Indulge [One Shot]
Title: Indulge
Pairing: Kaisoo
Genre: AU, Angst or so
Rating: Nc-17
Length: ~1,400 w
Summary: This is just another story that begins with an aubade of gentle crescendos and ends with the diminuendo of a cruel serenade. A story about art, its creators and their muse.
A/N: This is totally raw and I'm way too tired to read through it, so I apologize for any grammar fucks and whatsoever. I don't know why it happened but it just did. Don't ask me...
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Indulge
There was nothing much more than black dust of charcoal floating through the air, like ashes, little remnants to the destruction by fire. And truly, what his fingers craft is extirpative, a piece of cruelty edged onto paper as fingertips work dark blotches to an even deeper shade of black. Where he leads them, crayons, pens and pencils turn into a lethal weapon and Jongin sighs in bliss with each stroke that draws a new gap onto the pure white.
His style was extravagant, some say, whilst others described it as the work of a premature candidate ready for bedlam. Though, Jongin, the creator didn’t mind, for he didn’t draw for the money or the fame. The lines of grey he weaved to another form of print are the monsters created by society itself. Where critics might have affected his confidence at an earlier stage of his career, Jongin had nothing more left than dry laughter for those self-proclaimed connoisseurs of art.
It were the dumb, who were blind to his works. The ones who just accepted what someone else lacking notion but excessing certificates will tell them just because there’s a bright red seal stamp on framed paper. The dimwits, who denied, that the true talents of civilization are being buried beneath algorithmic geometries, theories of relativity and dead languages. Truly capable people were doomed “fail” before they even attained their maturity.
Jongin, back in the days when he had to drag himself out of bed every morning, had never been paying attention to classes. Whilst others were busy taking a flurry of notes, Jongin’s fingers darted across the pages, working the lines of the feint-ruled notebook into little, colorful abstrusities.
Upon their discoveries, the teachers would take away paper and crayons and so the young male started working books, desks and eventually the walls to a depiction of silent revenge in black and white on school property. Soon after, he got expelled. Deprived of tools but filled to the brim with overflowing passion Jongin continued to draw on walls.
Kai was born. His graffiti under the pseudonym of Kai was what had caught some art fanatic’s attention in the end, his own genius what had Jongin climb the ladder to the skyline of fame.
It hadn’t been a long road. Kai himself would much rather describe his way to fame as the headlong high-speed trajectory of a rocket. He took the elevator, not the stairs.
Though, some of his success as an artist was certainly to blame on the one who had discovered and tutored the young artist from the very beginning on. It was Do Kyungsoo’s honor and income to guide Jongin to what he had become as well as it was Do Kyungsoo’s personal, little tragedy to watch the boy fade in the eye of all his spectators.
Too much fame is bad for the character, he had always said when Jongin would try to exceed expectations too quickly, too impatient with himself. Talent needs to grow steadily until it acquires perfection, the elder would say when he pointed out the little details in Jongin’s drawings that dissatisfied.
Do Kyungsoo was a perfectionist in the most pedantic of fashions. So was the accuracy with which the young mentor could point out even the slightest of smudges that were the cause for Jongin’s distastes in his own works. They weren’t mistakes. It wasn’t about quality - Jongin’s drawings grew to be art all by themselves given practice - but about the artist’s acknowledgment for his own work.
Though, Kim Jongin wasn’t easily to be feeling accomplished and critiques often crushed the boy harder than intended for the first couple of times. Although praise had always outvoted the voices of abhorrence, the young artist had worked even harder with the goal to eventually erase all utterances of doubt.
When Kyungsoo labeled it a useless attempt to create something that would please everyone, Kai had lost his temper. It was the first time Kai’s aggression, accumulated over days of unproductiveness, sleeping pills and silent rage about his own uselessness, defueled upon his mentor.
“I don’t create to please! I don't create at all!”
They weren’t much apart in age but surely in height. So as Kai leapt to his feet, yanked the elder by the collar and pinned him against the adjacent wall, Kyungsoo could only stare at the aggressor wide-eyed.
The force of Kai’s violence had the window shake, the frame of the picture that would have hung next to Kyungsoo’s head collide with the floor and crash to smithereens. Shards produced a horrifying sound as Kai stepped on them to close in on his mentor, moist breath curling hotly against gooseflesh skin.
“I destroy.”
He had pointed his index at Kyungsoo’s throat like an armed weapon, pressed the digit onto the soft concavity just below the other’s adam’s apple until the man beneath had whimpered. Cold sweat drew a glistening pattern onto the frame of the other’s face as Kyungsoo’s neck arched away from the offending finger, a frown marring the young man’s features, painting an image that burned into Kai’s mind.
It was a moonlit night in winter that bathed the other in monochromatism for the fraction of seconds wherein the clouds yielded to reveal the truth to Jongin as if just by chance. The ideal canvas had been right before him the whole time and simple emotion had turned him into a living muse. Jongin had never seen the effortless beauty of the other man who seemed to purposefully dress his body in constricting suits and his words in suffocating formality as not to show his true self, a sight too intoxicating.
