[html] PROZACSnovember 5th. 
PROZACSSometimes the one-eyed wolf still felt crazy. It was probably something that never left, wasn't it? You never got over mental illness. It maybe went away for a bit. His mind was still a labyrinth, a universe of lies and memories and thoughts and strange castles built in the sky and in the ocean, in both at once. It was a hissing boiling pot of acid and saltwater, doorways leading up and down to chained-up rooms and locked places he tried not to visit anymore. Places his physical down had never stood in, his physical eyes eye had never looked upon. But god, they were real, at times in his life more real than anything else he'd ever felt, touched, seen. Then again, there was that one thing that had always been so real. So fabricated, so invented, so imagined, but so real.
PROZACSLayers of emotion defined the son of Rashmi; he had depth like few others. He was an ocean unto himself, and some parts of that ocean could drive him near insanity. The water never really went away, it was simply recycled, reused a million times until it all meshed together and he felt like he couldn't distinguish any one part of it from any other. It made him feel like his old self. Muddled. Angry. Alone. But the ocean was deep and the bottom of it, the very floor, was much undisturbed, left to its own machines. Few things made him dive down there; few things made him want to. He was there right now.
PROZACSSometimes he felt he was meant to be crazy. He was fighting a losing war, but he fought it anyway, because that was what Nirupama Tsunami did -- he fought. Like a tortured soldier, he screamed and thrashed. Like the monster in his head that he thought he had tamed long ago. The old graveyard in his head was alive again, and the ghostwatcher felt as if he was walking right into it. Why? Because Laruku was there. Laruku dwelled on the bottom of the ocean with the things he held closest to his heart. Tsunami's heart never really changed, it simply got bigger as he shoved more and more inside it; taking away was something he couldn't do. And it was real, that once upon a time had been so fucking real.
PROZACSThe futility of it made him laugh. Alas, he could wait no longer. Mischa was wriggling with glee.
PROZACSClouded Tears, like Storm, had once been called home, but it had never been as precious. The nostalgic gray bastard-child never forgot the sappy stuff, and the lady never let him forget that he didn't. But he was too fucking old for this bullshit. It was about time things changed, wasn't it? sunshine, lover, my little ray of golden light... He knew now that nothing would ever change on his own whimsy except for him, and what a fucking slog through acrid swampwater that was. What was he doing? why, dear, you're going to kill loverboy. The one with the beautiful red eyes. oh, you killed your first lover, baby, why not your second? He had made a promise, and come hell or high water, he did what he said. His was a man's word, no handshake or signature required. Oath-bound, he believed in honour. He believed. She smiled. shhh... Fuck.
PROZACSAnd there it was, the misty lands of the former Omega's pack. Former Altester, too. He felt like he'd done everything, and it made him grin a sadistic grin, the kind that rarely graced his face anymore. It went away fast. His mind was in a whirl and it almost hurt physically. Times like this, he forgot where the world was. Behind the creature that reared and shrieked and clashed against its breaking chains, Tsunami thought of Ire and of Phasma, and of the days, few and far between, when he and Laruku had been happy. Days that were gone, and still others he'd never get back. He sat down and, somehow, looked peaceful. Scars, torn-up eye the hybrid scum found you after that fight, didn't he? do you still love him? and all, and he still looked peaceful. The image belied the chaos on the insides of his skull. The sun was rising behind him. His shadow was the only thing that made him feel real.
PROZACSyou promised, sunshine. He had promised her nothing.
PROZACSscream some more for me.
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Ryoujoku did not care.
It was why he was free, above all things. It was why he could do what others would shy away from, even if they still nurtured that dark intent behind their skulls and aching hearts. Their stomachs would writhe and their jaws numb away, unable to bite because they had been raised better than that, because they had morals and honor and lives and goals and purpose for a thousand years because that was what living life was all about. He had none of that and missed it not because missing would be caring and he didn't have that either. It was why he existed at all, but debating that was a futile thing; the fact of the matter was that he was there and understanding or not understanding wouldn't change a thing. It never had.
