- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
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𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕤 ᵒᵘᵗ || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴇʀᴇʙᴜs || 𝔽𝕀ℕ
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- Start date
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
”Is that... is that blood!?"
"Ah fuck off, you should see the other guy!"
How droll they were! These boastful salarymen who, after a long day of punching in numbers with bloody fingers, come here to spill their bloodied secrets, ugh, scum of the earth. With her grasp of the Japanese language tenuous at best, the direct translation boarded on the edge of barely tasteful. But even she knew better than to file bodies and financial reports under the same word - humans had so many of those - and she had no talent for cataloguing. But it did start the steady, whirring ticktock of her cerebral matter; now you must picture a gleaming scalpel burying deep down to reveal the pulsing visceral red, behold the pomegranate, behold the seeds! - and further still to the ghostly, milky bone. From the marrow, a name was born: Tanuki's Nook, carved in bold strokes of ink slathered onto a plank of wood that'd been hammered into the door. The Nook was a timeless venue that invited all with open arms and no questions asked, not even when the morally grey turned morally black.
Stepping a foot into the entrance landed you squarely into a polite bar. The interior was a rich, warm brown warmed by gingko lamps stationed around the edges as soldiers would a throne room. Local artists displayed their artwork to be sold on the coffee walls. The floors were clean and lacquered, marking out a record of trampling footprints from murderers, to businessmen; from war crimes to the awful politics of human nature. Notches in Orion's Belt. So it went. Because this was a safe haven, white or grey or black. One could come for a drink or five and be escorted to a cab to safely deliver you home, because the cabs belonged to the Tanuki too. It was a convenient arrangement. At first sight, the bartenders would be there to greet their unlikely customers all smiles and grins. Some customers would station themselves at the actual bar, mumbling about their busy, busy day. Other customers took their drinks to appropriately spaced tables which meant they were both lonely and bored. On each table sat racks of white powder, blue powder, yellow dust. Glass shakers of pepper followed, and tiny dishes of fresh lemon and limes sliced into crescent smirks, heralding menus as long as a hand-print.
Heading deeper toward the back, it took some effort to hear the deep bass interspersed with soft jazz. It was an amalgamation of the two and to even approach the powerful double doors, one needed a pure-black stamp of entry or carry a face which was familiar. It opened to a deceptively wide space with bizarre lights flashing, and meat suits flirting with poor fashion choices. Masks concealed the faces of writhing, dancing bodies dripping with sweat, drugged up with adrenaline. The nightclub was a well-known secret in the bowels of Kanbetsu, where fast and expensive cars screeched up along the curb to spit out exotically dressed assholes that rivaled the eccentricity of fashion shows. Beaked masks starred in leading roles against fanged porcelain, stripes sinking into tattooed skin and rainbow plumage feathering cloaks that dragged along the ground. That was the half of it. The other half sought neutral ground and found it in the bosom of the Tanuki. Trading district secrets wrapped in napkins or briefcases pregnant with cash.
Thankfully, there were booths too, sectioned away from prying eyes and offered some protection from the music. It was here the unassuming figure of Valerie Ivanov staked her claim.
Her once perfect table had a scratch on the underside of it. She knew this intimately because the wood had annoyed her (she could not say why), and had accidentally let her nails dig a little too deep while affecting boredom in the same breath. A lukewarm metal straw connected her mouth to her drink of choice: a Bloody Mary (to be on the nose, mind), all the while lamenting the strangeness of this foreign land. Vending machines that dispensed underwear and cigarettes! Wonderful, marvelous! Once, she had inserted a 200 yen coin for a green tea chocolate bar, and after some rattling, collected her prize. A strawberry-scented note that said 気をつけろ
Because Valerie could not read this language on paper, she laughed and stuffed it into one of her many jacket pockets. It had been weeks, and her jacket had gone through the wash and turned the warning to mulch, and like mulch, it was an irregularity in her life. It was unimportant, and supernatural and because Valerie did not understand danger as danger was meant to be understood. Danger, to her, was a distant mountain slope -- not for mountains, nor the rolling boulders that slurped the fear from her bones; for her, the thunder, the lightning and the unblinking eye of the storm.
It was her physical appearance that drew attention and warranted protection in the forms of bulky and surly men in crisp black suits. Where obsidian shades erased any chance of individuality, and every body looked as faceless as the next, she was elevated. Valerie was an anomaly as far as anomalies went who frequented Tanuki's Nook. Self-diagnosed, she was an exceptional question mark.
A thick, cropped coat of splendid white fur sat loosely on her pale shoulders, accentuated by the tight black dress cut with sheer lace at the bosom. There was a slit that worked up her thigh, a band of tight leather peeking out near the top. Tall black boots. Nails the color of starbursts. Her attire was quiet where the rest of her was not. Brushwork shadows stroked the aquamarine sheen of her long hair, and tangled drops of sapphire gleamed brighter than bright in its sky-dark netting. Her eyes - oh, but they were brighter still! - a burnt gold, twin suns imploding, radiance at the apex and lined with a softer shade which glittered. Cognac and ice. A diamond-encrusted ring circled her middle finger and stars studded her ears, rings on the lobes, a twisting viper against the cartilage. Everything followed the simple motif of sparkly and pretty to the letter.
It was the alcohol that stained her cheeks, heat drawing blood to the surface that accentuated the perfect angles of the tipsy foreigner. Illuminated, Valerie had no current plans to move, save for the subtle motion of lips around a warm straw, sipping her drink like water. Her eighth drink of the night, and her eyes were beginning to wander. Ignoring the questioning looks from bar-side strangers and familiar bartenders, she looked toward the men she was asked to trust and saw nothing but yawning voids trained not to think, only to act. If she gave the order to shoot themselves, they would present the gun, the bared brow, and kneel in deference. On nails, on sandpaper, on air. Whatever, wherever, however she wanted.
Her roiling gaze scorched past them, the sad and boring bastards, blazing through the crowd. Valerie watched the rain hurl itself against frosted windows, the shadows of slinking silhouettes fractured by glass. She was waiting for the mighty clouds to roll through those doors, for the sky to split asunder. She had names caged in her throat, and the key was the hot muzzle of a gun pressed against her thigh. She had her men hungry and thoughtless at her disposal, she had her drink, and an umbrella to keep her hair dry.
Now she just needed a body.
Stepping a foot into the entrance landed you squarely into a polite bar. The interior was a rich, warm brown warmed by gingko lamps stationed around the edges as soldiers would a throne room. Local artists displayed their artwork to be sold on the coffee walls. The floors were clean and lacquered, marking out a record of trampling footprints from murderers, to businessmen; from war crimes to the awful politics of human nature. Notches in Orion's Belt. So it went. Because this was a safe haven, white or grey or black. One could come for a drink or five and be escorted to a cab to safely deliver you home, because the cabs belonged to the Tanuki too. It was a convenient arrangement. At first sight, the bartenders would be there to greet their unlikely customers all smiles and grins. Some customers would station themselves at the actual bar, mumbling about their busy, busy day. Other customers took their drinks to appropriately spaced tables which meant they were both lonely and bored. On each table sat racks of white powder, blue powder, yellow dust. Glass shakers of pepper followed, and tiny dishes of fresh lemon and limes sliced into crescent smirks, heralding menus as long as a hand-print.
Heading deeper toward the back, it took some effort to hear the deep bass interspersed with soft jazz. It was an amalgamation of the two and to even approach the powerful double doors, one needed a pure-black stamp of entry or carry a face which was familiar. It opened to a deceptively wide space with bizarre lights flashing, and meat suits flirting with poor fashion choices. Masks concealed the faces of writhing, dancing bodies dripping with sweat, drugged up with adrenaline. The nightclub was a well-known secret in the bowels of Kanbetsu, where fast and expensive cars screeched up along the curb to spit out exotically dressed assholes that rivaled the eccentricity of fashion shows. Beaked masks starred in leading roles against fanged porcelain, stripes sinking into tattooed skin and rainbow plumage feathering cloaks that dragged along the ground. That was the half of it. The other half sought neutral ground and found it in the bosom of the Tanuki. Trading district secrets wrapped in napkins or briefcases pregnant with cash.
Thankfully, there were booths too, sectioned away from prying eyes and offered some protection from the music. It was here the unassuming figure of Valerie Ivanov staked her claim.
Her once perfect table had a scratch on the underside of it. She knew this intimately because the wood had annoyed her (she could not say why), and had accidentally let her nails dig a little too deep while affecting boredom in the same breath. A lukewarm metal straw connected her mouth to her drink of choice: a Bloody Mary (to be on the nose, mind), all the while lamenting the strangeness of this foreign land. Vending machines that dispensed underwear and cigarettes! Wonderful, marvelous! Once, she had inserted a 200 yen coin for a green tea chocolate bar, and after some rattling, collected her prize. A strawberry-scented note that said 気をつけろ
Because Valerie could not read this language on paper, she laughed and stuffed it into one of her many jacket pockets. It had been weeks, and her jacket had gone through the wash and turned the warning to mulch, and like mulch, it was an irregularity in her life. It was unimportant, and supernatural and because Valerie did not understand danger as danger was meant to be understood. Danger, to her, was a distant mountain slope -- not for mountains, nor the rolling boulders that slurped the fear from her bones; for her, the thunder, the lightning and the unblinking eye of the storm.
It was her physical appearance that drew attention and warranted protection in the forms of bulky and surly men in crisp black suits. Where obsidian shades erased any chance of individuality, and every body looked as faceless as the next, she was elevated. Valerie was an anomaly as far as anomalies went who frequented Tanuki's Nook. Self-diagnosed, she was an exceptional question mark.
A thick, cropped coat of splendid white fur sat loosely on her pale shoulders, accentuated by the tight black dress cut with sheer lace at the bosom. There was a slit that worked up her thigh, a band of tight leather peeking out near the top. Tall black boots. Nails the color of starbursts. Her attire was quiet where the rest of her was not. Brushwork shadows stroked the aquamarine sheen of her long hair, and tangled drops of sapphire gleamed brighter than bright in its sky-dark netting. Her eyes - oh, but they were brighter still! - a burnt gold, twin suns imploding, radiance at the apex and lined with a softer shade which glittered. Cognac and ice. A diamond-encrusted ring circled her middle finger and stars studded her ears, rings on the lobes, a twisting viper against the cartilage. Everything followed the simple motif of sparkly and pretty to the letter.
It was the alcohol that stained her cheeks, heat drawing blood to the surface that accentuated the perfect angles of the tipsy foreigner. Illuminated, Valerie had no current plans to move, save for the subtle motion of lips around a warm straw, sipping her drink like water. Her eighth drink of the night, and her eyes were beginning to wander. Ignoring the questioning looks from bar-side strangers and familiar bartenders, she looked toward the men she was asked to trust and saw nothing but yawning voids trained not to think, only to act. If she gave the order to shoot themselves, they would present the gun, the bared brow, and kneel in deference. On nails, on sandpaper, on air. Whatever, wherever, however she wanted.
Her roiling gaze scorched past them, the sad and boring bastards, blazing through the crowd. Valerie watched the rain hurl itself against frosted windows, the shadows of slinking silhouettes fractured by glass. She was waiting for the mighty clouds to roll through those doors, for the sky to split asunder. She had names caged in her throat, and the key was the hot muzzle of a gun pressed against her thigh. She had her men hungry and thoughtless at her disposal, she had her drink, and an umbrella to keep her hair dry.
Now she just needed a body.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
A body?
Yamauchi Kazuki lost count of those years ago. Her body count - the approximation thereof - tended to houdini the delicately plucked brows of matronly mothers into severely-pinned hairlines. A number that sounded like drunken boasting but wasn’t. Now, the question they should ponder but never did was what that body count consisted of; but alas, thinking was tough whilst dashing to cover the ears of their little ones. All the while lamenting, no doubt, about not having enough hands to cover both eyes and ears.
Couldn’t have those cherubic little angels be exposed to such a bad role model, after all.
Sukeban, Bōsōzoku, Yankii?
Nah. She was clearly too old for that, despite that neck tat winking in and out of existence every time her hair shifted. Certainly had that delinquent look though. The collared shirt multiple sizes too large. The skinny tie reminiscent of a school uniform. The double helix piercings and bangs kept a centimeter or two too long, somewhere in between bedraggled and windtouseled. Nails, charcoal black fading into charcoal gray, juxtaposing the platinum of her rings. Eyeliner. Heavy. Emphasizing eyes that needed no emphasis. Black, not dark brown. Pupils indistinguishable from irises under dim light.
Nothing she wore was particularly expensive. The winged cross verged on trashy. One of her first tattoos, actually. Got it mostly to piss off mother dearest with how western - a curse word where mother was concerned, surely - it was. Funny how that worked - like the ouroboros, extreme lawlessness somehow cycled back into extreme traditionality. Mother liked that crap. Respect. Don’t fuck with drugs. Uphold giri and ninjo and always dress sharply. Kazuki? Kazuki was mostly just good at one thing.
But like, damn good at it.
It was those hands of hers. To be clear, Kazuki had the sort of look that sent just about anyone mourning over their inferior genetics. The viciously attractive jawline. Nose that tapered with an arrogant slant, overseeing lips accentuated with a subtle coral bloom gloss. The too-large shirt haphazardly tucked into black leather moto pants hid much of her figure, but the slender forearm hinted at the supple musculature beneath. Got screwed in the boobs department, but that aside, she wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of an alternative rock album. All of her was pretty, but her hands were exquisite.
Never sweated and never shook, they were long-boned enough to send a pianist into a fit of envy. Lithesome did not begin to capture their utter perfection - the ideal killer’s hands. A notion further reinforced by the scent she carried, that visceral blend of gunpowder and blood, masked beneath unscented soap. Imperceptible to a human, but inerasable. Kazuki smelled like death, if death smoked and favored fruity liquor.
Where she walked, crowds parted. Writhing bodies smartly wriggled out of her way without needing a single look or word. Kazuki didn’t favor a high-profile, but, in this part of town, you had to be either blind or dumb not to recognize Oyabun Yamauchi’s only daughter. That, or foreign.
“Hey, pretty girl.” She did not slur her words, despite alcohol being prominent on her breath. The aromatic white peach of premium ginjo sake fused with cigarette vapors, forging a potent concoction of vice and depravity. Kazuki did not ask for permission, nor introduce herself, before sliding into the faux leather seat opposite Valerie. An elbow propped onto the table, and she leaned into it in that devil-may-care sort of way. Her drink - chilled yuzushu garnished with citrus peel - was brought to her by a silent bartender, whose eyes never traveled high enough to meet anybody’s gaze. Kazuki never placed an order, not since walking in, but she accepted the drink the same way she commandeered half the booth, like she owned it. Which, in a way, she did.
“You are in my usual spot.” The grin she flashed was lopsided, the same as the slant of her jaw. Rakish bangs poured to one side, the elegance of her throat displayed on the other. Her index - black and gray acrylic startling against the crystalline amber drink - circled the rim, stopping at the garnish. “But you are cute, so you can stay.”
Yamauchi Kazuki lost count of those years ago. Her body count - the approximation thereof - tended to houdini the delicately plucked brows of matronly mothers into severely-pinned hairlines. A number that sounded like drunken boasting but wasn’t. Now, the question they should ponder but never did was what that body count consisted of; but alas, thinking was tough whilst dashing to cover the ears of their little ones. All the while lamenting, no doubt, about not having enough hands to cover both eyes and ears.
Couldn’t have those cherubic little angels be exposed to such a bad role model, after all.
Sukeban, Bōsōzoku, Yankii?
Nah. She was clearly too old for that, despite that neck tat winking in and out of existence every time her hair shifted. Certainly had that delinquent look though. The collared shirt multiple sizes too large. The skinny tie reminiscent of a school uniform. The double helix piercings and bangs kept a centimeter or two too long, somewhere in between bedraggled and windtouseled. Nails, charcoal black fading into charcoal gray, juxtaposing the platinum of her rings. Eyeliner. Heavy. Emphasizing eyes that needed no emphasis. Black, not dark brown. Pupils indistinguishable from irises under dim light.
Nothing she wore was particularly expensive. The winged cross verged on trashy. One of her first tattoos, actually. Got it mostly to piss off mother dearest with how western - a curse word where mother was concerned, surely - it was. Funny how that worked - like the ouroboros, extreme lawlessness somehow cycled back into extreme traditionality. Mother liked that crap. Respect. Don’t fuck with drugs. Uphold giri and ninjo and always dress sharply. Kazuki? Kazuki was mostly just good at one thing.
But like, damn good at it.
It was those hands of hers. To be clear, Kazuki had the sort of look that sent just about anyone mourning over their inferior genetics. The viciously attractive jawline. Nose that tapered with an arrogant slant, overseeing lips accentuated with a subtle coral bloom gloss. The too-large shirt haphazardly tucked into black leather moto pants hid much of her figure, but the slender forearm hinted at the supple musculature beneath. Got screwed in the boobs department, but that aside, she wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of an alternative rock album. All of her was pretty, but her hands were exquisite.
Never sweated and never shook, they were long-boned enough to send a pianist into a fit of envy. Lithesome did not begin to capture their utter perfection - the ideal killer’s hands. A notion further reinforced by the scent she carried, that visceral blend of gunpowder and blood, masked beneath unscented soap. Imperceptible to a human, but inerasable. Kazuki smelled like death, if death smoked and favored fruity liquor.
Where she walked, crowds parted. Writhing bodies smartly wriggled out of her way without needing a single look or word. Kazuki didn’t favor a high-profile, but, in this part of town, you had to be either blind or dumb not to recognize Oyabun Yamauchi’s only daughter. That, or foreign.
“Hey, pretty girl.” She did not slur her words, despite alcohol being prominent on her breath. The aromatic white peach of premium ginjo sake fused with cigarette vapors, forging a potent concoction of vice and depravity. Kazuki did not ask for permission, nor introduce herself, before sliding into the faux leather seat opposite Valerie. An elbow propped onto the table, and she leaned into it in that devil-may-care sort of way. Her drink - chilled yuzushu garnished with citrus peel - was brought to her by a silent bartender, whose eyes never traveled high enough to meet anybody’s gaze. Kazuki never placed an order, not since walking in, but she accepted the drink the same way she commandeered half the booth, like she owned it. Which, in a way, she did.
