emaciate
emaciate // jongdae/yixing; 2,367 words; horror/siren!au; nc-17
He finds himself on the edge of a deserted beach.
warnings: rated for gore, murder/character death, and an overall rather dark/gruesome theme. please read at your own risk ;;
inspired as a sort of darker twist to zephral's wonderfu siren!au, which can be read here (and is beautifully written and much less disturbing than this one) ;;
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
When he wakes, Yixing finds himself on the edge of a deserted beach.
The sun is warm against his skin and blinding to his eyes, and there’s an ache in his bones as he shifts slowly and drags himself into a sitting position. The sand crinkles beneath his toes and between his fingers-the grains cling to his skin.
With drowsy, slow movements, he rubs a hand across his face and squints out at the ocean-listens to the rolls and dips of the waves-and there’s something off about the silence that presses in on him, almost too safe; too comfortable.
And in fragments, he realizes that he remembers: he remembers the ship, he remembers faces-his captain, his first mate, his friends-and the violent thrashes of a storm. The black, jagged cliffs stretching off forever, the darkness engulfing and tossing the ship around with the hands of an insolent devil. The urgent shouts and terrified movements, the agitated rush of the crew and the pounding of waves against the sides and the terrible rocking-he winces and recalls the collision, his shoulder and back thrust into the railing. Both hands desperately grabbing for the side and the wild rush of seawater all around.
There’s an eerie, unintelligible call of warning ringing in his ears; and Yixing remembers the song. The melody, swirling around him in the unforgiving press of the sea, crawling into his mouth and into his very pores-filling his lungs and leaving his mind and vision impossibly clear. He’s surrounded-completely submerged in the dulled emerald glow of the water and the lull of the soft tune lazing between his ears.
And he remembers a face. Eyes of liquid gold.
The soft press of lips against his own.
Yixing chokes on a harsh gasp and clutches his throat-the back of his mouth is parched and dry, and the world spins for a moment, his hands blindly scrabbling for something to hold. There’s nothing to curl beneath his fingers, only the filter of sand that escapes his grasp-and then that feeling is replaced, becoming the soft entwining of a thin, delicate hand with his own.
Yixing, hums a voice, close against his ear, and he should be petrified-should be paralyzed by the subtle press of nails that are only a little too sharp against the pale skin of his shoulder.
But he’s not.
“Who are you?” he manages to ask, his voice cracked and scratchy in the air, and the only response is a light, playful giggle that sings out and falls over him like a warm, comforting blanket. His head seems to clear and his vision swims before his eyes before focusing on the ethereal figure that steps into his line of sight. The other’s fingers are still willingly caught between his.
The man kneels down before him in a swift, fluid movement, and Yixing can suddenly see every feature in sharp detail-thin, narrow hips, pointed bones swathed in a clean white fabric-clinging loosely, beautifully, to the angles of his slim frame. A ghost of a welcoming smile and a melting, golden gaze that leaves Yixing breathless. You may call me Jongdae.
“Did you-did you save me?” It’s all Yixing can think of to ask, as the other moves in closer and suddenly he’s straddling Yixing’s lap, his arms curled easily around Yixing’s neck and the draped cloth sliding up to expose delicate, ivory thighs.
Yixing’s hands automatically find a place on Jongdae’s hips, and the other laughs playfully against Yixing’s neck. No, he says, in a voice that sings sweet like caramel in Yixing’s eardrums and has him pulling the smaller man tighter against his chest. You saved me.
Jongdae presses a single kiss to Yixing’s jawline, and Yixing feels lightheaded and dizzy with desire, foreign and unfamiliar and overwhelming his senses with a craving-a need-to have Jongdae pliant and willing and his.
“Why?” He whispers, more to himself than to the stranger in his arms, even as his hands slide lower along Jongdae’s back-the fragile bumps of his spine-and he shifts so he can press the other down against the warm sand. He’s all but pleading for an explanation from this man he doesn’t even know, who sighs with undisguised pleasure as Yixing caresses his thighs and wills him to spread his legs eagerly beneath Yixing’s touch.
Because I’ve been waiting for you, Jongdae murmurs, as if that is all Yixing needs to know; and in the midst of the strangely enchanting moment, maybe it is. With lidded eyes and luscious, alluring lips that part almost unconsciously-as if they’re just waiting for Yixing to ravish them, to catch the bottom lip between his teeth and suckle and pull until it’s become bruised and swollen-and so he does just that, capturing Jongdae’s mouth with his and getting lost in the sensation of the wet press of perfect lips and the drag of their tongues.