The sunrise was not any more magnificient than the sunset, which in itself was not so magnicifient at all. Just the earth turning because it didn't have the courage to stop, just the clouds all converging towards the horizon because they didn't know how to look the other way -- the colors were filtered away in a black and red photograph and he gave nothing a second glance, just a wicked smile that had no place at all. His tattered and lanky form was like a broken and forgotten puppet, wandering haphazardly on its own two feet, awaken and arisen by supernatural forces to terrorize the poor old man that'd made him. Scars crisscrossed his chest and arms, sides and shoulders, but all had failed to cut him down. He was invincible in his own right because it wasn't his body anyway.
There was a scent in the air, something like winter -- the crisp air and the cool breeze, the frost in the distance and something intangible above all else. Maybe it was the sunshine. The lines at the edge of his smiles crept up the corners of his face, pressing up against the scar Gabriel had given him for being a whore. The Cheshire grin because they were all mad in there, as they always were, always would be. The asylum gates were at the fringes of 'Souls and those who escaped always came back, forfeiting whatever they had gained at the doorsteps. It was always the same and that was why absurdism was the true philosophy of everything.
Hey, baby. He leaned against a tree and whispered into the sunlight, Only you could break my word, hm? The demon laughed, wondering if he had ever really believed that the grey wolf would just stay away. And you've come to keep yours, I suspect. His grin spread until it hurt and even then, You should've been there, darlin'; he tasted so good. So good.
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cradle me in your crooked heart
It was strange what came to him then. The first thing, the first thing always, was nostalgia. That first time they had made love, beside an old piano in an old library, the taste of tears in his mouth and someone else's fur under his hands, and that wonderful warmth surrounding him. The smell of the hybrid, permeating the air like nothing else existed, nothing in the world. The way it felt to care while fucking someone -- was that why they called it making love instead? The way it felt to share something physical but still intangible and unspeakable, not because it was sacred or holy, or dirty and inappropriate, but because there just weren't any words. The English language wasn't vast or descriptive enough to explain that feeling, and everything else gentle and desperate (at the same time) that had followed in the eighteen months after that. And even if these words were invented, they would just be cheapened over time. Love had been cheapened over time. Almost worthless now, really. That nostalgia -- and fuck, it hurt, like a knife to the chest, left for a thousand years as a reminder of that same old once upon a time -- it went away when Tsunami found his eye resting on Laruku's. Those weren't Laruku's eyes. He had seen these once before, and then, too, he had felt the same.
The second thing that came to him was that this was less like that second time they had met, and more like the first time. That time he had taken his pregnant rape-victim sister -- the lovely Ophelia, the lady he'd once considered his best friend -- to Clouded Tears to see the lake. He had thought Ceres wouldn't mind and as it turned out, Ceres wasn't the issue. Instead of seeing the lake, he'd faced a pair of angry red eyes. And he had left that day with a torn-up ear and a little bit less blood, and an angry little sister. (Who, by the way, had still been pregnant.) God, how insecure he had been. Both of them; all three of them. This was more like that time, wasn't it? Funny how history repeated itself.
There was a moment of absolute calm, then. Tsunami felt it sink into his mind and soul as he looked up at the figure who was, all at once, so familiar and yet so strange. This wasn't his Laruku, and who knew if his Laruku would ever come back, and even if so, that Laruku still wasn't his, and never would be again. That era was over, and Tsunami felt too old in mind and experience to keep fighting for something that was so in vain. His logical mind and emotional side often strongly disagreed, and there was nothing he could do about that. listen. just listen... shh.
And then it was Hazel and Muse and Moxie. Hazel and Moxie, who had gotten along so well. Partners in crime -- or maybe crimefighting. And Muse, the lonely one, who had tagged along behind. The worried father, then two-eyed and happy about it, hadn't been able to do much as the bear closed his jaws around Hazel's neck. Her head came off like she were under a guillotine. And then Muse. All the damn blood. The horror and fear that had beset him then had been too much to take. His teeth and claws were his choice weapons, and all he had ended up with was a handful of new scars, a fucked up leg and a month or two in recovery. There was something about watching your children die. There was something about losing a child.
