#kill.oc

An excerpt from “Sibling Rivalry” (working title). These dailies are unedited and do not represent the final product.

What face is he making? Does it look natural? The world pops and crackles with static, everything a blur under the fuzz of noise.  “Well, it was good to see you, Junta,” Mirac says politely, and calmly continues on his way. He doesn’t change routes, because why should he? What power does Junta have over him that would prevent him from walking past? Nothing. He’s proving it right now.  Junta’s eyes burn like a spotlight on his skin as he walks. (He can’t stand for Junta of all people to see him like this.) “Dude, what’s wrong with you?”  There’s a note of something in the question that stops Mirac dead in his tracks. Like digging a needle into an exposed wire, something sparks harshly in his chest and he turns on his heel. He feels how bright his smile is from the pull of his own skin, the moon and stars compared to the dead depth of his eyes.  “What do you mean?” he asks, with a frenetic edge to the easy tone like a knife in a sleeve. He sees Junta’s face now, the slight frown, the furrowed brow—the caution. It’s laughable. It’s a fucking joke.  “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Try two, Mirac thinks, but even the giddiness of sleep deprivation drowns under the exhaustion, leaving only fits and starts of the most frenzied of his feelings to claw its way up for air. “I don’t see why that’s any of your concern.” That’s the kind of sentiment he reserved for his brother, after all.

An excerpt from "Corsetry" (working title). These dailies are unedited and do not represent the final product.

“<Just what’s so appealing about this?>” Minkyu asks dryly in Korean, skin raising gooseflesh as the cold boning of the corset presses up against his front. “<Sure in the 17th century, but now it’s just like. Those creepy Meitu filters.>” Flamel doesn’t speak as they close the corset clasp by clasp, but even without turning his head, Minkyu can feel the smile radiating off them. Annoying. He tilts his head back, trying to rest it against his lover’s shoulder. “<And really, a western look? I knew you were a shill, dear, but let’s have a little pride—>” He startles at the sudden seize of the corset as Flamel yanks the strings. His waist tucks, molding to the shape his lover has chosen for him, and fuck, from that perspective maybe this is kind of hot. Turns out it isn’t like that scene in The Handmaiden, a foot to the back and dramatic drawstrings—instead, Flamel makes it sensual, making each tug almost cloying, all without a word.  As the corset draws from snug to actually tight, Minkyu gasps. He feels his diaphragm lift, straining against the tension of the boning. Suddenly, Flamel’s voice comes from too close to his ear, ghosting against the shell of it.  “<Breathe out>.” Shivering, Minkyu does. Flamel times their pull to his exhale and the corset ratchets even tighter like a vise and doesn’t loosen. Fuck. “<Excuse me~ Flamel-ssi~>” he starts, trying to squirm, and his heart skips a beat to find he can’t—the corset’s structure too rigid for his spine. When he tries to draw breath, it feels shallow, sitting too high in his chest. He feels his cheeks color with warmth, knows Flamel must sense it too. “<Isn’t this a little extreme~?>.”  “<Not at all~>” Flamel replies, mellifluous, tone sweet as honey—the poisonous kind, the one made of plants that can kill a man. As the laces pull tighter still, he feels both of their hands roam over the front of his corset, sliding up to wrap menacingly around his throat. Out the corner of his eye, his heart drops in dread as Flamel places a pair of towering heels onto the table with a tentacle. “<We’re just getting started, darling~ ♡>”