With the Almighty rotting in silence, Asmodeus had doubled his performance schedule—not only to gorge himself on mortal desire, but to avoid, at all costs, the quiet.
Quiet left room for thought. Thought left room for grief. And grief was beneath him.
The Midnight Altar had just reached its end with bodies drenched in sweat and wine as they slipped back into their clothes with delirious giggles, pupils blown wide, sins satisfied. They trickled out into the mortal dark, the scent of rose-aphrodisiac still clinging to their tongues.
High in his silks, Asmodeus watched them go before unspooling from the fabric, landing on bare feet with a catlike softness, wiping the corner of his mouth as though he’d just finished feasting on the rarest ambrosia.
And then the air changed. Not lust, not hunger—power. Very old. Very known. Very disruptive to a demon’s good mood.
He turned, silk robe in hand, brow lifting when that familiar face stepped out of shadow.
“Satan,” he greeted, "Care to explain why you've wondered into my sanctuary of sweat and adoration?"
He let the robe slide over his shoulders, leaving it artfully undone. Sweat still jeweled his skin as he draped himself across a velvet love-seat that matched the color of fresh bruises.
“If you're here for a private dance, I should warn you I don't offer discounts. Not even for the prodigal son of Hell,” he purred.
Chanwoo was a little shrewder than the world gave him credit for.
He was not entering a place like The Midnight Altar unaware. The almost cloying atmosphere (as if the concept of “pleasure” had been distilled and was being pumped through the vents); the grandiosity of the whole endeavor (as if the production he’d been told happened only at night were actually an altar to ambition); even the enormous windows, and the royal-looking staircase, served to solidify an impression that Chanwoo might have had with his eyes closed:
The demon who runs this show likes to have fun.
It didn’t take rocket science to deduce that the individual in question—the “ethereal” one, the (former) member of the heavenly host Chanwoo’s contact in Vegas had tipped him off could be here—was none other than Asmodeus.
…Consequently, Chanwoo was on high alert. Asmodeus played with desire—and, because he’d lived for such a terribly long time, Chanwoo knew that meant he played with not the heart, but the mind.
Chanwoo’s power negation, therefore, might not be enough to protect him.
Running into Asmodeus himself the instant Chanwoo paused next to the staircase? Unexpected…yet typical of a demon, to be controlling at every level of a place’s operation.
The air of seduction rolling off of Asmodeus in waves? …Well, that meant that Chanwoo was past expectation, past deliberation, and handling the day’s challenge head-on.
Asmodeus circled him. Chanwoo let it happen; though Chanwoo knew how to fight, Asmodeus’s posture indicated that he was not intending to take out someone who was so plainly not a threat.
A face like that deserves exceptions.
And then the offer of the rose. Would you like a private tour?
Hot damn, was he good.
Chanwoo couldn’t help but smile. The gesture was natural; it lit up his face, he knew, and it reflected a truth that was slowly dawning on Chanwoo himself:
I actually like this guy.
Chanwoo accepted the rose, twirled it between his fingers, and looked Asmodeus in the eye. “I’ll take the private tour…but it might go different than you expect,” he told the demon honestly. “Let me lay my cards on the table…because I’m not here to try anything tricksy, actually, unlike someone else who’s in on this…other world might be.
“I know who you are.” Chanwoo gestured to the rose and smiled again, understanding and partially impressed. “My name is Lee Chanwoo, and I’m…well. I’m Adam and Eve’s son—the one who shouldn’t be standing here, the one who fell years and years ago.
“I’ll bet you haven’t noticed anything different about your powers?”
That would pique Asmodeus’s interest.
“It’s because I’m not nullifying them,” said Chanwoo. He looked down at the rose and said, “But I have my power set to stop any other power if I’m in direct danger. Just so that’s clear.”
Chanwoo looked at Asmodeus then, letting the weight of his mission—and what was at stake (including death or worse at the hands of the demon in front of him)—show in his eyes, in the set of his mouth.
“I want to talk to you about the recent…shift in heavenly power,” Chanwoo said, and he offered the rose back to Asmodeus. “Yes, I’ll take the private tour. Just…be genuine with me? Be yourself, as we talk?
“Because I’m trying to help everyone,” Chanwoo said at last, “and I think that’s a better offer than you’ve heard yet.”
