wings
wings
2seop; r; au
warnings: dark themes, mentions of drugs, blood play/vampirism
He's disaster in human form: all dull, drug-hazed eyes and protruding bones from beneath sallow skin; beautiful in a broken, wraith-like way.
Jaeseop watches him; watches slender fingers tremble as they cradle and wrap around the pipe, mascara-lined lashes fluttering against skin as he fits his lips around the mouth and inhales deeply. His head lolls back against the seat, eyelids flitting rapidly as he twirls the pipe in his fingers, lips exhaling a cloud of poison.
Resist, Jaeseop tells himself, turning away from the scene and downing the remains of his drink in one swallow. You've had two in the past month, you-
Body disobeys the command of mind, feet finding their way to the crimson-haired man in the corner.
"Care for a dance?" He's not sure if that's how things work around here, but heck it because the man has stood up, slinging willowy arms around Jaeseop's shoulders. The pipe is tossed to the man's companion, a lanky youth with too-long bangs and a joint pressed between thin lips, with a carefree "Don't bother waiting for me".
They're on the dance floor, and Jaeseop has his hands on the man's lower back (stop, Jaeseop, what the fuck are you doing), hips grinding against each other almost desperately.
"My name is Kiseop, use it well." Hands slide up beneath shirt, teasingly caressing heated skin and all Jaeseop can think of is fuck the rules, he can't let a chance like this pass him by.
Needle maps invisible trails up skin, following the curve of track marks across forearm, finally depositing their content in the vein at the crook of his elbow.
(And Jaeseop's thankful that his new subject is so careless, thankful that he isn't as cautious as the ones before him.)
Kiseop is even more beautiful asleep; so painfully vulnerable and fragile that Jaeseop wants nothing more but to break him over and over again before watching him shatter and fall apart. Knuckles trace over pale skin; he delights in the sharp jut of cheekbones beneath his fingers, a result of years of drug abuse. A wasted body and soul; yet, there is still a twisted beauty in skeletal limbs and sunken-in cheeks, in dilated pupils and cracked lips.
Jaeseop shivers as memories of the night before fill his mind: eager lips and arching back, talented fingers and sweet sounds of pleasure echoing through his room. (Skin against skin, fingers tracing bones and hollows, fuck Jaeseop, faster, faster) And if only, if only he'd had a chance to use his blade.
A low moan vibrates through his throat at the thought. How he would love to drag the thin piece of metal through Kiseop's papery skin and watch as blood bubbles up, warm and scarlet; how he would love to carve patterns around ribs and listen to the man beneath him scream, beg for him to stop, oh how lovely that would be.
"Jaeseop?" A clink of metal against metal, panic finding its way into voice hazy and slurred from sleep. "Wh-what's going on?"
A casual glance at the digital clock on the computer screen. The drug should be starting to work now.
"Jaeseop!" The said man takes a seat in front of the operating table, even as Kiseop writhes around trying to free himself from the restraints strapping him down to the cold metal surface, the handcuffs tight around his wrists. "Let me go, ple-"
The sentence is cut off by a scream as twin buds of bone begin pushing their way through the flesh between sharp collarbones, a flash of crimson-streaked white just visible under the broken surface of Kiseop's skin. Nails scrape harshly against metal, an inhuman shriek ripping out from throat as feathers along a bone framework force their way out from body.
He's vaguely reminded of a previous subject, one with wispy blonde hair and delicate features, who had torn his own nails out digging them into the operating table during the entire process. Jaeseop gently runs his fingers through tangled scarlet locks, the pads of his thumbs brushing away tears as they fell; hush, my little angel, don't cry, everything will be over soon. (He's not sure why Kiseop would remind him of Sunghyun, he supposes that it's because the both of them have the same lithe limbs and undertone of despondency in their eyes.)
The process is over as soon as it had begun, Kiseop's sweat-slicked body lying limp on the table; wings bloodied and outstretched, blanketing him with stained white. Skin has already started to mend itself, wounds slowly healing and closing up almost miraculously.
