Round 4: Voices (TEAM AU)
Title: Voices
Team: AU
Rating: R
Fandom: Big Bang
Pairing: GRi
Summary: Jiyong wants you to know his fetish isn’t unhealthy.
Author's Note: Mentions of sex, unhealthy obsessions, and a dead body used inappropriately
Prompt Used: Beast - Mystery
“Come in,” Jiyong says with a flourish, his smile perfectly in place. If his companion notices that something is amiss - that his smile is too broad or his doorknob too littered with scratches from a knife - he does not show it. Instead, the other steps in with a curious smile of his own. If it does not quite reach his eyes, if his expectations seem to dampen with his spirit, well…
“It’s cozy,” he says, fiddling with the choker around his neck, “and it’s cleaner than what I expected.”
“Seungri-ah,” Jiyong says, sounding wounded, “I’m not that much of a slob.”
“It was supposed to be a compliment,” Seungri says, hiding his playful smile behind his palm. His fingers are long and bony, Jiyong thinks, curling his own fingers into a fist. He wonders how hard it is to tie down. Will this be all too easy?
“May I?” He asks, coming closer to tentatively rest his hand on Seungri’s shoulder. Seungri looks at him and looks away, but he leans into Jiyong’s touch, as if to give him permission, as if to say yes.
Oh, Jiyong thinks, feeling his heart settle in his chest, how trusting of you.
He fucks him on the carpet and dreams of strangling Seungri until he comes, out of breath and cold to the touch.
“You need a therapist,” Youngbae says, wide-eyed when he hears.
“I need counseling,” Jiyong tells Seunghyun when he sees him, head bowed to hide his smile.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Seunghyun says, sounding genuinely disgusted, but that’s old news, anyway; he’s been saying that since Jiyong started sleeping around with the other boys in their high school class, ever the honest friend.
“You need help,” Youngbae says, quietly, and Jiyong can only nod.
Sometimes he wonders when things started getting too obvious.
He’s been seeing the boy - Seungri - for two weeks now, picked him up in a seedy bar in the unofficial red light district, because he’d seen the way the boy held a glass of tequila in his hand and Jiyong couldn’t take his eyes away. It’s a fetish he’s had since he saw his pretty female classmate play the piano in music class, and he’d thought it was just an inane desire to learn a new instrument, but it’s never playing that makes his heart race. It’s watching thin fingers that look like they could break under a few raps from a ruler, long, slender fingers that could fit nicely around his as they try to pry off his hands from an equally lovely neck. (The choking part would come later, of course, after watching a raunchy porn movie in middle school.)
Seunghyun says it’s destructive, that these habits aren’t healthy, aren’t normal. Seunghyun can go to hell, Jiyong thinks, smiling mechanically and nodding as Seunghyun tries to rationally explain why Jiyong is, after all, a little sick in the head.
It’s almost frightening how easily he tunes everyone out when he thinks of Seungri’s nails digging welts into his skin.
“We can cure you,” his doctor says. Jiyong doesn’t like his hands. They’re too big and calloused; it feels like his father damning him to hell and back.
“We can fight this together,” his mother says, crying as he holds her and his sister watches in the background, tight-lipped and pretending this isn’t happening to her right now.
There’s never any we, really, Jiyong thinks, wistfully, but most of all, there was never anything wrong in the first place.
Do you know this is how addicts learn to lie?
“Hey,” Jiyong says, tracing patterns all over Seungri’s neck, poor substitutes for what his imagination dictates, “I never got around to knowing your whole name.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Seungri says, dismissively, “there are a thousand Kim’s in Korea and I could be one of them and you wouldn’t care. I don’t exist, anyway.”
“Oh?” Jiyong says, pressing a kiss to the skin below his ear. It smells like cheap perfume and rotten apples, “are you an illegal alien?”
“No,” Seungri answers, simply, “I’m dead.”
Jiyong kisses him, too much teeth and too much force, and Seungri’s eyes shut. It’s almost proof enough of how alive he is. Dead things don’t respond, do they?
Do they?
“When you die,” Jiyong says, pulling away, “can I take off your choker, then?”
Seungri doesn’t smile. “Please.”
“You never did follow my advice,” Youngbae says, over the phone, “do you know how worried everyone is?”
“I’m not doing drugs,” Jiyong says, “not anymore.”
He puts the phone down before Youngbae can let his words sink in.
“When I get high, I get the craziest dreams afterwards,” Jiyong says, “I dream of going into a cemetery and stealing from a grave and then I wake up.”
“I don’t get high,” Seungri says, passing a hand over Jiyong’s hair, “but you can get high enough for the both of us.”
“You smell like shit,” Jiyong bites back, but nuzzles his face against Seungri’s fingers anyway.
“I know,” Seungri sighs, “it’s not my fault.”
“Seungri,” Jiyong tells him, “sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.”
“That’s a shame,” Seungri says, “does that mean I’m crazy?”
No, not crazy, but Jiyong passes out on the floor. Twisted, more like.
There is a difference.
Jiyong introduces his new pet to his friends inadvertently when they walk in on him strangling the hell out of Seungri. The choker gets tangled around Jiyong’s fingers when he pulls, a flimsy black ribbon caked with an ugly shade of brown that could have been red, once. Seungri’s lovely, lovely head falls to the carpet with a soft thud.
“Oh my god,” Youngbae whispers, as if afraid to scream or even move.
“Sick fuck,” Seunghyun says, and this time he doesn’t sound angry about it -- just tired, mostly, as if he’s lost the will to hope.
I told you I was dead, Seungri would have said, but Jiyong’s too busy screaming to hear the voices in his head.
