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icarusignite · 1 year

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An Eye for an Eye (part 28)

A/N: back to back chapters, yum. spent all day on this so plz share your thoughts, it rlly motivates me <33

Also here's a pinterest board I put together for what I was imagining for Dornish fashion and the cut of Daenys's gown (aka the plunging necklines, bare sides/back, flowing fabrics)

Word Count: ~3k

All chapters: MASTERLIST

AO3

Although nighttime in Dorne was significantly cooler than the sweltering afternoon, Aemond Targaryen found himself nursing a goblet of cold wine in his hands, willing it to take away some of the heat he felt. He was still in the riding leathers he had arrived in, an oversight on his part, and they only added to his discomfort. Now that Prince Qoren had denied his offer, he had no choice but to turn his attention to his children. Aemond had seen the Prince's heir earlier that day but he had yet to lay eyes on his second daughter, the one with whom he was supposed to secure a union. He was sure that Aegon would not be opposed to having a second wife, and although it might create trouble with the Faith of the Seven, a betrothal to the king, as opposed to a mere second prince, might be just the thing Dorne needed to declare their support. Aemond turned these thoughts over in his head as he let his eye wander throughout the grand hall where the wedding festivities were just getting started. Noble lords and ladies streamed in and mingled with one another, partaking in the various food and drinks laid out. Aemond himself stood to the side on his own, not quite ready to begin socializing just yet. His ears pricked up at the voice of the herald who announced the arrival of the bride and her entourage.

The entire hall fell silent as Aliandra Martell stepped in, her presence alone commanding attention, but although everyone else's gaze was pinned on her, Aemond found his drawn somewhere else, to the girl walking on the princess's left side. He blinked once and let his eye wander over her bare arms and the plunging neckline of her dress that came to a stop just above her navel. The bottom half of her dress burst forth from her waist in shimmering swaths of yellow, red, and orange silk, the colours blending into one another and Aemond nearly looked away when he noticed the way the fabric parted when she walked, the slit exposing her legs up until her mid-thigh. He lifted his cup to drain it completely before resuming his perusal. An ornate snake coiled around his wife's right forearm, its copper and gold scales glimmering in the candlelight when she moved. Aemond forced himself to turn away, the room suddenly feeling suffocating and a different kind of heat rose within him.

"Are you sure this looks okay?" Daenys whispered, reaching up to brush her fingers across the ridged skin under her left eye.

Coryanne swatted Daenys's hand away from her face, "Rest assured, my handmaidens are most skilled at this sort of thing. Your skin looks flawless, you look flawless!"

"Don't just stand there, come, there is someone I want you to meet," Aliandra gestured them toward the group of nobles her father was currently conversing with.

At his daughter's arrival, Prince Qoren halted his speech and beckoned her forward enthusiastically before taking his leave. Another man who Daenys assumed to be Edgar Yronwood, held out his hand for Aliandra to take and then pulled her into a passionate kiss. Daenys and Cassandra exchanged an awkward look and Coryanne only laughed.

"Save all that for after the wedding sister and introduce our guests to each other!"

"Daenys, Lady Cassandra, this my betrothed, Lord Edgar," Aliandra placed her hand on his chest. "Edgar, this is Princess Daenys Velaryon and Lady Cassandra Baratheon."

Lord Edgar tipped his head in respect, "It is an honour to meet you both."

"The pleasure is ours, Lord Edgar."

Lord Edgar's eyes scanned the crowd before settling on someone and waving them over.

"Ah, here we are, I did hear that there were going to be two members of the Targaryen royal family present tonight," Lord Edgar smiled jovially at Aemond. "Prince Aemond and I made our introductions earlier today and I must say, he is quite the conversationalist."

"Oh is he now?" Daenys's eyes narrowed at Aemond who had come to stand right beside her, his fingers brushing against hers ever so slightly, the touch phantom enough that it could almost be coincidental. She pulled away, pretending to arrange her hair over her shoulder as an excuse.

"Oh yes! He is an avid reader of history and philosophy just as I am. It seems as though we will be good friends."

Daenys gave Aliandra a sardonic look, making her roll her eyes.

"I do hope you will treat my friend well," she raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Lord Edgar.

"Oh don't you start now Daenys? You cannot threaten my betrothed on my wedding night!"

Lord Edgar on the other hand had an earnest look in his eyes, "I adore Princess Aliandra. I will never give her an opportunity to complain."

"Is that so my love? No complaints ever? Are you sure you will be able to keep up with my demands then?"

Edgar still had his arm around her waist and when she trailed her finger across his lip once again, Coryanne let out an exasperated sigh and dragged the other two girls away toward another group of nobles. Aemond trailed after them, not wanting to stay behind to watch the smitten couple.

"Let us leave my sister to her husband. It is time for us to have fun. Daenys, that dress was meant for dancing!"

Daenys turned toward Cassandra, "You heard her my lady, shall we dance then?"

"No, I will be the one to choose your first partners, and there are ever so many choices. I will not have you spoil my fun like this!"

Aemond cast Coryanne a thinly veiled look of annoyance and she simply grinned in response.

"Daenys, meet Ser Benedict Dayne. Ser Benedict, this is Princess Daenys and I implore you to ensure that she enjoys herself tonight!" Coryanne pushed Daenys and she saw both Ser Benedict and Aemond shift forward to assist her. She righted herself and ignored both men, shooting Coryanne a glare.

Ser Benedict was a handsome young man, with raven locks and startling blue eyes that bore into her curiously. He gave a tentative smile and held out a hand which Daenys promptly took before the Dornish princess could embarrass her further. She grabbed two drinks from a servant passing by and downed them before pulling Ser Benedict to the middle of the hall where many had already started dancing to the pleasant melody that floated in the air.

"I did not know that the fates would favour me enough to grant me a dance with one as fair as you my princess," Ser Benedict tried to make conversation. "Although I must admit, the look that the Targaryen prince is giving me is making me quite nervous. You do not have to participate in this dance if you do not wish to, Princess Coryanne has quite a penchant for jokes."

Daenys turned for a moment and when she saw Aemond's eye boring into her, she grabbed Ser Benedict's hand and placed it on her waist, his thumb grazing the bare skin of her side, and she lifted her own hand to settle on his shoulder. Her feet fell into the familiar steps of the dance and Ser Benedict followed suit, lips curving in a smile.

"No, I am more than happy to have this dance with you. It has been quite a while, that is all. You need not pay anyone else any mind."

Ser Benedict eventually took over to lead the dance but it was slightly awkward and Daenys missed a step, her foot coming to land on his. He screwed his eyes shut in exaggerated anguish.

"Oh gods, I am so sorry!"

"No matter princess, you may step on me all you like," Ser Benedict winked, and then grimaced. "Did I truly just say that out loud?"

Daenys laughed, feeling at ease, "Yes, that was quite..."

"Absurd?"

"Definitely!"

"I applaud you for being able to put up with my terrible flirting skills princess, they are not for the weak."

"Are you flirting with me?" Daenys raised an unimpressed eyebrow and Ser Benedict looked away sheepishly.

"It is clearly not working if you have to ask me that."

"Oh, you definitely need to improve your skills then...perhaps I can provide some insightful advice?"

"Ha! Surely it is you who is trying to seduce me now."

"I am not!" Daenys was still aware of Aemond's heated gaze on her as she leaned up to brush her lips against her dance partner's ear. "Would you like me to seduce you?"

