Crave
Pairing: Kai/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jongin craves Yifan.
Notes: highly recommended you listen to this. (it's a repeat track) this song is responsible for this story.
notes 2.0: for those of you wondering where my deep, insightful, twisted fics went... i haven't lost it. i just haven't been able to apply anything to exo yet. many thanks to my readers, i often don't get to thank you guys enough so i'm doing it here.
please enjoy this, as i quite enjoyed writing it.
as always, this fic is open for interpretation
crave;
He peeks out from behind the curtain, gold-lined eyes scanning the crowd for the only patron he really cares about. Eyes sweet as honey, lips tinted with royalty, Jongin feels his heart beat stutter when his gaze lands on the most handsome man in the room. Longing pulls at his gut so violently it almost wrenches him out from behind the curtain, almost throws him on display in front of the man he so desperately wants to notice him. But he holds it back, knuckles turning white in their grip on the tapestry, and he pulls away and takes a breath, calming himself down. He is the main act. He is who all the men in this room came to see. He is the hot commodity, the most beautiful thing in the Eastern seas.
He will not disappoint.
The lights dim and each step is measured, ballet shoes not making a sound on the marble stage. Body graceful, expression magnificently blank, he makes his way to center stage. All eyes are on him, except for the pair that he craves so desperately to even acknowledge his presence.
His eyes are dead-set on Wu Yifan, but Wu Yifan has never so much as cast the alluring boy a second glance.
Gold is dripping from the creases of his practiced sleepy eyes, trailing down tanned cheeks and dripping off his strong jaw line, splattering across the white marble of the stage. It’s quite a show, his body moving with the fluid grace of the very liquid dripping off of him like burning rain. A flick of his hand and drops fling off his fingertips, splashing into the crowd -- the men are still, hypnotized, watching the sinewy spread of Jongin’s body on display. Draped in golden robes, modest yet indeterminably sensual, with the way they flow over the curves and edges of his limbs.
A well-aimed speck of gold paint finds its way to Yifan’s cheek and Jongin can’t help but smirk a little as those dangerous eyes finally land on him for the first time in weeks. The other men hold their breath, stunned by Yifan’s cool, heavy stare that looks like it could pin Jongin to the spot. But Jongin continues, feeling the music and not stopping for anything.
He has Yifan’s attention, but he knows it’s fleeting. He must make an impression.
Powerful, large movements of his arms, light taps of his feet over the marble and Jongin is suspended in the air, blips of time freezing his movements only to have the gold spark him back into life. Fire in his eyes, wealth sliding over the curves of his exposed shoulders and down his arms, leaving shimmering streaks to the tips of his fingers, before being dislodged in elegant arcs and splatters. The stage is his canvas, he is the brush, wanton desire the motivator and inspiration for each breath that leaves his painted lips, lips that leak and spill like the rest of his body.
It’s his best performance; no one is saying a word, even servers have temporarily stopped handing out drinks and taking tips for flirty winks.
Jongin reaches out with both hands, to the man that’s seated at the very edge of the stage, fingers clenching desperately at air, his eyes wide with melancholy. Expressive in the fine art of speaking without words, Jongin projects his intense yearning in a shower of gold fire and rain, and feels satisfaction when Yifan’s eyes register the meaning behind each movement, each look, each collapse of his body.
Jongin’s fingers swipe over his jaw, dragging down his neck, bright, shimmery trails left behind before they catch in his robe, tugging it open a bit to expose his bronze chest. The contrast of the gold against his darker skin, he knows it takes breaths away. Yifan still seems unaffected, although the glint in his eyes is knowing -- curious.
The stage is getting more slippery with each droplet of paint that splashes across it but Jongin’s footing is sure and solid, ballet slippers propping him up on his toes, spine arching gracefully and lashes fluttering, flecks of gold dust catching on the apples of his cheeks and reflecting the light off of them. Confident steps lead Jongin towards the end of the stage and he falls gracefully to his knees, palms of his hands sliding out over the glistening marble, his back bowing and body elongating elegantly as he quite clearly reaches out towards Yifan.
Yifan makes no move.
Jongin retracts his hands back into his chest, falls to his side on the solid surface of the stage, legs bending and stretching to the percussion and keys and the gold paint is now weighing down his robes, making them cling to his body uncomfortably and he rolls onto his back, chest lifting, shoulders still on the ground as he lets out a soft gasp. It’s made to look like he’s writhing in invisible pleasure and he knows that’s what he’s accomplishing when the greedy patrons settle their eyes on his body, their hands disappearing.