Gingerly, Kai sprawled his fingers out across Kyungsoo’s collar before the artist brought a coal stained thumb up to the other’s cheek and watched as his digit left a streak of black on the chalk-white skin.
Almost visible was the very consistence of the medium to Kai’s observing eyes, capturing the faint noise of skin brushing skin and heavy breaths with his ears, as if he could perceive the different chains of atoms interact.
He didn’t notice how close he was but the faint sound and feeling of Kyungsoo’s throat constricting and relaxing again when the muse swallowed drew the artist’s attention to shift to the elder’s mouth. Without realizing or asking for permission, Jongin claimed it. Roughly, he captured Kyungsoo’s upper lip with his teeth and tugged at it harshyl before he watched the flesh snap back into place. The elder’s gasp resounded all too loud in Jongin’s ears, caused him to fall deeper into the black pool of a hazed frenzy.
Hit by an epiphany the artist crafted Kyungsoo to perfection, tied his wrists with the business-tie that had snaked around the elder’s neck before, stripped him naked so that the tone of his skin would melt with the sheets under the moonlight and contrast sharply to the raven streaks smeared all across his body left in the wake of coal-tainted fingers and the red that tinted his bloodied lips. Kyungsoo was perfect, sprawled out beneath him, a pleading look twisting his features, pupils dilated and black with lust and his erected cock exposing a sick desire.
That night, was the night of Jongin’s final lesson. The one to erase the most obvious of his shortcomings.
Just a hue of azure could engender sadness, a hint of emerald may elicit fervor and a tinge of crimson evoked obsession.
Truly, it was through Do Kyungsoo how Kim Jongin acquired perfection.
Following every word of Kyungsoo’s, they had always applied to the same, blunt logic of truth. In hindsight it was no wonder that Kai had abandoned Kyungsoo after reaching the point of satisfaction and walked the remaining road to the peak on his own. It’s all a matter of one’s prestige in the end, of the other’s apprehension, too little sleep and too many colors.
Too much fame is bad for the personality, Kyungsoo had always said. He’d never seen him again but Jongin kept all the memory of Kyungsoo locked deep within him so he could indulge in his melancholy, lest Kai would be all alone in the end.
Though, instead of drawing the monsters created by society, the Kai who was most famous painted the little abstrusities leaking from his own soul.
Pairing: Kaisoo
Genre: AU, Angst or so
Rating: Nc-17
Length: ~1,400 w
Summary: This is just another story that begins with an aubade of gentle crescendos and ends with the diminuendo of a cruel serenade. A story about art, its creators and their muse.
A/N: This is totally raw and I'm way too tired to read through it, so I apologize for any grammar fucks and whatsoever. I don't know why it happened but it just did. Don't ask me...
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Indulge
There was nothing much more than black dust of charcoal floating through the air, like ashes, little remnants to the destruction by fire. And truly, what his fingers craft is extirpative, a piece of cruelty edged onto paper as fingertips work dark blotches to an even deeper shade of black. Where he leads them, crayons, pens and pencils turn into a lethal weapon and Jongin sighs in bliss with each stroke that draws a new gap onto the pure white.
His style was extravagant, some say, whilst others described it as the work of a premature candidate ready for bedlam. Though, Jongin, the creator didn’t mind, for he didn’t draw for the money or the fame. The lines of grey he weaved to another form of print are the monsters created by society itself. Where critics might have affected his confidence at an earlier stage of his career, Jongin had nothing more left than dry laughter for those self-proclaimed connoisseurs of art.
It were the dumb, who were blind to his works. The ones who just accepted what someone else lacking notion but excessing certificates will tell them just because there’s a bright red seal stamp on framed paper. The dimwits, who denied, that the true talents of civilization are being buried beneath algorithmic geometries, theories of relativity and dead languages. Truly capable people were doomed “fail” before they even attained their maturity.
Jongin, back in the days when he had to drag himself out of bed every morning, had never been paying attention to classes. Whilst others were busy taking a flurry of notes, Jongin’s fingers darted across the pages, working the lines of the feint-ruled notebook into little, colorful abstrusities.
Upon their discoveries, the teachers would take away paper and crayons and so the young male started working books, desks and eventually the walls to a depiction of silent revenge in black and white on school property. Soon after, he got expelled. Deprived of tools but filled to the brim with overflowing passion Jongin continued to draw on walls.
Kai was born. His graffiti under the pseudonym of Kai was what had caught some art fanatic’s attention in the end, his own genius what had Jongin climb the ladder to the skyline of fame.
It hadn’t been a long road. Kai himself would much rather describe his way to fame as the headlong high-speed trajectory of a rocket. He took the elevator, not the stairs.