Ser Benedict blushed furiously and ducked his head in embarrassment as Daenys pulled away with a laugh.

"I apologize, perhaps I got a little too carried away."

"No-no it is quite alright princess. It was quite unexpected that is all, but perhaps I will take you up on your lessons, you have proven yourself to be quite proficient after all," Ser Benedict smirked.

"Well since you are putting up with my non-existent dancing abilities, I would say that it is an equal exchange."

In this manner, friendly conversation flowed between them, the words coming easier now that they had moved past the initial awkwardness that came with new acquaintances. They spun around in circles and once the music changed, those around them began switching partners, spinning from one person to the next. Ser Benedict kissed the back of her hand politely before handing her off to the next young man waiting to take his place.

"It was an honour dancing with you princess, I do hope to see you again soon."

Daenys did not pay much attention to the next few partners she danced with, a mixture of smiling lords and ladies alike who showered her with flattering nonsense and made small talk. She refused to take a break, instead choosing to get lost in the music and physical exertion of the movements. Occasionally she'd steer them to the edge of the dancing circle to snag another drink from the servants who weaved through the crowd. She grinned and flirted, trailing fingers through hair and down throats, the drinks ridding her of her inhibitions. Aemond's fuming rigid form was a constant presence in the corner of her eye as he leaned against the wall and never once took his eye off her. That only made her behave more recklessly; twirling on the arm of her ninth partner, some lord from House Allyrion. He made a joke at which she laughed coyly, tilting her chin up. Suddenly, he gripped her jaw tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled her even closer to his face, eyes glittering with something that made Daenys's skin crawl.

"It is quite a shame about your eye, you could almost be pretty without that scar. Though I suppose you'd taste just as sweet," he murmured against her skin, eyes dropping to her exposed sternum.

"Stop. Let go," Daenys grit out.

"Oh, I don't think I will," he brought up one hand to cover her injured eye and surveyed the rest of her face thoughtfully before stroking her cheek. "You are quite a sight."

"I said, let go!"

When he still did not release her, Daenys brought her hand up and pried his fingers from her face, bending them back until the smug look dropped off his face and it contorted in pain. They were almost at the edge of the dance floor, everyone around them too busy to notice the commotion and Daenys wrenched his hand further until his middle finger made a sickening crack. He let out a strained whimper and Daenys bared her teeth at him in a sweet smile.

"You are a whore. You should not be behaving like that if you cannot handle the attention," he spat, cradling his broken finger.

"If you ever touch me, or anyone else without their permission again, I will give you a matching scar," she whispered into his ear and pulled out one of the sharpened hairpins in her tresses to trace it over his left eye.

Then she grabbed another drink and made her way back to the center of the dancing. Perhaps that should have been her sign to stop and take a break but she could not stop now. There was a dangerous fury that filled her and she needed to expel that energy without causing a bigger scene. Her next partner calmed her spirits though, and her lips lifted involuntarily at the sight of her friend.

"Cassie, finally!"

"By the gods, where did you disappear off to? You have been dancing for ever so long now."

"Oh I went nowhere," a giggle erupted from her lips as the relief came bubbling up to the surface. The encounter from earlier had bothered her more than she cared to admit, even to herself, and she didn't think she could handle another without drawing attention.

"Just how many drinks have you had Daenys?"

"Not enough."

"Daenys..." Cassandra warned sternly and Daenys ducked her head in embarrassment.

"I cannot remember exactly, but it has not been too many I promise. I still have my wits about me."

"Good to know. When Princess Aliandra said you ought to have fun, I am sure she did not mean to the point of making yourself sick," then she groaned. "And why is your husband looking at me like he wants to kill me?"

"Pay him no mind, he wants to kill everyone."

"Well, he certainly looks moments away from killing someone."

Daenys turned her head to see Aemond with his fists clenched, one foot in front of the other as if he was going to storm over right then, his eye dark with something she could not recognize. She turned back and tucked her head into Cassandra's neck as they swayed to the music slowly.

"Well, if he is going to, he might as well do away with himself first."

"Remind me to never do anything that angers you. I would like to remain on your benevolent side thank you very much."

"You can start by not killing my family members. That'd be a great start," Daenys mumbled and then stopped short, pulling away to look at Cassandra apologetically. "I did not mean...Oh gods, perhaps I have had a few too many drinks."

"It is alright Daenys, I am grateful for all the sequence of events that have brought our paths together," Cassandra laughed, a gentle melodic sound.

Daenys sighed dreamily, wrapping her arms around her friend's neck and settling her head against her shoulder. Since Cassandra was taller than her, the position worked well for them and as she gazed up, a rush of warmth flooded through her. Cassandra couldn't help herself as she brought her hand up to brush across Daenys's cheek tenderly, wanting to freeze that moment and live in it forever. In this little space, under the glowing candlelight surrounded by the twirling press of bodies, it was only them. There were no duties, no responsibilities, no customs, no disapproving glares, and no Faith of the Seven. There was only them with their eyes locked; two girls who for a single moment in time could pretend that they would not spend the rest of their lives denying the pull between their hearts.

Daenys snapped out of the trance first, clearing her throat, "So...uh...did Princess Aliandra manage to find you a Dornish husband like she said she would?"

Cassandra scowled, "They are all so..."

"Dashing? Charming? Irresistibly rich?"

"No...they are all men."

"And you my love are a woman. This is the way of the world I am afraid. Are you sure none of them were able to charm you? Surely someone in this great big room is worthy of the affections of a lady such as you."

Cassandra's cheeks warmed at Daenys's words. She had called her love. She tried to tell herself that it did not matter, that her friend was just a naturally affectionate person but a stubborn corner of her heart refused to heed the warning and tucked the feeling safely away as if storing a precious treasure.

"So," Daenys probed, "do not avoid my question, Cassie. Is there truly no one who could make you happy?"

"Why do you care?"

"I...I want to see you happy. I believe it is my duty as your friend, is it not?"

"As my friend, yes..."

"So, is there someone good and kind enough to be worthy of my lovely lady? Prosperous enough?"

"Prosperous?" Cassandra scoffed. "You are literally the daughter of a queen. What need could you possibly have for wealth Daenys?"

"Additional wealth never hurt anyone," Daenys shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "And besides it is not for me, it is for you. If a man has wealth of his own, he is less likely to pursue you for yours."

"Oh that is the most ridiculous thing I have heard all day, and I have heard Lord Qorgyle's tale of the boar that haunts his dreams. Wealth never hurt anyone, my goodness, and a greedy man is a greedy man, no matter how many assets of his own he has."

"Are you comparing me to Lord Qorgyle and his boar? How dare you?"

"Well, you did compare me to a Kraken earlier, so consider it a fair repayment perhaps," Cassandra winked.

"I did not compare you to a Kraken Cassie, I said you were better than one," Daenys pulled her closer by the waist and Lady Baratheon let out a surprised exclamation. "Kissing you is better than any Kraken and I would kiss you a thousand times over just to prove it."

They were almost nose to nose and Cassandra grinned, playing along, "Let us not say things we do not mean princess, you wouldn't want people getting the wrong idea."

"Oh, I think I am done caring about what other people think."

