La Danse Macabre: In Bloom
So, original fiction. I haven't done OF in...a really long time. But what can I say, I was inspired.
Since summertime is the time for tales of horror in Japan, I present to you, La Danse Macabre, a series of short stories based on the artwork of Takato Yamamoto, whose art is macabre; erotic and grotesque and beautiful. Writing this story and the one that follow it was...it was like falling into an opium dream, kind of. I can't describe it other than that.
Title: La Danse Macabre: In Bloom
Author: joudama
Rating: R
La Danse Macabre; an allegory on the universality of death: no matter one's place in life, king or peasant, old man withered and bent or young man in the fullness of life, the dance of death is danced by all.
In Bloom: Ashura [inspired by: Prank]
His hair was light, as if dyed to that pale brown, and his eyes, a pale, grey color oddly reminiscent of flesh. And his smile, it was faint, like the smile of the Mona Lisa, with lips that were red as if kissed until reddened and puffy. His whole aura was one of something fluctuating between post-coital and aroused, and Takuro could not look away.
And when the boy saw him and looked at him through those strangely colored eyes, his breath caught, and when the boy smiled, letting that secretive little upturn to his lips turn into something inviting and something promising danger, Takuro felt his entire body twitch, as if he had touched a live wire, and he was propelled, impelled, towards the mysterious, grey-eyed boy with a smile promising things Takuro couldn't begin to imagine but had to know.
"You foreign?" he said, not knowing why he asked; with eyes and lips and hair like his, he had to be. But something about him, beyond the physical, struck him as foreign, as being out of touch with this reality, ephemeral and yet eternal, as something he had to touch even if he was burned. Takuro wanted to touch, wanted to feel, wanted to take in all of this boy with those eyes and that smile.
And it was as if the boy knew, as if he could sense Takuro's want better than Takuro himself.
"Half," the boy said, meeting Takuro's eyes before looking away demurely, as if shy, barely parting his mouth as he spoke. Takuro watched the boy's lips as he formed that word, watched they way the formed around the two syllables, opening for the "ha" and pouting oh so slightly on the "fu." It was mesmerizing, those reddened lips and that soft, low voice.
"What's your name?" Takuro asked, wanting to hear him speak again. "I'm Ishikawa Takuro."
Again, that faint, faint little smile and demure flick of those flesh-tinged grey eyes upwards. "Ashura," he said. "Kurosaki Ashura."
Takuro watched Ashura's mouth, watched how it formed his name, how he could see the movements of tongue in that mouth, how his mouth moved around the sounds, forming them in a way that made it hard for Takuro to breathe, hard to think, made him want.
"Pleased to meet you," Ashura said, closing those exotic eyes as he gave a slight, graceful little bow, his hair brushing against his cheeks as he moved.
"Pleasure's mine," Takuro said, breath taken away again at the sensuality and lithe, unnatural grace of such a simple gesture. It was as if every movement was full of promise, full of something aching and yet satiated, and ahh, how Takuro wanted.
Wanted so much he followed where Ashura lead, where Ashura beckoned, unable to question or think of anything but those flesh-tinged eyes, the scent of flowers the lingered around Ashura's skin, the set of those flushed lips. He followed into a house seeming clothed in darkness and nightmare and wrought from dreams of things gone wrong, and Takuro cared not at all for the decay or the odd things within the walls, for all that there was was Ashura, all he could see was the curve of his neck and light hair against it, all he could absorb was the heady musk of perfume and incense like an opium cloud; all that there was was Ashura and wanting.
Ashura led Takuro to a room, a room where chrysanthemums bloomed inside and out, even in the gloom. Ashura turned and faced Takuro, head lowered still demure. "Do you want me?" Ashura said, looking up through his long, long eyelashes, a glimpse of collarbone barely visible from where the shirt collar shifted to the side, and never had Takuro wanted anything as he wanted Ashura.
"Yes," Takuro breathed, almost shaking from it. "Let me," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, reaching out to touch.
Ashura smiled, gracefully slipping out of Takuro's reach, and Takuro twitched, feeling his skin was on fire as he lowered his hands. Yes, oh yes, how he wanted.
Ashura leaned forward, lips against Takuro's ear, brushing it with each movement. "Let's play a game, Ishikawa-kun. A game for just us two."
