#virtue device

[humbledragon669]

S1E2 – The Book Write Up P1

– 2 days before Armageddon and 1656

On my most recent rewatch of this episode, I felt like overall it was much more narrative in nature than the first one, so there might not be quite as much waffle in this write up. Then again, this episode includes both the jacket cleaning and the wall slam Aziracrow moments, so perhaps let’s not count our chickens…

Let’s dive straight in then. It find it interesting that Aziraphale doesn’t appear surprised to see Gabriel and Sandalphon (described in the script as “thuggish”) in his book shop at all. I do love this little scene though, it’s pure comedy which, considering where we left off at the end of the first episode, is a good way to remind the audience that this show isn’t meant to be all doom and gloom. It’s also nice to see the comparison of knowledge of human behaviours here; Gabriel completely clueless and Sandalphon feeding him information he believes to be appropriate - only Aziraphale has any hint of behaving naturally at all, though there is something to ponder on here. Is his obvious discomfort at the mention of pornography caused by genuine embarrassment or because he has learned the appropriate human behaviour during his time on earth? I think it’s the former. We’ll see this human etiquette dilemma echoed in the first episode of season 2, which has a more obvious reference to its connotations so I will address it properly there. Let’s just say that Aziraphale’s sensitivities here could be attributed to forbidden knowledge.

I also love the fact that Aziraphale does his best not to make his customers feel awkward in this scene. Almost as if he actually wants them there. Which would mean actually selling some books somewhere along the way… He must just be being polite because that is clearly nonsense. It makes me giggle that despite trying to maintain an air or professional distance, he calls the two angels by name in front of the whole shop, completely undermining any attempts he was making at pretending the two “men” in front of him are unknown to him. Silly angel. And just to round this mini section off, this is my favourite line of the scene, which could only be delivered by a being that has no idea of the social connotations of buying porn:

We human beings are extremely easily embarrassed. We must buy our pornography secretively.

For those who don’t know, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management (the book Gabriel has picked up) is just about the furthest thing from porn you could possibly have – it’s a guide to running a household in Victorian Britain, written for married ladies of the time.

There’s a pretty delicious irony shown in the back room here – Gabriel marvelling at how easily humans are fooled whilst simultaneously being fooled by Aziraphale. The irony is further driven home by the fact that we, the “easily fooled” can tell Gabriel is being duped.

I would just like to take a moment to truly appreciate this beast that sits on a desk in the back office:

I work in IT (cyber security to be exact) and this thing gives me chills, of both the good and bad varieties. I do really love the way that there are so many little details hidden around the sets of this show, and this one goes to show how stuck in the dark ages Aziraphale is with “modern” life. I’d wager he only bought it because it was suggested to him in the first place. I’d be hugely surprised if he had used it more than once in its lifetime - probably turned it on, decided he didn’t like it and turned it off again.

There’s a lovely bit of character development here for Aziraphale, and it’s something we don’t get to see very much of with him – his ability to stay calm in difficult situations. He deals with the unexpected arrival of the two angels in a very skillful way; inventing a (believable) reason for why Sandalphon is able to smell evil in the shop, conversing with the two intruders in a polite but appropriate way, managing to lie to them without any hint of a fluster. I am guilty sometimes of thinking of the angel as a bit of a flake but scenes like this really help to remind me that actually he can be a total badass when he needs to be, after all Gabriel and Sandalphon both leave appearing to have no concerns about Aziraphale’s behaviour whatsoever.

From Aziraphale’s homely, cosy, cluttered book shop, we’re transported straight to Crowley’s sparse and cold-looking apartment where everything clearly has its place – another clever way of reminding us that these two characters are polar opposites in a lot of ways.

Interestingly the script describes Crowley’s apartment as being starkly white but I feel like the series realisation of it is much truer to his tastes. I also feel that seeing the demon in his own completely separate space is meant to serve as a reminder to the audience that he and Aziraphale are, supposedly, nothing more than good friends. As such it makes perfect sense that they should both have their own “home bases”, though I find it interesting that we never see Aziraphale at Crowley’s flat – in fact I don’t think there is evidence to suggest that he ever goes there at all (body swap incident aside). I’m pretty glad about that – Aziraphale is far too “soft” to be anywhere near comfortable in that apartment in my opinion. Coming back around to my own head canon (in which Crowley and Aziraphale are very much together at this point in the timeline), it does seem rather fitting that the flat is so sparsely furnished – I don’t really think Crowley spends that much time there (the script actually describes it as feeling “unlived in”), though it’s a good thing he wasn’t at the book shop for Gabriel’s visit in this particular instance. Regardless of whether or not Crowley really “lives” in this apartment, he’s clearly comfortable there as we see him prowling around without his glasses on.

The presence of the Mona Lisa sketch behind Crowley’s throne of a chair (why does he have such a grand chair anyway?) is explained in a deleted scene from the script – he bought it from Leonardo da Vinci himself during an evening of drinking (obviously).

I’m pretty sure that Crowley was about to call Aziraphale in this scene but for what purpose I have no idea – I don’t feel like there is anything more to be said about Armageddon at this point. I also don’t know why he decided better of it and stops himself. I’m not convinced there is anything in this as the interaction with the phone isn’t given in the stage directions of the script, I think it’s more likely part of the setting of the scene for the communication we’re about to see take place through the television.

I want to talk a little bit here about noises that are used in the soundtrack for when a miracle is performed as it’s something I believe will become important in season 2. Like REALLY important. But I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, let’s just note that at this point we’re introduced to the sound we will be hearing that signifies a demonic miracle taking place (which Crowley does to turn on the TV – either he’s being incredibly lazy or it’s a deliberate attempt to introduce us to this noise. I vote the latter). You can hear it in the clip below, immediately after the noise of Crowley clicking his fingers, underneath the talking from the TV:

I can’t quite place it as a sound, the closest I get to describing it is that it’s like the noise you get when you use a brush on a cymbal, or maybe sleigh bells that have been sped up. Either way, it’s distinctive. I’ll visit this concept again later, but for now we can just shelve the concept of the show giving a clear indication that a demonic miracle has just been performed for later reference.

I love the way television communique subtly strengthens the idea of communication over human broadcast mediums (like the radio in the Bentley) – this is mentioned in the book as being Crowley’s idea originally that has now turned sour for him. It’s worth noting the discussion prior to the arrival of Hastur and Ligur around the increasing of international tensions, which provides another device to lay the groundwork for the method of execution that Heaven has chosen for Armageddon. When I pick up on little things like this, I really am astounded by the amount of thought gone into this show.

Side note about Crowley’s chair:

I got a bit sidetracked on this, partly because I realised Ligur mentions it. I was actually able to find a couple of instances of the chair in various places online. It’s almost always described as a throne, and on one particular (Indonesian) website it’s described as a “King Chair”.

Can we just show some appreciation here for David’s top lip? With the most perfectly timed sneer, he conveys just how much contempt he has for his Hellish colleagues. Blink and you’d miss it:

If you missed the sneering, you can’t miss the undertones in the conversation he has with the two other demons – he has absolutely no appetite for Armageddon whatsoever, and next to no respect for what we are led to believe are his superiors. We do get a gem of a piece of information in this exchange though, which is that Hastur and Ligur are also fallen angels. Not only are they “fallen”, Hastur tells us that their collective falls were caused by an organised rebellion. We’ll learn a little more about the circumstances surrounding the fall of the rebellious angels later, and how Crowley came to be mixed up in the whole thing but for now this just makes me wonder how many other “fallen” there are currently waiting for Armageddon in Hell.

We’re treated to another lazy switch off of the TV here, with a repeat performance of the demonic miracle sound, so if you didn’t catch it the first time around, you really should have caught on by now.

We can’t leave this scene without mentioning Crowley’s take on his own fall:

I didn’t fall. I didn’t mean to fall. I just hung around the wrong people.

If that line doesn’t break your heart a little, you have no place here. The idea that Crowley’s fall was entirely unintentional and unwanted is something that we’ll come back to later, so for now we’ll just make a note of his true feelings about what is likely the single most defining event of his existence. It is interesting that Hastur does not appear to feel the same way about his own fall – 6000 years later he’s still standing by his actions and fully expects his accomplices to feel the same way. Seeing Crowley deliver this heartfelt sentiment to an empty room makes me wonder if Aziraphale has any idea how he feels about it. I highly doubt it but it’s a question I have nonetheless.

And so, we’re introduced to our delivery man. I really like this character because he feels incredibly relatable – he’s just a guy following instructions so that he can keep his job, put food on the table, go home to his loved ones. I feel like what happens to him throughout the series is so very unfair, and in this opening scene we hear that he is also being laden with the “blame” of calling the Four Horsemen when God refers to him as “the summoner”. Poor guy. Maybe that’s the point though, having the most relatable human character suffering the most because of events that are beyond his control. Maybe he’s meant to represent all of us. Deep…

Time for another appreciation take, and this time it goes to David Arnold’s amazing soundtrack. The sheer range of musical styles we hear across both seasons is incredible, and every incidental piece of music used does its job perfectly of helping to set the tone of the scene. The epic setting of the theme tune used in War’s introduction scene is nothing short of brilliant and I think it’s a real pity it can’t be found on the OST. Caveat: I was brought up on Queen, so any music (usually in a minor key, with plenty of broken scales and chords) that sounds even vaguely like rock with a prominent yet mournful guitar solo will have me weak at the knees any day. It’s why I currently sprint finish every run I do to the GO end titles theme (“The Theme That Got Left in the Car”). Honestly I sometimes think if my soul could make a noise, a wailing guitar is how it would sound.

We are now introduced to the namesake of the subtitle of the Good Omens universe – Agnes Nutter. The choice to use the surname “Nutter” for this character was not a random one. Alice Nutter was a woman executed for being a witch in Lancashire (where we find ourselves at this point in the story) in 1612. As much as I would like to believe that Agnes is perhaps a direct descendant of Alice, I have been unable to confirm the names of her descendants past sons and daughters, all of whom would have been too old to be our Agnes (and none of whom are named Agnes!). Anyway, Neil himself confirmed the link as a simple inspiration in a tweet all the way back in 2016, before season 1 was even filmed:

Nevertheless, this is another one of those instances where Neil and Terry have brilliantly woven together factual and fictional parts into a single story, which makes the whole so much believable, not to mention it gives you an appreciation for how much work must have gone into the writing of the book.

There are a couple of minor things of note in the following scene:

Agnes declares herself to be the last true witch in England. I’m not sure what purpose this serves, or what basis the claim is made on (perhaps another of her prophecies?), or if it’s even true.

You can actually hear the noise of the nails hidden in Agnes’s skirt as she walks if you listen. I only picked up on this after I knew they were there. It’s another example of clues being given for those who pay attention. I dare say Adultery Pulsifer should probably have picked up on it but he was obviously too busy being a pompous dickhead to notice.

Agnes’s book of prophecies has received a review from Ursula Shipton, comparing her to Nostradamus. Mother Shipton was an actual historical figure, known as a soothsayer and prophetess. She also died in 1561, almost 100 years before the publication of her Agnes’s book, which makes her review either meta-satire or proof of her own legitimacy. I’m going with the latter.

There is another reference to an apple here, this time of the Jobs variety. I understand its placement serves as a way to explain the Device family fortune in the pre-Armageddon timeline, but I do not think that the returning mention of an apple (regardless of its form) is a coincidence. In this instance, the suggestion is that future generations should partake of the aforementioned apple in order to flourish – not so dissimilar to another apple in another ancient location is it?

