#bvgeyman

@bvgeyman​  [SMS: Little demon] You're supposed to be working not sending me nudes. I'm not complaining though. {Shadow//Alexei}

Noragami II @bvgeyman​​ “My silence doesn’t mean that I quit… it simply means that I don’t want to argue with people who just don’t want to understand.” (Cassius to Dorian)

    Their way of speaking always had Dorian’s teeth grinding down together, his nails biting into the palm of his hand as he stared at the long since empty coffee pot. The lingering scent of stale coffee and faded cigarette smoke from the vent above was nothing more than a recipe for disaster. Cassius spoke and Dorian’s ears bled from annoyance, their voice grated on his nerves like water dripping from a leaky faucet, that slow, maddening drip unable to be located, unable to be stopped as rage built up beneath his skin. Rage that pooled and festered like lividity in the Jane Doe’s body they were currently investigating. Dorian had made his snarky quips, had clipped his words just enough to be unfriendly as he grabbed the file back from Cassius, their ever holier than though attitude was enough to make him want to turn heel and go, to tell them to fuck off and lose his number. So why couldn’t he?

    He pulled out his phone and looked through the photos he’d taken of the crime scene, of the evidence he couldn’t bring with him until his thumb slid over a little too far, sending his picture roll scrolling until it stopped upon a picture of Lex’s smiling features. A deep seated sorrow quickly sobering his anger as the detective sighed heavily, his lips pressing together, forcing himself to endure yet another one of Cassius’ moments of deduction, narrowing the murder weapon and motive down by some unknown means that the other only seemed to possess. It was uncanny how right they always seemed to be and yet his brows furrowed as he glared up at them, “then tell me! What am I not understanding here? Because from what I’ve been seeing, you can find all these missing people, you can solve all these cases that not even our most skilled detectives, that not even the FBI themselves can solve and yet…” He stood from the table, swiping his now empty pack off of it before he clenched it between his fingers, crumpling the carton like he wished he could do to the man in front of him.

     Fire, it’s the first thing that comes to mind as he prowls along the edges of the nightclub, fingertips running over velveteen curtains as they hang from the ceiling, his need to wrap the immortal up inside one of them, to watch them struggle for breath as he curls his fingers around their slender throat has him smirking. He watches them, watches the way they gravitate toward the center of the room like they always have, a lustful narcissist that craves that power, that control over others as Dorian beckons them to him one by one. Adrian watches as the man takes them one, two, three at a time; their hands running over and beneath what little clothing the immortal paints himself in. The blond is jealousy and he is wrath rolled in one but Adrian can’t help the way his heart beats a little faster at the sight of his lover, the way his breathing quickens, eyes dilate like he’s injected himself with that pretty little needle he keeps in the back of his dresser inside a little black box, the spoon burned on one side but he’s yet to throw it away.

     Adrian hasn’t felt the need to get high, hasn’t felt the need to take a life as he saunters around the nightclub; not like he has tonight. Perhaps it’s Dorian—he knows it is, that man makes his blood boil as his fingers trail over the sweat stained locks, use and age turning what once was painted on silver into nothing but rusted copper. The deadbolt is sturdy, thick in the lock of the wood as he pulls the curtain over it, hiding the doorway and its way out like a maze inside this heated dome. The pyres are slowly coming along, all they need now are the bodies to line around them. Something that can be easily fixed as he pulls out the flask from inside his coat pocket, silver chain dangling beside his fingers after he undoes the lid and sprinkles alcohol over the ends of the curtains. The shadows hug him, devour him as if he were made of nothing but darkness, a monster that has its eyes set only on the immortal dancing in the middle of the room. He wants to touch them, to dig his nails into their throat as he rips it out, to let his tongue run along the side of his hand as he tastes their crimson ichor.

