<span style='color:white'>[ooc.] they call him a sinner, they call him a killer</span> dyo 38th, 81381. private for thunderclaw. "heroine" isn't spelled incorrectly - it's actually a reference to what kurt cobain called smack. WARNING: IF YOU ARE A CHILD, MORMON, OR ARE... TOO YOUNG...? DO NOT READ THIS. PLEASE. WE DON'T WANT THOSE EYEBALLS OF YOURS GETTING SIZZLED. <span style='color:white'>[ic.] and they call him a whore</span> Breathe in. Meth opened his eyes in the shadows. In ancient times, people called the light in beasts eyes hellfire. Perhaps it was. In MethÂ’s glare, they gave the impression of being fully red. It was a visual illusion. Something that even he did not understand or control. Like a blind man, he had never really tried to understand why he was the way he was - only accepted it, and moved on. That was how Meth dealt with a lot of things. All of his past actions reflected in that idea, from his first exile from his home and the beginning of his use of LCD and heroine, to the first time he'd been out on the streets, alone, and had begun prostitution. From the choices he had committed to himself, such as the barcode on his shoulder or the barbell in his tongue. Meth was wearing what would probably be the most conservative clothes he'd ever be dressed in - black boots over skin-tight pants, and an equally tight, long-sleeved black top. Anticipation urged him to push away from the concrete building, but he stayed where he was in his casual slouch. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, pushing his hips forward, and his shirt rode up just slightly, baring the pale skin of his stomach. He knew the image he presented. It was deliberate. He was thin, his bones jutting from his hips through the tight pants he wore. His feline red eyes were too bright to be anywhere near normal - fever bright - and lined with kohl. 'Ethie hissed to the side, turning, fingering one of the numerous piercings jabbed in his ears. Almost tentatively, he ran his fingers through the long, tangerine-and-ink silk that was his hair. Even dressed as he was, his six foot two frame screamed "fuck me". He tucked a strand of his orange and black hair behind one ear and adjusted his glasses, his strange, blood-red eyes eagerly searching for someone he knew. No one here. It'd always been this way. Even when he was younger, people had sworn that he was a little lolita whore. He himself wasn't exactly sure why. He needed the sexual abuse of his clients. Maybe he was a closet masochist. This he understood. Needed it like he needed to understand all the shit going on in his life. He needed a therapist, but not the normal kind. He needed to fight, to turn the world against him. Abused through physical wounds, beaten and kicked until he bled and his body ached and he smelt only like sex and blood. Make his pain go away enough so that he could feel something more then this fucking apathy. It was like being dead. He kept looking for a pulse but he could never find one. Eventually he was beating at his wrist, but still nothing. Even when he cut it and saw his blood, it wasnÂ’t enough proof. He didnÂ’t feel alive. Maybe that was why he walked in a daze of constant sleepless nights. He was aware of the world around him, vibrantly so, but nothing mattered anymore. The cuts were thin and healed quickly. The scars were faint. Nothing to prove what he was doing. The vitality in his body, though present, was not as eager and springy as it had once been. Breathe out.
Pissed. That's the only word that could accurately describe the young pendragon's current mood. Not miscontent. Not angry. Not even furious. Just well and truly pissed. At every turn, there seemed to be someone more than willing and extremely capable of fucking him over. Always someone to kick him the balls and shove his face into the mud. Always someone to hurt, break and abuse him. Always someone around to mess with his mind, twist it until it almost snapped. Almost? Hell, the last time it broke, he had barely been able to mend it. Thud. Everything was wrong with Sojnyel Dletsaj's life. He had been broken and mended far too many times. His mind for so long; his body only recently. He wanted to rebel against the world, hurt it like it had hurt him. But he knew that was just bullshit. The pipe dream of a wannabe-homicidal idiot, the kind of fuckwit who just has to wear black and put twenty pounds of metal in their face. Still. So pissed. Thud. The biggest insult of all, however, was the root of his unfortunate state. There wasn't some grand conspiracy dedicated to turning the life of this student into shit; there wasn't a throng of bullies stomping him into the ground every day of the week; there wasn't even a certain somebody who didn't like him and told all of his friends to "stay away from that freak." There was just Turmoil. The heart and cause of all of Turmoil's troubles was himself. Whenever he had an opportunity, he couldn't help but spoil it. Whenever he had a shot at redemption, he chose damnation. And then there was that time when he got it into his head that a teacher telling him to go back inside since it was after curfew was a deranged rapist. All his own fault. So. Very. Pissed. Thud! Turmoil hit the tree trunk with all of his might. The blow struck crookedly, and the young arden's hand twisted at a very uncomfortable way, causing him to yell out with rage and pain. He clutched the damaged limb close to his body, tears forming in his mossy eyes. He looked like the distorted image of a child having its first encounter with a hot oven. Turmoil breathed spastically through tightly clenched teeth, trying to work through the pain. He barely noticed the sticky sensation of