Well, I think that’s as good a place as any to finish this part. What was I saying about not being so much waffle? I am trying not to analyse every line, it’s just that in a script that’s this well written, every word and phrase seems to have been so carefully chosen so as to carry its own meaning. Or maybe I’m just being pretentious.

Comments, questions, discussions welcome as always!

[meowsticmarvels]

man. contemplating kyle and phi as siblings actually. ive talked a lot about phi and DELTA's dynamic but mannn. kyle. (well i guess he's technically a half sibling since he's a genetic clone of sigma and phi Isn't but you get the gist). i wish it got explored a bit more in canon because while the whole sigma-phi related thing was saved for a ZTD reveal it wouldve been cool (esp if kyle was actually relevant in ztd...) bc like... look at these lines. the hypothetical dynamic could and is insane. some weird connection they cant rly explain. phi actually pushies kyle away for the first one, actually, and saying he can't get attached to her or build a connection without "asking permission" essentially closing herself off from him. theres some version of phi that gets sent back to 2074 after she lives as the rad6 patient zero. how does she interact with him then? would there be some sort of resentment, in a way, that phi got to live a life that kyle never could? not amongst all the shifting, or anything, but in terms of family. idk. its interesting to me i think. they shouldve interacted more perhaps

[moodyseal]

The more I think about the Montague siblings the more it seems to me that they're the unhealthy styles of attachment incarnate

[futuretrain]

i don't know how to fucking explain it to you but scott not waiting hand and foot on stiles and coming to personally kiss his every booboo is not scott being "unsupportive" or a "shitty friend" especially when he continues to stand by his friend for every season of this whole show jfc

[pagesofkenna]

i think im just gonna give up on adult fantasy written by men

[mossytrashcan]

his aura too powerful and girth too large for camera to capture. can’t be contained

[f1uckinghell]

Does VV lewis also have a nose piercing and how would nico react to it

please, Lewis getting the piercing in their pre-dating, full pining stage- maybe even while Nico is dating Jenson- and the first time Nico sees it he almost gets a nosebleed… like literally eye-twitching „yeah it looks fine“ and then excusing himself to the bathroom to have a mental breakdown because how dare Lewis become even hotter, wtf

[luxpenumbra]

ugh ohmygod so I saw this post and it made me so mad that I simultaneously wanted to reblog it just to rant in the tags and to not reblog it so that I could avoid sharing it with /more/ people

listen. music is universal. when a singer, songwriter, producer, lyricist, musician, team puts something out into the world, there may be emotions that they are trying to put into it. They will draw on these emotions as they perform and edit and refine this thing they are making. There may be a story they are trying to tell, an experience they are trying to communicate, and this may not be straightforward; there is a level of abstraction between conceptualization and realization that I am convinced exists to some level in all pieces of art like this. This is not a flaw; this is marvellous. When I the listener interact with a song, or an album, or an artist's entire body of work - the emotions that I feel and the story that is conveyed to me may be just. absolutely different from the artist's intentions and their own experience. It may resonate with me in an entirely different way than intended; it may resonate with someone else in a separate, distinct, discrete way. My and others' awareness of the artist and any context they have made clear may play a part in this or it may not; it depends on how I interact with music and how readily available this information is.

All this is to say: the only fucked up thing with this whole gaylor shit is the part where people are convinced that their interpretation of her music and the way it resonates with them indicates some fundamental truth about her identity. The only person who knows that is her and frankly it's none of anyone else's business and it's probably not that interesting anyway. But!!! this does not mean that her music cannot resonate with someone's experience of queerness!!!! It is story and song and a vehicle for emotion, and the details that make something sing true to someone's life and values are not pinned to the artist's "true identity" like a fuckin. butterfly to a corkboard. there is VALUE and DELIGHT in being aware of some additional dimension of queerness by virtue of the singers intentions or identity or whatever but that's a fucking BONUS you NIMRODS the only thing you need is a heart to feel things and a song to feel them about it's about YOU and how you interpret things. you change things just by existing!!! the only person to experience a song the way you do is YOU!!! "if I wanna listen to gay music I'll listen to gay ppl singing about gay sex" good for you!! but what a sad and limited life you must lead to need the significance and meaning of art spoonfed to you by author bios.

AND THEN. fucking condescending ass AAAAAAAH listen. christian rock can slap. i say this as someone who is markedly not christian. and even if you don't think it slaps that's fine. but the fact that someone's out here going "oh poor limited babies who've never listened to real proper good music before projecting sasanaru onto christian rock because they've never known anything else" grow uppppp!!! first of all!!! nobody. NOBODY. is out here saying 10,000 reasons by matt whatever is about sasuke and naruto kissing. you know this in your heart of hearts, just like you know deep down that there is VALUE in eking out meaning in places where you don't expect to find it, and in places that have some connection to the earliest parts of you. (and even if you aren't doing this, aren't interacting with the context of the music and its genre, see above re:universal fucking language). you've probably done it before. it's tumblr, land of transformative works and webweaving of course you have. how limited in scope must you be to think that people who listen to a genre you don't value but who are also queer or something must be just poor deprived children, limited in resource, waiting for that next evolution i'm gonna weep. anyway listen to relient k cowards

[amplexadversary]

Holy shit Marisha, tear them apart!

[deep-space-netwerk]

So Venus is my favorite planet in the solar system - everything about it is just so weird.

It has this extraordinarily dense atmosphere that by all accounts shouldn't exist - Venus is close enough to the sun (and therefore hot enough) that the atmosphere should have literally evaporated away, just like Mercury's. We think Earth manages to keep its atmosphere by virtue of our magnetic field, but Venus doesn't even have that going for it. While Venus is probably volcanically active, it definitely doesn't have an internal magnetic dynamo, so whatever form of volcanism it has going on is very different from ours. And, it spins backwards! For some reason!!

But, for as many mysteries as Venus has, the United States really hasn't spent much time investigating it. The Soviet Union, on the other hand, sent no less than 16 probes to Venus between 1961 and 1984 as part of the Venera program - most of them looked like this!

The Soviet Union had a very different approach to space than the United States. NASA missions are typically extremely risk averse, and the spacecraft we launch are generally very expensive one-offs that have only one chance to succeed or fail.

It's lead to some really amazing science, but to put it into perspective, the Mars Opportunity rover only had to survive on Mars for 90 days for the mission to be declared a complete success. That thing lasted 15 years. I love the Opportunity rover as much as any self-respecting NASA engineer, but how much extra time and money did we spend that we didn't technically "need" to for it to last 60x longer than required?

Anyway, all to say, the Soviet Union took a more incremental approach, where failures were far less devastating. The Venera 9 through 14 probes were designed to land on the surface of Venus, and survive long enough to take a picture with two cameras - not an easy task, but a fairly straightforward goal compared to NASA standards. They had…mixed results.

Venera 9 managed to take a picture with one camera, but the other one's lens cap didn't deploy.

Venera 10 also managed to take a picture with one camera, but again the other lens cap didn't deploy.

Venera 11 took no pictures - neither lens cap deployed this time.

Venera 12 also took no pictures - because again, neither lens cap deployed.

Lotta problems with lens caps.

For Venera 13 and 14, in addition to the cameras they sent a device to sample the Venusian "soil". Upon landing, the arm was supposed to swing down and analyze the surface it touched - it was a simple mechanism that couldn't be re-deployed or adjusted after the first go.

This time, both lens caps FINALLY ejected perfectly, and we were treated to these marvelous, eerie pictures of the Venus landscape:

However, when the Venera 14 soil sampler arm deployed, instead of sampling the Venus surface, it managed to swing down and land perfectly on….an ejected lens cap.

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

So, the Inspector and Mona are off to 1925 to discover the source of the tune that seems to be coming from every electronic device known to man.

Whom do they encounter, but the odd man from the street, who happens to operate a tinker's shop? Which leads the Inspector recognise him for who he really is.

[gumii-bearr]

❝ patience ❞

summary: it really is a virtue.

featuring... megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, alt!reader, alt!megumi, mentions of piercings and tattoos, reader is so hot fr, cunnilingus with a tongue piercing, fingering, pet names, tatted gumi!!, teasing

author's note: the tongue piercing drabble got me in a chokehold, so enjoy!!

You would consider yourself a patient person. You spent your time getting tattoos and waiting for piercings to heal– that requires patience. 

That was a virtue you were proud of– but your patience went out the window when it came to Megumi.

His breath was hot against the skin of your belly, his lips tracing the intricate ink patterns adorning your body. His tattooed hands seemed to dwarf your plush thighs as his forearms snaked under your legs, hands holding your thighs open for him to lay between.

His messy hair tickled your tummy as his tongue traced from your navel to the lacy hem of your black panties. 

The moment his six weeks healing time for his tongue piercing was up, the first thing he wanted to do was eat you out. He simply had to. But that wouldn’t stop him from taking his time and making you squirm.

“Can you hurry up?” You whined, your hand subconsciously pushing his head down toward your cunt, the thick fragrance of your arousal lingering in the air. 

Megumi could only smirk against your lacy panties, his dark eyes glancing up at you from between your legs– if your phone wasn’t so far away right now you’d be taking a fucking picture and making it the background of every device you owned. 

“You’re so demanding,” Megumi grinned, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh, his fingers curling into the plush skin. 

“You’ve made me wait weeks, I think I can be a little demanding,” you retorted with a playful roll of your eyes. 

“Mmm, sure,” he said, seemingly disinterested. 

The back of your hand instinctively pressed against your mouth to stifle the pathetic whine you let out when Megumi finally– finally– pressed a kiss to your puffy clit through your panties. The friction wasn’t nearly enough but it made you dizzy nonetheless. 

“Shh,” Megumi pressed your thighs down, forcing you to stop squirming. He pressed down on the backs of your thighs, forcing you to spread open for him. 

His tongue darted out, licking from your dripping pussy to your clit through your panties, his tongue piercing catching on the swell of your clit. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at the root as you forced him closer.

His long finger curled around the fabric of your panties, forcing the material to the side to finally press his tongue against your hole, savouring the taste of your sweet arousal. You tipped your head back as he toyed with you, his thumbs spreading apart your folds so he could press the ball of his tongue piercing against your cute little clit. 

“F-Fuck, Gumi,” you whined, toes curling as his thumb traced around your sopping hole, the ball of his tongue piercing rolling against your little bundle of nerves, forcing your cunt to squeeze around nothing.

He kept teasing you, his thumb dipping across the wetness of your hole without pressing into you like you desperately needed. He kept toying with your clit, switching between light rolls of his tongue and gentle sucking.

You began to grind your hips against his face in desperate need of friction. Megumi’s hands pressed flat against your tummy, forcing your hips to still. 

“Patience,” he whispered against your folds, your slick arousal dripping down his chin. He traced his fingers down the inside of your thigh, the other hand still holding your hips down. The roughness of his thumb pressed against your clit, gently circling the reddened bud.

He licked a painfully slow stripe up your folds, the coldness of his tongue barbell catching against your warmth and making you whine softly. 

Fuck, you tasted so good. 

“Mm, fuck, baby,” Megumi groaned, his tongue barbell swirling around your clit as the tip of his middle finger prodded at your sopping hole. 

He gave a hard suck to your swollen clit as he pressed his long finger into you, forcing a whiny moan from your throat. He pushed in a second finger, the slipperiness of your pussy making it easy for him to curl his fingers around that spongy spot inside you. 

The lewd squelching sounds would have embarrassed you on any other occasion if it weren’t for how fucking good it felt to have Megumi’s long fingers curling and scissoring your pussy open while he sucked and curled his tongue against your clit. 