“You are in my usual spot.” The grin she flashed was lopsided, the same as the slant of her jaw. Rakish bangs poured to one side, the elegance of her throat displayed on the other. Her index - black and gray acrylic startling against the crystalline amber drink - circled the rim, stopping at the garnish. “But you are cute, so you can stay.”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
The music switched from impossibly deep warbles to highly synthesized drum snares accompanied by the angelic trill of a keyboard. But it was all one or two notes jostling for their time in the orbiting spotlight. There was a -- dissonance, an incomparable notion that one could distinguish the zebra from the stripes, from muscle memory - such as an E♭ existing morosely, semitones apart, to fingers stretching for chords that spanned meters long -- well, Valerie never cared for the piano, so her knowledge only went as far as her interest. Besides, ivory hurt her fingers, and she'd cut her teeth on those taut, spring-steel wires to keep them sharp. She could still see her blood, tiny crimson teardrops perched like birds on - hah, wire - huddled close for warmth.
Her family had a great grand piano that was old and dusty and loud; her decrepit grandmother played it with gusto and mischief all the fucking time, and that horrible discordant noise was a permanent backdrop bouncing through their house. That selfsame instrument was wailing when her mother, her Matriarchal Saint, Venerated Gold of Centuries Unspoken, crowded her into an empty room -- empty: to be void, to lack furniture, to suck paint from the walls and arrest all notion of being lived-in - room: a place with a floor to sit on and brood gorgeously -- to offer her the chance of a lifetime. "Go to Kanbetsu! Yalsinsk will still be standing when you return, and when you do, we will have a party!!"
The offer was a platter of mossy, nibbled-on cheese and stale biscuits, and since Valerie was a picky eater she looked at her Matriarchal Saint, and because it was with such open-faced disgust, her mother added, haltingly, "You like parties, yes?"
Well! She didn't like the piano but she did like parties (grudgingly), and she loved art (happily, longingly, magnetically). These were the fresh olives on an otherwise putrid charcuterie board: Kanbetsu was ripe with both.
Valerie stirred, a single strand of glass-blue a wisp in the wind. Ephemeral. Sacrilegiously, comparative to the natural - do you like the color of the sky. Diaphanous in silk, thick and full-bodied that spilled over her shoulder when she shook her head imperceptibly. In lockstep, those perfectly trained dogs stopped reaching for their belts in unison and settled back easily. They did not have to think about the stranger entering their atmosphere because Valerie did all the thinking for them. How easy they must have it, to never have a thought in those eggshell scalps! They were rocking chairs rooted on a porch; she was the husband in army greens looking for the storm, and storms were not one cloud but a cluster of many. They were gunpowder to guns, anti-bac to soap; they were grains of citrus sticking to the fingertips, draped in perfumed virgins with dangling knives at the hollow of the throat and choir boys hollering with silver tonsils.
She looked away.
Her mouth curled into a cruel shape that looked like a smile, but it could also have been a bow, a polite curtsy curated for business. It did not reach the devastating gold of her eyes. They really were like stars, if stars could look starved and bored, as if they only tolerated the moon because the moon had not acted out in a fit of rage. So, Valerie could smile properly, and take another sip of her drink. Her lips imprinted its mark on the rim of the glass, which stained them a maraschino red in return. She blinked slowly and humored the cloud as stars humored the moon. Where the stranger's face was a mosaic of smoke, of oscillated water, the tattoo was a compass rose for ships corralled in stained bottles. It became her focal point as she turned her head this way and that with soft, easy motions, to measure the size and place the ink before the flesh. She judged the mess of the shirt, the pants, and mourned silently.
Valerie might have recognized the face if she let it sink its teeth into her.
But Ego was an apocalyptic sin, and she was its Horseman. She did not recognize the cloud for the storm, nor the storm for the warm-blooded body, only that it was a stranger who had encroached on her personal space who must have woken up lucky because that face was still attached to the skull. See, Ego. War rattled the doors and Famine lay weeping on stone-cold pavement, Pestilence willing rain into locusts, Death, and so on and so forth. The Four Fingers quartering the Earth - Kanbetsu - to subsume the land and embrace it as one might a benign tumor. Yalsinsk was a legacy bulging at the edges with borders too small to contain it without cracking at the seams. It needed the Hand to grasp and pull and caress. Needed, as the Hand needed the Thumb, to realize an empire into religion.
"I am," she replied, shifting so that her elbow no longer rested on the table. Valerie said it as if the woman had asked if she was one Valerie Ivanov, which she was. Though, nobody in the Nook should be privy to her name, nor to her presence. She was a glitch seeding viral roots into the guarded garden of the Yamauchi clan, blitzing zen into rot, and so let them meditate on corrupt soil! She could almost hear the fireworks and gunshots upon her return. Heralded and spoken about on all the radios and televisions. She could hear that horrible, horrible piano as her grandmother's spidery fingers skittered over hungry keys.
But then the chords thrummed and she looked long and hard at the stranger's hands. Pretty fingers attached firmly to the palm, lifelines to the wrist that looked slender as bird bones. Nails cut short and painted over with black varnish, a bold choice of gradients. A jardinière's worth of rings decorating the frail digits, so frail. She studied them as one might shark in an aquarium or stolen artifacts in a museum. She looked at them like they were for sale. The severity of her eyes always made lesser men and women sweat, and the way she did not blink only exaggerated the core of pale black irises, those apoplectic pinpoints. The conclusion she had come to was terrible to behold.
Those hands looked like they enjoyed the piano. Valerie's patience diminished. This was significant because the stranger's squishy heart was still beating. This was important because Valerie took that moment to swiftly finish off her drink in one gulp, and before she finished patting her mouth with a napkin, another appeared to take its place and another for her piano-loving companion, coasters and all. Fresh ice clinked pleasantly against branded glass. She still hadn't looked at the woman's face, and she only knew it was a woman from the smooth lilt in her voice. This did not matter. It was not a storm. It was barely a cloud.
"There are so many other spots," the ninth drink made her malleable; she abandoned the straw and fiddled with her paper umbrella, snapped the toothpick easily, "and there is nothing special about this spot. It is an ugly spot, and it has a scar." Valerie's Japanese was surprisingly coherent, despite the drinks, the -- foreignness, and the awkward tonal shifts; she still affected her strong accent from her motherland, distinctly Slavic, but she understood what the woman was saying, and thought it funny enough to allow another sentence.
Ego said, "So you see, claim another spot. You are not cute enough to stay."
Her family had a great grand piano that was old and dusty and loud; her decrepit grandmother played it with gusto and mischief all the fucking time, and that horrible discordant noise was a permanent backdrop bouncing through their house. That selfsame instrument was wailing when her mother, her Matriarchal Saint, Venerated Gold of Centuries Unspoken, crowded her into an empty room -- empty: to be void, to lack furniture, to suck paint from the walls and arrest all notion of being lived-in - room: a place with a floor to sit on and brood gorgeously -- to offer her the chance of a lifetime. "Go to Kanbetsu! Yalsinsk will still be standing when you return, and when you do, we will have a party!!"
The offer was a platter of mossy, nibbled-on cheese and stale biscuits, and since Valerie was a picky eater she looked at her Matriarchal Saint, and because it was with such open-faced disgust, her mother added, haltingly, "You like parties, yes?"
Well! She didn't like the piano but she did like parties (grudgingly), and she loved art (happily, longingly, magnetically). These were the fresh olives on an otherwise putrid charcuterie board: Kanbetsu was ripe with both.
Valerie stirred, a single strand of glass-blue a wisp in the wind. Ephemeral. Sacrilegiously, comparative to the natural - do you like the color of the sky. Diaphanous in silk, thick and full-bodied that spilled over her shoulder when she shook her head imperceptibly. In lockstep, those perfectly trained dogs stopped reaching for their belts in unison and settled back easily. They did not have to think about the stranger entering their atmosphere because Valerie did all the thinking for them. How easy they must have it, to never have a thought in those eggshell scalps! They were rocking chairs rooted on a porch; she was the husband in army greens looking for the storm, and storms were not one cloud but a cluster of many. They were gunpowder to guns, anti-bac to soap; they were grains of citrus sticking to the fingertips, draped in perfumed virgins with dangling knives at the hollow of the throat and choir boys hollering with silver tonsils.
She looked away.
Her mouth curled into a cruel shape that looked like a smile, but it could also have been a bow, a polite curtsy curated for business. It did not reach the devastating gold of her eyes. They really were like stars, if stars could look starved and bored, as if they only tolerated the moon because the moon had not acted out in a fit of rage. So, Valerie could smile properly, and take another sip of her drink. Her lips imprinted its mark on the rim of the glass, which stained them a maraschino red in return. She blinked slowly and humored the cloud as stars humored the moon. Where the stranger's face was a mosaic of smoke, of oscillated water, the tattoo was a compass rose for ships corralled in stained bottles. It became her focal point as she turned her head this way and that with soft, easy motions, to measure the size and place the ink before the flesh. She judged the mess of the shirt, the pants, and mourned silently.
Valerie might have recognized the face if she let it sink its teeth into her.
But Ego was an apocalyptic sin, and she was its Horseman. She did not recognize the cloud for the storm, nor the storm for the warm-blooded body, only that it was a stranger who had encroached on her personal space who must have woken up lucky because that face was still attached to the skull. See, Ego. War rattled the doors and Famine lay weeping on stone-cold pavement, Pestilence willing rain into locusts, Death, and so on and so forth. The Four Fingers quartering the Earth - Kanbetsu - to subsume the land and embrace it as one might a benign tumor. Yalsinsk was a legacy bulging at the edges with borders too small to contain it without cracking at the seams. It needed the Hand to grasp and pull and caress. Needed, as the Hand needed the Thumb, to realize an empire into religion.
"I am," she replied, shifting so that her elbow no longer rested on the table. Valerie said it as if the woman had asked if she was one Valerie Ivanov, which she was. Though, nobody in the Nook should be privy to her name, nor to her presence. She was a glitch seeding viral roots into the guarded garden of the Yamauchi clan, blitzing zen into rot, and so let them meditate on corrupt soil! She could almost hear the fireworks and gunshots upon her return. Heralded and spoken about on all the radios and televisions. She could hear that horrible, horrible piano as her grandmother's spidery fingers skittered over hungry keys.
But then the chords thrummed and she looked long and hard at the stranger's hands. Pretty fingers attached firmly to the palm, lifelines to the wrist that looked slender as bird bones. Nails cut short and painted over with black varnish, a bold choice of gradients. A jardinière's worth of rings decorating the frail digits, so frail. She studied them as one might shark in an aquarium or stolen artifacts in a museum. She looked at them like they were for sale. The severity of her eyes always made lesser men and women sweat, and the way she did not blink only exaggerated the core of pale black irises, those apoplectic pinpoints. The conclusion she had come to was terrible to behold.
Those hands looked like they enjoyed the piano. Valerie's patience diminished. This was significant because the stranger's squishy heart was still beating. This was important because Valerie took that moment to swiftly finish off her drink in one gulp, and before she finished patting her mouth with a napkin, another appeared to take its place and another for her piano-loving companion, coasters and all. Fresh ice clinked pleasantly against branded glass. She still hadn't looked at the woman's face, and she only knew it was a woman from the smooth lilt in her voice. This did not matter. It was not a storm. It was barely a cloud.
"There are so many other spots," the ninth drink made her malleable; she abandoned the straw and fiddled with her paper umbrella, snapped the toothpick easily, "and there is nothing special about this spot. It is an ugly spot, and it has a scar." Valerie's Japanese was surprisingly coherent, despite the drinks, the -- foreignness, and the awkward tonal shifts; she still affected her strong accent from her motherland, distinctly Slavic, but she understood what the woman was saying, and thought it funny enough to allow another sentence.
Ego said, "So you see, claim another spot. You are not cute enough to stay."
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
But what is a cloud?
Cloud, the sheep in the sky. The proverbial lamb that might one day unleash the four seals, ushering forth those strangely colored horses and their even stranger riders. Because make no mistake, that decision - whether or not the Four Horsemen might ever see daylight - rests squarely within the control of the sky lamb.
Cloud, rain bringer, life giver, the great renewer and inspiration to comic poets and philosophers. Hailed in the tripartite theater of ancient Greece, where overlapping voices echoed with timeless revelry. Behold! Gaze upon the cloud, and through your perception might your true nature be revealed. Wolf or deer? What do you see?
Cloud, H2O in its various forms, aerosol suspended in the great beyond. Where a cumulonimbus might warn of a simple thunderstorm, the cirrus foreshadowed cyclones. Every cloud was distinct, and every cloud told a different story. But what did Valerie know of clouds beyond that they wore white and vapors and liked to drift every which way they pleased?
Unlike its neighbors, who fixated upon the potency of the storm, the Japanese understood the multifaceted nature of clouds. A cloud, light, airy, could evoke the happiest summer day, of hope and a brighter future. A cloud, dark, rolling, sweeping down the entire length of a calf, could symbolize a foreboding omen, or perhaps adversity overcame. There were as many designs of clouds as there were artists, for clouds truly embodied the esoteric elements of mankind.
Kazuki had one of those too. Interconnected clouds in bold black ink, encroaching beneath her right collarbone. The asymmetrical hikae stretched past her shoulder and spilled down her bicep, nature hosting the legendary beast that spanned the entirety of her arm. Her nobori-ryu was startlingly red rather than the more typically favored gold or black. Red - strength, power, protection from evil spirits. Never had a chance to test out that last part, but there were no time like the present.
Being rebuffed found her grinning wider than before, a smile that absolutely reached the eyes. She downed her drink, standing. “I’ll pass.” Two clicks of the heels on those steel-toed boots brought her closer. She leaned down, a hand pressed into the booth’s back, bringing herself eye-level and amply encroaching Valerie’s personal space. The night threatened the radiance of stars with its all-encompassing voracity, and Kazuki replaced the scent of Bloody Mary with Yuzushu coalesced with tobacco haze. “What are you doing in such an ugly spot then, hm?” Those suits stayed put, but they were hard to miss. The gauche shades, the extra bulk beneath the jackets near the waist; their purpose were not hard to divine. And yet, for a young woman surrounded by a circus of deadly and achromic clowns, Kazuki's self-assurance was staggering.
“If you wanted to be left alone, you would be home with these boring boys.” Presumptuous, beyond all bounds of reason, but attractively so - because ego magnetized ego. “But you are here, in the Nook, in this ugly spot, because you are looking for a cure to your boredom.” She pulled back, straightening, hair drifting over the tattoo like smoke, like a whispered promise, before holding out a hand. “Come, dance with me. What do you have to lose?”
Cloud, the sheep in the sky. The proverbial lamb that might one day unleash the four seals, ushering forth those strangely colored horses and their even stranger riders. Because make no mistake, that decision - whether or not the Four Horsemen might ever see daylight - rests squarely within the control of the sky lamb.
Cloud, rain bringer, life giver, the great renewer and inspiration to comic poets and philosophers. Hailed in the tripartite theater of ancient Greece, where overlapping voices echoed with timeless revelry. Behold! Gaze upon the cloud, and through your perception might your true nature be revealed. Wolf or deer? What do you see?
Cloud, H2O in its various forms, aerosol suspended in the great beyond. Where a cumulonimbus might warn of a simple thunderstorm, the cirrus foreshadowed cyclones. Every cloud was distinct, and every cloud told a different story. But what did Valerie know of clouds beyond that they wore white and vapors and liked to drift every which way they pleased?
Unlike its neighbors, who fixated upon the potency of the storm, the Japanese understood the multifaceted nature of clouds. A cloud, light, airy, could evoke the happiest summer day, of hope and a brighter future. A cloud, dark, rolling, sweeping down the entire length of a calf, could symbolize a foreboding omen, or perhaps adversity overcame. There were as many designs of clouds as there were artists, for clouds truly embodied the esoteric elements of mankind.
Kazuki had one of those too. Interconnected clouds in bold black ink, encroaching beneath her right collarbone. The asymmetrical hikae stretched past her shoulder and spilled down her bicep, nature hosting the legendary beast that spanned the entirety of her arm. Her nobori-ryu was startlingly red rather than the more typically favored gold or black. Red - strength, power, protection from evil spirits. Never had a chance to test out that last part, but there were no time like the present.
Being rebuffed found her grinning wider than before, a smile that absolutely reached the eyes. She downed her drink, standing. “I’ll pass.” Two clicks of the heels on those steel-toed boots brought her closer. She leaned down, a hand pressed into the booth’s back, bringing herself eye-level and amply encroaching Valerie’s personal space. The night threatened the radiance of stars with its all-encompassing voracity, and Kazuki replaced the scent of Bloody Mary with Yuzushu coalesced with tobacco haze. “What are you doing in such an ugly spot then, hm?” Those suits stayed put, but they were hard to miss. The gauche shades, the extra bulk beneath the jackets near the waist; their purpose were not hard to divine. And yet, for a young woman surrounded by a circus of deadly and achromic clowns, Kazuki's self-assurance was staggering.
“If you wanted to be left alone, you would be home with these boring boys.” Presumptuous, beyond all bounds of reason, but attractively so - because ego magnetized ego. “But you are here, in the Nook, in this ugly spot, because you are looking for a cure to your boredom.” She pulled back, straightening, hair drifting over the tattoo like smoke, like a whispered promise, before holding out a hand. “Come, dance with me. What do you have to lose?”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
"There is beauty in the repulsive, so I have been told," in her mind's eye she saw the scar hidden like a cicada burrowing into larch, pondering on it as one might a blood splatter on the wall. Her finger absently found the notch, slotting against it with unabashed familiarity, and turned the scar into a wound, gouging the wood with ease and never chipping a nail in the process. The spinel shavings floated to the floor, dainty and magnificent, as her attention wandered to the drifting cloud, that lazy shape coalescing beside her. "It is a convenient excuse for sympathy."
The sharp taste of vodka lingered on her tongue as she clicked it against her teeth. The men did not move.
The woman had no leg to stand on. Home was not overflowing with a menagerie of silent buffoons whose only skill was to snap their meaty hands to their holsters. These men returned to their wives to weep their sorrows, to their husbands and their laps, to lay their weary bald heads; to their bottles and the solace found at the last drop. They were not thought of, their worth judged against supreme efficiency. Valerie would rather play the piano than tolerate their presence in her house, and what a house it was!
The mansion loomed on its lonesome, a stereotype writ large with clumps of flowers snarling underfoot. It had windows with rattling slats that opened outward, both circular and square. It had iron fences sprouting like spiky weeds around a wild jungle of a garden - the lawn had never seen a mower - and ringed around the high stone walls slathered with birch tar and ivy. Valerie missed its clean wintergreen scent; she would not miss Kanbetsu's polluted lungs, nor its fruity glaze.
She wouldn't miss the interior either, which was a dreary and damp place with a single, puttering fireplace to warm twenty rooms in unison. It had so many doors. No chairs, no tables. The only things that really used the floor were tattered, chewed-upon rugs and plump dogs. Sometimes, a single marmalade cat. Always, an army of medieval suits of armor housing the gritty, mealy ashes of her forebearers. Grandmother found it funny, you see. A house within a house... within a house!
