Work Text:
Lighting from above paints the gallery in bright hues of white and yellow. The room, despite the array of gruesome “artistic” collections, is pristinely white aside from a certain apprentice's current workstation. All is silent except for the wet slaps of flesh and blood and the almost rhythmic snaps of bones in his slender fingers. Some minimal sounds emerge from his mouth as well. Occasional huffs of frustrations when ingredients don’t properly snap into place and the eventual relieved sighs. He’s been working meticulously on the same exact piece for hours as everything must be perfect. Perfect for him.
It’s unusual for a Maestro to be so keenly interested in the artstyle of other schools but that was the least “concerning” of his oddities. Yi Sang has heard of those who would sacrifice parts of their bodies to pursue the beauty of art, but never to the extent of their entire form. All that was left was a pretty face that looked sculpted itself, silky looking hair, and a single eye that looked like a shining jewel. Nevertheless, the end result was a spectacular blade that must be at least twice Yi Sang’s height.
Blinded by his fascination, he politely asked the Maestro named Hong Lu for his permission to stroke it. To his astonishment, he answered with almost child-like laughter.
“Of course~”
His dark eyes lit up as he caressed the rough grooves of exposed muscle and nerves. A gentle stroke for the smooth flat bones. Another for the razor sharp jagged tips. His mouth opened in awe as it seemed to pulse with still beating life under his fingertips. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. The desire for the flesh of this beautiful man to have a reaction towards a mere pupil such as him.
“That’s enough,” Hong Lu said as he gently dragged it out of Yi Sang’s palms.
The Maestro’s voice was soft and yet Yi Sang practically leaped away as though he had been scalded by his words. He heard laughter in the Maestro’s voice once more and hesitantly looked up into his face.
“I invited you here to show me an example of the pointillist’s most recent work. There will be more time for that later.”
The Maestro offered no support other than pointing him in the right direction for fine ingredients. Yi Sang doesn’t know why he was specifically chosen, but he would be a fool to reject such an occasion. Even now, the sting of green tinted stares from the others brings an eerie smile to his face.
A new sound erupts from the gallery. The distinct clack of pointed heels on the floor. To an amature, it would be tempting to rush the last minute adjustments, but Yi Sang knows better. Artwork cannot be rushed. But still a sense of anxiety tugs at his nerves. Something he hasn’t felt since the early days of being under the Ring’s thumb.
The Maestro greets him with a smile that mimics a sense of warmth. When he bends his towering figure into a polite bow, Yi Sang rushes to return it in a manner that lacks the same finesse.
“Now..turn around. Let’s examine the fine details of your work together.”
Without a moment's delay, he whips around to face his painting with a prideful smile. An incoherent mess of blood and other fluids and bone bits dotted onto a white canvas to the untrained eyes, but the mark of pointillist nonetheless. From behind, the Maestro draws near. He’s eventually so close that Yi Sang can hear the mechanical clicks of his augmented breaths. His heavy braid is draped over one of Yi Sang’s shoulders and his large metal claws almost cover up the entire expansion of his shoulders. The Maestro keeps quiet in his observations, only occasionally stretching his neck to get a closer look. Loose strands of hair tickle the side of his face. By now, the back of his head is sandwiched against whatever remains inside his inorganic chest.
“Good work,” the Maestro mutters at last into his reddening ear.
Mostly cold and unfeeling were the words he spoke. Much like the blood stained metallic hand that now rests on the crook of his neck. Still the apprentice must bite down on his lip like a gluttonous dog with its bone for he sensed a pathetic noise clawing its way out of his throat. He feels the prick of one of his nails dragging agonizingly slowly across a pulsating vein in his neck. More pressure is applied to his already swollen lip. Not only does his touch make his skin erupt in a flurry of goosebumps, the praise feels like a kiss planted on his heated skin.
“I humbly appreciate those words.” Yi Sang quietly says, fearing unwanted sounds would escape from his mouth.
The nail digs a little deeper, but someone manages not to break the skin. A desperate inner voice screams at him to beg the Maestro to pierce his flesh, but he remains calm and collected. On the outside at least.
“Hmm, do explain the process to me". Silence and then Yi Sang's head is tipped upward by a firm grip on the hinges of his jaw. The Maestro's lips are curved into a smile. "Tell me about the passion that dictates the direction of your strokes….”
A gasp gets caught in Yi Sang’s throat as his vision gets lost in the depth of the man's missing eye. For a Maestro to lend their brilliant ears to the technique of a student…he can already picture the darkening expressions of the other apprentices once he gloats about this.
“But of course.”
The Maestro is mostly silent as Yi Sang explains the process, failing to keep the excitement out of his voice. But he doesn’t mind his sudden giddiness. He lets out an occasional noise of interest and fascination. When he asks for clarification, Yi Sang trips over his words to feed his curiosity. Every hum from the Maestro’s metal cylinder of a throat goes straight to his groin. It doesn’t take long before he must shift his legs together as discreetly as possible.