Your belly began to burn, unable to stop yourself as you grind your hips against his face. Megumi grinned against your wetness, shaking his head from side to side over your slick clit and forcing you to scream out, your hands gripping the sheets beside your head.

“Fuck!” you yelled out, chest heaving as you panted, Megumi’s relentless abuse against your sensitive clit sending you hurling over the edge.

Your toes curled and your back arched off the bed as Megumi fucked his fingers into you through your high. Your pussy clamping down on his fingers and coating them with your slick sweetness. 

Megumi pressed his hips into the bed, his cock rock hard from hearing and tasting all of you. 

You panted and whined as Megumi kissed at your folds, licking up the remnants of your orgasm and pulling his fingers gently from your spasming hole. 

You sighed at the empty feeling, your eyes pressed closed as you came back down from your high. You almost didn’t register Megumi crawling back up the bed before he pressed his finger against your pretty lips.

You opened your mouth, letting him press his slick fingers against your tongue, forcing you to taste your own sweetness, “good girl,” he said, voice low and laced with arousal. 

You sucked his fingers clean, your little hand wrapping around his veiny wrist as his free hand reached for the buckle of his belt.

You’d be in for a surprise when you saw his other piercing. 

author's note: teehee just a lil one.

[tnsophiaayaonly]

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

One way or another.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

Something in him snapped.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living your own life.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

It was firm, cold and unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could leave him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And more of him—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were being sneaky but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you took them—obsessively, devotedly. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession you had. The murders you had committed.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

It was a sharp, cold, and mocking sound.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag you away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

[sunderwight]

Liushen AU where SY transmigrates into SJ's older brother, and subsequently nopes them right out of the slavery backstory by using his general knowledge of the story and actually being an adult in a kid's body to just leave (basically) with SJ and YQ.

SY carts them both up to Cang Qiong for the next sect trials. It's actually not all that hard, the trickiest part is getting enough to eat and finding safe places to sleep between leaving the slavers and taking the trials (SY manages just barely, with considerable help from his new little brothers.) Nobody bothers to go after them because it's before Qiu Jianluo and this style of human traffickers mostly operate by virtue of their merchandise having nowhere else to go. Chasing down runaways is an expense not worth indulging, given that most of them either come straight back or die of exposure.

Anyway, they take the trials, and as expected YQY gets chosen to become a personal disciple for the sect leader, and SJ gets chosen by the Qing Jing Peak Lord, but also as (kind of) expected (by SY alone) nobody wants SY. He's older the Yue Qi, so too old, and unlike YQ and SJ his cultivation potential isn't striking enough to make any exceptions for him.

SY, however, can't leave it at that. He's spent more than five minutes with the street kid codependency gang, so he's gotten attached to both of them. And he knows what will happen if they're left to their own devices and The Plot proceeds accordingly. (Also, they keep threatening to not stay at the sect if SY doesn't stay too, for some reason.) So with a heavy heart and internal candle lit for himself, SY heads to Bai Zhan Peak. Which is the only peak that accepts disciples by way of them turning up and refusing to leave.

SY's not much of a fighter. He actually really hates the atmosphere on BZP, he's not bad at physical cultivation (his health's pretty good in this life, ironic considering how much worse his situation was) but the random ambushes and survival-of-the-fittest stuff is just not his brand. But that's okay, because it turns out that BZP actually DESPERATELY needs disciples on the actual peak who are interested in things other than fighting and cultivating their own strength. Stuff like, filling out requisition requests for An Ding every time things break, apologizing to An Ding every time things break again, organizing schedules, browbeating senior disciples into actually teaching, educating disciples on virtually any artistic or social skill, hosting lectures on how to beat vicious beasts without just overpowering them, and etc.

Okay so some of this stuff isn't and has never actually been on Bai Zhan's curriculum but Shen Yuan is going to make this place tolerable. And stop these children from needlessly getting acid burns or lyme disease or scurvy or whatever. He keeps internally chewing out Airplane for designing a sect system that means there are a lot of largely unsupervised 12-year-olds running around the wilderness on a mountain picking fights all the time. (When he actually meets Shang Qinghua and figures him out he switches to doing it in person, of course, in twice-monthly bitching sessions that look a lot like budding friendship.)

Of course one of the worst offenders is the Liu kid, who SY would suspect was actually raised by wolves if he didn't know for a fact that Liu Qingge has a younger sister, and also the kinds of nice clothing and letters from home that strongly imply not only does he have a family, but that the family is pretty well-off. Liu Qingge is at first deeply offended by SY being a BZP disciple. He rarely fights anyone, and uses tricks and evasion tactics whenever a fight can't be avoided. And he does other annoying stuff, like pestering him about meals and baths and lecturing him on identifying dangerous plants and the early signs of qi deviation. This is not what their peak is about! He should get with the program already! Just fight stuff until you're too tired to keep fighting stuff!

Also SY's younger brother, SJ, is pure evil (at least according to baby Liu Qingge) even though his other younger brother (?) is cool and nice.

Anyway, Liu Qingge stops complaining about SY after their first mission together, where Liu Qingge doesn't lose a fight but does get into a kind of pyrrhic victory situation where he's really badly hurt, and it's SY who helps him win (correctly identifying the monster and then pointing out its weakness) and takes care of him afterwards and gets him safely back to Cang Qiong. SY expresses surprise at LQG actually being polite to him, and LQG realizes that he's been a colossal ass if people think he wouldn't be grateful to someone who saved his life, so the usual Liushen dynamic proceeds from there. Liu Qingge starts bringing SY fans he leaves behind and hunts down animals that are supposed to be useful for bolstering weak cultivation, SY invites LQG to tea and keeps the critters as pets, etc etc.

SY doesn't get the Head Disciple position, because that's only acquired via beating the current peak lord in combat and lol no. Also he's not interested in stealing it from Liu Qingge, to whom it rightfully belongs (in his mind). But that's fine, because Liu Qingge takes the position when the next generation ascends and then he lets SY exclusively handle all the peak duties SY actually likes (mainly teaching). It's perfect -- Liu Qingge gets to focus on his War God antics and occasional administration/meetings without having to deal with students his has no patience for, but the disciples of BZP don't get neglected because SY is actually teaching and organizing classes and student care. BZP hasn't enjoyed a golden age like this since it was founded!

Things are pretty good overall, but Shen Yuan knows that it's only a matter of time before The Plot shows up, and so he can't rest completely easily.

Meanwhile, the will-they-or-won't-they bets on Liushen have been going strong for a while now. The thing is, most of their martial siblings are convinced that these two are already "together", and just being circumspect about it. Those who know SY well (like SJ, YQY, and SQH) know better but think that SY's romantic obtuseness is to blame, whereas those who know LQG well (LMY, WQW, and MQF) are pretty sure that it's actually LQG's obtuseness that's the problem. Of course it's actually both of them, so efforts to "fix" matters by getting through one of their thick skulls inevitably run afoul of the other's.

An additional complication is of course: SJ doesn't like LQG (mutual), and now that he's the leader of his own peak, he wants to poach SY to come and live there. Not only so he can have one of the 2 people he trusts actually close at hand, but also because SJ also hates actually teaching the atrocious little brats on his peak, and would like to have SY come and do it for him. YQY is still a total pushover for him too, and is also now the sect leader, so YQY agrees that SY can change peaks if SY and LQG both agree to it.

Liu Qingge, of course, is a no, but he's a variable "no". He's not going to hold Shen Yuan against his will or anything.

As for Shen Yuan, it's... complicated. He doesn't really like BZP, but it's gotten a lot better than it was at the start. These days he's actually pretty proud of his accomplishments, and it's more comfortable, but it's still a rough and rowdy place with fewer creature comforts, libraries, or other appealing points than QJP. Also, if he goes to Qing Jing to teach, he can personally ensure that SJ doesn't go around persecuting any of his students!

But... SJ never lived with the Qiu family in this AU, and even though SY's not totally clear on what the PIDW backstory for SJ was, he knows he's a better guy now than the scum villain in the book was. He has a reputation for making cutting remarks, not for being an abusive snake or a lecher. SY's honestly less worried about him doing anything bad at all, and there are other people on QJP who can teach. It might even be good for SJ to promote more people to fill out a social circle he can rely on! That guy needs more friends, seriously.

And QJP really doesn't need more layabout literary intellectual types who get into pointless arguments, which is all SY would be if he went there. Just yet another nerdy scholar for the rich kids with middling cultivation that the peak favors to ignore. At least on BZP he's filling a gap.

SY is clearly torn, and the fact that SY's considering it has LQG upset, and LQG doesn't handle being upset very well, so of course they have an argument about it. SY storms off to cool his head and LQG is like, this is it, he's gone to Qing Jing Peak, I've drive him off by being too aggressive and he's probably remembering all those times I told him he didn't belong here and oh no what have I done maybe if I build him a heated bath and get him books he will come back???

Turns out that SY just went to An Ding to vent at SQH while SQH was like "I think you would have fewer problems if you and Liu Qingge just got married and my disciples could call you Shigu to your face instead of behind your back" and SY threw melon seeds at him and sulked on his fainting couch (which is always cold for some reason...)

Thus begins the Liushen Divorce Arc where SY tries to be anywhere but BZP or QJP, Liu Qingge tries to figure out what thing he can punch to fix this not-punchable problem, SJ is like "I don't see what the big deal is they should break up Liu Qingge is awful and I want my brother to teach my classes for me" like the spoiled youngest sibling he's finally allowed to be, YQY is trying to moderate this Hades vs Demeter situation and is all "well maybe SY could spend half the year on QJP and half on BZP?", and Liu Mingyan is going "I know my brother if this doesn't work out he is going to die single and pining like an idiot" and so keeps conscripting other disciples to y'know, lock SY and LQG into storage closets together (ineffective: LQG can punch through walls) or at least get them in the same room (underestimating SY's willingness to yeet himself out of windows to avoid awkward social interactions.)

By the time Luo Binghe joins the sect (as a Qiong Ding disciple), the drama is in full swing and is the main topic of gossip across most of the peaks.

[rhodes-knightwife]

I am so obsessed with this fish it's unreal, honestly.

God's normalest soldier. I know it's off-type and a patrolwoman is only knight-adjacent, but I have to at least talk about some of the things she's done. In no particular order, this fish:

- Once intimidated a Victorian noble into submission, entirely by accident, by being perfectly capable of keeping up with his small talk and outdoing him in talking about the weather; she later recalled this entire conversation, word for word, from memory so she could recount it to her girlfriend and ask what she'd done wrong

- Constantly draws squiggles and squares on her sketchpad in a way that helps her think but is incomprehensible to anyone else... except the Doctor, and honestly that's basically worse than if even they didn't understand; this got to the point that Warfarin - an actual medical doctor - assumed she must think too fast for her own brain to keep up with and needs the sketchpad as an assistive device

- Compiled a detailed report of her own life, including extremely private events, and then stood stock-still for seven hours while a mortified Doctor read it, incapable of speaking up about how abnormal it was due to how intimidating she is

- Was rejected from the Abyssal Hunters program, not for being the only person insane enough to willingly apply to have Eldritch Jellyfish Goo injected into her veins, but because she was doing it to mimic the world's edgiest DILF

- Regularly spends hours in the kitchen creating 'food' that's more akin to sensory experiences, like chewing herbs or spiced jerky you're only meant to let soak in your mouth, then pairs those with artful poems or delicate drawings; she then puts them in the cabinets because she's too used to uploading things to the Atlantis 3D Printer Omninet, where they're promptly snatched by Ceobe before anyone can see

- Has several kinds of neurotoxin that she can apply to her gun, all of which have meticulously thought-through use cases

- Wrote a thesis on the ineffectual physical results of coffee as a stimulant, after shotgunning 10 espressos and not feeling a thing, and proceeded to extol the virtues of the drink as effectively a placebo since all the culture around coffee implies it should work, and so that's why she assumes it does; she even blended her usual stimulants with coffee in order to create something suitable for her experiments, and it's some neon blue sludge

- (Of note, that last thing is her module... which raises the amount of poison damage her shots do)

[lo1k-diamonds]

Standing Next to You 💜

Will we ever see each other again?

