she's morphine, queen of my vaccine
she's morphine, queen of my vaccine
1,585w; r (krystal/chen, krystal/kai)
there's a room where the light won't find you.
a/n: i was listening to this song and got inspired to write a really dark fic based off krystal's red light teaser pics. also used unnideul's prompts for inspiration. this has no direction but well, oh well.
She is murder reincarnate, the devil in the daytime, charcoal-lined eyes created to rip souls out of decaying cadavers, bow-shaped lips the resting place for the spirits she whispers the names of in the dead of night. There is nothing peaceful about this sort of death - it’s ugly and savage, mangled limbs and rotting flesh, twisted and diseased, pale faces, eyes long sunken-in still searching for heaven beyond the clouds. She does not exist within the realm of belief or damnation, rather, she builds her own world in an oasis atop the youthful dead, atmosphere rich with cigarette smoke and gunpowder and teenage crime. This is the life - no, existence - she was bound to, the fountain of youth in a girl, the secrets to eternal youth laced in the strands of her blonde hair. Never have the words once passed her parted lips.
Men set the world on fire for girls like her.
Girls like her just wanna watch the world burn.
He is the first one she finds, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is an accident, he would like to think, it was an accident, an unintentional casualty, and as he’s lying there in his own blood, the iron so thick in the air he thinks he can feel it on his tongue, he believes this.
That’s until she comes along. High heels, shotgun across her back, black fedora over a head of long blonde hair, feral and fear, murderer and victim, the youthful dead. He blinks and there’s two of her, three of her, one of her. She bends over and presses her byzantium lips against his, inhaling his last breath and exhaling her first.
He blinks and there’s one, only one of her. He blinks again, chokes, gasps, breathes. He’s been reborn.
The sunset is harsh, the color of blood looming against the horizon. You are the first, she says. Cradles a knife with jagged teeth across its blade between her index and middle finger. You are the first, she says, takes that knife and stabs him straight through the heart, where his heart should’ve been. You are the first, holds his head in her arms as he lays there, bloodless but crimson, the color of blood looming against the horizon. The first, like he is someone, no, something, special - you are the first, chokes, gasps, breathes. He’s been reborn.
Charcoal eyes blur. Two, four, six, sixteen. Two. You cannot be killed again.
Others slowly begin to populate this world, her world, perpetual sunset shading the sky a bitter crimson. They litter the streets with their cigarette butts and beer bottles, fill the buildings with their fucking and frivolity and naïve misconceptions that they’re all the world has, stare at the sky without a clue that they exist in a world that can take away just as easily as it can give. It’s a diseased truth that strikes atop rooftops and in dark alleys, it’s a diseased truth she creates, supposed to create, so she does.
She takes lives - bullets to the brain, chest, neck, stomach, mortal wounds bleeding out, they’re all bleeding out in the sunset, the sun a shadow beyond the veil of blood. Supposed to take lives, sucks the souls out and leaves the hollow shells behind until she’s littering the streets with more than cigarette butts and beer bottles. The thing is, she always looks behind her shoulder after the fatal shot is fired, after the knife has found its home in between the ribs - like he is supposed to be there, supposed to see this, the puke stains on the concrete doused in iron, pools of it, so thick in the air he can feel it on his tongue. Like he is supposed to remember that he is dead, the first, the way she inhaled his last breath and gave her his own. He already knows, stares murder straight in the face, body still, no heart left in his chest for beating.
No. She took that with her, too.
The two-thousand forty-sixth death has thick lips and tanned skin, dark eyes with a handsome glint when paired with an apt smirk. He lays, limbs mangled and twisted below a ten story building on the concrete. She watches him, thoughtfully, shotgun aimed at his skull, watches the fingers on his right hand twitch, slower and slower until they are almost still. She watches him, supposed to take lives, sucks the souls out, but this time she leans over with those byzantium lips in this world, her world, and breathes out her second breath.
Two-thousand forty-sixth’s name is Kai.
Now there are three of them: her, she’s the fountain of youth in a girl; him, the first, her first; and Kai, the boy who committed suicide. You do have names, don’t you? Kai asks one day as they skip over a river of blood flowing from a behind a girl’s skull.
She presses her lips together, dark grey in the shadows, hair white under the street lights. It burns into his vision as he stares at the side of her head, setting a halo into the bloody sky. No. Charcoal-lined eyes stare into dark ones with a handsome glint when paired with an apt smirk. Names are for the living.
She doesn’t turn to look at him. We simply exist.
Sometimes he hears them fucking, her and Kai, the dips and contours of their bodies little wells for the blood that hides the sun. He’ll lay down in the wrong place at the wrong time and imagine he’s bleeding out from a gunshot wound, fatal, puncturing his lungs, so painful it’s numbing, lying there in his own blood, the iron so thick in the air he can feel it on his tongue, he’s dying, blinks. He’s dying and he’s not the first - it’s just an accident, this is an accident, he’s dying, dying, almost dead, but not yet. He wants to die - closes his eyes and waits for it, the end of his existence, the syllables of his name on his tongue -
But death is never generous.