"But do not be fooled," Grandmother crooned as her bloody fingers slammed on the ivory keys, "we do not tolerate failure."
Valerie leaned back.
These drinks, they made a fool of her. Not oft did Valerie misjudge the distance between mouth and glass. Twice, to be precise. So she abandoned it and tilted her head up. The woman was tall, Valerie noted, as if there was nothing else of interest. Perhaps she would have to don high stilettos and rock up on her toes to reach the jugular. She stared, eyes too clear for one ten drinks in, bright and piercing through the haze of alcohol pumping through her rich red blood.
The woman was a cloud, and clouds could become storms in a blink.
Valerie did not blink.
The face did not register, only that it was a pretty one. A work of art, and Valerie was always honest. "There is no cure," she said, evaluating the sharpness of the stranger's jaw against the edge of a silver knife. She appreciated the sculpted nose, the eyes devoid of light. She did not have to look at those gorgeous hands which knew the barrel of a pistol as intimately as a lover's throat. She knew their worth and deemed them unnecessary. "Your city is where fun goes to die," she added, slipping her dainty hand into the proffered one.
The stranger was warm, a few degrees above room temperature. This was good. Her nails curled dangerously against the woman's wrist, thumb pressing on the stark blue veins there before seeking the palm. Her index traced the heart line, the mound of Mercury, to the Plains - temperament - to the occupation of fate. She did not have to see them to know their thinness, the fragility of the human spirit and the wayward soul, and how easily she could snap the bone in twine. Then she clasped the hand in its entirety and stood.
Her coat slipped off her shoulders to pool lazily on the leather seat. The woman was tall, she thought with satisfaction. Lean and scrappy. A lone wolf loping after the virile scent of meat. A leopard on its haunches, muscles rippling under sleek fur, a shark chomping at the bit. But Valerie was not the prey or the predator. Nor was she the thick metal bars of a cage, or the heavy padlock on a crate. She was a revelation, a soft shadow veering into textures unknown. She was the unblinking moon devouring the city whole.
Valerie reached up to brush away the smoke from the ink, marveling at the silky smoothness of it silently. She saw the way the ink bloomed at the edges, revealing the age. Tattoos were scars too, and she liked to think about them. "What do I have to lose?" A beat. Not for lack of an answer, but for her lack of mastery over this language. How was she to describe it? "берёза. Birch trees." Oh, tread softly now, for those daggerpoint eyes lacked the gorgeous smile that arched Eros' bow.
But her hands were warm too, and her touch was gentle, so wasn't it such a pity?
"I am a tourist. Show me."
The sharp taste of vodka lingered on her tongue as she clicked it against her teeth. The men did not move.
The woman had no leg to stand on. Home was not overflowing with a menagerie of silent buffoons whose only skill was to snap their meaty hands to their holsters. These men returned to their wives to weep their sorrows, to their husbands and their laps, to lay their weary bald heads; to their bottles and the solace found at the last drop. They were not thought of, their worth judged against supreme efficiency. Valerie would rather play the piano than tolerate their presence in her house, and what a house it was!
The mansion loomed on its lonesome, a stereotype writ large with clumps of flowers snarling underfoot. It had windows with rattling slats that opened outward, both circular and square. It had iron fences sprouting like spiky weeds around a wild jungle of a garden - the lawn had never seen a mower - and ringed around the high stone walls slathered with birch tar and ivy. Valerie missed its clean wintergreen scent; she would not miss Kanbetsu's polluted lungs, nor its fruity glaze.
She wouldn't miss the interior either, which was a dreary and damp place with a single, puttering fireplace to warm twenty rooms in unison. It had so many doors. No chairs, no tables. The only things that really used the floor were tattered, chewed-upon rugs and plump dogs. Sometimes, a single marmalade cat. Always, an army of medieval suits of armor housing the gritty, mealy ashes of her forebearers. Grandmother found it funny, you see. A house within a house... within a house!
"But do not be fooled," Grandmother crooned as her bloody fingers slammed on the ivory keys, "we do not tolerate failure."
Valerie leaned back.
These drinks, they made a fool of her. Not oft did Valerie misjudge the distance between mouth and glass. Twice, to be precise. So she abandoned it and tilted her head up. The woman was tall, Valerie noted, as if there was nothing else of interest. Perhaps she would have to don high stilettos and rock up on her toes to reach the jugular. She stared, eyes too clear for one ten drinks in, bright and piercing through the haze of alcohol pumping through her rich red blood.
The woman was a cloud, and clouds could become storms in a blink.
Valerie did not blink.
The face did not register, only that it was a pretty one. A work of art, and Valerie was always honest. "There is no cure," she said, evaluating the sharpness of the stranger's jaw against the edge of a silver knife. She appreciated the sculpted nose, the eyes devoid of light. She did not have to look at those gorgeous hands which knew the barrel of a pistol as intimately as a lover's throat. She knew their worth and deemed them unnecessary. "Your city is where fun goes to die," she added, slipping her dainty hand into the proffered one.
The stranger was warm, a few degrees above room temperature. This was good. Her nails curled dangerously against the woman's wrist, thumb pressing on the stark blue veins there before seeking the palm. Her index traced the heart line, the mound of Mercury, to the Plains - temperament - to the occupation of fate. She did not have to see them to know their thinness, the fragility of the human spirit and the wayward soul, and how easily she could snap the bone in twine. Then she clasped the hand in its entirety and stood.
Her coat slipped off her shoulders to pool lazily on the leather seat. The woman was tall, she thought with satisfaction. Lean and scrappy. A lone wolf loping after the virile scent of meat. A leopard on its haunches, muscles rippling under sleek fur, a shark chomping at the bit. But Valerie was not the prey or the predator. Nor was she the thick metal bars of a cage, or the heavy padlock on a crate. She was a revelation, a soft shadow veering into textures unknown. She was the unblinking moon devouring the city whole.
Valerie reached up to brush away the smoke from the ink, marveling at the silky smoothness of it silently. She saw the way the ink bloomed at the edges, revealing the age. Tattoos were scars too, and she liked to think about them. "What do I have to lose?" A beat. Not for lack of an answer, but for her lack of mastery over this language. How was she to describe it? "берёза. Birch trees." Oh, tread softly now, for those daggerpoint eyes lacked the gorgeous smile that arched Eros' bow.
But her hands were warm too, and her touch was gentle, so wasn't it such a pity?
"I am a tourist. Show me."
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Wolf. Leopard. Shark.
Instincts, camouflage, superiority.
Like a reflection, like point and counterpoint, gazing upon the cloud always divulged the authentic self. But the unveiling of wisdom required a seeker; the gaze was penetrating, but it did not look. The foreigner who presupposed truism in her words missed the obvious. Such was the price of hubris, the original sin. But whether Valerie would pay for that folly remained to be seen. Not that Kazuki fared any better. Ego was the defiled chalice that they both drank deep from. In her case, overconfidence. So sure that these were her stomping grounds that she could not comprehend the concept of something more terrifying. After all, what dragon, conceited in its aerial domination, searched for danger above itself? But whether pride were her cardinal sin or not, she, like every human, dabbled in all seven.
Right now, it was not hard to guess which manned the wheels. A cool thumb assessed a single heartbeat, index slipping against palm. It kind of tickled, reminiscent of the itch that drove her to the Nook in the first place. That particular urge was not hard to satisfy, not for her, but she had been busy. Preoccupied, for the greater part of two weeks, with the aftermath of an arms deal gone wrong. Flaring pride chased by the flare erupting from carbon steel muzzle, impetuosity terminated by terminal velocity. Well, that was the fun part. The not so fun part involved unruffling feathers, backroom talks, and coexisting with more testosterone than she could stomach in a long while. And so, the Nook. Had her sights locked on the wind down before the inevitable wind up. Suffice to say that the weapon she was keen on discharging wasn’t the S&W 500 tucked into the waistband behind her back.
“If you think Kanbetsu is boring, you’ve been looking in the wrong places.” Kazuki licked the rim of her teeth, chasing the lingering dredges of alcohol. The Russian and what ensued were entirely lost upon her, but the mystery she supped and found delectable. "Luckily for you, I know all the best places." The hand enveloped by hers was a smidgen cooler. Prolonged exposure to frosted glass maybe? Leading, treading boldly rather than soft, Kazuki rounded the booths towards the dance floor.
Here, away from any sort of cushioning to absorb soundwaves, the music thudded louder. Near deafening. The vocal drifted in and out, every other syllable discernible. But that didn’t matter; sin needed no words for its expression. What did matter was the boosted bass, an overabundance of subwoofers working in riotous harmony to produce more than sound, but the feeling of sound. The music was aggressive in an in-your-face-sort-of-way, loud enough to drown out an errant grunt or moan, thundering over and suffocating thoughts. The strong beat easily elevated heartbeats, the synthetic distortions not meant to be listened to, but to guide movements. Fool-proof, some might say, ensuring that even those with two left feet could manage some semblance of rhythm.
On the dance floor, the music and the sweat-infused air made fools out of everyone, regardless of their origin, race, age, profession. The strobe lights contributed to the disorientation, teaming up with coursing ethanol to unsettle and uninhibit. Kazuki could feel her synapses firing, adrenaline surging, and she chased the beat, pursued the crazy, crazy lights. Bold were the cinders of her eyes framed with black, a hint of shimmer beneath the neon. Her natural height advantage compounded by those heeled boots ensured that she gazed down instead of parallel. Bangs fell into her eyes, and she threw her hair back, the curve of her lips something blasé. Bold were the serpentine flux of her hips, drawing attention to just how tight those pants were. Not a dancer, but her experience in clubbing was amply displayed by her synchronization to the music. The roar of the melody inspired her heart to attempt jailbreak, but she just leaned into the pure vitality, jugulars popping with wild abandon. Bold were her hands settling against Valerie’s sides, mapping the contour of waist up before pulling back again.
She didn’t go for a handhold, not immediately, allowing her chosen plus one freedom to express herself. To devise her own cure to ennui. To impress the gaze trained upon her. Because dance was more than a pretext for Kazuki. Because she genuinely enjoyed this. The music. The energy. The vibes. Would have been content to forget herself for hours longer until her muscles burned with revelry, but she wasn’t the only one who had her sights set upon unwrapping that pretty satiny wrapper this night. A man whose face she didn’t recognize, three-quarters concealed behind a highly stylized mask, sought to cut in. Sliding up behind Valerie, the well-dressed stranger slithered closer with the beat, pectorals bumping into naked back, doubtlessly contemplating something a little further before halting mid-step. He swallowed, haze clearing from the chill of that glare perforating his very existence, instincts heeding the laws of primitive order where a substance-dulled psyche faltered.
No words needed to be exchanged, not when the flirtatious touches turned possessive. Bold was no longer adequate to describe Kazuki’s hand on Valerie’s wrist, maneuvering her into a pivot before pulling her back flush against Kazuki’s front. Her chin settled against shoulder, nosing into where light and shadow warred upon aquamarine. Fingers fanned upon stomach with declarative intent, and she huffed a quiet laugh, breath washing over piercings so that the music did not muffle her voice. “Guess what I’m thinking?”
Instincts, camouflage, superiority.
Like a reflection, like point and counterpoint, gazing upon the cloud always divulged the authentic self. But the unveiling of wisdom required a seeker; the gaze was penetrating, but it did not look. The foreigner who presupposed truism in her words missed the obvious. Such was the price of hubris, the original sin. But whether Valerie would pay for that folly remained to be seen. Not that Kazuki fared any better. Ego was the defiled chalice that they both drank deep from. In her case, overconfidence. So sure that these were her stomping grounds that she could not comprehend the concept of something more terrifying. After all, what dragon, conceited in its aerial domination, searched for danger above itself? But whether pride were her cardinal sin or not, she, like every human, dabbled in all seven.
Right now, it was not hard to guess which manned the wheels. A cool thumb assessed a single heartbeat, index slipping against palm. It kind of tickled, reminiscent of the itch that drove her to the Nook in the first place. That particular urge was not hard to satisfy, not for her, but she had been busy. Preoccupied, for the greater part of two weeks, with the aftermath of an arms deal gone wrong. Flaring pride chased by the flare erupting from carbon steel muzzle, impetuosity terminated by terminal velocity. Well, that was the fun part. The not so fun part involved unruffling feathers, backroom talks, and coexisting with more testosterone than she could stomach in a long while. And so, the Nook. Had her sights locked on the wind down before the inevitable wind up. Suffice to say that the weapon she was keen on discharging wasn’t the S&W 500 tucked into the waistband behind her back.
“If you think Kanbetsu is boring, you’ve been looking in the wrong places.” Kazuki licked the rim of her teeth, chasing the lingering dredges of alcohol. The Russian and what ensued were entirely lost upon her, but the mystery she supped and found delectable. "Luckily for you, I know all the best places." The hand enveloped by hers was a smidgen cooler. Prolonged exposure to frosted glass maybe? Leading, treading boldly rather than soft, Kazuki rounded the booths towards the dance floor.
Here, away from any sort of cushioning to absorb soundwaves, the music thudded louder. Near deafening. The vocal drifted in and out, every other syllable discernible. But that didn’t matter; sin needed no words for its expression. What did matter was the boosted bass, an overabundance of subwoofers working in riotous harmony to produce more than sound, but the feeling of sound. The music was aggressive in an in-your-face-sort-of-way, loud enough to drown out an errant grunt or moan, thundering over and suffocating thoughts. The strong beat easily elevated heartbeats, the synthetic distortions not meant to be listened to, but to guide movements. Fool-proof, some might say, ensuring that even those with two left feet could manage some semblance of rhythm.
On the dance floor, the music and the sweat-infused air made fools out of everyone, regardless of their origin, race, age, profession. The strobe lights contributed to the disorientation, teaming up with coursing ethanol to unsettle and uninhibit. Kazuki could feel her synapses firing, adrenaline surging, and she chased the beat, pursued the crazy, crazy lights. Bold were the cinders of her eyes framed with black, a hint of shimmer beneath the neon. Her natural height advantage compounded by those heeled boots ensured that she gazed down instead of parallel. Bangs fell into her eyes, and she threw her hair back, the curve of her lips something blasé. Bold were the serpentine flux of her hips, drawing attention to just how tight those pants were. Not a dancer, but her experience in clubbing was amply displayed by her synchronization to the music. The roar of the melody inspired her heart to attempt jailbreak, but she just leaned into the pure vitality, jugulars popping with wild abandon. Bold were her hands settling against Valerie’s sides, mapping the contour of waist up before pulling back again.
She didn’t go for a handhold, not immediately, allowing her chosen plus one freedom to express herself. To devise her own cure to ennui. To impress the gaze trained upon her. Because dance was more than a pretext for Kazuki. Because she genuinely enjoyed this. The music. The energy. The vibes. Would have been content to forget herself for hours longer until her muscles burned with revelry, but she wasn’t the only one who had her sights set upon unwrapping that pretty satiny wrapper this night. A man whose face she didn’t recognize, three-quarters concealed behind a highly stylized mask, sought to cut in. Sliding up behind Valerie, the well-dressed stranger slithered closer with the beat, pectorals bumping into naked back, doubtlessly contemplating something a little further before halting mid-step. He swallowed, haze clearing from the chill of that glare perforating his very existence, instincts heeding the laws of primitive order where a substance-dulled psyche faltered.
No words needed to be exchanged, not when the flirtatious touches turned possessive. Bold was no longer adequate to describe Kazuki’s hand on Valerie’s wrist, maneuvering her into a pivot before pulling her back flush against Kazuki’s front. Her chin settled against shoulder, nosing into where light and shadow warred upon aquamarine. Fingers fanned upon stomach with declarative intent, and she huffed a quiet laugh, breath washing over piercings so that the music did not muffle her voice. “Guess what I’m thinking?”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Hm!
Like panning for gold, her luck had turned to sparkle and luxury. Fortune favored the bold, favored the bored. Her gums would itch if the alcohol had been 20% less potent, the vodka numbing the insides of her cheeks. It was such a pity her family did not deal in liquor, they could market crates of this stuff -- ah, but she was not here for business, not when the sky was so clear, and there were stormclouds to chase. Valerie could smell the petrichor through the sealed windows, and hear the discordant music of raindrops and wind rattling the sliding doors. It was about as comforting as a drill to the frontal lobe.
"I have not bothered to look, so I cannot be wrong," because her dearest mother, the lovely umbral Lady of the Night, had microchipped the forearms of all her somber, lemon-shaped men, and had their geographical footprints seared into the ancient memory banks. Her grandmother stoutly refused to call them computers. Valerie could give two licks, if not for the very fact that these lumbering GPS signals clung to her like a bad smell. Leeches and parasites forced into old contracts forged by old blood (but let bygones be bygones!); they were beholden to her as the body was beholden to the brain.
The woman exuded a sort of blasphemous confidence. It radiated from her like vaporwaves, addicting in the purest way possible. Valerie did not make track marks on her arms, nor did she tamper with the drugs being shipped out their front door. For her, it was the final thud thud of a heartbeat, the single trickle of blood seeping through her lips. It was the glossy surface of an empty mirror, yearning one day to turn her head and gaze upon her reflection and despair it did not hold up to the real thing. It was the warmth sparking from the stranger's palm to her hand, soothing her knuckles and grounding her someplace solid. She followed quietly, her free hand signing behind her back - some stay, some follow. There was no reason to look over her shoulder and check -- what could they do but obey -- and ducked into the industrial-sized backroom.
The music -- staggering. Her ears might have bled, had the vodka not numbed those too. She was afloat in her own thoughts, shielded by the natural barrier her kind evolved with after centuries of using their allure subconsciously. It took a special sort of idiot to penetrate that. An idiot, or someone very brave, though sometimes there was no discernable difference between them. Salt, sweat, and musk replaced tomato juice and incense, the rain by unintelligible vocals dominated by a score which, by design, left any well-meaning individual ranting and raving for more. The dancefloor was an unhinged maze of colliding masses, a center of gravity meet-cute. The rotating colors of the tiles played their part dutifully: firetruck red, artificial blue, neon green. Repeat, and a one, two, three...
Valerie was not a stranger to nightclubs, she was more of a surveyor than a participant - her contribution was the natural sway of the hips, the rings she made in the air with outstretched arms and thin wrists. She moved closer when she liked, barely brushing up against that loose curtain of a shirt, and never touched. But she did let the woman put her hands on her, let those sleek digits sear heat through her thin dress, let those fingers clutch her waist and slide up her ribcage. Valerie let it happen because she could stop it without wasting a breath. She offered the steering wheel with her own foot pressed gamely on the pedal. It made things more intimate (less humiliating) to mingle with the mortals from which they sucked the wealth, and she enjoyed this too. It was a fallacy, almost a sickness, to lord such power over the timid and weak; it was why she never gunned for those types.
