirks possess his lips.

Your heart sprouts wings.

His smirk widens.

Fuck, your heart’s airborne. It’s gonna launch itself out your mouth.

Seokjin dispels Jimin’s sorcery with another, unwisely provocative comment. “Your dick’s shrivelled? Or your brain? I don’t know which one offended you.”

Jungkook pounds his chest once, like an oversexed silverback. “Why you always gotta do me like this, bro? Is it ‘cause I fucked your mom that one time? I thought you were over tha—”

“Fuck you!”

Just when you’d established Seokjin as the pacifist of the group, he begins throttling Jungkook double-handed. The pair slip into an awkward grapple while Jimin looks on.

Looks at you.

Doesn’t even spare a glance for the groups of hurried, whispering students migrating across campus.

Guttural grunts float up from the ground as Jungkook and Seokjin’s scuffle escalates, but their leader pays them no mind in that moment. It’s your opportunity to say something more, but you don’t. Your vocal chords never pull together.

Moment missed.

Jimin sweeps a lock of magenta from his eyes, finally animate. A testy sigh siphons from him. “Get up. You’re making me look bad. Put your fucking shirt on, Jungkook.” His voice, usually soft, strikes like a serpent. Venom coats his tongue. “You represent me, dickheads. Plus, you’re scaring this girl.”

The absurdity of the situation, the apprehension you feel, is muffled for a moment. All you can hear is the rush of blood and Jimin’s vocal acknowledgement of your existence ricocheting in your mind. Girl. You.

It’s stupid. Demeaning, even, snapping up these scraps like a slobbering mongrel.

But exciting.

Having captured Jimin’s attention, you bow to him the gratitude you can’t vocalise. The plan, as you rise, is to hit him with a seductive smile, but you're certain your mouth only stretches awkwardly. Nevertheless, his pretty lips purse for a moment before pulling up, too. “I’m going.” He addresses them, but his eyes are on you.

Jimin takes his leave without further ado. As he passes you his gaze lingers too long, demanding he turn his face. His body ghosts past without contact, but a chilly thrill descends upon you like he's drifting right through your bones. And then he struts away like he owns the place, because he does.

And, God, he owns you, too.

His in-fighting entourage scrabble to catch up with him. Jungkook's hastily gathered clothes scrape the floor as he runs, their expense forgotten. “‘Min-hyung! Wait! We’re sorry!”

"Bye then," you comment, quiet, to their retreating backs. It wasn't quite the first encounter you'd prophesied, but considering Jimin's reputation, it should've been.

Anyway.

Your eyes fall to your phone and this evening's plans.

Party.

---

Jisoo's generously highlighted features bob before you in the muted light. Parts of her face are so illuminescent it looks like scaffolding. "Anyway, I'll be back soon. Get some drinks, loosen up. I need to find Namjoon."

"Okay, but are you actually gonna come back?" Your first beaker of jungle juice is already souring your lips. "'Cause if you're gonna find Namjoon, I don't think you're gonna come back."

Her eyes are everywhere but on you, glossy mouth twisting. “I'll really try! But I also really wanna see him, now I know he's here." Suddenly, your free hand is in her meticulously manicured clutches. "I'm not saying I will disappear, but I might. Please understand! I need dick so bad. Please." And now her eyes are on yours, black as night and just as dangerous. Jisoo is never more serious than when cock is at stake.

You shake yourself free of her flimsy grasp and flimsier promises. "Do what you want, but I don't know anyone in your dorm. If you don't come back in an hour, I'm gonna go."

That was an hour ago.

Within that hour, you consumed three cups of awful booze, lingered awkwardly by the party lights, and recovered zero Jisoos. The only noteworthy happening was some plastered guy insisting you were his boyfriend. So insistent, in fact, that you doubted your own identity by the last of the 15 minutes he spent calling you Yoongi. He lamented endlessly about how difficult it would be to survive the evening without getting in your tight little ass. The only thing that convinced him of the truth to your identity was said, tight-assed man appearing and dragging the lightweight away. Yoongi did have a nice ass, you observed, as they fell back into the throng.

Oh.

And Jimin was here.

Skulking the fuchsia shadows like a perfect predator. Thing is, he's already top of the food chain. No hunting required. Very much evidenced by the girls that swarmed him all night like a shoal of pilotfish. The music was too loud and the light too dim, but for every instance he opened his mouth, his accompanying partygoers exploded into laughter. This seems a skill of his. He has dominion over men and women both.

And you're no exception.

Whenever he was in sight, he drew your eyes. When he was dancing, he drew them lower. And there they remained, never straying from his swivelling hips and straining thighs. The girls danced in circles around him like they were worshipping a pagan idol. Understandable. You coveted him, too, from afar.

But now he's gone. Your cup is empty. Jisoo is getting Namjoon'd.

It's been an hour. You're going home.

There’s enough trash at your feet and liquor loosening your morals that you feel no guilt in dropping your beaker onto the pile. Polished, black shoes with pointed toes enter view and crumple that which you’ve littered. You look up.

“Juh—”

Jimin. It’s Jimin. Neither your mouth nor brain can co-ordinate sufficiently enough to identify him verbally, though. Instead, you gawp, inches from his breathtaking face, bathed in romantic light. “Littering, huh? Kinda rude, don’t you think?” He taunts, tongue between teeth. When you don’t rebut him, he slides an arm up the wall behind you. Sinks closer, until your eyes meet on an intimate level. “What are you doing here, campus girl? Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.”

Righteous indignation roils in you. As for why, it’s unclear. As are most things when relatively tipsy. “How would you know what my kind of thing is? You don’t know me. Also, don’t call me campus girl.” At this proximity, you’re acutely aware of the alcohol on your breath. You dial it down a bit. Turn your head and snort. “That’s rude.”

The alcohol, apparently, has also robbed you of your self-preservation skills. Because never in the light of a sober day would you be slighting a delinquent like this. And not the one you’re besotted with, either. That, then, dawns on you. As does his closeness, and the sweet smell of his own poison of choice.

“Well, I don’t know your name, do I?” Charm inhabits his tone, his smile. God, it’s flustering. Jimin toys with you, thwarting your attempts to evade his eyes. His face follows yours, until it’s all you can do but stop and stare. Fall fully and deeply into him. “‘Cause you’re shy, aren’t you?” He wets his lips then, unfairly. They’re dewy and full and even rosier in this light.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt, hypothesizing it being just as juicy. Just as tasty. Your inhibitions are low, but not enough that this is a mistake. Jisoo is right. There’s confidence in you, somewhere. You tap it when you tap a keg.

Jimin looks scandalised. His eyebrows vanish into his hairline. Giddy laughter streams from him. “Pardon?”

“I said, let me suck your dick.” Power floods your bloodstream. Liquid courage mingles with. “I’m pretty good at it, and I really want to. Like, so bad. I think about it a lot.”

If he says no, you no longer have to wonder.

If he says no, you never have to look at him again.

If he says no, you can chase someone wholesome and virtuous.

If he says yes, you get to suck his dick.

“Yeah?” Interest kindles in Jimin’s keen, black eyes. He’s close enough, now, that his body heat feels akin to weight against you. His voice drops below the bass of the music. “What did you think about?”

Are you gonna dirty talk in public?

A quick glance around and they aren’t so much the public anymore as parading monkeys, high on lust and low on decency. Just over from you, there’s a girl getting the least discreet fingerbanging of her life.

So, yeah. You lose a little of your rigidity and tip back your head. Lick your lips with a deliberate tongue. “How pretty your cock probably is. How it’d feel on my tongue, in my throat.” Unconscious or not, Jimin’s pressing to your hip. The subject of your conversation starts soft in his pants, but stiffens with your salacious description. Fuck, you’re tingling, too. “How you’d taste, coming down my throat—”

“Are you for real, campus girl?” Jimin interrupts, breathy. Disbelieving. He almost sounds distressed. Like a donkey that doesn’t wanna walk miles for a dangling carrot. Jimin doesn’t seem to get it, though. He’s the carrot, and dear God you wanna chomp down.

“I told you not to call me that. Guess you’re not interested,” you bluff, because not only are you provocative on booze, you’re also an absolute fucking idiot. There’s a significant chance he’ll tire of your tsundere bullshit and find another open mouth. However, as you turn to leave, fate smiles on you. As does he, when he sandwiches you to the wall, his chest to your back and his mouth a ghost on the nape of your neck.

Chills.

Chills spread where his breath is hot and wet. But still, his lips don’t touch. You can, however, hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me your name.”

The stutter sabotages you somewhat. You’re breathless. “I-It’s ____.”

"____," Jimin repeats with a flick of his tongue, wetting your nape with the slightest of saliva. "Are you for real, ____? Or are you drunk?"

His fingers spread like wildfire across the tops of your thighs, testing the give of your flesh. You exhale as if he's squeezing the soul from you. "I'm for real. I'm not drunk, I've just had enough to realise that if I don't say this now, I never will. How often do you talk to me, after all?"

Jimin's throat rumbles as he contemplates. His lips part by your ear, vocal fry caressing each, careful syllable. "How often do you talk to me?" he poses. The steady, rigid throbbing against your ass suggests that this could've happened sooner.

Reluctant as you are to disturb your clinch, you’re not here to stare at the plastering. It would be a crime to deny yourself the chance to ogle his beauty close-up. With this in mind, you twist against his body, bringing your fronts flush together. God, he throbs all the more potently like this, pressed to the crotch of your dress. Jimin's still smiling, of course, all illegal charm and zero reserve.

A nervous lick of lips. "You're terrifying. Especially when you're surrounded by those guys all the time. That's why I don't talk to you." It’s a half-truth. The other half is your incompetence in flirting.

"And here I was, thinking you were shy," is Jimin’s riposte. "But, clearly, I'm wrong." Those plush, pink lips descend on you before you can blink away the unreality of it. They're softer than any piss-poor imitation of a man's mouth that's come before them. Softer than silk, even. And when they open, syrupy. A mire of heat and wet tongue, caressing away all your prior fears, even if they're legit. It really doesn't matter. Not when you're tasting this sublime man. Not when he suckles at your mouth so sensually, so gently. He can't be that horrific a person when he's holding you with such careful attention. It's too soon when he unties your tongues. "You don't need to be afraid of me," Jimin murmurs thickly to your lips. The lop-sided smile he wears says otherwise. It's a little too close to a sneer. "Well, ____—" he steps back. Lures you with him. "Wanna make this a reality?"

You're giddy as fuck. So much so your legs feel like a Newton's cradle. "Y-Yeah. Take me somewhere—" to speak his name is to make it real— "Jimin."

People blur, merge shapelessly around you as he weaves through their mass, leading you by one, dainty hand. It's not the drink. You're dizzy - high, even - with anticipation so intense it renders all outside his svelte figure indistinct. All there is is him, and what you're about to do. It doesn't even feel like you're tripping up the stairs when you do. You're floating, actually, because he's pulling you up and smirking so salaciously that you're weightless. The only weight is the one nestled deep in your abdomen, punching at your cunt like it knows well what that smug mouth could do.

The two of you stagger into an unoccupied bathroom. It's as grim and grotty as you'd expect of student lodgings, but that matters very little right now. Even though you're painfully germaphobic. The priority is realising you're about to suck off Park fucking Jimin. It hits you so powerfully that, for a very long second, you want to reconsider. After all, he likely has expectations. Confidence flees from you.

"Okay, then. On your knees, ____."

And then it floods back. As does desire.

Jimin perches atop the toilet with poise, its seat flat beneath him. You briefly speculate its cleanliness, but he’s already slinking the denim down his legs and over his knees. They cling in a pool at his ankles, likely impossible to get any further. His visibly wilting cock lounges against the crotch of his CKs, waiting for your intervention. It'll have to wait a little longer, though, because there's nothing on God's awful earth that will hinder your leering at this visual feast. His muscle-strapped thighs are somehow all the thicker hugging the bowl of the toilet. And the tiny, toned waist they taper to is all the confirmation you require to understand that this man is way out of your league. Like, forget international league. You're 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "Fuck."

The curse is all he needs to understand. Whether it's for the sake of wanking his ego or to titillate you further, Jimin tenses his quads until they're as hard and smooth as varnished oak. All you want is to ride them like a fucking rocking horse. "You making me wait?"

Hell no. Before he can even finish his taunt you're at his feet and kneading his thighs like dense dough. Jimin feels fit. He isn't pliable like lovers gone. He's zero body fat, all thew, all sex. He's everything.

And you're nothing to him.

Tonight, though, you’ll become something.

Your fingers continue upward. And as they do, inward. Where he's slightly fleshier, and by the twitch of his covered dick, more sensitive. "How do you like it?"

"I'm as predictable as any other guy," Jimin half-shrugs, reclining against the cistern. His fingers curl into your hair, though not in any pushy, possessive way. It's almost as though he's simply appreciating its texture. The curve of your scalp. Tingles spring from his touch and arrest your body. "Deep as possible. Don't neglect the shaft. Play with my balls a little," he reels off his litany shamelessly. "If you can take it, lemme fuck your face?"

Each of his suggestions make both your mouth and cunt salivate. You want all of those things and more. That other thing. "We'll see," you say as much to yourself as you do to him. "Let's see what we're working with." You lunge for his waistband with both hands, eager to steal them from his body. Jimin halts you once you peek pubes.

"I'm not sitting my bare ass on this toilet." The grunt he makes is indignant. Adamant.

But you have plans. And so you whip a towel from its rail and coax it beneath him, the makeshift mat feeling dubiously damp. "If you want me to do it good, let me have you without your underwear."

Jimin complies, shifting his weight. Then, with danger perverting his tone: "Then you better do it good, ____."

You perform well under pressure. The pressure that comes with academic deadlines and 10th grade theatre, at least. However, it doesn't extend to sucking the cock of, arguably, the most intimidating, most captivating man you've gawped at from afar. Your previous lovers were diffident and easy to please. It's only through your own, bored invention that you delved deeper into the art of oral with them. You hope it serves you well tonight. "I'll try my best," you challenge, brow cocked, Jimin's boxers successfully purloined. The front of them are tacky to the touch, and this alone incites you. God, you can taste his salt already.

To your dismay, he doesn't resume his careful caressing of your scalp. No, once his bottom half is nude, he splays his thighs obscenely and leans back, fingers curling around the towel-covered toilet seat. From here he peers down his nose at you, a smirk all the while. His torso is one rigid, smooth slope, and you wish selfishy to see it exposed. Asking for that, too, though, might be too much.

And now that your gaze plummets, it doesn't matter. His cock is enough. You'd think it impossible for such an awkward looking appendage to ever earn the term pretty. But, uniform with the rest of him, his is. What he lacks in length he makes up for generously in girth. His cock is chubby and blushing, and, yes, pretty. God, so pretty.

Yes, you'll let him face-fuck you.

The tinkle of Jimin's earrings disrupt your awed silence. He projects impatience: Chewed lips, raised eyebrows, a slight, inquisitive tilt to his head. "This your first time or something?" Magenta falls across his eyes as his focus slips down his own body. He cages his cock inside a delicate fist, nurturing it to its full, thickened capacity. As it grows, so does his filthy smile. "You don't need to lie to me. I can go easy on you."

"This isn't my first time." Your resentment is palpable. Apparently, he enjoys it. As he pumps himself harder, his tongue probes disrespectfully at the corner of his upturned mouth. That only inflames you. "Is it your first time? Are all the rumours false?" Your comeback is risky, but the mood suggests banter is welcome. Perhaps all this big, bad wolf wants is a little, red-faced riding hood to provoke him.

The dare pays off. With one last, long stroke, he lets loose his erection, the concrete appendage slapping his stomach with an admirable thud. Resting back on one hand, he gestures to his waiting cock with the other. "Totally. I'm a good boy, ____. Now stop talking and fucking spit on it."

Your clit jumps. As do you, right into action. With your palms canvassing his inner thighs, you take one last, unenlightened breath before you dive face-first into his musk, pulling aside his cock to nuzzle at its base. To fully savour his scent and warmth. Jimin fills your hand to the extent you're unable to form anything close to a closed fist. Your thoughts are possessed only by your imagination and how wide he could stretch you. How full he could make you. A fucking stampede thuds through your pussy.  "Mm, you have such a nice cock," you murmur around the root of him. It's not so much meant as a compliment, but a statement of pure fact that must be expressed. You're sure he's heard such professions many times.

Yep. "I know, sweetheart." The timbre of his voice is a little heavier. Breathier. As your tongue flicks lazily under the round of his balls, it quivers, too. Nevertheless, he maintains his stoicism. "Why you teasing me down there? You know what I want."

When you pull one of his testicles into your mouth, however, he emits a quiet noise. One that sounds a little like it's something he wants. "Yes, daddy," you mouth around him, full irony. Jimin reacts to it, though. Pushes into your slack grip, looking for friction you're not about to give. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes. Still, you don't know where the limit to his patience lies. And so you relent and pull your mouth upwards, dragging his sac with your reluctant lips. Jimin tenses when finally you free him, wet, sticky, and back to hanging. And then you're ascending his fat, veiny shaft, lathering the underside with your tongue. Ekeing from him the most delicious gasps of air. His hands go back into your hair, though with far less care this time, grasping at your roots as though to earth him.

"Yeah, that's it, ____. Keep going." Jimin's encouragement is sweeter to the ears than any lauded music. And so is the stifled whine that streams from him when you glaze the tip of his cock with saliva, enough to dribble down its entire length. Once he’s sufficiently spat on, you follow with your mouth. Fuck, it’s a strain to accommodate him. A feat not to scrape him with your teeth. He's so thick you must look vulgar stuffing him between your lips like this. A wayward glance tells you he's enjoying the lewd visual, though. His mouth is parted and breath puffs quickly from him. His eyes, normally sharp with wit, are dull. Fully blown. Jimin devours the sight of your struggle, as you do his uncomfortably chubby dick. His nails imprint crescents of self-restraint into the skin of your scalp. "F-Fuck. Yeah. Suck me."

You do. More fervently than you have any mouth-watering candy. Your lips work the head of his cock with measured pressure, back-and-forth, to the tune of his increasingly whiny vocalisations. Instinct takes him, sometimes, and he jerks without thought into you. Your teeth graze him, then, but it seems like an ineffective deterrence. No, sometimes he moans when you catch him, and for that you reward him with tongue on his frenulum.

That gets him the most.

His thighs ripple, his back bends. His head of magenta hair falls back.

"You—mmmmh—like that?" is your an attempt at a taunt, dulled by the cock wedged in your cheek.

"You suck dick like a fucking slut." Jimin is panting now, a sheen of perspiration oiling his face. Fuck, he looks dewy and downright dirty. The crotch of your panties is saturated with want for him. "You pretend you're all innocent and shit, but, Jesus, you're a dirty bitch."

With an enthusiastic flex of his thighs, he struggles free from the jeans binding him and props up a foot, knee bent and accentuating just how shapely his calves are. Spread like this, he's sordid. Wanton. He's getting desperate, and, against all expectations, unafraid to show it. Men with his level of machismo are typically reserved. It turns you on, dials you into overdrive, just how unabashed his enjoyment is. "Deeper. Can you take it deeper, ____? P-Please," Jimin whimpers on cue, resolve thready.

Briefly, you alight from his cock. He whimpers about that, too. This man is the terror of your college campus. And now he’s a needy, sex-swollen mess. "Depends. Can I edge you?" You're actually decently sober at this point, but bravado still brews in you nevertheless.

Jimin, no longer basking, purses his lips. Glares with the fury of a thousand blue-balled men. "Don't you fucking dare. Try it and I'll take over. I’ll come all over your smug little face."

The threat, in actuality, is more a solemn hope of yours. "Okay, okay. I won't edge you." Your hands keep busy while your overtaxed mouth relishes its moment of emptiness. You funnel your energy, instead, into keeping his cock stiff, five fingers twisting along its lubed-up length. With the other hand, you return to your earlier fixation and palm tenderly at his distended balls. A delicate quivering radiates from his core muscles. "But I really wouldn't mind you coming all over my face."

Everything about him tenses, then releases. His eyelids, low, bear the weight of arousal. "For real?"

"Might as well, my knees are already gross. You can get me dirtier if you like, Jimin." And then you're pulling down the straps of your dress until your breasts spill out, already pebbled and desperate for a fondling they won't get tonight. "Or here. Or everywhere. Just go to town."

Jimin gulps down stuffy, humid air. Concentrates a little too hard on your uncovered tits. Rocks a little too enthusiastically into your undulating grip. "God, yeah. I wanna come all over you. Spit in your fucking mouth." Suddenly it's not just your sole fist grasping him. He's clutching you, clutching him. Squeezing your knuckles until they're white and his cock is very, very red. "I'll bend you over the bathtub and fuck you 'til I break your hips. 'Til your pussy's dripping cum."

“Jesus—”

You’re so luststruck by his vulgar fantasies that it’s almost too late when you come to your senses. Jimin fucks your hands so ferociously it’s clear that the beast has taken him. You snatch away your hands before he wastes himself all over them. His come away, too, hovering in the air and demanding answers.

"Okay, well you just edged yourself." A giggle slips out while you watch him heave breath like he's nearing death. In a way, it's cute. Jimin's cheeks are full and flushed, eyes rounder than moons. He himself seems taken aback by his lapse into unadultered lust. "Don't take away the only reason I came here."

Despite Jimin's earlier, emphatic disapproval of being edged, he sure seems appreciative now. He basks in the near-rush, mellower than before. Gently - perhaps affectionately? - he cradles the back of your head and draws you in, a thumb pressing caresses to your cheek. This sudden sweetness, it's abnormal. Harmful. You don't want it. You don't want to see his good side, nor fall for it.

But here he comes, eyes searching, lips begging.

"Then deepthroat me like I asked."

Nevermind.

The pompous smirk is back. He reclines, his one leg up like an ode to Michaelangelo, dick tall and looking just as self-important. You're decided. It's time to make him squeal. "Okay. No edging. But let me make it feel even better?"

Jimin drips scepticism. "How?"

Fully anticipating rejection, you're direct. "Lemme stick a finger up your ass."

Again, he surprises you. Insomuch that revulsion doesn’t immediately sour him. "The fuck?" A husky chuckle rattles in his chest, instead. "Is that your secret technique?"

"Kinda." Your shoulders draw inward as self-consciousness consumes you. "I totally get it if you don't want to. But the other guys I've been with enjoyed it."

"Then do it, whatever. Don't let me go soft, though, ____," Jimin warns with pouty lips. His cock leans demonstratively forward, threatening flaccidity. "I'm feeling neglected."

