Pairing: Kris/Lay
Rating: PG-13 (for some mildly gory images)
Summary: Every year Yifan tries to tempt Yixing into his clutches.
Notes: i’m alive but barely breathing
listen to this while reading, thanks :)
you're just my type;
He’s a man who’s got very… specific tastes.
As Yifan makes his way through the crowd, the scent of must, dust and mildew all mix together, wafting through his senses. Dark eyes scan the visage of every person present, and if they make eye contact he searches deep into their soul. No one looks right -- no one smells right, no one feels right, the souls in here dirty and tattered. The yearly Autumn gala should be the perfect opportunity to find his next soiree, but his luck is failing him. Fate always has other plans.
That is, until, his nose catches a certain scent. His head tilts a bit, his nostrils flare, and his eyes look around the crowd. Someone smells… ripe.
The scent is coming from an individual sitting -- no, draped beautifully -- over a chair away from the commotion, a drink in one hand, the end of a tie in the other. Dressed in a suit that he doesn’t care about, this stranger’s relaxed pose is so different than the uppity, coiled snakes surrounding him in this pit. Heavy eyes meet Yifan’s dark ones, and Yifan watches smoke curl in the air between them, sparks flying. Lips curl in a smirk, and out of everyone in this place, this person is just his type.
He’s got a pulse.
Somewhere between approaching and pleasantries exchanged, Yifan and Yixing manage to end up on the dance floor. He can feel Yixing’s heartbeat infiltrate his own chest, tangle with his own still heart strings and breathe new life into him. Their hands join and their feet move and they’re the only source of heat in this cold, damp place, lifeless souls going about the motions around them. But Yixing has the best costume, a charming smile hiding razor sharp teeth, warm eyes covering up the wicked.
They’re a rarity, here. No one even notices them as they sweep around the floor, embers rolling across the floor with each turn, tapestries smoking as they pass by. Yifan’s eyes are locked on Yixing’s and he feels the slide of Yixing’s hand -- no, tail -- slithering up over his side, curling around his waist to lock him into place. Exhale, fire. Inhale, smoke. Long fingers are tangled together and they already know how this night is going to end, neither of them rushing it nor dragging it out. Let it come as it may.
The subtle slide of shoes, twists of hips and joining of bodies, they’re the most lively couple in the room. Once a year this event happens, and once a year Yifan takes a victim, and falls victim, himself. It’s beautiful, morbid and fulfilling. Pulling Yixing close, Yifan whispers in his ear, the same thing he’s been whispering for centuries, the hushed words causing Yixing to let out a sinister laugh, head tossed back, fangs catching the light.
He’s breathing.
Yifan doesn’t believe in luck, because fate has handed him a much simpler plan. His fate is this tangled mess with Yixing, bones at their feet and ghosts swirling around them, and to once a year consummate their grisly union. Every year, he lets Yixing go, and every year, Yixing comes back. Satan and his Spawn, the Dragon and his offspring.
Yixing reaches up to the black, cast-iron crown resting atop Yifan’s blond hair, the brightest thing for miles. He adjusts it, and Yifan leans into the touch, smoke puffing from his nostrils, sparking and flaring before dissipating between them. His hand holds Yixing’s free one pinned to his chest, where there is no echo of anything, always attempting to feel the other’s heartbeat within his own ribs. Yet every time he tries to steal it, when the clock strikes twelve, it returns right back to Yixing.
“Tonight, you’re mine,” Yifan murmurs low, and there’s no music playing but the ambience is deafening, anyway. Yixing is light on his feet,never grounded, and Yifan has always been a good lead.
“Every night, I’m yours,” Yixing replies. The dimple in his cheek sinks in a bit, and with the right casting of shadows Yifan can see the decayed jowls that lie underneath.
Pulling Yixing closer, Yifan gently urges the other to rest his cheek upon his shoulder. The thorns protruding from his suit don’t seem to bother Yixing at all, that demon tongue coming out to lick up any pinpricks of blood that slide over his skin. They move over the dance floor, stepping right through shadows of souls, Yixing’s heartbeat setting the pace of the inaudible music. Yifan’s claws press into the small of Yixing’s back, keeping him close -- every year, the gate opens and he gets this chance, and this time he won’t let it slip through his fingers.
Darkness casts over Yixing’s figure and Yifan’s grip tightens, knowing the eternal quiet will soon steal Yixing away from him. Pressing their foreheads together, Yifan locks eyes with Yixing, who looks up at him with the damndest smile. The show they put on every year is an atrocious foreplay, a delusional mindfuck that only kills the time instead of spends it. Yixing is the only lively soul in the room; the cream of the crop, the freshest of picks. Yifan knows that if he bites, he’ll be poisoned, and yet the temptation hasn’t faded, for hundreds of years past and a thousand more to come.
“Sail with me,” Yifan says, voice low, promising, indulgent. Yixing’s head tilts, offering a pointed ear, knowing that Yifan will continue. “You and I… could do so much.”
“You give in to temptation too easily,” Yixing replies, scales shifting behind his ear under the ashy skin. Yifan leans in to press a kiss to them. “What could you accomplish?”
“Everything,” Satan dangles the word over the serpent’s head. “The world could be ours.”
“The world is already yours,” Yixing replies, pulling away just slightly. Where Yifan’s lips had touched his skin is melting away, exposing the iridescent green-black scales. “You have nothing to give me.” he makes his point by pressing his palm over Yifan’s chest, where a silent void can’t even make an echo of a sound.
Yifan’s hand presses over Yixing’s, “I have enough to give.”
That sinister smile curls over Yixing’s lips again. His fangs glint in the candle light, eyes turning black, scales flaring up underneath where Yifan’s palm rests, cutting into his skin. “Try again next year.”
Fire erupts and Yifan covers his eyes, the flash of heat and the brightness of the blaze momentarily stunning him. When the smoke clears, Yixing is gone, along with all of the soulless creatures that had been mingling about. Alone in the cemetery, Yifan stares down at the grave below his feet, his non-existent heart bleeding from between his ribs, staining his thorny suit, the rose to the stem.
Zhang Yixing
1390 - 1419
God Be With You
A centuries old battle.
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