vespertine

long live the chief dean (fka kwon hyuk) | 26 | queen roleplay account

[trinxjen-blog]

> unnatural disaster;

[trinxdean]

There was no method to his madness, no ingenuity to adorn his insanity. That spur of sheer mischievous was bound to have repercussions yet Dean knew nothing of the concept. It’s evident in the impish grin that threatens to split his face into something macabre, the stuff of nightmares, where deep down the brute ails to claw at pale skin.

Red against white.

That was what he craved as he glimpses upon the smooth curve of her chest that peeks through worn fabric as Jennie leans in, her lips dangerously close to grazing his. He can sense the minute albeit present irritation that slips into her perpetual whimsical tone and like fuel to his fire, Dean attains a sense of having achieved something that was perhaps before tonight, unachievable. But with blithe disregard for anyone’s wellbeing than his own, he looks on in mock curiosity. Fingers twitch in delight, for what was unknown territory seems to become more clear by the second… Only, an abrupt surge of pain erupts from one of his limbs.

Two things flit across his mind as he struggles to stifle the pained growl that emanates from clenched teeth. One, he is going to kill her. Two, he is going to do so rather slowly, certainly by means of evisceration with the sharpest dagger in his collection. He would hang her upright by her hands and let her innards spill out before her so that she could also bear witness to the gore. Dean, in a split second of anguish, is able to imagine her grisly demise and for some reason, a maniacal cackle tumbles from his lips that find a rather lopsided form. They attempt to portray a smile, yet whatever the expression is is far from it.

“You’re not an idiot, Jennie… yet you continue to test me?” He asks with his guttural tone, moving the assaulted foot ever so slightly as the pain subsides. “It’s as if you’re aware of something that I’m not.” He challenges, a hand moving towards her bare chest where he ever so gently brushes his fingers against the skin there. “Or is it the contrary… that we’re both on the same page?” 

Softer than satin, he admires the way her skins feels underneath his fingertips. He dares them to venture lower, but they do the opposite and they ghost upwards towards her neck as if the appendages assumed a mind of their own and were rebelling. His thumb departs from the others, situating itself on one side of her neck, slender and remarkable. The other four fingers make home in the crook of the other side and then he simply applies pressure, enough to send a gentle warning but not so much to cut off her air supply. His eyes locked on hers, his lips centimetres away from her own, he whispers, “Let me kill you… let me show you what hell looks like, just once…”

[trinxjen-blog]

> unnatural disaster;

[trinxdean]

trinxjen:

Jennie is a passionate lover of mysteries.

She is addicted to the thrill of the chase; the bittersweet realisation that she has hit a dead end and then the electrifying adrenaline that follows from scrambling to find a new way to solve the problem before the timer runs out; and ultimately, the sweet satisfaction of having found patterns in places where they shouldn’t exist. She has an unhealthy obsession of dissecting conundrums all the way down to the level of their grating gears, and even after finding out exactly what makes them tick, she’ll prod further until she finds more, whatever that may entail.

She is the riddler’s very own personal nightmare, and he is a mess of misplaced smirks and laughs, of black smoke and disappearing acts, and of passionate stares one minute and having the countenance of utter boredom the next.

Jennie finds herself atop a very familiar tipping point, and unfortunately, she is known to be quite clumsy.

And so she stares at him with the kind of fervency that is expected of someone who is faced with a difficult puzzle, and upon hitting a roadblock, wills it to solve itself. It is why she belatedly realises that he’s shown some semblance of acknowledging her original request—oh yes, that is what she’s here for, she’s uncharacteristically forgetful as of late—and so she shakes herself from this trance that only he seems to be able to lure her in.