blood on his knuckles, which was being transferred to his bare chest as he stood there, half naked in the moonlight. This particular injury was just one in a row of recent ones. Turmoil's face was stitched up, as was several other parts of his anatomy. His right wing was rigidly fixed to his back by means of plaster. All in all, Turmoil's body was in a sorry state. A pretty accurate reflection of the way his mind felt at the moment. Somehow, he just couldn't stop being angry. Punching the tree had only hurt him and intensified the seething fury within him. That's when he noticed it. A flame, flickering in the distance. Mesmerizing, tantalizing; significant. Another Pendragon. ------------------------------------------------------------- Like a moth, Turmoil was drawn towards the flame. He moved towards it, pushed on by some malevolent instinct from the bottom of his primal soul. It was dancing in the distance and soon, the silhouette of its source became visible. A lithe form, dressed in skin-tight clothing -or perhaps naked? It was hard to tell at a distance- leaned against the wall. Thoughts began mulling themselves over in Turmoil's brain. A prostitute? <span style='color:red'>Or just another whore?</span> The young Pendragon's pace was somewhat mechanic as he walked ever closer towards that strangely alluring flame. Why was he doing that? Probably to set himself up for yet another monumental cock-up. But it didn't matter now. It never mattered 'til afterwards. He was vaguely aware of a growing unease in the back of his head as he sensed the direction his(?) thoughts where headed in. <span style='color:red'>So, what if they </span><span style='color:red'>are selling? Gonna buy? Gonna take? Gonna make them pay?</span>
The world was a dark shadow in which monsters walked and brave men lost their lives to madness. There was no need to hide the hatred in the air, the rage in poetry, or the sorrow in childbirth. Like the faces of Pompeii, they were all frozen in poses of terror while catastrophes rocked the world around them. But they were pathetic, really. Most of them had never seen a natural disaster worse then a thunderstorm or a flood. Even then, these were not epic. They were common and ordinary events that left some fatherless and others without a home. The self-reliable survived. The others didn’t. It was his parents that remained a shadow over his life. Shale more then Vare, who did not have enough time to wreck the havoc she had planned. When he had been a child, his mother was the nightmare. A beautiful angel who had sung to him, cursed him, and ruined him. As a teenager, it had been his father. A black-furred wrath with acid-green eyes and strong blows, who would have killed him as he had killed Maria (he no longer identified his mother as Vare, as that name was below him). Maybe that wasn't her real name, but he didn't care. She had still been his mother. If he had any idea of Freudian concepts, the psychologist he might have made the analysis he had wanted to kill his father in order to take his place with his mother. Not true. Maybe the difference between Meth and others was that he was clean. He had done the drugs, got through his teenage angst, and was now relatively straightedge. He used LCD still, every now and then. Like some brilliant spotlight, the change had been sudden and full of rapture. In getting clean, he had found the truth, or something close to it, and though he was far from enlightenment, he was still close enough to some sort of breaking point where the essential terms were understood. One day he would have a breakthrough, but not yet. There was still too much in between him and the future. But he believed he could see it. Maybe he could. One day, he might find himself right. He felt like crumbling his lungs, but he had nothing to smoke. He felt like drowning. He felt like he needed to stop thinking for once because it was going to make his head explode. The blonde exhaled, and sitting on the ground, leaned his elbows on his knees. Running a hand through his hair, he now thought of misery. Meth didn’t pray. He didn't believe in it. What he did, though, was talk. He spoke to a higher power, or whatever it was, sometimes. Spoke aloud to himself while he wandered barren lands, sometimes responding when no one else did. Meth’s head was all screwed up, like he was walking in smoke. And he was, occasionally. He had picked the habit up recently for his health, and while it was very rare, it was there. That way, when it came down to it, he would die like his father. Die scared and worked up, but he would die alone. Shale hadn’t because his sister was there. But Meth didn’t have anyone. All he had was this terrible idea that was strung up in his head and wrapped around his throat. That wasn’t even religion, really. It was an illusion he needed. Scanning the courtyard, he sighed a little as he studied one particular boy - a straggler, maybe, or a loner - from beneath his lashes. The blonde's mind fell gleefully into the gutter, fantasizing about stripping off those clothes to discover what lay beneath. He saw something of the other's frame, the tight, lean muscles. The traces of LCD in his system spurred him to imagine the feel of that firm body against his. Tight, hot, struggling just a little - he held back a groan, his heavily-lidded eyes lifting to the other's face. Meth's eyes narrowed until they were shards of ruby. A predatory smile curved his lips. What he didn't expect was the yelp that issued from the other's maw as he clutched his injured hand to his chest. In the waxen light, he could now see how one wing was plastered to his tattooed back, and a thin row of stitches in his face. The noise shocked him out of his daze, and his spine jerked and straightened upwards as he lifted himself up to stand. And then the other was coming towards him. <span style='color:orange'>"I – "</span> he stuttered. Stared. Gaped. The umbra-washed male was half-naked, and hyli hall - he was gorgeous. <span style='color:orange'>"Um. Are you okay? Your hand is bleeding."