Face-to-chest, it did not annoy her to look up to seek a glimpse of those confident eyes. Smoldering with mischief, gasoline to water, for where there was smoke, there was fire. A weaving inferno spitting heat at those daring to enter, swaying for the moths to the flame. This was a stranger in her own territory, who might know the names of every masked face by the wrinkle of their mouth or the length of their fingers, or what type of gun they preferred to keep covenant with. It was such a gorgeous thought, it had her trembling like a leaf. The woman might have felt it and thought too highly of the quality of the Nook's sound system. Valerie hated to think of praise, especially where it was due, and more than that, she hated to know the sudden breach of her boundaries. Like the slimy grease that lingered that would not wash off even after scrubbing to the bone, it snapped against her skull like a cap. Man or woman, it mattered not; their presence was unwanted all the same.
Fabric met skin.
Her eyes flared, a blazing meteorite burning through the ozone, and her head twitched, a split second away from bisecting the cockroach but they had seen something -- no, not Valerie, for her face had been turned inward to face her stranger. It was the tumultuous waves rolling off the other woman reminiscent of iron spikes. Her stiff hands relaxed by her sides, tense shoulders melting, sharp angles softening even as she was spun around like a record. Valerie's eyes were no longer synonymous with a dying star. They were brilliant and aureate - shall I compare thee to a summer's day? - for her companion had put her in the unfortunate position of playing the dutiful role of a human caught in public. She smiled at the figure in front of her - the man was sweating, a suited silhouette toting a crooked tie and a half-mask filigreed with twisting crimson and purple. He smelled like ice and baby powder. It was sad.
Valerie laid a tender hand upon the fingers splayed against the flat plane of her belly; they radiated a pleasant warmth. "Oh, you play such wicked games," she murmured, all the while staring unblinkingly at the man, waiting for him to finally locate his guts and scurry off. "I'll bite." Her blood sang hot at the notion. The presence of the man vanished from her purview, a drifting mite abandoned to the tsunami. She tilted her cheek so that those lips would graze her jaw. One arm snaked upward to card through silky dark locks, they felt freshly washed and not at all gunky. This was good. Her digits sank a little deeper, pressing up against the scalp. They made a devastating work of art, it was almost worth the drama of pretending.
"You're thinking first come, first serve. Or, what's your name, shall I write it with teeth and tongue? ... or some loose translation of such."
Because Valerie was an explosion and prone to fits of sudden boredom with an attention span baggier than her stranger's clothes.
"You're thinking: I should tell her what I'm thinking, lest she takes my gun."
Like panning for gold, her luck had turned to sparkle and luxury. Fortune favored the bold, favored the bored. Her gums would itch if the alcohol had been 20% less potent, the vodka numbing the insides of her cheeks. It was such a pity her family did not deal in liquor, they could market crates of this stuff -- ah, but she was not here for business, not when the sky was so clear, and there were stormclouds to chase. Valerie could smell the petrichor through the sealed windows, and hear the discordant music of raindrops and wind rattling the sliding doors. It was about as comforting as a drill to the frontal lobe.
"I have not bothered to look, so I cannot be wrong," because her dearest mother, the lovely umbral Lady of the Night, had microchipped the forearms of all her somber, lemon-shaped men, and had their geographical footprints seared into the ancient memory banks. Her grandmother stoutly refused to call them computers. Valerie could give two licks, if not for the very fact that these lumbering GPS signals clung to her like a bad smell. Leeches and parasites forced into old contracts forged by old blood (but let bygones be bygones!); they were beholden to her as the body was beholden to the brain.
The woman exuded a sort of blasphemous confidence. It radiated from her like vaporwaves, addicting in the purest way possible. Valerie did not make track marks on her arms, nor did she tamper with the drugs being shipped out their front door. For her, it was the final thud thud of a heartbeat, the single trickle of blood seeping through her lips. It was the glossy surface of an empty mirror, yearning one day to turn her head and gaze upon her reflection and despair it did not hold up to the real thing. It was the warmth sparking from the stranger's palm to her hand, soothing her knuckles and grounding her someplace solid. She followed quietly, her free hand signing behind her back - some stay, some follow. There was no reason to look over her shoulder and check -- what could they do but obey -- and ducked into the industrial-sized backroom.
The music -- staggering. Her ears might have bled, had the vodka not numbed those too. She was afloat in her own thoughts, shielded by the natural barrier her kind evolved with after centuries of using their allure subconsciously. It took a special sort of idiot to penetrate that. An idiot, or someone very brave, though sometimes there was no discernable difference between them. Salt, sweat, and musk replaced tomato juice and incense, the rain by unintelligible vocals dominated by a score which, by design, left any well-meaning individual ranting and raving for more. The dancefloor was an unhinged maze of colliding masses, a center of gravity meet-cute. The rotating colors of the tiles played their part dutifully: firetruck red, artificial blue, neon green. Repeat, and a one, two, three...
Valerie was not a stranger to nightclubs, she was more of a surveyor than a participant - her contribution was the natural sway of the hips, the rings she made in the air with outstretched arms and thin wrists. She moved closer when she liked, barely brushing up against that loose curtain of a shirt, and never touched. But she did let the woman put her hands on her, let those sleek digits sear heat through her thin dress, let those fingers clutch her waist and slide up her ribcage. Valerie let it happen because she could stop it without wasting a breath. She offered the steering wheel with her own foot pressed gamely on the pedal. It made things more intimate (less humiliating) to mingle with the mortals from which they sucked the wealth, and she enjoyed this too. It was a fallacy, almost a sickness, to lord such power over the timid and weak; it was why she never gunned for those types.
Face-to-chest, it did not annoy her to look up to seek a glimpse of those confident eyes. Smoldering with mischief, gasoline to water, for where there was smoke, there was fire. A weaving inferno spitting heat at those daring to enter, swaying for the moths to the flame. This was a stranger in her own territory, who might know the names of every masked face by the wrinkle of their mouth or the length of their fingers, or what type of gun they preferred to keep covenant with. It was such a gorgeous thought, it had her trembling like a leaf. The woman might have felt it and thought too highly of the quality of the Nook's sound system. Valerie hated to think of praise, especially where it was due, and more than that, she hated to know the sudden breach of her boundaries. Like the slimy grease that lingered that would not wash off even after scrubbing to the bone, it snapped against her skull like a cap. Man or woman, it mattered not; their presence was unwanted all the same.
Fabric met skin.
Her eyes flared, a blazing meteorite burning through the ozone, and her head twitched, a split second away from bisecting the cockroach but they had seen something -- no, not Valerie, for her face had been turned inward to face her stranger. It was the tumultuous waves rolling off the other woman reminiscent of iron spikes. Her stiff hands relaxed by her sides, tense shoulders melting, sharp angles softening even as she was spun around like a record. Valerie's eyes were no longer synonymous with a dying star. They were brilliant and aureate - shall I compare thee to a summer's day? - for her companion had put her in the unfortunate position of playing the dutiful role of a human caught in public. She smiled at the figure in front of her - the man was sweating, a suited silhouette toting a crooked tie and a half-mask filigreed with twisting crimson and purple. He smelled like ice and baby powder. It was sad.
Valerie laid a tender hand upon the fingers splayed against the flat plane of her belly; they radiated a pleasant warmth. "Oh, you play such wicked games," she murmured, all the while staring unblinkingly at the man, waiting for him to finally locate his guts and scurry off. "I'll bite." Her blood sang hot at the notion. The presence of the man vanished from her purview, a drifting mite abandoned to the tsunami. She tilted her cheek so that those lips would graze her jaw. One arm snaked upward to card through silky dark locks, they felt freshly washed and not at all gunky. This was good. Her digits sank a little deeper, pressing up against the scalp. They made a devastating work of art, it was almost worth the drama of pretending.
"You're thinking first come, first serve. Or, what's your name, shall I write it with teeth and tongue? ... or some loose translation of such."
Because Valerie was an explosion and prone to fits of sudden boredom with an attention span baggier than her stranger's clothes.
"You're thinking: I should tell her what I'm thinking, lest she takes my gun."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Kazuki’s attention drifted away from the trespasser; the reason for her attention had ceased. She did not recognize him, for a cat needed not memorize the faces of every mouse that might dart about. Whether he recognized her or not was up for debate, but even if a mouse knew not the name of a particular cat, nature shaped mouse to always recognize its natural butcher. He would skedaddle, because in this world where the strong devoured the weak, being boring was just as appalling as being dead. Because cats were notorious for their constant need for stimulation, and the only entertainment mundane might-as-well-be-corpses had to offer was the process of their unmaking.
Besides, Kazuki already found her diversion for the night. Rubbing the tip of her nose against hair softer than cashmere, she inhaled. The scent was…hard to describe. It was indulgent, and yet not sweet, conjuring the richness of dark chocolate but without the corresponding vanilla. Sensual, aromatic, but unlike the warm ambery resins and woody notes she herself often favored. Not the citrus and floral often found on the other pretty girls she liked to subject to this compromising position either. It was evocative, agreeable, akin to a happy memory; but of what, she could not put her fingers on.
A darkly amused chuckle served as her response to both the risqué guesses and the thinly veiled demand for elucidation. Her free hand palmed the outside of an arm, sliding up, index propping beneath Valerie’s chin, keeping her cheek tilted. Tongue flicked out for a taste upon the tender throat, viper fast, before Kazuki nipped, entirely playfully. “I bite too, what do you know?” Her laugh expelled a torrid gust against the skin she molested, before she continued. “A good guess, but no cigar.” The music continued to drone on, and she acquiesced to its demands, resuming an easy sway. Without pulling away, because her confidence was blasphemous, remember? “I was thinking about how stupid those masks are. Beauty ought to be displayed, and unsightliness cannot be elevated into art by gold filigree.” Kazuki, shallow? Absolutely.
“Besides, they would thwart me from doing this.” Why names, when instead she could author whatever she wished upon that unblemished column? When she could pontificate and desecrate with the feathery brushes of her lips, the heated exhales of her breath, the teasing grazes of her teeth? Their dance transmuted into a two-person affair, like two orbiting planets colliding, held together by the charges of their respective magnetic pulls. By hips brushing over hips and breathes shared in proximity. Kazuki pressed Valerie closer to herself, fingers gliding down along the jugular, measuring for a heartbeat. Her rings were warmed to body temperature, but the contrast offered by the texture was utter hedony. Her other hand slipped lower, palming down a thigh, before shifting higher again to map the sharp contour of hip bones. Followed down one side of that 'v', as if a trail marker for where she intended to trek.
“That’s not a gun, by the way. You are more than welcome to take it though.”
Besides, Kazuki already found her diversion for the night. Rubbing the tip of her nose against hair softer than cashmere, she inhaled. The scent was…hard to describe. It was indulgent, and yet not sweet, conjuring the richness of dark chocolate but without the corresponding vanilla. Sensual, aromatic, but unlike the warm ambery resins and woody notes she herself often favored. Not the citrus and floral often found on the other pretty girls she liked to subject to this compromising position either. It was evocative, agreeable, akin to a happy memory; but of what, she could not put her fingers on.
A darkly amused chuckle served as her response to both the risqué guesses and the thinly veiled demand for elucidation. Her free hand palmed the outside of an arm, sliding up, index propping beneath Valerie’s chin, keeping her cheek tilted. Tongue flicked out for a taste upon the tender throat, viper fast, before Kazuki nipped, entirely playfully. “I bite too, what do you know?” Her laugh expelled a torrid gust against the skin she molested, before she continued. “A good guess, but no cigar.” The music continued to drone on, and she acquiesced to its demands, resuming an easy sway. Without pulling away, because her confidence was blasphemous, remember? “I was thinking about how stupid those masks are. Beauty ought to be displayed, and unsightliness cannot be elevated into art by gold filigree.” Kazuki, shallow? Absolutely.
“Besides, they would thwart me from doing this.” Why names, when instead she could author whatever she wished upon that unblemished column? When she could pontificate and desecrate with the feathery brushes of her lips, the heated exhales of her breath, the teasing grazes of her teeth? Their dance transmuted into a two-person affair, like two orbiting planets colliding, held together by the charges of their respective magnetic pulls. By hips brushing over hips and breathes shared in proximity. Kazuki pressed Valerie closer to herself, fingers gliding down along the jugular, measuring for a heartbeat. Her rings were warmed to body temperature, but the contrast offered by the texture was utter hedony. Her other hand slipped lower, palming down a thigh, before shifting higher again to map the sharp contour of hip bones. Followed down one side of that 'v', as if a trail marker for where she intended to trek.
“That’s not a gun, by the way. You are more than welcome to take it though.”
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Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Valerie felt the intake of air by the slight motion in which lungs and ribs eased against the sharp bones of her shoulder blades. She felt the nose sifting through her hair, and wondered why she was surprised when it was warm rather than wet. Having lost sight of the stranger, it was easy to let her imagination overflow with possibility -- and humans liked this sort of sensory deprivation. It let them hone in on their other senses, having no real control of them otherwise. What a boring life that must be, unable to smell the residue of gunpowder days after the slugs evacuate from the barrel. How difficult and annoying it would be, to jump at every terror that went bump in the night. How unseemly to not understand the difference between the sour and the bitter.
"I didn't," Her voice barely stuttered; it was difficult to tell whether she understood it was not a question. The warmth of the other woman's palm felt like being submerged halfway under hot water. It felt like the comforting suffocation of a gas mask. It felt like a rope. "I don't smoke." Teeth bit into the skin without breaking; that wasn't an issue. Valerie had a fixation with teeth, you see, with the way they arranged the shape of the mouth and the shape of the jaw. She liked that mortals needed to take such good care of theirs, lest they find themselves gumming on porridge at an early age. She liked the variety of shapes, how some canines were more pronounced than molars - how they were no more carnivorous or herbivorous - or how wisdom teeth crowded for space at the back - what a disaster evolution made out of such an important body part!
It wasn't just her, she would be proud to argue. The vast majority of her family was cursed with this oral consumption, this addiction. Their canines were rooted firmly in their gums, which itched for want of something to sink into, which were curved and protruded like a snake's at will. Otherwise, they only differed in aesthetics, being just a little longer and more than a little sharper. She clicked her tongue against these fangs now, a measure of her delight, her expression - unseen - brightening. "I must agree," she said fervently, greedy for a kindred spirit. "Oh, but do you not recall? Art can and should be ugly - there must be a comparison, how else will we come to appreciate beauty?" Valerie meant to speak in rhetoric, but the Japanese, they loved their high-rising intonations, and she did not quite realize how desperate she sounded for affirmation.
"Now," she continued, her hand exploring the boring point of the stranger's elbow with dutiful fascination at the fragility of paper-thin skin, "I think if you had said ugly seeps like pus from a wound, thus the bandage, there would be disagreement. Unmasked sores heal faster," and Valerie traced with gentle fingers up the stark groove of muscle, curling coyly at the hanging sleeve to the neck where the tattoo sat. The throat was smooth and hot, and the woman's pulse jumped under her touch, "but I hope you know that." She didn't even offer a cursory glance at where that other hand was going, content in leaving it uncollared and unleashed, to roam where it pleased until it was time to bid it home.
Valerie was far more interested in the fast-approaching presence of one of her bald companions. She perked up, tilting her head further as a breathy mumble stumbled through the air into her ear before he passed by completely, stinking of cologne and -- hairspray. Grease. Hard gel slicked into a twirling, flirtatious mustache, or, perhaps, the residue. "Mm. I see." The nightwalker reached down to cuff the wandering wrist with an iron grip, her slender fingers locking the woman's hand tight against her thigh. She didn't have to think about strength and their parallels, why waste thoughts that were a certainty?
".50 caliber. American. Are you using 12mm rounds? Are they Soviet-made? I hope not." By word of mouth, the consequence of offering up false information was dire. Her bodyguard knew this, and despite the dreadful boom of the music corroding her eardrums, the silence was deafening. He was sweating like a pig, giving up entirely on feigning disinterest, and was close (she could tell) to backtracking and taking another peek. She pressed back, rough and experimental.
"Ah."
Now, this smile almost reached her eyes as her lip curled to show a flash of pearly whites, the contrast stark against the pale pink of her lips. She turned just so, her profile disturbingly picturesque, and, dare to say, her expression veered closer to this is amusing than I am musing. An eyebrow was arched, the very ends of her side-swept bangs falling into that inhuman gaze. It was as if, once upon a time, she'd stared at an eclipse head-on and the afterimage had burned into cataracts behind the irises, behind the sclera, and now desired to inflict the same on those she found interesting enough to devastate - these eyes looked upon the stranger now, unblinking and -- beguiling.
Tugging the woman closer, she guided her toward the outskirts of the boiling madness. Valerie kept track of time by keeping track of the tracks. Three minutes, borderline four -- times two and a half, that was more than enough minutes and seconds for meaningless hip-grinding and hand-waving. She needed something more substantial to lance the swelling boredom. The crowd parted, as if hydrophobic, when the crashing, clashing waves swept past, the power of Ego combined enough to decimate a nation. She maneuvered them both, her stepping backward and leading the other deeper into the den. Her eyes glittered and gleamed under the pulsing lights, pale sunstones into slivers of amber, and they were keenly fixated on the shadowy, vaguely (unimportant) familiar face. Vaguely, because those memories scurried away under scrutiny, and she didn't care to follow.
Instead, she took one step at a time until her back bumped against the solid surface of a looming wall that was insulated to protect the outside from the inside. The material was coarse and scratched at the naked skin of her slender shoulders. But she made herself comfortable all the same. Up close, Valerie could better appreciate the whip-thin frame of someone who had all ounce of fat and innocence beaten from the flesh and hammered into a tool. A sword, or something similarly sharp. This country loved katanas, but enough to mold their children into caricatures of such? Inane. With cool fingers, she brushed those messy bangs from the smoky dark eyes before wrapping her arms around the tall stranger's nape to tug her down, close enough to offer her neck to lose oneself in, to sink into the sickly bittersweet reminiscent of homesickness; if nostalgia could be bottled and sold, she'd make a killing.
"But, I don't like to play with strangers," Valerie purred soothingly as she combed her hand through that wonderfully dark hair that gleamed like polished obsidian, and scraped her painted nails against the scalp. "I want to know your name, so we can be friends."
