Like this, he was beautiful.
Hair pulled up, out of the way, only a few loose strands of blonde escaped the restraint in order to situate themselves into their rightful places on each side of a thin face, remaining free of harm by their own accord. Emerald peered through fine wire frames, the lustrous silver of the glasses gleaming sharply in the bright, industrial lighting of the laboratory. Deft digits, still protected by a thin layer of white latex left over from a recent experiment, skillfully worked their magic, pen balanced with little effort as it raced across the crisp sheets of paper, not a drop of ink spilled on the scientist's blank canvas. Every mark was meaningful, crucial to his latest idea, his most recent breakthrough… his next masterpiece. It was art, and its master never once looked away, never once allowed his concentration to break, lips drawn into a thin line as he worked.
Like this, he was beautiful.
Blonde tumbled across the dark leather of a familiar old couch, the usually harsh lights accentuating its glow as well as defining sharp, hollowed features lax in sleep. Even like this, lulled unwittingly into the secure embrace of repose, there was an obvious tension to his form; brows drawn together, a frown marring his features deeply, the dark circles that seemed so permanently ingrained beneath his eyes even more pronounced, speaking of years of silent anxieties. He looked pale beneath the glare of the lights, almost alarmingly so, and yet the halo of soft blonde surrounding his visage gave such a contrast that he seemed almost ethereal. The only sound which pervaded the room as he rested was the gentle rustle of parchment, the steady rise and fall of an empty chest disturbing the pages of his chosen tome.
Like this, he was beautiful.
Emerald alight with an ironically fiery passion, expression serious and intense, mouth drawn into a contemplative frown as he nodded along with the slate-haired teen's words, clearly impatient and yet remaining respectfully quiet. That is, before pale hands were moving again, gesturing as he spoke in turn, overly-large leather sleeves accentuating each movement, the leather cloak he usually adorned contrasting wonderfully with pallid skin. As he defended his point, thin lips twitched into an almost unconscious grin, the scientist obviously very impassioned with whatever it was he spoke of, facts and theories tossed back and forth between the two at such a speed it was almost mind-boggling. And then, seemingly completely from nowhere to any who happened to be present, the Academic looked away, his enthusiasm wearing away as the other delivered a solid rebuttal, not exactly winning the debate, but definitely picking apart his opponent's argument. Disgruntled, the blonde gave a soft, "Tch.", the sound almost identical to the one so favored by pop culture — a fact that, had he been aware, would have surely made him loathe the word — though he pronounced it in a different manner, the word coming out as more of a "Tuh.", as if he didn't have the time to even waste effort on such a simple thing as a little 'c' in the dismissal of his adversary.
Like this, he was beautiful.
Nonexistent hatred clouded hazy emerald, a fresh wave of tears carving their way down the Academic's lacerated visage, their path disrupted as his twisted snarl twitched into a pained grimace. The deep, mesmerizing red of blood splattered against ravaged flesh complemented his tone just as well as the ebony of the cloak which had been torn and tattered, shredded to the point it barely hung onto its owner's slender, fragile frame, allowing a wonderful view of already darkening bruises. His struggle was sweet, but of little use; hands bound, ice held at bay by a simple little injection, he was helpless. Weak. So deliciously fragile. Absolutely stunning in his anguish… his hate… his glorified pain. Twisting, writhing, snarling, crying out, screaming….
Like this, he was beautiful.
Completely and utterly lost, keening, lusty eyes begging for more. Body arching, lips parting in a soft gasp, a cry, ecstatic, begging — "More, please, more…!" — head thrown back, voice cracking, whimpering, fingers scrabbling for purchase, nails carving down the flesh of his lover's back, moaning for it, hips moving in time with their rhythm — "…more, please, deeper, faster, fuck me harder, oh please, please, Mar–"
Simply…
…beautiful.