Draconic Funhouse: Fun is Better Shared (ch. 2)

Delivering the second chapter too.

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The store is half-destroyed, shelves overturned and walls crumbling, but it’s still standing — more than I can say for most of the city. The silence is almost peaceful, the chaos of battle now a distant echo. I lean against what remains of a cracked stone pillar, arms crossed and eyes lazily tracking the woman in front of me.

Salem. The Grimm Queen.

She rifles through the remains of the clothing section with an air of irritation, though she tries to keep her face impassive. Her current attire — or lack thereof — leaves little to the imagination. My own clothes had been obliterated in the fight, but I managed to find something to wear pretty quickly. Modesty used to matter to me once upon a time, but when The Company gave me this perfect body, shame became a thing of the past. Hard to feel self-conscious when you know you look this good.

Salem bends down, reaching for a dress that somehow escaped the destruction unscathed. And oh, what a view she gives me. The curve of her hips, the way that perfectly shaped ass sticks out — I can’t help but picture how it would jiggle after a particularly firm smack. I’m only human after all. Well, mostly.

Five minutes have passed since I bit her, and the Binding should be fully set in by now. Love & Loyalty — or so it’s supposed to go. Not seeing much of that yet, though. Maybe it takes time to settle.

“I can feel your lecherous gaze burning into my back,” Salem snaps, her voice dripping with venom.

I snort. “You started this, remember? Threw me into a mountain range like a ragdoll—completely unprompted mind you. Pretty rude for a first date.”

She whirls around, clutching a piece of cloth she found to her chest like a shield. Her crimson eyes narrow, sharp enough to flay skin. “You’re insufferable.”

I push off the beam, sauntering closer. “Admit it. You’re just mad I survived your dragon.”

“Hardly.” She turns her back again, yanking up a dress and putting it on — a simple desert-style piece, flowing and light — and grabbing some underwear while she’s at it. There’s a distinct stiffness to her movements, an obvious effort to show me as little skin as possible, but I catch the occasional glimpse. The pale curve of her shoulder, the briefest flash of a long, toned leg. She’s trying so hard to feign indifference, but I see the tension in every line of her body.

The lack of Fun.

“Suits you. Regal, but with a dash of… murky evil overlord chic.”

“I didn’t ask,” she bites out, snatching a pair of miraculously pristine black lace underwear from a shattered display case. Her nostrils flare as she steps into them.

I’m behind her in two strides, unable to resist. My palm cracks against her ass with a smack that echoes through the ruins. “Just take the compliment, will y—”

The kick comes out instantly. Literally—Salem doesn’t even turn. Her foot lashes backward like a scorpion’s tail, catching me square in the ribs. The wall doesn’t so much crack as disintegrate as I crash through it, skidding across the street in a cloud of dust. I lie there a moment, staring at the blue sky, floating sand and dust covering part of my view. Distantly, I hear her shouting.

“You brat!” Salem shouts from the other side of the rubble. “Is it too much to ask for my clothes to stay intact for more than three seconds?!”

Laughter bursts out of me, raw and unhinged. I prop myself up on my elbows, peering through the hole I’d just made to see Salem’s fuming face greeting me from the other side.

To think I almost missed this for an overdone Beacon student arc.

- - -

The moment I finish dressing, I decide that I need to put as much distance between myself and that… that balmy boy as possible. The audacity of him—the sheer, unmitigated gall—to lay hands on me in such a manner! My cheeks burn just thinking about it. That… attack (and I refuse to dignify it with any other term) was the final straw. The sound I made—that wretched, mortifying yeep—echoes in my mind, and I pray to whatever gods might still listen that he did not hear it. Surely, he did not. Surely.

I begin walking, head held high, my steps deliberately measured. My new dress, simple yet elegant, sways gently with each stride, the fabric brushing against my skin in a way that would be soothing if my thoughts weren’t so tumultuous. I pray, silently and fervently, that he will not follow me. That he will lose interest, find some other poor soul to torment, and leave me to my solitude.

My hopes are dashed almost immediately.

“Hey, Salem!” His voice rings out, cheerful and entirely too loud. “Where are you going? You know a good restaurant that way?”