“Blackmail! It’s really easy to control people once you find out their deepest, darkest secrets. They might even kill for you,” she sings, and the short giggle that spills from cherry lips can be described as her very own version of maniacal laughter. At his request, Jennie moves towards the spot he gestures to, albeit painfully slowly. She fidgets in her seat as she gets herself comfortable—even tugging at the hem of the large, grease-stained shirt from under her butt—and then she crosses her legs and rests her hands gently on her knee. Once that entire episode is over and done with, dark eyes flick towards his stoical figure, and she finds the intensity of her smile dwindling ever so slightly.

One beat. Two.

Ivory teeth sink into pink lips.

Three.

Oh yes.

“Oh! Sorry, I was distracted,” she pipes up, and the smile returns with vigour. She doesn’t offer up a reason for her distraction, merely slips pale fingers under her shirt and into her bra. What surfaces is a tiny, black USB held lightly between her fingers, but she raises her hands up in surrender lest he gets the wrong idea; because something tells her that he’s the kind who shoots first, then proceeds to spit the questions at a limp carcass later. How exciting.

“I come bearing gifts!” she informs, her fingers giving the USB a playful shake before she tosses the item onto the coffee table between them, “you’ll find really cool videos of people beating each other to death. The video’s home-made, though; they’re not really professionals. But the gist is still there! Oh, they’d just do anything for me to keep their secret, whether it’s a troubled past, a secretive surgery, an underground singing career…”

The side-eye is a brief, ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ affair, and if he happens to miss it, it’s never brought to his knowledge again. She finally brings her hands down and places them to rest on the armrest, her pink tongue darting out briefly before she begins her complaint, “but sometimes, they get a little optimistic, and they try to escape. My games are a gamble, so if they get any ideas like that, they’ll be free—at the price of their secrets being exposed, of course.”

She scrunches her nose up in distaste, and in a sudden burst of anger, she slams her fist against the armrest, “but I don’t care about their secrets! I want them to be desperate enough to kill, and I want them broken!”

Her chest rises and falls with each heaving breath, and Jennie is forced to halt her rant in order to calm her rapidly beating heart. Upon success, with her large smile ever-present on her lips, she continues calmly, “that’s where you come in. If they get any stupid ideas, I want someone present as a threat, just to sweeten the deal. And if they run, I want them dead.”

Jennie’s eyes brighten in excitement, as though a moment of realisation hits her, and she jumps from her seat and paces in front of him.

“Omigosh, and you’re perfect for it! With your black smoke abracadabra, you could kill them and get away clean! No one would ever know it was you, and they’d never be able to tie it back to me! We’d get away scot-free, and the games will continue running!” she gasps, hands flying to her lips as she halts in her steps and pivots to meet his gaze, “you— you’re perfect. Say you’ll do it, oh my gosh please—”

From the tipping point she trips, and down the rabbit’s hole she falls.

He’s drowning.

He’s drowning in the light haze that filters its way through the levels of his consciousness, a result of the expensive vodka that slips through his lips and down his throat. He’s drowning in her gaze, absolutely suffocating from the suggestion that hangs in the air like a dense fog and laughs at the two of them. Fate is at work here; there’s a bigger picture that is more than the indelicate atmosphere that permeates his space but Dean cannot get past his primitive urge to rip that dreadful oversized monstrosity that hides Jennie’s frame into shreds.

And if things couldn’t get any worse, the woman delves into her shoddy garment to reveal a USB. The simple action causes him to lose all compose, and he doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring at her bosom rather ungracefully. Even as she harps on about the contents of said USB, his sinister glare burns into the fabric of her attire and it is here he imagine what lies underneath, and what it would be like to press his lips against every inch of it - only her mention of a certain singing career is enough to banish whatever lewd vision he succumbs to and once again, he regards her with slight contempt though it is brief.

His eyes flicker towards her own and he catches that glimmer of a look and he’s sure she knows. Denial is quick to usher away any chagrin that threatens to claim his expression, his countenance only growing more dismal as he listens to her. In all honesty, he’s tired of the talking. He could kill for her, correction, he would kill for her - if only for her to die in repetition by his hand, between his sheets. Even as her little outburst solicits his eyebrow to arch in bafflement, he is sure about one thing; she is me and she is mine. She is carnage and she is destruction - in a more well-dressed sort of way. What genius could come up with a way to murder someone, without having to lift their fingers?