Before Cassandra could think of a response, Daenys had already pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. It was just a peck on the cheek truthfully, an almost kiss, a what if or a maybe, but Cassandra froze all the same. Daenys pulled away slowly, eye laced with apprehension and the furrow in her brow made Cassandra want to kiss her again, properly this time. The thought surprised her, she did not know where it had come from. She did not even know that it was possible to feel this way but it made sense really. Daenys was one of her dearest friends and she had helped her become the head of her house. She had pledged her sword and loyalty to her and protected her sisters from those who sought to steal what was hers. It was only logical for her to feel indebted to her, to feel this pull toward the person who had given her so much. This is what one felt for a true friend Cassandra decided, and Daenys was her truest friend indeed.

At the prolonged silence of her companion, Daenys opened her mouth to speak, "Cassie...I-I'm sorr-"

"May I have your next dance?" interrupted a smooth voice that made Daenys's spine stiffen and Cassandra's face fell at the sight of Aemond Targaryen and his outstretched hand.

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incognetomisquito · 3 years

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I apologize in advance to anyone who might have to share a dorm with me

#ignoring the obvious ‘stays up late doing things’#i do crafts. which means they /will/ at some point walk into our shared living quarters to me on the floor with papermache or some shit #currently have my cardboard fabric measuring thing out just in the middle of my floor #with patterns ironed and laid on top ready for the fabric #but its nighttime and i have no motivation to cut fabric #so i shall leave it sitting there. dont wanna wrinkle the pattern.#future dormmate is gonna hate me

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redsdesktop · 5 years

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Unbalanced Scales

Chapter 3

Chapter Index

Warnings: Mild Swearing

Pairings: Christophe x Gregory

AU: Medieval / Fantasy, ABOverse

"Can I speak with you for a second?" Christophe's tone was terse as the group dismounted from their horses. They had traveled a bit a ways from the town, far enough that the smell of burnt flesh no longer lingered in the air.

Gregory didn't look like he wanted to agree to Christophe's veiled demand, but regardless, he looked over to their company. "We'll set up camp here. I'll fetch some firewood for the evening." He gave a gesture with his hand before moving towards the woods, might as well do something productive while they talked. Christophe had always found that doing a task while discussing heavy matters helped focus his mind anyways. Once they were far away enough from the camp to not be overheard, Christophe finally spoke up.

"Are you fuckin' insane? Going to talk with dragons, Gregory?" Christophe bit out through a clenched jaw, the idea that Gregory drug him out on the beginnings of this adventure only to do something stupid only proved to Christophe that this mission was a failure from the start. Without Gregory, this ragtag group would fall apart, bickering and fighting among themselves. Which was why such a ailment had fallen on this land in the first place.

|Aw, that's sweet Christophe. You do actually care about me after all this time?" Gregory teased, his blue eyes hinting of such sardonic humor, it had always been enough to needle away at Christophe's balance. "We can't possibly fight the dragons and by the time we've spread the word, most of the able bodied warriors would be dead."

It took a moment to understand what Gregory had meant by dead warriors, when he understood he look more annoyed, turning away from Gregory for a moment, running a hand over his mouth as if he couldn't believe Gregory's words. However, he was right, of course. Alphas made up the vast majority of warriors in the kingdom, it was only in recent years that omegas could actually join the legal army. Before, an omega had been forbidden to do any sort of combat. That had been a bit of a pain in Christophe's ass, but he'd managed to get away with it, only because he was fairly decent at lying and covering up his own dynamic.

"If they're torching villages, I don't think they'll want to talk. They'll especially enjoy turning you into a crisp, if they even bother with the mercy." Christophe broke off some sticks off a fallen branch, he didn't want to bother dragging the entire branch back. "What's your plan, you didn't drag me along with you just to get killed on the first monster we stumble across." Gregory always had a motive, a plan, but he was rarely ever forthcoming with his thoughts. The less details people knew, the better in Gregory's opinion. Christophe had always hated how the man worked, just another reason why Christophe had left.

"Christophe." Gregory's sober tone drew him in, causing him to look away from what he was doing, giving Gregory his attention. "I brought you along because I may not see you again."

"Well, that was sort of the fuckin' point of me running away." Christophe frowned, Gregory didn't have to let Christophe leave, the man had all the power to keep Christophe in servitude and yet he hadn't. Now he wanted to see him again? |What are you not telling me, Gregory?" Christophe turned to fully face the blond, suspicious of whatever Gregory was planning behind the scenes. Secrets, lies, deceiving, Gregory was all too familiar with it. And Christophe was all too familiar with Gregory.

"You know I won't give you the reasons, Christophe. Its better that you don't know." Gregory looked like he had challenge in his eyes, cutting Christophe out of this secluded place Gregory had cornered himself in. It annoyed Christophe, the man was talking about things as it it were the end of days, but Christophe clung to whatever scrap he could find. Christophe had no faith in the world or the afterlife, but he'd be damned if he'd just roll over and die like a coward and he wouldn't allow Gregory to do so either. No matter how much he hated the man.

He moved, in a blink of an eye Christophe had ditched the armful of sticks to seize Gregory by the collar of his tunic and shove him back against the tree. Gregory didn't struggle, he'd dealt with Christophe's temper enough times to be used to it. "Fuck you if you think you can still make decisions for me. I'm sick of the shit, Gregory. Tell me. Say it!" Christophe growled, the more worked up he got, the clear the answer was, but he wanted to hear it from Gregory's own lips, needed that confirmation.

"You haven't changed at all, 'Tophe." Gregory stated with endearment in his tone, making Christophe's gaze narrow and a growl rumble up from the back of his throat. "I'm afflicted with the curse, so you understand my reasoning for doing this now?"

Christophe tightened his grip, causing the fabric of Gregory's tunic to tighten around his throat but still he didn't struggle. "How long?" His voice was like gravel, strained with anger and other emotions he didn't want to acknowledge. Ever.

"I've carried the curse for a couple of weeks now. I've managed to slow the progress down." Gregory looked almost apologetic, he'd already given up on any hope of surviving it. The idea alone was enough to jerk Gregory forward a little before slamming him harder against the tree, trying to knock some sense into him. At the violent insistence, Gregory continued. "I have a few months left, I wanted to spend some time with you in case things fell through."

"You're still the same asshole as ever." Christophe snarled before shoving himself away from Gregory, turning around, unable to bear the sight of Gregory at the moment. He couldn't think clearly whenever he looked at Gregory, the man was his greatest weakness, it was far too dangerous being around him. Christophe didn't think with his brain, which was his number one rule. The heart was weak, soft and couldn't make the right decisions. The mind was strong, logical, and had saved his skin more times than he could count.

"'Tophe." The nickname sounded off right next to his ear. Christophe hadn't even heard Gregory move, but now he was right behind him, whispering into his ear as if trying to soothe a feral animal. Christophe turned his head away in rejection, he wouldn't fall for that, not ever again.

"I won't fall for your wiles again, Gregory. Don't be a idiotic romantic and go off getting yourself killed. If you do, then I hope you rot in hell." Christophe shoved his elbow back into Gregory's abdomen, planning on storming away with this knowledge weighing heavily on him. However, when he took a single step, a iron grip cuffed his upper arm and yanked hard. Christophe found himself drawn to a stop by bumping into Gregory's body. This was far too dangerous of a predicament, he couldn't risk being this close to him. It'd been so long since he'd felt the warmth of the taller male's body, not as hard and lean as Christophe's own but still holding a graceful power that radiated from him. Addicting if one wasn't prepared.