"I didn't," Her voice barely stuttered; it was difficult to tell whether she understood it was not a question. The warmth of the other woman's palm felt like being submerged halfway under hot water. It felt like the comforting suffocation of a gas mask. It felt like a rope. "I don't smoke." Teeth bit into the skin without breaking; that wasn't an issue. Valerie had a fixation with teeth, you see, with the way they arranged the shape of the mouth and the shape of the jaw. She liked that mortals needed to take such good care of theirs, lest they find themselves gumming on porridge at an early age. She liked the variety of shapes, how some canines were more pronounced than molars - how they were no more carnivorous or herbivorous - or how wisdom teeth crowded for space at the back - what a disaster evolution made out of such an important body part!
It wasn't just her, she would be proud to argue. The vast majority of her family was cursed with this oral consumption, this addiction. Their canines were rooted firmly in their gums, which itched for want of something to sink into, which were curved and protruded like a snake's at will. Otherwise, they only differed in aesthetics, being just a little longer and more than a little sharper. She clicked her tongue against these fangs now, a measure of her delight, her expression - unseen - brightening. "I must agree," she said fervently, greedy for a kindred spirit. "Oh, but do you not recall? Art can and should be ugly - there must be a comparison, how else will we come to appreciate beauty?" Valerie meant to speak in rhetoric, but the Japanese, they loved their high-rising intonations, and she did not quite realize how desperate she sounded for affirmation.
"Now," she continued, her hand exploring the boring point of the stranger's elbow with dutiful fascination at the fragility of paper-thin skin, "I think if you had said ugly seeps like pus from a wound, thus the bandage, there would be disagreement. Unmasked sores heal faster," and Valerie traced with gentle fingers up the stark groove of muscle, curling coyly at the hanging sleeve to the neck where the tattoo sat. The throat was smooth and hot, and the woman's pulse jumped under her touch, "but I hope you know that." She didn't even offer a cursory glance at where that other hand was going, content in leaving it uncollared and unleashed, to roam where it pleased until it was time to bid it home.
Valerie was far more interested in the fast-approaching presence of one of her bald companions. She perked up, tilting her head further as a breathy mumble stumbled through the air into her ear before he passed by completely, stinking of cologne and -- hairspray. Grease. Hard gel slicked into a twirling, flirtatious mustache, or, perhaps, the residue. "Mm. I see." The nightwalker reached down to cuff the wandering wrist with an iron grip, her slender fingers locking the woman's hand tight against her thigh. She didn't have to think about strength and their parallels, why waste thoughts that were a certainty?
".50 caliber. American. Are you using 12mm rounds? Are they Soviet-made? I hope not." By word of mouth, the consequence of offering up false information was dire. Her bodyguard knew this, and despite the dreadful boom of the music corroding her eardrums, the silence was deafening. He was sweating like a pig, giving up entirely on feigning disinterest, and was close (she could tell) to backtracking and taking another peek. She pressed back, rough and experimental.
"Ah."
Now, this smile almost reached her eyes as her lip curled to show a flash of pearly whites, the contrast stark against the pale pink of her lips. She turned just so, her profile disturbingly picturesque, and, dare to say, her expression veered closer to this is amusing than I am musing. An eyebrow was arched, the very ends of her side-swept bangs falling into that inhuman gaze. It was as if, once upon a time, she'd stared at an eclipse head-on and the afterimage had burned into cataracts behind the irises, behind the sclera, and now desired to inflict the same on those she found interesting enough to devastate - these eyes looked upon the stranger now, unblinking and -- beguiling.
Tugging the woman closer, she guided her toward the outskirts of the boiling madness. Valerie kept track of time by keeping track of the tracks. Three minutes, borderline four -- times two and a half, that was more than enough minutes and seconds for meaningless hip-grinding and hand-waving. She needed something more substantial to lance the swelling boredom. The crowd parted, as if hydrophobic, when the crashing, clashing waves swept past, the power of Ego combined enough to decimate a nation. She maneuvered them both, her stepping backward and leading the other deeper into the den. Her eyes glittered and gleamed under the pulsing lights, pale sunstones into slivers of amber, and they were keenly fixated on the shadowy, vaguely (unimportant) familiar face. Vaguely, because those memories scurried away under scrutiny, and she didn't care to follow.
Instead, she took one step at a time until her back bumped against the solid surface of a looming wall that was insulated to protect the outside from the inside. The material was coarse and scratched at the naked skin of her slender shoulders. But she made herself comfortable all the same. Up close, Valerie could better appreciate the whip-thin frame of someone who had all ounce of fat and innocence beaten from the flesh and hammered into a tool. A sword, or something similarly sharp. This country loved katanas, but enough to mold their children into caricatures of such? Inane. With cool fingers, she brushed those messy bangs from the smoky dark eyes before wrapping her arms around the tall stranger's nape to tug her down, close enough to offer her neck to lose oneself in, to sink into the sickly bittersweet reminiscent of homesickness; if nostalgia could be bottled and sold, she'd make a killing.
"But, I don't like to play with strangers," Valerie purred soothingly as she combed her hand through that wonderfully dark hair that gleamed like polished obsidian, and scraped her painted nails against the scalp. "I want to know your name, so we can be friends."
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“Is ugly truly the foil of beauty though?” Of course it was - the dictionary said as much. But Kazuki never liked school all that much, and even if she did, would probably still defy the black and white axiom just because. “Surround the most beautiful asagao with refuse, and I would think the display repulsive, in whole or in part.” What a strange conversation. Wounds and garbage? But the same did not falter her even a single step, not when she was intimately familiar with the sight of viscera ruining the clean line imparted by well-polished tantō, by the iron and rust of effusing blood.
Kazuki indulged, because talks of unpleasantness evoked next to zero emotional response from her beyond a raised brow at the chosen topic. An insouciance further highlighted by her smooth intonation, tending away from the propensity to pitch higher favored by most Japanese women. “On the contrary, juxtapose the same flower against leaves and stem, against a sea of near identical wild grass, and its vibrant color is more vivacious, its fragile disposition more expressive. Mundanity is the benchmark by which beauty ought to be measured, not ugliness.” She might have changed the subject then, steering towards topics more fitting for the current ambience, but Valerie beat her to the punch.
For the second time, Kazuki’s brow pitched, and she laughed in lieu of an answer. Stilling that licentious touch below the waist at the prompt, she did not test her strength against Valerie’s. Instead, squeezing firmer into the thigh, her thumb rubbed absentminded patterns against the naked skin, juxtaposing the much more intentional circles her hips drew. “So many questions about a mass produced revolver.” Which was to say, who cares? A firearm and its cartridges were but means to an end. Who produced it and where were not matters Kazuki concerned herself with. Whether or not the gun performed was all she paid attention to, only right now, the performance she was keen on didn’t involve stainless steel. And besides, if Valerie kept going, then Kazuki might have to actually stop and do that dreadful thing called thinking. Might have to interrupt her fun and ask some questions herself. Like, ‘who are you’, ‘why is your mustachioed penguin circling like I stole his nesting rock’, and ‘am I gonna have to kill you instead of fuck you ‘cause I really rather do the latter right now.’
Fortunately or unfortunately, she was granted her wish. The conversation tapered off into the rhythmic thump thump thump. Whether the rattling bass or her own heartbeats, it was hard to tell. She pursued the high, immersed herself in the scents and the palpitations, the sweet, sweet serotonin flooding through nerve-endings. Lasers flashed in rotating beams - pencil-thin lines fanning into cones and nets every color of the rainbow. Over and upon, bright enough that she squinted and allowed her bangs to partially shield her gaze. And when the beams drifted over skin, she chased the streaking hues with her lips. Might have recalled a particular skittles commercial if she weren't too busy appreciating the energy. Wasn’t too busy relishing every bounce and bump of that tight rear against her rearing libido.
When the unspoken invite to follow came, Kazuki concurred without much thought. Those mesmerizing eyes arrested her attention. It was like staring into fluorescents, but brighter. A luminosity that almost seemed to bleed out of the sockets into the blanketing darkness. Don’t stare at the sun, they said. You could go blind, they said. Kazuki was bad at listening.
“Are we going to be friends?” She asked, knowing that Valerie would probably answer the rhetorical question anyway. Such a strange girl. Strange eyes. Strange questions. Strange requests. But crazy was a seasoning the yakuza appreciated when served upon a spread so fine. Liked ‘em a little weird, a little out there, anything that wasn’t the yawn-inducing ennui of docile and submissive and excessively polite Japanese. And so, she obliged. “You can call me Zuki.” It was a nickname that she seldom used nowadays, but she appreciated the irony. Zuki, moon, because the stranger had solar eclipses for eyes, and so perhaps it fell upon her to be the moon that obfuscated the sun from the earth.
She flattened her palm into the wall, bracketing that pretty face - did that gesture mean anything to foreigners? A fleeting thought as anthracite surveyed the tribute of unmarred throat, the submetallic luster threatening to catch flame. She had paid the price; whether Valerie reciprocated with a name or not was a non issue, because they were not going to be friends. One of the VIP rooms in the back might have been preferable, but this was good too. Kazuki pressed closer in search of that nameless scent, more comparable to a pheromone than a perfume. Inhaled, greedily, before lapping along the conspicuous jugular. Only this time, she was not quite so playful, not quite so gentle. Blunt teeth snapped their imprints into the thickest cord, before lips pursed and sucked, deepening the mark. Her free hand hooked beneath a thigh, encouraging, no, hoisting the same up to wrap around her waist. She drove forward, chasing pressure. The tightness of her pants proved a blessing and a curse, mostly the latter, as she found herself far more riled than she anticipated. As for the why, she really wasn’t in the right headspace to inquire. And so, she slid her palm up and down, hitched the little black dress up and contorted that plush rear to her rapacious touch. A hint of nail raked along the outside of thigh, a forewarning of her thinning patience, the same as that growl halfway muffled into a litany of kiss slash bite.
“I think that’s enough playing,” her grin curled into the throat, and she dropped her voice into a near silent whisper. “Don’t you find your black-jacketed flies hovering around annoying?” She couldn’t see them from her vantage point, not without bidding a temporary adieu to the monument she was adamant upon carving her obsession into. But she could feel their scrutiny drilling into her back, ever watchful. For what? Who the fuck knows. Couldn’t say that she minded a voyeur or two, but bald penguins were not her preferred target audience. “Ever thought about just sneaking out of here? Shake off your surplus of tails and experience Kanbetsu the way it is meant to be experienced.” She pulled back a fraction, meeting those sunburst eyes with mischief and hunger both. “Alone, in the arms of a dangerous stranger, I mean, well-meaning new friend, hm?” The witching hour and all that came during such time, that was what her sunless optics promised. “I'll even let you pull the trigger - whichever one you want.”
Kazuki indulged, because talks of unpleasantness evoked next to zero emotional response from her beyond a raised brow at the chosen topic. An insouciance further highlighted by her smooth intonation, tending away from the propensity to pitch higher favored by most Japanese women. “On the contrary, juxtapose the same flower against leaves and stem, against a sea of near identical wild grass, and its vibrant color is more vivacious, its fragile disposition more expressive. Mundanity is the benchmark by which beauty ought to be measured, not ugliness.” She might have changed the subject then, steering towards topics more fitting for the current ambience, but Valerie beat her to the punch.
For the second time, Kazuki’s brow pitched, and she laughed in lieu of an answer. Stilling that licentious touch below the waist at the prompt, she did not test her strength against Valerie’s. Instead, squeezing firmer into the thigh, her thumb rubbed absentminded patterns against the naked skin, juxtaposing the much more intentional circles her hips drew. “So many questions about a mass produced revolver.” Which was to say, who cares? A firearm and its cartridges were but means to an end. Who produced it and where were not matters Kazuki concerned herself with. Whether or not the gun performed was all she paid attention to, only right now, the performance she was keen on didn’t involve stainless steel. And besides, if Valerie kept going, then Kazuki might have to actually stop and do that dreadful thing called thinking. Might have to interrupt her fun and ask some questions herself. Like, ‘who are you’, ‘why is your mustachioed penguin circling like I stole his nesting rock’, and ‘am I gonna have to kill you instead of fuck you ‘cause I really rather do the latter right now.’
Fortunately or unfortunately, she was granted her wish. The conversation tapered off into the rhythmic thump thump thump. Whether the rattling bass or her own heartbeats, it was hard to tell. She pursued the high, immersed herself in the scents and the palpitations, the sweet, sweet serotonin flooding through nerve-endings. Lasers flashed in rotating beams - pencil-thin lines fanning into cones and nets every color of the rainbow. Over and upon, bright enough that she squinted and allowed her bangs to partially shield her gaze. And when the beams drifted over skin, she chased the streaking hues with her lips. Might have recalled a particular skittles commercial if she weren't too busy appreciating the energy. Wasn’t too busy relishing every bounce and bump of that tight rear against her rearing libido.
When the unspoken invite to follow came, Kazuki concurred without much thought. Those mesmerizing eyes arrested her attention. It was like staring into fluorescents, but brighter. A luminosity that almost seemed to bleed out of the sockets into the blanketing darkness. Don’t stare at the sun, they said. You could go blind, they said. Kazuki was bad at listening.
“Are we going to be friends?” She asked, knowing that Valerie would probably answer the rhetorical question anyway. Such a strange girl. Strange eyes. Strange questions. Strange requests. But crazy was a seasoning the yakuza appreciated when served upon a spread so fine. Liked ‘em a little weird, a little out there, anything that wasn’t the yawn-inducing ennui of docile and submissive and excessively polite Japanese. And so, she obliged. “You can call me Zuki.” It was a nickname that she seldom used nowadays, but she appreciated the irony. Zuki, moon, because the stranger had solar eclipses for eyes, and so perhaps it fell upon her to be the moon that obfuscated the sun from the earth.
She flattened her palm into the wall, bracketing that pretty face - did that gesture mean anything to foreigners? A fleeting thought as anthracite surveyed the tribute of unmarred throat, the submetallic luster threatening to catch flame. She had paid the price; whether Valerie reciprocated with a name or not was a non issue, because they were not going to be friends. One of the VIP rooms in the back might have been preferable, but this was good too. Kazuki pressed closer in search of that nameless scent, more comparable to a pheromone than a perfume. Inhaled, greedily, before lapping along the conspicuous jugular. Only this time, she was not quite so playful, not quite so gentle. Blunt teeth snapped their imprints into the thickest cord, before lips pursed and sucked, deepening the mark. Her free hand hooked beneath a thigh, encouraging, no, hoisting the same up to wrap around her waist. She drove forward, chasing pressure. The tightness of her pants proved a blessing and a curse, mostly the latter, as she found herself far more riled than she anticipated. As for the why, she really wasn’t in the right headspace to inquire. And so, she slid her palm up and down, hitched the little black dress up and contorted that plush rear to her rapacious touch. A hint of nail raked along the outside of thigh, a forewarning of her thinning patience, the same as that growl halfway muffled into a litany of kiss slash bite.
“I think that’s enough playing,” her grin curled into the throat, and she dropped her voice into a near silent whisper. “Don’t you find your black-jacketed flies hovering around annoying?” She couldn’t see them from her vantage point, not without bidding a temporary adieu to the monument she was adamant upon carving her obsession into. But she could feel their scrutiny drilling into her back, ever watchful. For what? Who the fuck knows. Couldn’t say that she minded a voyeur or two, but bald penguins were not her preferred target audience. “Ever thought about just sneaking out of here? Shake off your surplus of tails and experience Kanbetsu the way it is meant to be experienced.” She pulled back a fraction, meeting those sunburst eyes with mischief and hunger both. “Alone, in the arms of a dangerous stranger, I mean, well-meaning new friend, hm?” The witching hour and all that came during such time, that was what her sunless optics promised. “I'll even let you pull the trigger - whichever one you want.”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Her face fell flat behind her mask, and she said: "Let us agree to disagree."
Do not be fooled, she had more to say! One could talk about everything and anything given enough words and time and patience; words were cotton on the tongue, the time she had aplenty - the patience was debatable. Regardless, she's never said never. There was artistry wormed into the verbal too, and the mouth was the perfect instrument for music, however loud, to evoke feeling. There was poetry, which always left her aggrieved and slightly frantic. She did not cry, but she did sometimes feel the strong pangs of her lagging heart, a consequence of tenderness. She enjoyed the fluidity of a proper conversation, even if language barriers did their best to drag her down, the brain filled the gaps in her understanding where it could. What she did know was that she was sorely passionate about the subject, which was made worse by the stranger's lack of interest.
Disappointed was an understatement. She was downright affronted. She would much rather kiss the ashes of her grandfather than force this engagement, snapping the matter at the neck. Her silence was powerful, the proverbial pin in a bubble; the smoking barrel to the temple. She would be honest and later say that this exchange rankled her for hours after when she cared to remember, and she would add that it was not enough to sour her experience. Maslow's Pyramid was a modified hierarchy for the sunstruck woman, and her basic needs were difficult to quantify. Would reach over and make the woman's face a wet, red hole for her disinterest? Would she take it for her morning meal and make a tent from her bones?
It was her indelible sin, her inability to separate the seed from the core. Hypotheticals lived freely in her frontal lobes.
This was the only reason why she suffered the indignity of having the carpet-textured wall rubbing tightly against her back. That, and her new friend was doing interesting things with her lips, which were hot and soft and left liquor-stained kisses on her throat. They never kept still, forever roving about the soft skin of her neck, over her piercings warmed by huffing exhales of air. "I think so," she said encouragingly, "I have been here in this gentrified country for nearly a month; you are a sight for sore eyes." Because she could not deny the innate spark that came when two gorgeous people collided -- the strength of it enough to create a black hole. It was her dearest opinion that their differing views on good art only fanned the flames.
She drank deep from the inkwells and said: "Zuki, we should be good friends." Valerie liked to be familiar. Zuki was not shy, which encouraged her further. The Japanese were always so prim and proper, and there were so many rules enforced like they were law. Keep to your right, give way for the left, always so polite and smiley. As a tourist, she appreciated it. As an invader, such hospitality was a danger, because there was nothing she would enjoy less than having her conscience play a starring role in future decisions. On the bright side, Kanbetsu had a wonderfully seedy underbelly; the number of drugs and guns she had unearthed was more than enough to warrant a gasp from her hoary grandmother before going silent -- she'd heard this over a secure line, and had hopes that this gasp was only the beginning of a death rattle -- then continued (she was dismayed) to demand that Valerie ship them immediately, or otherwise burn with them!!!
And she certainly took no issue with that. Her men did the dirty, heavy work. She simply made sure her aim was still steady by using the trussed-up yakuza as target practice. But the conversation had sucked all the fun out of the day, and really, she would have liked a friend that night. Alas, her doting penguins were emperors of tedium - she was so upset that thinking about The Great Wave only made her angry. She could not recall which parasite offered his neck, only that she bemoaned she could not purchase it, which made her angrier still. She could not remember his face, only that she drained him dry, leaving irreversible twin punctures on his wrist. His blood was watery and weak, it was pig slop. So when he warbled out the customary word of thanks, she gamely told him to get out and slammed the door on his unconscious bulk.