Ashura's hands touched Takuro, touched his shirt and began to undo it, and Takuro closed his eyes and breathed in Ashura's scent, feeling hazy and drugged and drunk and the wanting, the wanting, the wanting. He followed where Ashura led, laid below the window, reveling in the feel of the petals against his burning flesh, reveling in the soft, burningly cold feel of Ashura's hands soothing the heat of his body as he tied the bindings keeping his hands from desecrating Ashura as he wished. And then he reveled in the acquiescence to all that Ashura wanted and did; winning this game as he reveled at the feel of Ashura's lips against his chest, his cock, his neck; the sting of the fangs, the cooling of his flesh, the blood in his mouth; the taste of Ashura, of Ashura, of Ashura; of the nothingness that enveloped him and of Ashura, and how he hungered even now as he faded into nothingness; a hunger that propelled him through into other, into becoming as Ashura.
The chrysanthemums bloomed even in the eternal gloom of night, and Ashura looked out of the open window, blood still dripping down his wrists, over his hands, and he waited for Takuro to waken.
In Bloom: Takuro [inspired by: Window]
Takuro smiled, looking at the sweet boy through his eyes, grey as Ashura's, grey as the color of a corpse.
"Come with me, then," he said, and he watched the other boy watch him, watched the way the boy's eyes dilated as he stared at Takuro's mouth, felt the desire rising up like a torrent in the boy. "We'll play a game. A game for just us two," he said, and licked his lip, so hungry, so very hungry.
The boy watched Takuro's tongue as it glided across Takuro's mouth, and he nodded. "A game, yes," he said. "Whatever you want, I'll do."
"And I want. I do want," Takuro said, raised his chin, an almost-smile curving his lips. "I want something from you very, very much."
And Takuro hungered, and knew, smelling the blood coursing even faster through the boy, it would soon be assuaged.
And he led the boy, who followed as if dazed, who followed as if drunk, back to that place, that house of twisted dreams and spasming nightmares, led him to the room where the roses bloomed. And in the room where the roses bloomed, he stripped the boy and let the boy's lips travel over his flesh, let the boy's impatient hands pull frantically at buttons and push cloth haphazardly out of the way, let the boy lose the game. And in the room where the roses bloomed, he feasted his lips upon the boy's warm flesh, let the boy assuage his own hunger, and then, as the boy spasmed and thrust to satiation, fed for a moment his own unending, propelling hunger.
The roses bloomed even in the eternal chill of the night, and Takuro looked out of the open window, blood still drying on his shirt, against his flesh, and waited for the boy to rot.
Since summertime is the time for tales of horror in Japan, I present to you, La Danse Macabre, a series of short stories based on the artwork of Takato Yamamoto, whose art is macabre; erotic and grotesque and beautiful. Writing this story and the one that follow it was...it was like falling into an opium dream, kind of. I can't describe it other than that.
Title: La Danse Macabre: In Bloom
Author: joudama
Rating: R
La Danse Macabre; an allegory on the universality of death: no matter one's place in life, king or peasant, old man withered and bent or young man in the fullness of life, the dance of death is danced by all.
In Bloom: Ashura [inspired by: Prank]
His hair was light, as if dyed to that pale brown, and his eyes, a pale, grey color oddly reminiscent of flesh. And his smile, it was faint, like the smile of the Mona Lisa, with lips that were red as if kissed until reddened and puffy. His whole aura was one of something fluctuating between post-coital and aroused, and Takuro could not look away.
And when the boy saw him and looked at him through those strangely colored eyes, his breath caught, and when the boy smiled, letting that secretive little upturn to his lips turn into something inviting and something promising danger, Takuro felt his entire body twitch, as if he had touched a live wire, and he was propelled, impelled, towards the mysterious, grey-eyed boy with a smile promising things Takuro couldn't begin to imagine but had to know.
"You foreign?" he said, not knowing why he asked; with eyes and lips and hair like his, he had to be. But something about him, beyond the physical, struck him as foreign, as being out of touch with this reality, ephemeral and yet eternal, as something he had to touch even if he was burned. Takuro wanted to touch, wanted to feel, wanted to take in all of this boy with those eyes and that smile.
And it was as if the boy knew, as if he could sense Takuro's want better than Takuro himself.
"Half," the boy said, meeting Takuro's eyes before looking away demurely, as if shy, barely parting his mouth as he spoke. Takuro watched the boy's lips as he formed that word, watched they way the formed around the two syllables, opening for the "ha" and pouting oh so slightly on the "fu." It was mesmerizing, those reddened lips and that soft, low voice.
"What's your name?" Takuro asked, wanting to hear him speak again. "I'm Ishikawa Takuro."