“Cards on the table,” Asmodeus echoed, the words rolling out of him in a low purr, more velvet than voice. His smile stayed fixed, but the shift in his gaze was noticeably sharpened, amusement thinned into something keener.
And when Chanwoo spoke his lineage, that smile twitched but only just slightly. Eve’s son. Eve.
He looked Chanwoo over again, this time with a scholar’s curiosity and a predator’s appreciation. “Well,” Asmodeus murmured, “that is a twist.”
Then came the explanation of power negation, and he let out a soft, delighted laugh.
“Danger?” he repeated, hand pressed lightly to his own chest as if wounded. “My sweet, the only danger in this place,” He stepped closer, his presence warm and overwhelming, “is the kind people beg me for.”
He lifted Chanwoo’s chin between two fingers—an elegant, precise touch that carried the echo of claws beneath silk. “So unless you’re in the mood to be hunted,” he added, a teasing menace in his voice, “you truly have nothing to fear.”
When Chanwoo finally said what he came for, Asmodeus exhaled a soft scoff, rolling his eyes skyward like an exhausted god. He plucked the rose from Chanwoo’s hand and returned it to the vase.
“No need to waste good craft on someone who can simply… turn the switch off,” he quipped.
He drifted toward the bar with the gliding ease of someone who never rushed unless it was for pleasure. A tray of figs and warm honey appeared under his hands, prepared with the ease of ritual. He gestured for Chanwoo to sit, draping himself across the opposite seat with effortless opulence.
“You ask for genuineness,” he said, swirling a finger through the honey before licking it clean with an unhurried, indulgent motion. “But what am I, if not genuine? Lust, desire, longing, every part of me is truth. Even when I am nothing but a mirror reflecting your hidden wishes I am exactly what I was made to be.”
He leaned back, studying Chanwoo with those predatory green eyes flecked with gold, head tilting in that curious, serpentine way of his.
“But.” A single, honey-sweetened word. “Let us humor your optimism, little pilgrim.”
He folded his hands beneath his chin.
“What does ‘helping everyone’ look like? You plan to soothe the angels, keep their halos polished while helping Lucifer and Satan tear the throne room apart?” A soft, delighted laugh. “Bless your heart—and your courage.”
Morning light spilled through the high windows of The Midnight Altar as the cleaning crew filed in behind him, armed with gloves and industrial disinfectant. They moved with quiet efficiency, scrubbing away the evidence of last night’s indulgences: sweat, perfume, the kinds of fluids mortals always pretended they didn’t leave behind.
Yet, Asmodeus felt wonderful.
Three hours of sleep after a performance like that would have left a human half-dead. For him, it was bliss. He’d fed deeply on longing, devotion, the feverish ache of bodies desperate to be witnessed. He was practically humming with it, loose-limbed and luxuriously content.
Which is why he noticed the stranger almost immediately.
Lingering at the foot of the staircase. Out of place. Pretty, though. Very pretty.
Asmodeus plucked a rose from one of the vases, rolling its stem between his fingers as he descended the steps with the unhurried grace of someone who never rushed for anything. The petals brushed his lips as he smiled—slow, sharp, predatory.
“You look lost,” he purred, voice still husky from last night’s whispers. “I understand my show is a must-see but unfortunately the next one isn’t until later this evening. Invite only.”
He circled the stranger, unobtrusive to a mortal eye but deliberate in intention. Drawing closer, inhaling, trying to sense the flavor of this one’s desire.
But it was… faint. Almost muted.
A wash of peace—repulsive. A thread of loneliness, though… now that he could work with.
“However,” he murmured, stepping back into the boy’s line of sight, “a face like that deserves exceptions.”
He offered the rose, holding it delicately between two fingers.
“Would you like a private tour?”