Dean is utterly and undeniably smitten.

So, the hitman collects himself, brings some sort of smile to push up at the corners of his lips (which isn’t too difficult when she’s inflating his monumental ego). “Black smoke abracadabra? I don’t think I’ve heard of it regarded in such an interesting way before…”  He remarks with a slight chuckle, though those who have had the pleasure of seeing him leap hardly survive to comment upon it. She should think herself very lucky, he thinks.

“You know very well I can’t refuse an offer to kill, so I’m awfully keen…” He responds, reaching over to place his now empty glass back on the table and picking up the USB. He eyes the little thing for a only a moment before closing his fingers around it in a tight fist, hearing it crunch under the pressure. “…but it’s going to take a little more convincing, doll.” And with that, he unravels his fist and shakes away the remains of the device, his eyes locking onto hers as he does so. With a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, he sinks down further into his seat and spreads his legs wide in a cocky arrogance. 

[daddy-deanfluenza]

🌴

[trinxjen-blog]

> for my sweetheart;

[trinxdean]

trinxjen:

@trinxdean

The only plausible explanation for the mess is that a tornado must’ve swept in and blew the petals of every red rose in Incheon into the bedroom. At least, that is the excuse Jennie is going with, never mind the stolen delivery truck parked just outside Dean’s house.

There she sits, legs crossed and on his bed, just inches from his sleeping figure as she noisily flips through the pages of a book she must’ve taken from some corner of his house. On her face, she wears a blasé expression as she scans past every printed word through fake prescription glasses; and as for her body, Jennie dons a pristine white robe that is poorly tied, and through its parted hems, whispers hints of a white corset underneath. They are the image of domesticated bliss; except for the minor fact that they’re both full-blown criminals, as well as Dean having exactly zero idea of the goings-on in his room, if his slow breathing is anything to go by.

(Oh, but not for long; or at least, not for another three more seconds, two, one…)

The alarm blares, and amid the chaotic scene, Jennie snaps her book shut and grins.

“Mornin’ honey!” she sings after promptly turning the alarm off, and then she rolls over to catch his eye, causing the robe to slip from her shoulders, “you really, really, really need to change your security system! Sneaking in was a breeze— get it?”

(And if he needs any more help understanding her pathetic excuse of a joke, she gestures towards the petal-covered bed and floor, suggesting a whirlwind that whizzed through the room in the middle of the night.)

She rests her crossed arms on his sculpted chest and leans forward to plant a small kiss on his lips, briefly scrunches her nose in fear of morning breath, but then melts into his figure anyway. She spoils herself with staying in this position for what seems like hours—but really only amounts to a minute—as she admires his perfectly chiselled jaw and handsome features; and then like an energised bunny, she jolts up and shrills, “happy Valentine’s Day, Dean Bean! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go; I have so much planned for today!”

Jennie quickly props herself up on her knees and clasps her hands together as she stares into the distance, her eyes sparkling as she reveals, “we’ll get heart-shaped eggs for brunch, take some art classes and paint portraits of each other, maybe even kill someone… it’ll be so romantic! Oh, oh, we could even get some dinner after! Dinner under the stars…”

And with a satisfied sigh, Jennie is lost to the world, held captive by the perfect scenarios conjured up by her wild imagination. She rests her chin on her clasped fingers as she wears a dreamy expression, and the only thing that shakes her from this haze is the thought that her daydreams have the potential of becoming reality: if only her baby gets his lazy ass off the bed and squeezes his cute butt into some well-fitting jeans. And so Jennie flicks her gaze towards him, and as she flutters her eyelashes for added effect, she pleads, “please, daddy?”

