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LOCATIONS: the nethers, apocalypse, upper extremities, ko's funeral parlor. NOTES: crossing with the fey never really works out well for him, and he finds it out the hard way every time anyway. INSPIRATION: last night in soho β TAGS: #siwooselfpara #sentinel
written for my oc ko si-woo in IVORY CITY. 2022.
CONTENT WARNINGοΉ drugs, self-harm, homicide, arson. slight graphic mentions of torture and sex (?).
the neon flicker blue, red, blue, red.
blue, he sees, are the echoes of sleepless nights, far too excited rustling of sheets, being drunk in love. or, he supposes, what he thought is the idea of it. what he imagined the feeling of falling into someone's arms would've felt like.
red, he sees, turns out to be sprays of a bleeding heart, sun scorching his eyes behind rose-tinted glasses, far too gone to be saved after a great fall ending in a million broken pieces on the wet pavements of the nethers' dirtiest bowels.
on a night like this, the cracked signage posted outside his windows is definitely doing his head in.
ko siwoo grabs his leather jacket, shuts the turntable dismally, and closes the door of a sad man behind him. γ € γ € γ € γ € γ € gathering information is not that of a hefty task when the walls can talk, when windows have eyes, and doors hold tongues too eager to spill anything for the right price.
the electronic music bounces off Apocalypse's caverns; rhythmic pounding matches the itch in his throat. reminiscing the past had never done him good, even if it was the last thing he can be proud of having as a possession; although, siwoo never learned his lesson. now now, perhaps there is more than enough reasons why he cannot retain memories normally for long amounts of time.
call him a masochist for putting himself through hell and back for never giving up his penchant for wing dust, consuming it most of the time because he likes being on cloud nine with no worries, he likes the feeling of becoming anyone but himself.
through the years, siwoo finds out that it's a better option than having to feel everything and everyone around him all the time; thousands of voices, scents and taste stick to his skin as he ends up with thin lines all over his chest, his limbs and his wrists in the morning.
the aether trying to destroy him from inside out, attempting to rid his flesh and bones of heavy dreams and desires that are his and not his, that could be his or not his ββ the only downside of the wing dust are the lines blurring between reality and fantasy, but that doesn't really bother siwoo on terms of the great relief that the hallucinogens bring him.
travelling through countless bodies in the dance floor until he reaches the next door, ko siwoo leaves the room with his arms wrapped around another's waist, with shy laughter and innocence akin to the role of a newly arrived courtesan. γ € γ € γ € γ € γ € γ thinking about it, do you know what they say of your kind, darling? γ
fingertips trace sternum whilst his partner lie underneath him; his thighs enclosing on both sides. they drum against little bumps of the ivory under glittered skin, and his reach soon arrives around the pectorals and the anterior serratus.
γ the fey have to be one thing or another, γhe hums, while pressing the muscle fibers with grim wonder more than the usual admiration he holds for chancing upon exquisite things. γ because being so small is quite unfortunate for you only have one room for one feeling only at a time. γ
on the other hand, his dagger rests in closed palm to trail the line his fingertips left. sharp point tickling, testing, breaking the surface. the scream never reaches his ears, especially after a fractured larynx accidentally occurred for a foolish knee-jerk reaction.
earlier that night, the elite ordered him to be a good boy and just take it. so, why couldn't they take siwoo on one voice-cracking deepthroating?
γ i once wondered if that is the same for all of you; how that works out with such little body, little heart, little... cock. γ childish, flighty giggles escape his lips; and the undertaker begins his work. flicking a wrist to engage the aether bounding his latest βguestβ tighter, and so, two hands push the blade slowly and steadily into the space between the third and fourth ribs.
exhilaration of the kill drives him further, as he suddenly feels a surge in his walls; forgetting that prior escapades had the brute still nestled quite comfortably inside him. the shivers run his spine, head thrown back as he deeply inhales, and hands immediately grabbing the sheets nearby. manic laughter follows with a short exhale, and the taste of wing dust strong on his tongue. γ € γ € γ € γ € γ € blue and red continue to flash from a small dot in the distance.
a comedic blip in the wake of a raging, storm of a fire consuming an elite's palace while the raiders will come to nothing else but thick black smoke and perfectly ashen corpses by the end of it.
the undertaker pulls his cigarette and lighter out, flicking the latter for the second smoke he'd taken after the first flicker of flame attempts to lick his leather wear.
the rooftop of the parlor is the perfect viewing spot, his favorite after a long day or a restless night. siwoo hates the height, but loves how his legs dangle off the edge for a short period before the sensation completely sends him fucked over.
but not when he's on wing dust, no. and that's why he needs it.
γ oh, jetty. γ he puffs. γ turns out i still might haven't lost some of my interest in you, after all. γ