i feel it deep within, it’s just beneath the skin
i feel it deep within, it's just beneath the skin
Death is an art, something crafted meticulously out of beauty and want; a concept labelling a heart that’s stopped beating, a pulse that's stopped throbbing.
warning: might be triggering to those who practise self-harm
Death is an art, something crafted meticulously out of beauty and want; a concept labeling a heart that’s stopped beating, a pulse that's stopped throbbing. Like the spaces between words and holes punched out of hearts, it’s a quiet secret to carry.
Most of all, it has the ability of ripping reality apart and as soul gets torn away from body, the person is finally saved.
♥
The first time Kiseop dragged the razor blade across his wrist is the most unforgettable. He remembers lengthening crimson cut a representation of emotions which he couldn’t recognise, building up and then finally releasing with blood that bubbles. His breath had gotten caught in his throat and he had thrown his head back, eyes pressing into slits.
♥
The first time Jaeseop killed a client is the one he tries all his life to forget. He had pressed the muzzle against the latter’s head, pushing him hand-to-chest down into the bathtub. He remembers pulling trigger and bubbles that stop surfacing instantaneously afterwards, him falling backwards and body against wall, wanting to just seep away. Jaeseop had thrusted his lips onto the client’s, blood ebbing across the water in webs, before slipping off.
♥
Kiseop perches over the rosewood table, eyes clouded with guardedness. His fingers tremble against trouser pockets, skin stretched over with the most painful kind of anxiety. The glass of water remains untouched.
Heart keeps pumping and he honestly wants it to stop, right now. There’s that urge to be cut all over until he bleeds everything out, until he’s a mess of liquid crimson over dried red. Until breathing gets cut off and the world around him fades off into nothingness.
Heart only manages to pump faster though.
Jaeseop feels a little too suffocated in blue-and-white checkered shirt that clings onto his skin. He still adorns a smile, that smile which ignites little sparks of fear yet drawing fascination concurrently.
The moment he enters the cafe, his eyes are trained onto a boy with scarlet hair swept over his eyes. His client.
That smile only grows wider, sparks of fear developing into flames, resulting in Kiseop’s fascination anyway. It’s a norm.
Jaeseop slips onto the chair, movements somewhat feline, making him seem almost surrealistic. He fishes out a hand, “Kim Jaeseop.”
“Lee Kiseop,” the older takes up his hand, fingers interlacing, contact a little overwhelming.
Jaeseop pretends not to see through the ladder-scale of scars creeping its way up Kiseop’s arms, decorating peachy skin with red.
“So, how much are you willing to pay?” the younger folds his arms, cushioning his back against the chair, exuding confidence. Kiseop’s a mess of side glances and shaking body, “Five thousand dollars? Ten thousand dollars? I -”
“Ten thousand dollars it is,” Jaeseop’s eyes sparkle, resembling constellations that hold the wrong stars together. They creep the hell out of Kiseop, who’s already creeped out by what he’s going to do, to spend ten fucking thousand dollars on -
“How would you like it to be executed?” Jaeseop speaks of death and murder in terms of his occupation, not in the term of its notoriety, which Kiseop spent half of his life being eaten away by. Death grows with Kiseop, turning from want to need.
“Blood,” he mutters, “just, blood. And slow, physical pain erasing what’s inside of me, just -”
Two rows of teeth clattering against each other and Kiseop wants to shrivel up, his soul in discomfort from being trapped inside a body he’s never liked. They want to tear away from each other, slowly but surely.
Jaeseop just nods his head.
“Tomorrow, please, I just -” Kiseop doesn’t know how to stop rocking in his chair and Jaeseop firms his grip on the former’s hand, skin against skin, fingers burning against fingers. Together, they mesh, encircled by a blaze.
A blaze that creates them, when burns don’t know how to heal like before.
“Okay. See you tomorrow, Mr Lee.”
Kiseop leaves a cheque for ten thousand dollars and his address on the table.
♥
Stars draw themselves over large expanse of indigo sky, pearly and white and glowing. Kiseop would love to bleed over them, like how he chooses to die over white bedsheets. Engulfed by visualizations of blood seeping across whiteness in swirls, he gets a little too impatient waiting for Jaeseop.
The minute hand etches spaces across background and numbers, tick tock tick tock. Soft grumbling slips through tousled lips and a throbbing ache develops at the back of head. Butt presses deeper into sheets, softness against denim material of jeans.
