who: chanwoo and satan (@mavrosdrake)
where: chanwoo’s hotel—lobby
when: 5:30 PM
While Chanwoo was residing in Vegas—“to go further into the public eye”, he’d rationalized it to someone at the modeling agency, though they really only needed to see the many jobs he’d be booking—he was being put up at one of the city’s multiple, larger-than-life hotels. He only had an ordinary room (with a nice view), but the feeling of indulging occurred to him over and over—as he ordered room service after a long day, as he brushed shoulders with important-looking people in the halls, even as he said the name of his hotel out loud. The world hadn’t been kind to Chanwoo, and yet he found it difficult to take pleasure in those sorts of things for a different reason—they were good things when the reality of living on Earth was very bad. They were false; they were, as he thought on his current elevator ride down to the lobby, fake.
Chanwoo emerged into the lobby, therefore, expecting to see nothing of interest to him. The wild chandeliers and sculptures might as well have been dust and rubble.
Then he felt it. The slight warming of his ears—Chanwoo’s cue, after years of honing his ability to negate powers, that somebody with powers was close by.
In the lobby.
He looked up to see, across the wide expanse of people, an individual who was likely the culprit. Every part of Chanwoo said that it was an angel or a demon…
…and Chanwoo’s gut was leaning towards demon.
Well, that actually dovetailed decently with Chanwoo’s plans. Chanwoo took just a second to prepare himself mentally (demons were not a joke)...but once he’d steeled his nerves and organized his thoughts, he began to cross the lobby and approach the mysterious stranger.
Once Chanwoo was within earshot, he slowed down. “You’re not looking for me here, are you?” he said with a wry smile; slowly, he raised both his hands a little. “Listen—I’ll play nice if you will. And, believe it or not…
“...I’m actually glad to see you here right now. I need,” he finished as he closed the distance between them, “a demon’s advice.”
Chanwoo gestured toward a nearby sofa and chairs and added, “Let’s sit down first, though. If you can spare the time.”
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?”
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.”
who: chanwoo and ariel (@lordof-flies)
where: ariel’s workplace
when: 7 AM
Every single baked good on display looked…well, just a little better than food on Earth normally did, to Chanwoo. It wasn’t that he hated simple pleasures. (On the contrary—simple pleasures were what life was supposed to be all about…in an ideal world.) It was just that Chanwoo had grown very, very tired of the same old offerings from the same old characters in the same old styles.
This baking, though. It was something different—in a great way.
Chanwoo smiled. Someone appeared in that moment from a back room—was that…
“Ariel?” Chanwoo said tentatively. He let his smile widen. “I remember your face—your presence, it’s coming back to me now—from long, long ago.
“I’m Chanwoo.” He paused, looking around so no one would overhear. “Adam and Eve’s son.” One of them. “I’m in Las Vegas now—I heard people from heaven and hell are gathered here?” His voice was low, but his tone was earnest.
“One of my old contacts in Vegas said a member of the ‘heavenly’ crowd would be here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but…”
Chanwoo bowed his head. “I need any advice you can give me. I’m hoping to defuse some of the conflict.”
An impossible task—and Ariel would know it. But he had to be upfront about his mission, or else this visit for guidance would turn out, like so many others of his ventures had, fruitless.