     Dorian calls him ‘their Adonis’ a name that makes his lips curl up in delight as he traces the tip of his tongue over their throat, watches the way their body arches up into his hand as he squeezes them just enough. The way their legs spread further as he slides between them, nestles himself inside as if it’s where he’s always belonged. There’s a pause, a moment to savor the memories that fall upon the flat of his tongue, the way he swallows them back to the sounds of Dorian’s moans as he fucks them. How they dare to defy him when the blond tells them that he’ll kill them, their laugh as his fingers tighten around Dorian’s throat. The glint in his lover’s eyes, an unspoken challenge that burns through Adrian’s blood better than any drug ever could, they are his addiction. They are his disease.

     He can feel it, how Dorian flaunts those fake lovers around, the way he tells them everything they want to hear as Adrian watches tongues gliding over one another. Watches their mouths part as the immortal moans for the filth that dare lay their fingers upon what is so rightfully his. It is with this thought that Adrian sneers, walks past the people along the walls, his pace nearly quickening to the next exit like a lion stalking its prey. He stalks and Dorian allows it, haven’t they always done this though? A game of cat and mouse that neither have ever been willing to end, they get off on it. They get off on each other’s insatiable need for one another. Their jealousy, their wrath, their sex and their bloodlust calls to them like a siren in their veins as Adrian finally stills, the doors are locked, exits covered and now it’s just a matter of time before he lights this rat maze on fire. His eyes glint like the tip of his knife as he pulls it out from beneath his shirt where it’s been strapped, holds it against the black of his pants away from the crowd though with as mesmerized as they are by Dorian, no one will ever notice—until it’s too late.

     Adrian is a g o d, he is chaos and hatred, twisted desires that slither beneath his veins like diseased snakes as they inject their venom into him bite after bite. He is a man that will die a thousand deaths but only by the hand of one other, he will die when Dorian finally rips out his heart and devours it before him. But tonight, tonight he will keep his tainted heart as he lays waste to the filth gathered there in that room, he will destroy the lives of many as he lights fire and sends them all to hell if only to obtain his lover’s attention once more. There is nothing Adrian will not do to get that cold gaze upon his heated flesh, to get those eyes he so desperately wants to carve out so they’ll always watch him, the need to flick his tongue over them as if to taste the inside of Dorian’s beauty. It’s bitter and acrid, a monster to most but to Adrian, Dorian will forever be his only savior, his only destruction. His fingers brush over the side of his neck, knows that the immortal will be watching as he lets his lips lilt, his gaze piercing through their own like the knife he holds beside him.

     He shivers with the anticipation of what the night holds, breathes in the last remnants of the sullied air before he pulls out his lighter and flicks it open, watches as the flame catches, dances over the blade of the knife as it’s tossed upon the hanging pyre. The catch is nearly immediate, the blue flame spreads over the velveteen curtain, elegant shades of purple darken beneath its intimate touch as the flames devour it. Poison seeps into the air in colored smoke but the lights only dance through it like fog rolling in off the shore, the people are too numb to care, too numb to notice as they watch the man before them all toss his head back and laugh. It’s rich and sultry, a sound that could make a virgin’s toes curl but Adrian’s lust is hotter, burns hotter as the flames lick along the back walls, drag their poisoned tongues over sullied curtains as they leap from one to another. They ignite behind him, piercing blue eyes the forefront of the scene as his lips slowly spread into a sinister smile but he steps forward, blond hair falls in loose curls like he’s nothing more than precious doll. But the cracks that spider out over his features show only the grotesqueness that lies beneath his beauty and his desires, the way it oozes down his features like thick, black syrup. Screams start to rip around him, shouts as the crowd sees the burning inferno reaching higher and higher along the walls. The smoke hangs in the air as his body continues to move forward, unphased as his shoulder is hit, unphased as he’s pushed by hands that no longer wander in search of something more.

