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Entry tags:
Mascheranda
Title: Mascheranda
Pairing: Yewook
Rating: R
Genre: Supernatural, AU, Angst
Summary: Yesung sets out into the Venice Carnivale to rescue his sister from a man who can grant wishes.
A/N I'm disturbed by this...
Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand
The first that she be spared the pain
That comes from a dark and laughing rain
When she finds love may it always stay true
This I beg for the second wish I made too
But wish no more
My life you can take
To have her please just one day wake
To have her please just one day wake
~~~~~~
Venetian Mask
The Venice Carnivale is as filthy as he remembers. The streets are soaked with sweat, the alleyways smelling of sex, the houses dark and cold, their inhabitants out partying before the start of Lent.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf
The canals are filled with boats and singing, drunken revelers spilling their expensive wines into the water as they stand and wave to the moon. Everything is shrouded in candlelight, shadows casting monsters on the sides of buildings, flickering nightmares finding life at the bottom of bottles.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted
There are too many people kissing around masks and groping beneath costumes, the shrieking laughter of women creating an unpleasant cocktail of sound with banging symbols and raucous men. So much distraction, so many people, so little time.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin
He tries to stay close to the Grande Canal where at least the gondola singers sound tolerable. They are, in some way, a comfort in the foreign surroundings.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk
He hugs the shadows as much as he can, watching the flow of costumes and colors as they wind through the streets. More than once he feels his ass groped, but he doesn’t bother turning around, knowing that he would not be able to discern the offender.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems
Yesung adjusts his mask, cursing once again the frivolous taste of Venetians. He wore too much cloth; so much that he was finding it hard to move. His eyes wander the crowds again, searching desperately.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues
“Una costina veloce?” A woman’s voice slithers into his ear and Yesung feels a hand sneak around his middle, feeling at the velvet domino he wore, threatening to dip lower.
“Sorry,” Yesung says in Korean, noting that she was dressed in yellow, “I’m looking for someone.”
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds
“Straniero,” the woman says around her volto, sounding both disgusted and disappointed, before she moves onto another man who is all too happy to accept her offer in perfect Italian.
Yes, Yesung thinks, I’m a foreigner.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver
Yesung watches as they walk off, the woman leading the man into a dark alleyway, most likely to fall onto her knees in front of him, or lift her silk and velvet, allowing him to press her spine into the cold stone. Yesung rolls his eyes in contempt and continues his journey towards Pisani Moretta Palace. He has a mission tonight.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver/Turning heads
Tonight, he finally has the information that he needs.
Tonight, he will rescue his sister. He will Sing for her, Sing her back into his arms, Sing her into safety.
He had not spent his life searching the world to lose her now, had not spent every waking moment Singing that damn Song, a Song that he only learned because his mother told him that if he Sang it to his sister’s abductor she could come back. She could come back to him; she could smile again, could laugh, dance, and live.
So he searches. He scours Venice because he knows what the signora looks like, knows from dirty innkeepers and ancient hermits, from the pages of fairy tales, and from the whispered legends of his people, knows that she is here. Somewhere.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver/Turning heads
There are so many reds, so many blues. Too many costumes for Yesung to sort out in his head. Green, black, masks and head pieces reaching up into the sky like they wanted to hang from the stars. Bauta. Moretto. Venetian. Gold leafing, hand painted, satin and silk, dripping gems, blue, red, silver... Una Bello Mortale Signora
Yesung pauses mid-step, his breath lost. The gold paint looks a little cracked, spidery veins of color crisscrossing and swirling around the black holes that pretend to have eyes. Strings of gems fall from the white forehead of the Venetian mask, pulling over the head piece, disappearing into the red silk that spins circles around blue and silver. Everyone stares.
Yesung follows.