</span> He gestured to the crimson liquid now coagulating on the arden's fist. <span style='color:orange'>"You're attending Janardan, I assume. I'm in my last year – still working on shapeshifting and pyro and some sorcery." </span>He cocked his head at an oblique angle. <span style='color:orange'>"Do you want to go sit down? I could mend the flesh." </span>'Ethie unzipped the small, shoulder, thaga-leather bag at his side to seemingly get something out. Instead, a sanguine-tinted creature skittered out, jumped onto the arden's maned nape, and wrapped itself across his shoulders as it purred contentedly. It looked to be almost a pine marten with the long legs and graceful movement of a cat – but the limbs were scaly and taloned, and the tail was prehensile and whiplike, with a silky, chocolate-colored tuft at the end. Meth grinned as he petted the reddish male's head. <span style='color:orange'>"Sorry about that. This is Kitty – he's my… uh, magickal companion."</span> His metal-strewn and tattooed ears perked up, and he smiled softly.<span style='color:orange'> "There's a bench over by that tree, if you want to reconsider sitting down." </span>The 'dragon gestured towards a knotty, olive-leafed giant. <span style='color:orange'>"Oh. The name's Meth. Meth Seihandra." </span>
There's a beast in every man, and doubly so in every pendragon. Most keep their beasts locked up safe and secure, imprisoned by thick bars of iron or kept placid by regularly being let out to pasture. Such was not the case with Sojnyel Dletsaj. His beast was kept on a flimsy choke leash, constantly gnawing at its restraints. In the end, it all came down to the fact that if it held its breath and pulled for long enough, the leash would snap. The beast held its breath now, and pulled with all its might. Pulled its would-be master towards the only thing that would slake its primal urges. The other shape had moved into a sitting position at some point, but that was of little concern to the mishap predator that was -just barely- Sojnyel Dletsaj. All he could focus on was the shape by the wall, iluminated by a flickering flame, and the vague scent drifting towards him from it. Wait. That scent? It's male. <span style='color:red'>So what?</span> Yet again, annoying thoughts began buzzing in the already confused arden's head. Hadn't he been thinking something? Something that was somehow incompatible with the othe pendragon being of the same gender. The beast screamed out in frustration as its leash was yanked from the other end by a conscious mind trying to figure things out for itself. Why does it matter? <span style='color:red'>It doesn't.</span> But what if it does? Why am I..? Why is..? <span style='color:red'>It doesn't matter. There's two options: fuck him, or fuck him up. Same as a woman.</span> What? No! I don't want... What the hell..? Turmoil froze, standing a few feet away from the other pendragon. He just stood there for a moment, looking at a piece of ground just in front of him. The beast was whimpering, running around in circles, confused and agitated. Why does it matter? <span style='color:orange'>"I – Um. Are you okay? Your hand is bleeding."</span> Turmoil's head jerked up abruptly, putting itself in a position to once again view the peculiarly confusing figure. It was speaking to him. The beast whimpered loudly, pacing to and from. That thing had only two potential purposes, and neither of them where facilitated by talking. It was wrong. His hand were bleeding. The jet-coloured dragon held his hands out, palms down, careful to spread his knuckles out to get a better view. The crimson liquid was already clotting, getting stuck in his fur. Turmoil had a vague sense that there was some on his chest as well. He stood like that for a while, just watching his own hand, while the other kept speakinging. A sudden burst of movement brought his attention back to the other arden. Something had come out his bag. It looked like some kind of mutated ferret, or perhaps an incredibly ugly snake. The next few things the creature -the pendragon, not the other one- said actually registered with Turmoil. Apparently, it was called Meth. Wasn't that some kind of drug? Turmoil's mind wasn't quite up to pace. The beast was resting, but its rest was uneasy, and its master still wary. "Of course my hands are bleeding," he tried. "I punched a tree. Over and over again. It... It seemed... It seemed like a good idea at the time." No, that wasn't right. Turmoil breathed in, then out again. New try. "I have a compan... pet, too. Her name is Whisper. She... She likes..." Turmoil took another deep breath. He brought his left hand up over his eyes, and gently placed his hand over his closed eyes. As he did, the pendragon emitted a soft huhing sound, as if trying to tuck himself in. When he opened his eyes again, he appeared more focused. Not calmer, but more focused. "No, I'm sorry. None of that matters. I'm Turmoil. Pleased. Pleased to..." he trailed off. He gave the other a flickering, cautious galnce. Why does it matter? "Yes, I... I would like to sit down with... Yes, sit down." Slowly, almost mechanically, Turmoil started to move towards the indicated spot. Dreary thoughts kept his mind occupied, causing him to seem far away. As he sat down on the bench, he was careful to fit his plastered wing over the back rest.