Golden eyes meet blazing ebony from upside down and Jongin’s breath catches in his throat and a real moan of pleasure escapes, the way Yifan is studying his body shooting fire through Jongin’s frayed veins. His nails claw across the surface of the marble, liquid gold collecting under the tips of his fingers and he lifts them to his face, exhaling hotly and dragging them down over his jaw and his neck, imagining with great vividness that they are Yifan’s large hands and strong fingers, painting his body black and blue instead of gold and sparkles.
The climax of the music hits and Jongin has to force himself to comply, mentally, his body already going through the motions. There’s gold in his hair, gold on his hands and feet, gold on the parts of his chest that he exposed. He stands with as much willpower as he can muster, artfully diligent in his clumsiness before he stands and wraps his arms around himself, lashes lowering and head dipping coyly -- he spins on his toe and he’s back at center stage, ripping the robe in the front to get it to hang off his shoulders, exposing the curves of his blades and his spine, pose coquettish as the lights dim and the curtains fly to close behind him.
He’ll later on be praised about it being his best show ever, but right now Jongin is panting heavily, willing the arousal flaring deep in his bones to subside.
The craving is now entirely impossible to ignore.
--
It’s too late in the night to be considered any sort of safe, but one of the girls is sick and Jongin had offered to go out and get some of her favorite tea leaves. There’s an apothecary open at all sorts of odd hours, so with a small smile of reassurance and his body and most of his face cloaked, he wanders out into the darkness of the streets.
He makes it about four blocks and has to duck into an alley, heart beating rapidly in his chest as a group of drunken men wander by. They’re loud and slurring and disrupting the peace of the middle of the night and Jongin waits for them to pass before he slips out of the alley, running directly into something solid.
It’s a man.
Jongin immediately bows his head; his fingers clutch his cloak at his sternum, making sure no part of him is exposed that he doesn’t wish to be.
“It’s late.”
That voice has Jongin’s breath hitching in his throat and he glances up, only his golden eyes visible from the wrapping of a scarf.
Yifan stares down at him, thick brows furrowed a bit, eyes narrowed. Jongin can’t tell if it’s out of annoyance or concern, but Yifan is staring at him.
“It’s unsafe to be out this late,” the general continues. Jongin gives a weak nod. Yifan lifts a large hand, resting it on Jongin’s shoulder and Jongin is pretty sure the weight of it is going to buckle his knees. “Run your errand and return home quickly, dancer.”
Jongin’s mouth goes dry.
Before he can reply Yifan’s hand has left his shoulder and he sets off down the road, not sparing another glance back at Jongin. Wheeling around on his heel, Jongin watches the tall man retreat, and he lifts a hand to his shoulder where Yifan had touched him, a small smile playing on the edges of his lips.
The general had remembered him.
Maybe his impression wasn’t lost.
--
“An auction!”
The crowd cheers, filled with all sorts of nobility; royal heirs to wealthy citizens have gathered in the main hall to take part in the bidding of the beautiful and exotic. From furniture to livestock to pleasure slaves, anyone whose name meant anything were rowed and filed neatly, bid fans clasped in eager hands, ready to raise up at some ridiculous offer on an equally ridiculous object.
Jongin felt anything but ridiculous.
Shame burned through his body, his tanned skin exposed by sheer and immodest robes, hands bound tightly behind his back as he stands amongst a few terrified boys and girls. He is not scared. He knows what is going to happen to him, unlike these children around him; he has gone through this before and he’s likely to go through it again. The brothel he had been working at has been short on money, so of course, they’ll offer their finest dancer for a lump of money in order to pay off any debt.
No, Jongin is not scared, but he is ashamed. Someone like him getting caught up in the petty, selfish wants of the human race.
Which is why he stands, spine straight and gaze unfocused, accepting the fate of the trade.
Pieces of furniture, as well as invisible plots of land sell with each fan card that rises up and of course, the pleasure slaves are the last of the pickings. The crowds’ attention is on them now and Jongin tries not to recoil at all of the hungry eyes; a girl next to him bursts out into tears when she’s the first one sold, and the boy on Jongin’s other side faints when a rather hideous looking noblewoman pays an obscene amount of money for him.
Jongin is the last item on the stage.
Center stage.
He’s the star.
“Five million,” comes a loud, but sure call from the back of the room.
Even the auctioneer goes silent. Jongin’s eyes blink open (when had they shut?), and he scans the crowd, searching for the owner of that voice. Who would spend such a crazy amount on a simple kid?
“Five and a half million,” a snide voice replies, a portly man standing up. He looks like a priest. Jongin thinks he may be sick any moment. Disgusting.
