Ventis, Prince of Song
He/Him
25
November 6th
Fallarbor
Bisexual
Idol
Grunt
you sell yourself for a dream, they're never quite what they seem
TAG WITH @cartier
KLAUS CARTIER
Drowning Slowly [M]
POSTED ON Dec 16, 2022 0:31:31 GMT
Before Klaus had put this particular costume on he'd thought its design had been the worst thing about it - transparent material meant to stretch across his chest - too tight to be comfortable- leaving very little to the imagination, and scale-patterned leggings in an array of brightly shifting blues and greens. Now that he was in it, however, he knew that he'd misjudged it. Ugliness wasn't its worst sin, with its garish glittering scales and the transparent voile chiffon skin "webbing" beneath each arm, the damn thing itched.
Klaus had half a mind to call the whole thing off as he examined himself in the mirror. He could plead illness. Honestly, if this whole affair didn't have a concert attached it, he might've done just that, if only to spare himself the indignity of being seen in this particular travesty, no doubt hand-picked by his ever helpful agent, who seemed just as keen on the idea of selling his body (and dignity) to the masses as he was on monetizing Klaus's voice.
Making his way to the car, the urge to call the whole thing off grew tenfold as his driver opened the door and Klaus saw, not the usual hired minder meant to drive him up a wall with moon eyes and little pleasantries during the course of the drive, but the king of bullshit himself. It was official, today was going to be the kind of day that he couldn't forget, but would desperately want to by the end of it. Maybe he could slip away after he'd discharged himself of his obligations (concert and post-concert meet and greet) and stop for a bourbon or three on the way back.
"Douglas," Klaus greeted as he slid inside. It was always Douglas. Never Cole. Always said in the same perfunctory way with barely a hint of inflection. Never anything that might allude to the fact that his presence was a welcome one. Far from it, in fact. That man was the herald of hell itself on a good day. If Klaus was lucky, Cole would go back to reading whatever trashy magazine he'd picked up and leave him to his own devices for the duration of the drive.
As he pulled at the transparent flesh-toned fabric where it rubbed against his collarbone, trying to get a bit of relief, Klaus had a sinking feeling that lucky wasn't on the menu.
Whatever, it's not like he was required to be personable until they reached the venue and he took up the mantle of Ventis, Prince of Song. For now, he was just plain old Klaus Cartier - itchy, and aggravated, and suddenly in desperate need of a vacation. Or, at the very least, a coffee. He'd need the extra energy if he was going to keep up with this asshole. Why the hell did he have to be a morning person on top of everything else? "We're stopping for a coffee on the way." It wasn't a question.
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