I gnash my teeth, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. The urge to turn around and tell him to go away is almost overwhelming. And not for the first time, I find myself wondering where in the blazes he came from. He’s no lackey of Ozma’s—that much is certain. Ozma would have used him long before now if he had someone like this at his disposal. No, this boy—this brat—is something else entirely. Something foreign, unpredictable, and entirely too… vibrant.

I open my mouth. Begone, I mean to say. Vanish. Cease this farce. The words coil on my tongue, sharp and ready… and die there. My throat tightens. An invisible hand squeezes, gentle but unyielding. What sorcery is this?

Against all reason, against all logic, I find his presence… pleasant. The realization sends a jolt of despair through me. I almost wail aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. What has become of me? Have I truly sunk so low that I find this—this hyperactive, insufferable, lecherous child—pleasing company? My taste in men—or lack thereof—has always been questionable, but this? This is a new low, even for me.

Instead of telling him to leave, I turn around, my expression carefully neutral. “I am returning to the Grimmlands,” I say, my voice cool and measured. “I have excellent cooks there, specialized in my… particular needs and tastes.”

The words are true… though not clear. My chefs cater to a corpse. A queen who hasn’t tasted honey or salt or fine meat in millennia. The Pools of Darkness took much when I surrendered to them—my mortality, my peace, the simple joy of a ripe peach bursting on the tongue. Grimm need not savor their prey, after all. In return, they sharpened my sight to hawk-like precision and drowned my world in scents: blood, smoke, the musk of fear. But flavor? Gone. A hollow trade.

Those mortals have learned to compensate though, crafting dishes heavy in scent and visually striking, designed to appeal to what senses I have left. It is a small comfort, but one I have come to appreciate.

Auburn cocks his head, sunlight gilding the auburn scales along his jaw. “Fancy. Lead the way, then.”

I blink. “You misunderstand. I did not invite—”

The ground shudders. A shadow engulfs me—broader, taller, hotter than any natural shade. I turn slowly, already dreading what I’ll find.

He’s transformed. Again. Half-man, half-dragon, all infuriating smirk. His eyes glow like forge-heated iron, slit pupils fixed on me. Scales ripple across his shoulders and down his arms, tapering to claws that could shred stone. The remnants of his clothing hang in tatters, barely modesty’s afterthought. I should look away. I don’t.

Is this it? The thought slithers through me, cold and slick. Will he finally drop the jester’s act? Seize what he’s clearly craved since our first clash? My pulse quickens. Not entirely from fear.

But Auburn simply scoops me into his arms—bridal style, the absurd creature—and leaps skyward. My stomach lurches as the earth falls away, wind screaming in my ears. Below, the city’s ruins shrink to a scab on the desert’s flesh.

I barely have time to register his words before he leaps into the air, his wings snapping open with a powerful beat. The ground falls away beneath us, and I find myself clutching at his chest, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the height. I harrumph, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, but it’s a losing battle. Especially when I feel his right hand—his clawed hand—grope my butt with a boldness that should be criminal.

I almost let out another yeep, but I manage to contain it, barely. The heat that floods my cheeks is unbearable, and I curse myself for it. But worse than the embarrassment is the warmth that pools low in my abdomen, the way my body betrays me, reacting to his touch with a traitorous heat that I cannot deny. I feel wet, soaked, and the realization makes me want to scream. How can this be? How can he—this insufferable, hyperactive monkey—have such an effect on me? It is a humiliation I cannot bear to name, yet my body refuses to heed my mind’s commands. My breath hitches, and I press my thighs together discreetly, as if that will somehow quell the fire he has ignited within me.

I curse my wretched taste in men. Always, always, I have been drawn to the wrong sort. But this? To find myself so undone by a boy who speaks as though he has never known a moment of seriousness, who behaves as though the world is his playground and I am but a toy within it… it is unbearable. And yet, here I am, clinging to him as we soar through the sky, my body betraying me at every turn.

His hand squeezes again, and I bite down on my lip to stifle the sound that threatens to escape. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affects me. I will not. But gods, it is difficult. The warmth of his body against mine, the strength in his arms, the way his scales shift and shimmer in the sunlight—it is all too much. I feel a traitorous ache between my legs, a longing that I refuse to acknowledge.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, his voice teasing. “Not planning to hit me again, are you?”

“If I were, you would know it,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. I curse myself for the way it wavers, for the hint of breathlessness that betrays me.

I curse myself for enjoying the way his chest ripples as he laughs.

For almost laughing myself.