It is the first Valentine’s Day that Jennie has celebrated in a long time, and she’s got to admit: already, this has got to be the best one yet.

a deep sleep comes easy to a hard working man.

yet with the intrusive din that violently snatches dean from his peaceful slumber, comes a brief rage that evokes the typical aggression from the hitman. before eyelids even part open to welcome the world, fists curl into tight balls and he’s ready to obliterate whatever magical alarm clock is ringing out like the bells for armageddon - magical because dean’s not entirely sure he even owns an alarm clock, let alone set one. but before his limbs can even wake themselves into action, an all too familiar voice, shrill and saccharine, pierces the air as the alarm silences abruptly.

dark orbs finally emerge from reluctant eyelids and he sets his red-eyed gaze on his girlfriend; a rather scantily clad girlfriend, an angel of death in a dangerously tightly strung white corset. and with this brief assessment comes the acknowledgement of his prominent erection, a cruel way to start his day.

he’s still livid, in fact her ability to crack any code, any system on this occasion brings a frown to taint his lips, yet the chemical reaction that courses through his bloodstream directs all of his fury and distaste to the lewd attire his company dons. what makes her think clothes are even necessary in his company?

“what security system could ever stop you? please let me know and i’ll purch-” the killer chuckles as the words leave his lips, only to be cut short by chaotic petal display that assumes his bedroom (and he later learns his entire abode). where he loves flowers, the gentle floral scent that they provide and the classy aesthetic they bring to any room, dean isn’t sure how he feels about the remains of a rose bomb that situates his surroundings. before he could protest, her kiss renders him mute and craving for more. yet how receptive would she be before he brushes his teeth, he’s unsure. their affair is fairly new, though there are much more atrocious things she witnesses him do on a daily basis that would trump mere morning breath.

he feels her body then press against his and he fights an habitual urge to drape his arms around her tiny frame and squeeze the life out of her. instead a mere hand gently rests on the small of her back though not for long as she is the personification of energy, and with that, utter pulchritude. there, his mad genius beams, and beams for him only. whilst she falls victim to the profound mystery that is her mind, dean watches on in admiration - his expression even softening as he takes in the sight.

“happy valentine’s day...” he utters throatily, cursing himself silently. how could he forget that it’s valentine’s day? easily, he’s never had to keep up appearances until now. but what can be done? with perhaps every florist’s rose supply currently flooding his apartment, he doubts he could buy her roses in time. mayhap a head on a silver platter would perhaps brighten her day, or a firearm of her own of a pink variety to fire at an unsuspecting civilian? he half listens to the schedule she’s reeling off her sweet tongue, to pick his brain on what would be a suitable gift for his lover. and it does come to him, a grand idea! he’s almost beside himself with how crafty he is, though most of the credit falls to jennie and her bedroom eyes.

with no delay, he whips the sheets from on top of him, sending a flurry of petals to scatter and dance around them, revealing his want. reaching out to take her jaw between his fingers, dean coaxes her towards him, another hand snaking its way behind her milky white thigh to grab a firm hold of it. “sure we can, baby girl… but first, how about daddy give you your valentine’s day present?”

[trinxjen-blog]

> unnatural disaster;

[trinxdean]

trinxjen:

It all happens in a blur of midnight black.

One moment, there he calmly sits, fiddling with the drink in his hand, and the next, he’s in front of her, his black orbs dancing across her figure like a demon appraising its human prey. (God, she doesn’t think she will ever get used to this Goddamn mutation. He seems to have come straight out of a horror movie, and thus, jump scares are only part and parcel of those damned things.) Jennie has half the mind to scream, but she knows better than to give off the impression of distress. She is sure that he is no different to all predators, and like all predators, they are attuned to the scent of fear.

And really, there is no reason for her to be afraid. Because Jennie has this all planned out, as per usual. Killing her only guarantees his death in the hands of her current moderators who may be subpar at actually moderating, but make no mistake: the reason she had employed them in the first place is because they are all natural killers too, much like the man in front of her.