Over canals of wine, past alleyways of sex, through groups of carousers. Yesung resists the urge to throw up as he weaves through butterflies and kings, barely glancing at the masks with long noses. Orange, yellow, purple, they were all only smudges of color to him. Only a dream of people in costumes. He was there only for her. For painted gold and whispering silk, for the hint of her laugh hidden in the diamonds she steals from her victims.
"What do you want?" Pressing against stone, fingers on skin, noses of masks touching: voice like an angel.
"Three wishes," he says and Sings a bar of the Song. The smile dies, the glamour fades, and he wonders if it was all a spell.
"You ask much,"
"You take much."
"I take nothing," says una bello mortale signora, "Everything is drawn to me."
"You have my sister, I want her back. That is my only wish."
"You may have her, if she wishes to leave."
Yesung scoffs.
Her house is like her costume, the gold paint a little cracked, swirling around windows that pretend to be eyes. Curtains of diamonds and silk, throwing rainbows over silver furniture, everything perfect, yet everything haphazard.
"You're sister came to free her lover, did you know?" Voice like an angel.
"I don't care," he is staring at out the window, watching a man in a yellow bauta stumble over cobblestones.
"They never care," she says sadly and leads him through a maze of rooms to where his sister lay.
She is beautiful. Perfect. And he hates the donna for making her sleep, for holding her here. She smiles at him and beckons him closer. The mask comes off and then the layers of cloth and Yesung can't restrain his wonder. "You are not a woman."
"I never said I was. Would you care to know my name?"
"No."
"It's Ryeowook," the lady (now man) says, and Yesung swallows.
“I’m Yesung,” he breathes, and then quickly adds his original thought, “I just want my sister.”
Ryeowook laughs, "I know. I will Sing her awake."
Yesung sits on the carpet, hands trembling, heart pounding, as Ryeowook steps over his discarded diamonds, kneeling by the bed.
The voice sounds like the costume. Like the house. Like Ryeowook. It starts out spidery thin, like the fading paint of a mask, and fleshes out note by note, sparkling a little, like a strand of diamonds, rolling further and further, before round tones, rich and vibrant, finally swallow Yesung's soul.
"What are you doing?" he gasps, his tears pouring out of him. He was drawn to it. Pulled note by note into Ryeowook's world. He hates this man, hates everything that he is, everything that he does...Yesung tries to block it out, tries to keep his heart from trapping the sound and keeping it with him forever.
"Do you not understand the Song?" Ryeowook whispers, the notes still echoing around the room, Yesung's sister stirring on the bed, “People come to me with wishes. They wish that they will never feel the pain of love and that the love they find will remain true. I Sing it for them, but my voice...they fall in love with my voice, with me. So they stay. They sleep. They will never feel pain. They will always love me.”
"No," Yesung whispers.
"Yes," Ryeowook responds, "Someone always comes to save them. They beg and whine, make me promise to never grant any more wishes. I Sing. They fall in love. "
"No!" Yesung screams and the diamonds are cold. The reds are no longer warm, the blues no longer comforting. Yesung is drowning, falling, sinking in color. He refuses to believe the lies.
"I speak only truth. Do you wish for me to continue? Will you resist my music, fair signore?"
"Just..let her wake," Yesung manages, wanting his sister to be free of this, whatever it is, "Take me if you have to, do whatever you must, just let her go."
Ryeowook shrugs, sings, caresses the girls cheek.
Yesung shudders, convulses, knows he can't live without it.
He reaches out for Ryeowook, and the man is on top of him, kissing him senseless, and Yesung groans, grabbing the other man's hips, the Song still bouncing off of gold plated rafters. "They all want this," Ryeowook says into his ear, licking it, biting the lobe, "Is this want you want?"
"If it makes my sister free," Yesung lies, because he does want it. He has never wanted anything so much in all his life. He doesn’t even want his sister’s freedom as much as he craves this. He wonders if it’s possible to desire a man in such a small space of time. He thinks not, but the stray thought that he might be under a spell doesn’t faze him.
Ryeowook smiles like he can read minds, and Yesung knows the Song is a drug. Ryeowook's voice is a auditory narcotic, dripping into his ears, making him writhe on the floor.