Though, some of his success as an artist was certainly to blame on the one who had discovered and tutored the young artist from the very beginning on. It was Do Kyungsoo’s honor and income to guide Jongin to what he had become as well as it was Do Kyungsoo’s personal, little tragedy to watch the boy fade in the eye of all his spectators.
Too much fame is bad for the character, he had always said when Jongin would try to exceed expectations too quickly, too impatient with himself. Talent needs to grow steadily until it acquires perfection, the elder would say when he pointed out the little details in Jongin’s drawings that dissatisfied.
Do Kyungsoo was a perfectionist in the most pedantic of fashions. So was the accuracy with which the young mentor could point out even the slightest of smudges that were the cause for Jongin’s distastes in his own works. They weren’t mistakes. It wasn’t about quality - Jongin’s drawings grew to be art all by themselves given practice - but about the artist’s acknowledgment for his own work.
Though, Kim Jongin wasn’t easily to be feeling accomplished and critiques often crushed the boy harder than intended for the first couple of times. Although praise had always outvoted the voices of abhorrence, the young artist had worked even harder with the goal to eventually erase all utterances of doubt.
When Kyungsoo labeled it a useless attempt to create something that would please everyone, Kai had lost his temper. It was the first time Kai’s aggression, accumulated over days of unproductiveness, sleeping pills and silent rage about his own uselessness, defueled upon his mentor.
“I don’t create to please! I don't create at all!”
They weren’t much apart in age but surely in height. So as Kai leapt to his feet, yanked the elder by the collar and pinned him against the adjacent wall, Kyungsoo could only stare at the aggressor wide-eyed.
The force of Kai’s violence had the window shake, the frame of the picture that would have hung next to Kyungsoo’s head collide with the floor and crash to smithereens. Shards produced a horrifying sound as Kai stepped on them to close in on his mentor, moist breath curling hotly against gooseflesh skin.
“I destroy.”
He had pointed his index at Kyungsoo’s throat like an armed weapon, pressed the digit onto the soft concavity just below the other’s adam’s apple until the man beneath had whimpered. Cold sweat drew a glistening pattern onto the frame of the other’s face as Kyungsoo’s neck arched away from the offending finger, a frown marring the young man’s features, painting an image that burned into Kai’s mind.
It was a moonlit night in winter that bathed the other in monochromatism for the fraction of seconds wherein the clouds yielded to reveal the truth to Jongin as if just by chance. The ideal canvas had been right before him the whole time and simple emotion had turned him into a living muse. Jongin had never seen the effortless beauty of the other man who seemed to purposefully dress his body in constricting suits and his words in suffocating formality as not to show his true self, a sight too intoxicating.
Gingerly, Kai sprawled his fingers out across Kyungsoo’s collar before the artist brought a coal stained thumb up to the other’s cheek and watched as his digit left a streak of black on the chalk-white skin.
Almost visible was the very consistence of the medium to Kai’s observing eyes, capturing the faint noise of skin brushing skin and heavy breaths with his ears, as if he could perceive the different chains of atoms interact.
He didn’t notice how close he was but the faint sound and feeling of Kyungsoo’s throat constricting and relaxing again when the muse swallowed drew the artist’s attention to shift to the elder’s mouth. Without realizing or asking for permission, Jongin claimed it. Roughly, he captured Kyungsoo’s upper lip with his teeth and tugged at it harshyl before he watched the flesh snap back into place. The elder’s gasp resounded all too loud in Jongin’s ears, caused him to fall deeper into the black pool of a hazed frenzy.
Hit by an epiphany the artist crafted Kyungsoo to perfection, tied his wrists with the business-tie that had snaked around the elder’s neck before, stripped him naked so that the tone of his skin would melt with the sheets under the moonlight and contrast sharply to the raven streaks smeared all across his body left in the wake of coal-tainted fingers and the red that tinted his bloodied lips. Kyungsoo was perfect, sprawled out beneath him, a pleading look twisting his features, pupils dilated and black with lust and his erected cock exposing a sick desire.
That night, was the night of Jongin’s final lesson. The one to erase the most obvious of his shortcomings.
Just a hue of azure could engender sadness, a hint of emerald may elicit fervor and a tinge of crimson evoked obsession.
Truly, it was through Do Kyungsoo how Kim Jongin acquired perfection.
Following every word of Kyungsoo’s, they had always applied to the same, blunt logic of truth. In hindsight it was no wonder that Kai had abandoned Kyungsoo after reaching the point of satisfaction and walked the remaining road to the peak on his own. It’s all a matter of one’s prestige in the end, of the other’s apprehension, too little sleep and too many colors.
Too much fame is bad for the personality, Kyungsoo had always said. He’d never seen him again but Jongin kept all the memory of Kyungsoo locked deep within him so he could indulge in his melancholy, lest Kai would be all alone in the end.
Though, instead of drawing the monsters created by society, the Kai who was most famous painted the little abstrusities leaking from his own soul.