honeyed collarbones — lazarus. & brysen.
Aug 13, 2019 11:48:01 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Aug 13, 2019 11:48:01 GMT -5
{lazarus
Some days, Lazarus moved through the world as if it was a dream, as if he was meant to stir awake at any given moment and feel the warmth of budding dawn on his eyes, lips, and bones.
Colors became muddled and crushed together in the back of his eyelids, and faces bled into each other, as molten candle wax would, their features distorted like reflections across fretted water on a stony bed. It was like a frothing drink in his veins, except he’d been brutally sober for weeks, keeping his head as clear as crystal for the soirees and exhibitions ahead. As the games inched closer to its finale, the capitolites were abuzz with activity and drunk on anticipation, the streets bustling with stylists and escorts alike, with bets made so raucously and recklessly, with vendors selling souvenirs and memoirs. It was a parade of some sort, celebrating dead children’s legacy.
The thought sickened Lazarus in his belly but, as he always had, he drew on a cordial smile across his face – sculpted for a portrait that could be flawlessly stitched onto the headlines – and let his masked gaze dart around the room, searching for familiar faces, or ones that enticed him in the heart.
Lazarus examined less their faces, and more their supple, diversely-shaped bodies—and the beauty held within them, like the glow of skin showing through a lacy glove. The human body, to him, was a blank canvas for the wildest art, the freckles the stars, birthmarks the brightest galaxies. He loved to gaze at the way bones bent and unbent, how joints seamlessly connected one bone to another, the glorious dichotomy between flesh and bone. His mouth ached for the feel of a collarbone over it, the curled shape against soft, red lips. He could sit for hours staring at these magnificent bodies, like an artist lost in a museum: doe-eyes mesmerized by every painting they settle on.
But, half-way through studying a frame, Lazarus caught his own eyes and halted their prying, not because he’d grown tedious of it or embarrassed by it, but because another had demanded his gaze.
There, between dreamlike shapes and colors, it stood: a concrete shape, a substantial outline.
There was nothing dreamlike or vague about the body’s contours, all smooth yet all defined edges, a beautiful painting born out of bold, inked strokes.
Immediately, Lazarus found himself striding over to it, steps keen, eyes sharp. He felt the soft thrum of a distant orchestra in bones, and took advantage of the rising tempo to wind an arm around the male’s waist, and dip him towards the floor after a graceful spin. His body, dappled with light, twisted and writhed beautifully in his arms, and Lazarus felt his interest growing stronger and fierier. “Who dresses you?” he queried gently, letting their eyes meet, “whoever it is, fire them and let me be your new designer, please.”
Colors became muddled and crushed together in the back of his eyelids, and faces bled into each other, as molten candle wax would, their features distorted like reflections across fretted water on a stony bed. It was like a frothing drink in his veins, except he’d been brutally sober for weeks, keeping his head as clear as crystal for the soirees and exhibitions ahead. As the games inched closer to its finale, the capitolites were abuzz with activity and drunk on anticipation, the streets bustling with stylists and escorts alike, with bets made so raucously and recklessly, with vendors selling souvenirs and memoirs. It was a parade of some sort, celebrating dead children’s legacy.
The thought sickened Lazarus in his belly but, as he always had, he drew on a cordial smile across his face – sculpted for a portrait that could be flawlessly stitched onto the headlines – and let his masked gaze dart around the room, searching for familiar faces, or ones that enticed him in the heart.
Lazarus examined less their faces, and more their supple, diversely-shaped bodies—and the beauty held within them, like the glow of skin showing through a lacy glove. The human body, to him, was a blank canvas for the wildest art, the freckles the stars, birthmarks the brightest galaxies. He loved to gaze at the way bones bent and unbent, how joints seamlessly connected one bone to another, the glorious dichotomy between flesh and bone. His mouth ached for the feel of a collarbone over it, the curled shape against soft, red lips. He could sit for hours staring at these magnificent bodies, like an artist lost in a museum: doe-eyes mesmerized by every painting they settle on.
But, half-way through studying a frame, Lazarus caught his own eyes and halted their prying, not because he’d grown tedious of it or embarrassed by it, but because another had demanded his gaze.
There, between dreamlike shapes and colors, it stood: a concrete shape, a substantial outline.
There was nothing dreamlike or vague about the body’s contours, all smooth yet all defined edges, a beautiful painting born out of bold, inked strokes.
Immediately, Lazarus found himself striding over to it, steps keen, eyes sharp. He felt the soft thrum of a distant orchestra in bones, and took advantage of the rising tempo to wind an arm around the male’s waist, and dip him towards the floor after a graceful spin. His body, dappled with light, twisted and writhed beautifully in his arms, and Lazarus felt his interest growing stronger and fierier. “Who dresses you?” he queried gently, letting their eyes meet, “whoever it is, fire them and let me be your new designer, please.”