Minute hand finally reaches the ‘eight’ mark and hour hand points towards ‘twelve’. Doorbell rings and he smiles, even though he’s torn between being happy for finally getting what he wants or freaked out by Jaeseop’s surrealistic punctuality (or actually, surrealistic everything).
Jaeseop adorns a tuxedo, tie hugging his collar and smile pressed into something less intimidating. Kiseop loses himself in slanted eyes and slick black hair, and tries to feel happy that the person tasked with killing him is really fucking beautiful.
♥
The younger man begins the process of tearing clothing away from skin, then soul away from body. He leaves gentle touches as he unbuttons and removes, material slipping off skin and flesh. It isn’t long before the older turns into a shuddery mess, alive and open, wanting to just shrivel up and die out instead.
“My razor,” Kiseop throws his head back into the sheets, finger pointing out towards said blade which rests on the beside table, “I’d love to die with it.”
Jaeseop crawls upwards, knees grazing against bed, fingers curling around razor.
“Thanks.”
He begins with Kiseop’s nose, drawing tiny cuts over the bridge before sliding the blade under and over cartilage, drawing the first streak of blood. It runs down the latter’s chin, staining his lips with metallic crimson. Kiseop sinks even deeper into the bed, shoulder blades jutting out of skin. With his fingertips, Jaeseop smears the blood all over philtrum and at that, even more blood bubbles out of nostril. Draws the blade over cartilage once more, this time with more pressure and Kiseop moans, lost in tiny bouts of physical pain.
"Shit," hint of a tongue slips through parted lips, swiping over them, attempting to taste the metallic and the glorious.
Smirking, Jaeseop moves on to work at Kiseop's arms. Piercing blade into skin, cutting perfectly parallel lines over wrist, over older scars, some already greying and left to fade out.
"You're so good at this," the older says quietly and Jaeseop honestly wishes he would just shut up instead. He's never had a client who talks every five fucking minutes while being killed and it's honestly disturbing.
(and painfully distracting as well, reopening wounds Jaeseop thought were never there anymore)
Jaeseop expertly cuts a gash down Kiseop's arm, blood seeping out and slowly spreading across the sheets. Instantaneously, the latter feels a little giddy but tries to focus on the stunning contrast of crimson against white. His breathing begins to turn ragged.
Tip of blade cuts into open flesh and flickers away, only after leaving an impression of razor having been embedded into body. Euphoria escalates with sporadic pain, and with blood dotting area around the gash.
"It's an art," Kiseop whispers to himself.
Jaeseop tries not to roll his eyes.
"You're an artist," the older man smiles feebly.
He ends up rolling his eyes after all.
Kiseop squirms as Jaeseop forms another gash on his other arm, blood seeping out freely. Draws tiny cuts over knuckles and longer ones across palms. Even attempts to shape beauty out of flesh, as blood doesn't know how to stop flowing, streaking everything else with the most brilliant kind of red.
Jaeseop cuts out circles around the older's nipples, gently pressing metal against them in the process. Throwing sensuality aside, he's carving out a Kiseop that's lost in physicalness. The edges of soul that's been plastered onto body are slowly being ripped off.
Basically, Kiseop's beginning to lose himself.
(with Jaeseop's aid, of course)
Kiseop doesn't expect Jaeseop to dig the blade in and out of belly button, as if weaving thread over and under thread. Pain is amplified with how pressure is inversely proportional to area in contact and he breaks into the most breathtaking smile.
Jaeseop finds it beautifully repulsive.
He moves on to draw dashes over Kiseop's thighs and experimentally licks the blood, plushness against lips. Aching to watch the blood pulsate over soft thighs, he draws a little more indiscriminately and Kiseop chuckles darkly.
Obsessiveness can get a little contagious.
(especially with death)
Kiseop's bleeding so much he's barely conscious anymore, and suddenly Jaeseop listens out for muffled "thank yous", carving a valley in his chest that surrounds the heart out of flesh, blood already pooling.
Crimson over peachy skin over white sheets.
Just the way Kiseop has envisioned it.
When Kiseop is fully unconscious, Jaeseop stabs him in the heart and watches him die with a smile. Then slowly he crawls up the mattress, hovering over him and leaning in to press his lips against his.
He quietly slips away, losing another piece of his heart to (Kiseop).