     His breath huffs out between parted lips in a playful laugh of mockery, a melodic lullaby sullied by the way Adrian carries it. The knife has been lost beneath the rampaging feet but it’s unneeded now as he wraps his hands around his lover’s waist, pulls them close against himself while lips tease the crest of their ear, the music thundering around them both, left untended to by the DJ who has joined the screaming frenzy on the floor. Every entrance is covered in fire bathed curtains, the doors locked and Adrian chuckles, presses his hips up against Dorian’s rear before they start to grind together to the music, a slow moving tongue tastes them, tastes the sweat upon their skin as he dips his head down low against their neck. There’s a moment, a pause as he takes in this new body, the way it feels, the way it tastes and smells but he purrs out words that are far too gentle in such a situation, whispers tinged with twisted love and lust as his fingers begin to wander beneath the fabric of Dorian’s clothes, following paths that other’s have sullied as he smiles into their skin.

@bvgeyman​ II Izumi and Egan “I know you took it, Egan. Return it immediately or else.”

     He has his back to the door, phone on his vanity as he’s playing with the ring, sliding it between his middle and his ring finger before he settles on the latter. It’s beautiful, brings out the color in his eyes like mercury slipping through his veins as he purrs in delight. It had been almost too easy to slip it into his pocket while Izumi was focused on their papers, like always it seemed. He laughs over the phone as he shakes his head, knowing they can’t see him as he hums and admires the beauty of his ring, certainly Persephone never had something so beautiful. “Or else? What, you’ll leave your little room and actually pay attention to me?” He taunts, fearing nothing but the attention of the man he’s in love with, the way their names leave his lips so perfectly together, a unison of light and dark that has his toes curling with desire.

daehyun keeps his hands in the insides of his jacket pockets as he watches the bookshop across the street. black jeans cling to slim legs and red hair is disheveled as it moves together with the afternoon breeze. the bookshop is illuminated with a warm light that grows brighter as the sun sets and gets lost behind seoul’s skyline. 

from the outside, tawny eyes take note of the green paint over lines of steel and wood. the bookshop looks small from where he stands, packed with far too many titles in wooden shelves and little space between aisles. its charm is there though, quaint and emphasized by colors and different sizes of books with fancy fonts and poetic titles carved in their covers. 

he takes a look at both sides of the street before he crosses it even if the movement of people and cars is almost non-existent. when he opens the door, a musty smell assaults his nose – cellulose decay, he read somewhere. the owner greets him with a bow of his head and a ‘ good morning ’ he doesn’t pay much attention to. from the inside, the bookshop is bigger than it seemed. 

the chill of his features eases as he wanders around, hazel hues looking for the trace of a presence that resounds too much with his own energy to be ignored. he makes out a lone figure at the back of the shop, attention poured into an old-looking volume and hair falling across striking sharp features. daehyun narrows his eyes, calculating like a feline about to pounce upon his prey. 

he doesn’t care about the title in the fallen angel’s hands. should be taking it into account, a voice at the back of his head reminds him, but he is getting better at ignoring lilith’s words breaking havoc inside him. instead, he moves forward, stopping a scarce meter from the other’s presence. it occurs to him that fallen angels are not so different from mortals. they get the same fixation on things with little meaning.

but what is there to make of the angels of the lord after all? these beings who understand humanity as much as he does. these beings who live in an unappealing sense of purity, hypocritical and deceitful. daehyun cares little for their blind devotion and their visions of the world, but even he can’t deny that there is power in their numbers and, above it all, in their own resentment. 

❝ i could give you back the things you were stripped off when he made you fall, ❞ his voice is low, silky. it’s not sugarcoated by obvious falsehood. it’s a simple statement. it’s the start of an exchange. ❝ but the question is if you would like me to? ❞ he looks around, reaching for a red book with a good title:  If This Isn't Nice, What Is?  

taking a seat on the opposite stool, he leafs through the pages, but his senses are focused on what the other does, on every motion of his hands, on the expression of his face. daehyun wonders if perhaps there are still marionette strings somewhere behind his back, waiting to be pulled by a divinity who didn’t care to twist his children until they were the resemblance of his ideals. ❝ or maybe i am getting too ahead of myself and you want to remain in here, waiting. ❞