“Ten million,” the same voice from before speaks up and then the crowd is parting, hushed gasps and murmurs worming through the crowd like a verbal disease.
Jongin feels his gut fall to the floor.
“General Wu,” the auctioneer greets the blond man making his way up towards the stage. His voice is genuinely surprised, “I was not aware that you took place in bidding.”
“I do not take place in bidding,” Yifan says. He’s dressed to the nines in his military garb, shiny buttons and hard edges. His boots are heavy but not clumsy as he ascends the steps up onto the stage. “I take place in buying.”
The auctioneer sends a smile that only has a third of its teeth, and he reaches out to clap Yifan on the back -- and then thinks better of it. “Well then--”
“Fifteen million!” The portly man is still standing, and he’s rather red in the face, looking entirely affronted that Yifan is trodding on what he wants to make his territory.
Yifan ignores everyone except Jongin, his dark gaze heavy and pounding Jongin into the floor like a hammer does to nails. Jongin manages to stay upright, and Yifan is just so imposing, up close, it’s hard to pay attention to anything else, look anywhere else. His mouth goes dry again and a lump gets caught in his throat and Yifan’s hand reaches up to unclasp the cape that decorates one of his shoulders, taking it off in a flourish and wrapping it around Jongin’s shoulders, securing it and effectively covering up the poor excuse of robes that are adorning the dancer’s frame.
Jongin’s fingers clench onto the edges of the cape so tightly he’s sure it will wrinkle.
A fine choice.
“One hundred million,” Yifan says with a tone of finality, his gaze swiveling towards the man in the crowd. The man promptly sits, pelted with Yifan’s glare. “And I am taking him now. Have his effects sent to my lodging.”
There’s no room for argument and the auction ends on a heady note, Yifan’s arm sliding around Jongin’s shoulders to guide him down the steps and through the crowd. Jongin hears the whispers, feels the stares, and he tries not to press into Yifan’s side -- tries to stay straight and proper and not now any weakness. It lasts until they reach the carriage and once he’s inside, every wall crumbles to ash and he tucks himself into the corner on the seat, knees drawn to his chest, tears spilling down his cheeks, breaths hiccupping in his chest.
Yifan does not make a move to comfort him throughout the entire ride.
Gold splashes on bronzed skin.
Jongin sleeps for days.
He won’t face this.
--
“You are special,” Yifan says, firmly but conversationally.
They are at breakfast and it’s been a month since Jongin was bought by Yifan. He has not been asked to perform any tasks save for rest, and dance when he feels like it, and perhaps tidy up after himself because Yifan, in fact, does not have many house servants.
Jongin stays silent. He’s hardly eaten in this past month, but he has not withered.
Yifan eyes Jongin quietly, and the dancer can feel that heady gaze on him; it sends goosebumps up and down his spine, makes his toes curl. There’s a soft sigh, and then Yifan is setting his utensils on his plate, chair scraping across the wood floor as he stands on the opposite side of the opulent table.
“I will not let anyone have you,” are Yifan’s final words, before he leaves the dining hall, the heavy footfall of his steps fading down the hallway.
Jongin still craves.
He will fight.
--
When he’s called to Yifan’s bedchambers, Jongin is expecting Yifan to say some more ambiguous, vague things regarding Jongin’s existence in his home, in his life, but Jongin is greeted with Yifan already in bed. He’s propped up against the headboard with some pillows, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a feather quill resting gently in his hands as he pursues what looks to be a map.
Jongin’s resolve snaps.
Without permission, from Yifan or himself, he crawls onto the edge of the bed, measured with his hands and knees and Yifan glances up at him, thick brow arched in question. Jongin lets out a soft breath and he feels the electricity, he feels the liquid gold seeping through his pores and he reaches out, pushing the map and quill out of Yifan’s hands and is rewarded with a surprised noise. He settles on the general’s lap and runs tan fingers through pale hair, tangling and feeling and tugging softly, Jongin’s body starting to squirm, restless. Yifan’s hands rest on Jongin’s waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin, and Jongin immediately grinds downwards.
“Why,” Jongin whispers, gold dripping from his lips. “Why won’t you have me?”
Splatters land on Yifan’s chest, exposed by his robe getting disheveled from Jongin’s wandering hands. His knees bend a little and Jongin settles better on his lap, a soft noise leaving his lips, gold dust fluttering to cascade onto fair skin. The question goes unanswered -- Yifan reaches up, long fingers sliding to the nape of Jongin’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He bites and licks into Jongin’s mouth and instead of bleeding red Jongin bleeds gold and it tastes odd in his mouth, tastes sweet and unnatural.