"Tragic," you coo, feigning empathy. Looking as petulant as he, you suckle softly around the head of his dick, enkindling his passion before it fades. Your tongue does work around its bulbous ridge, teasing where it makes him squirm most. Then, with his demands in mind, your mouth descends over his modest stretch of shaft, worshipping each, precious inch as you go.

“Yes, baby. That’s it, that’s it.”

You dip and rise, tug and suck in a tantalising advance toward his base, wringing the precum from him. It's salty and sticky and you love it on your tongue, love smearing him with his own mess. Want to smear him with your mess.

“Fuck, yeah. K-Keep—unh!—going!”

The more of him you gobble, the more erratic his body behaves. Beneath your hands, his sweat-tacked thighs are tremulous, tensing without rhyme or reason. Jimin has little control over  any of his extremities. His hands are uncomfortable fists in the back of your hair, like he's reining in a wilful mare. And then there's his beautiful, unstopped moaning, so sinful your clit thumps like a bass drum between your legs. You moan, too, slurping the end of his leaking cock to the back of your throat so he can better feel it. The reverberations must reach him, because Jimin bucks, then, wildly enough to trigger a gag. "Ugh, y-yes, fuck!"

You can't so much as master Savasana in yoga, but what you are adept at is gag control. And though you cough a little, slaver a little, nothing but sudden death will stop you now. Nose-deep in Jimin’s considerately trimmed pubic hair, you trap him momentarily there, the whole of his cock nestled deep in your throat's constraints.

Jimin looks half-way gone. His hands hover above your shoulders, fingers curling and twitching peculiarly, like he’s about to astral project. Indeed, all you can see through the sliver in his lightly-closed lids is the white of his eyes. Every so often Jimin rolls his pelvis towards you, but you stymy his attempts to face-fuck you until you're ready to see him over the finish line. Grasping his hips, your thumbs take the liberty of feeling the lines of his obliques, and, God, you've never hated an item of clothing more than the t-shirt he's wearing.

"More," he splutters, then, swivelling against your hold like he's compelled. "More, give me more. I'm so close, I—I wanna fucking drown you in cum—" an ungodly groan bursts forth as he whips himself into a frenzy of his own making— "Fuck, you suck cock so good—so good, baby."

Of all things, baby is what heats your cheeks. The endearment feels like long-coveted validation. "Bear with me," is what you try to communicate, but considering the weight of his cock is pinning your tongue, it comes out garbled. Jimin doesn't even notice, so rapt is he in your mouth's luxury. Occasionally, he rewards your efforts with globs of pre-ejaculate that slide smooth down your throat.

Not wanting to interrupt his well-earned crawl to orgasm, you bob on his cock hands-free, employing them instead to locate one of the condoms populating your purse. Keeping pace is difficult enough that it's not long before Jimin, unsteady on his perch, growls in caution.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he grunts through gritted teeth, scrutinising your every, unrelated move. When he sees what it was you sought, the growl becomes a snarl. The disdain his eyes convey is almost comical. "Don't make me come in that. I'm not coming in that," he snorts, placated momentarily by your refocused efforts on his plump little dick. As you tear open the wrapper, you tongue his cock hole like a striking snake. "Oh, sh-shit!—H-Hey, if you don't want me to come on you I won't, but—"

Slobber splatters the towel in your haste to cut him off. "It's not for you."

Rather than court more questions, you demonstrate. Hastily, you unroll the condom over your longest finger. Then, with his unerring attention, you squat back on your heels and hike up your dress, allowing him a view onto your panty-wrapped cunt. Jimin doesn't even notice that your mouth is gone from him while he’s leching. It’s just long enough an opportunity to dip your rubber-sheathed digit deep into the wetness of your pussy. He makes noises as you do, quiet ones, ones that stress how much he wants to be inside it. When you withdraw, your lips lock back onto him, kissing his cock where it's most swollen and sensitive. "Try and relax, okay? It'll feel good quicker if you do," you offer in advice, your cunt-slick finger bypassing his balls and slithering along his perineum. Already he's reacting, even from this slight, external stimulation.

"I'm relaxed as fuck," Jimin puffs defiantly, despite his initial recoil. "Show me what you're all about, ____."

"Alright then." Ever so carefully, you wheedle the tip of your finger past his asshole, stopping when his body tells you to. "Jimin, if you can’t handle it—"

They're unextraordinary words, but, apparently, the magic ones. Immediately he loosens around you. "I can. Shut up."

You do. By engulfing his erection without warning. Drawing on it like you would a drinking straw, enough to fluster him into distraction. The result is an easy, sailing entry into his ass, right up to your knuckle. It's not difficult to locate his prostate from there, as deliciously swollen as it is. With a cursory couple of taps, Jimin's body responds in new, mesmerizing ways.

"W-What the fuck—ah!" he cries through his confusion, the unfamiliar feeling prying his eyes wide. Jimin can only watch, overwhelmed, as you manipulate him from within, his back arching clean from the cistern. He's suspended by sensation, a wobbling tension keeping him upright. As you slurp mercilessly at his cock, you fix him with a look. Jimin's not there to receive it, though. His expression says his brain short-circuited the moment you started stroking him internally. And then, with a choked gasp, he returns to the corporeal, yanking at your hair like a man possessed. Only, he's pulling you away. "Stop, oh fuck, I'm gonna piss in your mouth." Distress and arousal fight for his features. The latter is winning, if the stutter of his hips is anything to go by. He's caught between two worlds of pleasure; bookended by penetration and your softly nursing mouth. All he can do is thrust from one to the other.

You come away with his hands, just briefly. Kitten-lick his purpling cockhead. "It's okay. You won't pee, it's meant to feel like that. Just go with it, unless you don't like it."

The blush dusting his cheeks deepens. You can't imagine it's because he's embarrassed, but for a moment he looks vulnerable. Human. Beautiful. Your heart trips. "Whatever," he attempts nonchalance, but his needy fragility is fooling no-one. "I like it, so don't stop. As long as you're sure i won't piss in your mouth. I mean, I don't care if I do, but you might—ungh!"

Swallowing a man's cock is as good as gagging them. Jimin falls quieter than night when you welcome him back into your warmth, working his shaft as well as your aching jaw will allow. Your tongue, too, is tiring, and yet you only twist around him all the more ravenously. It's not just his body that’s contorting when you pound at his prostate, now. His mouth hangs open unchecked, all thought for appearances gone. Within, his tongue writhes, articulating nothing but bodiless sounds.

You rub harder. Suck harder. More insistent. Jimin's eyebrows knit so tightly his nose crinkles. And when he does, a flood of runny, salty liquid squirts into your mouth, catching you off guard and in-between breaths. It's a wonder you don't drown when it keeps coming, this thin, bountiful expulsion. "F-Fuck, God—what is that—" he whines between milkings. As it seeps from your stuffed mouth, Jimin is enraptured. With his focus on you, you regurgitate it noisily over his cock, dousing him in his own fluids. "Fuck, i-it feels so good. I want more." His hands are either side of your face, fingers at your temples, palms pressuring your cheeks. "More." With a grunt, he hoists his previously dangling leg onto the toilet seat with the other. He squats, open and obscene, the picture of aroused anguish. "More. Harder," he jerks, marionette-like, to fuck himself on your finger, to propel his cock further down your throat. You're prepared for this onslaught now, mouth wide and tongue laying dormant as he rams his tip to your tonsils. Each thrust pushes more of his leakage from your mouth until you're drooling like a starving dog. And he's transfixed by it, teeth grinding, gripped by a terrifying hunger. "Fuck. Take it, take me, oh, shit—t-ta—"  

Nothing much else comes from Jimin but discharge, his face contorting as his body does, locked and straining. The motion of his hips slows until it ceases. There, he floats, with unseeing eyes, his orgasm approaching in an unavoidable swell. The throbbing that radiates from his buried cock is the final tell you chance before you cough him from your mouth, kneeling tall before him, breasts and face a blank canvas. You don't push him that last step so much as hammer him, battering his prostate until his mouth twists in devastation. Jimin's eyes are so wide it's like you're fucking the fear of God into him. He rises from his squat, millimetre by millimetre, as you slap your palm to his taint; his bloated balls. "C-Coming, I'm coming—" is all he can rasp as his soul departs and streaks your face once, twice—your eyelids fall closed as thick, viscous white weights down your lashes. Robbed of your sight, his groans hit louder, deeper. They resonate with agony, almost. And still he paints you, your throat, your neglected tits. "Oh my God, I—"

“That’s it, Jimin. Empty yourself on me.”

As the deluge dies away, you wipe your eyes free of cum and slide yourself from his spasming asshole. You expect to see him sat there, clutching his softening cock, but instead he’s sat back, hands-free and seeing constellations on the ceiling. "You came without touching your dick? Damn. That's restraint," you chuckle, your mouth feeling oddly loose. Too big. Too empty. When Jimin doesn't respond: "You okay?"

He stirs briefly from catatonia, though he continues to stare spaceward. "I'm good. I'm good. I think." A laugh comes out, but it's like he's forgotten what they should sound like. "Well, that was fucking awesome." A few, dumbstruck seconds later, Jimin returns to earth with a shaky sigh and that damn smirk. Finally, he looks at you. "Whoa. I got you messy as fuck."

A deadpan blink is all you can spare him when most of your body is protesting some type of pain. Your jaw, particularly, feels unhinged. "Yeah. You didn't notice that before?" You slip the latex from your finger and lob it at the trashcan. You miss.

"I did, but I was, like, coming my brains out. I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, other than it was good." With an unsteady hand, he flattens back his soaked bangs and stares at you, eyelids heavy. His cheeks are stained pink with exertion. "You look so hot like that. Fuck." And though his body must be leaden after satiation, he pulls you up to your knees, until your torsos nearly touch. Stops just short of smearing himself with his own ejaculate. Instead, he cups one of your soiled breasts with a small, soft hand, thumbing his cum across the nipple. Being touched here, now, after such deprivation, it's like a kiss of life to your cunt. It roars back to life with a bitter vengeance. But Jimin remains modest in his touches. Doesn't stray much from your one, sticky breast. No, he's more focused on you. Your face. Studying all there is to know about its shapes. And he's inscrutable as he does it. It makes you nervous. "Well." It's scarcely more than a whisper. "Thank you," he mumbles, soft and awkward, like he's never before expressed appreciation for anything. And then he kisses you again, though it feels like it's for the first time. It's slow, intimate, with lazy tongue and spent breaths in between. It makes your heart race for several, terrifying reasons. You break apart, then. "Can I do anything for you?"

"N-No, that's okay." The proposition is unexpected. And with the way you're feeling, dangerous. "I got what I came for. I had fun. Thank you, too." You rise to standing, weathering the crack of your joints as you go. "I'll just clean up quickly."

Jimin is already towelling down his own, comparatively unscathed body. He stands, too, though with far more grace. As he feeds himself back into his too-tight jeans, he extends the towel to you. "If you're sure." A tinge of something colours his tone. Disappointment? "Maybe next time."

Next time?

Jimin's semen begins to crust on your chin. The towel twists in your hands. "What?"

There's an indifference to his body language that doesn’t quite ring true. He shrugs on his jacket. "Yeah. Next time, right?"

For several seconds you both stand there, locked in an unsaid exchange. The air is pregnant with meaning.

The door flies open.

"There you are!" In Jungkook strolls, bleary-eyed and with no clear bearing on his surroundings. "Someone said they saw you come in here." His gaze is hazy as it lands on you and your poorly shielded tits. And then it’s on your face again, where Jimin's spunk is heaviest. "Holy shit."

What feels like a century of shame passes, but it's no more than a microsecond before Jimin is slamming the point of his boot into Jungkook's abdomen. "Get the fuck out!" He bellows, octaves deeper than all this past half hour. Masculinity oozes from his squared shoulders and jutted jaw. The hardness is in his eyes, too. They're like steel as they cut Jungkook down, unchanging even as the younger man claws at his gut and stumbles back. "Don't fucking barge in on me again. This ain’t for you to see."

"I-I'm sorry, 'min-hyung." Jungkook slurs his words past comprehension. "C-Call me wh-when yuh wha-wanna split."

Jimin folds his arms. Tucks balled fists inside. "Yeah, now go."

Unfortunately for Jungkook, the gang-leader catches that last, errant look at your naked breasts. And for that he is rewarded with another swift kick; to his retreating backside, this time. Though you can't see him behind the door, you hear the impact of his fall to all-fours and grimace. Jimin's line of sight tracks low. Jungkook must be crawling away. "Go and sober up, you stupid piece of shit. We're going soon."

The door slots back into its frame. Jimin lingers there a little longer than necessary, his head bowed to the panelling. "Uh." Again, he's different. Transformed. Someone more timid stands in Jimin's place. Ruffles the back of his well-tousled hair. "Sorry. He's a dipshit."

"It's okay," you laugh. You have to, because the entire scenario is astounding. "You didn't have to kick him, though. Twice."

Arms criss-crossing his chest, Jimin watches as you wipe away his residue. For some reason, you’re more self-conscious now than when he put it there. "He deserved it. He's an idiot. Idiots don't learn unless you kick them in the ass. I didn't kick him in the balls, at least. And for that, he should be thanking me."

Clearly, your views on appropriate punishment diverge. Jimin inhabits a different world to yours. It's unnerving. And a little exciting, even though it shouldn’t be. "I'll defer to your judgment in his case." Your straps come up and over your shoulders. On inspection, suspicious white stains dot your dress despite your attempts to prevent that. Hopefully everyone is so smashed by this point that they can’t distinguish it from any of their other surroundings. "Okay, I'm gonna go. My dorm's just across from this one."

"I'll walk you. It's not safe." There's a certainty to Jimin's words that speaks of his experience. Ironically, it's probably safer out there while he's tied up in here. "Lots of scumbags out there that will target girls who are alone."

Fully covered, now, you clutch your purse in front of the worst of the splattering. You want to say something, so you do. You feel like you've earned it. "Not you?"

So self-assured, Jimin is. For a moment, though, he isn't. His smile flickers. "Never. I'm not about that. And I'll thrash anyone who is."

The answer pleases you. Diminishes his other activities somewhat. Somewhat. Just enough that you can go home and fuck yourself into a guiltless coma. "Okay. Well, it was fun. Don't worry about walking me. It's literally just across from here and there are still people around. I gotta find my friend first, anyway.”

Another shrug. Then, with the same nonchalance, he offers up his phone to you. "'Kay."

Eyes on him rather than the device, you take it from him. "What's this?" The screen displays a newly created contact. The phone number is blank. The contact name, though?

Litterbug.

It's hard to scoff at it when you love it so much. "What the hell? That's me?"

"Yeah. Gimme your number?" Jimin grins, brazen-faced. The temptation to kiss him is almost insurmountable. "I wanna see you again, litterbug."

You smile, too. Until you don't. "I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea. I didn't plan on anything past this."

If Jimin's shaken by the snub, he hides it masterfully. His smile isn't quite so burnished, though. "Neither did I, but then this happened, and I want it to happen again, ____. Let me show you just what I can do for you."

God, it's tempting. A bite of that apple is worth being cast from Eden. But your heart is weak and liable to entwine far too easily. And he's not the type of man that should occupy space outside of your depraved fantasies. "How many girls with cute pseudonyms do you have on there?" you deflect, knowing well the answer. Hearing it might temper your hopes somewhat.

"I don't give out my actual number to anyone." Jimin doesn't miss a beat of breath. "Only those that matter to me. Or might do," he adds, quieter, losing his bullishness altogether. "But, do what you want." His palm lays flat in expectation of receiving his phone back empty, but you hesitate. Look down at the vacant space. You could fill that.

You want to.

"Okay, there I am." With a flourish of thumbs and a final tap, your name is input and the contract sealed.

The Devil smiles. "Cool." His fingers linger on yours when you return the device. They're soft like charmeuse, and just as expensive. Because this will cost you everything, you're sure. "Can I see you tomorrow? So you can explain to me exactly what it is you just did to my ass?"

Tomorrow? Jimin’s keen. And you’re smiling again. “Sure. I’ll give you a practical demonstration.”

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Class of 2032: The Return of Tom

Foli lowered his phone from his ear.

The ship was pitching wildly in the rough seas. The air was full of flying corpse guards. Thunder and lightning came one after another. Battles raged on the decks. But he was silent and still staring at the phone where his brother Dofi had spoken his last words. That girl from Cassell College was of a lost lineage, one of the original ten serpents that hatched out of the Great Egg of the Dark King and the Light King before the Light King’s rebellion and before the creation of the Four Lords on the throne. Hilbert Ron Anjou had correctly inferred that there were Light King Hybrids and tracked them down in Japan, and he had inferred correctly that the Dark King and the Light King ruled over a completely different dragon civilization prior to the Four Lords.

He correctly tracked those dragons to Africa and found the Hybrids there. And now, out of Cassell, not only had he found the hybrids of Mawu-Lisa and Legba, but a Hybrid of a third serpent. The West African Hybrids had scoured the world for generations collecting relics of the lost civilizations of the original ten but never once had they ever run across a single person from those other bloodlines. Yet here, that interloper Anjou had brought them a person, this girl.

He put his phone into his pocket and straightened his cap on his head. Dofi was his playmate, the one who always kept his spirits up. His soft voice spoke from the dark. “Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Summer Hart looked up at him from her station at the helm, watching the radar as hundreds of dead slaves flooded the water, undermining the ship from beneath. The depth charges were powerful but only repelled and killed a small number of the beasts. More were coming. Meanwhile, on the deck, the Cassell gear department were working on the airborne missile launcher that would finish off the dragon in the sky. Around them, Cassell warriors were in a desperate battle to keep the monsters at bay.

“I’m going to transfer the command to you for the time being.”

The woman looked at him, her eyes serious. Transfer of leadership was only performed in dire emergencies. He certainly had his pick of emergencies to choose from now but she had a feeling there was something else on his mind.

“There is something precious on this ship that cannot be lost.” He walked to a locker and opened it. A long sword reflected the silver light of the lightning outside. It’s cutting edge glowed faintly red. The hilt was carved wood and overlaid with gold, marked with Egyptian Hieroglyphs. “I must personally protect it.”

“The Cassell team has a wounded member but the plan to stop the King of Sky and Wind at the hatching site is moving forward on schedule.” She informed him, watching him as he armed.

“I will let Cassell College deal with their ancestors. This fight has nothing to do with us.” He took down a submachine gun from the rack and hung a belt of alchemy ammunition from his shoulder. He closed the locker and wrapped it around his waist. He felt numb with grief. “Don’t tell them I’m gone.”

Captain Foli’s mind had already moved on to other things. They were facing overwhelming odds from the King Dragon and its Corpse Guards as well as the fleet of Secret Party ships all competing for the glory and the scraps once that magnificent Sky Dragon was turned into carrion. Foli trained his eyes on the screen that was live broadcasting CCTV footage from inside the ship. He flipped through camera after camera until he saw movement. A lone young woman running through a corridor. A few seconds after she passed by the camera, the view was taken up by these horse-sized creatures, galloping after her. 

The girl wasn’t familiar with the ship. She was heading for a dead end.

“Divert personnel to block 387. I will join them.”

In the dark flooded corridor, Ru’Yi skidded to a halt where she'd been running for several minutes. Her lungs were finally starting to burn and the monsters were catching up. There was a large equipment room ahead and no way out. Behind her, these devil horse-like creatures scraped their claws on the metal floor, sending out sparks and gouging long tears in their effort to speed up and gain traction, but she kept running, entered the room and pushed the metal door behind her, locking it shut with the heavy yellow bar. A loud slam and she was thrown back. The beasts put a large dent into the foot thick door.

She picked herself up, gasping for air, looked around quickly and found a fire extinguisher! It was in a red box with a glass panel. Ru’Yi broke the glass with her elbow, tearing her sleeve open, and pulled it out, working frantically to start it up, yanking out the tab and putting it on spray.

Huge claws worked their way through the crack in the door, peeling it back with a metallic screech and revealing blazing golden eyes and flashing teeth. Ru’Yi aimed right for those eyes and let the fire extinguisher loose! A sharp blinding spray of fire retardant chemicals shot out. The creature squealed and disappeared back  but more of them crowded the door.

There was a crow bar behind the fire extinguisher and she gripped that and turned left and right until her eyes fell on a pipe that read, “Caution: High Pressure” in red. 

The door was ripped off its handles and the beast leaped inside just as she smashed a symbol that warned her not to smash it. A jet of boiling hot steam scalded the creature and he raised its arms to shield its face. Ru’Yi scrambled against the wall  to make her way to the door, sobbing in terror.The beast spun around and raked its claws through the air. Ru’Yi’s sneakers slipped in the water and she fell.

Her eyes focused on the lifted claw, hooked with points as sharp as knives glimmering in the low light one second from coming down on her. “Daddy!” She curled up. 

The creature screamed and staggered back under sudden gun fire!

“Get in! Get in!” The members of the West African Executive Board were no cowards. They leaped into the small equipment room, barreling behind long handled spears with shining red tips. Those spear heads penetrated the dead slave skin like they were nothing  but ordinary creatures and pinned them to the floor.

One man crouched under the array of spear shafts and held out his hand with wide eyes to Ru’Yi. “Give me your hand!”

She reached out and he pulled her, sliding her under the door. 

“I’ve got her!” He yelled, hurrying back. 

“Get down! Get down!” Someone yelled. 

“Clear!”

A large bomb went sailing over all their heads and into the equipment room. A bang and a flash and the room filled with mercury vapor.

“Keep shooting!”

Ru’Yi clapped her ears over her head to dampen the hammering of the machine guns and the howls and the screams of the dying beasts.

“Sir!”

Ru’Yi opened her eyes. Captain Foli stood, his eyes wide and his face set. He towered over her like a giant in uniform. “What is your name!” He snapped at her.

“Ru’Yi… Chu Ru’Yi!” She didn’t have time to dodge his hand. 

He took hold of her. “You are now in the custody of the West Africa Branch.” His eyes glowed golden and Ru’Yi felt the room suddenly tilt. She threw her hands to catch herself, but the room spun in the other direction!

Captain Foli gripped her tightly. To an outside observer she moaned and twitched uncontrollably. She paled and broke out into a sweat.

“Stop! Stop!” She begged him. “Help!”

The soldier who brought her here looked at her and then at the Captain. He’d never seen him use his Yanling before, and much less on a civilian.

Foli gave him a severe glare. “Get back to the fight!”

Ru’Yi was unable to walk on her own so he supported her as they made their way through the corridor. Snarling beasts rounded corners and bolted at them but they were quickly cut down by his submachine gun or his blade.

“Where are you taking me…” Ru’Yi moaned.

