second ring | kth [p.logue]
a.n. so the good news is I finally got the prologue written. The bad news is I am sick and just want to stop going to classes so I doubt I’ll have the actual fic up anytime in the next week. But, basically it’s just a demon!taehyung with inspiration from the book ‘Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair’s Youth’ by Herma Hesse, and also from the tales of the Seven Deadly Sins so yep.
warning(s): slight religious (Satan, Seven Deadly Sins, that sort of stuff) themes, future smut, probably some explicit language knowing myself.
readerxtaehyung. void of romance, purely driven by one meeting in a bout of lust on Halloween.
October is a month of beauty, relaxation. Leaves painted from a palette of bright, clemently muted colors swirling onto damp ground in a path of nature’s bricks. The aroma of pumpkin spice everything—everything—wafting through the air and into your head, clouded with billowing pillars of nutmeg and cinnamon. Lovers curled around mugs of hot tea, a thin blanket resting upon their torsos as an overplayed movie casts from the screen and I love this actor. Cats lie in window sills with eyes narrowed at squirrels simpering about, and dogs chasing piles of leaves after the ebullient laughter of children. A month chock full of smiles, cozy sweaters and lace up boots, of softened eyes and gentler voices. Beauty, and relaxation.
Your October, on the other hand, is filled with midterms, report papers (please, please, let the professors assign Turabian), and an eternal supply of glittery “fuck you”s to be thrown upon giggling pairs who think that the library is the perfect place to not-so-silently neck each other into oblivion. Disguised bodies roaming around with tequila misted eyes, pounding on the door of your apartment all for a sweet the size of their thumb—you preferred trick to treat, walking in to get candy, plopping back down onto the couch, hauling your warm laptop onto to your legs, a smirk crawling onto your lips as you hear the sound of defeated footsteps retreating from your door. October, more so modern-day Halloween, is not exactly your favorite time of year, to say the least.
The holiday itself is not at fault, only the annoying general public who parade around with drunken shouts, pulling all happiness from your state of mind as soon as the sunlight filtering through the blinds of your home folds closer to the walls until it has given way to the rule of the moon. Halloween would be the perfect day if not for the marring of its true meaning into one of candy and costumes.
It is the eve of the Celtic new year, when the boundary shielding the living and the dead dissolves. The whispers of the Other Side flutter among the plain of the living, grains of coffee slipping between the floorboards. Good, bad, and in between take havoc on the living—some deserving, but most who fall into the role of innocent prey to a hungry, sadistic demon.
The history is overwhelmingly interesting, and yet the movies are predictable, the parties are cliché, and the candies are too sweet. But not in Hell.
In Hell, the anticipation of Hallow’s Eve is great. Demons practically camp out by the bridge, lost souls scream out from the River Styx, all are so filled with suspense for their release that one could almost hear their moans in the passing winds on Earth. But, perhaps the one who most enjoys the delicious night is Demian, son of Satan, essentially the foil of Jesus, son of God.
Each year, Demian sews himself into a new persona. Different body, different victim, renewed desires. The aura which consumes him, full of enigmas and spiced with promises of pleasure, remains the same and he can almost sense it becoming more of its own each year, reaching around corners and into shaded windows without the movement of his feet.
This year, his skin is a sweet honey and his hair is a enrapturing white-gold that greets the eye with a preeminent gleam under streetlights. Broad shoulders, lithe but muscular legs, and flowing arms which pave into such veined, slightly-bony hands it’s almost art. His eyes are hooded under dark lashes and thick brows, with a straight, defined nose and plush lips which glimmer with the slightest tint of pink under the warmth of his skin tone. This year, he is called Taehyung, and he is tall, dark, and one-hundred percent trouble.
In the River Styx, the wailing of damned souls seeps flows along with the rapids and fertilizes the soil, playing melodies to the ears of Satan’s workers like that of a piano to a classical composer. Taehyung stands at the bank, his black-leather boots just barely sinking into the damp ground as he lifts the sleeve of his loose silk shirt to check his watch for the umpteenth time, scanning over the numbers to the hands which read 12:00 am. The river slowed and souls gripped onto banks, the bridges lowering at such an aching pace that even Taehyung’s fingers began to twitch by his sides because not long now.
His neck rolls back onto his shoulders in a fluid motion, lips parting slightly as a breath ripples from his stretched neck, eyelids fluttering to a close as the scent of Earth, of prey, slides over his figure. Just a few more seconds until the release, and Taehyung is mapping out his lust so soon, so vividly that he can practically feel his teeth grazing down his victim’s neck as his fingers languidly run their course under a shirt and along the sensitive skin of a torso lightly so as to draw a whisper of a moan from swollen lips.
Midnight blue eyes snap open in time with the screaming of the bridges locking into place, “Time to play.”