Their movements together come natural, like old lovers reuniting. Yifan takes ease in pushing Jongin back onto the bed, and Jongin takes relish in how Yifan’s mouth devours him. Lava is threading through Jongin’s veins and his head is light and everything in his vision is hazy but Yifan, he sees, in startling clarity. Yifan’s hands are so big on his body, spreading him open, memorizing his curves and dips like the map he’d been studying earlier.
Yifan’s fingers slip into Jongin’s plush mouth and Jongin sucks diligently on them, lashes fluttering and soft moans leaving his throat. When Yifan pulls his fingers back they’re shimmery and coated thickly, tendrils of gold weaving down towards his wrist before he presses them against Jongin’s entrance, testingly at first, before sliding inside. Jongin’s nails scratch over Yifan’s back and Yifan bleeds red -- it slides and drops and mixes and mingles with gold and creates a shimmery, gory crimson, the sheets staining, skin sliding together.
Three fingers in and Yifan has his face buried in Jongin’s neck, thrusting slowly. Jongin’s legs wrap around the general’s waist and pull him closer and his cheeks are flushed, every other pant huffing out a cloud of gold dust into the air, before gravity weighs it down and they’re showered by it. Yifan’s fingers pull free and he slicks himself up, gold making his cock look like a piece of art, before he cradles Jongin closely to his body and fucks into him, measured, slow and long, going as deep as he can. Jongin’s body is alight, he’s on fire, and he meets all of Yifan’s movements, thighs clenching around Yifan’s hips, urging him deeper, harder.
One of Yifan’s hands slides between their bodies and he takes Jongin’s cock in his grip, thumbing over the tip. Orgasm is a beautiful thing, wiring its way through Jongin’s body, starting at his toes, and he’s not perspiring sweat but rivulets of gold -- he tenses and releases, pearly white scattering over his stomach and Yifan’s fingers. Yifan follows closely after, staying lodged deep within Jongin’s body, staying within the haze of euphoria for as long as possible.
When the warmth is no longer buzzing through Yifan’s body, he pulls away, and stares down at his empty bed.
Jongin has turned to ash.
--
Years later and Yifan has not seen a fleck of gold since Jongin disappeared.
When Yifan does finally see a shimmer in the distance, he does not hesitate to follow it.
On horseback he gallops through the trees, the glint of gold just barely out of sight, disappearing through the trees and teasing along the flower petals. His horse grunts out of tiredness after a few hours of solid running but Yifan kicks her in the sides and urges her on. His blood pounds in his ears, his heart races and there’s this uncomfortable feeling in his gut as he grows closer and closer to nearing the tiny glimmer of gold -- he and his horse burst through the trees and into a clearing, his horse rearing up and nearly bucking him off at the water’s edge.
It’s too large to be a pond and too small to be a lake, the surface undisturbed, smooth as glass and reflecting the light of the sun above. Disheartened, Yifan dismounts his horse and rubs her neck in apology, before he takes off his cape -- the very one that Jongin had worn upon purchase -- and slumps down on his knees on the shore. His horse wanders off to graze and Yifan stares out at the water, brows furrowed and hair wind-tousled; a breeze picks up and he inhales shakily, his words getting lost on the wind.
There’s a ripple in the water and at first he thinks it’s from his horse taking a drink, but when he looks up, she’s still grazing. His gaze wanders back towards the water, watching the ripple spread from the center of the water, the waves growing a bit bigger with each pulse. Yifan slowly rises to his knees, backing away from the shore as it slowly starts to get washed away. From the center of a lake there’s a tremendous boom and a dip, the waves now waist-high and spilling into the grass. Yifan’s horse whinnies and he reaches out to grab her reigns before she can run away, tugging her down with great strength.
As quickly as it started, the waves stop. Yifan is ankle-deep in eerily calm water that is only disturbed by his horse’s restless stirring and his gaze wanders out towards the center, his breath catching in his throat.
Gold drips from the figure standing on the water, the shimmers trailing into the water and creating veins of light throughout the still surface. It’s so bright, Yifan lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting to try and make out who is slowly starting to walk towards him. That gait, the frame… the way that the gold radiates off of this figure. Yifan’s heart picks up speed.
He lets go of the reigns of his horse and starts walking towards the figure, the water creeping up his legs, making his walk a bit clumsy and uneven. When he’s waist deep the figure is three feet away from him, glowing so bright and up so high; Yifan’s head tips back and he reaches out his hand, fingers searching, longing, wanting--
Yifan drowns, that day, in a pool of gold.