His noise of want as Ryewook palms his erection drowns out the sounds of the party raging outside.
"Come," Ryeowook says and pushes Yesung to his feet. Yesung doesn’t know what it is that is possessing him. He mewls, unable to speak, as Ryeowook’s touches slow, finally ceasing altogether. “They never want it to stop,” Ryeowook whispers, “Your sister didn’t want me to stop. Her lover didn’t want me to either, or the man before him. They never do.”
Yesung whines, unable to comprehend Ryeowook’s meaning, and Ryeowook sighs. He drags Yesung to his feet, pushing him up against stone and glass. “See? See your sister there? She is safe. Do you want to go join her?”
Yesung doesn't know if he can fathom it. His sister in the costume of a Venetian. Ryeowook pressing him against the wall to create friction. His sister laughing because she had already had too much wine. Ryeowook's hand sliding up and down. His sister dancing in the middle of the street. Ryeowook kissing his neck, his face, "Do you want to leave, fair signore?" His sister. Her laugh. The swish of her skirted costume. Ryeowook. His hands. The sound of his voice against Yesung's skin.
Yesung's breath fogs the glass and the world outside becomes blurred colors. The carnival becomes a distant memory, a flash of costumed sins as he fights for breath with each pull of Ryeowook's hand.
Ryeowook Sings and with each note, Yesung shudders, thrashing against the stone. His hands claw at the glass window, all propriety gone in throes of pleasure.
"You are caught now," Ryeowook breaths in between bars of the Song. "I tried to tell you what would happen. The Song tells you what will happen. It will always happen, Yesung."
The Voice of an Angel, Yesung thinks blearily, and he can't hold himself back anymore, streaking white across the windows, falling back into Ryeowook's arms, realizing that he wants to be there.
"People come to rescue their loved ones, they get entranced by my voice, and they choose to stay.”
Yesung only half listens, letting Ryeowook lay him on the bed, brush away his hair, kiss his still trembling body.
"It's a vicious cycle. You aren't supposed to be heroic. You cannot free anyone. You can only ever take their place. Why does no one understand that?”
Yesung wonders why Ryeowook is crying, why he is screaming. Yesung grasps Ryeowook's hand, still sticky, still warm, and squeezes.
"Rest," Ryeowook whispered, "Rest until someone comes for you. They always do. Then, you will wake and be free from this. From me. You won't remember any of it."
Yesung frowns. He wants to remember. He wants Ryeowook, wants to be with him, love him, Sing with him.
Ryeowook smiles and this time Yesung is sure the man can read minds.
"Don't worry about it," he soothes, "Just relax. Sleep,"
Yesung smiles and closes his eyes. The sounds of the party outside slowly filters back into the room and Yesung finds that they aren't as bad as he thought, not when Ryeowook is sitting beside him, smoothing his hair, kissing his cheek.
For second he sees gold threads spinning around him, weaving through black eyes. He hears the swoosh of fabric before he sees it, red intertwining with blue, silver thread and diamonds casting rainbows. It sounds like Ryeowook's voice.
The Song is the last thing he hears, Ryeowook crooning it like a lullaby, feelings, thoughts, and memories, fading into nothing as he falls into an enchanted sleep.
~~~~
The Song should you care to listen to it:
Italian Transations:
Una costina veloce : Lit. A little quick thing. Slang “A quickie”
Straniero: Foreigner
Una Bello Mortale Signora : A deathly beautiful lady
Donna: Woman
Signore: Gentleman, in this case “Sir”
Bauta Mask
Volto Mask
Venetian Costumes
I don’t have much confidence with this. I’m sort of like...what did I just write, it makes no sense, you should not attemptYewook complicated things like this ever again. So, I suppose I'm posting it so you can tell me what's wrong with it so next time I get another crazy idea I can write it correctly.