In the eye of the storm, he could see the tornado approaching. For the moment, the sturdy gray wolf didn't move; he remained sitting, looking up, aware and alert but relaxed. When it hit, that was when he would deal with it. Maybe he would die -- maybe he would become a murderer again. The way he saw it, the latter was more likely than the former. Tsunami wasn't about to die. He had made a promise to Phasma, the dark angel with the eyes that spoke silently to him of a place to hide, a place to call home. He had to go home. Because with God as his witness, Nirupama Tsunami kept his promises. Barely any of the hybrid's twisted words were absorbed into Tsunami's psyche. He didn't want to hear this, and so he didn't. When he finally spoke, it came out tinged with sadness. Is there anything of Laruku left in you? And just beyond the vision in his head, the furious storm raged, roared, screamed for release. It would destroy something that morning.
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He remember everything until that day but felt no depth of feelings for any of it. The question of whether they were separate people would never be answered. Maybe he was a demon possessing the poor soul of a stranger or maybe he really was the malicious intent that lurked in the deepest and most padlocked cell of the mind's dungeons. But the truth was never so simple and neither the consciousness or the subconsciousness was so straightforward. They were not hallways or doors at all, just globs of space, globs of feelings, of desires. Any tangible imagery was a lie. There was nothing there that anyone could ever see. Space, an ocean, the sky -- incomprehensible in all aspects.
Maybe the truth was that they weren't different people at all. Maybe they were. Ryoujoku did not know or care and Laruku had given up on trying, as he had given up on just about everything else. He did not fight anymore because there wasn't much to fight for. Too long he had been without his own self control and sanity that it just didn't matter now. And others' safety? All of those people he had hurt and would hurt again? It was all the reason in the world to die and that was all he could wish for. It was all he could wish for and hiding behind the pitiless grin somewhere, he prayed and hoped it would be the grey wolf that would end it all because no one deserved the closure more. And no one else he had hurt as much, except maybe himself.
The hybrid never stopped smiling. It was like a disease that held onto his torn-up face and glinting red eyes, killing him slowly. Maybe, he said, Maybe not. But will you find out if you kill me today? The monster had no intentions of dying. He enjoyed his life, his freedom, his beautiful lack of inhibitions. And he knew he walked a dangerous line with that freedom because sooner or later, someone would slit his throat in his sleep because of it, but all the same, if it came down to a fight, he would never hesitate to preserve himself.
Besides, what qualms did he have about killing his ex-lover? There would be no greater pleasure, he was certain. Or if I kill you? Tsunami had someone to go home to, the sad-faced woman whose son he had taken. And that was all the more reason to make sure that his pretty one-eyed face ended up another smeared corpse floating in the river. He laughed; dear Phasma would have another body to bury.
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cradle me in your crooked heart
This was a kind of parody, the worse kind of parody. This was a mockery of life and everything that was sacred -- touch and taste, companionship and friendship, love and hate, even. This was a mockery of the blood Tsunami had spilled in the past under the razor edge of the real Laruku's claws or teeth. It was a mockery of every single word they had ever shared. Good, bad and ugly. This was spitting in the face of Jesus Christ, this was committing adultery in God's house under his disapproving eyes, this was just plain disrespect. This was the most tasteless joke life and the great Earth Mother had ever thrown his way. oh, but it's not a joke, baby. The storm was approaching, and Tsunami felt thoroughly disgusted; he could almost taste the vomit in the back of his throat. Laruku was dead. He might as well have been dead. Vaguely, the one-eyed warrior-wolf hoped against hope that this... creature... this body thief, didn't have access to Laruku's memories. Everything they had ever shared, all those moments under the sky, hidden away together and trying to figure out another way to apologise, it was sacred, it was theirs, and only theirs.
you're dreamin', sunshine. suck it up and get to the fight.