Murder is far more selfish.
(they are notions - ideas, perhaps - that can’t be expressed with names, single words. they are notions, they exist, no possessives, no possessions, hearts don’t beat, lungs (punctured with gunshot wounds) don’t breathe, mouths and limbs mimic but don’t, they don’t, aren’t, alive at all.
and that should be enough.)
There is red on her lips. Red beyond the veil of blood that makes the sun appear a shadow, red like life, like blood in the bloodstream, not running across the concrete streets. She wipes at it with the back of her hand to no avail.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe about it, maybe not. She speaks first. He has a name, looks back in the direction where Kai is staring over the railing of the bridge. Her voice could be shaking. He does not simply exist.
That is what her second breath does.
Hey, Kai starts when she’s not around. He looks up at the boy, waiting for him to go on. The stillness of his own body is frightening, the soundlessness of his chest cavity, the ways he feels nothing, nothing at all. Kai knows none of this.
Yeah? he says when Kai remains silent. A large smile grows on the other boy’s lips. I think I love her, Kai says, softly, with emotions, with -
(kill him. kill him. kill him. kill him.)
love.
She is wiping at the red again with the back of her hand to no avail after she and Kai have been fucking again, the two thousand forty-sixth death sleeping where she left him behind. He loves you, he tells her, the first, her first. Charcoal-lined eyes challenge to rip out his soul, pity because he lacks one. He loves you, this fountain of youth in a girl, would let this world burn all for you, you are the heaven he has found beyond the clouds in those long sunken-in eyes, you don’t have to just exist, Murder incarnate, is this what your second breathe does -
She whispers the names of the dead against his palm, his palm that is the same color of the sky, the color of blood. It bleeds into him, he only exists anyway, the iron so thick in the air that he tastes it on his tongue, chokes, gasps, breathes.
He hears it in the midst of them all, a ghost of a boy who was almost alive once more, the boy who committed suicide, this world was not a paradise on the other side of Earth but an oasis atop the youthful dead, atmosphere rich with cigarette smoke and gunpowder and teenage crime.
Kai, she whispers, ruby lips pressed against his, inhaling his second breath and exhaling her third. He kisses her back, notions meeting notions, iron on his tongue coating the inside of her mouth, the spirits of the youthful dead sighing down his throat, until they feel like they are more than mere existences, until they feel like the crimson of the sky on their skin is their own blood, until they bruise and swell and feel and love beyond the veil of blood, where the sun is hardly a shadow.
Men set the world on fire for girls like her.
Girls like her just wanna watch the world burn.
(or so at least everyone likes to think.)
1,585w; r (krystal/chen, krystal/kai)
there's a room where the light won't find you.
a/n: i was listening to this song and got inspired to write a really dark fic based off krystal's red light teaser pics. also used unnideul's prompts for inspiration. this has no direction but well, oh well.
She is murder reincarnate, the devil in the daytime, charcoal-lined eyes created to rip souls out of decaying cadavers, bow-shaped lips the resting place for the spirits she whispers the names of in the dead of night. There is nothing peaceful about this sort of death - it’s ugly and savage, mangled limbs and rotting flesh, twisted and diseased, pale faces, eyes long sunken-in still searching for heaven beyond the clouds. She does not exist within the realm of belief or damnation, rather, she builds her own world in an oasis atop the youthful dead, atmosphere rich with cigarette smoke and gunpowder and teenage crime. This is the life - no, existence - she was bound to, the fountain of youth in a girl, the secrets to eternal youth laced in the strands of her blonde hair. Never have the words once passed her parted lips.
Men set the world on fire for girls like her.
Girls like her just wanna watch the world burn.
He is the first one she finds, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is an accident, he would like to think, it was an accident, an unintentional casualty, and as he’s lying there in his own blood, the iron so thick in the air he thinks he can feel it on his tongue, he believes this.
That’s until she comes along. High heels, shotgun across her back, black fedora over a head of long blonde hair, feral and fear, murderer and victim, the youthful dead. He blinks and there’s two of her, three of her, one of her. She bends over and presses her byzantium lips against his, inhaling his last breath and exhaling her first.
He blinks and there’s one, only one of her. He blinks again, chokes, gasps, breathes. He’s been reborn.
The sunset is harsh, the color of blood looming against the horizon. You are the first, she says. Cradles a knife with jagged teeth across its blade between her index and middle finger. You are the first, she says, takes that knife and stabs him straight through the heart, where his heart should’ve been. You are the first, holds his head in her arms as he lays there, bloodless but crimson, the color of blood looming against the horizon. The first, like he is someone, no, something, special - you are the first, chokes, gasps, breathes. He’s been reborn.
Charcoal eyes blur. Two, four, six, sixteen. Two. You cannot be killed again.
Others slowly begin to populate this world, her world, perpetual sunset shading the sky a bitter crimson. They litter the streets with their cigarette butts and beer bottles, fill the buildings with their fucking and frivolity and naïve misconceptions that they’re all the world has, stare at the sky without a clue that they exist in a world that can take away just as easily as it can give. It’s a diseased truth that strikes atop rooftops and in dark alleys, it’s a diseased truth she creates, supposed to create, so she does.