/is thoroughly annoyed with lack of writing ability that can't keep up with her ideas
Pairing: Yewook
Rating: R
Genre: Supernatural, AU, Angst
Summary: Yesung sets out into the Venice Carnivale to rescue his sister from a man who can grant wishes.
A/N I'm disturbed by this...
Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand
The first that she be spared the pain
That comes from a dark and laughing rain
When she finds love may it always stay true
This I beg for the second wish I made too
But wish no more
My life you can take
To have her please just one day wake
To have her please just one day wake
~~~~~~
Venetian Mask
The Venice Carnivale is as filthy as he remembers. The streets are soaked with sweat, the alleyways smelling of sex, the houses dark and cold, their inhabitants out partying before the start of Lent.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf
The canals are filled with boats and singing, drunken revelers spilling their expensive wines into the water as they stand and wave to the moon. Everything is shrouded in candlelight, shadows casting monsters on the sides of buildings, flickering nightmares finding life at the bottom of bottles.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted
There are too many people kissing around masks and groping beneath costumes, the shrieking laughter of women creating an unpleasant cocktail of sound with banging symbols and raucous men. So much distraction, so many people, so little time.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin
He tries to stay close to the Grande Canal where at least the gondola singers sound tolerable. They are, in some way, a comfort in the foreign surroundings.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk
He hugs the shadows as much as he can, watching the flow of costumes and colors as they wind through the streets. More than once he feels his ass groped, but he doesn’t bother turning around, knowing that he would not be able to discern the offender.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems
Yesung adjusts his mask, cursing once again the frivolous taste of Venetians. He wore too much cloth; so much that he was finding it hard to move. His eyes wander the crowds again, searching desperately.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues
“Una costina veloce?” A woman’s voice slithers into his ear and Yesung feels a hand sneak around his middle, feeling at the velvet domino he wore, threatening to dip lower.
“Sorry,” Yesung says in Korean, noting that she was dressed in yellow, “I’m looking for someone.”
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds
“Straniero,” the woman says around her volto, sounding both disgusted and disappointed, before she moves onto another man who is all too happy to accept her offer in perfect Italian.
Yes, Yesung thinks, I’m a foreigner.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver
Yesung watches as they walk off, the woman leading the man into a dark alleyway, most likely to fall onto her knees in front of him, or lift her silk and velvet, allowing him to press her spine into the cold stone. Yesung rolls his eyes in contempt and continues his journey towards Pisani Moretta Palace. He has a mission tonight.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver/Turning heads
Tonight, he finally has the information that he needs.
Tonight, he will rescue his sister. He will Sing for her, Sing her back into his arms, Sing her into safety.
He had not spent his life searching the world to lose her now, had not spent every waking moment Singing that damn Song, a Song that he only learned because his mother told him that if he Sang it to his sister’s abductor she could come back. She could come back to him; she could smile again, could laugh, dance, and live.
So he searches. He scours Venice because he knows what the signora looks like, knows from dirty innkeepers and ancient hermits, from the pages of fairy tales, and from the whispered legends of his people, knows that she is here. Somewhere.
Venetian mask/Gold leaf/Hand painted/Folds of satin/Layers of silk/Dripping with gems/The boldest blues/The richest reds/ The purest silver/Turning heads
There are so many reds, so many blues. Too many costumes for Yesung to sort out in his head. Green, black, masks and head pieces reaching up into the sky like they wanted to hang from the stars. Bauta. Moretto. Venetian. Gold leafing, hand painted, satin and silk, dripping gems, blue, red, silver... Una Bello Mortale Signora
Yesung pauses mid-step, his breath lost. The gold paint looks a little cracked, spidery veins of color crisscrossing and swirling around the black holes that pretend to have eyes. Strings of gems fall from the white forehead of the Venetian mask, pulling over the head piece, disappearing into the red silk that spins circles around blue and silver. Everyone stares.
Yesung follows.