Every touch of Jongdae’s leaves tingling electricity sparking along Yixing’s nerves, leaving him dizzy and needy and dependent on the sinful sound of Jongdae’s low, captivating moans, that slip out as Yixing indulges in the satisfying friction of their bodies together. It’s all too much; Jongdae is too perfect to be real, he thinks-a flawless creature of elegance and intimate beauty-and he knows he’s forgetting something, knows that he’s been swept up into some sort of frightening, uncontrollable want, but Jongdae is mouthing along his collarbone again and Yixing feels hazy, delirious, possessed; unable to do anything but melt willingly in the other’s arms.
Jongdae’s nails are still too sharp against his back, but Yixing doesn’t realize they’ve punctured through his skin until a trickle of blood finds its way down his arm, thick and sluggish and gruesomely stark against the sand as the first drops splatter to the ground.
And Jongdae pauses, his nose nuzzled contentedly against the column of Yixing’s neck, and Yixing can feel him still and take a small, shuddering breath. The nails in Yixing’s back seem to grow longer and-for a single, frantic moment-the magic dies; and Yixing remembers.
Sirens, his captain had said.
Jongdae looks up at him with horrifying gold eyes and a wide smile on his face; giving Yixing a glimpse of an appalling row of pointed canines.
I’ve been waiting for you, he says again, and he still has that terrible, graceful beauty to his movements as he leans up to scrape his teeth down the side of Yixing’s neck. He’s too numb to feel any pain, and the blood bubbles up and collects in the dips of his collarbones-begins to soak into the collar of his sea-worn shirt, already ripped and ruined by the rough toss of waves.
Jongdae is laughing again-a pure, breathless sound that seems to surround Yixing on all sides, makes him feel as if he’s floating outside of this gruesome fate, makes him still willing to press closer against Jongdae’s warm, comforting body and willing to cry out as Jongdae rips deep into the flesh of his forearm with long, yellowed nails.
Everything about Jongdae is too sharp now-each smile cuts into Yixing like razors and the corners of his hipbones and the ridges of his spine are somehow more defined than before-giving Jongdae an almost skeletal appearance that’s accentuated even further by the odd glowing of his eyes. And yet he’s still beautiful, in a horrible, morbid way, elegant in his movements as he cups Yixing’s face in his hands and presses into Yixing’s temples hard enough to open up the skin.
Crimson spills out between his fingers and there’s something revoltingly captivating about the sight of Yixing’s own blood, slicked and vibrant against the other’s pale forearms.
Jongdae pouts, his perfect face crafted into a look of concern. Look what you made me do, he murmurs thoughtfully. His eyes are narrowed; his fingertips still lodged in Yixing’s temples. How could you, Yixing? I trusted you.
You said you’d save me.
Yixing tries to move back but the music is there again, binding him, choking him, carving into him and pushing him down, down into Jongdae’s intoxicating embrace. The other is staring up at him with a rejected, hurt-filled expression in those rich golden eyes, and Yixing feels consumed with guilt because it’s his fault that such a flawless being could be reduced to tears. “Don’t cry-I’m sorry,” He tries to say, “please don’t cry.”
I won’t, Jongdae assures him, but his lips aren’t moving; his voice seems to vibrate in Yixing’s skull, vibrant and inviting and mixed in with the melody that continues to incase Yixing’s thoughts. But only if you make it up to me. And Yixing nods fervently, desperate to receive Jongdae’s approval and hear his charming, irresistible sighs of pleasure once more.
Jongdae kisses him again, capturing his lips in a gentle, fluid movement. His mouth is curled up at the corners with a small hint of satisfaction when he pulls away, and Yixing immediately feels lighter knowing that he has not failed to please. Just like that, Jongdae whispers inside his head, and Yixing swells with pride and chases after Jongdae for another.
He rocks down into Jongdae, his hands holding Jongdae’s hips against his as the other pushes up against him, shameless and demanding as he allows Yixing to suck and bite along his slender neck and scatter kisses along thin, prominent collarbones. More, Yixing, he murmurs encouragingly, his head falling back against the sparkling, pristine beach and his body arching easily into Yixing’s. You promised, didn’t you?