(Jaeseop calls it The Angel Effect.)
Blade slides up cheekbone, tip digging into flesh and leaving behind a thin trail of red. A quick flick of wrist, and the metal twists round to continue down Kiseop's jawline, cutting through the damp skin easily.
He's a trembling wreck beneath Jaeseop, skin ashen and exposed. Throat is hoarse and aching from the screaming the day before, only able to whimper out his pleas; stop, please Jaeseop, please stop.
Jaeseop only smiles; bends his head down to press his lips over the split open skin, tongue flicking across the cut to lap at the blood flowing out. The liquid is salty and metallic on his tongue; warm and slick as it slides down his throat. He likes to think of his blade as his voice, the sharp triangular curve of metal whispering feelings that words won't ever be able to portray. (He also likes to think of himself as an artist, carving landscapes into flesh and blood; creating masterpieces out of skin and bone.)
Blade begins a new journey down torso, skin parting and giving way beneath stained silver. Tears fall; diamonds scattering a trail down pale silk and merging crimson streams between valleys of bone.
He smirks and begins the process of gradually ripping apart mind from body, soul from bone.
Jaeseop steps back a little and tilts his head to the side, admiring his handiwork, palms against the icy frame of the glass case. Kiseop's body is suspended in the case, wings unfolded; spread wide and pinned to the clear backing, his arms and head held up by strings.
From a distance, he looks as if he is flying.
His eyes are wide open, filled with an empty blankness and the dull glow of a life slowly ebbing away. (They say that a person's eyes are the windows to their soul, but if so, what would you see in the eyes of one who has had their soul torn away?)
Light illuminates his body from below, casting blue shadows and frigid glows into the contours of his features and body. Frost covers his skin, his hair crimson icicles against his forehead. An angel frozen and trapped within glass; unearthly beauty.
(Broken angels were never meant to fly.)
2seop; r; au
warnings: dark themes, mentions of drugs, blood play/vampirism
He's disaster in human form: all dull, drug-hazed eyes and protruding bones from beneath sallow skin; beautiful in a broken, wraith-like way.
Jaeseop watches him; watches slender fingers tremble as they cradle and wrap around the pipe, mascara-lined lashes fluttering against skin as he fits his lips around the mouth and inhales deeply. His head lolls back against the seat, eyelids flitting rapidly as he twirls the pipe in his fingers, lips exhaling a cloud of poison.
Resist, Jaeseop tells himself, turning away from the scene and downing the remains of his drink in one swallow. You've had two in the past month, you-
Body disobeys the command of mind, feet finding their way to the crimson-haired man in the corner.
"Care for a dance?" He's not sure if that's how things work around here, but heck it because the man has stood up, slinging willowy arms around Jaeseop's shoulders. The pipe is tossed to the man's companion, a lanky youth with too-long bangs and a joint pressed between thin lips, with a carefree "Don't bother waiting for me".
They're on the dance floor, and Jaeseop has his hands on the man's lower back (stop, Jaeseop, what the fuck are you doing), hips grinding against each other almost desperately.
"My name is Kiseop, use it well." Hands slide up beneath shirt, teasingly caressing heated skin and all Jaeseop can think of is fuck the rules, he can't let a chance like this pass him by.
Needle maps invisible trails up skin, following the curve of track marks across forearm, finally depositing their content in the vein at the crook of his elbow.
(And Jaeseop's thankful that his new subject is so careless, thankful that he isn't as cautious as the ones before him.)
Kiseop is even more beautiful asleep; so painfully vulnerable and fragile that Jaeseop wants nothing more but to break him over and over again before watching him shatter and fall apart. Knuckles trace over pale skin; he delights in the sharp jut of cheekbones beneath his fingers, a result of years of drug abuse. A wasted body and soul; yet, there is still a twisted beauty in skeletal limbs and sunken-in cheeks, in dilated pupils and cracked lips.