(So why, oh why, does her knees scream threats of giving way? Her teeth sink into her curved lips to the point where she is almost sure they will draw blood.)

A pained groan spill from her lips without her permission as her back is brutally slammed against the door, and for a moment, she entertains the thought that perhaps, she’ll actually die here. It is a brief flash in her mind before she shuts off the stream of noradrenaline that pours into her brain, giving her the calm mind and courage to match the smile on his lips.

“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to show me,” she snarks as she brazenly meets the bottomless pit that is his eyes, and her teeth finally relents in its abuse against her lips as she edges forward in the little space that she’s given from him holding her in place, “and as much as I’d love to find out, I think you got a little lost in translation. The blood that will be shed is not mine, and I’m not offering myself up like some gutted pig.”

The smile cemented on her lips can only be described as having a hint of condescension, and despite the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat against her heaving chest, she doesn’t give into the want to struggle against his hold. She has a clear enough mind to realise that it’s no use to even try; in terms of strength, she is sorely lacking, but her tongue is as sharp as a knife tipped in lethal venom, and so she charges forth with the weapon.

“I’m making an offer, and it’s best you accept it! But while we’re on that, I’ve got to say: your customer service really needs improvement!” she complains, and her lack of self-preservation can only be blamed by her immense confidence in any situation, given that she is a careful planner, “how about you let go of the poor lady, big boy, and we can get to the business part of the deal? Hmm?”

Slim fingers reach up to pat his chiselled jaw twice, as though signalling for him to move, because such is her audacity. Jennie moves on tip-toes as her lips edges closer to his ear, and she barely whispers, “oh, and if you kill me here, I hate to break the news to you but you’re probably gonna die, too. I’d hate to kill you, hot stuff, but we gotta do what we gotta do!”

And then she assumes the original position he’s put her in, her back firmly against the door and her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she curiously awaits for his reaction. She looks up at him through her fluttering lashes, and the innocent smile that tugs at her lips is aimed to taunt him. She waits a beat, two beats, and then because Jennie is overcome with impatience, her once perfect posture sinks as she whines, “oh, come on. Please? I haven’t even gotten to the part where everyone kills each other! You know: the fun part!”

A cutesy pout and furrowed eyebrows that grace her feline features do terribly at expressing her annoyance at the situation, and for that, she has her wired personality to blame. But it doesn’t stop her from the semi-glare she throws his way as her eyes study his handsome features in disdain.

the groan that emanates from soft pink lips sends a pleasant shiver down dean’s spine and it takes everything in his being not to want to elicit more of them. the thought of having that pretty little mouth of hers cry out for mercy in his name seizes him and before any involuntary chemical reaction could cause trouble for him, dean banishes it to the far recesses of his mind. as if on cue, her smile suddenly causes his to falter and he’s amiss at what she could possibly be smiling at. surely she’s at a loss here… he could draw her life to an unfortunate end, he’s certain she’s aware of what he can do. somehow, her actions translate to him as her being fearless and this strikes a rather discordant chord within him. it’s not entirely jarring, in fact he fails to place a finger on what he feels towards her. perhaps an amalgamation of contempt, admiration, and he even dares, desire.

as she closes the single iota of space between them, dean’s fury seems to subside and curiosity takes its place. her words reek of confidence, a trait he holds ever so dearly to his marble heart, and in the face of danger, he must give it to her; she’s making quite the impression. so, he takes in her iron gaze and her declarations to match, allows them to sink in as he attempts to make sense of what this situation will exactly transpire to. she definitely cannot do without his help, that much is evident in her persistence, and of course he finds a way for that fact to elevate his ego. which is why he filters her comment about his insufficient customer service, refusing to let such a slight make any place in his thought processes, the hitman already on cloud nine.