Yixing shudders eagerly at the words, and there’s a few thick beads of blood trying to obscure his vision; he doesn’t remember why his forehead is bleeding. Jongdae’s watching him with an intense, knowing gaze, and he must sense Yixing’s confusion-the lost, helpless look Yixing gives him-because he wraps tender, loving arms around Yixing’s shoulders, pulling him in and soothing him with sugared words that jumble into a string of calming music in Yixing’s mind.
Jongdae guides him patiently, gently taking a hold of Yixing’s hand and kissing each of the knuckles before slowly taking three fingers into his mouth. There’s a distant, aching sting that doesn’t really register as Jongdae’s teeth drag shallow scrapes down his skin, and the only thought Yixing is able to form is a disorganized questioning of his lack of alarm at the sight of his own blood, dripping from his fingers and leaving trails past his wrist, diluted with the glossy slickness of Jongdae’s saliva.
But Jongdae’s eyes are too beautifully vibrant for him to care, glittering with a light amusement that washes over Yixing-a comforting lull that has him relaxing and obediently letting Jongdae pull his hand down until it’s hovering just where he wants it. You can do this for me too, right, Yixing?
Yixing no longer finds himself capable to reply, his mouth gaping uselessly as Jongdae brushes his eyelashes gracefully against his cheekbones and teasingly presses Yixing’s fingers just barely into his entrance, waiting for Yixing to push them the rest of the way; and there’s such a strange sense of awe at the idea of being allowed to touch, so intimately, a being so perfect-so inhumanly flawless, that Yixing finds the whole situation just a little too surreal, the way Jongdae opens himself on Yixing’s fingers and the way the world seems to wrap them up so easily, taking them away from the dazzling, pristine beach and leaving them to float almost in nothing-a blind, welcoming haze of light that cottons in from all around.
He wants to ask where, how, why; but his throat still refuses to work and he’s more consumed by his overwhelming need to feel himself inside Jongdae, to take this beautiful creature as his own-to drown himself in the scent of Jongdae’s very being. The desire eats him up, almost as if there’s something else burrowing inside of him, taking control of his movements.
It’s so strong, so overpowering-and he feels nauseous.
He’s crying and he doesn’t even realize it, and Jongdae watches the tears fall with a gaze somewhat akin to hunger, even as Yixing thrusts into him, desperately-as if Jongdae’s warmth can cure him of the insatiable monster that twists him into knots and holds him down, leaving him broken and sobbing incoherently against Jongdae’s cold, narrow chest. “I don’t understand,” he chokes out, his voice torn and horrified, even as he loses himself in the bliss of the tightness around him.
But Jongdae’s fluttering whispers do nothing to explain, even though they seem to wipe Yixing’s confusion and pain away. Don’t worry, he sings in Yixing’s ears, You’re doing great.
But the song stumbles and turns dissonant and foreboding, suffocating Yixing’s senses and replacing the hallucinated warmth and welcome with a horrible emptiness-dousing him in black, unconstrained fear.
Jongdae’s smile gleams out at him through the darkness, luminous and sickly-sharp teeth lash out to sink deep into the shivering flesh of Yixing’s throat. And the pain is there this time-raw agony that rips through Yixing’s body and leaves him writhing, screaming; his eyes wide and unseeing as he retches a mouthful of hot, sticky, blood. The terrible metallic taste drenches his tongue and he gags-there’s blood gurgling in his trachea; fuzzy, blackened spots begin to dot his vision.
The white, misty fog is clearing away, disintegrating into a dull grey around them; and the sand is ashen-a dead, slaughtered island filtered with the burned, desolate remains of wrecked ships and strewn with debris of past storms. A light, steady fall of rain slinks against jagged lines of rocks that build up into high, serrated cliffs.
There’s a tug on his throat, harsh and quick; the flesh gives way with a sickening tear. He sees Jongdae, beautiful, and made of bones-ghoulish scales shimmering into view along the edge of his hairline, creeping down the planes of his skin. His eyes give off a lurid yellow glow; a ravenous edge to his chilling stare.