“Below decks. There is too much to explain to you right now. But you have to survive this. No matter what.”

“I feel sick… I feel sick!” 

Captain Foli entered a hidden medical area near the area where Ra was slumbering. His Yanling was simply referred to as Vertigo, so of course she felt sick. It severely interfered with his target's sense of balance.  

He opened a cabinet on the wall and pulled out a rack of syringes. He never said anything further. He just shoved a needle in her arm. Then he placed her on the table and strapped her into an emergency travel pod. This pod was reinforced with extremely strong metal and carried a seven days oxygen supply. Even if the ship sank and all aboard were killed, someone could return and find her.

Ru’Yi’s cries turned into a weak incoherent moaning. “Daddy… Daddy help…”

Foli pressed his lips together. He regretted taking her from her family, but his brother had died to give him precious information that he didn’t have to die for… if only he had listened to him earlier.

The heavy bulkhead of the ship suddenly deformed on one side of the room, knocking over furniture and sending supplies flying into the opposite wall. Captain Foli jumped up and aimed his machine gun. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then another loud bang, like someone was hitting the side of the ship with a battering ram! Seawater and rain rushed in and the smell of the ocean flooded the room.

Captain Foli slammed the escape pod shut, and locked it. Claws pierced the metal hull and peeled it back.

What came through was something that looked like a person, but his arms were converted into massive wings. His eyes were red and gold like an open flame, a black trenchcoat flapped from his neck like a cape. His shirt was torn and he was bleeding from his chest, the red running from his body, diluted from the intense rain.

This was no corpse guard. His face wasn’t pale like death and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and anger. Foli brandished his machine gun at him but the creature showed no fear of it. He leaped into the ship with a heavy thud. “Where is Ru’Yi?”

His voice was clear and unmistakable English.

Foli’s eyes turned frigid. He silently opened up a volley of machine gun fire on this beast-man creature. 

It’s eyes burned and it’s wings lifted and filled the air with a strange smoke! Foli covered his nose and mouth, but this wasn’t ordinary air. It pressed against him, spinning in rope-like vortices that pressed his arms to his side and squeezed like chains! He staggered against the wall.

The ‘smoke’ cleared and the young beastman lowered his wings that had served as a shield. Its red-gold eyes fell on the escape pod. He approached cautiously, eying Foli who was leaning against the metal wall.

The smoke was warm and moved independently of the beast. This hand to be some sort of unknown Speech Spirit. Foli watched him lightly caress the escape pod with his wing hands. Then his claws scored the thick metal.

“Heh. You won’t be able to break through it. It’s made to withstand just about anything.” Foli smiled. “She’s not of your kind. She’s of ours. So we’re taking her home.”

“Not of my kind? Explain.” 

“First… I am Captain Foli. I mean her no harm. Quite the opposite. She’s of West African Descent.”

“You’re kidnapping her. You drugged her.” He snarled, revealing sharp fangs.

“You won’t be able to open that thing without my help.” Foli smiled at him. “So you can leave her there and kill me. Or you can let me go and I’ll let you come with her.”

[noythe]

If a thing loves, it is infinte

A small story that I wanted to rewrite, to honor the mighty Vergil and his son. Reader is the mother of Nero.

Originally posted on Ao3, hopefully it is not too awkward. 

Pairing: Vergil/Reader

Warning/Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Slow-Burn, Awkward-Romance, Lots of Angst and Fluff

Chapter 1 Hell on Earth

There once was a man, feared and respected. Loved and hated just the same.

There was life and death, pain and happiness.

But despite every terror there was on the mortal world, there was some unholy powers, trying to rule.

But what should be ruled, if there was no one left?

There was a group of Hunters, known and led by the famous son of Sparda, Dante.

The Devil May Cry.

But what of the Legends if they go mising?

Heaven, Earth and Hell, what would be the missing piece in this chaotic mess?

The world was a mess.

Where once had been peace and the wonder of creation, was only despair and terror now. Angaelic beings have watched over the mortal realm long enough. Demons only caused chaos, destruction and pain. All they cared for was ruling the world only causing despair. No matter how often humanity had been at the brink of utter destruction, there always was someone to take a stand. One of the most honorable ones had been the Dark Knight Sparda. Had he once been the right hand of Mundus - the king of the underworld - he realised that justice needed to be brought to the world and rebelled against his king, defeating his army and sealing him away along with his own power, leaving him on the human world.

To take revenge upon Sparda, the Demon King ordered his loyal monsters to elimnate Spardas family, murdering his kin. During this attack, his mortal wife Eva got killed, the twins she had born and raised for a few years survived but lived through the trauma differently. And neither of them had a pleasant memory of it. Just loosing everything. Home and family. Years have passed and while one of the brothers became a danger for the world always seeking for more power, the younger twin became a hunter - later creating Devil May Cry.

Hunting Demons and fighting his brother over and over again that was something that never changed, no matter how many years passed. But of course even this time peace didn't last forever.

And again the world needed someone to save it. And one of them was Dante, the now legendary Hunter. Earning  himself quite a name over the past decades as a proud Son of Sparda, wielding the Rebellion and mastering many weapons over the decades. A new demon King alone would have been not a big deal, not for Dante if there wouldn't be that gruesome Demon Tree, now taking a hold of Red GraveCity. Emerging from the ground, raising high into the sky and slowly taking his childhood home apart. Dante did not take this job alone. By his side were Trish and Lady, the most dangerous Women the world had seen so far. If there was someone out there to cut the tree down, it would be them.

But for once, the Son of Sparda went missing.

And that murderous tree was still standing, sucking the blood out of the humans living in that city and as much as the military tried to protect the mortals of Red Grave, their strength was far from enough. And whatever manged to survive the roots, probably got devoured by demons or killed by debris and everything that got thrown around. But if the Qlipoth would collect enough blood, it would grow a single fruit that was forbidden and powerful. Fullfilling the true desire of Urizen: Endless Power, making him the new true King over the Underwold. But also it was rare. Only once every thousand years it could grow.

Over two thousand years ago it had been harvested by Mundus, and the tragedy that followed then lead to this day. But without the Devil Hunter, how should they prevent the tragedy to repeat itself? Maybe mankind never learned from it's mistakes... But for the divine and cursed, there was no such rule. As they remembered it all. Stored in ancient tomes and memory, never to be forgotten. Always to be told, even if mortals no longercared, They forgot so fast, life always passing by in a blink.

But not everything was lost. It was just a matter of time and perhaps a young Devil Hunter needed, who was desperate to beat the Demon on his stupid throne, polishing his ugly face. One failure was enough for the kid named Nero. Even after being called a 'Dead-Weight' he tried to help those that couldn't protect themselves, but for that he had to get stronger first. Recover. He was not all alone, yet it might took a little longer than he wanted to, knowing that this was not his final goal. He wanted Urizen. But after loosing his right arm, there was a lot for him to get used to.

And while the impulsive boy cursed Nico and her way to drive that van, the annoying screeching of a bird echoed through destroyed buildings over broken streets and people turned to dust.

"Ey, V! Ey, EY! Are you listening?", Griffon complained, landing on a broken door that was about to break in, caused by the weight of the monster bird. "Of course.", the thud of a closing book followed and the slender man moved into the direction of the bird, accompanied by the constant sound of his silvery cane, hitting the ground to support his steps.

"There's so much pollen here, I might be starting to be allergic!", the bird continued loudly and faked a sneeze.

"But as long as there might be a chance to find someone who is alive, we can buy the boy more time." "Time, time, time. Always the same chatter, You gotta move! Maybe we should get a vacuum. Ey V, can ya use one if I find one? Nah..Whatever.  No time for that, r-rrrright? ", the annoying voice askeed and distanced itself from V, the door finally breaking down as he left his fomer spot and revealing another room that was abandoned and covered in dust and pollen, the remainings of a couple was laying on a bed, their bodies curled around each other, trying to comfort themselves in their very last moments. V just silently passed the room, watching the pair dissolve into a cloud of pollen. It was all Urizens fault. So many lost souls, innocent humans forever gone, who would remember them? For a while it was all quiet and calm - until there was Griffons voice once more.

"Yo! V! You gotta see this!" Silence. "Seriously! I think someone's alive!" That actually made him hurry at least a bit. V knew that he certainly wasn't in shape to run around like the boy Nero. It actually took him long enough, that Griffon met him halfway, urging him to move faster. "Hurry, Shakespeare." The building was too fragile to bust through walls, the risk to injure or kill whoever survived was simply too high and V was on a 'Be-Nice-Trip'. Perhaps they couldn't save everyone, but every single soul that survived, was one less to feed the Qlipoth, even if he was not really the biggest fan of.. helping. It was simply odd for him, Griffon didn't really understand that. Didn't matter, he had a contract with V and did as he said.

His cane scratched over the ground now and then as he made his way over the rubble, trying very hard to not fall over his feet as he barely had the strength to keep up that fast. The screaming of Griffon got louder with every step, that bird certainly growing impatient with every moment that V didn't show up. Griffon flapped his big wings in front of a door, yelling annoyed as the black haired man finally made it to his side. The thing that had kept Griffon from the potential survivor was a door. V rolled his eyes and raised hsi cane to tap against the door. "Are we playin' ''Knock, knock'' or what? Now is not the time,V!", The Bird teased V.  But there was no sound coming from that room, not a single reaction. A black giant cat manifested in front of him and dashed against the door. It had been quite stuck, the frame no longer in shape but at least the door open.

And this had been the only option to get a look inside. He had tried to open it the normal way. But with a malformed frame and all the roots around it of course wouldn't be that easy. V huffed as he finally entered the room, having a quick look around. It had been used as an ballroom, he mused. A few big round tables at the side, surrounded by the equal amount of chairs. Unless they were flipped around, destroyed or pierced through by the Qlipoths roots. The giant chandellier in the middle of the room was no longer intact, half of the luxurious golden branches were wrapped by roots , a few glass shards below it, silvery petals and to Vs surpris: fresh drops of blood. Griffon was flying around and stopped in front of a tall window that was halfly covered by curtains. The drops gathered,until there was stain - as if something had been dragged along. More roots blocked the way outside, but he assumed that whoever had been a victim of the Qlipoth, was outside most likely about to die. Even if the blood was not complely dry.. If there was hope..

The painful scream of a woman pulled him out of his thoughts and made him pick up his cane once more, Griffon already looking for a clot of blood that could help them to make it through. Not in this room. But perhaps in the one below, as some of the roots had made their way through the ground. If they hurried, they might made it in time, finding whoever was standing against the Demon King as well. Chances never were big, but they had to start somehwere, he would meet Nero soon enough. A little detour would not change much, if he was honest. Shadow and Griffon at his side he hurried out of the room again, Shadow dissolving into mist below his feet to make V move without effort and much faster than before. Every second did count. Another scream, followd by a grunt. Metal that was hitting against a solid surface, Over and over again. But with time the beating got less, rapid. As if someone was loosing their power  or the will to fight back. It took him a good while to actually reach the exit of this place, having to face a few nasty demons on the way, but of those he and familiars quickly took care of and finally were able to proceed and stumble outside, walls behind them cracking and breaking down as the support of the roots slowly vanished, now that they were cut off from blood sources. It was bright outside, the sun still fighting against the looming shadow that was cast by the growing demon tree, clouds and rain usually controlling the mood of the day. So it was indeed a surpise that at least for once the sun made it's way through and reached the ground.

And there you were, in the middle of group of Empusa, blood dripping down the right side of your face, a deep cut hovering over your brow. You certainly had seen better days, like everyone who was alive lately in Red Grave City. Your hair was a mess, sprinkled with dirt and blood and stuck to your face. And it was you  who had been fighting, the weapon of choice a rusty pipe that nearly was as long as your entire arm. But to be fair, against the sheer amount of enemies you barely had a chance and every kind of weapon would do. Countless bruises showed up wherever your clothes had been ripped into shreds, your arms and legs suffering from deep cuts as well. It was not exactly a surprise that a civilian wouldn't make it among the Empusa. But it also explained the lack of your strength.

The pipe slipped from your bleeding hands and you forced youself to kneel down and pick it up, smashing it with a feral scream into the next Empusas head. V had the urge the help so he did send his familliars to support you. Those beasts were not a challenge for Griffon or Shadow, but they had to be careful not to injure you by accident. Your reflexes were so slow and it probably was just the adrenaline that kept you standing. "Ahah!", Griffon laughed and smashed against one of the demons, making sure to avoid your arm as you still tried to hold your ground. For a human you didn't do so bad. It could be better, but considering that you were a mere mortal in that mess of this city this was outstanding. With the help of Shadow and Griffon it did not take long and the fight was over, your breathing uneven and fast as the adrenaline still rushed through your veins. You nearly dropped your weapon of choice as Griffon sat on top of it, eying you closely.

"So Missy, why aren't you out of this city?", the bird asked and you seemed unfazed by the fact that there was a speaking bird. But if there were armies of demons attacking a city - a speaking bird should be the least of your worries. "No time." you panted and tried to brush some of your hair back but only made it worse. Ah right, the blood. "Perhaps you should leave now, while you can.", the young man suggested and you turned to the raspy voice, eyes staring at him.

"Your bird...is speaking, Sir.", was the reply you gave him as the said bird landed on his outstretched inked arm. For a while he held your stare, before the corner of his lips twitched up into a smile. "That he does indeed.", the bird ruffled his feathers and tried to present himself proudly. But you barely watched the bird, trying to flex your fingers and try to get a solid grip around the pipe again.

"But it would be best if you take your leave as soon as possible. We can offer you an escort, if you wish.", the man insisted while the bird complained that they had no time for that. But the man just assured the strange coloured avian that it was fine and you breathed through. "I am capable of taking care of myself, I am sure you have something else to do..", a polite decline but your muscles were sore and the cuts needed to be tended to. If there was a spot that wasn't close to falling apart you actully could take a minute. Running water would be great. And bandages. Maybe you should have thanked them. But your mood was as low as it could get. These insects were disgusting. And bug spray did not exactly help. A rusty old pipe wasn't working that well either.. "Let's go V! Missy doesn't need any help and the boy's waiting for us."

You wanted to wave them goodbye, wishing them a safe journey. You wanted to assure them that you could manage. But the ground started to shake and rumble below your feet, the street tipping to the side as another root made it's way to the surface -looking for another source of blood to feed the Tree. But while Griffon pulled V out of danger, you weren't so fast. The fair skinned man turned around as soon as he had solid ground below his feet again, risking a look to see if you made it as well."Oh shit, V. Guess that's it for her." Your upper body was pierced by one of the roots, the bloody tip facing downwards, your life essence slowly dripping down the plant. The impact left no air in your lungs to scream as there just was the shock and pain. The pipe creating a clattering sound as you let go of the weapon, closing your hands around the sharp end of the root as you tried to pull yourself from the pointy end, desperatlly forcing your muscles to make it work. No, you were not done yet. There was no fucking way that you would be stuck on a root and bleed out, No. Fucking. Way. V and his familiars moved again, hurrying to find the source of the root and destroy it. Even if Griffon was pretty sure that you wouldn't survive this. No one would survive that, humans dried out in no time and fed the Qlipoth by that.

"Slice them." Shadow moved quickly through the horde of monsters, Griffon cackling as he unleashed his power upon the enemies. You didn't know where they went but after a felt eternity, you lost your balance as the root dissolved and released your body. Coughing and spitting out blood you sank on your knees, watching the blood pool around you. The taste on your tongue was sweet and coppery, your breathing uneven. "Shit.", you cursed and blinked desperately to keepy our eyes open. You were well aware that if you closed your eyes now it would take long to open them up again. It was getting so cold. So dark. So painful. Slumping to the side you felt blood plastering your skin, starting to dry as you slowly drifted off. You couldn't give up now. There was so much that you needed to do. So much that you wanted to get done. You were going to be fine. Not. But there was not a minute that you could waste on that thought. You couldn't give in. Death was not a option.

"Ey, Shakespeare! She is still breathing!" A warm hand gently moved your chin to the side and your eyes fluttered open once again. Dark green eyes looking down at you. Was there the hint of a smile? Indeed. "Don't worry." What a gentle voice. Maybe it did sound a little different. Maybe just now, maybe it was something familiar... It was hard to tell with the drumming in your head. And while you felt incredibly light and comfortable right now, there was something that just seemed wrong. You didn't notice how the old phone in the distance was used to call for a Van that would pick you up, as he had more..pressing matters to follow. But there was something calming in his voice, as he nearly promised you that you would be fine. And while he waited, sitting right next to you Shadow curled around your form kept you warm company. V pulled the book from his jacked and started to read for you. Voice soft and melodic it was absolutely calming to listen. Neither V or Griffon knew if you would survive this and In case you would loose your life here, he at least stayed by your side  reading  poetry to you. Sometimes, even if only for a short moment of being wake you thought that he sounded as if he was sorry. But then there was the melodic tone again, enevloping you like a blanket, helping you to drift into so much better moments. Now and then a breeze graced your skin, whenever Griffn circled around to check for the Van or your state. What was it now, that made you cling to your life? It was your goal. Your memory, your dream.

"Seems like she doesn't want to die. Reminds me of someone. huh.", You wanted to return something, but your lips didn't move as you wanted to and your tongue was heavy. Your entire body was sluggish and unable to follow even the easiest command. At least somtimes you managed to move the thumb of yours. Just a bit forth and back, trying to focus on the nerves to not loose consciouness. That at least was a battle that you managed to win - no matter how much this man was reading to you. Another felt eternity passed and then even you could hear the sound of brakes, a car that rushed over the broken street and just came to a stop mere centimeters away from you. You would have been unable to move anyway. But that V at least hadn't seemed worried about that part. The sound of the cane retuned and stopped just right next to you.

"It does seem like she can make it." Did he sound relieved? It was so hard to tell right now. "Yo, chickee- out of my way!" Once again you felt even lighter than before, noticing the scent of cold smoke that now surrounded you like a cloud. Your feet bumped against a wall as you got carried somewhere, hearing a woman swear over and over again. At least she didn't try to make it worse, considering the state you were in anyway. "No peeking!" The arms that held you before awkwardly let go of you as you were placed on some sort of bench, your head hitting the rest for the back with a dull sound. And there was another curse from the woman as she tried to have a look at your wounds.

"This Lady had been hella lucky," Your forehead started to burn as something was applied on your cut, followed by a gauze. Same for your arms and legs. Tiredly you groaned and forced your eyes open, it took a good while to focus on something. The room was filled in a big cloud of smoke and the lightning was everything but good for the eyes. But it didn't take long and you noticed at least where you were. Inside a car: a van.  And the woman you looked at seemed friendly. Or surprised that you woke up so soon and stared at her. "Mornin' Sweety. You should take a good nap and I'll drive that Van to the border of tRed Grave, Here's no place for ya."

As much as you wanted to insist, a blanket was laid over you, carefully tucked into your side and it was so heavy and warm.. You didn't have an interest in fighting back anymore. It was so warm and cozy and the pain slowly faded. Still you noticed the constant chatter between the woman and the bird. Now and then the voice of the man breaking through the silence. But you weren't surprised that it was not quiet for long. The door to the Van got closed, a lighter was used and then the engine of the car started to howl. It didn't matter that you were supposed to sleep, your mind tried very hard to stay awake. And in the end, you lost. The next time you woke up, the car was no longer making a milkshake out of you. You felt much better than before. The pounding in your head was gone and the pain in your chest as well. Your skin itched caused by all the dried blood.

"Ey, sleeping beauty is awake!" You slowly tried to sit up, only to be hit with a towel right in your face. "take a shower, sweetie. Just go to the back of the Van." The woman introduced herself as Nico, before she started to fiddle around with a box. Besides the towel she also handed you bandages and some clothing that was not your size but at least it covered more of your skin, that what you were still wearing right now. "Thanks..", you muttered, overloaded with all the stuff that was given to you and bumped your head on a cabinet as you tried to get up. Oh great. The bird started to laugh with a cackling sound and you just growled weakly while squeezing yourself through the Van. Shower..Shower. Ah! Hidden behind that corner. It took a while to arrange yourself, telling the bird to not even dare to peek. V - apparently the guy that had saved you, didn't seem to be type to do something immodest. But the Bird.. Tsk. Stripping out of your clothes you stepped inside the shower, playing around  with the handles to adjust the temperature of the water. While trying to find the perfect setting for yourself, you took of the bloody bandages. The skin underneath was mostly smooth, the tissue of the your skin had been knitting itself together pretty fast. Only a few old scars showed up on your arms, legs and between your shoulder blades. The only scars that you still could feel.. But at least you managed to keep them out of the sight of strangers, so no one dared to ask.

Finally bare you used the water, working your hair with something that was supposed to be shampoo. But it took nearly forever to even get the all dirt out of your hair. The water remained red for a good while, just slowly turning lighter as the water turned cold. Leaning your forehead against the wall you breathed through, allowing the cold water to run over your back, the steady feeling of water drumming on your skin was able to comfort you. You couldn't even remember when you had your last shower. It didn't matter if the water was warm or cold. You just wanted to feel clean, wash all the gore and blood away. You could not stay here forever. Even if the thought was temping, so you hurried to clean yourself up as fast as possible and picked  the towel to rub yourself dry. This probably had been the best shower you ever had taken. Or at least in the last few weeks. Reaching outside to grab the clothes you stared at the bird and the bird stared right back at you.  Was that thing serious? Throwing the blanket at that thing you cursed it, promising it to make some soup out of it as you harshly grabbed the clothes and slammed the cabin of the shower again. Empusa? No problem. But a Demon Bird that had been waiting infront of the shower for you to finish?

Creepy as fuck. With damp hair and dressed you made your way outside and crossed your arms in front of your chest., judging the avian with a look, that made him flee with a screeching sound and landing on the shoulder of his master. "Whass' up, Missy? Afraid to join us?" Well, that didn't work as planned..You certainly wouldn't tell the bird that an apology was in order.. Instead you turned your attention towards the woman at the drivers seat and smiled grateful.

"Thanks for the shower..and the clothes. I will return that kindness to you." "It's fine, Miss. Got the boy to pay for me, ain't that right, V?" The man just huffed and agreed quietly, but didn't look up from his book. He simply turned the page and hit the demonic bird with the length of the cane to stop him from doing more nonsense. Or you really would make some soup out of him. Nico took a pull from her cigarette and leaned over her seat as she eyed you while puffing out some smoke.

You hated the smell, but she had cared for your and still planned to drop you off at the border of the city. As if there was a way for you to leave this place. You weren't done yet. No. The new Demon King needed to be stopped. And there still were people out there that could be saved. And you were able to protect yourself... Just not like this, "Lookin' much better without all the blood.", Nico hummed and eyed you really closely. Did she notice? The eyes behind the round glasses were sharp, but if there was something your host saw, Nico didn't mouth it all.

