(c) Give me my wings (M-MA)

Give me my wings. wrote:
You don’t know why you’re at the party. You haven’t slept in three days, and the room is spinning and pulsing and you thing that this might just be the beginning of insanity. He’s dancing – twisting and turning and you’re not sure if it’s sweat pouring down his face or tears. Or maybe both? And you’re exhausted and sick and don’t know how you ended up here, but you did, just another part of the nauseating thump of bass and the drum that might just be your own racing pulse.

And he’s drawing you in – to the lights and the sweat and the pulsing vortex of bodies, and you – you let him. And quick as his hips are hard against yours to the music, you’re gone, thrust sideways, looking up just in time to catch a glimpse of an almost maniacal grin. He has pretty eyes – prettyprettypretty, cold like fucking ice, and what’s that in his hand? He has pretty hands, too… his fingers are long and elegant, like spiders. And you don’t like spiders, because your little sister used to keep a tarantula, and when those spidery fingers graze your face, you almost shudder – almost, because you’re really too mesmerized to move.

And those hands are holding something – thin and sharp and sparkly, but you haven’t slept in two long and you haven’t eaten in longer and it dances and blurs before your eyes. He holds it out to you, laughing when you give a quick, dizzy shake of your head, and grinds his hips into you. Then, he leans forward, and lets his teeth sink into your neck as the point slips beneath his skin, barely sparing a glance for his arm – barely needing to. Pleasure by proxy? he mutters, lips against your cheek. You can’t think; can’t speak; moan, gently, as his fingers press against your lips. And you don’t know what he’s feeding you – but you take it. You swallow, and you take his hand – and together, you run.

And you’re gone – from the lights and the sweat and the blood and the heartbeat and the rush of your fucking pulse in your ears. His eyes are black in the moonlight, dilated from the drugs, and its like looking into the never ending night of the sky. You laugh and you scream, spinning in circles, and he giggles, collapsing onto the cool grass to watch the stars dance alongside you.

You ask him if you can make his body into an artwork. He laughs, long and hard, and he nods. The pain of the razor is sharp and biting, but all you can do is giggle. You ask him what his name is. Angel, he tells you, and you add two haphazard gashes to the weeping cut. A, for angel, you tell him. He bends and kisses your wrist, and you think he looks beautiful with your blood staining his lips. He pulls his shirt off, then, and picks the razor off the ground, pressing it into the palm of your hand.
I’ll help you fly, he whispers, turning his back towards you, if you help me.