Fingers skated over his cheek, the slight rasp of his scruff brushing against bared fingertips. Gregory rarely ever took off his gloves, making Christophe wonder how many people Gregory had ever touched in his lifetime. It was tempting, to simply forget all the troubles, all the problems in the world and melt into the touch. He had been stressed for so long, distrusting everyone and everything that he couldn't remember when the last time he'd let his guard down but he was certain it had been with Gregory. "I've missed you, beyond comprehension." The softly spoken words were like honeyed tea, warm, relaxing, slowly eating away at all resistance.

Christophe raised one of his own hands, pressing it over Gregory's, capturing it against his cheek as he opened his eyes, looking up to meet Gregory's. No one had ever looked at him like that, with complete focus and adoration. People had feared him, had found his manners and nature too coarse to ever remain in his presence. With Gregory, it had only intrigued him, drawn him in. It was like an obsession that Christophe couldn't break. Time, distance, harsh words, nothing seemed to deter Gregory from what he seemed to consider a prize. While Christophe continued to reject Gregory, he had never bothered to take interest in another, no one else had managed to work their way past all of Christophe's guards and exploit him so thoroughly.

"I will never belong to you, you selfish prick." Christophe broke the spell as he shoved the hand away, too many memories that had been drawn up. He'd do his job and nothing more, once this was done, his debt would be paid and he'd never see Gregory again. He didn't give any second thought to the odd pang in his chest, his heart had dragged him into this mess so long ago and now Christophe had to pay the consequences. He tossed Gregory's hand away and stepped back, retreating to pick up the sticks he collected and returned to the temporary camp they'd left the four idiots to set up.

Leopold was the first to notice his return, without Gregory. "Oh hey, Christophe, did you lose the councilor out there?" The paladin looked out into the woods, almost nervously. "He better come back before it gets dark, the woods sure are a bit scary when it gets nighttime."

Christophe dumped the pile of sticks inn the center of camp with a agitated motion. "We would be far too lucky if that golden haired bastard got ate by a pack of wolves." Christophe went over to his horse who had been tied up to a tree, pulling off his sleeping bag. "Don't get your underwear in a twist, kid. He always has a way of showing back up, even when its unwanted." He dropped the roll onto the ground, watching as the ranger called Stan seemed to be working on making a fire. It appeared they weren't all completely useless at least.

"You, uh, wanna' talk about it? As a paladin, I've got a small bit of know how when it comes to confession." Leopold asked as he sat down next to Christophe. "Though, its mostly just from me watchin' visitors come into the Church while I was trainin', but its better than nothing, yeah?" It seemed a little quiet, making Christophe aware that the two kings were listening in when they were usually bickering. Knowing Gregory, his presence was likely an unknown, it was impossible to ever dig up information on the councilor. Gregory was basically a ghost, no records, no friends or family. Until now, Christophe highly doubted that Gregory even spoke a single word about him in their long separation.

Even after running away, he still seemed to belong to Gregory. No one knew about Christophe either, not anymore at least. Gregory had been thorough in every aspect of his life and Christophe had been a part of it. So even he had been erased from common knowledge. Which in reality, Christophe didn't particularly mind at all, he had enjoyed his isolation, away from the bullshit people offered. Just him and nothing else. Well, except the goats.

"Kid, you're real sweet and all." Christophe opened his travel bag to forage out some dried meat. He looked over at Leopold, his innocent expression made Christophe believe the boy hadn't seen a real battle in his life. Christophe didn't know much about any of the company, so he wouldn't make too permanent of a judgement, but for now Leopold gave off the impression of a boy who hadn't yet been stained by the cruelty of this world. "But this fucked up situation isn't something that fuckface God or any of use rats can fix."

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unimpressedperson · 5 years

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Jackpot | pt. 2

(Found this picture in @youthstuffs , thank you for posting it)

Genre: Fluff and Crack, I guess…

Warnings: None

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x @taesbetch , Kim Namjoon x Reader

Word Counting: 4.7k

Synopsis: Nya spent her whole life in Las Vegas, she would never imagine that local knowledge would ever be useful. However, her vision changed when Kim Seokjin appeared and introduced her to a few friends, film producers, whose needed guidance through Las Vegas underrated places for a movie. She agreed in working for them, and in that moment none of their lives would ever be the same. What happens in Vegas, not always has to be kept in Vegas.

A/N: Heeeeeeeey Nya!! Finally the second part is on! Late, but not gone. Guuurl! It’s a bit more romantic chapter, yet I used it to discuss LGBT culture more further. I’m really proactive in the LGBTQ+ community and want to talk about it, since I feel a lack of queers characters with voice, personality and opinion on oneshots and fanfics here. Since it’s not properly turned to that public, I tried to mingle the storyline a bit. Hope you enjoy it :) forgive any grammar mistakes.

- x - x - x - x -

It was 3 a.m, whilst some cities around the world were down to nest and rest, Las Vegas wouldn't stop. Nighttime is their time. Everything worked after midnight, entertainment would never lack after midnight. Clubs, bars, pubs, casinos, diners, stores, nothing stopped when moon reached its peak.

Therefore, Nya defined “Paris” as the last stop. Everyone was tired and almost falling asleep. Jungkook bought new underwear at a Walmart, but decided to keep on using his new skirt. Namjoon and Yoongi took a short nap whilst being driven to “Paris”. Hoseok chugged two cans of Red Bull and feeling like his blood turned into electricity, at any moment he could grow wings and fly, or float like a balloon.

Paris was a Drag Queen club. Specifically Nya's favourite. A few from her favourite childhood memories were made there. Sequins, feathers, leotards, wigs, astounding makeup, gorgeous dresses, pump music, lip syncs, dances and fun, a whole lot of fun and caring people looking after a very young Nya. No one would ever understand completely the bond she shared with most performers inside there. They raised Nya.

The cab dropped them in front of a bright purple building, windows fully painted in black, a glass door allowing outsiders to see blinking lights, a woman dressed in suit and tie as door guard, even though a velvet rope could be seen, there was no waiting line.

Nya got closer to the guard and after a few minutes of talking, which neither one of the sleepy men registered, they were allowed in.

Ok, let’s begin with saying what’s a Ball, then the story can keep going.

A Ball organized by and for drag queens is outstandingly different from a School Ball. According to the most entertaining and famous documentary about drag queens in late 70s and 80s, as known as Paris is Burning, Ball is basically a competition where drag queens put together looks based on a previously defined theme. Sewing, glueing, buying and creating, everything can go. There is a runway to catwalk and judges, also they perform lip syncs (some even are included and count points, something in RuPaul’s Drag Race style). The winner receives a trophy or money as prize.

Nya was a clever woman, so she chose specifically a day where Paris had a Ball happening. Nothing screams queer culture as a ball.

When the group got in, a loud music by Nicki Minaj blasted from every sound box, colourful flashlights and spotlights were focused on one corner of the room, where a table covered with a silk fabric, three drag queens (Hoseok recognized one of them as being Jasmine Masters) as judges. One competitor was catwalking with a revealing outfit completed by a tiger leotard, knee-high black boots, a straightened blonde wig and a mixture of pink and black makeup. Stunning.

While Nya marched animatedly going straight to the backstage, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jungkook now were wide awake again. A lot of colours and people, all sort of wearing the most creative clothings ever saw. Some of them weren’t even in drag.