OUTOFCHARACTER. red is kitty's telepathy. INCHARACTER. Meth’s veins ran dark with bad blood. Whips and chains. Cruel words. Shouts of the one true god. But he had to obey when his father had kicked him out of the house after finding him kissing another boy. Something in him was driven. So he had gone, with the switchblade in his hand, gone from the slums to the real city. There was no fear anymore. ‘Ethie didn't believe in that. He didn't believe in crying when he was getting fucked. He believed in things he could not explain. Azathoth. Cthulhu. Nyarlathotep. Mother, Father, Son. No holy spirit. Just one fucked-up family. He sat on the bench and closed his eyes. He was eight again. His mother’s skeleton. The foxes and raccoons had gotten it. Bones were gone. The shattered skull remained. He felt nothing. When he knelt down and touched the skull, the images came for the first time. A rape by the dark man with the green eyes. Terror. Fear. Father. Bhim, promising salvation for the soul of her son. Draze, behind her, his shadow Cthulhu, dark forms with green eyes. A gun. The bullet passing through her skull - his skull now, splitting his mind. He inhaled sharply, silently, curled his right hand. His eyes shot open. Oh, dear mother. Poor, poor Serze. Raped by his father, consumed in madness. They had both been mad. They had both cursed him. And in this moment, he hated them. God, he hated them. And it felt like heaven. Everything around him was spiraling. Supernovas. Devils. Angels. His parents would be toted off by the madmen at the end of the world. They’d prayed. Believed in someone who could not save them. He turned to Turmoil. He acted painfully mature, so much so that the whore doubted whether others realized how young he was. In that gorgeous, lithe body was a control that made Meth's jaw ache. Almost intimidating, really. The arden grasped the male’s bloodied hand gently and without comment, turning it at an angle so he could see the wound. <span style='color:orange'>"Mhm," </span>Meth began, Kitty skittering from his shoulders and curling on the pavement, <span style='color:orange'>"It doesn’t seem too bad."</span> He removed an adhesive bandage and a tube of ointment from his bag, gingerly handling Turmy’s fist and smearing the gel on the broken flesh before putting on the bandage. <span style='color:orange'>“Better, hon?" </span>He smiled softly. <span style='color:red'>He seems like the kinky type.</span> <span style='color:orange'>Shut up.</span> <span style='color:red'>Ask him to fuck you.</span> <span style='color:orange'>Shut up. </span><span style='color:red'>You know you like that. You know you like being dominated, sweetie. Ask him. Think of how nice that would be. He could tie you to his bed, and –</span> <span style='color:orange'>Shut the fuck up!</span> He was only an inch or so taller than Turmoil, but his boots gave him an added advantage. He looked at the younger ‘dragon and ran a hand across the bench. <span style='color:orange'>“Are you from around here?" </span>he asked. In true dramatic fashion, Meth was gloriously, gorgeously draped over the long bench, which was fashioned with undulating curves. His two-toned hair cascaded off the edge, the bits of sequin-glitter within sparkling in the light. But it was the clothes that could make his client's breath hitch. He'd always found that most of his customers found being creatively dressed hotter than raw nudity, and the patchwork of dark, tight cloth and flesh gave the mind-bending illusion that Meth was both. He smiled.
Don't let it mess you up. Don't let it get to you. You are in control. You will not loose it. <span style='color:red'>Then again, how bad could it be?</span> The haze had lifted, and the beast's slumber was more peaceful now. But it dreamt, and its dream was uncomfortably close to Turmoil's reality. Turmoil raised his head and looked to his left side, towards the other one. Meth, he called himself. Sounded like the kind of attention-craving, angsty name the member of some "dark" subculture would ascribe to themselves, and Meth certainly looked the part. Then again, Turmoil was more or less exactly the same in that regard, with the exception that looked less, and acted more, like the stereotype. Why isn't he looking at me? Turmoil found himself wondering. Just after finishing the thought, he realized that it was an odd question to ask, and soon after that, that he only cared marginally. It was a liberating experience to find another person more intiguing than one's own thoughts and delusions. Meth's eyes opened. They where quite extraordinairy. Red like fire, and with a similar glow. They weren't quite natural, but Sojnyel had never found the natural world particularly intriguing. Look at me. And he did. Those eyes where turned towards at the younger arden. They gave Meth the appearance of a demon - by all acounts, the perfect image of a succubus. This soothed Turmoil in a strange fashion. He had always found that demons where more easily dealt with than people. The black-and-white male was caught by surprise as Meth reached out to grab his arm, and at first recoiled at his touch. He gave in quickly, however, and willingly surrendered the appendage. While the unfamiliar 'dragon treated the self-inflicted wounds on his hand, Turmoil's confusion and apprehension started giving in to curiosity. Partly as to who the hell this person touching him was, and partly regarding the unfamiliar sensation of being touched intentionally and agreeably. His hands are soft <span style='color:red'>and tender.</span> Then Meth started talking, too. Turmoil didn't find that quite as interesting, however. The smile was moderately intriguing, however. Or rather, it's reaction, for Turmoil could feel a slight twitch around the edge of his mouth, the urge to smile back - but he resisted it. For now. For no apparent reason. Meth asked something about where Turmoil was from, but there was no answer. Instead, the peculiar arden had busied himself with inspecting the other's physical characteristics. It had always been Sojnyel's opinion that a lot could be learned about a pendragon from the way they looked and, in particular, dressed. If he had just spotted Meth walking the coridors, Turmoil would have dismissed him as someone who's so desperate for attention that they dress as if though giving them attention is a way to get laid. Not so tonight. Meth dressed like a slut, all right, and there was something about the way he leaned over the bench that suggested that that was indeed the case. And then there was the way he talked, the way he adressed Turmoil. Although he'd never admit it, the truth was that Turmoil liked the way the taller arden was dressed. Anyone could dress like a skank, but more often than not, the result was a package that was more meaningful than its content. It took a clever skank - a rare thing indeed - to make someone more interested in the person beneath the mask than the mask itself. In the end, however, the most important part of Meth's get-up was that he simply- <span style='color:red'>-looks good enough to eat.</span> He smiled again. Jovial bastard, wasn't he? This time, however, it was returned. But Turmoil's smile wasn't particularly cheery. It was a little too wide, showed a litle too much of the wicked teeth that filled his mouth. He reached out with his bandaged hand, and picked up Meth's moving one, holding it by the wrist. He held it out in front of him, gently stroking it with the index finger of his free hand, moving it up and down Meth's forearm. "You called me honey," he said, calmly, the smile on his lips widening. "That's not really the case." Turmoil looked up into the other's face, and as he did, he twisted his hand so the claw on his index finger was facing Meth's skin. He dragged it, back and forth, with increasing force. Where he traced his finger, the hide was scratched, small flakes of skin fell of and long, red marks started to appear. <span style='color:red'>Heheheheeeee...</span> "But I like vinegar better, anyway."