yet the sudden touch solicits a small smirk to shift across his lips and he has half a mind to bite at the appendages that graze his skin before they disappear from range. her audacity is one he can reckon with; in any other instance, an offence like this one would render her fingerless but dean laps her outlandish behaviour up, the woman before him an exception to the rules. “don’t tell me you’re getting all soft for some pussy” a voice inside his head taunts him.

would that be so wrong? he retorts inwardly.

chuckling, he finds it amusing how she has to tiptoe to find his ear, yet the words she utters into them coaxes more of throaty laugh to escape him. how cute. she thinks i can be killed. with a roll of his neck, he releases her before black smoke engulfs him once again and he appears a few paces away from her. that smile on her lips, oh the many ways he could wipe it off clean. he wonders, if she could still maintain that smile if he had her luscious locks wrapped around his fist as he ravages her neck with his lips, his teeth… but before he could picture the scene any further, his curiosity piques at her next set of words.

“what are you proposing?” he demands, regarding her expression with an acute irritation that taints his words. he notes how she pairs killing and fun in the same sentence and for a second he wonders if he’s looking at his female counterpart. sure, there’s people who kill for fun, but there are very few for that matter.

“you have my full attention… if i remember correctly, it’s jennie, right?” he asks, an eyebrow arching. now that his rage is nonexistent, clarity assumes. a plethora of questions deluge him instantaneously, but most importantly his interest lies in who’s life, or lives, he’s going to end.  

“take a seat.” he orders, rather than requests, and with another step (at this point the peacock is immersing himself in a flashy display), he resumes his seat on couch, a leg draping itself over the other. taking his glass in his hand, he gestures towards the adjacent sofa, not once casting a look in her direction. “this better be good, jennie, because i’ll be honest with you; killing you seems much more ideal.” he remarks playfully, although his words come out all too sinisterly, failing miserably to to achieve its desired effect.

[trinxjen-blog]

> unnatural disaster;

[trinxdean]

trinxjen:

/

She opts for her black combat boots this time round. She’s learnt, from their previous encounter, that Dean is a slippery fellow. (And yes, that is the only thing she’s learnt; she has not yet extrapolated from his broken phone and hostile words that he is all too trigger happy, or the way that his eyes rest on her neck is a testament to his bloodlust, or that all of these summed up together tells a tale of danger, his possessive lover.) So she’s ready to chase him down with her trusty boots, as much as someone like her is able to catch up with someone like him.

In an extra effort to lure him into her trap, she’s put on the work attire she stole from the pizza delivery guy down the street, too.

In hindsight, the effort is wasted because it is highly doubtful that someone as low profile as Dean would ever order pizza and voluntarily offer up the address of his home, but nevertheless Jennie is humoured by the way the attire drowns her small figure, so she supposes that is a good enough reason. As she approaches his residence, feline eyes zoom onto the blinking light beneath the number pad of his security system, and her pink lips tug into a cocky smirk. How careless of him to rely on such a pitiful device to protect his home, when said device can so easily be hacked by even hacker novices. It takes her a mere moment to gain access into his house, and the high-pitched ping signalling access granted is like music to her ears.

Hands reach up to push against the door, and her eyes rest on his seated figure on the couch, the corners of her lips tugging further into a shit-eating grin.

“You don’t mind if I don’t take off my shoes, do you?” she breaks the silence as she saunters further into his space, one leg kicking the door closed behind her, “alright, let’s try this again, shall we?”

And then Jennie forms her fingers into the shape of a gun and points it directly between his eyes, a childish “pew pew” rolling off her tongue. She giggles at her display, mostly basking in the fact that she’s successful this time round, and before she loses track of what she’s come here for, she finally requests, “as I said before—but you probably already forgot about it so I’ll say it again—I’d like to hire your services, Dean-Hyuk!”