Thank you, sings one last note in his ear, a final wash of calm before the pain rips him open; As if long, terrible claws have torn through his chest, to scoop out his beating heart-and devour it whole.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
----Margret Atwood, Siren Song
A/N: hi thanks for reading ;; and thanks to dutchess12534 for making me feel better about my urges to write stories about chen eating ppl sighs i am a strange person
He finds himself on the edge of a deserted beach.
warnings: rated for gore, murder/character death, and an overall rather dark/gruesome theme. please read at your own risk ;;
inspired as a sort of darker twist to zephral's wonderfu siren!au, which can be read here (and is beautifully written and much less disturbing than this one) ;;
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
When he wakes, Yixing finds himself on the edge of a deserted beach.
The sun is warm against his skin and blinding to his eyes, and there’s an ache in his bones as he shifts slowly and drags himself into a sitting position. The sand crinkles beneath his toes and between his fingers-the grains cling to his skin.
With drowsy, slow movements, he rubs a hand across his face and squints out at the ocean-listens to the rolls and dips of the waves-and there’s something off about the silence that presses in on him, almost too safe; too comfortable.
And in fragments, he realizes that he remembers: he remembers the ship, he remembers faces-his captain, his first mate, his friends-and the violent thrashes of a storm. The black, jagged cliffs stretching off forever, the darkness engulfing and tossing the ship around with the hands of an insolent devil. The urgent shouts and terrified movements, the agitated rush of the crew and the pounding of waves against the sides and the terrible rocking-he winces and recalls the collision, his shoulder and back thrust into the railing. Both hands desperately grabbing for the side and the wild rush of seawater all around.
There’s an eerie, unintelligible call of warning ringing in his ears; and Yixing remembers the song. The melody, swirling around him in the unforgiving press of the sea, crawling into his mouth and into his very pores-filling his lungs and leaving his mind and vision impossibly clear. He’s surrounded-completely submerged in the dulled emerald glow of the water and the lull of the soft tune lazing between his ears.
And he remembers a face. Eyes of liquid gold.
The soft press of lips against his own.
Yixing chokes on a harsh gasp and clutches his throat-the back of his mouth is parched and dry, and the world spins for a moment, his hands blindly scrabbling for something to hold. There’s nothing to curl beneath his fingers, only the filter of sand that escapes his grasp-and then that feeling is replaced, becoming the soft entwining of a thin, delicate hand with his own.
Yixing, hums a voice, close against his ear, and he should be petrified-should be paralyzed by the subtle press of nails that are only a little too sharp against the pale skin of his shoulder.
But he’s not.
“Who are you?” he manages to ask, his voice cracked and scratchy in the air, and the only response is a light, playful giggle that sings out and falls over him like a warm, comforting blanket. His head seems to clear and his vision swims before his eyes before focusing on the ethereal figure that steps into his line of sight. The other’s fingers are still willingly caught between his.
The man kneels down before him in a swift, fluid movement, and Yixing can suddenly see every feature in sharp detail-thin, narrow hips, pointed bones swathed in a clean white fabric-clinging loosely, beautifully, to the angles of his slim frame. A ghost of a welcoming smile and a melting, golden gaze that leaves Yixing breathless. You may call me Jongdae.
“Did you-did you save me?” It’s all Yixing can think of to ask, as the other moves in closer and suddenly he’s straddling Yixing’s lap, his arms curled easily around Yixing’s neck and the draped cloth sliding up to expose delicate, ivory thighs.
Yixing’s hands automatically find a place on Jongdae’s hips, and the other laughs playfully against Yixing’s neck. No, he says, in a voice that sings sweet like caramel in Yixing’s eardrums and has him pulling the smaller man tighter against his chest. You saved me.
Jongdae presses a single kiss to Yixing’s jawline, and Yixing feels lightheaded and dizzy with desire, foreign and unfamiliar and overwhelming his senses with a craving-a need-to have Jongdae pliant and willing and his.
“Why?” He whispers, more to himself than to the stranger in his arms, even as his hands slide lower along Jongdae’s back-the fragile bumps of his spine-and he shifts so he can press the other down against the warm sand. He’s all but pleading for an explanation from this man he doesn’t even know, who sighs with undisguised pleasure as Yixing caresses his thighs and wills him to spread his legs eagerly beneath Yixing’s touch.
Because I’ve been waiting for you, Jongdae murmurs, as if that is all Yixing needs to know; and in the midst of the strangely enchanting moment, maybe it is. With lidded eyes and luscious, alluring lips that part almost unconsciously-as if they’re just waiting for Yixing to ravish them, to catch the bottom lip between his teeth and suckle and pull until it’s become bruised and swollen-and so he does just that, capturing Jongdae’s mouth with his and getting lost in the sensation of the wet press of perfect lips and the drag of their tongues.