Over canals of wine, past alleyways of sex, through groups of carousers. Yesung resists the urge to throw up as he weaves through butterflies and kings, barely glancing at the masks with long noses. Orange, yellow, purple, they were all only smudges of color to him. Only a dream of people in costumes. He was there only for her. For painted gold and whispering silk, for the hint of her laugh hidden in the diamonds she steals from her victims.
"What do you want?" Pressing against stone, fingers on skin, noses of masks touching: voice like an angel.
"Three wishes," he says and Sings a bar of the Song. The smile dies, the glamour fades, and he wonders if it was all a spell.
"You ask much,"
"You take much."
"I take nothing," says una bello mortale signora, "Everything is drawn to me."
"You have my sister, I want her back. That is my only wish."
"You may have her, if she wishes to leave."
Yesung scoffs.
Her house is like her costume, the gold paint a little cracked, swirling around windows that pretend to be eyes. Curtains of diamonds and silk, throwing rainbows over silver furniture, everything perfect, yet everything haphazard.
"You're sister came to free her lover, did you know?" Voice like an angel.
"I don't care," he is staring at out the window, watching a man in a yellow bauta stumble over cobblestones.
"They never care," she says sadly and leads him through a maze of rooms to where his sister lay.
She is beautiful. Perfect. And he hates the donna for making her sleep, for holding her here. She smiles at him and beckons him closer. The mask comes off and then the layers of cloth and Yesung can't restrain his wonder. "You are not a woman."
"I never said I was. Would you care to know my name?"
"No."
"It's Ryeowook," the lady (now man) says, and Yesung swallows.
“I’m Yesung,” he breathes, and then quickly adds his original thought, “I just want my sister.”
Ryeowook laughs, "I know. I will Sing her awake."
Yesung sits on the carpet, hands trembling, heart pounding, as Ryeowook steps over his discarded diamonds, kneeling by the bed.
The voice sounds like the costume. Like the house. Like Ryeowook. It starts out spidery thin, like the fading paint of a mask, and fleshes out note by note, sparkling a little, like a strand of diamonds, rolling further and further, before round tones, rich and vibrant, finally swallow Yesung's soul.
"What are you doing?" he gasps, his tears pouring out of him. He was drawn to it. Pulled note by note into Ryeowook's world. He hates this man, hates everything that he is, everything that he does...Yesung tries to block it out, tries to keep his heart from trapping the sound and keeping it with him forever.
"Do you not understand the Song?" Ryeowook whispers, the notes still echoing around the room, Yesung's sister stirring on the bed, “People come to me with wishes. They wish that they will never feel the pain of love and that the love they find will remain true. I Sing it for them, but my voice...they fall in love with my voice, with me. So they stay. They sleep. They will never feel pain. They will always love me.”
"No," Yesung whispers.
"Yes," Ryeowook responds, "Someone always comes to save them. They beg and whine, make me promise to never grant any more wishes. I Sing. They fall in love. "
"No!" Yesung screams and the diamonds are cold. The reds are no longer warm, the blues no longer comforting. Yesung is drowning, falling, sinking in color. He refuses to believe the lies.
"I speak only truth. Do you wish for me to continue? Will you resist my music, fair signore?"
"Just..let her wake," Yesung manages, wanting his sister to be free of this, whatever it is, "Take me if you have to, do whatever you must, just let her go."
Ryeowook shrugs, sings, caresses the girls cheek.
Yesung shudders, convulses, knows he can't live without it.
He reaches out for Ryeowook, and the man is on top of him, kissing him senseless, and Yesung groans, grabbing the other man's hips, the Song still bouncing off of gold plated rafters. "They all want this," Ryeowook says into his ear, licking it, biting the lobe, "Is this want you want?"
"If it makes my sister free," Yesung lies, because he does want it. He has never wanted anything so much in all his life. He doesn’t even want his sister’s freedom as much as he craves this. He wonders if it’s possible to desire a man in such a small space of time. He thinks not, but the stray thought that he might be under a spell doesn’t faze him.
