kol verlac ▪ district two | fin

(Kol Verlac. Raw Heaven.)

Sweat -

fire between two lungs -

desire, singeing their veins -

lust, cutting deep into the insides of what was once pure, chasing away the pearly white sheen.

Two hearts no longer muscle and tissue,

but steel stallions fueled by the intoxicating night and amber.

These lips never rest, and neither does this body. These nights never end, and neither does this feeling - it's like he's falling down down down into a tangled web,

but he loves the rush. His body is not of blood but the wild night and all of its creatures, crawling out from the shadows hidden from the glaring sun and into a crowd buzzing, blazing with lustlustlust.

A castle of poles.

A kingdom of lust.

Crowns on their heads.

It's not a big deal, what he does - dance under a shower of neon on a pillar of desire. Mother would have spat, "Lechery," and shunned her only failed son. Father would have growled like a mangy wolf and shouted until his skin was redder than the cherries sitting on the edge of the raised glasses in the crowd - Kol's crowd.

He loves their eyes; they belong to him.

They are pairs of marbles, all different colors - blue, green, brown, gray, mixtures of the three - and most importantly, they're his. They may as well be clenched in his palms.

His.

Their attention, their money - all the things he never had.

His.

They never thought a boy like him would end up like this - a golden boy, with kind but serious blue eyes and a mind wired perfectly for school and the thick, dusty books crammed into old shelves. In the classroom, he is a genius; in the streets, he is a ditz.

A stumbling, giggling ditz, with a halo over his head despite his nighttime job.

Being a stripper doesn't make a person dirty.

He's more of an angel than his sister, an intellectual like himself, but with the filthiest mind that interprets every word as a sexual joke. But he is still a good boy, a well-behaved, neat, punctual student, who can make dirty jokes but can't understand certain sexual comments from others.

That only holds true in the daylight.

When the sun sets, clothes come off and the thrill takes over. The light of his halo clashes with the fluorescent neon lights of Sinsational, and his wings collide with the pole against his back - but the feathers are just barely furled.

Innocence. Broken, but present.

("What's a . . . ?"

"I don't understand why -")

He's still a good boy.

He does his chores, completes his homework, attends school, makes straight A's, graces his home with pleasant small talk at the dinner table. He combs his thick brown hair neatly, buttons up his plaid jacket, fixes the collar, straightens out the wrinkles. Perfect for the world to look upon and criticize, to swoon over and marvel at Kol Verlac, District Two's golden boy.

But he strips it all off, sunkissed skin and hard-earned muscles, in a lustful frenzy within the walls of Sinsational. Not even the glitter on the stage, like bits of fallen stars, flashing in the neon lights cannot distract from the SEXY being thrown in every viewer's face.

("Ass softer than a pillow."

"Abs harder than my -")

no holds barred

i've been sent to destroy

❧

{ table: zoë }