Valerie was musing about this sour memory at this very moment because Zuki had not asked for her name, and so even the thought of offering never crossed her mind. She was more impressed - taken - by those pretty human teeth sinking into the stiff tendons of her neck, distracted and delighted in the way the other woman hounded after her veins - she was almost proud - and hissed softly when her blood was coaxed to the surface, to blossom and bloom, to wither and fade in the same breath. But the phantom pleasure was still there, the stinging bite throbbing in lockstep with her heartbeat.
A killer's body was surprisingly easy to get comfortable with. Zuki had the firmness of an athlete, like someone who would violently remove any sedentary bone from her skeleton. She was tall without being willowy. She was all hard angles that smelled of smoke and burning cinnamon. But she had the softness too, despite the lean muscles of her arms and despite the strength in which her own thigh was maneuvered into place. Cheeky, Valerie hooked her leg obligingly around the offered waist with unfair ease. She slipped one hand under her stranger's shirt and palmed the firm stomach, marveling at how much work humans put into maintaining the appropriate muscle-to-fat ratio. So much time and energy, yet it would be an easy thing to score ruby-red scars into those curated abdominals, how easy to dig deep into the flesh and make short work of the long intestine.
Instead, she made a soft noise of approval.
She rewarded every prickle of pain and every wild touch by drawing Zuki closer with a nudge of her heel - an easy matter, and it meant she could fully appreciate the full-body contact and the way those teeth and kisses soothed the chill of her skin. Her palm was on a pilgrimage, mapping the long torso and drumming down the xylophone of her stark ribs; committed to memory the sharp jut of her hip and the soft skin of her waist. Valerie never delved below the pants because for one, they were so tight against the legs, they could have been painted on, and two, Zuki would have to work a lot harder than merely existing for the privilege.
It was hard to hear what was said over the ear-blasting music. Zuki had her mouth close enough that her voice was a mere rumble against her throat, and she was almost tempted to yell something back. But then Valerie thought it was unfair to blame the music because she heard her perfectly. It was only that surprise had washed over her and she had frozen up briefly, her villainous eyes burning brighter and wider. Because nobody had ever asked for her opinion on her parade of giants before. They were a constant irritation in her life and it was the only life had. She could not fathom taking a single step outside without spying a black suit with a red tie skulking in the corner. Not just unfathomable, she was unable to conjure that image in her overactive imagination.
The offer was -- bizarre. Never mind that; it was impossible. It was a lie or a trick that only simpletons fell for. Valerie was enamored. "No, I have never thought about it." Her tone was low and conspiratorial as if her Grandmother's face might emerge from the wall beside her to scream Für Elise directly into her eardrums. "Now I am, and I like the thought." She was beginning to suspect that she was drunker than she let on because, historically, she should not be drunk at all. So, logically speaking, it was most certainly a trap.
This did not mean anything, because she was considering dismissing her entire posse, an act with dire consequences such as being staked to the ground for months, or forced to play the piano until her fingers fell off.
But she was not that drunk.
She kissed the woman's cheek chastely, lips sliding forward to whisper in Zuki's ear: "We are in public. They are unable to make proper judgment calls because their brains are swiss cheese." She did not entertain the idea of describing the stranger as dangerous. Mysterious, maybe. Unique. A professional killer. The only threat posed was Valerie's common sensibilities. She was wildly infatuated with the idea of a human who could not smell danger; she loved that Zuki did not ask a surplus of stupid questions, and she liked the way her scent reminded her of a bonfire. Sadly, her only flaw was that she did not think of an open wound art.
"Take me to your haunts," Valerie played along as she ran her fingers across the waistband of Zuki's pants before drifting lazily south, an afterthought despite the stink of lust and want radiating from her friend. "I want to see this danger."
Do not be fooled, she had more to say! One could talk about everything and anything given enough words and time and patience; words were cotton on the tongue, the time she had aplenty - the patience was debatable. Regardless, she's never said never. There was artistry wormed into the verbal too, and the mouth was the perfect instrument for music, however loud, to evoke feeling. There was poetry, which always left her aggrieved and slightly frantic. She did not cry, but she did sometimes feel the strong pangs of her lagging heart, a consequence of tenderness. She enjoyed the fluidity of a proper conversation, even if language barriers did their best to drag her down, the brain filled the gaps in her understanding where it could. What she did know was that she was sorely passionate about the subject, which was made worse by the stranger's lack of interest.
Disappointed was an understatement. She was downright affronted. She would much rather kiss the ashes of her grandfather than force this engagement, snapping the matter at the neck. Her silence was powerful, the proverbial pin in a bubble; the smoking barrel to the temple. She would be honest and later say that this exchange rankled her for hours after when she cared to remember, and she would add that it was not enough to sour her experience. Maslow's Pyramid was a modified hierarchy for the sunstruck woman, and her basic needs were difficult to quantify. Would reach over and make the woman's face a wet, red hole for her disinterest? Would she take it for her morning meal and make a tent from her bones?
It was her indelible sin, her inability to separate the seed from the core. Hypotheticals lived freely in her frontal lobes.
This was the only reason why she suffered the indignity of having the carpet-textured wall rubbing tightly against her back. That, and her new friend was doing interesting things with her lips, which were hot and soft and left liquor-stained kisses on her throat. They never kept still, forever roving about the soft skin of her neck, over her piercings warmed by huffing exhales of air. "I think so," she said encouragingly, "I have been here in this gentrified country for nearly a month; you are a sight for sore eyes." Because she could not deny the innate spark that came when two gorgeous people collided -- the strength of it enough to create a black hole. It was her dearest opinion that their differing views on good art only fanned the flames.
She drank deep from the inkwells and said: "Zuki, we should be good friends." Valerie liked to be familiar. Zuki was not shy, which encouraged her further. The Japanese were always so prim and proper, and there were so many rules enforced like they were law. Keep to your right, give way for the left, always so polite and smiley. As a tourist, she appreciated it. As an invader, such hospitality was a danger, because there was nothing she would enjoy less than having her conscience play a starring role in future decisions. On the bright side, Kanbetsu had a wonderfully seedy underbelly; the number of drugs and guns she had unearthed was more than enough to warrant a gasp from her hoary grandmother before going silent -- she'd heard this over a secure line, and had hopes that this gasp was only the beginning of a death rattle -- then continued (she was dismayed) to demand that Valerie ship them immediately, or otherwise burn with them!!!
And she certainly took no issue with that. Her men did the dirty, heavy work. She simply made sure her aim was still steady by using the trussed-up yakuza as target practice. But the conversation had sucked all the fun out of the day, and really, she would have liked a friend that night. Alas, her doting penguins were emperors of tedium - she was so upset that thinking about The Great Wave only made her angry. She could not recall which parasite offered his neck, only that she bemoaned she could not purchase it, which made her angrier still. She could not remember his face, only that she drained him dry, leaving irreversible twin punctures on his wrist. His blood was watery and weak, it was pig slop. So when he warbled out the customary word of thanks, she gamely told him to get out and slammed the door on his unconscious bulk.
Valerie was musing about this sour memory at this very moment because Zuki had not asked for her name, and so even the thought of offering never crossed her mind. She was more impressed - taken - by those pretty human teeth sinking into the stiff tendons of her neck, distracted and delighted in the way the other woman hounded after her veins - she was almost proud - and hissed softly when her blood was coaxed to the surface, to blossom and bloom, to wither and fade in the same breath. But the phantom pleasure was still there, the stinging bite throbbing in lockstep with her heartbeat.
A killer's body was surprisingly easy to get comfortable with. Zuki had the firmness of an athlete, like someone who would violently remove any sedentary bone from her skeleton. She was tall without being willowy. She was all hard angles that smelled of smoke and burning cinnamon. But she had the softness too, despite the lean muscles of her arms and despite the strength in which her own thigh was maneuvered into place. Cheeky, Valerie hooked her leg obligingly around the offered waist with unfair ease. She slipped one hand under her stranger's shirt and palmed the firm stomach, marveling at how much work humans put into maintaining the appropriate muscle-to-fat ratio. So much time and energy, yet it would be an easy thing to score ruby-red scars into those curated abdominals, how easy to dig deep into the flesh and make short work of the long intestine.
Instead, she made a soft noise of approval.
She rewarded every prickle of pain and every wild touch by drawing Zuki closer with a nudge of her heel - an easy matter, and it meant she could fully appreciate the full-body contact and the way those teeth and kisses soothed the chill of her skin. Her palm was on a pilgrimage, mapping the long torso and drumming down the xylophone of her stark ribs; committed to memory the sharp jut of her hip and the soft skin of her waist. Valerie never delved below the pants because for one, they were so tight against the legs, they could have been painted on, and two, Zuki would have to work a lot harder than merely existing for the privilege.
It was hard to hear what was said over the ear-blasting music. Zuki had her mouth close enough that her voice was a mere rumble against her throat, and she was almost tempted to yell something back. But then Valerie thought it was unfair to blame the music because she heard her perfectly. It was only that surprise had washed over her and she had frozen up briefly, her villainous eyes burning brighter and wider. Because nobody had ever asked for her opinion on her parade of giants before. They were a constant irritation in her life and it was the only life had. She could not fathom taking a single step outside without spying a black suit with a red tie skulking in the corner. Not just unfathomable, she was unable to conjure that image in her overactive imagination.
The offer was -- bizarre. Never mind that; it was impossible. It was a lie or a trick that only simpletons fell for. Valerie was enamored. "No, I have never thought about it." Her tone was low and conspiratorial as if her Grandmother's face might emerge from the wall beside her to scream Für Elise directly into her eardrums. "Now I am, and I like the thought." She was beginning to suspect that she was drunker than she let on because, historically, she should not be drunk at all. So, logically speaking, it was most certainly a trap.
This did not mean anything, because she was considering dismissing her entire posse, an act with dire consequences such as being staked to the ground for months, or forced to play the piano until her fingers fell off.
But she was not that drunk.
She kissed the woman's cheek chastely, lips sliding forward to whisper in Zuki's ear: "We are in public. They are unable to make proper judgment calls because their brains are swiss cheese." She did not entertain the idea of describing the stranger as dangerous. Mysterious, maybe. Unique. A professional killer. The only threat posed was Valerie's common sensibilities. She was wildly infatuated with the idea of a human who could not smell danger; she loved that Zuki did not ask a surplus of stupid questions, and she liked the way her scent reminded her of a bonfire. Sadly, her only flaw was that she did not think of an open wound art.
"Take me to your haunts," Valerie played along as she ran her fingers across the waistband of Zuki's pants before drifting lazily south, an afterthought despite the stink of lust and want radiating from her friend. "I want to see this danger."
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Well, rules were made to be broken. Although, in this case, perhaps what Kazuki intended upon breaking was less a set of rules and more a state of being. She shuddered to think of such a lifestyle, under constant surveillance, kept corralled like livestock by a pack of overzealous sheepdogs. Perhaps later she might realize the irony of that comparison, or perhaps not. It didn’t matter because damn the consequences, only the here and now carried weight. Because humans, the fleeting creatures that they were, pursued life that much more vigorously, that much more radiantly, precisely for that want of time.
“I did promise all the best sights.” Her grin was infectious in a way. Indubiously cocky, but full of life. Steeped in youthful vitality, aged with devilish charm. “But first, a disappearing act. I’m gonna regret not seeing the look on their faces when they realize that I’ve whisked you away, but that’s a small price to pay.” This time, she simply took Valerie’s hand in hers, leading back towards the center of the dance floor. Not a straight line, Kazuki zigzagged in no discerning pattern, tapping a shoulder here and there. At random? No, like stars encircling the moon or puppets dancing upon string, her men pulled away from their respective recreations to loosely surround her and her guest. Those shredded penguins with their shredded brains circled closer, having lost their line of sight. Broader and taller shoulders bobbed and weaved like an obstacle course, fanning and rotating and never quite revealing what might or might not be in their midst.
Kazuki pulled Valerie through a back door, ducked into a tight corridor, before re-emerging into the night. Everything smelled damp, but the rain had stopped. Lights spilt onto and vacillated upon the liquid canvas, shifting and waving like those strange balloons outside of car dealerships. Only more neon, because Kanbetsu loved its hot pink and cyan blue. The overabundance of fluorescent lights competed against the moon, and Kazuki blinked a few times to help her vision adjust to the more natural lighting. The ‘more’ being the keyword. “Consider yourself successfully kidnapped,” her relaxed posture suggested humor, eyes something blithe and self-satisfied. “Come on, your chariot awaits.”
Said chariot was a motorcycle, shocking! Only, this was no street bike. Sleek black and bulky, the size of the engine alone declared its entirely unnecessarily necessary maximum velocity. The custom rims barely scratched the surface of how much this particular bike had been modified. “Ever rode one of these babies?” She popped open one of the back saddlebags, producing two identical helmets with LEDS encircling from the back of the head to the chin. Holding one of ‘em out in offering, she steadied the bike with the other. “Put it on, you are not riding organ donor, and hop on. I have somewhere in mind but, first, can you climb? And I mean climb, no ladders.”
“I did promise all the best sights.” Her grin was infectious in a way. Indubiously cocky, but full of life. Steeped in youthful vitality, aged with devilish charm. “But first, a disappearing act. I’m gonna regret not seeing the look on their faces when they realize that I’ve whisked you away, but that’s a small price to pay.” This time, she simply took Valerie’s hand in hers, leading back towards the center of the dance floor. Not a straight line, Kazuki zigzagged in no discerning pattern, tapping a shoulder here and there. At random? No, like stars encircling the moon or puppets dancing upon string, her men pulled away from their respective recreations to loosely surround her and her guest. Those shredded penguins with their shredded brains circled closer, having lost their line of sight. Broader and taller shoulders bobbed and weaved like an obstacle course, fanning and rotating and never quite revealing what might or might not be in their midst.
Kazuki pulled Valerie through a back door, ducked into a tight corridor, before re-emerging into the night. Everything smelled damp, but the rain had stopped. Lights spilt onto and vacillated upon the liquid canvas, shifting and waving like those strange balloons outside of car dealerships. Only more neon, because Kanbetsu loved its hot pink and cyan blue. The overabundance of fluorescent lights competed against the moon, and Kazuki blinked a few times to help her vision adjust to the more natural lighting. The ‘more’ being the keyword. “Consider yourself successfully kidnapped,” her relaxed posture suggested humor, eyes something blithe and self-satisfied. “Come on, your chariot awaits.”
Said chariot was a motorcycle, shocking! Only, this was no street bike. Sleek black and bulky, the size of the engine alone declared its entirely unnecessarily necessary maximum velocity. The custom rims barely scratched the surface of how much this particular bike had been modified. “Ever rode one of these babies?” She popped open one of the back saddlebags, producing two identical helmets with LEDS encircling from the back of the head to the chin. Holding one of ‘em out in offering, she steadied the bike with the other. “Put it on, you are not riding organ donor, and hop on. I have somewhere in mind but, first, can you climb? And I mean climb, no ladders.”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
The corner of her lip lifted, Valerie's shoulder rising in mockery, a crude shrug that paired like fine wine to rotten meat. "Imagine a sack of lemons, and imagine the sack has realized how sour their innards taste. It is a close enough comparison; they are not worth your hard-earned regret."
Ever faithful to herself, the nightwalker envisioned it, clear as day as she dogged the heels of her savior. Those lumbering, sculpted masses that literally stood head and shoulders above the vast majority of the crowd could not pick out the luminous blue amid seizure-inducing lights. They could not comprehend the storm of ink and mute thunder streaking through the living pulse of the Nook, stealing away their charge in a whirlwind of crackling ozone. They were aghast and, if they knew how to, would pucker their lips but alas, they were not proficient with human expression.
Only decades of brutal reinforcement stopped these hulked-out men from drawing their pistols. Decades of reinforcement, and unexpected retaliation.
They could not comprehend a complete circle. Zuki had her own entourage, she noted without fail, and this fact was not inconsequential. It was no easy task to command a functioning brain that was not your own, speaking from undeniable experience. They burst through the crowd like shotgun pellets to the skull, Valerie was more than willing to entertain life outside of the sweaty club - not because she hated clubs, but because she so desperately wanted a change in scenery.
Petrichor hit her nose and emphasized just how wobbly she felt. A breathing body was not easy to maintain, but it had its uses. Valerie tilted her chin and breathed in deep, filling her lungs with that musty, earthy scent and heavy, expensive smog. Her upturned eyes greeted the forest of highrise buildings, those towering monoliths shielding the stars from her unnatural gaze. Kanbetsu was a city awash in color with two shades dominating the rest -- a clear sign of favoritism. A muted pink that would otherwise be eye-watering frolicked with an electric, methane blue: a commonplace combination.
What a difference between the iris black, the tumultuous grey, and bone white of her home. Such a change from the muted brown of overgrown weeds. It made her sick.
"Chariot," Valerie said, ever mindful of her guest. She swept her attention back to her stranger-come-friend. The consistent blur of pink and blue highlighted the sharp edges, the artful angle of her nose and cheek. The shadows of her raised sternum were made starker still by the crisp white of her rumpled shirt. Her long arms, her long legs, the accompaniment of a pianist's fingers. She looked away, compartmentalized the faint stirring, and blinked - finally! - at the motorcycle. Garish. Revving it probably broke the sound barrier. Zuki had a certain taste, and it showed in the paint job and heavily customized parts. Valerie was not accustomed to vehicles with two wheels and it showed.
"A chariot, historically, uses horses." Well, now she was just being pedantic. Yet another flaw. She still took the helmet, turned it around in her hands, and tested the weight as if the knowledge she gleaned mattered. It looked like cheap plastic to her. It felt like it would break under minimal pressure; it would protect the interior of her head as effectively as a top hat. She put it on and was immediately aware of her vodka-infused breath. The padding pushed against her cheeks, she was surprised the visor did not immediately fog. Her gorgeous eyes shone through though, two unwavering, glowing lures in the watery black void.
Her dress was not suited for this. The fabric rucked up her leg as Valerie moved to straddle the seat, undoubtedly displaying an obscene amount of skin and the knife strapped around her upper thigh. She used her palms to hoist herself and keep from keeling over. The bike being on a slight angle helped, but she was so out of her element, she was a beautiful fish out of water. "I can climb." Her voice knocked about eerily in the borrowed helmet, but she was satisfied to know the absence of anxiety, recognizing the tonal sways as those borne from excitement.
Then, because she was still mildly peevish, said: "There is nothing wrong with a good ladder."