"And your overall state seems to be fine. You recoverd fast,", the mysterious man mused and you knew that you had to think of a story about that really, really quick. Unless they let the topic drop. By the looks of it he had a contract with demons. That you could see clearly.. But desperate times...

You shook of that thought and turned back to Nico who just inhaled deeply to start talking. "We'll move on tomorrow. If ya want, take a walk outside. V needs to clear the street for me." "Why don't you do that yourself?", the Bird asked and ducked as Nico threw some packaging at the Bird, who simply dissolved into ink and got absorbed by V's body, the small box meeting black hair. He didn't look all to happy with that situation, but you decided to indeed take a walk outside and leave them alone with the discussion.

It was darker than before, cloudy and even a bit chilly. The Van was rusty and severally damaged, now that you actually had a chance to have a look at it.

With a sigh you tried to fix the pants that you were given. Loose fit at least.. But maybe you needed a belt for them soon. Unlike the Van, the air smelled like rain. You couldn't help but inhale deeply. It certainly wasn't smart to get out with damp hair, but a cold in times like these couldn't be worse than demons and Trees from the Underworld. The street the Van was parked in was meant for one way only and there were some roots in the way, ah - the ones V had to get out of the way.You wondered how far...Oh. Nevermind, you could see the tree from here. A few fragile buildings left and right, cracked ground and so many inncoents that were dried out and leaving only shells behind. The bodies would dissolve fast enough and there was nothing you could do. Only keep the fallen in your memories. How many families were ripped arpart? If the Gates of Heaven would open for the victims?

Walking around the Van you hummed a familiar tune, until you were interrupted by a cloud of black ink, slowly building itself into that bird from before. "So..Miss.", you leaned against the Van and looked up to the Demon, his wings nearly hitting your face as he started to fly in front of you. "What is it, chicken?" "You're not human, are ya?" Raising a brow you crossed your arm in front of your chest and looked up to the bird. "What makes you think so?", was the only reply he would get. Griffon cackled and sat on top of the Van, ruffling his feathers proudly. "Your not dry like a raisin", he squeaked and used his beak to hit your head. As if to play 'Knock-Knock' .. Did his master not know about that birds own mind?

"It runs in the family." I was not even a lie. Just not the entire truth. But there was no reason to explain yourself to a Demon. "Nah, Nah. Not good enough, you hear me? You might fool the others, but you can't follow a Demon. Not the mighty Griffon!" That saved you the introduction. Griffon.. Didn't ring a bell in your head. Leaving the spot at the Van you took a few steps and turned around to face the avian, the hint of a smirk on your lips. "Smart little bird. But does it matter? There are more important matters to focus on." He cackled and there was electricity in the air, his position towards you didn't seem to be friendly at all. "Need to know if you cause any problems for V. So?" His eyes focused you and something was shifting in the air. Demons. "Listen, Demon.. We wish for the same. And now get your master, things are getting ugly."

The street indeed filled with all the nasties, you were unable to count the amount of demons, but thankfully V was leaving the van and regarded you only with a look, telling you to stay inside. "You just recovered, it might be best...to sit this battle out." "Don't worry..V. - I shall be fine." "You can't be serious, now Ihe two watch you both?! I'm not getting paid enough for this shit!" This time you smirked for real, but didn't even plan to go back inside. That bird was right. But thankfully he didn't know about your origin or the abilities that lurked deep within you. There was more to this world than just Devils and Demons.

It was time to bring back the light to this city.

[bogariel-frogariel]

Taking A Breather

Adaine ducks out of a party to get a breather. She’s not the only one that needed a break from everyone.

Introducing my OC.

Find it here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25262344

Tell me if you want more.

----

Adaine was getting bored.

 She hadn't even wanted to go to this party.

 However, when your sister helps cause a revolution and a complete restructure of a government's systems, inadvertently landing herself as one of the four newly elected Queens of Fallinel, you kind of need to attend a few formal social events.

 That, combined with the fact that ever since she'd turned seventeen, she had been receiving many more inquiries and requests from various governments and magical institutions throughout Spyre, asking for her to act in her role as the Oracle meant that Adaine's calendar was much more full than she'd ever anticipated it being two years ago before she started high school.

 Her face was starting to hurt from the polite smile she'd needed to wear for what was dawning on two hours now as she talked to politicians and important religious and magical figures from High Court, Solace and Fallinel at the banquette  formally celebrating the renewed alliance between the three nations.

 She knew she couldn't retreat to the library, even though she had been itching to explore it all day. The old elven castle the party was in was thousands of years old, perhaps millennia. However, Aelwyn had asked her to (told her to, really) not go into the library during the party. Adaine knew this was important to her sister, and they had both been trying really hard to be better sisters over the past year, so she'd agreed.

 Besides, she could join Ayda (and by extension Fig) in the library tomorrow.

 But she just really needed to escape right now.

 Riz wasn't here, off at work, Gorgug and Zelda had (surprisingly) snuck off somewhere an hour ago, Fig and Ayda were (as previously stated) in the library, Rag was flirting with an elf (Adaine recognised as Queen Amara's twin brother), Fabian was sticking close to her sister, who was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and Kristen had (unsurprisingly) slipped away from the party with Tracker an hour ago. They had barely left each other alone since they'd reunited four weeks ago after months apart, since the werewolf had also been instrumental in the revolution, and was now toting the title of High Priestess of Galicaea.

 She just needed a few minutes to recharge, away from people.

 So, Adaine ducked into the first narrow, shadowy corridor that she found.

 For a moment, she allowed herself to sag in relief at finally, finally being alone. However, she turned a little more and froze, suddenly glimpsing someone sitting on the floor, poking their out from a blanket, which they'd thrown over their head.

 The person stood up and both of them stood, staring at each other for a few seconds.

 The first thing that Adaine registered was the fact that the girl (or so Adaine thought, but living with Kristen had meant that she'd learnt to make sure she got confirmation anyway) had not, in fact, been wearing a blanket, but had curled her wings in front of her. Her brilliantly black wings. As Adaine stared at her, she saw little white dotes flicker to life across the wings, quickly joined by some dark purple swirls, making them look like a picture from space. 

 "Umm…" she girl said and Adaine tore her eyes away from her wings and looked at her face properly.

 The girl had dark skin, fine pointed ears that spoke of elven ancestry, and wavy, brilliantly white-silver hair that contrasted against her dark purple eyes that were rimmed with a sparkling gold. Adaine's heart hammered against her chest.

 She was snapped out of her reverie when the girl tucked a book into the folds of her midnight blue gown.

 She stuck her hand out to the girl.

 "Hello, my name is Adaine Abernant, my pronouns are she/her."

 Kristen would be so proud. A month ago, she'd spent a week making them practice the greetings whenever they entered a room she was in.

 The girl blinked at Adaine for a second, her eyes widening. Adaine cringed internally. She didn't know how she would take more gushing or ass kissing.

 However, after a second, the girl took her hand.

 "I'm Rhaezella Starkterian, my pronouns are also she/her. Pleasure to meet you."

 Adaine immediately recognised the name. "You're Queen Amara's sister."

 She winced when Rhaezella pursed her lips. "Sorry."

 The girl waved her off. "That's fine. You'll forgive me for acknowledging that you're the Oracle then, Princess."

 Adaine couldn't stop her scowl at the second title and Rhaezella smirked.

 "Yes. It's kind of ridiculous that we get those titles just because of our sister."

 Adaine rolled her eyes. "And we have to keep them for the rest of our lives, even after they get voted out in fifty years."

 Rhaezella snorted. "I think they were trying to prank us."

 Adaine shared a grin with the girl. "So, you're looking for a refuge as well?"

 Rhaezella sighed. "Sick of people trying to earn my favour."

 Adaine nodded, her brain finally starting to work properly as she realised she remembered the name from more than just the queen.

 "You're about to be tested for Archmage, right?"

 Similar to the Oracle title, the Archmage was a life-long title given to a prominent and powerful magic user, who would work as a sort of anchor for magic to redistribute throughout Spyre. Whilst the Oracle looked to the future, the Archmage took care of the present, helping stabilise the magic in the planet's core, which was liable to become unstable without a living being to ground it. However, instead of automatically passing on automatically, the title was passed on when a suitable candidate came into contact with a jewel at the base of the Mountains of Chaos.

 Fig had been asked to try for the position a few months ago, but the giant amethyst hadn't reacted to her touch.

 Adaine supposed, with travel between nations becoming easier than it was a millennia ago, when Archmage candidates had to quest to find the previously unmapped location, the jewel could afford to be picky.

 Rhaezella grimaced. "Yes. Being one of the few still living demigods has its perks I guess."

 Adaine nodded awkwardly. She'd heard the story of the elfling who had one day sprouted wings and then been snatched into the Outer Planes by the gods moments later, only to then be imprisoned by the Elven government when she finally escaped her captivity by the gods years later.

 Demigods were usually either taken by the gods (who had all seemed to dislike other gods having progeny on the mortal plane) or taken advantage of by governments seeking their power.

 Being Archmage was really the safest position for her.

 Personally, Adaine found it ironic that devils were nicer to their children than the gods.

 "Umm… I like your dress… and your hair," the girl stuttered, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.

 Adaine felt her cheeks heat up and her heart stuttered. She tucked her hair behind her ear self-consciously. She had allowed it to grow out over the last year, not bothering to cut it anymore like her parents had always made her. She knew it was very stereotypical of her, to have almost waste length hair; and that having such long hair had fallen out of style centuries ago, but it felt like rebellion against her mother, and Aelwyn had encouraged her when she'd voiced the idea.

 She'd probably have to cut it soon though. It could be terribly annoying on adventures. Although, it did feel rather nice when she let others braid it.

 She bunched her other hand up in her silky dress that was rather tight to her to her thighs fanning out from there. Aelwyn and Fig had pulled it out of the store because they had never seen her wear something like that before. She'd agreed to it for its colour; which was a blue so pale it was almost silver.

 "Thank you," she muttered, before stammering, "Umm… I like your -" everything, everything looked pretty, "hair as well. The waves are really pretty."

 "And your snake," she added with some shock as a black serpent appeared over the girl's shoulder. Adaine hadn't noticed it coiled around her waist.

 Rhaezella pet the snake absentmindedly. "Her name is Cerridwen. They were a gift from my mother. My godly one. She's a shape shifter - nothing my mum makes is really… one thing. It comes with being the goddess of chaos and magic with no church. There are too many magic users and people so they are always… changing. But I love my familiar. She… helps when it gets too much."

 Adaine grinned, pulling Boggy out of the purse that was slunk over her shoulder.

 "I have a familiar as well. His name is Bogariel Frogariel. Or, Boggy the Froggy."

 Rhaezella laughed and Adaine hugged Boggy close.

 "I used a spell to summon him, so he can also change forms. He helps me with my anxiety."

 Adaine had a moment of panic after she said that. She'd gotten too personal too soon.

 However, Rhaezella just nodded in understanding. "I got Cerridwen before I was formally diagnosed, but my therapist says they help me."

 Rhaezella she grimaced, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. "My sister just messaged me."

 Adaine winced sympathetically.

 Rhaezella sighed, smoothing out her skirt. Suddenly, Adaine didn't really want to be alone anymore.

 "Why don't we go out there together?"

 The girl glanced up, furrowing her eyebrows. "You don’t want to escape the party? I won't tell on you."

 Adaine smiled. "Nah. It's alright. I'd rather have someone I like to talk to, even if I have to deal with everyone else."

 Rhaezella beamed at her. "I would like that too."

 The demigod gestured down the corridor. "Shall we then?"

 Adaine nodded and started walking.

 As they emerged into the light, she glanced to her side. It would be better if they were talking. It would discourage at least some of the vultures.

 "What book were you reading."

 Rhaezella blushed. "I'll only tell you if you promise not to tell any of the queens. I was meant to stay out of the library."

 "So I brought some of it with you," Adaine said with a grin. "And deal."

 She made a note to wear a dress with a large skirt and pockets at the next one of these functions.

 However, as she launched into an animated discussion with Rhaezella that lasted almost the whole night, resuming whenever they were left alone, she thought she might not need to.

[hermanwatts]

“I Wish to the Devil the Country was Prepared”

In early January 1932, Robert E. Howard in a letter to H. P. Lovecraft had this to say:

“I love peace, yet I wouldnt [sic] mind a war right now such a hell of a lot, if the country was prepared; but it isnt [sic]. Japan knows it; that’s why she thinks she can kick the flag around, beat up American officials, and get away with it. I wish to the devil the country was prepared.”

This comment was in relation to Japan’s recent seizure of Manchuria in late 1931. Historians often view this as the first shot that would lead to World War 2.

I recently read Cry Havoc: The Arms Race and the Second World War 1931-1941 by Joe Maiolo. It fits in with After the Trenches by William O. Odom, Linn’s Guardians of Empire, and Geoffrey Perrett’s There’s a War to be Won.

Maiolo makes the case that Stalin’s First Five Year Plan set off the 1930s arms race that led to WW2. The Japanese made a gamble to grab Manchuria before the Red Army was modernized and too powerful.

Robert E. Howard was correct. The U.S was not in a good condition to fight a war. But then again, that is the condition it generally goes into war. In 1932, the U.S. Army had 133, 200 men. The National Defense Act of 1920 called for 17,000 officers and 280,000 enlisted men. The National Guard was to be at 435,000 men.

The U.S Army had received no new equipment after WW1. In the 1930s, it was still using the British Mark VIII “Liberty” tank and had 950 French Renault FT-17 made under license. The Renault FT-17 was used up through the 1930s so in terms of quality, not at a disadvantage.

Renault FT-17 Tank

There were designs on the books for new artillery such as the 105 mm howitzer but in 1932, the Army was still using 75 mm and 155 mm cannons of WW1 vintage. Mortars were 3 inch trench mortars with often faulty ammunition due improper storage.

What the U.S. Army had plenty of were around 2 million M1917 Enfield rifles in Cosmoline. During WW1, Winchester, Remington, and Eddystone could produce Enfields in far greater numbers than Springfield Armory with the Springfield ’03 rifle. Corporal (later Sergeant) Alvin York used the M1917 Enfield on that October day in 1918 where he picked off one German after another. Most U.S. Army units in WW1 carried Enfields.

The Enfield was accurate but long (46.25 inches). It does have that short and smooth action the Enfield series of rifles is known for. Some had been sold to the civilian market, but the supply seemed inexhaustible. They were used in basic training during WW2. In the late 1930s, the Army sold around 40,000 a year to the Philippine Commonwealth for the army that Gen. Douglas MacArthur was supposed to create. Enfields were also sold to the Free French, Nationalist Chinese, Irish Free State, and the Royal Netherlands Indies Army. I have seen pictures of stacks of Enfields handed out to Philippine guerrillas in WW2. Some were sent to Britain after Dunkirk. Rear echelon troops such as Signal Corps in the Pacific had Enfields late in WW2. All the M-1 carbines were being sent to Europe. The M1917 is still in use by the Sirius Dog Sled Patrol in Greenland. The Patrol is an elite unit of the Danish Navy. The M1917 works in extreme cold conditions.

M1917 Enfield

The official rifle of the U.S. Army in 1932 was the Springfield ’03. The Army had somewhere around 800,000 of those left over from WW1. It is an accurate rifle owing its action to the Mauser.

The U.S. Army had 102,174 Browning Automatic Rifles from WW1. Ever talk to WW2 vets, they liked the BAR. It was heavy, weighing around 19 lbs. It was originally designed for suppressing fire crossing no-man’s land. Bonnie and Clyde used BARs and did Frank Hamer who took out Bonnie and Clyde. Foreign especially British writers hate the BAR calling it a poor light machine gun. It was used sort of as an LMG but gave a rifle squad a little more fire power. The Marines had two BARS per rifles squad in WW2.

Browning Automatic Rifle

The M1919 Browning machine gun began service right after WW1 and used up through Vietnam. John Moses Browning was a firearms genius.

Browning M1919 Machine Gun

The Thompson submachine gun was not adopted until 1938 by the U.S. Army but in use by the Navy and Marines. So, overall, the U.S. was in similar condition to all other great powers following WW1 with small arms.

The biggest problem is the U.S. Army had no large-scale training exercises during most of the 1930s due to lack of funding. Gen. Douglas MacArthur fought tooth and nail to keep the Army from being further by Roosevelt but money was not present for training.

A bright spot is the Army Air Corps. The Air Corps took 20% of expenditures in 1933. The U.S. at least kept up with new designs of aircraft and some purchases. The Curtis P6-E Hawk would have been the standard “pursuit” plane in those last years of bi-wing airplanes.

Out of 133,200 men, 25% of the U.S. Army was overseas. The old thinking of garrisons strewn across colonial empires ready to deal with any local emergencies.  U. S. Army strength overseas:

Philippines: 11,744 (5207 Army, 6537 Philippine Scouts). Three infantry regiments, four coast artillery, one cavalry regiments, two field artillery regiments.

Hawaii: 14,223. The Hawaiian Division (“The Pineapple Army”) and coast artillery.

Alaska: two understrength companies at Juneau.

Panama: 2 infantry regiments, 2 coast artillery regiments, 1 battalion field artillery

Tientsin, China: 15th Infantry Regiment at 2 battalions

Puerto Rico: 65th Infantry Regiment.

Another 20% of the U.S. Army was on the Mexican border. The 2nd Infantry Division was kept at full strength at Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. The 1st Cavalry Division at Ft. Bliss, Texas at 9,595 men; the 24th Infantry Regiment, one of the Army’s two black infantry regiments was at Ft. Huachuca in Arizona on the border.

The Washington Treaty of 1922 restricted the U.S. Navy. The Navy had 11 battleships, 3 fleet carriers, 19 cruisers, 102 destroyers, 55 submarines for two oceans. The Navy had 93,384 personnel.

The U.S. Marines stood at 16,561. The Marines were scattered from Shanghai in China to Cuba in small detachments. The 4th Marine Regiment had been in Shanghai with two battalions. The North China Marines fluctuated between 200-300 men at this time.

North China Marines

REH to HPL, 1932: “Along the Border there is a definite undercurrent of expectation, or at least apprehension, of Mexican invasion in case of war. There has been a persistent rumor, every [sic] since the last war, of the mysterious presence and vaguely sinister activities of a hundred thousand Japanese in the interior of Mexico.”

The Mexican Revolution from 1910-1920 gets most historical press. Mexico continued to have turmoil through the 1920s and 30s. Some were regional military commander led revolts against downsizing. The Yaqui Indians in northern Mexico fought the Mexican government 1926-27. There was the Cristero Rebellion 1927-29 and Cedillo Rebellion 1938-39.

Closer to home for Robert E. Howard was the San Diego Plan of 1915. Named after the small town of San Diego in southern Texas, the manifesto stated:

“On the 20th day of February, 1915, at two o’clock in the morning, we will arise in arms against the Government and Country of the United States of North America, ONE AS ALL AND AS ONE, proclaiming the liberty of individuals of the black race and its independence of Yankee tyranny which has held us in iniquitous slavery since remote times.”

In the summer of 1915, Mexican rebels and bandits (Sedicionistas) launched 30 raids against targets carried from across the Rio Grande River. The Seditionistas killed almost two-dozen U.S. citizens including kidnapping, torturing, and decapitating a U.S. soldier displaying his head on a pole in the border. The Anglo-Texan response was with extreme prejudice including extra-judicial executions in retaliation. Robert E. Howard would have been nine years old during these events.

The 2nd Infantry Division and 1st Cavalry were kept at full strength through the 1920s and 30s ready to deal with Mexico.

Could war have happened in 1932? The U.S. was so weak militarily that Japan contemptuously went about its aggression with little fear. The U.S. simply could not intimidate Japan. There was a chance of a clash with the North China Marines at Peking and the 15th Infantry Regiment at Tientsin sparking a wider war. The Japanese could have taken out scattered, isolated U.S. detachments in China, Philippines, and even Hawaii.

The plan was for the U.S. Navy to rush to relieve the Philippines in War Plan Orange while the Philippine garrison retreated to the Bataan peninsula and Corregidor island. It was thought it would take the Japanese six months just to cut through the jungle to get to American lines.

A daring attack by the Japanese on Panama could have put the canal out of use. Opportunistic politicians or generals in Mexico under Japanese encouragement could have attacked along the U.S.–Mexico border in the hope of regaining the South West. The Japanese could have trainers and advisors with the Mexican Army. They even could have a regiment of infantry to stiffen up their allies.

The U.S. could find itself with almost 25% of its army gone and another 20% desperately holding the border with no new tanks, no new artillery. It would take around eight months before you get the skeletal army and National Guard divisions filled out and trained. The Army at least had lots of rifles in storage. There were over 2 million WW1 veterans. A fair number would have been still young enough and in acceptable physical shape to provide a trained reserve to draw upon.

American industry would be able to supply plenty of trucks and other vehicles but things like tanks and cannons would take time.

Curtis P-6 Hawk

The Army Air Corps first monoplane P-26 fighter was a year away from first deliveries and the B-10 bomber two years. The Curtis P-6 Hawk, the last biplane used by the Army Air Corp would have been the plane used along the Mexican border and patrolling the West Coast.

Perhaps some sort of new tank would have been produced. An imaginary tank linking the WW1 leftovers and the M-2 tank of the late 1930s could have been produced.

The Japanese Navy could sail at will along the California coast shelling Los Angeles and San Francisco. There would not be much the U.S. could do about it for a while. In the long run, the U.S. would pummel Mexico into submission. A young Robert E. Howard joins up in the Texas National Guard (36th Infantry Division) or the Army to give the Mexicans and Japanese hell.

If there were an opportune time for the Japanese to attack, it would have been around 1936-1937. The U.S. Army would have another four years of deteriorating equipment and financial starvation. Franklin Roosevelt had taken officers out of active duty for one of his New Deal programs. They ran Civilian Conservation Corps camps. The U.S. was lucky in that a generation of young men were in a quasi-military environment providing pre-basic training. Roosevelt admired Mussolini and Stalin’s central controlled economies and emulated them. Hitler had very similar camps for German youth at the same time.

The U.S. was lucky in that when war came, a new generation of planes, tanks, rifles, vehicles were coming off the assembly lines. The Japanese and Italians were off by 10 years. Both had up modern armies for the early 1930s.  Involvement in wars during the 30s delayed modernization giving the Allies the upper hand.