PAIRING: demon!Jungkook x angel!(f)Reader

SUMMARY: JK is a lust demon — a powerful being that inflames desires at the simplest glance. That is his nature and all there is to his existence. Until there was you.

WORD COUNT: 12.7 k

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: November 2023 (edited June 2025)

GENRE: Demon AU, fantasy AU, forbidden love, MV based

RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: mentions of religious themes, like sins and virtues, mentions of torture, lewd scenes involving human souls and other demons, fear and anxiety, celesteal love making (I don't know what to call it, okay 😇)

A.N.: When I first saw the Standing Next to You MV, I had so many questions. I just needed to make all the amazing imagery come together.  To this day, I still think this is the most unconventional thing I've written, and I like it a lot :) Welcome back, JK! Enjoy 💜 (PS, thank you, Raven @shadowkoo, for your help with the banner!)

Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

He raised his chin and looked down at the others gathered around on their comfortable loveseats, just like him. There was something in the way they spoke that irked him, and he found it extremely hard to hide, and as such, he didn’t. His lip curled in subtle aversion, and he ignored the conversation, turning to the lower level to watch.

The sea of souls dancing lasciviously and enjoying carnal sins in as much abundance as possible was a comforting sight. He didn’t remember ever being down there, but he remembered creating those thoughts, those urges. That was his purpose, and it filled him with an intense warmth he appreciated very much. It made him complete.

When the meeting around him ended, he got up and ignored the others' banters. After an eternity together, he was not in the mood for superficiality.

“What has gotten into you?”

The strongest, most piercing grip that could ever claw at his shoulder didn’t bother him the slightest. “They’ve been indulging instead of creating indulgence.”

The laugh from behind him was dark and sticky, like treacle dripping slowly down his spine. It was too intense, but he could handle it.

“Different demons have different talents. Some need to indulge to open the door, some just have to throw a look to turn a whole room into avid, lascivious souls.” The voice moved behind him to his other ear, whispering, “Not everyone has that gift, Jungkook dearest. You shouldn’t disdain those less able than you.”

Every word irked him even more, even if he knew others couldn’t hear their conversation.

“It’s not because they’re less able,” he insisted, turning to the Archdemon. “It’s because they don’t try. Creating the curiosity, whispering it into the first tremors, showing how to take the step forward.” His pose was immaculate, his dark eyes intense, as he stepped forward only to twirl, his arms wrapping around him. “And finally guiding it into the first sensuous longing that will become an ardent, beautiful flame of desire.”

He grasped the air with his hands to seize it, and his eyes shone pure carnality.

The Archdemon chuckled in amusement, and Jungkook stilled, relaxing his form. Screams of pure ecstasy and yearning were heard from the level below, but he didn’t look at them.

“It’s an art,” he insisted, and the Archdemon grinned.

“One you create like no other,” he agreed, smile so syrupy that Jungkook pouted. “That’s why you’ll keep making your art, leading rooms of souls into that beautiful flame.” He turned Jungkook to him with a flick of his wrist, towering over him like only such a beast could. “You leave the others to me and forget about any other matters.”

Jungkook sighed, and the Archdemon took that as an acknowledgement — he laughed and turned to other matters, leaving Jungkook on that stage with no reason to perform. He looked at the crowd again and pursed his lips. As usual, he was treated like a prodigy and left to his own devices. He wouldn’t complain; he liked being free. It was the lack of care and lack of enforcement of the necessary zeal that bothered him deeply.

He passed the other members of the circle and got backstage, only giving nods and glances to the other demons as they passed. He got into the lower levels of that orangey metal den and kept going lower. He liked to do that sometimes and see the products of his efforts.

Some thought less of demons such as himself, but it was nonsense. Lust was the easiest sin, the gateway into an unreserved realm of possibilities. Even if the soul didn’t indulge further in other, more egregious capital sins, it would rarely revert to being chaste. It was too sweet to skip, too liberating to be tied to, too intense to miss. As animalistic as it was, it was also the easiest to control, and he enjoyed reigniting the flames of—

He blinked and turned suddenly to another corridor in that engraved, sweaty maze. He thought he saw— But that was impossible—

He huffed and walked in that direction, using his agility and flight to go as quickly as possible. Souls shouldn’t be wandering that side of the den; it was backstage. Moreover, the shape looked… white. Which was impossible. Demons wore black, a consequence of their black feathers reflecting on their appearance. He had a black tight leather vest, trousers, and shoes, and—

He caught his breath when he saw something clearly white trying to hide in a corner, under some metal tubes on the wall. He frowned deeply, immediately pushed by his diligence to catch whatever it was and purge it. 

He rushed in a second and flew over it, putting his feet on the ground so close that the figure almost touched his shoes. He towered over the cowering, trembling figure easily, his full anger blatant in his eyes as he reached to grab it, but then he froze. 

You turned to look up at him with the most beautiful, shaken blue eyes he had ever seen. You were crying and trembling, fear disturbing your delicate beauty in a way that irked him a thousand times over.

He shook his head, disturbed by the image of grace itself so troubled, and raised his hands soothingly as if to catch you, but without touching you. He guided you straighten up with nothing but a look, and you sniffled while doing so. Your tears were shimmering and reflecting the light like tiny little stars, and he thought that pure light had no business emerging from your misery.

He heard the steps and the wings from further away, and so did you because you gasped quietly. Your eyes weren’t pleading; despite your fear, you accepted your fate. He also saw your curiosity; it was a spark that drew him to you like a moth to a flame, yet it stayed that way. Just a spark because you were simply and purely curious, like a soul who had never seen the sea or the snow and couldn’t name them even if they were before your eyes. How could that be?

He raised his chin for a second, and his black wings extended like shadows covering you both from the ceiling to the floor. You gasped again, louder this time, but he couldn’t be mad at you. He liked impressing you even if it risked getting you caught. But as the figures passed, blinded to you both, he felt an odd blazing certainty in his gut. No one could ever catch you.

You stayed like this for an indiscernible moment, just waiting for the sounds to fade away. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, and despite knowing it had to be a spell of some kind, you let it slide. It was in your nature to know exactly when to stop, and for now, your eyes wouldn’t turn away.

When he knew you were totally in the clear, he reached his arms around you, and you gasped as his wings closed in on you. You shut your eyes, darkness taking over you, and soon your feet weren’t on the ground. The wavering sensation was familiar, and you knew you were flying, transposing rudimentary things like walls and doors. You placed your hands over his chest, the black leather warm under your touch, and snuggled closer. Wherever he was taking you, you couldn’t do anything about it.

He landed softly on his feet, and his arms around you made it so you did the same, only a second later. He looked at your light brown hair, and he could have questioned himself, but he didn’t. Your gaze turned up to meet his, and the lightest color of blue in your eyes reflected the light. He thought that was a color he had only ever seen in the sky, and he immediately suspected what you were.

He stepped back as if giving you freedom, and you waited until he turned his back, watching his black feathery wings disappear before looking around. You were in a room with mirrors, lights, gramophones, and a small stage in the corner. It reminded you of an antique mini-theatre, and your lips curved with its charm.

He had stepped away to take a deep breath, his thoughts flashing from possibility to possibility before accepting that once he turned back around, he’d find you long gone.

But when he turned, you were still there, and the light shining on you didn’t bother hiding anything. You were wearing a white tulle mini dress that revealed way more than he thought someone like you would want to show. He could see the bruises on your skin, the traces of sweat that had your light brown hair still wet, just by your shoulders. He didn’t need to know, but your blinking told him — your cobalt blue eyeshadow was sparkling and instilling in him a sense of self-control he wouldn’t have had normally. He knew what you were.

It took you a moment to realize what he was. A demon, certainly, but what kind? Your first thought was wrath because he was angry when he first saw you. But he brought you to that room, so you thought of pride. He was certainly handsome and prideful about whatever art he seemed to adore. But now, gazing upon his dark, blazing eyes, you gasped mutely. You could feel something warm tracing up your spine, like the softest feather touch that promised a caress. It was trying to shake the pillars that held your judgment, working them ever so softly that you would want to melt in his arms and forget they ever existed. So that was who he was.

“You’re still here.”

You smiled and looked down for a moment. Not because of his question, but because his voice had puckered your skin into a million little particles of desire. You couldn’t believe it had taken you more than a heartbeat to know.

“I am.”

“Why?” His question was swift as his eyes bore into yours. He knew why, but he wanted something more. Your reaction to him wasn’t enough, and his reaction to you was a problem. He placed his hands on his waist, trying to placate his flame. He didn’t want to burn you, though he was incredibly tempted to.

“Because I can’t fly.”

Your eyes sparkled with annoyance before you looked down with a gentle smile. How could such a mild creature provoke his flames like this?

“Why? Why are you here?”

“I was captured.” Your eyes watered at the memory, and he knew what you would say. “I was held in a never-ending infernal fire and plucked for my feathers whenever they would grow.”

He closed his eyes, knowing it to be true. Your sweat marks meant you were in the deepest corners of hell, and your attire meant that your wings were not healthy. He faced you again, and the gentleness of your eyes pierced him thinly, like a needle soothing his emerging anger. That was no easy feat. He was a demon, but he adored all things pure and beautiful. Purity to him meant natural, instinctive, and faithful to one’s nature, good or bad. The fact that they would pluck yours out of you so cruelly angered him beyond words.

“Why?”

You blinked with a hint of confusion before smiling amiably. “You know why.” You waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. You thought this was odd, but it didn’t matter. “You know what I am, Demon of Luxuria.”

“I do, Angel of Temperantia.”

He could swear your eyes sparkled along with your smile, and he looked away, conflicted. Your nature was beautiful, and he was captivated beyond limits. But he shouldn’t be, he couldn’t. You were an angel. You were in danger. He shouldn’t help you; he knew who would have taken the pleasure of plucking out your essence. He turned away and clenched his fists, such fury coursing through him that a wrath demon would have applauded. It disturbed him beyond words to even imagine—

“Am I…” your voice echoed quietly behind him, and he turned around.

Your innocent blue eyes were the shade of concern.

“Unsettling you?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “No, not you.”

You blinked once as if measuring his words, but then you smiled gently, and his heart shook. You were absolutely exquisite. 

“I don’t want to disturb you in any way, even indirectly.” You placed your hands behind your back like a child restraining from touching toys at a store, and paced around his room for a brief moment. You were taking in the edges of his soul, and his chest burned in anticipation and wonder. He had never felt that way before, and he was a demon of lust. “I understand what you must do.”

Your tone was kind and accepting as if all was already forgiven, and he clenched his fists. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” He could see the confusion in your expression, but he was just surer and surer. He’d never see you again; they’d keep torturing your soul, snatching your essence, and harvesting your sweetness. He couldn’t stand it. “No, you’re going to escape.”

“I can’t fly.”

“You’ll heal.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“They’ll keep searching for me.”

“I’ll hide you.”