"You died beautiful."
Soul gets torn away from body.
Death is an art, something crafted meticulously out of beauty and want; a concept labelling a heart that’s stopped beating, a pulse that's stopped throbbing.
warning: might be triggering to those who practise self-harm
Death is an art, something crafted meticulously out of beauty and want; a concept labeling a heart that’s stopped beating, a pulse that's stopped throbbing. Like the spaces between words and holes punched out of hearts, it’s a quiet secret to carry.
Most of all, it has the ability of ripping reality apart and as soul gets torn away from body, the person is finally saved.
♥
The first time Kiseop dragged the razor blade across his wrist is the most unforgettable. He remembers lengthening crimson cut a representation of emotions which he couldn’t recognise, building up and then finally releasing with blood that bubbles. His breath had gotten caught in his throat and he had thrown his head back, eyes pressing into slits.
♥
The first time Jaeseop killed a client is the one he tries all his life to forget. He had pressed the muzzle against the latter’s head, pushing him hand-to-chest down into the bathtub. He remembers pulling trigger and bubbles that stop surfacing instantaneously afterwards, him falling backwards and body against wall, wanting to just seep away. Jaeseop had thrusted his lips onto the client’s, blood ebbing across the water in webs, before slipping off.
♥
Kiseop perches over the rosewood table, eyes clouded with guardedness. His fingers tremble against trouser pockets, skin stretched over with the most painful kind of anxiety. The glass of water remains untouched.
Heart keeps pumping and he honestly wants it to stop, right now. There’s that urge to be cut all over until he bleeds everything out, until he’s a mess of liquid crimson over dried red. Until breathing gets cut off and the world around him fades off into nothingness.
Heart only manages to pump faster though.
Jaeseop feels a little too suffocated in blue-and-white checkered shirt that clings onto his skin. He still adorns a smile, that smile which ignites little sparks of fear yet drawing fascination concurrently.
The moment he enters the cafe, his eyes are trained onto a boy with scarlet hair swept over his eyes. His client.
That smile only grows wider, sparks of fear developing into flames, resulting in Kiseop’s fascination anyway. It’s a norm.
Jaeseop slips onto the chair, movements somewhat feline, making him seem almost surrealistic. He fishes out a hand, “Kim Jaeseop.”
“Lee Kiseop,” the older takes up his hand, fingers interlacing, contact a little overwhelming.
Jaeseop pretends not to see through the ladder-scale of scars creeping its way up Kiseop’s arms, decorating peachy skin with red.
“So, how much are you willing to pay?” the younger folds his arms, cushioning his back against the chair, exuding confidence. Kiseop’s a mess of side glances and shaking body, “Five thousand dollars? Ten thousand dollars? I -”
“Ten thousand dollars it is,” Jaeseop’s eyes sparkle, resembling constellations that hold the wrong stars together. They creep the hell out of Kiseop, who’s already creeped out by what he’s going to do, to spend ten fucking thousand dollars on -
“How would you like it to be executed?” Jaeseop speaks of death and murder in terms of his occupation, not in the term of its notoriety, which Kiseop spent half of his life being eaten away by. Death grows with Kiseop, turning from want to need.
“Blood,” he mutters, “just, blood. And slow, physical pain erasing what’s inside of me, just -”
Two rows of teeth clattering against each other and Kiseop wants to shrivel up, his soul in discomfort from being trapped inside a body he’s never liked. They want to tear away from each other, slowly but surely.
Jaeseop just nods his head.
“Tomorrow, please, I just -” Kiseop doesn’t know how to stop rocking in his chair and Jaeseop firms his grip on the former’s hand, skin against skin, fingers burning against fingers. Together, they mesh, encircled by a blaze.
A blaze that creates them, when burns don’t know how to heal like before.
“Okay. See you tomorrow, Mr Lee.”
Kiseop leaves a cheque for ten thousand dollars and his address on the table.
♥
Stars draw themselves over large expanse of indigo sky, pearly and white and glowing. Kiseop would love to bleed over them, like how he chooses to die over white bedsheets. Engulfed by visualizations of blood seeping across whiteness in swirls, he gets a little too impatient waiting for Jaeseop.
The minute hand etches spaces across background and numbers, tick tock tick tock. Soft grumbling slips through tousled lips and a throbbing ache develops at the back of head. Butt presses deeper into sheets, softness against denim material of jeans.