The backstage consisted in thick velvet curtains, hiding from the public's eye a mess of sparkly accessories and huge wigs, clothes and heels, some of them higher than Nya's calves. Observing everything through openings, a person tall and clearly important, with well sewed dress and expensive shoes, exhaling respect from all pores covered in layers of make up.

— Guys, this is the first, the best and the only Honey Dejour. - Nya hugged tightly someone dressed in a black and sparkly long gown, huge jewelry around her neck and wrists, high-heels, a brown wavy wig, arched high brows, black cut crease, a lot of golden highlighter and red lipstick. She held the smaller woman and kissed the top of her head, nodding at them right after. - Those are the people I’m guiding today, Kim Namjoon, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and Jeon Jungkook. They are film producers, aunt. They want to film here and are willing to pay for it.

— Hi guys, nice to meet you. Hope no one here is banging with my kittygirl. - Honey had a very bass voice, which intimidated them, except for Hoseok. - Just kidding, she could really make the use of some dick. She’s been single for a very long time.

— AUNT! - Nya looked to the ground flustered.

— Nice to meet you, Ms.Dejour, I’m Min Yoongi. What exactly is happening tonight? - Yoongi questioned, still astonished by everything around.

— Tonight we are hosting the annual “Glamour Awards Ball”, and I’m the hostess. In a few minutes I’ll go there and announce the next category. - Dejour was almost two heads taller than Yoongi, which wasn’t small himself. - By the way, I loved your skirt… Namjoon?

— Thank you, and no, I’m Jungkook. - He shook hands with Honey.

The group kept a small talk, Honey having fun with them. Namjoon and Nya were lost watching the queens catwalking with stunning leotards. He was curious about her life, and looking for a way of asking what’s been bugging him the whole night.

— Nya, if it’s not crossing the line between professional and personal talk, how do you know that many people? - The purple-haired man asked, trying to sound chill.

— Well, it’s not professional, but I don’t care. - Nya turned to him, but looking at his neck, not straight on eyes. - I know them because of my father. See, not everyone can live off of their dreams, and my daddy was one of those people. He was a genius comedian, kind of like an underground Jerry Lewis. I never got to meet my mother, so I was raised by him and most people you guys met tonight. Also, I lived my whole life in Las Vegas so it’s something like my neighbourhood.

“Whilst my father did his stand up sessions, sometimes he dropped me with friends. Most times it was here, in Paris. Honey Dejour is basically a mother. If I’m someone with so many connections it’s because I had a gypsy life. During day at school, ‘cuz daddy worked as bartender in Caesar’s Palace, comedy at night shift. He never reached the big casinos popularity level and gave up, but he was so funny. Never had his thunder, though. That’s why I want you guys to help my friends, so they won’t give up as well.”

— Whoa. It’s quite personal, thank you for sharing. - Namjoon smiled at her, showing dimples and a bright set of teeth.

— You shared a bit of your life with me as well. - Nya felt her heart melt a little everytime Namjoon smiled, specially at her directly.

They kept staring at each other, getting closer, as if a magnetic force attracted them. Hands touched and pinkies intertwined, but before they could kiss, Jungkook pulled Namjoon’s arm and yelled gladly.

— HONEY AGREED IN HELPING US GET IN DRAG!

— Great, but what does it have to do with me? - Namjoon raised one eyebrow already sensing the danger.

— You are getting in drag too, dumbass. - Yoongi grunted, a bit thwarted. Apparently Jungkook convinced him of accepting, not something voluntary.

— Oh Lord, give me strength. - Namjoon felt zero comfortable with the idea of using high-heels.

— Stop praying! You are an atheist. - Hoseok said, also pumped up like Jungkook.

— I don't see why dragging me up would be necessary. - Namjoon shrugged shoulders, not looking straight at anyone. - It should be something only for those who really want, and is capable of living it fully.

— How can you direct and show emotions from something you never tried? - Nya touched his shoulder lightly. - Maybe feeling like Moonchild for a while will help you to understand its essence.

— In other words. Don't knock it till you try it. - Yoongi, still not fully into the idea, tried to drag his friend to it. Perhaps, some motivation would bring them to the joy of snatching new experiences.

Namjoon still took a while to accept. Honey went and announced the next category before going back and receiving a half hearted smile from Kim Namjoon. Don't knock it till you try it, his brain repeated incessantly.

— I will do it, only for the experience. - He shook hands with Honey Dejour, as if making a business deal. - Hopefully I'll a pretty lady.

— With your body structure, I can make Liu Wen beg you for exercise tips, baby. - Honey blinked and pulled Namjoon by the hand previously shook.

- x - x - x - x -

“Category is… Streetstyle Drag” - Honey Dejour announced and the crowd applauded, some cheering, others singing and dancing to the song playing. Hoseok spinned like a ballerina, body straight and firm, spine erect, right leg tensioned enough to gather force and balance, whilst the left stood in a hook shape, arms in first position. His muscle memory never failing in reminding how to move. Jungkook received his idol title, but it doesn’t mean he was the only one aiming for that. Jung Hoseok tried and failed, no agency accepted his appliance tapes.

Although, art was a passion. Regardless of what type. Hoseok lived a whole life of drama, repressing, gargantuan levels of conservatism, a tall and skinny bisexual boy who spent his free time dancing, defying every narrow-minded in Gwangju and their stupid retrograde thoughts. The count itself had always been perspiting art and conceiting themselves for something their citizens fought, died and conquered over 30 years before, however when living off dancing, singing, painting or whatever, went from the core and not only a job, the reprimand could lead people into killing themselves.

Hoseok spent a lifetime of frustrations. When his last video for YG Entertainment was sent back with a denial e-mail, he decided to try another types of art. Working part-time as a street dance teacher and spending every coin received with art supply, he met a cinema student interested in painting: the rich and underestimated Kim Taehyung.

Jung would never forget how ethereal Taehyung seemed to be, on his expensive brown coat with fur, tight jeans and white Chuck Taylors. The lights formed a halo around his head, making the brown strands shine. What a first impression. By contrast, Hoseok with a plaid blue shirt, t-shirt stained with tint, sweatpants and overused Nike Airshots, gave a very endearing vision of him.

Once they finally began talking to each other, then it never stopped. Taehyung and Hoseok got along very well, similar interests made their bond grow stronger everyday, also Jung understood some aspects of Kim which no one even tried.

Taehyung was rich, therefore had everything but the essential: happiness. Nothing expensive bought was ever with his own money, every ounce and dime belonged to his family. Decided to drop off his parents command, Kim began working as an art teacher and even gaining only a few Wongs per week, living off of it felt amazing. Independence felt amazing.

Hoseok understood why buying cheap art supply and eating Cup Noodles made the younger man feel fulfilled, and decided to help, moved from his parents home and rented a small apartment with Taehyung.

It took them only a few weeks until they were making out on the couch, but a few months to definitely engage in a relationship. Hoseok and Taehyung attended the same college, and after graduating, keep on living in Korea, specifically in Gwangju, felt like a waste of time.

Moving to London was the last time Taehyung touched his inherited money.

Hoseok and Taehyung met Yoongi during a LGBT Parade in London. They got along pretty well, even both clearly representing the total opposite in comparison with Yoongi’s personality. They were fun and talented, after speaking to Namjoon, hiring them seemed the right thing to do.