Meth hadn't went to 'work' earlier tonight. The boys - his boys, as he thought of them in his mind, were out. Down to the store. Pick up some chips and beer. Shoot the shit and hang out. He liked those nights the best. His mind had been set on only one task. Just taking a long, hot shower. Ever since the rapist's – Skully - appearance, he had felt dirty. He'd only clung to his pillow at night. Curled up and weak. His face had been turned to the water, eyes closed, his long hair streaming down his bare shoulders and back. Then the hand touched him. Skully in nothing more than his jockeys. He'd touched Meth, and fondled him. His words were hard and commanding. Obediently, he'd left the bathroom. But instead of following his words like he said - going to his room and getting a condom, he had chosen something else. The butcher knife was rarely used. But it had been very, very sharp. Obediently he'd walked back into the bathroom. Head bent piously, hands behind his back. He had died smiling. His eyes, the mirrors that held so much power, were still wide open. He was naked in Meth's shower still. Bleeding out, tainting the water red. His hard-on was probably just fading. The knife lay buried in his ribcage. Meth had lost count at the thirteenth stab. The boy was made of the hollows between fears and lies. He was empty spaces and broken places, and made of the cracks and crevices between right and wrong. He trembled at the other's touch, and didn't realize the blood striping his wrist until Turmoil was done. <span style='color:orange'>"Oh," </span>he purred softly, a wicked little grin on his face. <span style='color:orange'>"Do you, m'love?" </span>One index finger whispered along Turmoil's jawline. <span style='color:orange'>"Whatever shall we do with you?"</span>
Turmoil didn't know how he had expected the other 'dragon to react. Maybe he had expected Meth to become afraid, to whince in pain, to plead with his eyes, maybe even to lash out. Not like this. Not as if though Turmoil was doing something good. For a short while, Turmoil lost track of what he was doing. The sadistic grin vanished from his face, and he just stared stupidly into Meth's face. He was trying to get a grip of himself, to figure out what came next, but he was distracted by the whore's light caress and strangely discomforting yet somehow reassuring smile. <span style='color:red'>Hahahaaah, now this is interesting.</span> He shouldn't react like this. <span style='color:red'>But he does, and it has to be taken advantage of.</span> It was an oddly empowering sensation to feel the other arden tremble at his touch. As he gave Meth's reaction increasingly more thought, he failed to see the reason it had discouraged him. Sure, it wasn't what he'd expected, but what would life be without surprises? Safe, but incredibly dull. As the final realization dawned on him, the smile returned to his lips. The curious reaction he had gotten wasn't supposed to detter him at all. It was a bleeding invitation. "No, that's not the right question," he said, picking Meth's bleeding arm up with both hands, holding it out before him, studying the wounds he had inflicted. "The real question is this: Whatever shall I do to you?" He lifted Meth's arm up, and bent his head down, reaching down to lick at the open holes in the other's skin. As the warm, metallic taste filled his mouth, he felt a sense of wonder at his own actions, coupled with a feeling of comfort he never had before. Perhaps, he thought, this is what life is about?
<span style='color:orange'>OUTOFCHARACTER. you can have my isolation you have the hate that it brings</span> oh, this is gonna be fuuuuuuun. :P <span style='color:orange'>INCHARACTER. you can have my absence of faith you can have my everything</span> Through the dark, the courtyard was gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. Smoke tumbled from the buildings looming overhead in great gray-white whorls. The school was a factory. He was pathetic. He was a star. He was either sad and sickly or glamorous and whorish and new. He was unusual and tragic and alive. He was a bright new star born of a screaming black hole, a nascent sun burst forth from the darkness, from the grasping void of space that folds and swallows. Meth was everything and nothing. He was zero. He couldnÂ’t blame Turmoil for breaking his flesh. How could he, when he himself had carved his own? There was a symbol he had found while on the search for truth that meant everything. Ohm. And he had taken the knife he kept in his room, and he had pulled it out and he had - - seen the face of God... They spread like a cancer, a disease, a horribly black virus, over all. They killed, they bickered, they fought, they threw their noses up into the air like gods and paraded as though they owned the earth. They were the bane of every creature's existence, they were the oppressors and the demons of the world, and yet none rose to meet them in their mindless conquest of the entire planet. And Meth had little doubt that one day they would certainly gain control of the planet, filthy, stinking viruses that they were. These false gods were what all worshipped but him. Turmoil was touching him. A soft moan floated from his lips and died. Hunger. Simple hunger filled him up then, simple and primal and urgent as any need he'd ever felt. He half closed his eyes as he felt it overtake him, lusting and nibbling into crevices, folds, fingertips, everywhere, places it didn't belong and places it shouldn't be. It filled him up whole and overflowed, until the primordial feeling of simplistic thirst overtook his entire body. He felt it in every fiber of his being, every little tingling nerve ending and joint and muscle and sinew - and he wanted nothing else. The boy with the umbra coat was the only reality he knew in this moment, next to the dark and the breeze. Faintly, there was the mad thought that he could smell his blood. Mostly it was sweat, but it didnÂ’t matter. All things happened because of his choices. There was no predefined nature for him to have. Things passed, and death was a very real thing. His alienation and loneliness were a part of the fact that he was an individual in the world of herd animals. Being was questioned, reality was questioned, and science was an essential part of his life. This was how he knew how to make his skin knit, and this was how he knew how to mix cocktail fusions of drugs without killing himself. <span style='color:orange'>"Don't stop."</span>