This was the body of the motherfucker who had hurt Phasma. No regret, no remorse. he's just like malachi, isn't he? More laughter. This was the body of the motherfucker who had killed his son. and dear old daddy. Pitching himself forward, the battlescarred werewolf shoved himself roughly to his feet, that one eye, bright as the sun as burning with the same internal energy, staring down at the hybrid some ways away. He approached, arms hanging limply at his sides. just like salvaged -- and he's running a pack. he killed your baby boy and he's a menace to society, don't you think, sunshine? I'm sure at this point Laruku would want to die anyway, Tsunami replied with a voice that was neither angry nor calm -- it hovered somewhere between, a strained tone of voice that quivered with some unspoken emotion. And he believed it because Laruku had been a good person, and Tsunami believed that if he were still in there -- if any of him were still in existance after all -- that he would regret everything he'd likely done, from having his own kids to killing someone else's. Not that that made it alright. Kinda made it worse. Just fucked things up more, really. But his death would better the world. Tsunami knew he never would be able to look at Laruku the same again.
Time to say goodbye.
And as for me dying, he continued, musing a silent answer, as if his words had been a question. They kind of were. Dying seemed impossible. He had been in too many fights to count. He had been mauled by a bear, almost drowned, and torn apart from the inside-out by a Russian dominatrix, whip and chains and all. He had almost died too many times to lose to some... ex-lover? He hadn't lost to Malachi, the one-eyed wonder. His attack was as sudden as the blink of an eye, teeth and claws out, ready to deal out the pain Ire had received before death. Rip out his stomach and burn his insides to cleanse the stain of cannibalism, to give his son freedom in the afterlife. Perhaps he could have used a knife, but this walking mockery of all that was holy wasn't good enough for a fast death. He didn't go for the throat, not immediately. His hands reached for the shoulders, but were ready to grab onto any inch of flesh available and tear it apart before the motherfucker with his ex-lover's eyes had a chance to feel the pain.
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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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Short as hell. Fight scenes are hard/boring to drag out.
cradle me in your crooked heart
Experience had taught him his weaknesses. He was built like his father, the green-eyed monster who had given so many women so many reasons to want to die. His body was thicker and heavier than the hybrid's, or any full wolf's, even, lined with the sort of lean muscle a million years of evolution gave any predator. There was not an ounce of fat to drag him down. They were all athletes, really, and their game was the primal sport of survival. It had been played since the day life had begun. He was slower than your average wolf, built not for speed but endurance and brute strength.
Still, despite the chaos of battle, his mind was sharp and he was fully expecting the dodge. He did not move away from it, or try to avoid it; instead, he tilted himself forward a little, towards the red-eyed male, and reached out both arms to brace on his back. At the same time he jerked his left knee with as much power as he could upwards, towards Laruku's (is that still his name?) head. He felt the hybrid's hands grazing his stomach, and saw out of the corner of his good eye the teeth that were about to follow, and felt some satisfaction in knowing of the impending impact on the underside of the cinnamon alpha's jaw.
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Yeah, though I doubt that something this epic could really be short. x| Also, I am having a hard time deciding which header I should be putting on this table now.
It was the sky crashing down one last time. It was the only thing left to want and everything he had always hoped would never happen. There were so many things wrong with this. He was the voice in the back of his own mind now. He was the incessant screaming, the pitiful wails, the everything dying at the end of the day, the sunset, the last sunset.
There was a strangled growl at the impact and the hybrid continued to barrel into the grey wolf, throwing all of his weight against the other, even if it would never be enough to keep him down. Throw him off balance, at least, and his taloned hands clenched tightly to his stomach in a cruel imitation of an embrace. Just like old times, isn't it, baby? His jaw hurt, but it didn't matter. He opened them again and struck out once more.