What was wanted, has been had.
web counter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jongin craves Yifan.
Notes: highly recommended you listen to this. (it's a repeat track) this song is responsible for this story.
notes 2.0: for those of you wondering where my deep, insightful, twisted fics went... i haven't lost it. i just haven't been able to apply anything to exo yet. many thanks to my readers, i often don't get to thank you guys enough so i'm doing it here.
please enjoy this, as i quite enjoyed writing it.
as always, this fic is open for interpretation
crave;
He peeks out from behind the curtain, gold-lined eyes scanning the crowd for the only patron he really cares about. Eyes sweet as honey, lips tinted with royalty, Jongin feels his heart beat stutter when his gaze lands on the most handsome man in the room. Longing pulls at his gut so violently it almost wrenches him out from behind the curtain, almost throws him on display in front of the man he so desperately wants to notice him. But he holds it back, knuckles turning white in their grip on the tapestry, and he pulls away and takes a breath, calming himself down. He is the main act. He is who all the men in this room came to see. He is the hot commodity, the most beautiful thing in the Eastern seas.
He will not disappoint.
The lights dim and each step is measured, ballet shoes not making a sound on the marble stage. Body graceful, expression magnificently blank, he makes his way to center stage. All eyes are on him, except for the pair that he craves so desperately to even acknowledge his presence.
His eyes are dead-set on Wu Yifan, but Wu Yifan has never so much as cast the alluring boy a second glance.
Gold is dripping from the creases of his practiced sleepy eyes, trailing down tanned cheeks and dripping off his strong jaw line, splattering across the white marble of the stage. It’s quite a show, his body moving with the fluid grace of the very liquid dripping off of him like burning rain. A flick of his hand and drops fling off his fingertips, splashing into the crowd -- the men are still, hypnotized, watching the sinewy spread of Jongin’s body on display. Draped in golden robes, modest yet indeterminably sensual, with the way they flow over the curves and edges of his limbs.
A well-aimed speck of gold paint finds its way to Yifan’s cheek and Jongin can’t help but smirk a little as those dangerous eyes finally land on him for the first time in weeks. The other men hold their breath, stunned by Yifan’s cool, heavy stare that looks like it could pin Jongin to the spot. But Jongin continues, feeling the music and not stopping for anything.
He has Yifan’s attention, but he knows it’s fleeting. He must make an impression.
Powerful, large movements of his arms, light taps of his feet over the marble and Jongin is suspended in the air, blips of time freezing his movements only to have the gold spark him back into life. Fire in his eyes, wealth sliding over the curves of his exposed shoulders and down his arms, leaving shimmering streaks to the tips of his fingers, before being dislodged in elegant arcs and splatters. The stage is his canvas, he is the brush, wanton desire the motivator and inspiration for each breath that leaves his painted lips, lips that leak and spill like the rest of his body.
It’s his best performance; no one is saying a word, even servers have temporarily stopped handing out drinks and taking tips for flirty winks.
Jongin reaches out with both hands, to the man that’s seated at the very edge of the stage, fingers clenching desperately at air, his eyes wide with melancholy. Expressive in the fine art of speaking without words, Jongin projects his intense yearning in a shower of gold fire and rain, and feels satisfaction when Yifan’s eyes register the meaning behind each movement, each look, each collapse of his body.
Jongin’s fingers swipe over his jaw, dragging down his neck, bright, shimmery trails left behind before they catch in his robe, tugging it open a bit to expose his bronze chest. The contrast of the gold against his darker skin, he knows it takes breaths away. Yifan still seems unaffected, although the glint in his eyes is knowing -- curious.
The stage is getting more slippery with each droplet of paint that splashes across it but Jongin’s footing is sure and solid, ballet slippers propping him up on his toes, spine arching gracefully and lashes fluttering, flecks of gold dust catching on the apples of his cheeks and reflecting the light off of them. Confident steps lead Jongin towards the end of the stage and he falls gracefully to his knees, palms of his hands sliding out over the glistening marble, his back bowing and body elongating elegantly as he quite clearly reaches out towards Yifan.
Yifan makes no move.
Jongin retracts his hands back into his chest, falls to his side on the solid surface of the stage, legs bending and stretching to the percussion and keys and the gold paint is now weighing down his robes, making them cling to his body uncomfortably and he rolls onto his back, chest lifting, shoulders still on the ground as he lets out a soft gasp. It’s made to look like he’s writhing in invisible pleasure and he knows that’s what he’s accomplishing when the greedy patrons settle their eyes on his body, their hands disappearing.