<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Out of Character</span> <table class='ooc'><tr><td>Methinks this here thread needs a warning sticker. "WARNING: Not suitable for small children, mormons or, uh, anybody else, really. Except you, you freak you." Seriously, though, put something up there.</td></tr></table> Turmoil was absorbed by his current vocation, intoxicating by the warmth and tantalizing taste of this strange, alluring being. Meth, was it? Well, he was sure as hell addictive, that was more sure. And yet, Turmoil felt somewhat disturbed. This strange mating of the two most basic instincts - lust and hunger, fucking and eating - was a powerful stimulus, but it seemed slightly... unnatural. It felt off. The black arden paid no heed, however. He had spent most of his life feeling off. Meth's reaction seemed to be more of the same, but what a wonderful, magical, downright crazy fucking unbeliavably awesome same it was. The whore let out a soft, wistful moan, the likes of which he had heard before, from shitty actors in shitty porn, but this was better, infinitely better. This was real. And then he spoke. It was hardly even a whole sentence, but it carried a lot of meaning. Meth asked him to keep going. Not just giving subtle hints, but downright aasking. Telling, even. Turmoil stopped licking at the other's wounds, and looked up at him. Slowly, he leaned back, letting go of the arm. Constantly keeping his eyes on the pendragon he had already begin to think of as his, he got up and wtook a few short steps until he was facing meth directly. "Don't stop?" he said testily, glaring. "Are you telling me what to do now?" He took a step forwards, placing his left, unbandaged hand against the backrest just next to Meth's shoulder. His right hand played along the older arden's jawbone, much like he had done Turmoil moments before. Sojnyel felt all kinds of conditioned social tabus and inhibitions slipping away, like poorly crafted houses in the face of a raging flood. Someone had unchained the best, and Turmoil hadn't noticed. Luckily enough, it wasn't very hungry anymore. "Now," he said softly, sliding down to sit in Meth's lap, intentionally positioning himself halfway between his knees and his crotch. He leaned in, placing the tip of his muzzle just next to Meth's ear, and then whispered in a demanding, authorative, completely humourless voice, "Let's try that again, but this time I want to hear the magic word."
Retrospect had never been sweeter. He would never forget the intoxicating, breathless intimacy of that prolonged series of moments. Never forget the exquisite way he'd breathed in him, drinking him in, Sonjeyl’s beautiful, beautiful eyes searing their feral, untamed signature upon his heart. And he knew himself changed, transformed, from the boy he had been into something infinitely more and, somehow, something infinitely less. Did he understand it? No. And he thought it best not to even try. “Turmoil." “Please –“ he choked, “Don't stop. Please." He wanted - no, needed - to see him. His voice was setting him on fire. There was a strange and sultry heat growing in his loins. It pulsed. It throbbed. Faintly, so faintly, like the herald of faraway thunder. Blindly, he answered it.
Never before had Turmoil so thoroughly reveled in his feelings. A lifetime spent head down, stepping aside and asking forgiveness was evaporating in the heat of lust, of control. No-one ever listened to what he had to say, and yet, here was this creature, this beautiful, fascinating creature asking, begging to be commanded, to do what he was told. But there was fear, as well. Like the man who first harnessed fire, he was, gazing into its forlorn, ethereal beauty, and knowing with painful certainity that he has just brought the most dangerous thing to ever exist into the world, and that he will never be able to go without it again. Meth's voice was unsteady, trembling. For a moment, Turmoil couldn't help but think of him as an ornament, a piece of fine silk clothing, an ancient, favorite toy, elegant and fragile. Weak. The words uttered by that trembling voice told him a vastly different story. Meth Seihandra was no expensive puppet, only a slave to his own lust. Not weak, only malleable. Not willess, but obedient, and so infinitely desirable. Never before had the young arden been so absorbed by another being. He spent a long time just listening to Meth, to his exaggerated breathing, the little tantalizing noises he made. Every inch of that black, pierced, poisoned body screamed desire, and the echoes reverberated through Turmoil's own, multiplying, amplifying, screaming at him. With a certain sense of fascinated accomplishment, he realized he was shaking. And he smiled, straight into that gorgeous, all-consuming face. Suddenly, something burst. Not in Turmoil, but in Meth. Without warning, he was all over Turmoil, touching him in ways he had scarcely imagined someone ever would. It felt like had had been basking in the heat of a sauna, and suddenly been thrown on the scorching hot coals. The shock was immense, sending the determined and commanding Turmoil back into the recesses of his subconscious, leaving the frightened, insecure boy to fend for himself. Part of him wanted to punish Meth for what he did, for catching him off guard, for acting first, for thinking he could lead, but mostly he just wanted to do what he did, which was to let out a frightened, though not thoroughly displeased, yelp, and press himself as close to his would-be lover as possible. The warmth was comforting, but the play was maddening. Every tiny bite and stroke felt like an itch that had been scratched, but as soon as the hands and tongue moved to now places, the itch was back, stronger than before. Worst of all, and best of all, was the horrible, disgusting, wonderful pulsating in his crotch, drowning out nearly all conscious thought with its constant drumming. In desperate bid for release, he took special care to press the steel bar between his legs against Meth, trying to tell him to do something about it, right now, pretty please with sugar on top, or I'm gonna fucking hurt you. The arden's thoughts where a jumble, not a single one entirely focused, but somehow, the word fuck seemed to come up a lot. Fuck me. What the fuck? Fuck you. Fuckin... Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck... "Wait," he mumbled, absent-mindedly carressing Meth's shoulders. Then, with far more force, and stressing his point by clamping down hard on said body part, "Stop." Ignoring the feeling that, had he been standing, his legs would have failed him, Turmoil tried desperately to maintain the illusion that he was still in control. Gently placing his hand under Meth's muzzle, he directed it from its current occupation of slowly devouring the younger of the two. Looking down into Meth's eyes from his vantage point on the same 'dragon's knees, he was surprised to find that, for a moment, he felt happy. Not giving himself time to contemplate this unexpected change of pace, Turmoil flashed a cocky smile so genuine he almost convinced himself, then leaned down into Meth's face and gave him the first kiss he had ever given.