Again, that faint, faint little smile and demure flick of those flesh-tinged grey eyes upwards. "Ashura," he said. "Kurosaki Ashura."
Takuro watched Ashura's mouth, watched how it formed his name, how he could see the movements of tongue in that mouth, how his mouth moved around the sounds, forming them in a way that made it hard for Takuro to breathe, hard to think, made him want.
"Pleased to meet you," Ashura said, closing those exotic eyes as he gave a slight, graceful little bow, his hair brushing against his cheeks as he moved.
"Pleasure's mine," Takuro said, breath taken away again at the sensuality and lithe, unnatural grace of such a simple gesture. It was as if every movement was full of promise, full of something aching and yet satiated, and ahh, how Takuro wanted.
Wanted so much he followed where Ashura lead, where Ashura beckoned, unable to question or think of anything but those flesh-tinged eyes, the scent of flowers the lingered around Ashura's skin, the set of those flushed lips. He followed into a house seeming clothed in darkness and nightmare and wrought from dreams of things gone wrong, and Takuro cared not at all for the decay or the odd things within the walls, for all that there was was Ashura, all he could see was the curve of his neck and light hair against it, all he could absorb was the heady musk of perfume and incense like an opium cloud; all that there was was Ashura and wanting.
Ashura led Takuro to a room, a room where chrysanthemums bloomed inside and out, even in the gloom. Ashura turned and faced Takuro, head lowered still demure. "Do you want me?" Ashura said, looking up through his long, long eyelashes, a glimpse of collarbone barely visible from where the shirt collar shifted to the side, and never had Takuro wanted anything as he wanted Ashura.
"Yes," Takuro breathed, almost shaking from it. "Let me," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, reaching out to touch.
Ashura smiled, gracefully slipping out of Takuro's reach, and Takuro twitched, feeling his skin was on fire as he lowered his hands. Yes, oh yes, how he wanted.
Ashura leaned forward, lips against Takuro's ear, brushing it with each movement. "Let's play a game, Ishikawa-kun. A game for just us two."
Ashura's hands touched Takuro, touched his shirt and began to undo it, and Takuro closed his eyes and breathed in Ashura's scent, feeling hazy and drugged and drunk and the wanting, the wanting, the wanting. He followed where Ashura led, laid below the window, reveling in the feel of the petals against his burning flesh, reveling in the soft, burningly cold feel of Ashura's hands soothing the heat of his body as he tied the bindings keeping his hands from desecrating Ashura as he wished. And then he reveled in the acquiescence to all that Ashura wanted and did; winning this game as he reveled at the feel of Ashura's lips against his chest, his cock, his neck; the sting of the fangs, the cooling of his flesh, the blood in his mouth; the taste of Ashura, of Ashura, of Ashura; of the nothingness that enveloped him and of Ashura, and how he hungered even now as he faded into nothingness; a hunger that propelled him through into other, into becoming as Ashura.
The chrysanthemums bloomed even in the eternal gloom of night, and Ashura looked out of the open window, blood still dripping down his wrists, over his hands, and he waited for Takuro to waken.
In Bloom: Takuro [inspired by: Window]
Takuro smiled, looking at the sweet boy through his eyes, grey as Ashura's, grey as the color of a corpse.
"Come with me, then," he said, and he watched the other boy watch him, watched the way the boy's eyes dilated as he stared at Takuro's mouth, felt the desire rising up like a torrent in the boy. "We'll play a game. A game for just us two," he said, and licked his lip, so hungry, so very hungry.
The boy watched Takuro's tongue as it glided across Takuro's mouth, and he nodded. "A game, yes," he said. "Whatever you want, I'll do."
"And I want. I do want," Takuro said, raised his chin, an almost-smile curving his lips. "I want something from you very, very much."
And Takuro hungered, and knew, smelling the blood coursing even faster through the boy, it would soon be assuaged.
And he led the boy, who followed as if dazed, who followed as if drunk, back to that place, that house of twisted dreams and spasming nightmares, led him to the room where the roses bloomed. And in the room where the roses bloomed, he stripped the boy and let the boy's lips travel over his flesh, let the boy's impatient hands pull frantically at buttons and push cloth haphazardly out of the way, let the boy lose the game. And in the room where the roses bloomed, he feasted his lips upon the boy's warm flesh, let the boy assuage his own hunger, and then, as the boy spasmed and thrust to satiation, fed for a moment his own unending, propelling hunger.
The roses bloomed even in the eternal chill of the night, and Takuro looked out of the open window, blood still drying on his shirt, against his flesh, and waited for the boy to rot.