A war in 1932 would have looked a lot like something at the end of WW1 with bolt action rifles, bi-planes, primitive tanks. The 1st Cavalry Division would have been on horseback on the border with some old armored cars confined to the probably few functioning roads in northern Mexico. The Marines might have made a landing at Veracruz with a thrust to Mexico City to put an end of that part of the war.  The expanding army would have made its mistakes and growing pains in Mexico. The .30-06 cartridge used in the ’03 Springfield, M1917 Enfield, and Browning Automatic Rifle was perfect for fighting in the open territory of the border. If Mexico did not join with Japan, there would have been a period of just some naval clashes for up to two years. The Japanese might have invaded Alaska making for a scenario of warfare in polar conditions.

The fleet would begin the hard fight across the Pacific as laid out in various versions of War Plan Orange would get underway ending with a blockade of Japan. By the 1930s, Navy admirals had a realistic view of a Pacific War with an island-hopping campaign through the Japanese Mandate islands including the Marshall and Caroline Islands. The Army said it could hold out in the Philippines for 6 months, the Navy estimated a two-year campaign across the Pacific to get the Philippines. So, the Army commander of the Philippine Department would be surrendering before help arrived. It was a command that few relished.

The U.S. could have trained Chinese troops to tie down the Japanese Army. Who knows, the Soviets might have joined in taking Manchuria from Japan once the war turned.

A war in 1932 with Japan and Mexico is an interesting topic. Gen. Douglas MacArthur was Chief of Staff of the U.S Army so there would be drama to the conflict. Who knows, maybe Grandpa Theobald would have volunteered as an ambulance driver like he tried to do in WW1.

“I Wish to the Devil the Country was Prepared” published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[thedyingmoon]

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

~ A V X Reader set in an Alternate Universe wherein ugly feet are a big deal (?!) 🤔

~ "Too Much Fluff Can Kill You" Volume 2. 😂

~ Tagging my friends, @heaven-on-a-landslide , @krazy06 , @diabeticsugarush , @ehrzeth , @ceruleanworld , @lessy86 , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , and @gxthghoulfriend . 🖤

~ Once again helped by my special anonymous adviser who stayed up late with me! And it's all worth it! I hope you like this. ❤

~ Just an important piece of instruction: Please watch the video below before proceeding to the next paragraph. 🖤

~ LET'S DO THIS! 🖤

***

XIV

***

Dante stood in the lobby as he read the latest issue of his favorite magazine.

Already in his best formal attire, the man unceremoniously waited for you. The gig this time required the two of you to infiltrate a party to rat a certain Demon out, and at the mere thought of you in a dress had him intrigued.

Of course, he found you quite fetching. But, the clothes you wore on a daily basis? With your fondness for loose, oversized, and unflattering pieces of clothing, he honestly thought that you got nothing compared to either Trish or Lady, who were two of the most beautiful, if not lethal, women he had ever seen.

Yes, he thought that all the beauty you got were wasted on your conservative tastes,...

"Are we gonna go, or what?" Dante, who failed to notice you as you came down from your room, heard you loud and clear and turned.

"Hey, what took you - ?"

The man stopped dead in his tracks, for there, right before his very eyes, was,...

You raised an eyebrow and placed your hands on your hips. "Are you gonna stare at me the whole evening? We still have a job to do."

"The lady is right." Morrison, who just entered the building, said. And when he saw you, his eyes widened in complete awe. "And surprise of all mother of surprises. You look like the most gorgeous star in the galaxy, my dear."

"Thank you, Mr. Morrison." You said, taking the Broker's hand and letting him lead you outside towards his car.

"Your partner seems to be tongue tied."

"Yeah, he's busy with that magazine of his."

You carefully entered the vehicle as Morrison opened the door for you. A few moments later, Dante followed.

The ride towards your destination was a really quiet one. You would occasionally look at the front at Morrison as he drove but, most of the time, your eyes were just glued to the window beside you. Despite that, you could not shake the feeling of heaviness in your body. It's as if you have been the subject of someone's intense stares for far too long.

Still, you smiled, not letting yourself be tempted to indulge your silent companion.

Your resistance persisted until you two reached the place.

And Dante could not hold it in any longer.

"Hey," he began, isolating you from the other guests by leading you to an empty hallway. "You've been keeping things from me."

"Wha - ?" You started to argue but, then, realized he was right. "Well, yes."

"What else can you do?" Dante demanded, your overwhelming scent of a very addictive vintage wine assaulting his nostrils and driving his patience to the limit. "Witchcraft? Sorcery? Voodoo?"

You only chuckled at his question. "They're the same thing."

The man grabbed your shoulders and made you look up at him, his light - colored eyes more intense than ever before. "Tell. Me."

Unfazed, you only smiled up at him, grabbed his huge hands, and removed them gingerly off you. You then took one of his hands and led him back towards the living area where the party was taking place.

"What are you doing?"

"See that lady?" You whispered to him in a lover - like fashion so as not to make yourself obvious that you're plotting something dangerous. "That's your target."

"How did you even - ?!"

"Sshh! Don't ask. Okay?"

Dante looked at the said female, who happened to be the host of the party.

"So, in two minutes, she will come our way, introduce herself to you, and start flirting with you. You will flirt with her for, like, five minutes."

The man looked at you suspiciously. "Why did I suddenly feel nervous about this?"

"Oh, you'll be fine. Anyway, her lover will come out of hiding. You will kill him."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about killing an innocent man?!"

"And," you went on, ignoring Dante's complaint. "... you will use the Rebellion and drive it through his skull, then she will attack you. You will use the Ebony and Ivory against her. And, guess what, all the guests in here? They're all Demons. You will finish them in, like, ten minutes, tops. Then, you will join me in the balcony and wipe Demon blood off your face."

"And why am I supposed to believe you?"

"Because your two minutes is up and she's coming towards us."

And surely enough, with hips swaying seductively and eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings, the gracefully tall and slender host of the party was coming towards the legendary Devil Hunter. Dante looked back at you and realized you weren't there any more.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the man, who was covered in Demon guts and chandelier glitter, came out to join you on the balcony. He wiped the Demon blood off his face and leaned against the railing beside you.

"You didn't even help me." Dante told you wih a huge sigh. "And we're supposed to be partners."

"Convinced?"

"Whatever."

"Hey, at least you got to flirt with her, right?" You cheerfully answered.

Dante looked at you with every intention of giving you a piece of his mind but, you were already walking away from him.

"Hey!"

You turned back, winked at him, and held up a finger to your lips.

"Sshh,..."

***

You and V hustled towards the empty building, sheltering yourselves due to the very sudden and heavy rainfall.

Once inside, V heard you grunt in dismay and as he turned to look at you, he saw you as you put your black violin case down on the cold floor and strip off your wet parka, revealing your simple white dress underneath.

Now, V may have no idea, whatsoever, what you'll need the violin for during the Demon hunt, but he was definitely flabbergasted as to your taste in clothing. It's as if you were not going on a Demon hunt, at all.

You felt a pair of eyes boring down on you as you picked up your violin case, and when you looked up, you ultimately saw him staring at you.

Then, there was that feeling again - of your cheeks burning, of your heartbeat going wild, of your knees getting weak and wobbly.

It's as if the man's mere gaze put your mind in a trance, and your senses into a total discord.

You shyly looked away, trying to escape his longing look, until you finally noticed where you really were.

"Hey, this is a dance studio!" You exclaimed breathlessly as you ran towards one of the doors that led to a huge rehearsal room. You entered it and took in the achingly familiar atmosphere of the place, from its floor, the huge glass windows, to the mirrored walls.

The exact moment when V entered the room after you, Griffon materialized and flew towards you.

"Where did ya just take us to?" The bird irritatingly questioned. "It's too damn creepy in here!"

"Why? You afraid of mirrors?"

The bird squawked and flew towards one of the abandoned chairs, perching and settling himself comfortably.

You ignored the Demon and went towards the window, seeing the angry outpour outside and the eventual streak of lightning from the sky, followed by the loud boom of the thunder.

"It seems that we have become stranded here for a while." You heard V's low voice as you sensed him walking closer towards you.

You simply nodded, still unable to look the man in the eye. "I hope it stops soon."

"I wish for the opposite."

The very noticeable purr in the man's voice made your heart do flips. You turned around, and as another streak of lightning painted the sky, you saw the unmistakable mischief in those eyes and grin of his.

Suddenly feeling both nervous and giddy, you hastily walked towards one of the chairs near Griffon, sat, and removed your boots.

"Okay, these are getting heavy as hell!" You said, unintentionally making your voice loud due to your nerves. "I'm taking these off!"

"Ew!" Griffon exclaimed as soon as your feet came into view. "Did ya step on a fuckin' corpse or are those yer actual feet, eh sweet pea?!"

You narrowed your eyes at the demonic bird, who started laughing at your pitiful, scarred little feet.

"Hahaha! Ah, haha, eh, well, no offense, sweet pea. Just sayin' the truth."

"Beauty cannot be comprehended by small minds, my Demonic friend." V, who, of course, followed you, fortunately came to your rescue.

You gave Griffon a triumphantly evil grin as you placed your wet boots under the table. "I'm a dancer. It would make perfect sense for me to have ugly feet." You looked up at V and spoke with him instead of the bird who got grumpy. "I got these scars from years of dedicated dancing."

"Hmm,..." V mused as he sat on a chair beside you. "Those scars,... symbolize the true enjoyment and will that you felt doing that special something you adore." He uttered, then leaned closer towards you. With a soft whisper, he said, "Those feet, my Lady,... I would kiss,... over,... and over again,... if I could,... "

Thump!

"Shoes! Shoes! The floor is cold! I need shoes!" You literally yelled, feeling your traitorous heart triple in heartbeat. With hot cheeks and trembling limbs, you hastily stood up and roamed aimlessly all over the room in search of those shoes you mentioned. As lame as you might have looked then, you knew what's truly going on between you and the poet, you just could not handle your own chaotic feelings. And now, you must have looked like a total mess right before him.

"Yeah, no shit, Shirley!" Griffon sarcastically whispered at V. "Ain't that right, V? I mean, if ya like her, just tell her already! Dangit! Fuckin' stop beatin' 'round the fuckin' bushes! Look at her, ya broke the thing!"

Surely enough, V saw you wandering around the room, muttering something uncomprehensible under your breath.

Taking pity on you and feeling guilty at himself for making you uncomfortable, he stood up and walked to where you were.

You felt the man as he neared you and instinctively halted your silly, panic mumblings. You cleared your throat, bravely faced him, and saw the worried look in those deep green eyes of his.

"Well, I do not exactly enjoy it. Dancing, I mean." You told the man, making yourself as calm as you could. "It was more like a,... survival kind of thing."

"Survival, you say?" V answered, instantly feeling intrigued. How would one consider dancing as survival? But, of course, he had no idea what you've been through as a child. "Can you, please, explain?"

You slightly got nervous, feeling as if you revealed more than what was necessary. You were only talking about your ugly feet, damnit! No need to drag the man further into your own, dark past.

Once again, you looked around for something, anything, that could save you from your blunder. And there, right on the corner, you saw, as the lightning lit up the dark sky, a pair of forgotten ballet shoes. You looked at the thing with much intent, then back at your male companion.

"Shall I just show you how they made us dance, instead?" You offered. Well, since you'd be moving a lot from now on, you might as well have a sort of a warm up.

And what a perfect way to do that than that accursed piece those pale people made you dance for six whole years.

On the other hand, V felt concerned about you. You considered dance as survival, and yet, here you were, offering to open up what must've been a deep wound from the past.

Then, he had an idea.

"If dancing felt like a challenge to you," he said, suddenly offering up a hand. " ... then, would you allow this fool to ease the burden and join you for this dance?"

Thump! Thump!

Went your heartbeat once more. But, this time, escaping and saving your shy self would not do you any good. So, instead, you took a deep breath, nodded, and looked up at him with much resolve. You took his hand and began with the simplest of steps.

Well! The man surely had instruction! He was sensitive enough to know when you'll turn, when you must be lifted, and when you'll change positions. Not to mention his graceful movements! Where the hell did he learn ballet?!

Meanwhile, V only had to thank the endless dance lessons he took when he was only a boy! And not only that, he also had to actually thank his stupid twin for skipping them, for, if not, he would never have received more difficult extra lessons that involved doing a pas des deux ! And who knew it will become useful in the future?!

For a while, it seemed as though nothing could disrupt the little, yet warm environment that engulfed the two of you. Not even the bleak weather. Even the foul - mouthed Demon perched on the chair close by dared not utter any piercing word.

Everything seemed at peace, the steps you made, perfect. The lightning streaked the sky once more, splashing very little light into the cold, studio. You made another pirouette, longing to end the little dance with flourish, until the loud bang of the thunder came booming down, startling you and making you stumble on your feet. V thankfully caught you just in time before you fall.

"(Y/N),..."

"I'm fine, thank you." You reassured the man, at the same time getting back up on your feet with his help. "You know, my body's condition was not how it used to be compared to when I was a bit younger."

The man smiled gently at you as he took your hands once more, pulling you closer. "Age matters not, as long as you enjoy dancing."

You sheepishly smiled back at him. "Now that you mentioned it, yes. I enjoyed this dance."

The man may not have chosen to mention it to you but, he definitely enjoyed the little performance with you. Much more so than you did. For you were there with him, smiling, and forgetting the chaos of this world.

For at least a few minutes, it felt intimate for V.

However, he saw the smile on your face slowly vanish as you let go of his hands. The man looked at you in confusion, then you told him, "There is, was, only one person in the world who could outdance me in the past."

The man's face fell, seeing the sadness that was creeping up on those (E/C) eyes he had come to adore.

With glistening eyes, you simply uttered, "My sister."

"I'm so sorry." V whispered achingly at you. "It must be,... "

"She was," you went on, managing a smile despite the hurt that suddenly made its way onto your chest at the reminder of your lost, beloved sibling. " ... how to put this? She was perfect in every way. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and everybody adored her. She,... died,... to save me, V."

V looked away from her. He had,... someone,... very special whom he lost a very long time ago. Hearing you tell your own tale regarding the person you lost brought back those hurtful memories of the one he loved above all else,...

... her,...

He took a deep breath and faced you once more, not wanting you to worry about him.

"What matters is that you still have precious people around you, my Lady." He said, his voice hoarse and raw with untold emotions and unshed tears. "You must focus on not losing them, as well."

You smiled at him, aware of the melancholic feeling you had evoked in the already cold and lonely atmosphere. You took both his hands and guided him to sit on the floor.

Confused, V glanced at you as you positioned yourself in the middle of the empty dance floor. Griffon noticed this change and flew towards his master, settling himself right beside him.

"V," you began. "... let me tell you the story of a man who regrets the loss of a loved one and the woman who loves him the most. The love of his life. Whom he could no longer be with."

You took a deep breath and began a slow movement that gradually turned into a series of steps that seemed to tell a story, like what you mentioned.

Every turn, every gesture, every sweet and graceful hand movement told V some numerous, little words forming into silent sentences that seemed to whisper directly at his heart. The steps to the very raw yet beautiful dance you performed honestly moved him, feeling a different kind of an ache within his own heart. The steps turned more radiant as it came to the heart of the story,...

... of a very graceful woman,...

... and the man,...

... who was foolish enough to let her go.

And when you finished, he was both speechless and mesmerized. You looked at him with concern, confused by his uncharacteristic silence.

That was when you saw it,...

... genuine tears falling down his face.

"Ah!" You stuttered, not knowing what to do upon the realization that you just made V cry. "I'm so sorry! I would never do this again! I - "

You were immediately silenced as V stood and gave you a hug so tight, yet so gentle, that you felt that he did not want to let go of you.

Like he did not want to ever lose you.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

You knew he was still crying, so you took the initiative to wrap your arms around him and pull him closer.

"Hey, it's okay." You gently whispered at him, calming him down with your caress. "I'll never leave you. I promise."

And just when things were getting more and more cozy between the two of you, Griffon, who seemed to get touched by your performance, as well, flew towards you with large, melancholic eyes. How strange for a brazen creature such as him!

"Hey, do ya know any more stories that won't make ya cry?" The bird asked in a sad and weird tone.

"Okay! Let's see,... "

V smiled as he let go of you, wanting to hear what you were about to say. He just could not help but become excited for your story.

"There was a warrior who was protected by three Goddesses." You began. "However, he mysteriously vanished, making the Goddesses scatter all over the world in search of a temporary vessel until he returns. They found her and dwelled within her for a hundred years.

"Then, one day, he returned and two of his Goddesses returned to him. Aside from the last one who got attached to the woman. But, to gain complete power, the man must have all three with him. So, he took the third Goddess from the woman by force."

"What happened?!"

"Ah,... she died."

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHITTY STORY?!"

You became nervous as cold sweat trickled down your forehead. "I made it up,... "

"WHAT IN THE FUCKIN' - ?!"

"Hush, you Demon,..." V chuckled as he watched the two of you argue,...

But, the fun and peace of mind you had didn't last long,...

For, only after a few hours, Griffon, who was rendered useless by the Diabolical Amalgam, was screaming your name as you made your way towards the frightening creature, unarmed, wounded, vulnerable, and above all, stripped naked.

"SWEET PEA!" Griffon pleaded as he tried once more to attack, only to fail yet again. "YOU WILL FUCKIN' DIE! STOP!"

But you only looked back at him, winked, and held up a slender finger to your bloody lips.

"Sshh,..."

***

🖤🖤🖤

Note: That's Simone Cameresi for you! A very graceful dancer. I imagine her as the Reader in that very sweet and heartfelt moment as she danced for V. So, I hope you followed my instruction and watched her before reading the next paragraph. 🖤

Another Note: The title of the song is Turning Page by Sleeping At Last. 🖤

P.S.: In ballet, a pas de deux is a dance duet in which two dancers, typically a male and a female, perform ballet steps together. The pas de deux is characteristic of classical ballet and can be found in many well - known ballets, including Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Giselle. Yeah, the more you know. 🖤

🖤🖤🖤

[etlunainmorte]

🖤 I See My Future Before 🖤

***

Dante stood in the lobby as he read the latest issue of his favorite magazine.

Already in his best formal attire, the man unceremoniously waited for you. The gig this time required the two of you to infiltrate a party to rat a certain Demon out, and at the mere thought of you in a dress had him intrigued.

Of course, he found you quite fetching. But, the clothes you wore on a daily basis? With your fondness for loose, oversized, and unflattering pieces of clothing, he honestly thought that you got nothing compared to either Trish or Lady, who were two of the most beautiful, if not lethal, women he had ever seen.

Yes, he thought that all the beauty you got were wasted on your conservative tastes,…

“Are we gonna go, or what?” Dante, who failed to notice you as you came down from your room, heard you loud and clear and turned.

“Hey, what took you - ?”

The man stopped dead in his tracks, for there, right before his very eyes, was,…

You raised an eyebrow and placed your hands on your hips. “Are you gonna stare at me the whole evening? We still have a job to do.”

“The lady is right.” Morrison, who just entered the building, said. And when he saw you, his eyes widened in complete awe. “And surprise of all mother of surprises. You look like the most gorgeous star in the galaxy, my dear.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morrison.” You said, taking the Broker’s hand and letting him lead you outside towards his car.

“Your partner seems to be tongue tied.”

“Yeah, he’s busy with that magazine of his.”

You carefully entered the vehicle as Morrison opened the door for you. A few moments later, Dante followed.

The ride towards your destination was a really quiet one. You would occasionally look at the front at Morrison as he drove but, most of the time, your eyes were just glued to the window beside you. Despite that, you could not shake the feeling of heaviness in your body. It’s as if you have been the subject of someone’s intense stares for far too long.

Still, you smiled, not letting yourself be tempted to indulge your silent companion.

Your resistance persisted until you two reached the place.

And Dante could not hold it in any longer.

“Hey,” he began, isolating you from the other guests by leading you to an empty hallway. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”

“Wha - ?” You started to argue but, then, realized he was right. “Well, yes.”

“What else can you do?” Dante demanded, your overwhelming scent of a very addictive vintage wine assaulting his nostrils and driving his patience to the limit. “Witchcraft? Sorcery? Voodoo?”

You only chuckled at his question. “They’re the same thing.”

The man grabbed your shoulders and made you look up at him, his light - colored eyes more intense than ever before. “Tell. Me.”

Unfazed, you only smiled up at him, grabbed his huge hands, and removed them gingerly off you. You then took one of his hands and led him back towards the living area where the party was taking place.

“What are you doing?”

“See that lady?” You whispered to him in a lover - like fashion so as not to make yourself obvious that you’re plotting something dangerous. “That’s your target.”

“How did you even - ?!”

“Sshh! Don’t ask. Okay?”

Dante looked at the said female, who happened to be the host of the party.

“So, in two minutes, she will come our way, introduce herself to you, and start flirting with you. You will flirt with her for, like, five minutes.”

The man looked at you suspiciously. “Why did I suddenly feel nervous about this?”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. Anyway, her lover will come out of hiding. You will kill him.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about killing an innocent man?!”

“And,” you went on, ignoring Dante’s complaint. “… you will use the Rebellion and drive it through his skull, then she will attack you. You will use the Ebony and Ivory against her. And, guess what, all the guests in here? They’re all Demons. You will finish them in, like, ten minutes, tops. Then, you will join me in the balcony and wipe Demon blood off your face.”

“And why am I supposed to believe you?”

“Because your two minutes is up and she’s coming towards us.”

And surely enough, with hips swaying seductively and eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings, the gracefully tall and slender host of the party was coming towards the legendary Devil Hunter. Dante looked back at you and realized you weren’t there any more.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the man, who was covered in Demon guts and chandelier glitter, came out to join you on the balcony. He wiped the Demon blood off his face and leaned against the railing beside you.

“You didn’t even help me.” Dante told you with a huge sigh. “And we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Convinced?”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, at least you got to flirt with her, right?” You cheerfully answered.

Dante looked at you with every intention of giving you a piece of his mind but, you were already walking away from him.

“Hey!”

You turned back, winked at him, and held up a finger to your lips.

“Sshh,…”

***

XIV

***

You and V hustled towards the empty building, sheltering yourselves due to the very sudden and heavy rainfall.

Once inside, V heard you grunt in dismay and as he turned to look at you, he saw you as you put your black violin case down on the cold floor and strip off your wet parka, revealing your simple white dress underneath.

Now, V may have no idea, whatsoever, what you’ll need the violin for during the Demon hunt, but he was definitely flabbergasted as to your taste in clothing. It’s as if you were not going on a Demon hunt, at all.

You felt a pair of eyes boring down on you as you picked up your violin case, and when you looked up, you ultimately saw him staring at you.

Then, there was that feeling again - of your cheeks burning, of your heartbeat going wild, of your knees getting weak and wobbly.