The exquisite arch of his neck was poetry in itself, begging outrageously, inviting touch. Exotic. Foreign. Meth's muzzle flashed open, fangs of alabaster curving wickedly in the night as he drew them gently over the fur along his throat; enough to tease, never enough to injure. His quickened breath fanned against the soft, sweet fur of Turmoil's vulnerable neck like a candle in the wind, his tongue slipping now from his hungering, thirsting muzzle. Wet. Hot. Slipping over silken fur like sultry, damp velvet. As the night-pelted male pressed slowly, inexorably onward with his smoldering exploration, Meth followed with his own, snaking his neck around, pressing lightly against him. And beneath the rising current of his "innocent" [yeah right, Garm] ministrations, he shuddered, the entirety of his powerful form rippling with each bated breath. Tautened muscles bunched and released in convulsive tremors that their possessor did not fully understand. He was burning. He thought perhaps to delay. To collect the tattered strands of his fleeing composure and weave together some masquerade of assurance. He thought wrong. Suddenly, Sonjeyl's mouth was pressed against his, and his tongue snaked forwards from his mouth instinctively, pressing for entrance into the depths of the other's maw. "I - ungh - Turmoil..." He swallowed his protest and busied himself with licking Turmoil's hip.
Lost. That's how Turmoil felt. Assaulted by a barrage of new and exciting impressions, he was adrift in a sea of sensation, the world turned into background noise. It didn't seem important any more. He didn't feel important any more. There was only heat, a racing hearbeat and him. It was all so very strange. The obsidian arden had never been close to anyone before, never really wanted to get close to anyone before. Now, he was here, rebelling against nearly twenty-one years of being afraid to touch another, for no real reason, and such a rebellion it was. Turmoil had a vague sense that Meth might have objected to being kissed, but the notion was thrown to the winds as he felt the response. For a brief moment, his mind flashed back to the only other person he had ever considered the possibility of getting close to. The strange, yet comparatively normal, thill who gave him the peculiar tattoo that now spanned the space between his leathery wings. Never mind her. She's gone now. Bitch. Then, suddenly, the feverish, clumsy flailing of the tongues subsided. Meth had pulled away, just a little too early for Sojnyel's tastes. The mild annoyance he felt soon changed into eager anticipation and exaggerated enthusiasm as he noticed the new trail his newest aquaintance was following. Shifting his focus from the upper body, Meth was giving his attention to arguably more interesting places. So close. Sojnyel Dletsaj was lost, at the whim of the object of his attention. He wanted to be touched, he wanted to be pleased, he just wanted to give everything up and surrender himself to- <span style='color:red'>Enough!</span> Without warning, Turmoil's wriggling about stopped, the tremble that had been running through him gradually disipated until it was barely noticable. He sat up straight, resting his shins on the bench and his rear in Meth's lap. His left hand slowly moved along the back of the other's neck, as if to carress him. Instead, when they reached the thick patch of fur at the top of Meth's head, Turmoil took a firm hold of it and pulled it upwards. He growled viciously, and his voice retained that same threatening tone. "Are you fucking with me? That's not what I want and you know it. Get to it right now, or am I going to have to hurt you to get my point across?"
"Are you fucking with me? That's not what I want and you know it. Get to it right now, or am I going to have to hurt you to get my point across?" Meth said nothing as Turmoil jerked up his haid, grabbing onto his two-toned hair. Gingerly, he unbuttoned the dark arden's pants and let them pool down to his knees, tugging his boxers down. A soft, low undulation that could only be recognized as a moan threaded from Meth's parted lips, and he dragged his tongue softly across Turmoil's pelvis – and then down farther, farther, farther – dangerously low, his tongue threading amongst his pubic hair. His tongue slipped from his mouth, wandered along his skin, and he offered a low groan, his tenor undulating, wavering, lingering along his length. The end of the beginning. Cue Puccini's "O Soave Fanciulla".