Every touch of Jongdae’s leaves tingling electricity sparking along Yixing’s nerves, leaving him dizzy and needy and dependent on the sinful sound of Jongdae’s low, captivating moans, that slip out as Yixing indulges in the satisfying friction of their bodies together. It’s all too much; Jongdae is too perfect to be real, he thinks-a flawless creature of elegance and intimate beauty-and he knows he’s forgetting something, knows that he’s been swept up into some sort of frightening, uncontrollable want, but Jongdae is mouthing along his collarbone again and Yixing feels hazy, delirious, possessed; unable to do anything but melt willingly in the other’s arms.
Jongdae’s nails are still too sharp against his back, but Yixing doesn’t realize they’ve punctured through his skin until a trickle of blood finds its way down his arm, thick and sluggish and gruesomely stark against the sand as the first drops splatter to the ground.
And Jongdae pauses, his nose nuzzled contentedly against the column of Yixing’s neck, and Yixing can feel him still and take a small, shuddering breath. The nails in Yixing’s back seem to grow longer and-for a single, frantic moment-the magic dies; and Yixing remembers.
Sirens, his captain had said.
Jongdae looks up at him with horrifying gold eyes and a wide smile on his face; giving Yixing a glimpse of an appalling row of pointed canines.
I’ve been waiting for you, he says again, and he still has that terrible, graceful beauty to his movements as he leans up to scrape his teeth down the side of Yixing’s neck. He’s too numb to feel any pain, and the blood bubbles up and collects in the dips of his collarbones-begins to soak into the collar of his sea-worn shirt, already ripped and ruined by the rough toss of waves.
Jongdae is laughing again-a pure, breathless sound that seems to surround Yixing on all sides, makes him feel as if he’s floating outside of this gruesome fate, makes him still willing to press closer against Jongdae’s warm, comforting body and willing to cry out as Jongdae rips deep into the flesh of his forearm with long, yellowed nails.
Everything about Jongdae is too sharp now-each smile cuts into Yixing like razors and the corners of his hipbones and the ridges of his spine are somehow more defined than before-giving Jongdae an almost skeletal appearance that’s accentuated even further by the odd glowing of his eyes. And yet he’s still beautiful, in a horrible, morbid way, elegant in his movements as he cups Yixing’s face in his hands and presses into Yixing’s temples hard enough to open up the skin.
Crimson spills out between his fingers and there’s something revoltingly captivating about the sight of Yixing’s own blood, slicked and vibrant against the other’s pale forearms.
Jongdae pouts, his perfect face crafted into a look of concern. Look what you made me do, he murmurs thoughtfully. His eyes are narrowed; his fingertips still lodged in Yixing’s temples. How could you, Yixing? I trusted you.
You said you’d save me.
Yixing tries to move back but the music is there again, binding him, choking him, carving into him and pushing him down, down into Jongdae’s intoxicating embrace. The other is staring up at him with a rejected, hurt-filled expression in those rich golden eyes, and Yixing feels consumed with guilt because it’s his fault that such a flawless being could be reduced to tears. “Don’t cry-I’m sorry,” He tries to say, “please don’t cry.”
I won’t, Jongdae assures him, but his lips aren’t moving; his voice seems to vibrate in Yixing’s skull, vibrant and inviting and mixed in with the melody that continues to incase Yixing’s thoughts. But only if you make it up to me. And Yixing nods fervently, desperate to receive Jongdae’s approval and hear his charming, irresistible sighs of pleasure once more.
Jongdae kisses him again, capturing his lips in a gentle, fluid movement. His mouth is curled up at the corners with a small hint of satisfaction when he pulls away, and Yixing immediately feels lighter knowing that he has not failed to please. Just like that, Jongdae whispers inside his head, and Yixing swells with pride and chases after Jongdae for another.
He rocks down into Jongdae, his hands holding Jongdae’s hips against his as the other pushes up against him, shameless and demanding as he allows Yixing to suck and bite along his slender neck and scatter kisses along thin, prominent collarbones. More, Yixing, he murmurs encouragingly, his head falling back against the sparkling, pristine beach and his body arching easily into Yixing’s. You promised, didn’t you?