Writing a script about LGBT folks, searching about Queer culture and being able to experience it, every single second of it felt like a dream to Hoseok. His younger self would never imagine walking in heels, dress and being characterized as a drag queen. Living in Gwangju limited his perception of world, but now, staring at himself in a mirror and checking how his eyeliner was lit, impossible situations felt like lack of vision. He envisioned Moonchild afterall.

Regardless of how happy he felt so far, Taehyung being there would only improve it all. However someone had to stay in London and take care of business. Their democratic way of deciding stuff (a.k.a rock, scissor, paper) established that Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin, Jade and Emerson were the ones chosen to stay.

Spinning again, Hoseok felt how every fiber from the fabric held his figure, anchoring himself to reality. He was wearing a mid-length light-blue dress, a flowy kind of fabric, white high-heels and pantyhose. Of course he tucked (something no one imagined he knew how to do, except for Taehyung and Jimin, who were there when Jung did it for the first time and, of course, showed up at their living room looking like an eunuch), covered his eyebrows with glue and powder. Practicing what was learnt during 10 seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Whilst Hoseok was having an internal realization, Yoongi gave up on dressing up and decided to use his own clothes, but still kept the wig and makeup. He was looking good with black eyeliner, mascara, contour and purple lipstick, also the curly, long black wig really made him taller.

Jungkook tried to fit himself in a corsage, but failed, so kept his skirt and put on a white cropped, plus a pair of 10cm high heels. He indeed looked good, makeup on point, killing eyelashes and a long black wig (“Do I look like Park Bom?”).

Honey Dejour wasn’t lying when she promised to make Namjoon look pretty, but Nya could never imagine how gorgeous the result would be.

After a lot of work, Namjoon showed up in a long red dress, topped with a silk kimono and red heels, making the already tall man look like Empire State Building. Honey decided to make him embrace his facial shape, so a short black wig was chosen. Every trace and detail planned to highlight his features.

— Damn it, Namjoon! I think I’m attracted to you! - Yoongi exclaimed.

— Shut up, Yoonji. - Namjoon felt his face getting warm, glad that all layer of makeup made him look unfazed. - By the way, now I’m Sailor Joon.

— Did you just name yourself after Sailor Moon? C’mon sis, I’m the nerd one! I’m Sailor Kook! - Jungkook protested profusely.

— Why are you guys fighting? There are plenty of Sailors in that cartoon. You guys can both be Sailor Joon and Kook. - Nya rolled her eyes in a condescending way. - I’m sure Yoonji and Jay Hope agree with me.

— Since you named me, now I’m your drag daughter. - Hoseok giggled and wrapped one of his arms around Nya’s shoulder. - Hi momma!

— Only over my dead body! - Honey showed up, carrying brown paper bags with their clothings, throwing them at its respective owner. - I’m your drag mom, Jay Hope. I built you, I reclaim you. And Jungkook, you are Scarlet Kook, Sailor Kook sounds like a brand of breakfast cereals, and I’m for sure not hosting a Cap’n’ Crunch realness Ball.

After discussing and complimenting each other’s look, Honey Dejour decided they should catwalk as well (“I didn’t sweat and put four grown men in drag for nothing. I gotta exhibit my work”). So she pulled Nya outside the backstage, bringing a chair with her, the woman was now a judge. The music stopped because a new category was about to be announced.

— Category is… - Honey stared straight at the backstage. - First Time in Drag Realness. I introduce my newborn daughter, Scarlet Kook!

When “Sissy That Walk by RuPaul” began playing, Jungkook walked from behind the curtains, hips swaying from left to right, feeling himself again and being applauded. Of course, his legs were tense, and visually speaking, he looked a bit insecure up on high heels, yet Jeon Jungkook nailed his catwalk, loving every second of it: the lights, the cheers, the feeling. At the backstage, his heart pounded against ribcage, almost climbing its way up to his throat.

— Every mother has a rebel daughter. Oh believe me, I have a whole bunch of them. - The music was lowered so Honey could speak. - Now, please applaud my other newborn daughter, Min Yoonji!

The music got louder again. Yoongi opted for not strut, fearing the fall and how humiliating it would be, mainly with so many eyes focused on him. Why did he agreed on it anyways? Even not being a proper catwalk, the way he walked down and stopped in front of the judge’s table fitted his description: a rebel daughter. The cheers flustered him, yet it was a nice experience.

— Please prepare your hearts and hold your wigs, ladies, ‘cuz my daughter ain’t here to play. - Honey Dejour smiled bright to a camera taking pictures around and got back to her role as hostess. - I give you… JAAAAAY HOPE!

“Crazy In Love by Beyoncé” began playing and Hoseok left the backstage channeling his inner diva. Hips swaying, one foot after other, wig moving with the wind. Jay Hope was fierce, gorgeous and confident. The dress flowing and spotlights making everything almost divine. Walking down the runway and being applauded brought a pack of mixed emotions.

Jung Hoseok felt loved and accepted.

Not that his friends and gay community in London never loved him, but for the first time being bisexual, enjoying arts and being his grinning, delicate self felt truly right. Hoseok hated stereotypes and how people assumed stuff about him out of his preferences, so for a good part of his days on earth were wasted trying to prove ‘em wrong. Yes, I’m bisexual and date another man, but I don’t do ballet and don’t use skirts. After walking down the catwalk, all his pre-concepts about being LGBT in a mutable world changed.

Why prove everyone is wrong, when they are clearly right? They are right, but it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. They are wrong for thinking it’s right to reduce people based on their sexuality, hobbys, abilities, etc.

As Lady Gaga said in Born This Way: “Don't hide yourself in regret. Just love yourself and you're set. I'm on the right track, baby. I was born this way”.

In the end, getting in drag proved to be more than just a costume, or a persona, it was a whole political statement.

Jung Hoseok was loving himself.

After arriving back behind the thick curtains, Hoseok felt tears stream down his face. Moments of output, everyone should have one of these. It’s amazing to finally realize and accept something about yourself, once you do it, regardless of what it is, then other aspects of your life slowly adapts to your new vision.

— Last, but not least, I introduce you my newborn daughter. - Honey grinned slightly at how Nya’s face lit up with expectation. - She is tall, she is gorgeous, she is smart and she snatches hearts. I give you… Sailor Joon!!

Perhaps Honey planned it beforehand while teaching Namjoon how to tuck (by the way, he felt like his balls were in his stomach, but still found it a useful skill). In the moment she finished speaking, “I Am The Best by 2NE1” began playing and Sailor Joon decided to try walking in the rhythm. Halfway through the runway, feeling his legs shaking and sweating dumps because of how much effort was put only in walking.

Kim Namjoon, a grown ass man, empathized with babies learning how to walk.

The heels were high and hard to keep stead, his legs were long and couldn’t be seen under the dress, so Namjoon could only feel them touching each other. Beside not being able to see where he was stepping. Is that the right equation to a concussion? Absolutely.

Even lasting only a few minutes, it felt like hours of walking and when Namjoon finally attained himself to the judge’s table, his legs somehow tangled on each other and his fall was almost epical. If Homer witnessed Kim Namjoon nosediving from the top of 12cm high heels, he would probably write a rhapsody about it. A tall building being demolished, that’s what watching him hitting the cold hard ground felt like.