Despite having witnessed the strange and arousing behavior of the pierced beauty whose attention he was occupying, for a moment, Turmoil had expected the spell to be broken, to hear Meth complain and say he didn't want it like this. In a way, he had almost wanted that. Instead, he was obeyed, like a pet groveling at its master's feet. If he hadn't been pinned to the bench by Turmoil's bodyweight, Meth just might have been doing that very thing. A budding fascination took root in the back of the arden's mind, silently whispering, wondering: Just how far can I push him? The darker of the two ardens had let his hand slip from Meth's head, stroking his neck and back as the whore bent over further to satisfy Turmoil's wish. The latter relished every stroke of the other's tongue, washing over his soft, yet slightly lackluster fur, coming ever closer to its ultimate goal. A mad grin spread across his face, and his breath came in short, hard bursts. The moment when Meth's tongue finally touched the physical manifestation of Turmoil's lust was glorious, and unbearable. Up until now, he had been able to convince himself that he was in control, when he was in reality nothing but a confused virgin, ruled by lust and things that hid behind the door of his unconscious. It didn't take more than a few seconds for that reality to make itself remembered. Shit. Not yet. But there was no stopping it. Resigning himself to the maddening sensation building up in his groin and spreading through his body, Turmoil closed his eyes, held his breath and clenched his teeth, grabbing hold of Meth's shoulders, clinging on to them like a madman. For an ever so short moment, his mind turned completely blank, and then it came. He recognized the pulsing sensation from lonely nights in the dorm, but it, and all the other feelings where so much more intense. So incredibly vibrant, and different. Blessed release was followed by a long exhalation, and strange sense of fatigue. As his mind climbed back down to the mortal realms from the height of orgasm, Turmoil became acutely aware of his surroundings; the sweat on his skin, the coolness of the night, the warmth of his lover. Where do we go to now, then? What's the next part of this game?
ooc. The following posts will be delicately labeled as porn. ic. The space between them suddenly heightened in temperature and the whole courtyard felt a couple of degrees warmer, his pulse rising and his eyes closing tight as the darker arden’s taste filled his mouth, making every hair on his body stand on end with the static that grew between them. His hands rubbed along Turmoil's sides - encouraging him - and then over his lower back, playing in little circles just on the bottom of his spine. Meth arched his back as he felt Turmoil come, sending electricity through his whole body and making his insides burst into flame, growing hotter than hell all over and burning to the touch. Turmoil was on fire too, he could feel it - - contagious. Meth positioned his fingers on the shiny metal tab of his pants, small and round like a tear, and he pulled, parting the teeth, one at a time, the longest unzipping of his life, all the way from under his perfectly oval and ruby-pierced navel to the black, swirling moko-tattoos that ran from hip to groin. He peeled off his boxers – white and pink pinstripes – and let them pool around his ankles. His lips trespassed on the inner labyrinths of Turmoil’s ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words in three languages. "I think you know what to do," he murmured, positioning himself on the bench besides Turmy with his back to him, handing him the bottle of lube he kept in his bag.
Turmoil felt weak. Empty. Spent, as a matter of fact. His hands were trembling faintly, and he felt a desperate urge to just grab his partner and cuddle him halfway to death. <span style='color:red'>But that would be a display of affection, wouldn't it? Can't have him getting any ideas.</span> Instead, he fought the urge, forcing his body to stop trembling, commanding it like a cruel master would an unruly dog. In the stillness, a chilling breeze made the cold of the night painfully aparent, and Turmoil bit hard as it washed over his moise genitals. That's when he noticed Meth was taking his pants off. Staring at the lengthy process with profound interest from his vantage point, feeling the heat build up again. Does he want me to return the favor?<span style='color:red'> Fat chance.</span> The peculiar whore loosened himself from Turmoil's control, and Turmoil let him, watching and waiting to see what would come. It turned out to be a bottle of lube and a most enticing invite, but it was too soon. He had to buy more time. Turmoil leaned over, putting his arms around Meth's back, hugging him close. His left hand softly stroked his lover's stomach, revelling in the softness and warmth. His right pressed the bottle cap against the other arden's throat. He put his snout just next to Meth's ear, much as had been done to him just before. "Perhaps I don't..? Perhaps you will have to help me?" he whispered, sliding the bottle down Meth's left arm, placing it back in his hand. "Perhaps I need you to do it for me?"
Meth's whole world exploded. Technicolor flew out of him at all angles, stars and hearts and glitter and smoke. Music blaring in his ears was his heart bursting into song, filled to brimming with sheer thrill and joy. The heat of Turmoil's body against his made him tremble, folding under his touch and letting himself be molded like playdough. Pressed against him, Meth was surprised not to feel in the least vulnerable, but wild. Feral. Every part of him screamed more, screamed closer, screamed and screamed and screamed. "You..." he began, unscrewing the cap off the tube. "Lubricate my... ass with it, and then you go inside of me." He turned around a bit, moving his hands from across Turmoil's abdomen to creep up his chest, before running back down his arms and interlocking their fingers. With a seductive glance in his soon-to-be-lover's direction, Meth smirked. "Whenever you're ready."
Returning Meth's undeniably pleasant look with a rather more skeptical one, Turmoil pulled his hands free. "Ready?" he said, deftly moving his right hand to grab hold of Meth's hair again. "I was born ready, willing and mean as hell." It was a lie, of course. Ready wasn't a word Turmoil had honestly used about himself for a long time, and he was far too weak to be genuinely mean. Willing was another matter entirely. The feeling of weakness was all but gone, and he could feel that throbbing desire yet again. Turmoil pulled Meth's head back and down, forcing him to bend over. He released his hold of the other's hair, slowly dragging his fingers across his back. A mad grin played along his face as he caressed Meth's ass, and equally mad thoughts raised through his head. He squeezed out too much lube into his free hand, and started rubbing it excitedly against Meth's anus. He slowed down, playing with the sensitive skin. "When I'm ready, you say?" he mused, and applied the leftover lube to his own pulsating member and placing it against Meth's waiting orifice. "The real question is, are you ready for me?" With that, Turmoil took a firm grip of his lover's hips and thrust.