dean’s not entirely sure when his obsession with retaining his private living quarters, private, was born into existence. hardly submitting himself to the confines of his own apartment, dean is the enigma who mostly frequents clubs to formulate plans and schemes rife with mischief and anarchy. his lullabies thump into his skull with every beat of the bass, soothing him into the passage to his mind mansion (which, to no one’s surprise only features the imagery of scenery akin to Ruben’s “Massacre of the Innocents”). none of his subordinates possess the knowledge of his location, nor did they really know where the hitman goes to rest his head, should it ever be weary. most of them rely on their limited imaginations that feature the male in a salacious haven or between some lover’s sheets.

for the most part, they have the right of it. if he isn’t spending lusty nights in some acquaintance’s bedroom, or roaming the rooftops of incheon in search of his prey, he’s usually sat in his luxurious apartment, doing… ordinary things. yet to this day, no one but himself (and the real estate agent who sold it to him the day he moved in) has ever set foot in his apartment. which is why when his security system springs to life, uttering a chime of acceptance, he almost succumbs to a heart attack. his biological response to fight or flight fail him, instead opting for the “freeze” alternative, as he witnesses the door open to behold…

the woman.

he almost feels sick to his stomach upon recognising the intruder, his eyes widening in pure perplexity. how did she even find out the code to the apartment door, let alone this location? knowing very well his personal space is essentially a safe house, he could not get past this individual accessing what he thought is completely clandestine and secure. what did secure even mean at this point? he comes close to dropping the glass of vodka that precariously situates itself in his grasp but he calms himself as he places the glass on the coffee table before him, a voice in his head reminding him of who exactly he is. you’re a god remember?

however her blatant rejection of the common courtesy to remove one’s shoes before they enter an abode, along with the way she callously kicks his door to a close, provokes the dormant beast into a quick rage. he barely makes it on to his feet before he’s flash stepping towards her, his eyes, from his scleras to his pupils taking on the likeness of obsidian. the charcoal smoke clears and dean bridles before her finger gun. her complete disregard for the danger she has willingly put herself in irks him, along with the use of his birth name. she doesn’t seem to fear him at all, and that’s  what makes him want to unreservedly eviscerate her yet at the same time, learn everything there is to know about her. it’s a paradox of sorts; underneath the vicious inky glare and the cruel grimace that contorts his expression, underneath all the fury and lust for blood, her blood; there’s this hint of fascination.

just how did she do it?

but no amount of fascination can surpass the wrath that surges through him. his hands reach out to clutch at the other’s rather loose garments, pushing her petite frame against his door with such a force, one would think he is trying to push her through it. lips pulling back against teeth, he presses her against the door, almost lifting her off the ground.  “have you ever danced with the devil my dear?” he snarls, before his lips crack into a smile. all the beast wants is to hear her release a bloodcurdling scream into the air, beg for mercy he was wont not to give. but deep down he knows he won’t get the submission his fiery ego aches for.

“since you’re so willing to pay in your own blood, i will very much oblige. that is why you’ve offered yourself to me, right?” he questions her hopefully as his eyes resume normality, tilting his head to the side. this calm he assumes is only a front; one that conceals his musing on the many ways in which he could torment this curious being.

[trinxjen-blog]

> unnatural disaster;

[trinxdean]

trinxjen:

Sweaty palms press against the door handle as she enters yet another warehouse, and because she is overcome with pessimism at this point, tired eyes that land on the lone man’s back widen in surprise because him, she’s sure it’s him. Her features adopt their characteristic grin once more, and then her pumps are making a disruptive crack against dry cement that bounces off the walls of the empty warehouse with each step as she saunters towards his direction.

“Hellooooo!” she sings a little too loudly, “you’re the hitman, aren’t you? Dean? Or Hyuk?”

She slows to a stop as she furrows her eyebrows, a quick, “why do you even have two names?” muttered under her breath—for her own ears, but Jennie has never understood the concept of an ‘inner voice’—but she shakes the inconsequential inquiry away and says instead, “anyway, I’m Jennie! I wanna hire you! But it’s not really just one target, it’s many, and I don’t actually know if I need you yet, but— is there a long term thing that you do, or do I have to keep coming back when I need you? Do you have a ‘standby mode’?”