Golden eyes meet blazing ebony from upside down and Jongin’s breath catches in his throat and a real moan of pleasure escapes, the way Yifan is studying his body shooting fire through Jongin’s frayed veins. His nails claw across the surface of the marble, liquid gold collecting under the tips of his fingers and he lifts them to his face, exhaling hotly and dragging them down over his jaw and his neck, imagining with great vividness that they are Yifan’s large hands and strong fingers, painting his body black and blue instead of gold and sparkles.
The climax of the music hits and Jongin has to force himself to comply, mentally, his body already going through the motions. There’s gold in his hair, gold on his hands and feet, gold on the parts of his chest that he exposed. He stands with as much willpower as he can muster, artfully diligent in his clumsiness before he stands and wraps his arms around himself, lashes lowering and head dipping coyly -- he spins on his toe and he’s back at center stage, ripping the robe in the front to get it to hang off his shoulders, exposing the curves of his blades and his spine, pose coquettish as the lights dim and the curtains fly to close behind him.
He’ll later on be praised about it being his best show ever, but right now Jongin is panting heavily, willing the arousal flaring deep in his bones to subside.
The craving is now entirely impossible to ignore.
--
It’s too late in the night to be considered any sort of safe, but one of the girls is sick and Jongin had offered to go out and get some of her favorite tea leaves. There’s an apothecary open at all sorts of odd hours, so with a small smile of reassurance and his body and most of his face cloaked, he wanders out into the darkness of the streets.
He makes it about four blocks and has to duck into an alley, heart beating rapidly in his chest as a group of drunken men wander by. They’re loud and slurring and disrupting the peace of the middle of the night and Jongin waits for them to pass before he slips out of the alley, running directly into something solid.
It’s a man.
Jongin immediately bows his head; his fingers clutch his cloak at his sternum, making sure no part of him is exposed that he doesn’t wish to be.
“It’s late.”
That voice has Jongin’s breath hitching in his throat and he glances up, only his golden eyes visible from the wrapping of a scarf.
Yifan stares down at him, thick brows furrowed a bit, eyes narrowed. Jongin can’t tell if it’s out of annoyance or concern, but Yifan is staring at him.
“It’s unsafe to be out this late,” the general continues. Jongin gives a weak nod. Yifan lifts a large hand, resting it on Jongin’s shoulder and Jongin is pretty sure the weight of it is going to buckle his knees. “Run your errand and return home quickly, dancer.”
Jongin’s mouth goes dry.
Before he can reply Yifan’s hand has left his shoulder and he sets off down the road, not sparing another glance back at Jongin. Wheeling around on his heel, Jongin watches the tall man retreat, and he lifts a hand to his shoulder where Yifan had touched him, a small smile playing on the edges of his lips.
The general had remembered him.
Maybe his impression wasn’t lost.
--
“An auction!”
The crowd cheers, filled with all sorts of nobility; royal heirs to wealthy citizens have gathered in the main hall to take part in the bidding of the beautiful and exotic. From furniture to livestock to pleasure slaves, anyone whose name meant anything were rowed and filed neatly, bid fans clasped in eager hands, ready to raise up at some ridiculous offer on an equally ridiculous object.
Jongin felt anything but ridiculous.
Shame burned through his body, his tanned skin exposed by sheer and immodest robes, hands bound tightly behind his back as he stands amongst a few terrified boys and girls. He is not scared. He knows what is going to happen to him, unlike these children around him; he has gone through this before and he’s likely to go through it again. The brothel he had been working at has been short on money, so of course, they’ll offer their finest dancer for a lump of money in order to pay off any debt.
No, Jongin is not scared, but he is ashamed. Someone like him getting caught up in the petty, selfish wants of the human race.
Which is why he stands, spine straight and gaze unfocused, accepting the fate of the trade.
Pieces of furniture, as well as invisible plots of land sell with each fan card that rises up and of course, the pleasure slaves are the last of the pickings. The crowds’ attention is on them now and Jongin tries not to recoil at all of the hungry eyes; a girl next to him bursts out into tears when she’s the first one sold, and the boy on Jongin’s other side faints when a rather hideous looking noblewoman pays an obscene amount of money for him.
Jongin is the last item on the stage.
Center stage.
He’s the star.
“Five million,” comes a loud, but sure call from the back of the room.
Even the auctioneer goes silent. Jongin’s eyes blink open (when had they shut?), and he scans the crowd, searching for the owner of that voice. Who would spend such a crazy amount on a simple kid?
“Five and a half million,” a snide voice replies, a portly man standing up. He looks like a priest. Jongin thinks he may be sick any moment. Disgusting.