Minute hand finally reaches the ‘eight’ mark and hour hand points towards ‘twelve’. Doorbell rings and he smiles, even though he’s torn between being happy for finally getting what he wants or freaked out by Jaeseop’s surrealistic punctuality (or actually, surrealistic everything).
Jaeseop adorns a tuxedo, tie hugging his collar and smile pressed into something less intimidating. Kiseop loses himself in slanted eyes and slick black hair, and tries to feel happy that the person tasked with killing him is really fucking beautiful.
♥
The younger man begins the process of tearing clothing away from skin, then soul away from body. He leaves gentle touches as he unbuttons and removes, material slipping off skin and flesh. It isn’t long before the older turns into a shuddery mess, alive and open, wanting to just shrivel up and die out instead.
“My razor,” Kiseop throws his head back into the sheets, finger pointing out towards said blade which rests on the beside table, “I’d love to die with it.”
Jaeseop crawls upwards, knees grazing against bed, fingers curling around razor.
“Thanks.”
He begins with Kiseop’s nose, drawing tiny cuts over the bridge before sliding the blade under and over cartilage, drawing the first streak of blood. It runs down the latter’s chin, staining his lips with metallic crimson. Kiseop sinks even deeper into the bed, shoulder blades jutting out of skin. With his fingertips, Jaeseop smears the blood all over philtrum and at that, even more blood bubbles out of nostril. Draws the blade over cartilage once more, this time with more pressure and Kiseop moans, lost in tiny bouts of physical pain.
"Shit," hint of a tongue slips through parted lips, swiping over them, attempting to taste the metallic and the glorious.
Smirking, Jaeseop moves on to work at Kiseop's arms. Piercing blade into skin, cutting perfectly parallel lines over wrist, over older scars, some already greying and left to fade out.
"You're so good at this," the older says quietly and Jaeseop honestly wishes he would just shut up instead. He's never had a client who talks every five fucking minutes while being killed and it's honestly disturbing.
(and painfully distracting as well, reopening wounds Jaeseop thought were never there anymore)
Jaeseop expertly cuts a gash down Kiseop's arm, blood seeping out and slowly spreading across the sheets. Instantaneously, the latter feels a little giddy but tries to focus on the stunning contrast of crimson against white. His breathing begins to turn ragged.
Tip of blade cuts into open flesh and flickers away, only after leaving an impression of razor having been embedded into body. Euphoria escalates with sporadic pain, and with blood dotting area around the gash.
"It's an art," Kiseop whispers to himself.
Jaeseop tries not to roll his eyes.
"You're an artist," the older man smiles feebly.
He ends up rolling his eyes after all.
Kiseop squirms as Jaeseop forms another gash on his other arm, blood seeping out freely. Draws tiny cuts over knuckles and longer ones across palms. Even attempts to shape beauty out of flesh, as blood doesn't know how to stop flowing, streaking everything else with the most brilliant kind of red.
Jaeseop cuts out circles around the older's nipples, gently pressing metal against them in the process. Throwing sensuality aside, he's carving out a Kiseop that's lost in physicalness. The edges of soul that's been plastered onto body are slowly being ripped off.
Basically, Kiseop's beginning to lose himself.
(with Jaeseop's aid, of course)
Kiseop doesn't expect Jaeseop to dig the blade in and out of belly button, as if weaving thread over and under thread. Pain is amplified with how pressure is inversely proportional to area in contact and he breaks into the most breathtaking smile.
Jaeseop finds it beautifully repulsive.
He moves on to draw dashes over Kiseop's thighs and experimentally licks the blood, plushness against lips. Aching to watch the blood pulsate over soft thighs, he draws a little more indiscriminately and Kiseop chuckles darkly.
Obsessiveness can get a little contagious.
(especially with death)
Kiseop's bleeding so much he's barely conscious anymore, and suddenly Jaeseop listens out for muffled "thank yous", carving a valley in his chest that surrounds the heart out of flesh, blood already pooling.
Crimson over peachy skin over white sheets.
Just the way Kiseop has envisioned it.
When Kiseop is fully unconscious, Jaeseop stabs him in the heart and watches him die with a smile. Then slowly he crawls up the mattress, hovering over him and leaning in to press his lips against his.
He quietly slips away, losing another piece of his heart to (Kiseop).
"You died beautiful."
Soul gets torn away from body.