He stepped towards you, and his powerful wings reappeared behind him, drawing your eyes. They shone brightly even when reflecting his darkness.

He plucked a handful of feathers from himself, and you gasped as if you had felt his pain.

“Stop!”

“Here.” He extended them to you, but you only looked at him as if he had hurt you unbearably. “Take them.”

You looked about to cry in outrage. “No!”

He sighed impatiently and stepped forward. “I’m giving them to you. Willingly.”

“It harms you,” you whimpered, bright eyes telling him you cared for him.

“It doesn’t, I promise you.” You seemed confused, and he added, “Not when it’s my choice.”

Your eyes softened in understanding, and suddenly you saw it. Kindness. Could a demon have a virtue?

“But…” You stepped forward, a palm away from his feathers near to your heart, but you ignored them. “Will you— Can you survive this act of kindness?”

He wavered for a second; was that what this was? He looked at the feathers in his hand and then at your darling eyes. Was he acting selflessly without expecting anything in return?

He grinned and shook his head. “It’s not.”

You were surprised at this and looked down again. “But it is a sacrifice. What do you expect in return?”

He sighed and insisted, “Just take it.”

You looked at him and tried peeking behind the curtain, but his eyes hardened and didn’t let you. You saw it as a kindness and feared for him, but if he was confident it could do him no harm, then you’d accept his gift.

You let him place his feathers in your open hands, and you immediately grimaced. His power was so very different from yours; it was like a magnet pulling you infinitely to steal your ground. You tried holding steady, but you were in a weakened state. Your knees bent, you’d soon fall in and—

He grabbed your arms to stabilize you and you looked at him through the energy trying to suck you in. Instantly, the winds seemed flexible, their strength could be managed, and their direction guided. You let him work through you until you felt embraced. You felt warm and nurtured and supported, and it had been so long since you last felt safe that your eyes filled with tears. You opened them to find him leaning his forehead on yours, feeling that moment in his way. He opened his eyes, and your heart shook with worry.

“Are you okay?”

He smirked. “I should be asking you that.”

You shook your head; you were safe. That was a silly question.

He could read your insistence in your eyes. “I’m fine.” He stepped back and looked down at you, and so did you.

You were covered in black leather: a skirt below your knees, short-heeled shoes, and a jacket covering you modestly to your neck. He smiled; not even his essence could defile yours. Sure, you were wearing black, but—

Your eyes locked, and he stared. Your eyeshadow was now black, but your eyes remained the color of the sky. Your hair was the same, too, not darkest in the slightest. He thought it was beautiful to see his essence shimmering through you and wondered what other ways you could be compatible. It could be your influence, but he wanted to reach you in the middle. Distorting your nature would be the vilest thing, but finding a bridge to cross into your beautiful—

He heard a sound and instantly snapped. You heard it too, but he was already waving his hand to keep whoever wanted to come in out. You guessed this was his plane, so he could choose who to let in or not, but you were still scared. It wasn’t impenetrable, and they were looking for you.

“You need to kick me out,” you urged him. “They’ll hurt you to get me!”

He held you by the shoulders, gazing deeply into your eyes. “Can you fly now?”

You furrowed your brow and focused on trying, but pain instantly pierced your chest. You would have fallen to your knees if he weren’t holding you. “I can’t.”

He pressed his lips and didn’t move away, thinking while his hands had you. You wouldn’t complain; you felt safe with him.

“It’s okay, I’ll hide you.”

“I can’t stay here!” You were breathless. Despite your wish to stay by his side, you knew you’d be risking his life, and you couldn’t bear it.

“I know.” His eyes were glistening with something again, and you felt it, though you couldn’t name it. He touched your cheek for a brief moment, and your lips trembled. You didn’t want this to be goodbye. “You’ll be somewhere safe. You’ll heal and everything will be alright.”

You were scared, and you didn’t hide it. He gave you a look that permeated confidence through you before turning away and walking to the other side of the room. You felt abandoned, suddenly lost without his touch or comforting gaze. It didn’t get better when someone knocked on the door, and he let them in, which frightened you immensely. 

“You called?”

The man was tall and well-built, wearing all black, although not leather. You instantly knew he wasn’t the same; he had no aura to him.

“Yes,” he answered the newcomer, and you could tell by the dynamic that there was a power difference. “You’ll gather the others and take her to The Grandeur.” 

You were confused and pleading with your eyes, but he stayed where he was. His eyes were dark and piercing; maybe it was his energy that was embedded in yours, but you felt a strange warmth rising in your spine. No longer a subtle touch, you felt almost drawn to him, eager to find out what would happen if you allowed it.

“If anyone asks, she’s a newly converted soul.”

“That became a demon?”

The man sounded skeptical, and the demon turned his piercing gaze to him. “She’s a powerful creature. You don’t believe it?”

The man looked at you, and you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how a demon acted, and even if you did, you couldn’t deceive anyone. 

The man nodded. “She feels powerful enough.”

The demon looked at you again and nodded. “Good.”

You looked at him with a sudden shudder. He was so powerful that only a piece of him was that strong. Just who was that demon?

“You’ll protect her with your lives, no matter who comes for her.” You shuddered at his words, at his command. He was their Lord — they would obey. “Now leave, I need one more second.”

You watched the man dissipate into a black miasm, and your body moved on its own. You rushed to the demon hastily while he turned to you with open arms to receive you.

“The Grandeur?”

“The closest palace. Think of it like a hotel where the highest demons reside.” He was talking, but his eyes were tracing your features as he brushed your now dry and fluffy light brown hair away from your forehead.

“You’ll hide me there?!”

“It’s the last place they’ll look.” He saved your eyes for last and smiled. You were scared, maybe a bit grumpy, but you trusted him. “I thought angels were taught never to trust a demon.”

“We’re also told demons can’t be kind.”

He would have lost his patience with anyone else, but not with you. “I’m not. This is not kindness.”

“It is to me,” you insisted firmly, staring into his eyes. You weren’t afraid, and you trusted him. He could turn you in at any moment he wished, and he didn’t have to help you, much less sacrifice part of his essence to offer it to you, but he did. You could feel the urgency, the instinct that the longer you stayed, the riskier things were for him. But you still asked, “Will I see you again?”

For a split second, he wondered what you were both doing. Were you so entranced by each other that you were falling into the trap he, as a lust demon, had set a million times before? Was that even possible for an angel? Angels could be deceived, but surely not like this?

Then he cupped your cheek and let the fire blaze just a little more, contrary to what your aura would have him do. 

He had his answer, as clear as your eyes. He nodded. “You will. I’m sure you will.”

You leaned into his touch, recognizing the sweet temptation his eyes represented, but then the world shook. You both looked around, and he stepped back.

“Remember, you’re a high-standing demon.”

And with that, he cast you out and placed you gently exactly where you needed to be for the lesser demons to put you in a limousine and take you away. He closed his eyes, sensing the planes parallel to his. Someone was so angry that it was rippling through all of them. The Archdemon would not rest until he found you, but now he’d be looking in the wrong place. That would give you a moment to breathe and rest, and him a moment to collect his thoughts.

He knew you wouldn’t heal in the blink of an eye; after all, you had no wings left. The level of torture and torment you had to endure for anyone to be able to suck your essence almost completely was immeasurable. Still, the Archdemon scoured every plane of his demon den, hoping to find you. He thought you were hiding somewhere; you couldn’t possibly have escaped his domain. And for now, that false premise would be what kept you safe.

But time was passing, and he knew you’d be somewhere. Angels didn’t die like that, immortal as they were, and powerful. Jungkook was not in charge of that aspect of that hell; he was a charmer, a seducer, a performer. He tempted souls, he didn’t help maintain hell’s prisons, and as such, knew nothing of such matters. Being kept out of the loop was unsettling, but it was also a good sign. Maybe there was still time.

He heard from his minions that you were safe and staying hidden. Every day, he would receive a report about you, but today his hireling looked dejected. It was enough to deeply unsettle him.

“What is it?”

“Miss is… She’s weaker. She tries to hide, but… she can’t lie.”

Those words shook him, and he gripped his hair as he walked from one end of his room to the other. He spent the night thinking about what was happening and what he could do. You should be healing, but instead, you were weaker. He didn’t know what he could do, and going to you was extremely risky. Having his minions in and out of places was not suspicious, but if he started frequenting The Grandeur without reason, it could be noticed.

So the next day, when his minion came with his report, which unfortunately remained unchanged, he handed him a letter. He hoped you would understand the way he had written it. To anyone else, it would be a blank piece of parchment, but not to you or him. He had written it using traces of his essence, as one would with blood, in a way only he could read. And you, because you had his essence flowing through you. 

He could barely contain the excitement while he waited for the day to end and another to emerge. He was particularly effective that day, drawing in so many unsuspecting souls that he could laugh. He wanted you to figure it out and send him something as well. He wondered about it and got tangled in the many possibilities, which kept him up and excited all night. 

When his minion came with a folded piece of paper, he got it and felt like a child who had just received candy. He opened it.

How are you? I hope you have recovered well.

And he laughed. He laughed because you were an angel — of course, you’d be worried about him losing a few feathers a week ago instead of your worsening state. But he was also happy. You figured it out, you understood his essence flowing through you, and didn’t reject it. You embraced it and, in turn, him as well. That made him ecstatic.

After that, you exchanged letters every day. At first, you remained reserved about your state, and he didn’t want to give away the fact that he was being updated about it, though you probably knew. Either way, he wanted you to share of your own volition, and he started sharing things too. Nothing that would worry you, or make you disapprove of him, but other things. Things his fellow demons didn’t appreciate, and that it turned out you did.

You admired the nature of all things and understood him when he expressed art as an emotion. He thought you’d hate it when he said he respected people’s natures when he tempted them, but you had agreed. It was in every soul the potential to do things with any degree of intensity. He shouldn’t tempt them, but the choice was always theirs. You believed in the balance of all things and that temperance was the key to everything. He, who had always been infatuated with the beauty and inevitability of desire, could respect that you saw it as something not sinful, but part of a whole. You spoke of other kinds of desire, not necessarily lustful or depraved, but that invoked the gripping feeling nonetheless. The yearning for a kiss, or a touch, or a mere presence. The longing to smell a flower, to listen to a song, or to repeat a familiar food. You debated passion versus lust, and he realized that was where you diverged: he saw passion as something that would lead to lust, and you saw it as the potential to do amazing things. He told you lust came from the desire to abuse something, and you disagreed. Lust came from a potent desire to experience something, but it didn’t have to be a bad thing. It didn’t have to be carnal either; it could stay in the mind and mold and evolve, as all emotions did.

He thought you two would combust in holy and hellfire, respectively, for even debating the limits of the virtues and sins you both battled for, but it turned out you didn’t. He didn’t feel any weaker or scorched, and as far as your health went, you were not getting better, but surely not because of your letters.

When his minion told him, along with your letter, that you were bedridden, he was lost. Two weeks. Two weeks, and you were so much worse. The worry was gripping his heart; he had the most intense desire to see you and know what was happening. That day, he didn’t open your letter; he flew straight to The Grandeur and onto your balcony. He was shrouded in shadows, and he would have knocked, but he couldn’t feel you, and he panicked. He barged in and immediately froze — you were sleeping with your arms over your belly and your light brown hair contrasting steeply with the white of the pillow and the paleness of your skin.

He sat on the bed next to you and held your hand. The shadow around your eyes was almost faded, and he could sense the black leather you were wearing hanging by a thread. His first thought was to help you somehow, and the only thing he could think of was to give some of his essence to you. 