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dude. I didn't even notice you had two headers. I am so observant. Also, look, this is longer!
cradle me in your crooked heart
There were so many things wrong with the world and Tsunami was sick of going over them again and again in his head. The philosopher would tell you there was no wrong; morals were a system created to control, to strap a leash on the conscious of the willing. Who were they to claim what was bad, what was good? Hell, he had no authority over shit like that. He was no God and he had known that always. Tsunami had always been too busy wallowing in the mud with the rest of society, indulging in his sins, one after the other, because that was why Jesus had died, right? Might as well not make his death in vain. The nostalgia was gone now, and all he was thinking about was the sickening realisation -- still sinking in, even now -- that the very same body he'd touched and caressed and held and wanted and fucked so many times (over and over) was the very same one that had devoured the flesh of his dead son. This, whatever this even fucking was anymore, was tainted like the ocean after an oil spill. Tainted with the touch of something evil. This was something the gray wolf hadn't felt since he had killed Malachi, the first and last man he had murdered.
He wanted this. And not just for Ire. For revenge. For closure. For himself.
He was a monster after all. He was his father, after all.
A fierce snarl escaped his throat as he heard the hybrid's words (that beautiful voice, now torn up with all the purity washed from it; this was the voice of a servant of Satan, of something that should be dead.) He could hear the blood as well as smell it. It was in his ears. It was in his eyes, and it was like he could see out of both of them again, it was like that one leg was like new, it was like he had the strength of a million furious angels seeking to rain down God's wrath on the non-believers. Adrenaline was a drug, and it pumped viciously through his veins. Just like old times. The sky was black and he felt no pain. His knee had hit its mark and his stomach was going to be scarred up a little more, wasn't it? More blood. He could even taste it, now.
Funny.
The left leg struck the hard earth behind him and he regained his balance after a moment. Swinging out both arms, Tsunami went to grab a hold of the hybrid's side and shove his own weight (every last ounce of it) against the other male with the intention of knocking him to the ground. The one-eyed werewolf was ready to fall with him, attempting to position himself so he would land on top (just like old times.) It'd be easy from there to tear apart the other's throat and let the blood stain the ground, just like he had done to his first lover.
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MMMMM...YUP. Totally have no idea which header to use, argahdgsh.
They had had their closure, but it would never be good enough. Whatever and however many sorries and goodbyes were placed between them, the door never stayed closed. Even when one of them finally died (before the sun finished rising), there would be no closure. Demons and memories would remain cemented in the layers of compacted rock and no amount of erosion could tear them away. They were constellations hanging in the black sky where nothing else could touch them; they were infinite. Nothing would ever change. At least, not too much. The only difference between any two slices of time was blood and regret. And regret.
They were all their fathers' sons and their mothers were too dead to mourn. But even Salvaged had his twinges of regret in the end; Arlo had died as crazy as he had always been. Vengence. Wasn't it funny how some things turned out?
His mind was an avalanche. It was a tornado, a hurricane, an earthquake, a thunderstorm, and a flood. It was a rockslide, a meteorite, a blizzard, and a tidal wave. A tsunami, a hundred feet high and a thousand across, screaming, crashing, drowning. Ryoujoku could feel the pressure in the back of his mind, building like the baking soda in a science project. The blood was the vinegar, the touch, the snarl, the heat, the crashing sunlight.
They wrestled and fell, one on top of the other, just like always, or maybe it was one on top of the other two. But it didn't matter too much the position because they would both have a clear shot for the throat. His claws slashed upwards to draw a deep line from the stomach to the base of the ribs. Reach through and grab his heart, why don't you? With his other hand, he tried to shove himself up from the ground, giving himself just enough momentum to bring his teeth to the throat.
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cradle me in your crooked heart
The different sections of Tsunami's brain worked like a machine he had no control over. He was wholly and entirely unaware of the raging storm going on in Laruku's brain because he was too absorbed in his own. That one part of his brain, the part that was normally working, it had been shut down; the lever had been pushed from the bright-green ON button to the angry red OFF, and some other part of the control center in his head had automatically activated. Mischa was screaming her encouragement like an ancient Roman watching a lion tear apart some hellbound Christian, or a gladiator slaughtering a fellow fighter because, well, that was his job, right? You had to do what you had to do. The world was coloured in shades of blood red and the only thought in his head was to finish this, to do as he had promised. The fucker had eaten his son and hurt Phasma, and Phasma was one of the most precious people in the world; for that he would die. In no way did he care if there was some of Laruku left in there. There was a certain art to separating your emotions from the call of duty. He had only just learned this.