She takes lives - bullets to the brain, chest, neck, stomach, mortal wounds bleeding out, they’re all bleeding out in the sunset, the sun a shadow beyond the veil of blood. Supposed to take lives, sucks the souls out and leaves the hollow shells behind until she’s littering the streets with more than cigarette butts and beer bottles. The thing is, she always looks behind her shoulder after the fatal shot is fired, after the knife has found its home in between the ribs - like he is supposed to be there, supposed to see this, the puke stains on the concrete doused in iron, pools of it, so thick in the air he can feel it on his tongue. Like he is supposed to remember that he is dead, the first, the way she inhaled his last breath and gave her his own. He already knows, stares murder straight in the face, body still, no heart left in his chest for beating.
No. She took that with her, too.
The two-thousand forty-sixth death has thick lips and tanned skin, dark eyes with a handsome glint when paired with an apt smirk. He lays, limbs mangled and twisted below a ten story building on the concrete. She watches him, thoughtfully, shotgun aimed at his skull, watches the fingers on his right hand twitch, slower and slower until they are almost still. She watches him, supposed to take lives, sucks the souls out, but this time she leans over with those byzantium lips in this world, her world, and breathes out her second breath.
Two-thousand forty-sixth’s name is Kai.
Now there are three of them: her, she’s the fountain of youth in a girl; him, the first, her first; and Kai, the boy who committed suicide. You do have names, don’t you? Kai asks one day as they skip over a river of blood flowing from a behind a girl’s skull.
She presses her lips together, dark grey in the shadows, hair white under the street lights. It burns into his vision as he stares at the side of her head, setting a halo into the bloody sky. No. Charcoal-lined eyes stare into dark ones with a handsome glint when paired with an apt smirk. Names are for the living.
She doesn’t turn to look at him. We simply exist.
Sometimes he hears them fucking, her and Kai, the dips and contours of their bodies little wells for the blood that hides the sun. He’ll lay down in the wrong place at the wrong time and imagine he’s bleeding out from a gunshot wound, fatal, puncturing his lungs, so painful it’s numbing, lying there in his own blood, the iron so thick in the air he can feel it on his tongue, he’s dying, blinks. He’s dying and he’s not the first - it’s just an accident, this is an accident, he’s dying, dying, almost dead, but not yet. He wants to die - closes his eyes and waits for it, the end of his existence, the syllables of his name on his tongue -
But death is never generous.
Murder is far more selfish.
(they are notions - ideas, perhaps - that can’t be expressed with names, single words. they are notions, they exist, no possessives, no possessions, hearts don’t beat, lungs (punctured with gunshot wounds) don’t breathe, mouths and limbs mimic but don’t, they don’t, aren’t, alive at all.
and that should be enough.)
There is red on her lips. Red beyond the veil of blood that makes the sun appear a shadow, red like life, like blood in the bloodstream, not running across the concrete streets. She wipes at it with the back of her hand to no avail.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe about it, maybe not. She speaks first. He has a name, looks back in the direction where Kai is staring over the railing of the bridge. Her voice could be shaking. He does not simply exist.
That is what her second breath does.
Hey, Kai starts when she’s not around. He looks up at the boy, waiting for him to go on. The stillness of his own body is frightening, the soundlessness of his chest cavity, the ways he feels nothing, nothing at all. Kai knows none of this.
Yeah? he says when Kai remains silent. A large smile grows on the other boy’s lips. I think I love her, Kai says, softly, with emotions, with -
(kill him. kill him. kill him. kill him.)
love.
She is wiping at the red again with the back of her hand to no avail after she and Kai have been fucking again, the two thousand forty-sixth death sleeping where she left him behind. He loves you, he tells her, the first, her first. Charcoal-lined eyes challenge to rip out his soul, pity because he lacks one. He loves you, this fountain of youth in a girl, would let this world burn all for you, you are the heaven he has found beyond the clouds in those long sunken-in eyes, you don’t have to just exist, Murder incarnate, is this what your second breathe does -
She whispers the names of the dead against his palm, his palm that is the same color of the sky, the color of blood. It bleeds into him, he only exists anyway, the iron so thick in the air that he tastes it on his tongue, chokes, gasps, breathes.
He hears it in the midst of them all, a ghost of a boy who was almost alive once more, the boy who committed suicide, this world was not a paradise on the other side of Earth but an oasis atop the youthful dead, atmosphere rich with cigarette smoke and gunpowder and teenage crime.
Kai, she whispers, ruby lips pressed against his, inhaling his second breath and exhaling her third. He kisses her back, notions meeting notions, iron on his tongue coating the inside of her mouth, the spirits of the youthful dead sighing down his throat, until they feel like they are more than mere existences, until they feel like the crimson of the sky on their skin is their own blood, until they bruise and swell and feel and love beyond the veil of blood, where the sun is hardly a shadow.
Men set the world on fire for girls like her.
Girls like her just wanna watch the world burn.
(or so at least everyone likes to think.)