Ryeowook smiles like he can read minds, and Yesung knows the Song is a drug. Ryeowook's voice is a auditory narcotic, dripping into his ears, making him writhe on the floor.
His noise of want as Ryewook palms his erection drowns out the sounds of the party raging outside.
"Come," Ryeowook says and pushes Yesung to his feet. Yesung doesn’t know what it is that is possessing him. He mewls, unable to speak, as Ryeowook’s touches slow, finally ceasing altogether. “They never want it to stop,” Ryeowook whispers, “Your sister didn’t want me to stop. Her lover didn’t want me to either, or the man before him. They never do.”
Yesung whines, unable to comprehend Ryeowook’s meaning, and Ryeowook sighs. He drags Yesung to his feet, pushing him up against stone and glass. “See? See your sister there? She is safe. Do you want to go join her?”
Yesung doesn't know if he can fathom it. His sister in the costume of a Venetian. Ryeowook pressing him against the wall to create friction. His sister laughing because she had already had too much wine. Ryeowook's hand sliding up and down. His sister dancing in the middle of the street. Ryeowook kissing his neck, his face, "Do you want to leave, fair signore?" His sister. Her laugh. The swish of her skirted costume. Ryeowook. His hands. The sound of his voice against Yesung's skin.
Yesung's breath fogs the glass and the world outside becomes blurred colors. The carnival becomes a distant memory, a flash of costumed sins as he fights for breath with each pull of Ryeowook's hand.
Ryeowook Sings and with each note, Yesung shudders, thrashing against the stone. His hands claw at the glass window, all propriety gone in throes of pleasure.
"You are caught now," Ryeowook breaths in between bars of the Song. "I tried to tell you what would happen. The Song tells you what will happen. It will always happen, Yesung."
The Voice of an Angel, Yesung thinks blearily, and he can't hold himself back anymore, streaking white across the windows, falling back into Ryeowook's arms, realizing that he wants to be there.
"People come to rescue their loved ones, they get entranced by my voice, and they choose to stay.”
Yesung only half listens, letting Ryeowook lay him on the bed, brush away his hair, kiss his still trembling body.
"It's a vicious cycle. You aren't supposed to be heroic. You cannot free anyone. You can only ever take their place. Why does no one understand that?”
Yesung wonders why Ryeowook is crying, why he is screaming. Yesung grasps Ryeowook's hand, still sticky, still warm, and squeezes.
"Rest," Ryeowook whispered, "Rest until someone comes for you. They always do. Then, you will wake and be free from this. From me. You won't remember any of it."
Yesung frowns. He wants to remember. He wants Ryeowook, wants to be with him, love him, Sing with him.
Ryeowook smiles and this time Yesung is sure the man can read minds.
"Don't worry about it," he soothes, "Just relax. Sleep,"
Yesung smiles and closes his eyes. The sounds of the party outside slowly filters back into the room and Yesung finds that they aren't as bad as he thought, not when Ryeowook is sitting beside him, smoothing his hair, kissing his cheek.
For second he sees gold threads spinning around him, weaving through black eyes. He hears the swoosh of fabric before he sees it, red intertwining with blue, silver thread and diamonds casting rainbows. It sounds like Ryeowook's voice.
The Song is the last thing he hears, Ryeowook crooning it like a lullaby, feelings, thoughts, and memories, fading into nothing as he falls into an enchanted sleep.
~~~~
The Song should you care to listen to it:
Italian Transations:
Una costina veloce : Lit. A little quick thing. Slang “A quickie”
Straniero: Foreigner
Una Bello Mortale Signora : A deathly beautiful lady
Donna: Woman
Signore: Gentleman, in this case “Sir”
Bauta Mask
Volto Mask
Venetian Costumes
I don’t have much confidence with this. I’m sort of like...what did I just write, it makes no sense, you should not attempt
/is thoroughly annoyed with lack of writing ability that can't keep up with her ideas