Laruku was dead to him anyway. Their relationship was still a living thing, hibernating forever now in the back of his mind. But it still lived. Just like his love for those who had passed away or left him, just like his hatred for those who had done wrong. Tsunami was like a history book -- nothing ever really left him. The book merely got longer. And longer. New pages added every day. According to the book, as stated, Laruku had been dead to him for a long time. Might as well make it official.
If only he had seen this coming two years ago.
He felt the claws in his skin and saw the hybrid's teeth flashing before his eyes. He had landed hard with one arm to catch himself on the ground; the other was free and he raised it quickly to take the brunt of the other male's attack. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had someone's teeth in his arms. Shoving his arm forward, he used as much strength as he could muster to push the hybrid back against the ground. Malachi had been too drunk to do much more than fuck up the gray wolf's face. No loss. He'd never been too pretty anyway. But this, this was different, this was good. This was feeding the monster. Tsunami liked the pain as much as he liked dealing it out. Made him feel alive, it made the screaming in his head feel almost like home. That part of his brain that loved and hated and felt things so deeply, so strongly, it was as if it were long dead. This was the sadist in him taking control, the demon he'd inherited from his father -- funny how Laruku was able to bring the evil in him out better than most anyone else. Love and hate, it was a thin line, blurred in so many places.
Most of this blood was his. My my, that had to change, now didn't it? With his own rough hand Tsunami swiped at the red-eyed male's cheek and throat area, intending to bury his claws as deep as he possibly could in the other male's skin underneath that velvet fur. Maybe he'd tear out an eye in the process -- wouldn't that be fucking awesome. Meanwhile he was, of course, fighting to get his teeth in there as well, to that soft fleshy part of the neck that would simply spill forth with blood when torn apart. Like overripe fruit. The thought was kind of making him hungry.
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That was it. Love and hate. It's what everything boiled down to, even if there was no such thing as extremes. It was everything in his head, the black and white tidal waves that swirled together like yin and yang, koi fish in a whirlpool being sucked down into a nothing abyss. Ryoujoku loved everything Laruku hated and the reverse was certainly true. They were night and day. And Tsunami was the twilight inbetween. It was why he had to die; twilight separated them. Without it, one would surely encompass the other, consume it, destroy it. The last straw was a one-eyed ghost with poetic words that had been drowned out with snarls and blood.
He clamped down hard on the arm that was given to him; dug his teeth deep through the fur and flesh, deep down to the bone if he could reach it. Broken hearts and broken bones, baby. A thousand screams echoing through the empty valley -- it was, of course, a thousand feet deep, narrow and limiting. Once a river had flowed through, thick and heavy with life, but that was a long time ago. Now there was only dust and ghosts. And so much screaming. He didn't really know what was happening; he never did anymore, but there was something so wrong with everything he couldn't help but notice.
It was always an intangible feeling, indescribable and infinite like... no, there was no comparison, no analogy that was appropriate, no similes or metaphors that could begin to explain anything. They had always transcended words, but this time, it transcended touch and understanding; it was beyond feelings. It was the most unfathomable depth of mind and soul, a black hole and the parallel universe after that. There were so many things wrong with this. He could see dandelions and dragonflies, sunshine, moonshine, and fireflies. Flashes of light that didn't make sense. Nothing ever made sense.
Ryoujoku snarled viciously when the fingers bruised his neck and face and only released his death grip on the arm when the claws touched down. He slashed his teeth sideways to cut into the hand that sinned and drew his own claws upward again, cutting up the grey wolf's stomach. Tear everything apart. Tear everything apart. Cry and mourn the loss. Tear everything apart.