A light giggle bubbles from her chest.

“I don’t really know how this hitman thing works, oops.”

large, dark and empty spaces are wont to be draughty and hold cool temperatures, so its no wonder the warehouse is tantamount to dean’s own chest. whilst he muses over the news of one his own being incarcerated, the only pressing thought that brings his eyebrows to meet each other in disdain is, how much would he have to pay his mother to keep the kid from speaking? perhaps not much. but it’s all such a blip in his well-designed plans. a silent rage furls from the pit of his stomach yet a few deep breaths is all it takes to stifle the rumbling inferno within him.

it doesn’t stop him, however, from hurling his phone across the vast space, finding repose in the sound of some sort of destruction.

he’s not one to dwell. what’s the point? dean likes to think that men are dispensable and when one falls, another rises. though the thought irks him to an extent. is he not man? does that statement not apply to him?

but some consolation comes from the very fact that he knows he’s far from the piles of flesh that report to him with their cruel expressions and mindless mantra of “yes sir” and “how high sir?”. that’s why he hired them of course; the more typical and inane, the better. he begins to pace, the corners of his lips stretches taut, something akin to a smile decorating his features. how utterly boring the world is! a god walks among them, sanguine and savage…

only a god could destroy a god.

the sound of someone else entering the warehouse draws him from his headspace, although he doesn’t think too much of it since he’s sure its one his henchmen. they come in and out to his dismay, as they see fit. there’s only so much he can take of the cretins which is why dean finds himself in his own quarters when they decide to all congregate at the warehouse. today it’s rather quiet, everyone seems to be in hiding knowing that one of their own has been taken. like roaches they all wait in their grungy corners where the light doesn’t shine until darkness resumes. then’ll they return.

its the displeasing din that usually comes with heels on concrete, however, that has the killer pivoting on his heels, only to meet eyes with a woman. this stranger’s words are perhaps a tad too chirpy for him at any time of the day, and the apathetic look he graces her with turns increasingly stony. he hides his bafflement of her presence since no one except those who work for him actually has the details to this location. it’s either someone’s tongue has been a little too loose and needs fixing, or he’s not being discreet enough. dean cannot fathom anything other than the former statement.

“what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he questions, completely ignoring her deluge of questions. “if you know anything about me, you know that that is not how i do things.” his tone is monotonous, where it is usually full of unnecessary mirth and inflection. his displeasure of her being here, this jennie, adds more fuel to his fire. he finds himself wondering whether it is necessary to kill her and just how easy it would be to snap her slender, rather attractive, neck. no one would know. though someone must have seen her walking around here, strutting around as if this is some sort of fashion outlet. a smirk betrays his countenance. he refuses to take anything that’s happening right here seriously. his smirk soon transforms into a sneer and he inches closer to her.

“i can tell. jennie, is it?” he allows a small throaty chuckle to escape him before he continues, “if you would be so kind, my dear, and get the fuck out of here.” he punctuates his sentence with a wide grin that quickly dissolves back into his prior straight face. you could say dean fails to hold the concept of manners, though he would fail to recollect ever learning them. with that, he side steps around her and ambles towards the door. he doesn’t even look back. he doesn’t really see the need to. her existence and also the existence of the warehouse are soon to be a complete myth to him. how easy it is to remove the unfavourable from his life. with a smug smile, he teleports into the distance, leaving nought but a flurry of charcoal smoke in his wake.

[joypendants]

They called him god-killer, the boy with a rusted soul: All who hear his name tremble, praying that today he will not swallow their heart. Alone he walks, stones cutting into bare feet, thorns pulling at naked flesh–– His fate must be in his own hand, and he will cut down any that try to control him. Holy and unholy, heart of fire and soul of rusted steel: Who can stand against him, the one who hunts naught but gods?

Predator, murder on his mind and hymns on his tongue. (CNS)

[siklive]