It’s as if the man’s mere gaze put your mind in a trance, and your senses into a total discord.

You shyly looked away, trying to escape his longing look, until you finally noticed where you really were.

“Hey, this is a dance studio!” You exclaimed breathlessly as you ran towards one of the doors that led to a huge rehearsal room. You entered it and took in the achingly familiar atmosphere of the place, from its floor, the huge glass windows, to the mirrored walls.

The exact moment when V entered the room after you, Griffon materialized and flew towards you.

“Where did ya just take us to?” The bird irritatingly questioned. “It’s too damn creepy in here!”

“Why? You afraid of mirrors?”

The bird squawked and flew towards one of the abandoned chairs, perching and settling himself comfortably.

You ignored the Demon and went towards the window, seeing the angry outpour outside and the eventual streak of lightning from the sky, followed by the loud boom of the thunder.

“It seems that we have become stranded here for a while.” You heard V’s low voice as you sensed him walking closer towards you.

You simply nodded, still unable to look the man in the eye. “I hope it stops soon.”

“I wish for the opposite.”

The very noticeable purr in the man’s voice made your heart do flips. You turned around, and as another streak of lightning painted the sky, you saw the unmistakable mischief in those eyes and grin of his.

Suddenly feeling both nervous and giddy, you hastily walked towards one of the chairs near Griffon, sat, and removed your boots.

“Okay, these are getting heavy as hell!” You said, unintentionally making your voice loud due to your nerves. “I’m taking these off!”

“Ew!” Griffon exclaimed as soon as your feet came into view. “Did ya step on a fuckin’ corpse or are those yer actual feet, eh sweet pea?!”

You narrowed your eyes at the demonic bird, who started laughing at your pitiful, scarred little feet.

“Hahaha! Ah, haha, eh, well, no offense, sweet pea. Just sayin’ the truth.”

“Beauty cannot be comprehended by small minds, my Demonic friend.” V, who, of course, followed you, fortunately came to your rescue.

You gave Griffon a triumphantly evil grin as you placed your wet boots under the table. “I’m a dancer. It would make perfect sense for me to have ugly feet.” You looked up at V and spoke with him instead of the bird who got grumpy. “I got these scars from years of dedicated dancing.”

“Hmm,…” V mused as he sat on a chair beside you. “Those scars,… symbolize the true enjoyment and will that you felt doing that special something you adore.” He uttered, then leaned closer towards you. With a soft whisper, he said, “Those feet, my Lady,… I would kiss,… over,… and over again,… if I could,… ”

Thump!

“Shoes! Shoes! The floor is cold! I need shoes!” You literally yelled, feeling your traitorous heart triple in heartbeat. With hot cheeks and trembling limbs, you hastily stood up and roamed aimlessly all over the room in search of those shoes you mentioned. As lame as you might have looked then, you knew what’s truly going on between you and the poet, you just could not handle your own chaotic feelings. And now, you must have looked like a total mess right before him.

“Yeah, no shit, Shirley!” Griffon sarcastically whispered at V. “Ain’t that right, V? I mean, if ya like her, just tell her already! Dangit! Fuckin’ stop beatin’ ‘round the fuckin’ bushes! Look at her, ya broke the thing!”

Surely enough, V saw you wandering around the room, muttering something incomprehensible under your breath.

Taking pity on you and feeling guilty at himself for making you uncomfortable, he stood up and walked to where you were.

You felt the man as he neared you and instinctively halted your silly, panic mumblings. You cleared your throat, bravely faced him, and saw the worried look in those deep green eyes of his.

“Well, I do not exactly enjoy it. Dancing, I mean.” You told the man, making yourself as calm as you could. “It was more like a,… survival kind of thing.”

“Survival, you say?” V answered, instantly feeling intrigued. How would one consider dancing as survival? But, of course, he had no idea what you’ve been through as a child. “Can you, please, explain?”

You slightly got nervous, feeling as if you revealed more than what was necessary. You were only talking about your ugly feet, damnit! No need to drag the man further into your own, dark past.

Once again, you looked around for something, anything, that could save you from your blunder. And there, right on the corner, you saw, as the lightning lit up the dark sky, a pair of forgotten ballet shoes. You looked at the thing with much intent, then back at your male companion.

“Shall I just show you how they made us dance, instead?” You offered. Well, since you’d be moving a lot from now on, you might as well have a sort of a warm up.

And what a perfect way to do that than that accursed piece those pale people made you dance for six whole years.

On the other hand, V felt concerned about you. You considered dance as survival, and yet, here you were, offering to open up what must’ve been a deep wound from the past.

Then, he had an idea.

“If dancing felt like a challenge to you,” he said, suddenly offering up a hand. “ … then, would you allow this fool to ease the burden and join you for this dance?”

Thump! Thump!

Went your heartbeat once more. But, this time, escaping and saving your shy self would not do you any good. So, instead, you took a deep breath, nodded, and looked up at him with much resolve. You took his hand and began with the simplest of steps.

Well! The man surely had instruction! He was sensitive enough to know when you’ll turn, when you must be lifted, and when you’ll change positions. Not to mention his graceful movements! Where the hell did he learn ballet?!

Meanwhile, V only had to thank the endless dance lessons he took when he was only a boy! And not only that, he also had to actually thank his stupid twin for skipping them, for, if not, he would never have received more difficult extra lessons that involved doing a pas des deux ! And who knew it will become useful in the future?!

For a while, it seemed as though nothing could disrupt the little, yet warm environment that engulfed the two of you. Not even the bleak weather. Even the foul - mouthed Demon perched on the chair close by dared not utter any piercing word.

Everything seemed at peace, the steps you made, perfect. The lightning streaked the sky once more, splashing very little light into the cold, studio. You made another pirouette, longing to end the little dance with flourish, until the loud bang of the thunder came booming down, startling you and making you stumble on your feet. V thankfully caught you just in time before you fall.

“(Y/N),…”

“I’m fine, thank you.” You reassured the man, at the same time getting back up on your feet with his help. “You know, my body’s condition was not how it used to be compared to when I was a bit younger.”

The man smiled gently at you as he took your hands once more, pulling you closer. “Age matters not, as long as you enjoy dancing.”

You sheepishly smiled back at him. “Now that you mentioned it, yes. I enjoyed this dance.”

The man may not have chosen to mention it to you but, he definitely enjoyed the little performance with you. Much more so than you did. For you were there with him, smiling, and forgetting the chaos of this world.

For at least a few minutes, it felt intimate for V.

However, he saw the smile on your face slowly vanish as you let go of his hands. The man looked at you in confusion, then you told him, “There is, was, only one person in the world who could out dance me in the past.”

The man’s face fell, seeing the sadness that was creeping up on those (E/C) eyes he had come to adore.

With glistening eyes, you simply uttered, “My sister.”

“I’m so sorry.” V whispered achingly at you. “It must be,… ”

“She was,” you went on, managing a smile despite the hurt that suddenly made its way onto your chest at the reminder of your lost, beloved sibling. “ … how to put this? She was perfect in every way. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and everybody adored her. She,… died,… to save me, V.”

V looked away from her. He had,… someone,… very special whom he lost a very long time ago. Hearing you tell your own tale regarding the person you lost brought back those hurtful memories of the one he loved above all else,…

… her,…

He took a deep breath and faced you once more, not wanting you to worry about him.

“What matters is that you still have precious people around you, my Lady.” He said, his voice hoarse and raw with untold emotions and unshed tears. “You must focus on not losing them, as well.”

You smiled at him, aware of the melancholic feeling you had evoked in the already cold and lonely atmosphere. You took both his hands and guided him to sit on the floor.

Confused, V glanced at you as you positioned yourself in the middle of the empty dance floor. Griffon noticed this change and flew towards his master, settling himself right beside him.

“V,” you began. “… let me tell you the story of a man who regrets the loss of a loved one and the woman who loves him the most. The love of his life. Whom he could no longer be with.”

You took a deep breath and began a slow movement that gradually turned into a series of steps that seemed to tell a story, like what you mentioned.

Every turn, every gesture, every sweet and graceful hand movement told V some numerous, little words forming into silent sentences that seemed to whisper directly at his heart. The steps to the very raw yet beautiful dance you performed honestly moved him, feeling a different kind of an ache within his own heart. The steps turned more radiant as it came to the heart of the story,…

… of a very graceful woman,…

… and the man,…

… who was foolish enough to let her go.

And when you finished, he was both speechless and mesmerized. You looked at him with concern, confused by his uncharacteristic silence.

That was when you saw it,…

… genuine tears falling down his face.

“Ah!” You stuttered, not knowing what to do upon the realization that you just made V cry. “I’m so sorry! I would never do this again! I - ”

You were immediately silenced as V stood and gave you a hug so tight, yet so gentle, that you felt that he did not want to let go of you.

Like he did not want to ever lose you.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

You knew he was still crying, so you took the initiative to wrap your arms around him and pull him closer.

“Hey, it’s okay.” You gently whispered at him, calming him down with your caress. “I’ll never leave you. I promise.”

And just when things were getting more and more cozy between the two of you, Griffon, who seemed to get touched by your performance, as well, flew towards you with large, melancholic eyes. How strange for a brazen creature such as him!

“Hey, do ya know any more stories that won’t make ya cry?” The bird asked in a sad and weird tone.

“Okay! Let’s see,… ”

V smiled as he let go of you, wanting to hear what you were about to say. He just could not help but become excited for your story.

“There was a warrior who was protected by three Goddesses.” You began. “However, he mysteriously vanished, making the Goddesses scatter all over the world in search of a temporary vessel until he returns. They found her and dwelled within her for a hundred years.

"Then, one day, he returned and two of his Goddesses returned to him. Aside from the last one who got attached to the woman. But, to gain complete power, the man must have all three with him. So, he took the third Goddess from the woman by force.”

“What happened?!”

“Ah,… she died.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHITTY STORY?!”

You became nervous as cold sweat trickled down your forehead. “I made it up,… ”

“WHAT IN THE FUCKIN’ - ?!”

“Hush, you Demon,…” V chuckled as he watched the two of you argue,…

But, the fun and peace of mind you had didn’t last long,…

For, only after a few hours, Griffon, who was rendered useless by the Diabolical Amalgam, was screaming your name as you made your way towards the frightening creature, unarmed, wounded, vulnerable, and above all, stripped naked.

“SWEET PEA!” Griffon pleaded as he tried once more to attack, only to fail yet again. “YOU WILL FUCKIN’ DIE! STOP!”

But you only looked back at him, winked, and held up a slender finger to your bloody lips.

“Sshh,…”

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

[thecorteztwins]

Imagine steampunk au

Ok, so this took me a while because I wanted to think on it, and come up with something that really emphasized the “punk” aspect, since that’s what really comes through with writing whereas the “steam” part tends to be more visual/aesthetic (the clothes, the gears, etc). The “punk” part in steampunk, cyberpunk,biopunk, etc. is about revolutions and fighting back against corrupt systems and the ugliness of our society reflected in these fictional societies.So I looked at what Spain was up to while the Victorian Era (the usual setting for steampunk works) was going on in England, and found out there were a few revolutions going on to depose Queen Isabella. I decided that similiar revolutions will be going on in this fictionalized steampunk Spain, but much more bloody, like the famous French revolution, and against the entire aristocracy, not just against the Queen. The Cortezes, being part of this aristocracy, are initially against the revolt, of course, but they both end up coming around to it. For Anne Marie, it’s because she ends up seeing the conditions that the common man is forced to live in compared to the decadence of the upper class. For Fabian, it’s because he sees the tides are turning, and he wants to be on the winning side.Thus, Fabian not only turns on other nobles, he becomes a beloved leader in the revolution, using his betrayal of the other aristocrats as proof of his devotion to the people. However, he becomes a tyrannical dictator in his own right, and the rebellion ends up deciding to execute him as well. But he is saved at the last moment by Anne Marie and two other rebels, Chrome and Delgado.So that covers the “punk” political aspect, and from there we shift to fantasy and exploration through a series of adventures and mysteries, many of which have a theme of things not being as they seem. The crew travels across the European continent and beyond, sometimes turning to piracy to survive, sometimes acting as heroes, always being disasters!- They absolutely rob a swanky beautiful Hellfire Club airship over Britain. Fabian gets his ass kicked/thrown out a window by Sebastian Shaw, while Chrome and Emma engage in the bitch-off of the century.- The Savage Land. Just the Savage Land. It’s right out of an Hg Wells/Doyle novel, it doesn’t need anything changed.- Inspired loosely by The Hound of the Baskervilles, they come to a tiny Scottish town where people are being torn to pieces every full moon. The local Reverend Craig, a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, claims that each and every “victim” was in fact a sinner, and that this is punishment sent by God. When the werewolf strikes next, it’s against none other than the crew—specifically against Fabian, which is absurd as he’s no sinner!– the crew strikes back and tracks it down. It turns out that it’s a local girl, Rahne Sinclair, the ward of Reverend Craig itself, and it is revealed that Craig was using her as a weapon to destroy those he saw as unholy. - A freak storm crashes the ship in the snowy Himalayas, and it seems certain that they will die of cold…until a BIG FRIENDLY DOG appears and whisks them away to The Lost City of Attilan, a place vastly advanced in its technology and with bizarre customs….a place the currently is embroiled in a revolution, a coup led by Prince Maximus Boltagon against his brother and the rest of the Royal Family to overturn the cruel caste system and other such practices. Naturally, the crew allies with him, given their own background as rebels, but they soon discover…right idea, wrong guy! - They definitely go to America, where the Wild West is going on in the country, the 1920s in the cities. Cattlepunk and decopunk ftw! And they take a little detour to the Florida Everglades, where there’s legends of a certain snake-woman lurking in the swamps…- In London, they encounter Toad as a sort of Quasimodo, with Magneto as his Frollo (when he first appeared in the comics, Toad really wasn’t that toad-like, more of a hopping hunchback, and Magneto was horribly abusive to him while claiming to have saved him, much as he was to the Maximoffs)- Dragoness as “The False Harpy” and Milan as “The Babbage Man” who gave her her wings. In the comics, Dragoness is a member of the MLF (Mutant Liberation Front), a Brotherhood-like organization. She can shoot bio-electric blasts, but her wings are actually mechanical, not biological. Francisco Milan was one of Fabian’s Acolytes, and was a gentle technopath that was far less vicious and cruel than most of the others, being more interested in his machines than anything else. So I’m seeing this version as having created Dragoness/the Harpy’s wings simply for the challenge, not realizing she’d use them for crime. Charles Babbage was the creator of the first mechanical computer, and I’ve seen “babbages” used to mean early computers in steampunk fiction, hence why he’d be called “The Babbage Man” in a steampunk version.- In the Eastern European country of Transia, they go to plunder Wundagore Castle, an abandoned fortress said by villagers to be inhabited by terrible monsters that are half-man, half-beast. There indeed turns out to be ANIMAL MEN LIVING IN THE CASTLE but they are not monsters at all…though THE MAN WHO CREATED THEM might be! (Many steampunk works contain mutated monsters and science gone wrong)- Still in Transia, they come across a village that is terrified of two outcasts, Romani twins they deem The Scarlet Witch and The Silver Thief. They are said to have supernatural powers granted to them by the Devil himself; the Witch uses hers to cause disaster and ill-fortune with hexes, the Thief to steal using impossible speed. The crew investigates, and finds that Wanda and Pietro, the real names of the duo, do indeed have these powers, but are not to blame for the crimes the villagers accuse them of. Pietro does not steal. Instead, the real thieves in the village wait for when he runs by, and pick the pockets of the other townspeople while they gawk and point at the blurr going by. Wanda indeed does cause disaster, but her power activates on accident, and only when she is threatened. All the times she has made something bad happened, she was being menaced by the villagers.The villagers, however, will not see reason and continue to persecute the twins, so the crew takes them with them in the airship on their journey. They come to Germany, where they encounter another mystery—a series of murders, murders of children. They realize the murders line up with whenever a circus is in town, and investigate it. It is run by a Romani woman, Margali Szardos, and her children—Stefan, Jimaine, and Kurt. Kurt performs as “The Incredible Nightcrawler” and it is assumed by audiences that he is merely in costume. However, the crew find out that this is indeed his true appearance, and Margali confesses he is her foster child, found by her floating in a river like Moses. The clues begin to point to Kurt,  but it turns out that the murderer is Stefan, who has begun to practice the black arts. A showdown ensues in which Kurt is forced to kill Stefan. Kurt is going to flee in shame for what he has done to his own family, but is convinced by Wanda to stay, so that his mother does not lose BOTH sons. Wanda and Pietro end up staying in the circus with him as well.…that last one ended up being more about Kurt and the Maximoffs but I’m keeping it in this because I like it.

[art-now-italy]

DEMON, Polina Ogiy

DEMON-Evil spirits — the "fallen angels, servants of Satan, his messengers, the angels, the messengers of God. The gospel claim that sickness and brain fog occur as a result of the intervention of demons, because of their exile (often with the help of a stick) is depicted as a small black figures flying out of the mouth of the sufferer. They are depicted carrying away to Hell the soul of the sinner, as the angel carries the soul of the righteous to heaven. Or they fight with the angels for the possession of a human soul (ARS MORIENDI). Usually Satan represents paganism and demons can appear in scenes of conversion to Christianity or victory over the heathen. Have similarities with Satan (the wings, horns and tails), armed with a spear or a pitchfork. Cast them out by SV. Varfalomey SV. Zenon poverzheny at the feet of the SV. Norbert (his conversion to Christianity) SV. Geminiani (the expulsion of the spirits) SV. Catherine of Siena (overcome temptation). the attack of the demons of temptation SV. Anthony the Great is trying to tip the scale of SV. Michael's last judgment convicts pulled into Hell the last judgment the soul carry the unrepentant thief Crucified Christ being dragged soul to Hades Eurydice Orpheus whispers to Judas Iscariot blow out the candle the nuns of St. Genevieve as servants of Satan, kill children, job support in the air Simon the sorcerer SV. Peter the Apostle defeated the demons before Christ's Descent into Hell in front of the preacher (they were hunted angels) Ignatius of Loyola depart from the ship in a storm SV. Mark (cast them out three saints). Classification of demons the Origin of Demons are fallen angels: this is the official teaching of the Christian Church. I think the story of the rebellion of the angels are familiar to everyone - hints of it are in the Bible, appealing to her Christian thinkers, a brilliant literary description of Anglomania is given in j.Milton. I remind you this story briefly. Light one of God's angels named Lucifer ("light-bearer") became proud of their power and intend to take the throne of the Lord. He raised rebellion in heaven and took a third of the angelic hosts. Against the rebels was made by the Archangel Michael with the faithful God of the heavenly armies. In the resulting battle the rebellious angels led by Lucifer (Satan) were cast out of heaven into hell and became demons, whose only aim now is to sow evil. This story has many interpretations, but here we present just a completely original version of the origin of demons, is fundamentally different from the Orthodox: 1. In the middle ages there was a view that demons were originally created by God to commit evil. Advocates of this idea was based on a quote from Isaiah, where God says: "I create the waster to destroy" (54, 16). In rabbinical treatises States that Satan was created on the sixth day of creation at the same time with eve; evil spirits were created "between the suns", that is, between dusk and dawn on the eve of the first Sabbath, when God created their souls, already dawn approached Saturday, and he had no time to create bodies for them. 2. In the heretical doctrine bogomilov, as well as in folk beliefs, not get rid of pagan dualism, Satan (Satanael) is not God's creation, and the independent opposing God figure, much like the Persian Ahriman. Both forces, good and evil, participate in the process of creation of the world; in contrast to God's angels, Satan creates his demonic army, striking his staff on the flint. 3. The apocryphal Book of Enoch recounts the history of the cohabitation of the "sons of God" (angels) with the "daughters of men". The angels exchanged out of lust the Kingdom of heaven on earthly Vale, were cursed by God and became demons. This theory in the middle ages was shared by many Church authorities (eg. Thomas Aquinas). 4. In the same Book of Enoch says that marriages of fallen angels with earthly women was a tribe of monstrous giants. When God destroyed the giants, from their bodies came forth the evil spirits. 5. The ancient Hebrews believed that many evil spirits were born from the intercourse of Adam with female spirits (or eve mens perfume) within those one hundred and thirty years that Adam and eve were separated after the fall. Many demons birthed from Adam and his first wife — Lilith, later she turned into a demon. 6. In demons of three types — Shedim, Rukhin and Lilin — was turned into the part of the people, scattered after the failed construction of the tower of Babel 7. Finally, according to later popular belief, the armies of hell continually replenished by souls of great sinners; children of the damned parents, and offspring of Incubus and succubi. However, all the demons of the lowest discharge, as various vampires, ghosts and werewolves, also make up the army of Satan. The number that the demons there are a great many, no doubt. However, since the first centuries of Christianity, theologians and demonologists with remarkable tenacity practice math, trying to calculate the exact number of infernal spirits. Maxim of tyre in the 2nd century calls the very modest figure of 30,000, but subsequent centuries have inflated the part of the devil's troops to incredible limits. Alphonse de Spina in 1459, on the grounds that from God have disappeared exactly one third of the heavenly host, called the number of demons 133 306 608. In the 16th century, a researcher, taking as a basis the biblical number of the beast", it counted 66 infernal princes, commanders of 6 660 000 devils. Johann Weir, the famous disciple of Agrippa, claimed that in hell live 7 405 926 demons, managed 72 princes. The demons form 1111 6666 units for each. All surpassed the Lutheran theologians, who called a fantastic figure— 2 665 866 746 664 demon.Greek. Daimon In Greek mythology, a generalized notion of some vague and unformed divine power, evil or (sometimes) beneficent, often determines the life the fate of man. This instantly arising and instantly leaving a terrible and fatal force that can be called by the name with which you cannot engage in any communication. Suddenly maglinov, he immediately produces an action and then disappears. In this way, obvious vestiges of the so-called sudden pianism (in the terminology of G. Usener, Doctor - not that other, as "God of this moment"). Sometimes the Olympic gods, too, are called on, but only in generalized or indefinite sense in the case when God has not shown himself individually and hides your name. D. acts directly on the person preparing trouble (Hom. Od. 295 XII), tempted (XVI 194), sends trouble (XIX 512), ominous dreams (XX 87). D. directs man to the path leading to any of the events, often catastrophic (Hom. Od. VI, 172; VII, 248; Il. XXI 92). D. suddenly causes a particular idea (Hom. II. IX 600; Od. III 27). Sometimes beneficent acts. D. (Od. IX, 381), found the epithet olbiodaimon, "schastlivenko". D. is equal to destiny, all the events of human life are under his influence (Aeschyl. Pers. 825; Soph. frg. 592; Eur. Andr. 971). There is D. of birth (Pind. Ol. XIII 105), D. of good and evil (Pind. Pyth. III 34), human nature - its On (Heraclit. frg. 119), each person in life gets your D. (Plat. Phaed. 107 (d). Demons are thought of also inferior deities, intermediaries between gods and men. In Hesiod's generation of the "Golden age" after his disappearance turned into a "blissful." that guard people and look to the right and wrong of the case (Hes. Orr. 121-126). In Roman mythology D. corresponds to a genius. Early Christian ideas about D. are associated with the demonic image of evil, demonic forces (see Demons). Lit.: Losev A. F., classical mythology in its historical development, Moscow, 1957, p. 46-60; Horst P. C. van, Daimon, "Mnemosyne", ser. 3, 10, 1940, pp. 61-68; H. Nowak, Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Begriffes Daimon, Bonn, I960. A. F. Losev In the descriptions of the mythologies of various peoples. D. - the symbol of those supernatural characters who are not gods and occupy in comparison with the gods of the lower place in the hierarchy (or are at lower levels in this mythological system). In a more narrow and precise meaning. D. and evil spirits. According to the classification proposed by Uthenera and supported by E. Cassirer, we must distinguish between (spirit) as a symbol of random mythological image that is generated from any object within the field of action of mythological thought, and genius as a symbol of the mythological symbol of the destiny and personality of man.