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My internet is a sadist and wants to see me suffer. And this post is a piece of shit. sorry. D:
cradle me in your crooked heart
Quite the contrary -- Tsunami thought there was absolutely nothing wrong with this. In many ways, this was right. Perfect. Love was about finding someone you could love and respect; sex was about the carnal and deeply instinctive need to control or be controlled. And perhaps while their love life had been dysfunctional, the sex had always been pretty mindblowing. On his part anyway. They had spent that year and a half together trying to control each other, trying to act like they didn't care. They had started out their relationship by drawing each other's blood. They had wallowed in the mud together; they knew more of each other's sins and perhaps understood each other more intrinsically than anyone else ever would. They had seen each other's dark sides and they had still gone back for more. Up until now, everything they had done was forgiveable. Everything, until now. By killing his ex-lover's son, Laruku had moved whatever they had into enemy territory and now it was stranded there. Tsunami wouldn't pretend they had been perfect, or that he had never made any mistakes. He'd made many.
Nothing like this.
Sure, it was an alter-ego. Technically, that was what Mischa was, only difference being she'd never taken control and didn't seem to have any interest in doing so. Just pissing him off seemed enough for her. This was obviously something entirely different, and the gray wolf had no idea how to fully absorb it -- so he would do what made the most sense to him and eliminate the threat. And that threatwas this scrawny scarred-up hybrid who was, somewhere deep in his brain, somewhere in the fucked-up wiring in his mind, capable of eating young children. Essentially, the crimes the hybrid (his body, at least) had shown himself to be capable of negated any other wrongs involved in the scenario. Didn't matter what they'd shared. What he was doing here was for the good of everyone.
Laruku was distracted with the one-eyed ghost's attempt to claw off the side of his face. Good. The blood felt nice on his fingers. Warm, wet, sticky; ha, kind of like some other things he could think of. It was all he could smell, the halls in his brain were flooded with blood, and his Mistress laughed and splashed in it like a child. The wounds on his stomach would hurt, but they weren't fatal. And by turning his head he left his neck open, wide open. In one swift move, the one-eyed loner hoisted himself up on one leg, arching his back away from the hybrid beneath him, and jabbed his other leg in quickly and sharply, aiming for Laruku's stomach. At the same time, he swung his toothy jaw down as hard and fast as he could at the other male's exposed neck. Blood on his hands, blood on the ground: he could practically taste it.
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Your Internet IS sadistic. D: I suffered tooooo. Your posts never suck; we've been through this. x3
It was the only thing he had left to want. The empty silence that lay just beyond the field where the tall, black trees acted as a gate to the everything else he could have only guessed at before -- it was death and it was the only sort of peace he could wish for. He deserved it. He had deserved it from more than a year ago when the very first wicked thing had died by his teeth and maybe it had been then that he had first started crumbling under the weight of his world crashing down on him because it certainly wasn't anyone else's world. There was nothing and no one else to blame; everything was contained within himself and that spiraling vortex that was just about to stop, just about to finally pull him under and drown him in the crushing, black sea.
He had experienced near-deaths before, but maybe this was the closest he had ever gotten. Had there ever been so much blood? Was it even his? Did it even matter? Ryoujoku could be labeled an existentialist -- he derived his own purpose and meaning, even if it was half-assed and haphazard. Death was not something he sought or feared and even the pride he held was pretentious at best. Did he really care if he died? And did he really care if it was by the grey wolf with the brilliant yellow eyes? Struggling until the very end was a principle he humored at best, but he didn't suppose it really mattered. In the aftermath, no one would really remember at all.
It was a peculiar thing, death, dying, or almost dying. His body was numbing down with the pain and destruction and his mind was too. Breaking down, breaking down. Maybe he could have snapped his head back in time to counter the blur of white fangs, but he didn't try this time. Laruku could feel the teeth at his throat, reaching through all the layers of tawny coyote fur taken from his psychotic father. Wasn't it only right for it to end this way? He wasn't aware that he could suddenly feel all of the gashes and holes in his body with excruciating clarity; he wasn't aware that the demon had sunken again into the recesses of his mind where it cackled and crowed about the end of the world.
All he could see was a tiny and furious sun glowing in his face and the even more brilliant sunrise exploding in the sky behind them. Evil was always vanquished at dawn. It was only fitting. It was true -- there was nothing wrong at all. This was perfect. This was absolutely perfect. And he closed his eyes.
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