Jaeseop shivers as memories of the night before fill his mind: eager lips and arching back, talented fingers and sweet sounds of pleasure echoing through his room. (Skin against skin, fingers tracing bones and hollows, fuck Jaeseop, faster, faster) And if only, if only he'd had a chance to use his blade.
A low moan vibrates through his throat at the thought. How he would love to drag the thin piece of metal through Kiseop's papery skin and watch as blood bubbles up, warm and scarlet; how he would love to carve patterns around ribs and listen to the man beneath him scream, beg for him to stop, oh how lovely that would be.
"Jaeseop?" A clink of metal against metal, panic finding its way into voice hazy and slurred from sleep. "Wh-what's going on?"
A casual glance at the digital clock on the computer screen. The drug should be starting to work now.
"Jaeseop!" The said man takes a seat in front of the operating table, even as Kiseop writhes around trying to free himself from the restraints strapping him down to the cold metal surface, the handcuffs tight around his wrists. "Let me go, ple-"
The sentence is cut off by a scream as twin buds of bone begin pushing their way through the flesh between sharp collarbones, a flash of crimson-streaked white just visible under the broken surface of Kiseop's skin. Nails scrape harshly against metal, an inhuman shriek ripping out from throat as feathers along a bone framework force their way out from body.
He's vaguely reminded of a previous subject, one with wispy blonde hair and delicate features, who had torn his own nails out digging them into the operating table during the entire process. Jaeseop gently runs his fingers through tangled scarlet locks, the pads of his thumbs brushing away tears as they fell; hush, my little angel, don't cry, everything will be over soon. (He's not sure why Kiseop would remind him of Sunghyun, he supposes that it's because the both of them have the same lithe limbs and undertone of despondency in their eyes.)
The process is over as soon as it had begun, Kiseop's sweat-slicked body lying limp on the table; wings bloodied and outstretched, blanketing him with stained white. Skin has already started to mend itself, wounds slowly healing and closing up almost miraculously.
(Jaeseop calls it The Angel Effect.)
Blade slides up cheekbone, tip digging into flesh and leaving behind a thin trail of red. A quick flick of wrist, and the metal twists round to continue down Kiseop's jawline, cutting through the damp skin easily.
He's a trembling wreck beneath Jaeseop, skin ashen and exposed. Throat is hoarse and aching from the screaming the day before, only able to whimper out his pleas; stop, please Jaeseop, please stop.
Jaeseop only smiles; bends his head down to press his lips over the split open skin, tongue flicking across the cut to lap at the blood flowing out. The liquid is salty and metallic on his tongue; warm and slick as it slides down his throat. He likes to think of his blade as his voice, the sharp triangular curve of metal whispering feelings that words won't ever be able to portray. (He also likes to think of himself as an artist, carving landscapes into flesh and blood; creating masterpieces out of skin and bone.)
Blade begins a new journey down torso, skin parting and giving way beneath stained silver. Tears fall; diamonds scattering a trail down pale silk and merging crimson streams between valleys of bone.
He smirks and begins the process of gradually ripping apart mind from body, soul from bone.
Jaeseop steps back a little and tilts his head to the side, admiring his handiwork, palms against the icy frame of the glass case. Kiseop's body is suspended in the case, wings unfolded; spread wide and pinned to the clear backing, his arms and head held up by strings.
From a distance, he looks as if he is flying.
His eyes are wide open, filled with an empty blankness and the dull glow of a life slowly ebbing away. (They say that a person's eyes are the windows to their soul, but if so, what would you see in the eyes of one who has had their soul torn away?)
Light illuminates his body from below, casting blue shadows and frigid glows into the contours of his features and body. Frost covers his skin, his hair crimson icicles against his forehead. An angel frozen and trapped within glass; unearthly beauty.
(Broken angels were never meant to fly.)