Yixing shudders eagerly at the words, and there’s a few thick beads of blood trying to obscure his vision; he doesn’t remember why his forehead is bleeding. Jongdae’s watching him with an intense, knowing gaze, and he must sense Yixing’s confusion-the lost, helpless look Yixing gives him-because he wraps tender, loving arms around Yixing’s shoulders, pulling him in and soothing him with sugared words that jumble into a string of calming music in Yixing’s mind.
Jongdae guides him patiently, gently taking a hold of Yixing’s hand and kissing each of the knuckles before slowly taking three fingers into his mouth. There’s a distant, aching sting that doesn’t really register as Jongdae’s teeth drag shallow scrapes down his skin, and the only thought Yixing is able to form is a disorganized questioning of his lack of alarm at the sight of his own blood, dripping from his fingers and leaving trails past his wrist, diluted with the glossy slickness of Jongdae’s saliva.
But Jongdae’s eyes are too beautifully vibrant for him to care, glittering with a light amusement that washes over Yixing-a comforting lull that has him relaxing and obediently letting Jongdae pull his hand down until it’s hovering just where he wants it. You can do this for me too, right, Yixing?
Yixing no longer finds himself capable to reply, his mouth gaping uselessly as Jongdae brushes his eyelashes gracefully against his cheekbones and teasingly presses Yixing’s fingers just barely into his entrance, waiting for Yixing to push them the rest of the way; and there’s such a strange sense of awe at the idea of being allowed to touch, so intimately, a being so perfect-so inhumanly flawless, that Yixing finds the whole situation just a little too surreal, the way Jongdae opens himself on Yixing’s fingers and the way the world seems to wrap them up so easily, taking them away from the dazzling, pristine beach and leaving them to float almost in nothing-a blind, welcoming haze of light that cottons in from all around.
He wants to ask where, how, why; but his throat still refuses to work and he’s more consumed by his overwhelming need to feel himself inside Jongdae, to take this beautiful creature as his own-to drown himself in the scent of Jongdae’s very being. The desire eats him up, almost as if there’s something else burrowing inside of him, taking control of his movements.
It’s so strong, so overpowering-and he feels nauseous.
He’s crying and he doesn’t even realize it, and Jongdae watches the tears fall with a gaze somewhat akin to hunger, even as Yixing thrusts into him, desperately-as if Jongdae’s warmth can cure him of the insatiable monster that twists him into knots and holds him down, leaving him broken and sobbing incoherently against Jongdae’s cold, narrow chest. “I don’t understand,” he chokes out, his voice torn and horrified, even as he loses himself in the bliss of the tightness around him.
But Jongdae’s fluttering whispers do nothing to explain, even though they seem to wipe Yixing’s confusion and pain away. Don’t worry, he sings in Yixing’s ears, You’re doing great.
But the song stumbles and turns dissonant and foreboding, suffocating Yixing’s senses and replacing the hallucinated warmth and welcome with a horrible emptiness-dousing him in black, unconstrained fear.
Jongdae’s smile gleams out at him through the darkness, luminous and sickly-sharp teeth lash out to sink deep into the shivering flesh of Yixing’s throat. And the pain is there this time-raw agony that rips through Yixing’s body and leaves him writhing, screaming; his eyes wide and unseeing as he retches a mouthful of hot, sticky, blood. The terrible metallic taste drenches his tongue and he gags-there’s blood gurgling in his trachea; fuzzy, blackened spots begin to dot his vision.
The white, misty fog is clearing away, disintegrating into a dull grey around them; and the sand is ashen-a dead, slaughtered island filtered with the burned, desolate remains of wrecked ships and strewn with debris of past storms. A light, steady fall of rain slinks against jagged lines of rocks that build up into high, serrated cliffs.
There’s a tug on his throat, harsh and quick; the flesh gives way with a sickening tear. He sees Jongdae, beautiful, and made of bones-ghoulish scales shimmering into view along the edge of his hairline, creeping down the planes of his skin. His eyes give off a lurid yellow glow; a ravenous edge to his chilling stare.
Thank you, sings one last note in his ear, a final wash of calm before the pain rips him open; As if long, terrible claws have torn through his chest, to scoop out his beating heart-and devour it whole.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
----Margret Atwood, Siren Song
A/N: hi thanks for reading ;; and thanks to dutchess12534 for making me feel better about my urges to write stories about chen eating ppl sighs i am a strange person