Poll Round 4: Voices (TEAM AU)
Team: AU
Rating: R
Fandom: Big Bang
Pairing: GRi
Summary: Jiyong wants you to know his fetish isn’t unhealthy.
Author's Note: Mentions of sex, unhealthy obsessions, and a dead body used inappropriately
Prompt Used: Beast - Mystery
“Come in,” Jiyong says with a flourish, his smile perfectly in place. If his companion notices that something is amiss - that his smile is too broad or his doorknob too littered with scratches from a knife - he does not show it. Instead, the other steps in with a curious smile of his own. If it does not quite reach his eyes, if his expectations seem to dampen with his spirit, well…
“It’s cozy,” he says, fiddling with the choker around his neck, “and it’s cleaner than what I expected.”
“Seungri-ah,” Jiyong says, sounding wounded, “I’m not that much of a slob.”
“It was supposed to be a compliment,” Seungri says, hiding his playful smile behind his palm. His fingers are long and bony, Jiyong thinks, curling his own fingers into a fist. He wonders how hard it is to tie down. Will this be all too easy?
“May I?” He asks, coming closer to tentatively rest his hand on Seungri’s shoulder. Seungri looks at him and looks away, but he leans into Jiyong’s touch, as if to give him permission, as if to say yes.
Oh, Jiyong thinks, feeling his heart settle in his chest, how trusting of you.
He fucks him on the carpet and dreams of strangling Seungri until he comes, out of breath and cold to the touch.
“You need a therapist,” Youngbae says, wide-eyed when he hears.
“I need counseling,” Jiyong tells Seunghyun when he sees him, head bowed to hide his smile.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Seunghyun says, sounding genuinely disgusted, but that’s old news, anyway; he’s been saying that since Jiyong started sleeping around with the other boys in their high school class, ever the honest friend.
“You need help,” Youngbae says, quietly, and Jiyong can only nod.
Sometimes he wonders when things started getting too obvious.
He’s been seeing the boy - Seungri - for two weeks now, picked him up in a seedy bar in the unofficial red light district, because he’d seen the way the boy held a glass of tequila in his hand and Jiyong couldn’t take his eyes away. It’s a fetish he’s had since he saw his pretty female classmate play the piano in music class, and he’d thought it was just an inane desire to learn a new instrument, but it’s never playing that makes his heart race. It’s watching thin fingers that look like they could break under a few raps from a ruler, long, slender fingers that could fit nicely around his as they try to pry off his hands from an equally lovely neck. (The choking part would come later, of course, after watching a raunchy porn movie in middle school.)
Seunghyun says it’s destructive, that these habits aren’t healthy, aren’t normal. Seunghyun can go to hell, Jiyong thinks, smiling mechanically and nodding as Seunghyun tries to rationally explain why Jiyong is, after all, a little sick in the head.
It’s almost frightening how easily he tunes everyone out when he thinks of Seungri’s nails digging welts into his skin.
“We can cure you,” his doctor says. Jiyong doesn’t like his hands. They’re too big and calloused; it feels like his father damning him to hell and back.
“We can fight this together,” his mother says, crying as he holds her and his sister watches in the background, tight-lipped and pretending this isn’t happening to her right now.
There’s never any we, really, Jiyong thinks, wistfully, but most of all, there was never anything wrong in the first place.
Do you know this is how addicts learn to lie?
“Hey,” Jiyong says, tracing patterns all over Seungri’s neck, poor substitutes for what his imagination dictates, “I never got around to knowing your whole name.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Seungri says, dismissively, “there are a thousand Kim’s in Korea and I could be one of them and you wouldn’t care. I don’t exist, anyway.”
“Oh?” Jiyong says, pressing a kiss to the skin below his ear. It smells like cheap perfume and rotten apples, “are you an illegal alien?”
“No,” Seungri answers, simply, “I’m dead.”
Jiyong kisses him, too much teeth and too much force, and Seungri’s eyes shut. It’s almost proof enough of how alive he is. Dead things don’t respond, do they?
Do they?
“When you die,” Jiyong says, pulling away, “can I take off your choker, then?”
Seungri doesn’t smile. “Please.”
“You never did follow my advice,” Youngbae says, over the phone, “do you know how worried everyone is?”
“I’m not doing drugs,” Jiyong says, “not anymore.”
He puts the phone down before Youngbae can let his words sink in.
“When I get high, I get the craziest dreams afterwards,” Jiyong says, “I dream of going into a cemetery and stealing from a grave and then I wake up.”
“I don’t get high,” Seungri says, passing a hand over Jiyong’s hair, “but you can get high enough for the both of us.”
“You smell like shit,” Jiyong bites back, but nuzzles his face against Seungri’s fingers anyway.
“I know,” Seungri sighs, “it’s not my fault.”
“Seungri,” Jiyong tells him, “sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.”
“That’s a shame,” Seungri says, “does that mean I’m crazy?”
No, not crazy, but Jiyong passes out on the floor. Twisted, more like.
There is a difference.
Jiyong introduces his new pet to his friends inadvertently when they walk in on him strangling the hell out of Seungri. The choker gets tangled around Jiyong’s fingers when he pulls, a flimsy black ribbon caked with an ugly shade of brown that could have been red, once. Seungri’s lovely, lovely head falls to the carpet with a soft thud.
“Oh my god,” Youngbae whispers, as if afraid to scream or even move.
“Sick fuck,” Seunghyun says, and this time he doesn’t sound angry about it -- just tired, mostly, as if he’s lost the will to hope.
I told you I was dead, Seungri would have said, but Jiyong’s too busy screaming to hear the voices in his head.
Poll Round 4: Voices (TEAM AU)