Ever faithful to herself, the nightwalker envisioned it, clear as day as she dogged the heels of her savior. Those lumbering, sculpted masses that literally stood head and shoulders above the vast majority of the crowd could not pick out the luminous blue amid seizure-inducing lights. They could not comprehend the storm of ink and mute thunder streaking through the living pulse of the Nook, stealing away their charge in a whirlwind of crackling ozone. They were aghast and, if they knew how to, would pucker their lips but alas, they were not proficient with human expression.
Only decades of brutal reinforcement stopped these hulked-out men from drawing their pistols. Decades of reinforcement, and unexpected retaliation.
They could not comprehend a complete circle. Zuki had her own entourage, she noted without fail, and this fact was not inconsequential. It was no easy task to command a functioning brain that was not your own, speaking from undeniable experience. They burst through the crowd like shotgun pellets to the skull, Valerie was more than willing to entertain life outside of the sweaty club - not because she hated clubs, but because she so desperately wanted a change in scenery.
Petrichor hit her nose and emphasized just how wobbly she felt. A breathing body was not easy to maintain, but it had its uses. Valerie tilted her chin and breathed in deep, filling her lungs with that musty, earthy scent and heavy, expensive smog. Her upturned eyes greeted the forest of highrise buildings, those towering monoliths shielding the stars from her unnatural gaze. Kanbetsu was a city awash in color with two shades dominating the rest -- a clear sign of favoritism. A muted pink that would otherwise be eye-watering frolicked with an electric, methane blue: a commonplace combination.
What a difference between the iris black, the tumultuous grey, and bone white of her home. Such a change from the muted brown of overgrown weeds. It made her sick.
"Chariot," Valerie said, ever mindful of her guest. She swept her attention back to her stranger-come-friend. The consistent blur of pink and blue highlighted the sharp edges, the artful angle of her nose and cheek. The shadows of her raised sternum were made starker still by the crisp white of her rumpled shirt. Her long arms, her long legs, the accompaniment of a pianist's fingers. She looked away, compartmentalized the faint stirring, and blinked - finally! - at the motorcycle. Garish. Revving it probably broke the sound barrier. Zuki had a certain taste, and it showed in the paint job and heavily customized parts. Valerie was not accustomed to vehicles with two wheels and it showed.
"A chariot, historically, uses horses." Well, now she was just being pedantic. Yet another flaw. She still took the helmet, turned it around in her hands, and tested the weight as if the knowledge she gleaned mattered. It looked like cheap plastic to her. It felt like it would break under minimal pressure; it would protect the interior of her head as effectively as a top hat. She put it on and was immediately aware of her vodka-infused breath. The padding pushed against her cheeks, she was surprised the visor did not immediately fog. Her gorgeous eyes shone through though, two unwavering, glowing lures in the watery black void.
Her dress was not suited for this. The fabric rucked up her leg as Valerie moved to straddle the seat, undoubtedly displaying an obscene amount of skin and the knife strapped around her upper thigh. She used her palms to hoist herself and keep from keeling over. The bike being on a slight angle helped, but she was so out of her element, she was a beautiful fish out of water. "I can climb." Her voice knocked about eerily in the borrowed helmet, but she was satisfied to know the absence of anxiety, recognizing the tonal sways as those borne from excitement.
Then, because she was still mildly peevish, said: "There is nothing wrong with a good ladder."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
An entourage? Nah. Kazuki wasn’t in the business of herding penguins nor being herded by penguins. Besides, call it recklessness or a fatal attraction to danger, she was never one to make plans regarding her own safety. Live well, not long, that could have been her motto if she believed in having one. Rather, this was Yamauchi’s city. Her city. The yakuza held no formal titles, but there were no doubts about who ran the show around here. The mayor? He served at their leisure. Violence was ever the surest gambit to power, and failing that, there was always blackmail to fall back on. A legion of ants could devour an elephant, and this city was crawling with gaunt soldier-ants scurrying about their business. Doing whatever, wherever, but always falling in line when called upon. Kanbetsu was both the colony’s home and the carcass it gorged upon.
It didn’t matter though. Because that wasn’t the game they were playing. Ignorance was bliss, so they said. The more willful the ignorance, the sweeter the bliss. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But oh, there wasn’t anything in there about fucking evil, was there?
“Alright, Ms. history buff, feet up here.” Kazuki tapped the crash bars with the metallic toe of her boots, indicating where she wanted Valerie to balance herself. Going back to the saddlebags, she pulled out her jacket - leather, matching the pants, of course - and shook it loose. Thought better of it before she put it on though. It was kind of chilly, what with the fresh rain and all. And, though Valerie displayed no obvious signs of being affected by the temperature, Kazuki couldn’t imagine that the very hot little black dress actually provided any heat, in that way at least.
And so, with zero fanfare, she draped her jacket over those hilariously tense shoulders - greenness declared without actual need for words. Letting a new rider ride upfront? Incredibly dangerous, not to mention illegal - which was to say, absolutely her idea of a good time. The knife was noticed but not remarked upon, because they were doing that ignoring the obvious thing, remember? And besides, a thigh-strap-sheath was oh-so-boring and commonplace around here. What had her gaze lingering in the general vicinity certainly wasn’t the knife.
Donning her own helmet, she threw a leg over the bike in a practiced sweep, bracketed Valerie’s arms with her own, and cozied up close. “Riding’s not too different from dancing,” her voice came distorted by the helmet, almost synthetic, like this entire city. “Just relax and follow my motions. No sudden movements and we won’t have any problems.” Problems such as being turned into ground beef on asphalt, but hey, at least they would make the world’s hottest patties.
“Oh, and have fun.” The b-braaaaaap of the engine didn’t break the sound barrier, but it was a damn near thing. Coasting was a word missing from Kazuki’s dictionary, because the speed ramped…ramped…and then ramped some more. It wasn’t a slow and steady fare either; Valerie had asked to be shown the danger, and the purr of the engine was certainly not for show. Now, rapid acceleration, that was something a top-of-the-line four-wheeler could manage just fine as well. But going 100 kmh in under three seconds on a bike was an entirely different experience. It was the way the engine rumbled - like experiencing a storm cloud, but between your legs. The wind flattened clothing against the front and fluttered sleeves and hair in imitations of billowing warbanners. The helmet, as it turned out, wasn’t even so much for protection from a potential fall as merely existing to shield where eyelids could not.
Everything was more. The smells. Humans couldn’t smell worth shit. (Or smell the shit, half the time). But that wasn’t true when said humans rode 200 kilos of metal forged with human ingenuity. Good. Bad. The world rushed by in lungfuls of air, petrichor and asphalt. Exhaust, the burning rubber, the flowerbed from the rapidly disappearing central garden. The sounds. Rushing air, the vrrrrrrr that pitched higher anytime Kazuki fed the engine. Simultaneously pleasing like a full-scale orchestra and a pig being slaughtered all at once. And of course, adrenaline. Endorphins. Who needed drugs when every twist of the wrist could supply an infinite feedback loop of more?
The world passed by in a blur, or perhaps it was they who passed the world in a blur of black and neon. Narrow city streets, well-paved highways and rain-softened dirt, the trusty chariot handled everything with gusto. Traffic ebbed and flowed, but they were the lightning zigzagging its way into the realm of mortals, the sprinting cheetah bolting through a herd of lumbering buffalos. Humans were not designed to go faster than the speed capable by their own two legs, and this was many times that. 200…240…280… at some point, speed was just a number. Instincts revolted many ticks ago, but Kazuki loved suppressing those instincts. Because this was the closest thing to flying. The next best thing to true freedom.
She was almost sorry when they pulled to a stop.
This part of town…was it still a town? If Kanbestu was color and lights, then this was the absence thereof. There were still lights - the nightless city loomed not far. But dimmer. This was Kanbetsu before all that was Kanbetsu came to be. This was the quintessential Japanese forgotten somewhere in the equation. The temple - what used to be a temple - was tall. The chipped red veneer spoke to better days, and the dilapidated gates housed…rats? Squatters? Kazuki didn’t care to find out. The interior of this age-worn building never interested her. She parked the motorcycle at a lean, pulled her helmet off, and ran her fingers through her hopelessly tousled hair. “Still in one piece? Let’s see those climbing skills then, shall we?” And grin.
It didn’t matter though. Because that wasn’t the game they were playing. Ignorance was bliss, so they said. The more willful the ignorance, the sweeter the bliss. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But oh, there wasn’t anything in there about fucking evil, was there?
“Alright, Ms. history buff, feet up here.” Kazuki tapped the crash bars with the metallic toe of her boots, indicating where she wanted Valerie to balance herself. Going back to the saddlebags, she pulled out her jacket - leather, matching the pants, of course - and shook it loose. Thought better of it before she put it on though. It was kind of chilly, what with the fresh rain and all. And, though Valerie displayed no obvious signs of being affected by the temperature, Kazuki couldn’t imagine that the very hot little black dress actually provided any heat, in that way at least.
And so, with zero fanfare, she draped her jacket over those hilariously tense shoulders - greenness declared without actual need for words. Letting a new rider ride upfront? Incredibly dangerous, not to mention illegal - which was to say, absolutely her idea of a good time. The knife was noticed but not remarked upon, because they were doing that ignoring the obvious thing, remember? And besides, a thigh-strap-sheath was oh-so-boring and commonplace around here. What had her gaze lingering in the general vicinity certainly wasn’t the knife.
Donning her own helmet, she threw a leg over the bike in a practiced sweep, bracketed Valerie’s arms with her own, and cozied up close. “Riding’s not too different from dancing,” her voice came distorted by the helmet, almost synthetic, like this entire city. “Just relax and follow my motions. No sudden movements and we won’t have any problems.” Problems such as being turned into ground beef on asphalt, but hey, at least they would make the world’s hottest patties.
“Oh, and have fun.” The b-braaaaaap of the engine didn’t break the sound barrier, but it was a damn near thing. Coasting was a word missing from Kazuki’s dictionary, because the speed ramped…ramped…and then ramped some more. It wasn’t a slow and steady fare either; Valerie had asked to be shown the danger, and the purr of the engine was certainly not for show. Now, rapid acceleration, that was something a top-of-the-line four-wheeler could manage just fine as well. But going 100 kmh in under three seconds on a bike was an entirely different experience. It was the way the engine rumbled - like experiencing a storm cloud, but between your legs. The wind flattened clothing against the front and fluttered sleeves and hair in imitations of billowing warbanners. The helmet, as it turned out, wasn’t even so much for protection from a potential fall as merely existing to shield where eyelids could not.
Everything was more. The smells. Humans couldn’t smell worth shit. (Or smell the shit, half the time). But that wasn’t true when said humans rode 200 kilos of metal forged with human ingenuity. Good. Bad. The world rushed by in lungfuls of air, petrichor and asphalt. Exhaust, the burning rubber, the flowerbed from the rapidly disappearing central garden. The sounds. Rushing air, the vrrrrrrr that pitched higher anytime Kazuki fed the engine. Simultaneously pleasing like a full-scale orchestra and a pig being slaughtered all at once. And of course, adrenaline. Endorphins. Who needed drugs when every twist of the wrist could supply an infinite feedback loop of more?
The world passed by in a blur, or perhaps it was they who passed the world in a blur of black and neon. Narrow city streets, well-paved highways and rain-softened dirt, the trusty chariot handled everything with gusto. Traffic ebbed and flowed, but they were the lightning zigzagging its way into the realm of mortals, the sprinting cheetah bolting through a herd of lumbering buffalos. Humans were not designed to go faster than the speed capable by their own two legs, and this was many times that. 200…240…280… at some point, speed was just a number. Instincts revolted many ticks ago, but Kazuki loved suppressing those instincts. Because this was the closest thing to flying. The next best thing to true freedom.
She was almost sorry when they pulled to a stop.
This part of town…was it still a town? If Kanbestu was color and lights, then this was the absence thereof. There were still lights - the nightless city loomed not far. But dimmer. This was Kanbetsu before all that was Kanbetsu came to be. This was the quintessential Japanese forgotten somewhere in the equation. The temple - what used to be a temple - was tall. The chipped red veneer spoke to better days, and the dilapidated gates housed…rats? Squatters? Kazuki didn’t care to find out. The interior of this age-worn building never interested her. She parked the motorcycle at a lean, pulled her helmet off, and ran her fingers through her hopelessly tousled hair. “Still in one piece? Let’s see those climbing skills then, shall we?” And grin.
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
"Your mileage may vary," Valerie quipped dryly, moving her legs where Zuki wanted them. "I don't speak from the books." The heavy heat of leather wrapped uncomfortably around her shoulders like an ill-fitting glove. She was used to the fur, not the tanned hide. Real fur. Lynx, for its white belly, the Russian sable, the slate-blue chinchilla, they all knew the exquisite curve of her shoulders, having laved a thousand tickling kisses along her neck and jaw. The jacket smelled of smoke and tar, of citrus sweat, and soap stains. It frankly made the warm buzz in her ears slow, like the radio was not quite tuned to the proper station and there was that irregular static -- rising.
She did not reply immediately. Rather, she was too focused on the way her body shifted from being at an odd slant to being perfectly upright - her organs and bones had to adjust. The woman's body was a firm board behind her and radiated not an insignificant amount of heat. It was comfortably sturdy. It made her feel safe the way a fence with an open gate did. Valerie's thighs tensed as the engine hummed to life beneath her, the vibrations coursing hotly through her. Her fingers tightened around the handles, white to the knuckles as two wheels crunched the gravel underneath, and then, they were off.
Off to the races. They were a shooting star racing over puddles of water that sprayed liquid night under the merciless treads. She imagined black smoke streaming from the exhaust pipe as she held on; a fall wouldn't kill her, but it would do a pretty number on the rest of her. Once the first millennia (three seconds) had passed, she opened her eyes which had since then been squeezed shut, to peer through the tinted visor. Molten gold drank in the city lights streaking past in mere splotches of lines, all of it blurring into dribbly grey and eye-watering variations of off-white. The helmet dampened the noise, but she could still hear them clearly -- the passing shriek of night owls that came and went like sound bytes. The consistent roar of the mechanical beast, the pumping pistons and rocks obliterated by heavy tires.
Valerie heard Zuki's breathing too. The way she anticipated the tight pressure accompanying the exhale, the synchronization of engine and lungfuls of air. The blown-up excitement made her body tremble alongside the rumble of the bike. It was mesmerizing, and once or twice, she found herself shifting back to close the space between them, found herself stretching her pinky out to tease a point of contact with those long fingers wrapped around the rubber throttle. She paid scant attention to the rest of the world, it had turned into a syrupy background. Cars became shadows in her periphery, people were pricks of slow-moving tokens. Traffic lights were a suggestion lightly toyed with.
There was no comparison to the steadfast pace of a troika. With three horses abreast, she was used to showing off speed, style, and pedigree. Trotting out Andalusian with rich brown coats in the summer, or a trio of Arabian with their pale, dappled hair and finely combed manes. Astride a metallic construction that you could not tame into submission, Valerie found a different sort of liberation. Zuki, with a single spasm, could have jerked the handlebars and sent the pair flying onto the road or into a ditch. With her back to the stranger and none of her men in sight, Zuki could have held a gun to her temple and shot her point-blank.
Which would kill her and do a pretty number on the rest of her.
Lost in her reverie of ways to die, Valerie did not realize they were slowing down until all the noise and pollution caught up with her like bad karma. It was the polluted smell of an over populous city commingled with unsheared hedges. It was the exciting smell of mold and dirt that had been rained on and left to bake in the sun multiple times without ever being overturned by a shovel. She barely caught a whiff of Zuki, which aggravated her like a fine needlepoint to the palm. "Why wouldn't I be in one piece? Were you expecting two pieces? Greedy." Hopping off onto unsteady but tried-and-true legs, she was quick to pull off her helmet and suck in a grateful breath regardless of the rank scent and took in the... mystery of it all.
It was as if an iron curtain had been slammed down between Kanbetsu and wherever this was. It was the malignant tumor, the unwanted child, the hot knife to an open wound. It was as if someone had simply forgotten of its existence, and the rest of the world murmured in agreement and promptly forgotten too. But Valerie never forgets the storm, and she certainly never forgot why she was here in the first place. She looked up to the ancient temple and wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste, an immediate comparison was made between her homeland and this rundown mockery of history. There were not many things she could not put a price on at first glance, and this was one of them. Call it an eye for business, and if Valerie could rewind time, she would have done so to rewrite the conversation between her and the stranger -- ugly is beauty, the exception being that temple you are going to take me to an hour from now.
Without asking, she slipped her arms into the jacket that was unsurprisingly too long. Her fingers peaked out of the sleeves and the length of it ended at the thighs. She turned and tucked her hair behind her ears and returned the grin with a slow blink. "Urban exploration? You brought me here to scale a building so old I can hear its bones groan?" But she moved up all the same because that face was pretty and convincing, and her heart was still thumping wildly with excess adrenaline. She surveyed the vertical landscape with a different view, marking handholds and gaps between the rotten wood. Her hands flexed in anticipation. "Is this a contest?"
She did not reply immediately. Rather, she was too focused on the way her body shifted from being at an odd slant to being perfectly upright - her organs and bones had to adjust. The woman's body was a firm board behind her and radiated not an insignificant amount of heat. It was comfortably sturdy. It made her feel safe the way a fence with an open gate did. Valerie's thighs tensed as the engine hummed to life beneath her, the vibrations coursing hotly through her. Her fingers tightened around the handles, white to the knuckles as two wheels crunched the gravel underneath, and then, they were off.
Off to the races. They were a shooting star racing over puddles of water that sprayed liquid night under the merciless treads. She imagined black smoke streaming from the exhaust pipe as she held on; a fall wouldn't kill her, but it would do a pretty number on the rest of her. Once the first millennia (three seconds) had passed, she opened her eyes which had since then been squeezed shut, to peer through the tinted visor. Molten gold drank in the city lights streaking past in mere splotches of lines, all of it blurring into dribbly grey and eye-watering variations of off-white. The helmet dampened the noise, but she could still hear them clearly -- the passing shriek of night owls that came and went like sound bytes. The consistent roar of the mechanical beast, the pumping pistons and rocks obliterated by heavy tires.
Valerie heard Zuki's breathing too. The way she anticipated the tight pressure accompanying the exhale, the synchronization of engine and lungfuls of air. The blown-up excitement made her body tremble alongside the rumble of the bike. It was mesmerizing, and once or twice, she found herself shifting back to close the space between them, found herself stretching her pinky out to tease a point of contact with those long fingers wrapped around the rubber throttle. She paid scant attention to the rest of the world, it had turned into a syrupy background. Cars became shadows in her periphery, people were pricks of slow-moving tokens. Traffic lights were a suggestion lightly toyed with.