❝ ✦ is that song kang wandering through sinful Las Vegas? no, wait, it’s none other than lee chanwoo (the golden son), cursed to walk this earth as a twenty-seven year old mortal, hiding behind the role of a poet (and, these days, model). one of the rare CURSED MORTALS, their soul bears secrets older than Eden itself. legends say they’re known to be LOVING and LOYAL, though their curse lingers, twisting them towards being DISTANT and SECRETIVE. when I imagine them, I see THE SOLITARY, SOFT-EYED FIGURE WHO, THOUGH EVERYONE ELSE HAS RUN, WILL BE THERE FOR YOU; A SHAKY SMILE, IN SPITE OF TRULY EVERYTHING; AN OLD TRUNK TENDERLY FILLED WITH MEMENTOS FROM A LONG-AGO CENTURY WORTH REMEMBERING (THOUGH CHANWOO WILL ADMIT—TIMES WERE SOMETIMES HARD); THE INSTANT, ELECTRICALLY TREACHEROUS, BEFORE PREY BECOMES PREDATOR AND CHANWOO PROVES (PERHAPS TOO LATE FOR YOU) THAT HE’S NOT WHO YOU THINK; THE DAWN (STILL CHANWOO’S FAVORITE, AFTER ALL THIS TIME…); AND FIRM HANDS THAT ARE HALF WILL THAT THE WORLD WILL BE GOOD AND HALF BOTTOMLESS DETERMINATION TO MAKE IT SO, AT ALL COSTS, and I hear the heavenly choir sing THE CAVE (MUMFORD AND SONS) just for them. cursed, mortal blood may run through their veins, but destiny won’t let them forget their divinity. ✦ ❞
— basics —
name: lee chanwoo / pronouns: he/him / gender: cis man / age: seemingly 27 (almost 28) / birthday: april 4 / orientation: bisexual / occupation: has written nature and love poems for millenia; is now an editorial model as well / identity: “the golden son”
height: 6’1” / build: very slender / hair: black, straight / eyes: extremely dark brown / piercings: only the earlobes / tattoos: none / personal style: basic but with elegance; classic looks. Lots of gold and black. Dresses nicer when he’s with company.
positive traits: loving, loyal, wise / negative traits: distant, secretive, single-minded / mbti: esfj (the consul) / enneagram: 9w1 (the dreamer) / likes: intense thunderstorms, home cooking, sincerity / dislikes: manipulation, humor or fun at others’ expense, total silence
— about chanwoo —
Patient and reserved, Chanwoo is an echo of the boisterous, celebratory world-worshipper who lived happily in an ancient time. Chanwoo (known to some as “Abel”, the ill-fated brother of the world’s first murderer) used to be bright. Now he’s a flickering candle compared to his former sun; now he’s very, very tired. (It was not his choice to return to the place that turned on him. Resurrection is a true miracle, this he believes; but more than that, Chanwoo knows that it’s punishment in its own right, for being weak enough to initially fall.)
The betrayal—the event that defines his story to the world, though really his journey was only beginning—took Chanwoo completely by surprise. One day he had a brother; the next, he was looking into the face of someone who hated him. It hurt to die, and it hurt to learn to live again in a place that could just as easily transform to oppose him; but what hurt the most was seeing that hatred. Seeing that his brother didn’t love him. It broke Chanwoo’s heart.
Before his death and resurrection, Chanwoo overflowed with affection. Affection for life itself, for his Master (to him some kind of sage, a wise ruler and deserving object of Chanwoo’s praises), and for every person who accompanied him on the road that was his early existence. He loved his parents. He loved his brother. He loved even the meanest and the worst-behaved of his sheep.
Now… Well, Chanwoo usually responds rather than acts—and he certainly doesn’t lead with the fact that he’s kind.
People were worse than Chanwoo gave them credit for. Chanwoo loves them still…but he’s all done playing the fool.
If Chanwoo shows you affection now, it’s because you have his trust—and Chanwoo’s trust is one of the rarest commodities you can find.
(But Chanwoo supports everyone, even those he finds wicked. He won’t look like The Golden Son to them—more like a shadow, more like the ghost he became all those years ago—but a part of him clings to the notion that anyone can be good, if they only try, and so he tends to evildoers’ paths to a more moral life like a gardener, distant but determined to do the right thing.)
Chanwoo is an advocate for peace, however hard that may be to achieve. The obvious hatred between angels and demons means the opposite of peace, wherever that conflict rears its head and however the diverse, full-bodied personalities of these unearthly beings choose to clash. Chanwoo knows. Of course peace is an uphill battle.
(And with the death of God, things are only going to get worse. This is easy to understand.)
But if Chanwoo only prevails enough in this new and serious time—if he triumphs enough—he might earn the right to create a world in which peace is…well. A choice to be respected. (As his choice to be peaceful never, ever was.)
Chanwoo’s existence is bitter where he intended it to be sweet, ice cold where he had faith that it would be golden sun. Pain became Chanwoo’s life, and he is worn out.
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