He leaned in and kissed your hands, and you sucked in a breath. He looked at you and felt your desire as if you were whispering it in his ear with the softest of longings. Your eyeshadow was black again, but you were stronger than before. He could sense it in your lovely eyes — you needed a pick-me-up, but you were healing.

He looked down at your hands. “I didn’t think you could lie, but I worried. I’m happy you’re healing.”

You tried sitting up. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’m happy I did.”

His heart was pulsing strongly in his chest at the chance of being reunited again, and you reached to brush his cheek. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Can you imagine how I feel, then?”

He held your hand to his cheek and your gaze. He was crazy, but he wasn’t fighting it. In his endless existence, nothing had ever felt like that. And the way you moved to draw him nearer, to have his forehead touch yours as if you needed his embrace to feel safe, had him feeling all sorts of things he didn’t know were possible.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

Your whisper didn’t annoy him or hurt him because he could see. “But you know I do. And you know why.”

Your blue-sky eyes rose to him. “Is that possible?”

He squeezed your hand. “It is.”

You faced him with concern and knew he could see it. You were afraid of being deceived, of having a weak heart that couldn’t see the truth. He was a lust demon, maybe wanting things was his way. But as an angel, lust wasn’t the emotion in your heart. It could be passion and desire, yes, but they were connected to another emotion that you weren’t sure a demon could feel.

“Will you tell me the truth?” you asked, fear emerging but quickly soothed by your temperance.

“I would never lie to you.”

You faced his dark eyes, which you had come to dream of every night. “Is what you’re feeling lust?”

“Not purely.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I desire you, but it’s not the only thing I feel.”

“What else… is there?”

He gripped your hand firmer and let his cheek slide until his nose could rest against your warm skin. “Something deep. Something tender that I don’t want to force or abuse. Something sweet that elevates my existence with thoughts of you. I don’t know what it is. I’d say it’s a flower, but flowers’ roots don’t reach as deep.”

“Is that… possible?” Your voice was a whisper, and he faced you again. 

“I don’t know. I’m figuring it out as we go.”

You sat a bit better and made a decision. “If I asked you something, would you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me your name?”

He blinked; he knew what knowing the other’s name meant. He knew, and he didn’t care.

“My name is Jun—”

You covered his mouth. It touched you deeply that he would share something so precious with you. You were celestial beings on opposite spectrums, but the rules applied the same. Knowing someone else’s name was to have unparalleled power over them. Not even your captor had ever learned your name, regardless of the torture method he used. You would have died with that secret; it was your most important possession. Your self.

He was looking at you with patience as if he wished for nothing but that time between you, and you wished for the same. You saw the shine of that deep feeling in his eyes, and you let your heart give in for a beat — you felt the same. You felt absolutely the same way as he.

So you lowered your hand from his mouth and reached closer until your lips met.

He was caught off guard. He never thought an angel would— Well, weren’t kisses off-limits or something? The gateway into perdition or sin? But he didn’t question you, he wouldn’t. He didn’t care about any of those things; he was kissing you for the first time. And it filled his chest. It gave him air he never thought he needed, energy he never knew he could feel, and confirmed that whatever was taking root in his chest was real. 

The stories were bullshit. You together were not impossible, you were not incompatible, and you could very well nurture the most sacred feeling of all. Even if it was forbidden, his heart was beaming. It had to mean only one thing.

He didn’t want to stop, but he let you pull away to recover your breath. He opened his eyes and grinned; your eyeshadow was as cobalt blue as the day he first saw you, and you felt stronger than before. Knowing he was the reason you felt revitalized made him grin shamelessly. You smiled at his glee, and you chatted for a while more before he had to leave. You were worried about seeing him again, but he reassured you.

“We have the letters, and eventually they’ll relent the search. You feel stronger already, soon you’ll be healed enough to fly away.”

You pressed your lips with concern. “And if I am? Healed enough?”

He had turned to look at you, and you saw it: a hint of possession before it fizzled out. “Then you call for me in a letter. I’d like to say goodbye.”

You didn’t hide the pain the thought caused you, and his eyes softened, though the corners of his lips remained down. 

“It will be okay,” he had turned to you instead of reaching for the curtains to step out onto the balcony. “You’ll be free and safe.”

You reached your arms around him, holding him while you worried for his safety. You wondered if he could be found out, if you could become the reason he was cast out, tortured, or destroyed. Your heart couldn’t bear it.

You pulled away, and his kiss was waiting for you, stealing your thoughts for a brief moment. When you opened your eyes, you could see that it was part of his intent.

“I’ll see you soon.”

If only he could see you more.

Every day was torture, knowing that eventually his time with you would end and he would never see you again. He had moments of adoration, of wishing he could take care of your every need at every waking moment. But he also had moments of anger, of wishing he could carve his heart out and stop feeling that retched way. Because he would lose you. You were perfect, the perfect match to his anomaly, the untold impossible cause of a demon swaying his depraved ways, and for what? He would lose you regardless. He would, for your safety. He would because he wanted to set you free. He would because your well-being was more important than his selfishness. 

He would groan in the night, lying on his bed, thinking of you while he indulged in a sin you would have disapproved of. But he was a demon after all, and he saw every other soul living their dreams but him. They would bask in their appetites, savoring the deepest desires hidden beneath all layers of civility and ethics, and step into the light as souls true to their nature. He had indulged in it himself for as long as he could remember; demon, human, or otherwise, it mattered little — the soul’s beauty was what mattered. But now he couldn’t. His fire wouldn’t waver in their presence anymore, and it felt pointless. Not the pleasure itself, which he knew could feel good, but it wouldn’t ever scratch what it could feel like with you. He knew he’d never feel it — you were an angel. Not an asexual creature by any means: no one could hide desire from him, not even you, and purity angels existed as well, which meant that to be chaste, one would have to be able to feel lust as well. But still, he doubted you would ever indulge in such a desire, even if you had it. Though he never thought he would abstain from his, and there he was.

He observed the other demons and souls as they searched and indulged in their pleasures, but he remained quiet and absent-minded. It wasn’t like an endless orgy in every direction swayed him anymore, and he was doing his part just by being there. His presence was enough; he never had to lift a finger — before, he just wanted to.

Another demon from the circle climbed onto the stage where Jungkook was just lying and observing the crowd. The naked demon was laughing, covered in fluids of many kinds, but still thirsty. Jungkook ignored him and focused on a soul he noticed was staring and getting distracted. He reached out with his hand, and it was as if the stage moved closer, within the soul’s reach. It was a woman with dark brown eyes, long, fiery hair, and skin that glistened with sweat every time she took a breath. Her eyes were fixed on him with adoration while she jerked a man off, who was busy with someone else, and another woman with short blond hair plunged her mouth into her center. 

Jungkook kept his arm outstretched, and she raised hers, meaning to touch him. She had been thinking of him ever since she first saw him. It started with curiosity, with wanting to know more, but then it evolved as the want blazed in her heart. Now she was thinking of him fucking her mouth and using her lewdly, and he just looked at her. She would never be able to touch him unless he wanted it, which he didn’t, but his gaze was enough. One more second of his dark eyes and she could feel his nails gripping her hair as he plunged so deep in her mouth, she choked and drooled uncontrollably. She closed her eyes with a deep moan, a fulminating orgasm electrifying her nerve ends, and he withdrew his arm, returning the stage to where it was.

“Why not make her dreams come true?”

Jungkook shrugged. He didn’t have to justify himself.

The other demon chuckled. “Why not let her suffer, then?”

The demon didn’t wait for Jungkook’s response and jumped into the crowd again. Jungkook took a deep breath. He was not a sadist; he was the delicious temptation that always kept their promise of becoming something better. Different demons had different roles. But why had he helped her…

He let his head fall on the stage floor and wondered about it. Maybe because he wished the same grace could be granted to him. Perhaps because he now knew how much a heart could truly yearn and suffer from absence. It wasn’t the same, of course. What he had for you in his heart wasn't comparable, but still. Small blessings.

He felt the instant the Archdemon entered the plane, and Jungkook purged his thoughts immediately. He couldn’t risk even thinking of you in his presence. The Archdemon had absolute control over everyone, including Jungkook.

“Ah, Jungkook. Are you going to perform something?” He laughed smugly, and Jungkook just moved to the center of the stage. His mind was on his dance and performance, and he kept going for as long as the powerful being wished it.

His thoughts only flew back to you once he was in his own plane to rest. He didn’t regret meeting you, desiring you, or transcending his feelings into what many thought was barred from the chests of both demons and angels. He felt inexplicable things because of you, he knew more, and he reached deeper. He grabbed himself with nothing but the thought of you opening your arms and inviting him in. The dream of feeling you turned his dark soul incandescent. That was who you were to him.

So to keep you safe, he stayed away, watching every grain of sand pass towards its inexorable end. The Archdemon never stopped his searches, so it was a countdown to have you escape before he could find you.

He thought this race would be tense, but just a moment in time. Soon, you’d call him to say goodbye, and he'd watch you fly to your freedom, taking with you all these heartfelt emotions. He would think of you and dream of you, and you would be safe, spreading your generous nature to everyone you met. He was bittersweet about it, but accepting.

What he didn’t plan was that the world would suddenly shake, even from within the Archdemon’s layer of hell. Jungkook instantly got up from his couch, alarmed, the same as the other demons overseeing that crowd of souls. Something big had to have happened for such a shockwave to reach them, and he later learned what it was.

You were not confined to your room at The Grandeur. You wouldn’t interact with any other demon or stay in anyone’s presence long enough, but watching the sky and either the sun or the moon gave you peace. You were on one of your escorted limousine rides when demons started intercepting the vehicles, looking for something, and you grew nervous. You couldn’t deceive or lie, you thought, gripping the black leather to your chest. Your presence could be masked, but one look at you and they would know. 

Your anxiety grew to the point that your power rose to the surface, with the instinct of survival flooding you. You couldn’t control your anxious heart, and as such, your grace was acting on its own. Fortunately, the minions with you intercepted you in time. Suddenly, you had familiar faces inside the limousine, balancing your light with their shadow, and you thought of him. If you were found, they would know who those minions answered to, and he would be caught. He would be tortured and broken apart for daring to even look at you, and you couldn’t bear the thought.

So, you turned inward in meditation and focused on his essence within you. It was usually scorching hot and indomitable like a wild animal pushed to a corner with nowhere to go. But today, you didn’t stay respectfully away; you couldn’t. Today, accepting him wasn’t enough: his essence had to overflow from your pores and mask yours.

You stayed focused in this effort until you were worn out, drained from suppressing your shine to let his darkness beam somberly. You were about to pass out when you opened your eyes, the vehicle moving, you didn’t know where. All you could do was raise your hand with a folded message that only he could read before you blacked out.

Jungkook later learned you had passed the patrol, but your energy was still detected. He knew as soon as he saw you lying unconscious in your bed — your light was being oppressed, and you needed to leave. He kissed your forehead to transmit his darkness to you, and you took a deep breath, needing only one second to recognize him and jump into his arms.

“I was almost caught!”

He held you closely, supporting your head gently. “Almost.”

“I think… I think I used your essence too much.”

“Or not enough,” he argued, looking deeply into your sky-colored eyes when you moved away. “Your light provoked a shockwave that was felt. Everything shook to the deepest corners of this hell. He knows you’re still here, and he will turn everything upside down to find you.”

“But—” Your eyes were glistening in confusion. “But I tried so hard!”

He brushed your cheek. “You can’t suppress your light, even if you want to. This time it worked and you escaped, but it won't a second time.” You frowned with sorrow, and looking into his eyes, he was even more sure. “And my darkness will no longer be enough. Once you’re strong enough, it won’t last.”