Once his speech dies down, he hopes that the Maestro would praise him again. Or even berate him for an inadequate response. Anything to have the smooth voice float in his ears again. He’s soon rewarded for his efforts.
“In truth, it’s difficult for me to forge interest in the end result. The applause of a certain audience of mine roars the loudest during the actual process. Yes…they truly admire the squelch of blood, the tears of flesh, and the last remaining light vanishing from their eyes.”
Yi Sang hasn’t a single clue who this “audience" is,” but he couldn’t agree more.
“Your words were like poetry to me..." The golden tip of the Maestro's thumb moves across Yi Sang's bottom lip. It's light and delicate like a single brushstroke. Yi Sang's tongue darts out to lick at his lip for a subtle taste of the man. "It's a shame I wasn’t around to witness its birth myself.”
Another compliment. More stirring interest in his groin. Perhaps the Maestro could sense his bones turning into jelly as the force of his grip intensifies, keeping him caged like a bird against his chest.
“The process,” the Maestro begins in an airy tone. “The beginning step when the ingredient practically glows with a beautiful shade of red. Similar to this…”
He suddenly feels those claws surround the bones of hips. Yi Sang’s own hands fly to his mouth to mask an embarrassing whimper. It takes but a few strokes of the joints to have him nearly salivating. For his knees to shake from weakness.
“Out of fear,” he continues, leaning into the crook of Yi Sang’s neck. “But you don’t fear me even if you display that same desirable color, right?”
He hurriedly shakes his head. He lets his arms fall for further vulnerability. His body leans more into the solid mass looming over him. Yi Sang can feel the Maestro’s lips quiver into a smile before pulling his head back.
“Good. Next, I usually make a long incision on the chest. Like this -”
One hand remains on his hip, playing with it like a well-beloved toy. Another comes to the bare part of his chest which feels even more narrow in the shadow of his claw. A mock incision is made squarely in the middle. Another exhilarating drag of his nail. More groans and whimpers he must swallow. With just a bit more pressure, he could easily slice through that thin layer of skin.
“I especially like extracting the heart. The way it pulses within my grasps. The way it still clings to life even without its host. And the rhythm of yours…feels rather alluring. Fufu~that’s a new one. Speaking of rhythm…”
He doesn’t have time to thank the Maestro. If he could show proper appreciation instead of moaning and begging for his hand to claim more of his chest. Now he’s at Yi Sang’s ribcage, pressing down with enough force to feel the curve of every individual bone. Yi Sang squeezes his own fists till the point where his fingers feel numb.
“Have you ever strummed your fingers along a fresh ribcage? Hehe, the sound it makes is almost musical. And yours -" A strong push against his sides makes Yi Sang suck in a sharp breath. "Reminds me of windchimes."
“I-I cannot say that I have indulged in s-such a fantasy,” he stutters in response as the Maestro continues to trail his fingers up and down. “But I can relate to the euphoria of the pops of bones being crushed into fine powders.”
“Hmmm, that too has the potential to be an addictive sound. You are a pupil with very fine taste. As for the next step -”
Those claws slide toward his stomach, pushing down on the soft organs beneath. An uncomfortable feeling for most, but for Yi Sang it forces a low moan from his mouth. Yi Sang's shaking body lurches forward, but his balances quickly recovers even under the weight of the other man. The Maestro chuckles in response and rests his face upon Yi Sang's neck once more.
“A large cut is made in the middle of the stomach. I find myself more indifferent towards the intestines wiggling their way out of their host, but I know my dear audience would do a standing ovation if they still possessed the means to do so.”
His words would perplex Yi Sang if his brain still had the capacity to ponder on anything beyond the borders of lust. His claws cling onto him in an almost possessive fashion. Maybe he was looking for something to add onto his weapon? Oh to be an addition to a Maestro’s masterpiece…one could only dream. His breaths become more labored as those claws traverse lower and lower. Sweat tickles his face. Yi Sang’s hands tremble with temptation to guide him despite not needing his assistance. His blood sings praises of the Maestro’s benevolent name as he expresses his heartfelt approval of Yi Sang's innards.
Yes…keep going. Tell me more about the pleasure you derive from my insides..
Only to stop just short of the area that needed the most attention. The disappointment hits him like a brick thrown at full force, but he doesn’t voice it. Not even with a needy whine. All he does is let his shoulders deflate like popped balloons. As he’s given permission to turn around, he attempts to ward off any gloom from his face. But naturally, the Maestro is able to see past it.
“Hehe there’s no need to pout after a good session. I recall how you lovingly cradled my magnus opus within minutes of meeting me. I wouldn’t mind answering any questions you have about it…but in a more private area. I wouldn’t want to give my dear pupil a fright when she comes back.”
The tone of his voice lures him in like a powerful magnet. Yi Sang follows closely behind like the world’s happiest lapdog.