❝ ✦ Is that THOMAS DOHERTY walking through the neon-lit streets of Las Vegas? No, wait, it’s none other than ASMODEUS ( ALEKSANDER "ALEK" ROSE ), looking like a 30 year old mortal working as a DANCER/AERIALIST. Once Heaven’s own LUMINARY, they were cast down and reborn as a 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍. Considered to be ALLURING and PLAYFUL, others would accuse them of being INSATIABLE and RESENTFUL, sins they carry like trophies from the Fall. When I picture them, I see FAITH CONSECRATED IN SWEAT AND WHISPERS, THE TASTE OF SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO HAVE, A HAND TRAILING ALONG YOUR JAW LIKE A QUESTION, A CHOKED SOB AFTER BEING TOLD TO 'LET YOURSELF WANT IT', and I hear the heavenly choir sing SENSES BY JUTES just for them. Banished from Heaven, they’ve made the City of Sin their throne. Will they claim it all… or burn it down?
full name: asmodel asmodeus
alias: aleksander "alek" rose
age: 30
gender: masculine for the most part (asmodeus has no distinction with gender)
pronouns: he/him as alek, all pronouns work for asmodeus
orientation: yes
species: demon
occupation: burlesque dancer/aerialist, a gardener in his free time but only grows roses
powers: lust sensory and manipulation. he can sense the desire in others as well as manipulate and feed off of it. through manipulation he can turn one's desire into longing, yearning, indulgence, devotion, worship, obsession, jealousy, possessiveness, resentment, fury, and vengeance. while his manipulation is strongest through his kiss, his touch, sight and hearing also work but not as strong. he also grows special roses with his essence to manipulate through smell and taste. manipulation strength goes kiss/touch -> taste -> voice/whispers -> sight, smell.
height: 6'0
build: statuesque. toned, but not bulky. narrow waist, sculpted back, defined abs and obliques. smooth skin and inhuman flexibility with an almost unreal symmetry. he has a dancer's posture; very relaxed hips, loose shoulders, always swaying slightly.
eyes: deep forest green with honey golden flecks
piercings: his left ear will either be with a gold hoop, a thorned rose, or a cross
tattoos: none
other: his show 'the midnight altar' is one of the most popular shows in vegas. exclusive to invite only, attendees must check in their phones and strip to their undergarments, shedding away all pretenses of sin and purity, before everyone is offered a rose petal dipped in an edible aphrodisiac. the show has three acts ('invocation' 'offering' 'communion'). the first act is his silk routine, guiding and grounding the audience through breath technique, slowly giving them the permission to give in to their desires. the second act is his burlesque dance number, as he slowly strips down, his audience falls in a lustful trance. the end of the third act is when the audience can place the rose petals on their tongue, triggering it's affects at the stroke of midnight. attendees will feel their desire peak and their inhibitions unleashed, most of the time leading to orgies that have made his show infamous. he never participates, only watches from his silks above as a deity observing worship from his congregation.
clothing style: onstage, he likes rich jewel tones (garnet, amethyst, deep rose, obsidian). a black velvet harness set with roses embroidered on the strap, with black harem pants slit to the hip and a black veil with red crystals covering his face. offstage, his tones are black, deep purple, and burgundy. all his shirts are satin and always half unbuttoned (he hates anything fully buttoned, feels dishonest). his trousers/kilts are tailored. his scent is a mix of rose, warm skin, sensual spice, and whatever it is the person smelling him finds addictive. in the winter, he is always in a fitted turtle neck. he carries a black rosary with him with a rose gold crucifix and petals sealed into the beads.
personality: as the former angel of patience, he's intentionally slow moving, loves to elongate the anticipation of others. however, as the manifestation of lust itself, he has no patience for what he desires and often has to feign as such, externally serene despite the boiling hunger burning from within. he is fundamentally a contradiction. slow but volatile. gentle but dangerous. controlled but feral and ready to snap. he's playful and charismatic though obsessive and possessive. he was never taught limits, never taught how to love without consuming entirely. he craves devotion and love but cannot tell the difference between devotion and love. his need to be chosen has turned him into an emotional chameleon. when he meets someone he reads their hidden lust (their desire, shame, longing, what makes them kneel) and becomes that exact flavor they crave.
head cannons: often tilts his head in curiosity. doesn't blink often and rarely breaks eye contact first (unless deliberately trying to humiliate), which one can find unsettling once they notice. typically touches with fingertips first. likes to collect abandoned items from his show (a bra, a torn stocking, a glove) and says it's for sentimental reasons (it's not). hums when he is amused. smiles with his teeth, very wolfish, when he's truly hungry. loves human vices but consumes nothing excessively. hates God, loves God, resents God, misses God, wants to be God.