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Drawing-DEMON/826122/3012577/view

[elhoimleafar]

The devil of witchcraft in the Amazonas. #Lucifer #Satanas

Unlike many other similar posts that you may have read on the internet before, if you already know my work as a writer and blogger, you know that I do not summarize what others write, there are others writing about it, I prefer to focus on writing about what I know, and that implies (most of the time) that many other authors and writers are going to completely disagree with me, but that's what my blog has always been about, writing from my perspective and experience, even when this It sounds a bit arrogant on my part, but I think the diversity of views is important in these issues.

Already after rambling a bit to introduce you to the topic (something silly but necessary), now to return here to the topic we came to, several months ago I posted a very silly phrase on my twitter account due to an entirely personal situation, the tweet read the following:

“In my culture, we do not venerate the devil and in my family, we never discuss if it exists or not, but if he goes around I think he owes me a couple of favors 🤔 where are my devil?”.

And as expected, he receives more questions and doubts than he expected, and it is understandable, in this modern hodgepodge of witchcraft / Wicca / paganism, where everything seems to enter but nothing can come out, and everything ends up transforming into something much in there. more ethnic and weird, and that really doesn't bother me at all, this only seems to piss off some 'pseudo-keyboard activists' who fight “at heart” against something they call cultural appropriation.

The topic to be discussed here is about the devil's belief in witchcraft, although I recognize that I am not the most qualified to talk about the subject, I am sure that this will help as support material for others in the future, at least as a reference, Maybe because of my origin and ethnicity.

The devil, this charismatic, eccentric, witty and vivacious Christian folklore character who seems to earnestly gain more followers than his apparent creator and father, is today (and perhaps always has been, I don't know that) one of the most common characters in folklore linked to witchcraft and magic.

Something that I understand, admire and respect greatly, is that many modern wizards and pagans come from the Catholic religion, and many of them for that reason tend to include the belief in this 'malevolent' character as part of their practice, which although not It seems to correspond to them, in a way it has been linked to the witches since the time of the persecution, if my mother said "it is totally absurd to persecute someone for venerating something they do not believe", I also understand that persecutors of witches accused them of venerating the devil for being what they identified with evil, especially because certain verses of the Old Testament promote the taking of immoral actions against witches, which he repeatedly calls " Demon lovers. ”

Perhaps for practitioners of black magic and other forms of dark arts, I am referring here to true practitioners who perform rituals and invocations, not those who read hundreds of books and do not practice anything (usually they know much less than they believe ), these in their practice venerate the figure of evil in the form of the devil, and the few that I have known in my personal life, assure me that they believe in the devil and venerate him in different ways, not publicly (or attending any church), and they claim to receive huge favors, benefits, and powers from this character.

Now, in my case and from my point of view, the first time I remember hearing that word "devil", I remember that I was 10 years old, I was waiting for my mother outside of school, she arrived entirely dressed in white, because she was at that time living her stage of 'iyaworaje' as a follower of Santería, and I clearly remember that Professor Lucía Ramírez, commented to another of the representatives “oh yes, that is the lady who is diabolic”, I I kept quiet and when I got in the car, I asked my Mom, she only replied “oh, the devil is the one to blame for everything”, she has always been very crude to answer about these types of issues, not telling me nothing else, I waited until I got home and asked the same question to my sisters, one of them 'Neyiber' replied that the devil was a kind of dark god that “certain people” revere and others are afraid of, and every time someone does something wrong, or something bad happens and the reasons are not understood, they simply blame him.

I continued with the doubt for some time, perhaps because I have never been very sociable, especially in school so I did not ask anyone, on the contrary, I waited until I got some books and a dictionary to inform me about the subject, and although with the passing of I have continued to have many doubts about this, at least I have informed myself much more and a broader view on the subject.

"There are no devils in witchcraft and magic" ...

So says an old saying that many preach and I believe in him, but I understand that this is a matter of perspective that plays with the beliefs of the origin of each individual, some believe that the devil is the one who gives his powers to the witches, others think that he works directly with the witches who seek to do evil, and not with other witches, the Wiccans see it as something alien to their practice, pagan wizards mostly refuse to believe in it, I personally see it as one of many myth-surviving gods, as a kind of dark god, a trickster like Loki, and from what I have read I understand that he was a beautiful and wise angel of light who was in a way, punished for believing himself as great as his creator, I see him as a representation of rebellion and freedom, an archetype of the rebellious and tempting god that you can find in all myths, and obviously an ingenious master of sorcery.

My experience in the Amazon.

If you have the opportunity to visit the Amazon, and if you can visit the Wayuu and Caribbean tribes, you will understand that the devil is a belief entirely alien to them, they do not understand it for different reasons, mostly because the beliefs of origin teach them that gods are unequivocally flat, the gods of light only give children of light and the gods and dark spirits only bring darkness, but it is difficult for them to understand that a god of light has a perfect child and it is revealed.

Most of the Amazonian folklore is recorded in old books that are contained in the national public library of Venezuela, and which, unfortunately, on issues of Economy and Government, have not had the opportunity to be digitized, so what many of us know, We know really very little, in the vicinity of the Orinoco River some healers of the old school call it “awujii” (the one that was brought), referring to the Amazonian legend that tells the arrival of some clouds over the blue sea, and in whose clouds full of iron men came a spirit of redemption and light, and a dark spirit that would bring misfortunes, temptations and death to the tribes.

For them clearly the devil is something completely alien to their faith, but if you visit those aboriginal peoples that survive in the vicinity of the border with Colombia, where the Catholic faith has mixed and diversified with the native pagan faith, where the Cults of the different gods, the devil is known as "the pinzao" a horrendous demon with burned skin, four eyes without pupils on the face and bat wings, the size of a dog that moves among the trees and deceives the who get lost at night, take the form of the deceased and give sweet gifts to children and treasures to adult men and women in exchange for serving them for life, these men, women, and children who fall under their influence become sorcerers who fly at night and transform into all kinds of animals, and this character "the pinzao" can possess their bodies to walk in the human world and have sex.

Now, the indigenous indigenous groups of the Yaracuy state, the caquetíos, gayones and jiraxaras, see the devil as an annoying "pixie" that grants all kinds of wishes in exchange for granting him three favors, one at dawn, one at sunset and one at midnight, that pixie seems to have many names for them, but they all clearly describe him always with the same characteristics, a dwarf man with very dark purple skin, pointed ears, always naked and with six fingers on each hand.

In the Amazonian folklore there is also the figure of “Aworie”, described with all the characteristics of a faun, a bearded man of short stature with animal legs and horns on his head, this character “Aworie” has an iron crown around of his horns which he decorates with precious stones, he is the king of the women who leave the tribe to not marry and he, grants them powers and gifts, these women then do not age and do not know the disease, can see at night and speak The tongue of all animals, these women give birth to the children of Aworie every eight moons and these children, who look like men with horns, have powers to cause disease and call thunderstorms.

Now, although I usually mention having worked with the magic books of the old school "the grimoire of Solomon", "the book of St. Cyprian" and similar ones where they always mention the character, I have never worked with him and never I have had the need to do it, clearly that is not my way, but I invite you to answer below if you have any personal experience or anecdote about it.

Hugs and lots of light...

[soyforramen]

Saints and Sinners, or A Reflection of Veronica Lodge  

(Cross posted on AO3)

xxxx

Veronica Lodge was no saint.  Her life was not devoted to preaching the good word, to doing good deeds, to helping those in need. She would never be a tragic figure, offering up her life so that others could live. She’d never been touched by the holy spirit, though she did let Antonio kiss her after Easter services in seventh grade.  

If she had been a saint, she would never have stood by while her father destroyed so many innocent lives.  She never would have been so willfully ignorant of his sinful ways.  Divine intervention would have graced her with the means to convince her father that fraud was abhorrent, greed a vice, theft a sin.  Veronica would have been able to call upon St. Joseph to guide her father’s hand towards saving the community rather than destroying it in the pursuit of wealth.

After all, Joan of Arc was only 13 when she’d had her first vision of the heavens.  At 13, Veronica Lodge’s only visions were of Prada, and Milan, and Hermes.

Her father’s deeds should have stayed in the past.  Her father had been sentenced and, according to the greater state of New York and the United States Federal government, had served his time and repaid his debt to society.  Hiram Lodge emerged from the federal penitentiary a free, penitent man, absolved of his sins through graft and bribery, like the Medici’s of yore.  (Graft and bribery were only sins in the eyes of the Lord.  Here on earth it was nothing more than another day at the office for Hiram Lodge.)

It had taken her a year and a half to come to terms with what her father had done.  That her father was nothing more than a human made of flesh and blood.  He was no god on earth, as she’d believed as a child.  He was no longer a figure to idolize.  He was corruption in human form, good only for destroying lives in the pursuit of wealth, with little regard for the fallout.

And then he’d come back home.  Her father, the man who raised her, who taught her right from wrong.  The man who’d tucked her in at night, the man who’d snuck her lamb empanadas during Lent, the man who’d taught her how to drive on the busy streets of Manhattan.  The father who claimed to love her.  

The father who showed his love with material goods and luxuries.  Those present that, as she grew older, began to feel more like a bribe.  Like a chain and a cage.  Presents that felt more like guilt, presents that sent waves churning in her stomach as she wondered who’d been bankrupted to pay for the string of pearls around her neck.

When he’d returned, it was so easy to slip back into her old life of ignorance and frivolity.  So easy to let him return to the role of protector and father.  He brought financial stability back into their lives.  He brought security, safety against the Serpents, the Mob.  Against the Black Hood.  He brought normalcy back into her life while the town and everyone around her had fallen apart.

It was so easy to plead ignorance of his misdeeds.  Plausible deniability, after all, was the creed of all Lodge women.

Because Hiram Lodge was, after all, still her father.  And Veronica had been tired of fighting against her past self and learned behaviors.  She’d spent so long trying to be good for others, to be better for others.  With her father’s arrival her old life slipped back around her like a tailor made gown, snug and secure.  And she let herself pretend that he was repairing the broken ties between them, pretend he wanted to help the town.  He’d made friends with Archie, as he’d promised.  He’d offered her a better Riverdale, a better life than what she and her mother had without them..

And Veronica Lodge was never one to easily resist temptation.  

She was no angel.  There were no wings on her back, no halo adorning her head.  Gospel and godly words did not tumble from her lips, though gossip often did.  She looked nothing like the angels that adorned Abuela Lodge’s walls, those blonde cherubs with milky white skin sent to bring good tidings to the unworthy people below.  

In one of their few stolen moments together, Archie had whispered into her hair and called her his guardian angel, his hope against the coming darkness.  The words twisted deep, the adoring words quickly turning to sharp knives of guilt.  Her father had been the one to do this to Archie, and all because she’d refused to act the demure disciple.  

When she thought about what her father had done, what her father continued to do, it hurt.  It hurt even more to think of what little she’d done to stop him.

She’d left the Andrews’ house soon after, the tears falling from her eyes masked only by the rain.  She’d wandered for a while, still unable to return to the penthouse suite where her father lurked.  Instead, she found herself at her home away from home, at the restaurant she’d bartered from the Devil himself.  It was a place she found pride in despite her aching feet and throbbing back.  Every article of clothing she owned now carried with it a hint of used grease and cooked onion no matter when it was washed.  It was a smell that brought her pride to know she was able to work this hard to save something she loved.  It brought her hope that maybe, just maybe, she and Archie could make it out of this town alive.

And now she had returned to her home away from home, the second place in this god-forsaken town she actually felt safe in after the Andrews’ home.  She stood in the entryway, soaked to the bone and unable to stop her tears.  This late at night no one would care about her appearance.  It was populated with late-night long-haul truckers and insomniacs jacked up on Jingle Jangle and coffee.

And, of course, Jughead.  Still picking away at his novel about the darkness that seemed to shroud Riverdale.  A novel that continued to warp and twist with the morbid happenings of the town around them.  A novel where, she was almost certain, she’d become the villain.

She took a step towards the back office, but he’d already seen her in her smudged mascara and dripping hair, such a far cry from her normal composed self.  In a surprising show of concern, he nodded to the chair next to him.  Slowly, she walked towards the seat, knowing he’d be the last person in this town to want to hear her troubles.  After all, she’d been the one attempting to gas-light him, the one trying to convince everyone around them that he was full of conspiracy theories and slander against her father.

Conspiracy theories that turned out to only be a scratch on the surface of her father’s machinations.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out when she was close enough for him to hear her.

His hands jerked away from the keyboard.  He turned his full attention towards her, surprised.  “For what?”

For a long time she couldn’t answer.  A thick, sticky glob of pain and guilt stuck in her throat, trapping all the words should should have said months ago, all the words she’d wanted to say before.  Unable to tumble from her lips, her words transformed into more tears.  Veronica collapsed onto the stool and cried onto the diner counter.

Jughead, typical male that he was, shifted in his seat, unable to do anything about her distress.  Perhaps that was why she’d taken the seat next to him. They were close enough to know what the other was talking about, but not close enough for comfort.  He gave her the space she needed, the space she hadn’t known she wanted.  

When her tears began to dry, she lifted her head only to find a coffee cup, still steaming, had been placed in front of her.  She wrapped her hands around the heat, hot enough to verge on painful.  He handed her a napkin and she dabbed at her cheeks.  For once, she didn’t care who saw her out of makeup.  

“Latent Catholic guilt?” he asked.

She didn’t know if he was serious.  She didn’t know if he was serious about anything other than Betty, and Archie, and his Serpent friends, really.  

But his words reminded her of all the masses she’d missed since moving to Riverdale.  Of the comfort she took in the rote, prescribed rituals that only changed by its own accord.  She’d never been the religious type - too independent, too strong-willed for the outdated views on the world, humanity, and women - but she liked the familiarity of knowing what to do and when.  

No matter how much the world changed, the Church held fast to its belief and faith in an immutable, infallible higher being.  Faith in a father figure that wanted the best for his flock.  Faith that he’d lead her to greener pastures, that he’d care for them and protect them against sin.

But just like her own father figure, the price of rebellion was almost greater than one could bear.

Veronica cleared her throat and sipped at the coffee.  Her throat was raw, sanded down by the screams she choked down daily so no one could hear.  Warped by the fear and hatred and anger.  At what, exactly, she was still figuring out.  She only knew that most of it was directed at her father.

“I suppose so,” she said.  “I am sorry, though.  For not believing you about my father.  And what he was doing to Riverdale.”

Next to her, Jughead shrugged.  His fingers moved across the keyboard, sure of where they landed.  When they stilled again, he spoke.  “I get why you didn’t want to believe it.  I’ve wanted to believe a lot of what my father’s said.  Doesn’t mean it’s forgotten.”

“Or forgiven,” Veronica said softly.  

As long as she lived, she didn’t know whether this was something she could forgive herself for. She’d had the ability, the opportunity to sound the cry, to prove her parents were doing ill, to alert the proper authorities.  And yet she’d made herself comfortable and nested in their ill-gotten gains, selfish and secure that she was untouchable.

The coffee was gone, and her words had fled.  Jughead continued to write, and Veronica didn’t know if he’d even realized she’d left.  She didn’t know if anyone would realize if she left this town besides Archie and her mother.  She’d burned so many bridges this past year it was as if she wanted to create her own personal hell on earth.

That didn’t mean things couldn’t change, though.  That she couldn’t work to fix what she’d destroyed.  Even if she was never forgiven, if she was never trusted again, she would try.  

No, Veronica Lodge was no martyr of yore.  She was not ready or willing to throw herself on the funeral pyre that Riverdale was becoming.  She was not able to lay atop the slow, smoldering embers of a town crumbling in on itself.  She could not, would not cut off her nose to spite her face, no matter how just the cause may be.

Veronica Lodge was not an angel, never a saint or martyr.  Veronica Lodge was, through and through, a human with everything that meant.  She was a human who made mistakes, who made bad decisions.  Quite often she’d backed the wrong horse.  She was a human who’d watched her idols fall from grace, the gods on earth turn into flesh and blood like her.

She’d never be able to wash her hand of the blood her father had spilled, of the lives ruined by her family’s greed.

Veronica Lodge was no saint.  But she was human enough to try.

[dat-town]

Destined to fall | scene iv.

Characters: Taehyung & You

Setting: fallen angel au, reincarnation au, historical au

Genre: angst

Warnings: attempted suicide, character death

Summary: Your love story is a tragedy written with blood throughout the centuries.

Words: 4.7k

Chapter index

SCENE IV. GARDEN OF EDEN London, Victorian era

Taehyung had long accepted that God indeed wanted to teach him something. Manners? Respect? Or how to be a good man? He never knew nor cared. He had been living his boring life sitting on a throne of guilt and regret, commanding to an army of powerful soldiers but he despised his own influence. What was it good for if he couldn’t save you? If he had to watch you wither away in every single life you had? He swore he wouldn’t torture you – but also himself - anymore, because after dozen failed attempts of breaking into heaven, bribing his way through its entrance, he realized he couldn’t face the Almighty just because he wanted to. He couldn't question him how long his punishment would last and how much more you would have to suffer. He didn’t give up but focused more on ruling his kingdom than battling in a war he couldn’t possible win against a faceless god.

“You never asked me to join you. Why?” Seokjin asked, the one creature in this wide world whom he considered the closest thing to a friend he knew and had.

The angel visited him from time to time, on neutral grounds in hazy times. His snow white suit made him outstanding in the grey crowd and his fluttering white wings only Taehyung could see, rested close to his back. The fluffy, soft feathers stirred a pang of jealousy even in Devil because he had missed his wings as black as his soul, but the fractured bones couldn’t sprout again leaving him with two identical scars on his back that ached constantly like a never-ending dull music in the background, constant reminders of what he was and what was taken away from him because of his rebellion.

“I have enough demons,” he shrugged thinking back of those prideful angels falling one by one and searching for a new, more liberal reign under his hands. They listened well, that was something God taught them well but saying no was now in their blood and the only thing that kept them in order was fear. They feared Taehyung, at least since one of them tried to snatch the throne from him and ended up on Hell’s torture table. “Everybody needs something to fall for. You have to decide it for yourself. That's the beauty of free will.”

Each of them, angels and humans made choices and carved their own fate. Even if it wasn’t a conscious decision that time, he didn’t regret falling for you. Loving you was the best thing that happened to him no matter how short-lived it was. He never knew when you would be taken away from him, so he liked to spend and cherish every possible moment with you but not in the possessive way he once did, he swore on that.

“What He gave us as a gift,” Seokjin reminded him kindly and it was something Taehyung couldn’t deny. God really gave them the right to choose.

“Yes and it may be his fatal mistake,” he nodded looking down at the mass of people below the building. Clueless, dense people running around in the haziness of life, sacrificing themselves in the process, losing their purpose setting a mindless treadwheel ahead of them. Angels, humans, all the same: their existence lost its meaning when there was nothing more to live for.

Decades passed in silence, Taehyung drifted with the flow. He laughed when people pointed at machines calling them devilish and inhumane, although it was only the evolution of their race. With the industrial revolution, came the new danger of getting caught because of his forever young looks if he stayed in one place for too long. But Taehyung was really good at fleeing and staying in the shadows if it was necessary, he changed his identity as often as those rich girls throw out their clothes.

A few years after Queen Victoria occupied the throne of England he settled down in the British capital as a foreign artist. In this life he was a painter called Vante, one who lived for art, beauty and self-fulfilment. He enjoyed 5pm tea afternoons, chatting with other artists in downtown pubs and drawing people. He took up art during his first years of loneliness as a way of coping and till this day, he couldn’t get rid of this urge of creating. It was in his nature despite the Devil was said to be able to destroy only. His talent wasn’t recognized until this century when it became popular among the wealthiest families to order portrays. Still, he didn’t do it for the easy money. He didn’t even need that since he had no desire for such human things. He took these jobs out of boredom and curiosity, for the sake of art.

He lived a lowkey life in which he had no intention of searching for you. He gave up on that in order to provide you with a normal life, finally, without bloodshed and pain and suffering. He didn’t care about the constant longing in his heart, the stinking pang in his chest, the thorn of his never-ending love that bled from inside. He told himself he didn’t deserve you and you would be better off without him anyway but jokes on him, fate had brought you together once again.

He should have said no when he was called into another rich British household. He should have because his cold heart just skipped the beat knowing you would be there waiting for him. But he couldn’t, oh how could he? You were the gravity he fell for, he stood no chance.

“Pleasure to have you here, Mr. Vante. We are all admirers of your works,” a man his age greeted the painter and he nodded in acknowledgement, a lump of anticipation choking him.

“Especially our dear daughter. She was the one who chatted our ears off about your works until we hired you,” the head of the family chimed in.

“But papa…” you protested with your cheeks dusted pink and cast your careful gaze down.

“It’s an honour that my questionable talent is recognized by you, Miss,” Taehyung bowed again with a smile playing on his lips because of your adorable shyness.

The fashion in this era made women wear gloves and high-collared dresses that covered as much skin as it could, so when you were introduced, it didn't matter that he took your hand to give it a kiss, the thin silk stopped you from remembering. Maybe it was better this way because on your fourth finger, over the glove you proudly wore a diamond engagement ring labelling you as another man’s fiancée...