“Ten million,” the same voice from before speaks up and then the crowd is parting, hushed gasps and murmurs worming through the crowd like a verbal disease.
Jongin feels his gut fall to the floor.
“General Wu,” the auctioneer greets the blond man making his way up towards the stage. His voice is genuinely surprised, “I was not aware that you took place in bidding.”
“I do not take place in bidding,” Yifan says. He’s dressed to the nines in his military garb, shiny buttons and hard edges. His boots are heavy but not clumsy as he ascends the steps up onto the stage. “I take place in buying.”
The auctioneer sends a smile that only has a third of its teeth, and he reaches out to clap Yifan on the back -- and then thinks better of it. “Well then--”
“Fifteen million!” The portly man is still standing, and he’s rather red in the face, looking entirely affronted that Yifan is trodding on what he wants to make his territory.
Yifan ignores everyone except Jongin, his dark gaze heavy and pounding Jongin into the floor like a hammer does to nails. Jongin manages to stay upright, and Yifan is just so imposing, up close, it’s hard to pay attention to anything else, look anywhere else. His mouth goes dry again and a lump gets caught in his throat and Yifan’s hand reaches up to unclasp the cape that decorates one of his shoulders, taking it off in a flourish and wrapping it around Jongin’s shoulders, securing it and effectively covering up the poor excuse of robes that are adorning the dancer’s frame.
Jongin’s fingers clench onto the edges of the cape so tightly he’s sure it will wrinkle.
A fine choice.
“One hundred million,” Yifan says with a tone of finality, his gaze swiveling towards the man in the crowd. The man promptly sits, pelted with Yifan’s glare. “And I am taking him now. Have his effects sent to my lodging.”
There’s no room for argument and the auction ends on a heady note, Yifan’s arm sliding around Jongin’s shoulders to guide him down the steps and through the crowd. Jongin hears the whispers, feels the stares, and he tries not to press into Yifan’s side -- tries to stay straight and proper and not now any weakness. It lasts until they reach the carriage and once he’s inside, every wall crumbles to ash and he tucks himself into the corner on the seat, knees drawn to his chest, tears spilling down his cheeks, breaths hiccupping in his chest.
Yifan does not make a move to comfort him throughout the entire ride.
Gold splashes on bronzed skin.
Jongin sleeps for days.
He won’t face this.
--
“You are special,” Yifan says, firmly but conversationally.
They are at breakfast and it’s been a month since Jongin was bought by Yifan. He has not been asked to perform any tasks save for rest, and dance when he feels like it, and perhaps tidy up after himself because Yifan, in fact, does not have many house servants.
Jongin stays silent. He’s hardly eaten in this past month, but he has not withered.
Yifan eyes Jongin quietly, and the dancer can feel that heady gaze on him; it sends goosebumps up and down his spine, makes his toes curl. There’s a soft sigh, and then Yifan is setting his utensils on his plate, chair scraping across the wood floor as he stands on the opposite side of the opulent table.
“I will not let anyone have you,” are Yifan’s final words, before he leaves the dining hall, the heavy footfall of his steps fading down the hallway.
Jongin still craves.
He will fight.
--
When he’s called to Yifan’s bedchambers, Jongin is expecting Yifan to say some more ambiguous, vague things regarding Jongin’s existence in his home, in his life, but Jongin is greeted with Yifan already in bed. He’s propped up against the headboard with some pillows, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a feather quill resting gently in his hands as he pursues what looks to be a map.
Jongin’s resolve snaps.
Without permission, from Yifan or himself, he crawls onto the edge of the bed, measured with his hands and knees and Yifan glances up at him, thick brow arched in question. Jongin lets out a soft breath and he feels the electricity, he feels the liquid gold seeping through his pores and he reaches out, pushing the map and quill out of Yifan’s hands and is rewarded with a surprised noise. He settles on the general’s lap and runs tan fingers through pale hair, tangling and feeling and tugging softly, Jongin’s body starting to squirm, restless. Yifan’s hands rest on Jongin’s waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin, and Jongin immediately grinds downwards.
“Why,” Jongin whispers, gold dripping from his lips. “Why won’t you have me?”
Splatters land on Yifan’s chest, exposed by his robe getting disheveled from Jongin’s wandering hands. His knees bend a little and Jongin settles better on his lap, a soft noise leaving his lips, gold dust fluttering to cascade onto fair skin. The question goes unanswered -- Yifan reaches up, long fingers sliding to the nape of Jongin’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He bites and licks into Jongin’s mouth and instead of bleeding red Jongin bleeds gold and it tastes odd in his mouth, tastes sweet and unnatural.