Your eyes widened in shock. “No! Don’t even think about it!” He grinned; your concern for him was adorable. “I won't keep consuming parts of you to stay hidden, that’s despicable!”

His grin widened as he looked down. “Maybe… But it would be a righteous way to go.”

“Don’t say that!”

Your voice shook with fear, but his grin never wavered. He cupped your cheek with a certainty you couldn’t understand. “Can you fly?”

You grimaced and tried to soul-search within yourself. “I’m… hurt, but… soon. Very soon.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

Something dark crossed his eyes for a moment before he closed them, and you were anxious. Then, your soul shimmered, and you were filled with serenity.

“Tell me,” you asked, supporting his hand to your cheek. You waited for his dark eyes to come to you before you filled him with ease. You never thought it would be possible to affect a demon, but this one was different. You knew him inside and out.

“It’s time, but they’re tightening their grip. You won’t be able to leave in these circumstances.”

Your brow creased ever so slightly. He was right, but that was not what you had asked him.

“I’ll create the opportunity for you to leave.” Your eyes instantly told him you disagreed, but he continued, “I’ll summon every higher female demon to a performance. And you will come too.”

You were shaking your head, scared and confused. “They’ll catch me!”

“They won’t know you’re there. You’ll take enough from me that you’ll be just as dark as any of them.”

You blushed; you didn’t know if that was a good idea.

“But in my performance… I’ll sow chaos. I’ll make everyone’s darkest desires come to the surface, I’ll turn them crazy and wild. I’ll make them cross the line, and the Archdemon will be furious. He’ll send his lackeys, and everyone will run from his wrath. While he’s busy handling this, you’ll slip away.”

He was comfortable with his plan; he knew he could do it, you saw his confidence in his dark eyes. But something was unsettling him.

“When?” you asked.

He looked down and frowned. “Tomorrow.”

“Do you hate tomorrow?”

You still had difficulties interpreting the range of his emotions. He grinned. “I hate that I can’t stop it from coming.”

You couldn’t hate, and time was inevitable, as many things were. You reached for his hand. “Will we ever see each other again?”

He couldn’t face you, but the lines in his expression hardened.

“Come with me. Let’s run away together.”

His eyes jumped to yours. “You’d take me with you?”

Stars twinkled in your eyes as you smiled, and he was breathless. You genuinely wanted him by your side and were not afraid of what that would mean.

“I thought only humans could feel this way,” he confessed, eyes tracing your features with the utmost longing. He missed you as if you weren’t there in front of him. He yearned for you as if you were the brightest and most distant nightly star. He revered you in ways that would seem abhorrent to any other demon, but he couldn’t catch himself.

You smiled. “I never doubted we could. I have faith that every creature can embrace all states and emotions and still focus on the balance within themselves.”

“Aren’t we disturbing that balance?” His eyes darkened, and you only smiled at the caress navigating your skin. His tangible desire flowing around you didn’t bother you anymore.

“Not when you have become a part of it.”

His breathing stopped with his eyes boring into yours, but you stayed calm as ever. He heard you, and you spoke nothing but the truth. His essence could never fuse with yours, but it coexisted within you peacefully. Almost lovingly. He had to know of the feeling inside your chest; you never hid it. He was part of you now.

Yet he swallowed dryly, recoiling. “What if you fall?”

A delicate line showed between your eyebrows. “That would imply a sin.”

He scoffed, but his expression was sad, and you didn’t understand. You reached out to brush his soft cheek.

“Not every desire between two souls is a sin.”

He took your hand to cover his mouth and kiss the palm, and you could see it. He had fears, but he tried his best to disguise them.

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

You couldn’t suppress a chuckle at his white-and-black view of the universe. “A sin is also an irrevocable choice to do evil. Would I be doing evil, then?”

He shut his eyes, hiding in your hand. “I don’t want to find out…”

It was the first time you saw his fear, and you knew it was for you. He was so worried about you that he was rejecting you in every way.

You raised his chin. “Don’t be afraid.”

Your tone was firm despite your kindness, and his guts twisted as if he had been caught off balance. He was embarrassed, staring into your eyes as you saw so deeply inside him. But it was odd. He knew that with anyone else, he would have instantly rallied to protect his secrets, his core, and keep any risk away. But not with you. He wouldn’t lash out or push you away because you accepted him. He wasn’t afraid of being vulnerable with you. You carried his essence; whatever there was to know about him, you already did.

“I can’t help it…” he confessed, nuzzling your palm for comfort. “I don’t want you to fall just because—” He didn’t know how to say it, and you waited with a firm gaze. “I don’t want you to suffer for having crossed paths with me.”

Your resolve wavered for a second; was he saying that was all it meant to him? Just crossing paths? When you thought there was a feeling taking root in him in the same way as with you?

Your lips curved gently. “I understand.” You took a deep, pacifying breath. “If the Archdemon finds us, he will imprison you, torture you, or worse.”

His expression hardened — he knew what you meant. Yet your eyes watered with the pain that thought caused you.

“And yet you speak of my suffering for crossing your path.” You could have chuckled, but there was no mockery in you. “I can’t bear the thought of that happening to you.” Your voice wavered as you faced each other. Your soul was as open to him as it had always been. “I don’t want to exist if there’s no chance that I’ll ever meet you again.”

He lounged for your lips, his expression hardening at the softness of your kiss, the tightness in his chest, and the certainty that you only spoke the truth. That was your authentic heart, and he wanted to drink it as if he had been dying of thirst. He couldn’t hear you speaking of not existing, and he wanted to plunge into whatever ocean carried you so he could always stay near. He wanted to bask in your light forever, even knowing that it blinded him. Because he didn’t need to see, the way his heart was beating for you was enough. All you had to do was be, and he would follow.

He was lost in this reverie as he kissed you, grabbing your arms to loop them around his shoulders and sitting closer to hold you firmly. You saw it and stepped carefully, but you continued. You had to ask yourself what kind of desire that was and if it was pure, and every step of the way, you knew it was. You had made your decision, and if it turned out to be wrong, at least you knew you did it with a good heart.

His kiss deepened, and you knew what to do, against all odds. It was probably his essence within you guiding you. It felt overwhelming for a second, but he waited for you to match him. He didn’t want to overrun you or ensnare your senses; he wasn’t trying to steal your free will or instill temptation to make you sin. He was quite simply adoring you with his lips, and it tranquilized you because you could feel the heart beating underneath.

But suddenly he pulled away. He was frowning deeply, though he didn’t move very far. You looked up at him from where you lay under him on your pillow, and he opened his eyes. “Shouldn’t you… stop us?”

You reached out to brush his cheek. “I don’t want to stop.”

He was startled and held your wrist. “Wait.” He looked confused, but then he faced you again. “I’ve heard that before. Countless times. It’s the first step. I can’t help it, it’s my nature. But I don’t want to condemn you,” he sounded tortured, and he was about to move away when you grabbed him back to stay put.

“You’re assuming it’s a sin again. I asked you before: would I be doing evil?” His eyes were darker and darker; he was fearful, so you answered in his stead. “No. Uniting with you could never be an evil act. It’s as pure as any other expression of this feeling. I can adore you in words, in feeling, and in action. That can’t be wrong when it is true and pure in itself.” His eyes widened and glistened, and his expression still showed disbelief, so you sighed. “I can only know the purity of the feeling in my heart. If yours is different, tell me.”

He instantly shook his head and leaned to hold you closer. “It’s not. I feel the same. I feel crazy, none of this makes sense, but whenever I look at you, I just know.” You closed your eyes, letting his deepest truths caress your skin gently. But he hesitated. “Aren’t you… disgusted by me?”

“Are you?” Your question was simple, but he frowned. “Maybe I should be, I was with the others. But not with you. With you, I see and feel so much more that— There’s a balance. There’s just a cosmic balance.”

His dark eyes revealed his thoughts, and they were enough. You knew he agreed, you knew he felt the same way. You were entranced, like two opposite beings were meant to be, trapped to orbit the other without the ability to exit the magnetic field you created by yourselves. But it wasn’t bad, you thought, as he traced his lips down your neck reverently. It was inevitable, and you didn’t want to fight it. You had faith in the two of you and your hearts.

You were the one who, through kisses and caresses, decided to pull back the energy that covered you. It extended from his essence inside you, and yours, and without it, your body was fully revealed. He waited a moment before pulling away enough to look at your exposed body with a single look of solemnity before looking into your eyes. His gaze was grave because he understood — without your wings protecting you, or his essence, you were at your most vulnerable state, unprotected should anyone wish to harm you. That was how much you trusted him, and he took it seriously. He retracted his wings and all the protection they provided him as well, but you didn’t look down. Your eyes stayed on him as you smiled, and then you opened your arms, and he shook. He rushed to press his lips to yours, rattled with the opportunity blooming in front of him like out of a dream. For a moment, he believed he was asleep.

But soon you were kissing him with passion and looking to unite with him at all levels, and his fire raged. For a second right before he felt you, he saw in your eyes the water of temperance that created you. The water of longevity and forbearance that he could never hope to attain, but that he admired. Inside him, his craving was a fire threatening to burst out and consume you both, and he wondered how that was so. How was it that your temperance didn’t smother your passion, and his lust didn’t pervert him into derailing everything?

He only understood it when you finally connected both in body and spirit, like a key to a lock. He unlocked your potential from the clutches of austerity, and you unblocked a fervor that could burn without consuming. He felt it now, and so did you. Every time he thrust into you, attempting to intensify that carnal tension, you answered back, tightening, gripping, and holding. You were giving and receiving in a fire that didn’t have to reduce to ash.

You were ecstatic with the union of your bodies, never having felt such caresses or touches to your actual skin. You had almost died, and the only things to ever graze you had been blades and claws, just to make you suffer and bleed. But now you knew that it was possible to be touched and scratched in such a vulnerable form and not hurt. There was pleasure in the vulnerability, in the closeness, but you could sense there was more.

He was lost in the way you were together because it was as new and unique to him as it was to you. He had been with countless souls and felt innumerable bodies, and yet nothing compared to you. His deviating urges were satiated in a way because that was not what you were doing. He didn’t know it was possible ever to have that hunger quenched; he was a demon. He was condemned to starve for lust for eternity, and yet not with you. He pulled away from your kiss for a moment to confirm this: he was inside you, buried deep between your legs as he moved slowly; you were naked, lying on a pillow and holding his arms in support, cobalt blue eyeshadow emerging with your essence bubbling to the surface. You were beautiful, straight out of one of his wildest reveries that could never come to pass, but it did. You were real.

You knew that both of you were awestruck with your pleasures, but you sought more. Not out of greed, but because your sharing of each other was not yet complete. You wanted every part of you united with him, balanced between you in harmony. That couldn’t be achieved just with your physical bodies. It was time.

He lowered, each arm framing you sweetly as he kissed you, and your essence flowed to him like a brook. Surely and velvety, like a cloud coming to cushion and soothe any ache. He moaned in your mouth in a mix of ecstasy and relief, and you couldn’t help your bliss.

He parted your lips but stayed in the same place, breathing heavily as he looked into your light blue eyes. You had no idea how it would feel to him to have your light, but you were happy it didn’t hurt him.

He was blinded to anything else that wasn’t you, breathless with the sparks shining inside him like thousands of suns. You were the embodiment of elation, the bliss evoked by demons like him to convince others to seek a pleasure that was too utopian to achieve. But there was no deception there. You were not deceiving him with delusions of pleasure or illusions of grandeur. You were truly elevating him to another level of enlightenment, and his knees became weak.