Namjoon saw his legs going up and suddenly his head crashing against the wooden floor. Everything blacked out for a few seconds, maybe of embarrassment or because the fall was actually titanic. Honey and Nya showed up to help him getting on his feet again and also guided him to backstage, where Jungkook wrapped an arm around hyung. The woman also sneaked behind him and found a chair under piles of fabrics, sitting him down and watching the way Kim propped his head back and covered his face with one hand, mouth still tasting like blood.

— I want an alcohol beverage and pretend I don’t exist. I’d really appreciate if everyone respected my final demands.- Namjoon babbled, still feeling his mind spinning. - Also, some ice would be great.

— Let me grab the drink and some ice. - Yoongi wisely offered, since he was the only one not wearing heels.

Five minutes and not a word was spoken. Honey Dejour had to stay and announce the winners from every category. Everyone stared at Namjoon looking like he fought with his heels and was defeated. Still ashamed and cursing at himself for what occurred. Yoongi emerged from the crowd holding a glass with whiskey and ice in a plastic bag.

Sipping on the whiskey and holding the bag of ice over the new wound. Heels left aside, he wanted to burn them, but since it belonged to Honey Dejour, only taking off seemed decent enough.

After half an hour, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook went outside to party, leaving Nya and Namjoon alone. Still silent, absorbing the fall, the rise and the whiskey.

— How’s your head? - Nya asked, sitting on the ground beside Namjoon, one of her hands leaning over his clothed knee.

— I haven’t had any complaints. - Namjoon replied grinning, still a bit grumpy, but the alcohol was soothing his pain away. Or was it the ice?

They stood there, smiling and silently appreciating each other’s company. Even though the song was making his head latches a little, he would never ruin the night for everyone else. Staying there and drinking something was good enough. Also Namjoon had zero intention of leaving the backstage, not after almost staining the wood with his brain and blood.

Namjoon’s hand slided from his chest and reached for Nya’s one. They held hands and stared at each other for a while. She wanted to kiss him, but making him fall again would be cruelty [ha, pun intended!]. Odds seemed to be at her favour, ‘cuz after a few more seconds, himself bent down, the fingers previously intertwined, now holding her chin lightly and their lips connected in a liplock.

Fireworks! Party! Confetti! Nya wanted to jump and punch fists in the air, but enjoying the moment felt more appropriate. Slowly, lips opened and tongues connected, however, Namjoon’s position wasn’t quite comfortable so he got back up, but smiling at her. Dimples, those dimples!

They instinctively stood on their feet, the bag of ice being left aside. His cold hand made Nya feel goosebumps, but her arms still wrapped around Namjoon’s waist, whilst his hands held her face. They kissed once again, now actually losing themselves and allowing mouths to open, tongues to tangle and hormones flowing freely.

Such a romantic moment, which was interrupted by Yoongi, Jungkook and Hoseok coming back cackling. Namjoon and Nya separated, pretending to be doing nothing, however Min Yoongi saw and looked at his friend with disapproval.

— What time is it now? - Nya questioned, hands stucking on her back pockets.

— Almost six in the morning. - Yoongi checked his phone quickly, and stared at Namjoon again. - I think it’s time for us to conclude the night and head back to hotel. I’m exhausted and Sailor Joon is probably needing some pain killers. We can go check thrift shops during afternoon.

— I agree. - Nya saw Jungkook and Hoseok pouting.

They returned the outfits to Honey Dejour, traded phone numbers (business still was a priority) and left, stopping a cab.

- x - x - x - x -

The group arrived at the hotel. Hoseok and Jungkook went to their shared room, Yoongi and Namjoon did the same, but the humour was catastrophically different between both groups. One was tired and sleepy, the other was tense and in verge of a discussion.

The rooms were big. Two double beds, cotton fiber bed sheets, fluff pillows and thick duvets. There was a bathroom, one wardrobe filled with towels, shampoos, conditioners, soaps (both liquid and bar). The television was big and connected on internet, so the lodgers could watch Netflix or Youtube.

Namjoon entered the bedroom and headed straight to the bathroom, bringing a towel and his pajamas. Taking a long time and leaving a trade of steam out of it, he laid down under the duvet, but Yoongi told him to stay awake. Apparently they had something to talk about.

— Man! It’s not right! - Yoongi yelled at Namjoon. - You can’t date someone, not while we have the fucking rope ready to hang us!

— What? Now I can’t make out with someone? It’s not like I’m proposing to Nya! We kissed! - Namjoon was sitting on his bed, using Ryan pajamas, ready to sleep, but still arguing with Yoongi. - We met in person 12 hours ago, I'm not in love or obsessed with her!

— You are not in love with her YET! Beside, I would extract your brain through the nose and yeet it in a trash can if you somehow fell for someone in 12 hours of wandering around Las Vegas! - The man felt really frustrated, his temples almost visually pulsing. - You can fuck with every single human being around Las Vegas, and I wouldn’t care! I’m not your dick! But Nya is our guide, she is working for us! Also, you are getting attached, but know pretty well how things will turn! - Yoongi was also sitting on his own bed, common white pajamas and wet hair. - You are not the kind of guy who dates someone! You have affairs and get tired! I know you for a decade, man! I’m sick of seeing you dumping people and becoming grumpy! That project we are searching for places to film is important. It can save our finances! But if you get involved now, the break up will probably happen one week before we start filming. Everytime it happens, the movie becomes shitty because of your humour! And Kim Namjoon, I swear, I won’t allow you to ruin this. Not this time! Not after your dramatical break up with Barbara and the critics detonating our movie. Hoseok and Taehyung worked way too hard on that script, only for your horny ass not pay a jot attention to it!

— Go fuck yourself, Yoongi! - Namjoon had nothing to say. Yoongi was right, he knew it, but would never admit it. Never in a million years.

— You fucking know I’m right! - Yoongi pronounced harshly, drops of spit flying from his mouth. - If you end up getting into Nya now, you are going to make a shitty movie after breaking up! You surrender yourself easily, and I don’t care most times, but after our last movie, we need to have you 100% focused.

— I’m focused. I was the only one not punchy! I accepted to be dressed up! I’m 100% into the project! I could marry and divorce someone, that it wouldn’t affect how I’m going to direct! - Namjoon was now spitting too, with rage and frustration. - You, Min Yoongi, are not the only one worried sick about finances and hating the idea of possibly working for some cocky entrepeuner with a big company.

— If you for yourself don’t stop hitting on Nya, then I’ll end it myself. - Yoongi assumed a gloomy expression, his body language screaming discomfort, with a hand covering his face, legs moving incessantly and ears getting red. - I ain’t gonna allow you and your romantic ass to ruin my career, business and life.

— You are preposterous. - Namjoon whispered in disappointment and laid down again, covering his head with the duvet, finishing their argument in the most childish way possible.

To be continued...