Their movements together come natural, like old lovers reuniting. Yifan takes ease in pushing Jongin back onto the bed, and Jongin takes relish in how Yifan’s mouth devours him. Lava is threading through Jongin’s veins and his head is light and everything in his vision is hazy but Yifan, he sees, in startling clarity. Yifan’s hands are so big on his body, spreading him open, memorizing his curves and dips like the map he’d been studying earlier.
Yifan’s fingers slip into Jongin’s plush mouth and Jongin sucks diligently on them, lashes fluttering and soft moans leaving his throat. When Yifan pulls his fingers back they’re shimmery and coated thickly, tendrils of gold weaving down towards his wrist before he presses them against Jongin’s entrance, testingly at first, before sliding inside. Jongin’s nails scratch over Yifan’s back and Yifan bleeds red -- it slides and drops and mixes and mingles with gold and creates a shimmery, gory crimson, the sheets staining, skin sliding together.
Three fingers in and Yifan has his face buried in Jongin’s neck, thrusting slowly. Jongin’s legs wrap around the general’s waist and pull him closer and his cheeks are flushed, every other pant huffing out a cloud of gold dust into the air, before gravity weighs it down and they’re showered by it. Yifan’s fingers pull free and he slicks himself up, gold making his cock look like a piece of art, before he cradles Jongin closely to his body and fucks into him, measured, slow and long, going as deep as he can. Jongin’s body is alight, he’s on fire, and he meets all of Yifan’s movements, thighs clenching around Yifan’s hips, urging him deeper, harder.
One of Yifan’s hands slides between their bodies and he takes Jongin’s cock in his grip, thumbing over the tip. Orgasm is a beautiful thing, wiring its way through Jongin’s body, starting at his toes, and he’s not perspiring sweat but rivulets of gold -- he tenses and releases, pearly white scattering over his stomach and Yifan’s fingers. Yifan follows closely after, staying lodged deep within Jongin’s body, staying within the haze of euphoria for as long as possible.
When the warmth is no longer buzzing through Yifan’s body, he pulls away, and stares down at his empty bed.
Jongin has turned to ash.
--
Years later and Yifan has not seen a fleck of gold since Jongin disappeared.
When Yifan does finally see a shimmer in the distance, he does not hesitate to follow it.
On horseback he gallops through the trees, the glint of gold just barely out of sight, disappearing through the trees and teasing along the flower petals. His horse grunts out of tiredness after a few hours of solid running but Yifan kicks her in the sides and urges her on. His blood pounds in his ears, his heart races and there’s this uncomfortable feeling in his gut as he grows closer and closer to nearing the tiny glimmer of gold -- he and his horse burst through the trees and into a clearing, his horse rearing up and nearly bucking him off at the water’s edge.
It’s too large to be a pond and too small to be a lake, the surface undisturbed, smooth as glass and reflecting the light of the sun above. Disheartened, Yifan dismounts his horse and rubs her neck in apology, before he takes off his cape -- the very one that Jongin had worn upon purchase -- and slumps down on his knees on the shore. His horse wanders off to graze and Yifan stares out at the water, brows furrowed and hair wind-tousled; a breeze picks up and he inhales shakily, his words getting lost on the wind.
There’s a ripple in the water and at first he thinks it’s from his horse taking a drink, but when he looks up, she’s still grazing. His gaze wanders back towards the water, watching the ripple spread from the center of the water, the waves growing a bit bigger with each pulse. Yifan slowly rises to his knees, backing away from the shore as it slowly starts to get washed away. From the center of a lake there’s a tremendous boom and a dip, the waves now waist-high and spilling into the grass. Yifan’s horse whinnies and he reaches out to grab her reigns before she can run away, tugging her down with great strength.
As quickly as it started, the waves stop. Yifan is ankle-deep in eerily calm water that is only disturbed by his horse’s restless stirring and his gaze wanders out towards the center, his breath catching in his throat.
Gold drips from the figure standing on the water, the shimmers trailing into the water and creating veins of light throughout the still surface. It’s so bright, Yifan lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting to try and make out who is slowly starting to walk towards him. That gait, the frame… the way that the gold radiates off of this figure. Yifan’s heart picks up speed.
He lets go of the reigns of his horse and starts walking towards the figure, the water creeping up his legs, making his walk a bit clumsy and uneven. When he’s waist deep the figure is three feet away from him, glowing so bright and up so high; Yifan’s head tips back and he reaches out his hand, fingers searching, longing, wanting--
Yifan drowns, that day, in a pool of gold.
What was wanted, has been had.
web counter