11-03-2007, 07:33 PM
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He did have them. Every breath and every tear, every word of the hushed whos and whys, every secret and every lie. He had every glance and frown, every sentence that had stopped midway because they hadn't known what to say. He had the heaven and the stars, the sea and the sky, the dirt and the mud, sunshine in his pockets from the dandelion fields. He had them because they were his, just as much as anything else. But his were wilted flowers and oil-spilled oceans filled with dying dreams and woeful sins, his were ashes and embers, crumbling in the darkness and hissing in the acid. His were the memories that had no meaning and were just bare bones that he had ground up to smear all over the wretched earth. He made the sacred poison.
His smile was as wide as it could go, but it stretched on still in his head when the grey wolf finally got to his pretty little feet. And it was funny when he could still feel his black, black heart flutter with delightful anticipation. Except there was nothing pure about this feeling; maybe somewhere in the back of his mind and the pit of his ventricles there was a sad and mournful love and devotion, but his-- he wanted nothing more than to crush through the other's throat, tear his heart out from between his ribs and fuck his beautiful corpse until it bled from the inside out. Delicious.
Laruku did want to die. It had been his wish for more than a year, perhaps since the very day he had walked the other way and left the wolf before him now standing in the snow. And he had thought about it and he had tried and he had almost pleaded that others take it away from him but none had complied. And so he had lived and lived still, cowering in the back of his own head waiting quietly for when everything would end because he had given up, because he could do nothing himself and had no power on his own, because he had been reduced to nothing more than a tennet in a body that had once been his own (it's still yours, darlin').
Ryoujoku still did not care. And he did not intend to die either. He had been in just as many fights, only losing once, in a distant memory that would easily change if it would only happen again. And there was the first snarling sneer with no break in his cruel amusement; Tsunami was fast, he knew it, but he had always been faster, smaller, leaner. His ex-lover's claws grazed his shoulder where Karloff had cut into him a year ago and he stepped sideways, diving lower, jaws wide and aimed for the grey wolf's stomach with his hands reaching to hold him for the brief moment it would take to tear something out.
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He did have them. Every breath and every tear, every word of the hushed whos and whys, every secret and every lie. He had every glance and frown, every sentence that had stopped midway because they hadn't known what to say. He had the heaven and the stars, the sea and the sky, the dirt and the mud, sunshine in his pockets from the dandelion fields. He had them because they were his, just as much as anything else. But his were wilted flowers and oil-spilled oceans filled with dying dreams and woeful sins, his were ashes and embers, crumbling in the darkness and hissing in the acid. His were the memories that had no meaning and were just bare bones that he had ground up to smear all over the wretched earth. He made the sacred poison.
His smile was as wide as it could go, but it stretched on still in his head when the grey wolf finally got to his pretty little feet. And it was funny when he could still feel his black, black heart flutter with delightful anticipation. Except there was nothing pure about this feeling; maybe somewhere in the back of his mind and the pit of his ventricles there was a sad and mournful love and devotion, but his-- he wanted nothing more than to crush through the other's throat, tear his heart out from between his ribs and fuck his beautiful corpse until it bled from the inside out. Delicious.
Laruku did want to die. It had been his wish for more than a year, perhaps since the very day he had walked the other way and left the wolf before him now standing in the snow. And he had thought about it and he had tried and he had almost pleaded that others take it away from him but none had complied. And so he had lived and lived still, cowering in the back of his own head waiting quietly for when everything would end because he had given up, because he could do nothing himself and had no power on his own, because he had been reduced to nothing more than a tennet in a body that had once been his own (it's still yours, darlin').
Ryoujoku still did not care. And he did not intend to die either. He had been in just as many fights, only losing once, in a distant memory that would easily change if it would only happen again. And there was the first snarling sneer with no break in his cruel amusement; Tsunami was fast, he knew it, but he had always been faster, smaller, leaner. His ex-lover's claws grazed his shoulder where Karloff had cut into him a year ago and he stepped sideways, diving lower, jaws wide and aimed for the grey wolf's stomach with his hands reaching to hold him for the brief moment it would take to tear something out.