@bvgeyman

"Sono sicura che mi sta aspettando,” the nearly sing-song voice of Helena Martinelli bounced off the walls of the Vatican Apostolic Archive’s interior, the sound, instead of moving forward, somehow echoing backwards, almost to the end of the hallway whence she had come, only to be cut off suddenly, as though by an invisible blade. The sweet, innocent smile painted across her features were by no means distracting nor convincing to the bespectacled aged priest watching her with utmost care. His tired blue eyes, she noted, appeared as though they were covered in a thin layer of gossamer, a strange, semi-translucent whiteness adding further to the priest’s incalculably old age.

The priest was confident that Ms Martinelli was not human. There was nothing about her that he could use as evidence: her skin was a shade too pale, but so was a number of European women’s. Her blue eyes too piercing? Nothing too odd. Locks of ginger hair too perfectly arranged, disobeying gravity? Perhaps. Her calm demeanor, her calm voice, the ease with which she walked as if she had been there times and times again? No, nothing was certain and yet, may God be his witness, he was willing to bet his own life on the fact she was not of the human flesh or world and just by considering that, he felt a nauseating chill settling in the pit of his stomach. Why was she looking into their most clandestine section and who had even approved of her visit? No news had reached him, and the old priest could only wonder why, with a healthy dose of resentment.

“Si, certo. Se volete seguirmi, vi condurrò—” he began to speak after giving himself a moment’s time to inspect her, but she interrupted him before he could finish.

“Non è necessario. So arrivarci da solo.” Her voice was sweeter than honey, and yet he did not miss a tone of impatience as she spoke to him. Her as of yet piercing gaze was relentless, all until he nodded and moved aside, allowing Ms Martinelli to make her own way down the clandestine hallway and into the catacombs-like maze which would lead her to the Supernatural department.

In all honesty, Babylon had never been there - there never had been a need to keep themselves close to Vatican and their questionable business, but it appeared that there arose a desperate time, and what better cause to ask for desperate measures. As they moved down and around the maze, they enjoyed the somber semi-darkness of the way, glad that they did not have to deal with a nosy old man behind their back. Human or not, mortal or not, God’s faithful little servants were as pestiferous as those who opposed Him and Babylon was not patient enough to deal with them gently, at the present moment at least.

Once they reached the door towards the archives, the door was pushed with ease and the same, confident stride led them into the interior, Babylon letting the door close behind them as they breathed in - the smell of dust, old books, of human skin, of metal, of mold, and perfume and...something deliciously dark. It took a while to find the creature in charge of the section, but once they did, Babylon watched them for a mere few seconds before tilting their head to a curious angle, a smile devoid of any particular meaning or emotion gracing their features as they spoke.

“A rumor has it that some of the books are bound in human skin. If true, isn’t that deliciously grotesque, considering the location?”

☕ : Does your muse prefer coffee or tea?

She drinks caramel latte a lot but in fact, Aera prefers tea over coffee!

☂  : Does your muse like rain?

Spring/summer rain mostly. It is refreshing and soothing, whereas autumn/winter one does not bring such nice sensations therefore she dislikes it.

♬ : Does your muse sing well? Regardless of whether they sing well or not, do they enjoy singing?

Aera sometimes hums to songs while she is working at her home office; she generally loves listening to various types of music from rock to classical and when it comes to her singing abilities, I’d say they are good! if curious, you check this video out ♥

📱 : Does your muse prefer calling or texting?

Both! She equally enjoys them. Sometimes when she is too busy she prefers texting, and when she has some more free time she loved calling.

☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon, which is your muse’s favorite?

The sun, because it brings her so much happiness. The moon she associates with loneliness.

✝ : Is your muse religious?

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accepting! @bvgeyman

An absolute joy to talk to and a fantastic writer. Our conversations aren’t the lengthiest but we’ve known each other for years and you always greet me warmly whenever we reconnect and I hope you know how much that means to me.