He brushed your chin softly with his lips as tears filled his eyes. “You’re so—” His voice dissipated under such joy, but he wasn’t blinded. His eyes were wide open. “I don’t want to weaken you.”

You smiled, and he knew he had to protect you above all things. “I won't be. I’ll be filled with you, and you’ll be filled with me.” His instincts roared inside him, urging him to take you and keep you for eternity. “You’ll be stronger, and we’ll fly together.”

You brushed his sweaty hair falling over his eyes and nodded in assurance, and he fell on you again, kissing you. You exchanged essences, communing in spirit, and elevating your physical senses in a way that culminated in a blazing supernova, igniting both your senses. You felt it so intensely you thought you would have emitted light in that plane and across many others, alerting all demons in the seven hells, but fortunately, you didn’t. That radiance was only seen by both of you in each other and through each other.

It was so intense that parts of him disintegrated in pleasure, just to be reassembled again, like grains of sand fusing to create glass, only to be shattered and melted into cohesion again. He feared that it was the prelude of an event horizon and that the subsequent black hole would suck the both of you in for infinity, but he was at ease. Even if that happened, you would be united in eternity, and that could never be a bad thing.

Instead, and as you expected, your essences compacted together harmoniously, never mixing, only coexisting tenderly and nurturing. You came down from your high together with him and smiled at him before exhaustion took your senses.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, he was confused. In a good way, he felt as though he was waking from a million-year-long sleep, with his senses heightened, at the ready, strong, and cunning. He could face anything, but his eyes immediately fell on you. You were sleeping quietly under him, and he had slept on your chest, lulled by the sound of your heart and warmth from your arms holding him. There was no need to fight the battles of the world when you were right there in a moment that needed to be relished and cherished.

That was the moment he contemplated both of you, what you were doing, and all those emotions. He had a melody in his ears, a few words just about on the tip of his tongue, and a spell on his mind that would sew all the chaos needed for you two to run away. Together.

He brushed your sweet, light brown hair and realized that wasn’t enough. To escape, it wouldn’t be necessary more than his usual power, but he wasn’t his usual self. Not with your essence scintillating in every corner of him. He didn’t have to, but he wanted to exalt you and what you meant to him. 

Later, you woke up and gently petted his raven hair. He was again on your chest, charmed by your pulsating heart, and when he looked up at you, you wordlessly requested a kiss that he promptly gave. Every time your lips brushed, he could feel the infinite in which your souls intertwined, and if he had wondered if there was a limit to that feeling, now he knew there wasn’t. There was absolute adoration in his chest, and if he ever doubted it, you just showed it to him again.

He was inside you again, both sinking into your body and mingling with your soul when you whispered, “Harder.”

The fire in him erupted like a flame fed on gasoline, and he knew it could risk becoming so overwhelming that it would consume you both, but it didn’t. He obliged your request, diving so deep into you that he feared you would hurt. You didn’t hurt; he could hear it in every breath, feel it in every particle, and you weren’t consumed. He was a powerful demon, further empowered by the strength of an angel, and even then, he did not harm you. He sought in you the answers, but you were tranquil—you didn’t have them, but you didn’t need them because you were balanced. And so he searched for his, and as you both exploded into new universes, he understood. He was reunited with his origin through you. It was as if he were back to creation at the zenith of his existence, yet without denying his true nature. Existence was meant to be experienced in this way, and he couldn’t go back. It wouldn’t make sense.

Your soul radiated with the last traces of your union, and you sighed, fluttering back to reality. You wanted him marked in your body and spirit, and it felt right. If you were caught, then at least you would remember that sensation. And you would for eternity because no other soul in the cosmos could fit yours like his. You knew the emotion that was now part of your soul, as it should be.

He had to leave to put things into motion. “The sooner it happens, the sooner we’ll be free.” You smiled as he reached the balcony, ready to fly away, but not without cupping your cheeks first for one last caress. “You’ll get an invitation, it will be signed JK—my initials. Worry about nothing other than being at ease. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

You were already at ease, brimming with a confidence you suspected wasn’t entirely yours.

Your foreheads touched for a moment of affection and longing before he gave you a confident look, stepping back and flying away. You took a deep breath and readied yourself for the waiting. What were a few hours compared to an eternity in each other’s company?

Two hours later, you received the parchment that self-combusted before touching your hand. You eyed the underling, but he just nodded, and you were reassured. You could only read the fiery ashes because of his essence: In half an hour, JK.

You didn’t ask questions; you were more than ready for this event, and you stepped into the limousine. The trip was unimpressive; what surprised you was seeing him casually walking as you passed by. You lowered your window, but he just glanced and then at the horizon, where you knew others were gathering to reach the event in time. You couldn’t risk everything now, so you closed your eyes and let the vehicle take you. Soon, you saw the façade of a concrete building as sterile as the rest of the landscape, except for a golden ‘JK’ carved in the center of radiating traces of light. Your eyebrows twitched, thinking he had maybe risked a bit too much, but it wasn’t the time to question him, nor did you feel inclined to. 

Your limousine was the first to arrive and stopped facing the stage of that hollowed construction. It wasn’t fancy, but you recognized it didn’t have to be. Other limousines parked on either side of you, and you could feel the animosity bubbling. The envy, the rivalry, the malice — whoever was inside those cars wanted something and was there to have it. 

When you thought the tension would snap, you decided that being inside the car trying to peek wouldn’t work. You opened the moonroof and climbed out, moving to the front until you could sit with your legs to one side and support yourself on the opposite side with your hand. You could feel the jealousy saturating the air like smoke, but you couldn’t be bothered. The air also carried a familiar energy, and the show was about to start.

The music suddenly started, and dancers wearing black started pacing and crossing paths all around the stage until he appeared from in between them to dance with them. You were surprised; he meant a musical performance? As far as demonic rituals go, you hadn’t expected it. Also, he was wearing a white V-neck crop t-shirt alongside his black pants, and you held your breath. As he danced, he looked up at you, and you shivered; he wasn’t hiding it, but neither were you. Your eyeshadow was black, matching every single piece of cloth reverberating from his essence inside you. Black-heeled boots and tight pants followed by a semi-transparent waist cincher corset. Above it, from your chest, two cloth strips stemmed that covered your chest in both directions and were tied chaotically over your right arm in a sleeve. As he danced in perfect synchrony with his dancers, his dark eyes were set on you until he stepped his foot once, and you felt the air shift — the spell started.

His lips moved, though what answered was a distant echo of his voice, “Standing next to you.”

His foot pressed on the base of the microphone stand, raising the microphone to his lips, and it was just him. “Play me slow, push up on this funk, and give me miracles.”

He twirled with the stand and closed his eyes, and you knew it would work. You didn’t know if those words touched you so deeply because of what you had shared together, but even you weren’t indifferent to his charm.

“Make it known: how we left and right is somethin' we control.”

He circled the stand, and you felt weirdly hot, as if you had been summoned, called by your name to replace the stand.

As if he heard your thoughts, he faced you with dark eyes and beckoned you to come closer before singing cleanly as he contoured your shape in the air,  “Screamin', I testify this lovin'.”

Your heart shook; his words. He had actually named—

He stepped to the side while his dancers flocked around him, holding the microphone stand to give him a voice as he kneeled, as if in a plea or prayer. “Screamin', I testify that we'll survive the test of time, they can't deny our love.” He grabbed the microphone and stood clear, facing anyone who would hear him, but with his eyes inevitably set on you. “They can't divide us, we'll survive the test of time. I promise I'll be right here.”

The voices echoed around you, but you were starstruck, trembling as he danced and echoed something neither of you had dared to say aloud. Something you wanted all universes to know, but would have never imagined he would proclaim so blatantly. It was insane.

He told of how deep that feeling went before the lights flashed to the wild beat. Then he twirled, and a black jacket covered him, formed with sparkly metal chains that you recognized. He was showing parts of you, tempting fate with such confidence. As if his words weren’t enough, as if you weren’t facing him on that stage on the front row with his dark eyes set on you at every given chance. He knew he was too strong for any of them to detect it, especially since he had your love.

He was so in it, he felt like an incandescent star. That was his game, his nature. Enticing and ensnaring were things natural to him, and his effects were fatally effective. Even demons wanted to see him perform for the chance to burn in that lustful desire that only he could create. And yet, those were not his thoughts this time around. He had voiced his soul regardless of the chaotic spell he was trying to cast, and as he did, images of you running away inside the Archdemon’s den flashed through his mind. He was there, thankfully, and he had found you. He danced as he remembered your state clearly; he would protect you forever. 

“Afterglow, leave ya body golden like the sun and the moon.”

His hand slid slowly to his crotch, and you tilted your head, knowing the feral scent in the air couldn’t be avoided. His spell did not enchant you; you saw beyond its crude nature, but the echo replying, You already know, gave you goosebumps. It wasn’t obscene, and it wasn’t meant to ensnare you, but you knew of all the ways you intertwined. More than that, it wasn’t his main focus, because when he again proclaimed his love for you, he looked at you and placed his hand over his heart. He was singing about staying by your side forever because of that feeling that no one could deny, when his dancers fell back into a circle around him as he stood, reaching for the light above. You were touched; he saw you as a miracle that would take him high and beyond, worth any obstacle.

Then he looked down at you and repeated, “They can't divide us, we'll survive the test of time. I promise I'll be right here.”

You had underestimated him — his capability and his power. As he performed body and soul, you met in another plane parallel to that one, but exclusive to you both. That was why you had white over your skin, and he black — two opposite essences that now flowed freely through both of you.

You heard him in both planes when he declared he would stand in the fire next to you, and you felt it. His dark eyes lit a familiar flame that could withstand your flowing waters of temperance as if they were flammable. You didn’t mind it, whether he was alluding to the fire of hell that would torture you both for eternity should you get caught, or the supernova blast of when you fused body and soul.

Everything about the performance was intense: his sharp eyes, powerful voice, preaching lyrics, and almost aggressive dance moves as he cast a spell that would soon discharge all the tension that had been building up. You knew it, you could feel it, and yet in another plane, he was gently caressing your cheek. His eyes were firm, almost possessive as he claimed that love couldn’t be taken away by any external force, and you almost smiled. No, indeed. It couldn’t.

Echoes of his voice sounded all around again and again — he would stand next to you. He wanted you to know it, and you did. You also knew it was the calm before the storm, and it was confirmed as the underlings walked to the space immediately after the stage. He bid your eyes to stay on his and not face what was to come. You could feel the jealousy sparking in the air, charged with a desire and envy to feel such a way, and with him. You couldn’t feel such an emotion yourself, and you wouldn’t — you were sure of you, and his heart held no secrets.

Still, he stepped back, and his attire morphed yet again. A single long black jacket and pants sparkling with stars of your light, and you knew it was time. The music crescendoed, and his movements became sharp and aggressive as the fight broke out around you and you vanished, seemingly to protect yourself and escape. Through his essence, you could tell things were escalating with such power that the Archdemon was aware. It was a matter of time until his wrath descended there — your window of opportunity was small. 

He jumped to the center, focusing intensely on something before his dancers formed the shape of enormous black wings spreading out from him, until his spell faded and the music ended. By then, the limousines had escaped, and time was ticking. You exited the shadow and stepped over the dusty, barren floor to get to him, leaving traces of water and sparkling energy behind. You weren’t paying attention; soon your energy would burst just the same as his.

He met you halfway, his dark, committed eyes on yours, and you faced each other. You were ready. Together.