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criohyer · 5 years

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spindly starved fingertips reach the gamut of his shirt, brittle and ivory bones clutch wolfish; itch in devouring handfuls. imagines her grappling it whole; talons ripping ladders through the fabric ravenly to snag into his sternum. go further, go as far as you can. a thousand miles from here, put us back out on that black cold hard road, my back wet in blood and tar as i cough and gurgle lathering red hot burning froth from lungs, i'm not afraid to feel it. it’s enough to bring him to his knees. a woman willing to tear out his beating heart and he'd let it all happen before his very eyes. her words are the jagged dagger she just dropped and as it clashes on the hardwood floors, it rives through the vicinity. baby, i could never hurt you. leeches squirm out from the dirt, rats creep out of pipe organs. the snakes start to sing. a diorama in desolation, once picturesque st. petersburg blanketed bleak with brume. lances of light, headlights, chew through it. nothing breathes in these ruins, nor imitates the cavort of ghosts.

religion demands worship and power; an absorbing phenomena like the concept of sex and you will find someone on their knees with the regards to either. we all want that rawboned languor, heavy limbs that tell us we’re alive, put us in the roles we play; the dazzling dance of species, two lions during quarry. it’s a kill or be killed world. cheat and deceive as you claw your way to the pinnacle of what is defined as achievement; superiority to other men and whomever is pushed under the masses the underdog, finds pleasure in the abuse. slowly devour the prey still kicking, shred remorse, ten for the wolf, three for the shepherd and it’s one for the sheep who are led by the leopard often gave a handle of weapon. bite of the apple, open hell’s gates to all that is offered.

during their hunt, they dance unlike any other species on earth. their sexual expression is that they move with elegance and passion until they fill one another, she hauntingly pirouettes, gyrates his mind into spinning like a carousel and this is dangerous. she makes him feel the weakest he has ever been, the both of them praying to not be dragged to their knees until one finally submits and they test their fate with a roll of dice. you'll hurt me, katerina. one of us will hurt each other. we have just as much hope trying to tell a lion not to take down a gazelle. we will destroy each other with wild pleasure.

night gleams down, willowy and sheen. purloins the place of beaming lambent sunlight the moment the car wreck tosses over on metal roof. fringe of the woods spreads inwards toward the highway contorting like a corkscrew, hank to cut into skin until bloodless. he bleeds, bleeds until he is breathing it in. breeze whistling, weaning between the trees freights hands numb until whole body is cold, beating lump in his pulse bereft. wet tears stream down her cheeks, his features lament in a suffering pain and he takes her jaw into his palms; kisses where the tears fall until she can feel the warm, stone hollowness of his gaunt edges, cheek bones pressing into her. close, biting. in his heart, she hears its not resting; alas the sun still sleeps there. plays her like a glass piano, only afraid to shatter. “shh, my little l'vitsa. i would have let myself rot if only the dread died with me in those last few moments, as i stared in the headlights before us, that insufferable fear i couldn’t heal all your pain, lick all your wounds until untouched and keep you safe from deaths grip. exempt only mine, detka. that’s the grip you know best.”

“you know my heart when its cold. but it burns when i hear the affection in your voice. do you see that all my soul is yours? you’re the only one who could come close enough to kill me. you don’t want to hurt me? are you sure you don’t want to see how deep the bullet lies, the one you should have never cut from my abdomen?” a blood-hot throat begs for hands, begs for the teeth that bore into his skin on the highway to russia; undulant for sharp intakes of gelid air, finds its way not to her tender caress but her asphyxiating hold. thumbs stress the trachea, has him gasping to suffer her more. let him survive this, just to endure her further. the devil closing around her like a claw; renders him helpless where he can control her as little as he could keep a wave upon the sand.

his lips kiss every inch of the side of where her tears fell and down to her jawline. “i can’t have anyone else have claim on your soul, katerina. i don’t share. even with the devil.” she descends to her knees on the hard flooring below without warning, watches the devil infiltrate her vessel as she presses down. it relents naught but a perverse grin. it hammers into his memory, the first time he seen a demon. only a boy in the eighteenth century, staring into a room with a hospital bed, a deranged child imagination sees spinning heads and pea soup; words that might have been black tar spurt out. do not patronize me, doubter. a liar knows a liar. you fear me, mortal!

trying to not believe in the devil does not protect you from him. as just weak men, whom have no power. yet, there’s something that keeps digging and scraping away, inside him. feel’s like god’s fingernail trying to wrench him from sin to do his work, in a body that is possibly just as tainted as the devil himself hopeful he can deliver one lost son from evil and save him from the ram’s horns; still he persists in the darkness, refusing to be pulled to the light. the more you try to silence your fears however, the louder they scream, too foolishly bold to not run into the hands of god.

this might terrify the demon, for the mortal that has the warped mirth to perform to an audience that is too afraid to laugh, he'll send the unborn entity gibbering at padded walls.

the sound is all around him, a voice hauntingly merry and inhumane, ghoulish and surreal. the monster is not only awash with death, but serves to speak it; a tapered tongue that resurrects and unearths damning memories. time slows to a crawl, watching the beast unveil itself.

( ( ( ) ) )

satin dress falls around her like pooling silk out of a box and eagle eyes burrow into her flesh as the fabric slides to reveal exposed skin. it feels as if one ribbon from her dress is biting around his neck, has him crooning through a slashed throat.

after a westward drive he finds a house familiar from an old photograph, greeted by a mother and father and in behind two sniffly, smutty boys. its then he senses her, in and down the hall, so vague, at first he takes her for a shadow or a portrait on the wall. the woman, the daughter who, that night will steal in slow to visit him with kisses coarse and sweet to gift him with her heat. she will whittle at him, the way she gave her nightdress to the floor; one finger to her lips, to call abroad the silence of the land and forge the nighttime colours in her hair until he grows unsure of what was real and what was the wind.

a sea fog like gun smoke is cresting mist around his body, his eyes harden. i’m performing tonight and i’m not asking for your permission. he feels his veins restrict blood flow and he clenches his jaw hard enough to crack fissures within his teeth. a deep long exhale has him trying to surmount control over the boiling raise of his temperature.

seeping red rivulets from thin webbed tubes. it oozes, crinkles like dry blood steamed and flashes from his black gaze. vulgar animalistic carnal desire looms over her body dressed in lingerie, unchaste gaping watch, endows attention to the details of the lace and the sparse moles or freckles on her ashen flesh. mouth salivating, he’s prepared to lunge; appears more appetizing than the meat gone tough and grainy with tampering. dead, cured in brine, bloodless.

reedy stilt form follows in behind her to the bathroom carrying a cloth of disinfectant to nurse her wound, rangy chassis stands against her back, overcasting her in his shadow. piercing black irises stare at both their reflection in the mirror. he moves his hands to her hip bones that are pressed against the sink. his fingers colder than the white porcelain, he presses her into his form like he is calling the heat and contoured lines of her out from the darkness where she could throb and swell under his touch. she turns, but his face remains pressed close to inhale her.

wet lips move into his own, he opens to her, lets her inside to escapade like in a lair warren. dissipates them to marsh lands in the countryside of london; far from another pair of lungs breathing up the oxygen they devour. fingers dig into her underwear at the seams, trails his lips down her neck, sucking and pulling at the skin as if to coax the warmth from her pumping blood vessels.

“you know, they say, a woman’s ecstasy during pleasure is an out-of-body experience, harnessing such overpowering intensity, it has motivated centuries of art in which men try desperately to depict that pleasure.” his hands dig into her skin like he's wringing her body out like dirty laundry, and he begins to descend downwards, swiftly turning her torso again for him to face her back and she the mirror. he plants kisses down her spine to her tail bone and panty line, briskly he distracts her before he pushes down the cloth full of disinfectant on her freshly cut laceration, the liquid from the wet fabric running down her body. "it's a fantasy of men, to know what a woman feels."

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