Devil May Cry

Living in hell was, unexpectedly, fine. It was nothing as he used to hear - not that he could remember, all the memories from his previous life had dispelled the moment he first arrived here, his soul emptied of every recollection or laugh, ready to start all over. So, for him, hell feels like home, like the place he wants to belong.

He can only pinpoint the reason after him becoming a demon, buried in the underworld, living sinfully without redemption, with a moon that bleeds red and stars made of fierce flames, but he is pleased with it, he can’t feel any kind of regret and his time in hell is only enjoyable - he can go to the surface and play with humans, trick and fool innocent, naive angels and steal the souls they come to collect (he can also seduce men and women and relish into the glances and stares they receive him with, enjoy the softness of a body under his paws, smoke their lives as if strawberry cigarettes, welcoming them to his kingdom once he is done decaying their hearts - from pink to black he colors them with brushes that feel like harsh kisses against the skin, their pulse like orange juice).

Heaven can wait - Heaven can go to hell for Minho has no rush nor intention to go there, not when hell holds fire stars and uncountable laughs, not when here there are no laws, no punishments and it’s all about freedom (but demons live among themselves in peace and harmony because, having all that they could wish for, violence and crimes have no place on their minds or hearts). Heaven can wait because as far as he is acquaintance with it Heaven has too many rules that are too easy to break - angels are forbidden to feel anything but love for God and hate for demons even if they hadn't grounded them: it is on their essence.   

Heaven is a different story, he has heard from Lucifer himself - who once upon a time was the closest to God and who had golden wings that shimmered under the sun. He has told him how easy for angels is to fall, how effortlessly God turns his back to them, letting them downfall, smashing their bones and melting the feathers until blackening their souls, painting them with coal and smoke and then throwing them like useless trash only for breaking a law - only because he loved humans more than he should. For that only, Minho renegades of God, cursing his sole existence, for being so inconsiderate towards those he had created.

Minho loves humans, he truly does - thus humans are lovely and their souls are ready to be tainted, filled with sins he can easily fulfill for them. For him is so simple to make wishes come true it’s not amusing anymore. Minho doesn’t enjoy using humans as puppets as others do, he likes to corrupt them in the old fashion way, no magic implied: if they fall for him is because he is charming and alluring and captivating - and beautiful, with a soft skin that begs to be bitten, a warm mouth that is tempting and inviting, hands that know where to touch to turn a simple caress into a lustful moan.

But what he does the best is stealing souls - he has a good intuition that leads him to the dying person before any angel can get there and so taking away the shimmering, white pearl is as easy as a kid's game.

He has seen angels but none as beautiful as this one: bending over the dead body, kissing the closed eyes as the last goodbye. He has never seen a soul so weightless, beaming as if made of of sunshine, and its gleam baths his face in golden hues, the moon shivers and pours its own silver onto his wings that are the purest shadow of white and cream. Minho has never witnessed something as reverent as this moment is - sacred and holy as if praying to God - and his empty heart stops beating - it hurts for a second too long and then there is water falling from his eyes, black like the inside of his chest and it glitters on his fingers covered in charcoal that burns his flesh.

He doesn’t understand it but, when the magic is lost and the angel spreads his wings to leave, he can’t find the strength to follow him, to do what he has to - and that is taking the soul from him,  for this angel is so painfully beautiful that his chest throbs in agony and the mere thought of looking into his eyes and see the light for the first time, like a sunset covering the night sky, hurts in ways he has never experimented. He can stand standing in front of him, to have a glance of his face - he sees him fly away, his wings like dawn covering the sky and planing over his head while he dreams about touching the soft feathers that weave his precious wings that shine as if made with jewelry.

He thinks about him. He draws him. He dreams about him every night and day - his figure is engraved under his eyelids when the sun shines; he is all Minho can see. He breathes in and the air tastes like him because, somewhere, this angelical creature lives and Minho needs to find him, needs to stare at him, needs him for his heart to stop bleeding, for his eyes to see clean.

Of course angels live in heaven and this is useless because he can’t go there - stepping near will be his end since it irradiates purity, and sanctity is the antithesis to the vagueness that demons are, the stained life they carry and Minho can’t die without seeing him again (and maybe then he will be the one to uphold what is left of his soul). Of course, Minho has no way to find his own star in the vast ocean of the night sky, the one that dangles in his nights and morning starts and in everything he does he is there too because he is living in his heart. He bites his lips and wets the little dot under his skin that shimmers like his wings but tastes like iron and blood.

He lit a cigarette and lets the smoke drown his senses, blurring his face under its color and thinks about him - he lives in his imagination, he is always with Minho. Like this, relaxed, he can picture him pressed inside his arms, the feeling of his feathers under his palm, the strawberry taste of his glossed lips that shimmer as if made with tears (Minho is mesmerized by this angel he has only seen once but was able to snatch his mind, enrapturing his heart). The haze draws his features in the tiny air and he graps it only for it to run away, swirling into the infinite.

He takes all the chances and opportunities to go to Earth; he travels from one end to the other in one day stealing souls from above, trying to get a glance of him again; he fights with angels that are stronger than him and, sometimes, he is sent back with a hole in his chest, struggling to breathe but thinking about him can heal all the physical pain - he is his remedy and his curse, his obsession, the clarity that he lags and he desperately wants and needs and for that he cusses to the night, to the stars, for allowing him to meet this one celestial creature, to have a glimpse of heaven when he is not allowed to have a peek of it). Angels might be arrogant and despise him with all their might but Minho is decided to meet this one, even if he hates him, he needs to stare into his eyes, he is bound to him as if enchanted.