Taehyung didn’t cry, nor did he throw a fit. He took defeat like a man with his chin high up. He loved you so much that he wanted nothing else for you but happiness. However, he wasn’t selfless, he wasn’t that kind of person. He thought it was unfair that God decided another man could have you right in front of his eyes. Yet, he knew better than to blame Him, it was better to think of it as a challenge, a test to see if you really loved him as you claimed in your earlier lives or it was merely your sense of duty all along after you remembered your time together. What if you regretted loving him after so many awful deaths? Didn’t you deserve a peaceful life?

He should have left, go far away but he couldn’t stay away. As Vante the artist, he had bi-weekly visits at your family’s mansion working on you and your future husband’s portray. It was for your wedding, you said once with a forced smile when the strict man you were engaged to stood beside you rigid in his pose, with a hand over your shoulders.

Since after spending decades without you, Taehyung only had two methods of passing time: killing and his newest hobby, art, he was pretty good at both. He loved to get lost in details, absorbing each tiny miniscule piece of reality into a painting. He was a precise artist but he kept making mistakes when it was about you. Sometimes the yous got mixed in his head, different faces but the same sparkling in the eyes and the same loving heart. Even though you had ginger curls brushed under a laced hat and eyes blue like hyacinths, he knew it was you, he could feel it like every other time. And it distracted him, remembering your times together while you had no recollection of it at all. Maybe that’s why your fiancé got bored of these painting sessions, the mistakes and he came by less and less often.

Sometimes you read a book in your lap giving the fallen angel the opportunity to stare as much as he wanted. Sometimes you asked him questions of Paris, the city he supposedly came from. Sometimes like now your gaze was fierce, your posture tense as you were sipping on a tea. Taehyung couldn’t help but wonder. Did you have an argument with your parents? With your fiancé perhaps? Is it about the wedding that fabricated arranged marriage he knew you never wanted? Or did you?

“Is everything alright?” he asked as a tentative approach and you pursued your lips shaking your head, fingers playing with each other.

“It’s nothing, just… complicated wedding preparations. George’s family is a little bit too enthusiastic and I…” you bit down on your tongue, hard, to stop yourself from saying more but you had already done the damage.

Taehyung’s gaze zoomed on your hand, your fourth finger in particular with that gorgeous diamond ring and he blurted out the most impolite question ever:

"Do you love him?"

A short pause. A hiss in the silence and you looked at him coldly, answering a bit belatedly. Too late to not be written off as hesitation.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't marry him otherwise," you scrunched your nose slightly offended.

It was a lie and you both knew.

Your fiancé was a busy man, he barely made time for painting sessions since he had more important things to do than standing there watching an artist work. So most times the two of you were alone in the study room of your family's impressive house. Vante with a brush between his fingers, you sitting on a sofa, your midnight blue dress falling to your legs in airy waves. Small talks came natural to you but anything else felt too intimate to share with a stranger, another man who wasn’t supposed to captivate you like the artist did.

There was something in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were his muse that made you blush and uncharacteristically shy. Especially now when you had his intense gaze at you after such a blunt confession that shouldn't have happened. You wanted to change the topic immediately.

"The girls on your paintings..." The words stumbled out of your mouth slowly, without your consent but Vante didn’t stop you, he didn’t interrupt, so you kept the eye contact and asked it anyway before curiosity could have eaten you up: "Do you know them all?"

Ever since you fell in love with this mysterious artist’s paintings at an exhibition downtown, it intrigued you. There was only a handful of portrays he didn’t do for money and all of them had young, pretty women on them. They all looked like they were in love, eyes shining, mouth curved up in a mysterious smile but somehow there was also sadness in those orbs.

"Yes, I once knew them."

"They are beautiful,” you nodded as a slight pang of jealousy poisoned the blood in your veins. Ridiculous! You had a fiancé and yet you were jealous of past muses, perhaps-lovers of an artist you barely knew.

"So are you," he said easily like it was nothing, merely a fact like the Sun rising on the East. Given your family status, you weren’t used to genuine compliments. Still, it had you blush.

"Oh please, you only say that sir because my family pays your bills."

"I don't need your family’s money," the man answered very seriously, lightning in his eyes as he looked at you. There was it again, that something in his gaze that made you feel as if he was reading you like an open book.

You wanted to ask what he needed then but you didn’t dare and you lost your chance to say anything at all when the door opened and you mother busted in calling you into the salon for dress rehearsal. Excusing yourself early had never felt so wrong.

You fell in love slowly but too easily for a woman with an engagement ring on her finger. Meeting Vante brought those smiles and fluttery feelings you associated with love and it scared you. Being the only daughter of a newspaper firm’s owner gave you many benefits: piano and dance lessons, the prettiest dresses, treated like a princess among your acquaintances but for all that you owned your father something in exchange: to marry the man he chose, the man who would continue to build his empire and make it famous. George was a good man, he had always acted polite towards you and it was more than a lot of fiancées could tell about themselves. You got lucky but it wasn’t enough for you to love him and you couldn’t help but be doubtful about your future marriage.

When the painter appeared in your life he made you feel he was there all along. Like you came home to him… like he was home. Impossible, right? You had just met him! But he was so different from everybody you had the pleasure to meet: the way he asked about your days, complimented the way you dressed, dared to disagree with you on meanings of certain poems and discussed politics with you, a topic from everybody hushed women away. He was interested in every aspect of your life, in your opinion about everything and maybe it flattered you enough to say yes to his bold question.

“Will you walk with me?

Asking an engaged lady for a walk alone was just as immoral as agreeing to the said offer. But after weeks of tiptoeing around each other, stolen glances between four walls and whispered conversations, you felt your heart swelling with this exciting new feeling that filled your insides until you feared you would burst.

“I finished the painting,” Vante said quietly just as you passed by the fountain in the middle of Hyde Park. His voice carried a spoonful of bitter sadness and your throat closed up nervously. The pleas that were choking you lately came alive again scratching at the back of your throat.

“Does that mean I won’t see you anymore?” your made a clumsy attempt of masking your disappointment but you failed badly when sadness clearly stained your voice.

“Would you miss me?” the painter stopped in his tracks and looked at you bewildered. That foolish hope in his eyes made you reckless too. Now or never, you thought playing with the ruffles of your beautiful dress.

“I… I know it’s wrong in its every bit but… I can’t control my heart and I am terribly sorry, that I put you into such a bothersome situation,” you blurted out without thinking, letting the urge to speak your mind have control. You would never want to burden him with your company since you knew he was such a busy person, yet you hoped he wouldn't say goodbye forever.

“What do you mean, Miss?”

What do you mean? Such a great question. You have no idea what to wish for, what to hope with that diamond ring on your finger. Would you really leave your comfortable and stable life behind just to be with him and turn childish dreams of true love into reality? You had no idea but you wanted to get rid of the weight of this heavy confession that had suffocated you for weeks. You couldn't let him go until he didn’t know how you felt.

“I… I am a disgrace to my family," you stuttered and since you didn't bear to look into Vante's black tea eyes, you rather marvelled at the way the sunshine hit on his beret in the rainy afternoon weather. “An engaged girl who caught feelings for an artist. A shame, they would call it but yes, it’s true. I have feelings for you.”

The man looked a bit shaken, the lazy curve of his mouth trembling as he asked: “Are you sure?”

“Yes… But please do not feel obligated to reciprocate anything. You are free to reject my indecent confession. It’s absolutely not fair on you, I know,” you were quick to answer and reassure him that no matter his answer, you wouldn't hold anything against him.

“How could I ever reject you?” It's a rhetorical question because he didn't need to ask twice to know he had you for a while now. “I have loved you in every life you had and I will love you in every following one. I love you more than anything.”

“It’s blasphemous to say such things,” you gasped.

As a Catholic you were taught that God was supposed to be the one you love the most. But it didn’t stop your heart from feeling things it shouldn't, like happiness for being loved back by a man who wasn’t your fiancé.

“What now...?” you whispered and your touch was so light he barely felt it: your bare fingertips brushing against his knuckles.

Realization only hit him when he locked eyes with you and saw that look. The look of those who had lived long enough to know what pain feels like. Your eyes were suddenly swimming in tears, rosy lips trembling. Hastily, you pulled your hand back so you could clench onto your chest with your panicked gaze turned away. Contrary to before, any other times when you remembered, now you had your responsibilities, a promise you made to a man who wasn’t Vante, who wasn’t Taehyung, your fallen angel you had never stopped loving.

“How many did you kill?”

The sudden question birthed silence. Taehyung took a deep breath.

“Thousands.”

It was the truth. There was no point in denying it.

You had loved him before. Fiercely even though you knew he was a killer. You had loved him before despite status and sins and how much of a monster he was. But now, now you stood up and turned your back on him ready to leave.

Taehyung didn’t think or calculate odds, he grabbed on your hand halting you, in need of answers and explanations.

“Love...” he called you desperately clinging onto your non-gloved fingers searching for your eyes, those traitors but you avoided his gaze at any cost.

“Please no...” you hissed at the pet name and flinched like he burnt you.

“But you said yourself… You fell in love with me even if you didn’t remember our pasts. What changed?”

You did, he was right. You fell in love with the painter just like you had fallen in love with the rich merchant, the royal advisor and the second-in-command. You had fallen deep and deeper you got with each day. It was a well too deep for you to get out, an ocean too vast to struggle to swim to the surface, because not loving him didn’t seem like an option. You were meant to be, like you were made to be the yin to his yang and for that reason you never felt whole until you met him.

“I can’t do this,” you kept shaking your head because it was too much, too painful. All the memories, the pain you endured and the unfortunate fates you had.

“Do what? Why?” The fallen leaned closer and gently cupped your face wiping away the tears you shed. They couldn’t help but fall.

“I can’t do this anymore. It hurts too much,” you cried grabbing at the fabric of your dress implying to the place in your chest where your heart burnt, ached. “Maybe it’s really a punishment. For you and for me for all the sins I have done and for the ones I will commit. Maybe we both deserve it: to love until it hurts, until our heart bleeds. Maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

“You don’t mean that. You can’t,” Taehyung begged, his heart breaking into tiny pieces. If you couldn’t be his, he was happy with you being his muse and nothing more but knowing you loved him and remembered him, it was unthinkable for him.

“I’m sorry,” you barely managed to force the words out because you were sobbing so hard. There were knives at your throat and poisoned arrows piercing right through your heart. It was a torture to look him in the eye, yet you still killed yourself slowly. “Please… Just let me be. Leave me alone.”

The words burnt like you slapped him, hard, across his face, it left an uncomfortable tingling and a wound deeper than the scars on his back where once his wings were. He thought he knew what pain and suffering meant, to drown while everybody was watching but this, this was worse than all punishments of Hell.

Quite a few demons had tried to kill Taehyung over the time. Rebellions against his rule weren’t rare but he was too powerful to die because of these weak attempts. However, he never tried to end his own life and standing on the edge of the hundred years old Westminster Bridge he wondered if God had let him die if he wanted to. He was finally ready to test the theory.

It had been almost two weeks since you left him behind in Hyde Park. He respected your demand and stayed away but today, he couldn’t. Even if he could only watch you from afar, he had to come here mixing into the crowd of guests of London’s elites. He saw you getting off a flowery, white horse carriage in front of the Cathedral and you looked so beautiful, so gorgeous in your snow white dress, the pearls around your neck and white petals in your hair. You looked like the princess you deserved to be and in your earlier lives, he would have given everything to make this possible. It was worth living just to see you like this, Taehyung concluded, but his heart ached so bad imagining you by another man’s side. Smiling at him, kissing him, making love to him. He couldn’t handle that, he just couldn’t bear that thought.

Dying because of a human girl, such a pity, others would have said, would have called him weak. He had everything after all: wealth, a handsome face, immortality and an empire to rule. But what did all this mean if he had nobody to share with? If he was all alone?

He took a step closer to the edge. Nobody cared. London rushed through around him as the busy commercial market it was and the Cathedral’s bells sounded magical as its clock hit seven o’clock. It was long overdue, to say goodbye. He should have died a long time ago anyway...

“Taehyung…” your lovely voice echoed in the dark, coming from afar and the once angel laughed sarcastically. He had hallucinated already, great. God must have found it appropriate to torture him till the end.

“Taehyung!” the sound of his name resonated louder this time, closer, not so dulled by the waves of Thames and the more he tried to ignore the chanting the more pragmatic, more frantic it became. He felt the pull on his coat as somebody yanked him backwards. At first, he suspected the always so nosy Seokjin, the angel who acted like his guardian but when he turned around he saw a different kind of celestial being. You.

You panted, holding your skirt with one hand, hair a mess, eyes frightened. It seemed too good to be true. Maybe he really was dreaming. Or dead already.

“You ran away? From the church? Why?” he deadpanned and raised his hand eye-level, uncertain whether he was allowed to touch.

“Because I realized I can't let God bind me to someone I don't love,” you said loud and clear taking his hand in yours and leaning into his touch. Oh, gods, you had missed this so much.

“But what if you were? What if once I will be too late? And you will love them?” Taehyung asked, still perplexed, holding you like he once did, like you were something fragile or simply a dream that can dissolve into nothing if he let down his guards.

“That won't happen. Because I'll always love you more,” you protested shaking your head that had your ginger curls fall into your face, framing your ocean blue eyes. You didn’t hesitate, you pushed yourself up to your toes and kissed the love of your life and your entire existence like you meant it because you really did. For a moment, he stilled, still processing what just happened but then he kissed you back deeply with all the desperation in his heart. The barrier made of stone dug into your back ruining your pure white dress but you couldn’t care less. Even the indignant shouting of your relatives coming from the Cathedral seemed dull.

“Let’s get married. Not in a church, of course. But let’s make a promise. I want to be with you forever,” you whispered pulling away and little did you know, your wish would come true this time around.

Taehyung had long stopped believing in Mercy but you were religious in this life and you had a different view on current event. You thought this wasn’t about God taking you away from your love but keep giving you back to him. You still prayed for his soul every day. Taehyung claimed it was naive and useless but it kept you alive. For the first time in forever you had things like wrinkle to worry about and you whined about being too old for a twenty something looking guy despite him being immortal and thousand years old. Miraculously you grew old with Taehyung and a bunch of dogs by your side. You weren’t ready to have kids after what happened last time and now you were happy with what you had. It was nice, growing old and experiencing things you couldn’t before. Taehyung showed you the wonders of the world, you travelled a lot and you loved deeply. You celebrated every anniversary like it was the first and appreciated each moment like it could be the last. You spent together decade after decade arguing more and more over the time because you thought he should move on, leaving you alone to grow old but he wasn’t willing. Never, when his soul was older than a millennium and he loved you even with your hair grey and winkles.

Even a heart attack couldn’t take you away but it landed you in a health care centre. Whenever you heard nurses talking about your handsome “grandson”, you chuckled. You weren’t jealous, not anymore because you wanted Taehyung to be happy more than anything. And lately, you had seen sadness in those mesmerizing eyes of his as if he was preparing himself to say goodbye.

“Why don’t you go find another love? You have plenty of time and there are so many people out there. You shouldn’t wait for me,” you told him who sat on the edge of your bed dutifully, not leaving your side if he didn’t have to. He signalled no with his head. At first, you thought he was about to scold you for talking about your own death again because he hated to hear about the inevitable.

“For me, there’s nobody else but you,” he replied and squeezed your hand like he never wanted to let go.

With your wrinkled hands in his forever young ones, death took you away in your sleep but this time, you left with no regrets and Taehyung cried because he had nobody to blame but himself.

Next chapter

[where-the-weary-rest]

So i’ve been having massive dmc/dietrich feels so you all get a dump of what the guy is dealing with once he finally meets dante long after the rebellion, this is post dmc4 and i feel like dante as he gets older and has been learning will on occasion calm down and use his brains, we know hes not dumb, he just cant be assed. here hes realized that his usual strategies might not work, also its under the cut cause its kind of a lot and i dont wanna horde space on peoples dashes

“Well she asked that I take you too him. You wanted to meet the one who knew what was left out of the stories. I can’t guarantee he’ll be particularly friendly but he’s a good host at least.” Tyr shrugged though the motion seemed only half hearted. The man himself seemed to lack any real conviction or emotion though so it wasn’t surprising. Dante himself wasn’t terribly surprised when the guide provided by his contact was a demon. He was investigating old demon history after all. He’d never cared for the old legends but even he had to admit there were parts of it that made no sense.

“Yeah yeah. I’ll just shut him up if he’s being an asshole.” Dante replied lazily patting the guns at his hips. The shadow looked almost skeptical at this while the hunter kept one hand on ebony. This place was giving him the heebie jeebies after all. The entire town had looked abandoned yet lived in, a perpetual fog making it all the more erie. They stood before the doors of some grand hall, more then likely the throne room.

“Right here we go.” Tyr raised his hands and shadows crawled up the much too tall doors before pushing them open. A groan resounded echoing through the mostly empty room. Iron scones were along the pillars with strange pale blue flames burning, much like the rest of the castle. The only other noticable thing in the room was the throne. Dante was fairly surprised by what he saw there. A man sat atop the throne though seemingly asleep. He looked older, though perhaps no later then 50′s with long silvery almost white hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a suit that reminded Dante of some of his more obnoxious clients. Business men who thought they could get away with more because they had money.

“So this is him?” He heard. The voice was raspy as if long unused. The older mans eyes now open and locked on Dante, both a fierce electric shade of blue that made the hunters own seem dull.

“Right Dante Redgrave may I present Dietrich Ailis.” Tyr gave a sweeping bow as he gestured from the hunter to the man on the throne.

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"So are you just one more asshole who hated my old man and came after me?" Dante snarled at the idea. He was so damn tired of cleaning up the messes that man left him. Dietrich shook his head at this and leaned forward elbows on his knees and hands clasped. He looked older somehow as long hair shifted across his shoulder, and that his expression changed to something almost nostalgic casting deeper shadows across his face.

"No. For once that is not the case, well mostly." The younger man looked at him curiously at this.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I didn't hate Sparda. At least not truly, I never could despite what he did to us. In fact I loved him dearly, more so then a devil should ever be capable of. After all we are said to be without hearts to feel such things, it's a gift humans were granted that both demons and angels were denied." Dietrich shook his head a bit just sending more white cascading over his shoulders slowly to pool in his lap. Dante wasn't sure why that detail was so distracting, perhaps it was something in how fluidly the man moved despite moving so little at all. Maybe it was because of something so pure white on a soul so black. "I fell in love with the image of a fool with a bleeding heart. Sparda was a hero in the text book sense. He would never let those who were being oppressed suffer for long. I always knew that letting him lead the charge against humans would end badly."

"Then why not do something to stop him? You make it sound like you could have." Dante wasn't sure why he wanted an answer, but it bothered him to think things could have been so different. Dietrich sighed at this sounding weary, as if there was a tiredness settled even into the mans bones after so many long years that he only remembered now.

"Because of the fact that I loved him. The army was where he belonged, where he shone like the brightest star in our sky. I was the lead strategist certainly, but he was our commander, our king in all but title. To take him from the field would ruin him. So he went and he met those frail terrible creatures and fell for them. Realized what us taking their world meant, how it would be a slaughter. He couldn't allow it. He had a code that was understood by none yet all." He held out his hands with palms up as if beseeching some unseen figure.

"And you still insisted on fighting him?"

"I did. I fought him the hardest. You surely wonder why if I loved him as I say I do. I fought him because I have always placed home above all and our home was dying. I placed those in my care above myself. It was painful, certainly but he made it easy in a way. I remember even now the words he said to me. 'You're a monster. You can't kill the humans. They can't possibly beat us. I thought you were my friend, my brother'." Dante was surprised at the absolute ache he could feel in those words. As if reliving them tore something in the demon to shreds better then any blade.

"He didn't know."

"He didn't. So he struck us all down. Including me. Though I was in ways his equal so he wasn't strong enough to kill me. However for my perceived betrayal I was cursed and stand here now. King of the dead, last to know what happened then, and so very tired." As he spoke he'd leaned back pulling aside the collar of his shirt. Dante could see the top of a wide jagged scar across the mans shoulder and collar bone. If it was done with force edge he could only imagine how bad the rest was. "I became the monster he saw me as. Now I just want rest."

"So you really are just some shitty devil after all that needs to be gotten rid of." Dante hissed the words as if what had been said justified the need to eliminate Dietrich to avoid the danger the elder presented.

"Perhaps. Though you'd have never guessed until I told you. Let this be a lesson to you Dante. I'm sure you've learned it before but a refresher is nice." He rose from his throne looking down at the hunter with a bored gaze and burning blue eyes. The flames of the lamps suddenly burned brighter and the room seemed to glow, casting the shadow of a large winged beast across the wall behind Dietrich. "We are not all we seem. After all even the devil was an angel once and he was gods favorite. Do not let perceptions and foolishness tint your path so you make a mistake you will regret."

"Fuck you." Dante snapped back watching as the elder snarled at this baring fangs far from human. The disguise was so good, so almost on that it made the places it was wrong stick out all the more. A devil who would walk amongst humans yet never be able to blend among them.

"You may yet live to regret those words boy. You are the only one who can kill me because of this curse. This poison in my blood he placed that won't let any other end me, but I will not go easily. They wish for rest as well, but not surrender." Suddenly it appeared, a wild blue fire like those eyes and so much here. It condensed, coalesced into shape, into figures behind Dietrich as if the ghosts of those past were here themselves to stand at his back once more. Dante had a feeling he would indeed regret some of his choices just this once.

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Dante looked up at the other from where he kneeled. Every muscle screamed at the idea of this much less standing, and he was weary down to his bones. No fight had pushed him so far. Yet the older man stood there looking unphased despite the blood running down the side of his face, and the tear carved through his armor. Dietrich looked as if he'd stood within the eye of a storm, and while he hadn't come out unscathed he'd certainly proven a force of nature.

"I never stood a chance did I?" Dante asked wondering if the man would let him leave with his life. While he didn't like the idea of giving up he'd learned over time when to hedge his bets.

"That's just it." Deitrich sounded so weary suddenly, once again the old man with a torn jacket and blood down his face all the same. "Once upon a time you did. You would have been the death of me. This story would finally end. I could have peace. Now, now you can't. You may be able to kill Dante, but you only kill villains. Somewhere along the way you lost sight of the fact that I am just that. We are all heroes in our own minds, most of the time, it's convincing others to believe this that's the trick."

"You always had a way with people Sire." Tyr said finally speaking for the first time in a while. "You were the greatest of us once, the one who sought to take the burden of a whole world on your shoulders. It's why we loved you all in our way, it's why they stay with you. It’s why I wanted to see you finally rest. Seems I made a mistake."