There was no comparison to the steadfast pace of a troika. With three horses abreast, she was used to showing off speed, style, and pedigree. Trotting out Andalusian with rich brown coats in the summer, or a trio of Arabian with their pale, dappled hair and finely combed manes. Astride a metallic construction that you could not tame into submission, Valerie found a different sort of liberation. Zuki, with a single spasm, could have jerked the handlebars and sent the pair flying onto the road or into a ditch. With her back to the stranger and none of her men in sight, Zuki could have held a gun to her temple and shot her point-blank.
Which would kill her and do a pretty number on the rest of her.
Lost in her reverie of ways to die, Valerie did not realize they were slowing down until all the noise and pollution caught up with her like bad karma. It was the polluted smell of an over populous city commingled with unsheared hedges. It was the exciting smell of mold and dirt that had been rained on and left to bake in the sun multiple times without ever being overturned by a shovel. She barely caught a whiff of Zuki, which aggravated her like a fine needlepoint to the palm. "Why wouldn't I be in one piece? Were you expecting two pieces? Greedy." Hopping off onto unsteady but tried-and-true legs, she was quick to pull off her helmet and suck in a grateful breath regardless of the rank scent and took in the... mystery of it all.
It was as if an iron curtain had been slammed down between Kanbetsu and wherever this was. It was the malignant tumor, the unwanted child, the hot knife to an open wound. It was as if someone had simply forgotten of its existence, and the rest of the world murmured in agreement and promptly forgotten too. But Valerie never forgets the storm, and she certainly never forgot why she was here in the first place. She looked up to the ancient temple and wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste, an immediate comparison was made between her homeland and this rundown mockery of history. There were not many things she could not put a price on at first glance, and this was one of them. Call it an eye for business, and if Valerie could rewind time, she would have done so to rewrite the conversation between her and the stranger -- ugly is beauty, the exception being that temple you are going to take me to an hour from now.
Without asking, she slipped her arms into the jacket that was unsurprisingly too long. Her fingers peaked out of the sleeves and the length of it ended at the thighs. She turned and tucked her hair behind her ears and returned the grin with a slow blink. "Urban exploration? You brought me here to scale a building so old I can hear its bones groan?" But she moved up all the same because that face was pretty and convincing, and her heart was still thumping wildly with excess adrenaline. She surveyed the vertical landscape with a different view, marking handholds and gaps between the rotten wood. Her hands flexed in anticipation. "Is this a contest?"
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“Exactly,” Requisite mischief paired with Kazuki’s self-satisfied grin. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pants, stretching out her back from the long ride and peering up at the five-storied pagoda. Dilapidated or not, the tasōtō was tall. Five rings, one for each element, rose high above the ground, with the Hōju capping its beanstalk pillar. Sloping roofs with missing tiles and chipped paint overlooked each floor, the railings of the once revered veranda broken at too many points to count. The first floor was no challenge at all. Plenty of handholds existed by way of windows, that is, until one reached irimoya. The support beams beneath extended a solid five feet out from the central structure, ending in the flared sloping roof tiles. There was no solid handhold one way or another, as a pogoya was most certainly not built with accommodating climbers in mind. Forging her own path where there was none. Just how Kazuki liked it.
“If you think Kanbetsu is where fun goes to die, then that just means you are not close enough to death to be having fun.” She interlaced her own fingers in a reverse bridge, stretching, before shaking out her wrists. Rings clanged against one another, a melody made that much more prominent by the silence of the night. Gone were the hustle and bustle of the city, the electric vrrs and the incessant chatter. Here, there was only nature, nature and a rundown tower that had certainly seen better days. An ideal playground, as far as Kazuki was concerned.
At the query, a brow quirked, intrigued by the challenge, and she caught Valerie’s eyes with a gleam in her own. “There’s no contest unless you give me one, pretty girl.” She gripped her own wrist in front of herself, stretching out the tendons of her arms. The oversized shirt hid the well-defined musculature beneath, but her clean and efficient motions spoke to her athletic inclinations. “Beat me to the top, and I’ll grant you whatever you ask for.” Within reason, which needed not be said, and so she left it unuttered. Besides, this was certainly not her first time climbing this pagoda, and though Valerie’s confidence was infectious, Kazuki had little doubt of her own imminent victory.
“Start wherever you like,” she offered, having scaled the structure from each and every side so as not to care. And it was off to the races again, only this time, there was an actual race at hand. As it turned out, her self-assurance was well-founded. Kazuki opted for a set of railings flanking the southern entrance. Hopping onto one side of the well-worn handholds, she widened her stance and bent at the knees. And, not dissimilar to how a spring might compress and unwind, she leapt high into the air, easily clearing half a meter and then some. Her steady grip locked themselves around the support railing beneath, facing out instead of in.
Shoulders flexed and abs crunched; she swung herself back and forth for momentum, gauging the distance with a practiced eye before relinquishing her grip and propelling forward. Landing the handhold on the corner was the hard part. Now, she could have simply worked her way to the edge, one solid handhold at a time. But that would have slowed her down, and Kazuki was never beneath a little showmanship. With a grunt of exertion, she secured herself to one end of the square roof, sending the hanging bell jingling. From there, it was a matter of finding her grip amidst the supporting tiles, ever cognizant to test for sturdiness given the worn-down state of this building. Pulling herself up onto the rooftop with nothing but upper-body strength was almost easy by comparison. She shook her hands out again, methodological in her recklessness, and surveyed the structure for signs of Valerie. One roof down, four more to go.
“If you think Kanbetsu is where fun goes to die, then that just means you are not close enough to death to be having fun.” She interlaced her own fingers in a reverse bridge, stretching, before shaking out her wrists. Rings clanged against one another, a melody made that much more prominent by the silence of the night. Gone were the hustle and bustle of the city, the electric vrrs and the incessant chatter. Here, there was only nature, nature and a rundown tower that had certainly seen better days. An ideal playground, as far as Kazuki was concerned.
At the query, a brow quirked, intrigued by the challenge, and she caught Valerie’s eyes with a gleam in her own. “There’s no contest unless you give me one, pretty girl.” She gripped her own wrist in front of herself, stretching out the tendons of her arms. The oversized shirt hid the well-defined musculature beneath, but her clean and efficient motions spoke to her athletic inclinations. “Beat me to the top, and I’ll grant you whatever you ask for.” Within reason, which needed not be said, and so she left it unuttered. Besides, this was certainly not her first time climbing this pagoda, and though Valerie’s confidence was infectious, Kazuki had little doubt of her own imminent victory.
“Start wherever you like,” she offered, having scaled the structure from each and every side so as not to care. And it was off to the races again, only this time, there was an actual race at hand. As it turned out, her self-assurance was well-founded. Kazuki opted for a set of railings flanking the southern entrance. Hopping onto one side of the well-worn handholds, she widened her stance and bent at the knees. And, not dissimilar to how a spring might compress and unwind, she leapt high into the air, easily clearing half a meter and then some. Her steady grip locked themselves around the support railing beneath, facing out instead of in.
Shoulders flexed and abs crunched; she swung herself back and forth for momentum, gauging the distance with a practiced eye before relinquishing her grip and propelling forward. Landing the handhold on the corner was the hard part. Now, she could have simply worked her way to the edge, one solid handhold at a time. But that would have slowed her down, and Kazuki was never beneath a little showmanship. With a grunt of exertion, she secured herself to one end of the square roof, sending the hanging bell jingling. From there, it was a matter of finding her grip amidst the supporting tiles, ever cognizant to test for sturdiness given the worn-down state of this building. Pulling herself up onto the rooftop with nothing but upper-body strength was almost easy by comparison. She shook her hands out again, methodological in her recklessness, and surveyed the structure for signs of Valerie. One roof down, four more to go.
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Valerie was not a climber.
It was true she could scale a spiraling stairwell within seconds, could scurry the vertical drop of a sheer cliff, and run the slopes of Mount Fuji without breaking a sweat - frostbite took one look at her wreathed in unearthly glory and quailed miserably. Hypothermia sloughed like meat from the bone. The winter chill nor the melting summer heat bothered her, she was untouchable. To feel the sun on your face was simply to invite disaster over for an evening nip all the while discussing the act of putting one hand in front of the other. The last time she recalled breaking a sweat while climbing involved a semi-automatic rifle, hairy-backed beasts, and a haunted forest of alpine ash.
So when she beheld that sorry mess of a building with terribly bright eyes, she was already rearranging its guts and repurposing its shape into a series of vestigial limbs. Hands and arms stretched out invitingly like sprouting branches, the windows as their wrinkled bark skin and pockmarked wood as nests for rodents, the sloping veranda as a grassy canopy. She could picture it clearly simply because what her home lacked in decrepit temples it made up for with its dazzling array of giant trees, virginal and unmolested by revving metal teeth. She was layering the blueprints over one another, measuring her vertical height against one window to the next, sectioning the length of her arms and the power required to bunny hop gracefully up the sides.
Immersed as she was in calculating the impossible, she was caught off guard by Zuki's comment and a quick laugh tore free from her throat before she could stop it. The sound might have been mistaken for a hum or a cough, but the surprise on her face erased all doubt. She turned away, offering her profile up for admiration, all the while harrumphing under her breath. The audacity! The utter disrespect! There were a million and one ways to die, and only half of them ever met the requirement for fun. Had her companion been more cardboard stock, Valerie would not have tolerated this perceived slight. She would have stolen the motorbike and done a runner.
As it was, Zuki had her. Instead: "I believe that is subjective," she said carefully as she wrung her slender wrists. "I believe our hobbies are both similar and universally unloved." Valerie side-eyed the woman, daring her to challenge the claim, "We are intimates with death, but not of the same degree of propinquity." All of this was said in another tongue, so it was halting and probing but with an absolute degree of finality and confidence. Her knuckles popped as she shook her hands out. She'd long since shed the need for a golden trophy - it was lonely and boring at the top - but that didn't mean she wasn't game. It simply wasn't a contest if her opponents could not even make it to the bottom rung, and this contest seemed ceremonial at best, a poor excuse for a jig and a dance.
But the prize was attractive. It was the carrot and the stick, the horse's mouth to the gift. While a particularly athletic nightwalker could clear the building in a single leap, being more of an erudite meant Valerie might have cleared it in three moves. The problem here was that she was such a stickler for rules, both written and verbal. There were unofficial rules for climbing, surely, such as one hand being in contact with the building at all times. But more importantly, the little fly in the sugar, the innocent suggestion that humans must have that burlap sack of innocence and ignorance at all times under the pleasant pain of death. So could simply remained in her mental simulations.
And yet... would it be within reason to ask for the city?
An egotist Valerie might be, she was not delusional. Kanbetsu was not the carrot nor the stick. It was the ass. It was the saddle and the saddlebags. It was the whole damn package wrapped in rot. She waited until Zuki had made her move, flexing one digit at a time from one to ten then ten to one before sidling toward the nearest wall. Her route had been decided and there was no room for error, no chance for deviations. Her dress made things difficult, but the slitted side made up for any shortcomings as she hauled herself up onto a wooden ledge, using the splintered frames to pull herself from one to the next. She found and used handholds where she could, her fingers and nails carving ugly gouges when she couldn't. Stretching up, up, up for the jutting eaves, loose tiles rattled and clattered loudly as she pulled herself over onto the gabled rooftop.
Where Zuki opted for flair, Valerie's movements were precise. Not a single breath or motion was wasted like she had opened a textbook and chewed the definition up into mulch for her brain to slurp. It was practiced like an automaton with the full agency of its arms, both heart, and brain in perfect sync. No, she did not need to clear it in three. Where was the fun in that? The air was clearer and cleaner up here, and she could finally inhale through her nose without evoking a full-body shudder. There was still the hint of smog almost like the aftermath of spilled diesel on a hot day, that rotten smell of wet leaves pressed into the concrete pavement. There was that whiff of soap because Zuki was standing downwind.
Valerie did not look at her. She looked instead to the next goalpost, ignoring the windows and opting for a walking jump over the sloped tiles and onto the railing waiting above. She was still for half a second, a pale statue with jewels for eyes and arms outstretched. The breeze ruffled the fine silk of her hair and flirted with her borrowed jacket to make it flitter and flutter. It looked as if she was going to step right off into a nose dive, but that would be two steps back. Her heels clicked on the groaning wood as she prowled along the edges, a lazy feline judging the sparrow. She could barely make out the filmy lights of Kanbetsu from this vantage point, though she could see the beaten road snaking through a sparse family of trees.
In the silence, the railing creaked achingly then snapped. Pieces of rotting wood clattered over the first roof, tumbling over the edge.
Valerie was already gone.
It was true she could scale a spiraling stairwell within seconds, could scurry the vertical drop of a sheer cliff, and run the slopes of Mount Fuji without breaking a sweat - frostbite took one look at her wreathed in unearthly glory and quailed miserably. Hypothermia sloughed like meat from the bone. The winter chill nor the melting summer heat bothered her, she was untouchable. To feel the sun on your face was simply to invite disaster over for an evening nip all the while discussing the act of putting one hand in front of the other. The last time she recalled breaking a sweat while climbing involved a semi-automatic rifle, hairy-backed beasts, and a haunted forest of alpine ash.
So when she beheld that sorry mess of a building with terribly bright eyes, she was already rearranging its guts and repurposing its shape into a series of vestigial limbs. Hands and arms stretched out invitingly like sprouting branches, the windows as their wrinkled bark skin and pockmarked wood as nests for rodents, the sloping veranda as a grassy canopy. She could picture it clearly simply because what her home lacked in decrepit temples it made up for with its dazzling array of giant trees, virginal and unmolested by revving metal teeth. She was layering the blueprints over one another, measuring her vertical height against one window to the next, sectioning the length of her arms and the power required to bunny hop gracefully up the sides.
Immersed as she was in calculating the impossible, she was caught off guard by Zuki's comment and a quick laugh tore free from her throat before she could stop it. The sound might have been mistaken for a hum or a cough, but the surprise on her face erased all doubt. She turned away, offering her profile up for admiration, all the while harrumphing under her breath. The audacity! The utter disrespect! There were a million and one ways to die, and only half of them ever met the requirement for fun. Had her companion been more cardboard stock, Valerie would not have tolerated this perceived slight. She would have stolen the motorbike and done a runner.
As it was, Zuki had her. Instead: "I believe that is subjective," she said carefully as she wrung her slender wrists. "I believe our hobbies are both similar and universally unloved." Valerie side-eyed the woman, daring her to challenge the claim, "We are intimates with death, but not of the same degree of propinquity." All of this was said in another tongue, so it was halting and probing but with an absolute degree of finality and confidence. Her knuckles popped as she shook her hands out. She'd long since shed the need for a golden trophy - it was lonely and boring at the top - but that didn't mean she wasn't game. It simply wasn't a contest if her opponents could not even make it to the bottom rung, and this contest seemed ceremonial at best, a poor excuse for a jig and a dance.
But the prize was attractive. It was the carrot and the stick, the horse's mouth to the gift. While a particularly athletic nightwalker could clear the building in a single leap, being more of an erudite meant Valerie might have cleared it in three moves. The problem here was that she was such a stickler for rules, both written and verbal. There were unofficial rules for climbing, surely, such as one hand being in contact with the building at all times. But more importantly, the little fly in the sugar, the innocent suggestion that humans must have that burlap sack of innocence and ignorance at all times under the pleasant pain of death. So could simply remained in her mental simulations.
And yet... would it be within reason to ask for the city?
An egotist Valerie might be, she was not delusional. Kanbetsu was not the carrot nor the stick. It was the ass. It was the saddle and the saddlebags. It was the whole damn package wrapped in rot. She waited until Zuki had made her move, flexing one digit at a time from one to ten then ten to one before sidling toward the nearest wall. Her route had been decided and there was no room for error, no chance for deviations. Her dress made things difficult, but the slitted side made up for any shortcomings as she hauled herself up onto a wooden ledge, using the splintered frames to pull herself from one to the next. She found and used handholds where she could, her fingers and nails carving ugly gouges when she couldn't. Stretching up, up, up for the jutting eaves, loose tiles rattled and clattered loudly as she pulled herself over onto the gabled rooftop.
Where Zuki opted for flair, Valerie's movements were precise. Not a single breath or motion was wasted like she had opened a textbook and chewed the definition up into mulch for her brain to slurp. It was practiced like an automaton with the full agency of its arms, both heart, and brain in perfect sync. No, she did not need to clear it in three. Where was the fun in that? The air was clearer and cleaner up here, and she could finally inhale through her nose without evoking a full-body shudder. There was still the hint of smog almost like the aftermath of spilled diesel on a hot day, that rotten smell of wet leaves pressed into the concrete pavement. There was that whiff of soap because Zuki was standing downwind.
Valerie did not look at her. She looked instead to the next goalpost, ignoring the windows and opting for a walking jump over the sloped tiles and onto the railing waiting above. She was still for half a second, a pale statue with jewels for eyes and arms outstretched. The breeze ruffled the fine silk of her hair and flirted with her borrowed jacket to make it flitter and flutter. It looked as if she was going to step right off into a nose dive, but that would be two steps back. Her heels clicked on the groaning wood as she prowled along the edges, a lazy feline judging the sparrow. She could barely make out the filmy lights of Kanbetsu from this vantage point, though she could see the beaten road snaking through a sparse family of trees.
In the silence, the railing creaked achingly then snapped. Pieces of rotting wood clattered over the first roof, tumbling over the edge.
Valerie was already gone.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Not of the same degree of propinquity, nor in the same manner. Any second, and Kazuki could die. She could misjudge the sturdiness of the roof tiles she dashed over and be swallowed by collapsing clay swifter than quicksand. She could lose her grip - her hand could cramp; her fingers could slip on the rain-slickened eaves; hell, she could simply miscalculate - and plummet thirty meters to her death. The nearness of death should sicken any rational human to the pit of her stomach. Which said all that needed to be said about Kazuki, with the way she madly grinned through it all, launching herself from the railing to the window and up to the roof.
This beat sprinting - death nipped at her heels instead of the monotonous hums of a treadmill. Overshadowed lifting - her arms prickled and burned, every hair on end, but there was no option to stop. Adrenaline surged and heart hammered, working double time as lungs expanded to fuel her burning muscles. Pupils blew open, taking in more light, augmented the same way as her hearing and the feel of wood grain beneath her fingertips. Dallying with death was perhaps as close a human could get to transcending the limits of said humanity, and that proximity to the divine was more addictive than any intoxicant.
By the time she hauled herself onto the final layer, racing towards the center to ascend those spiraled rings, she was puffing on vapors and still refusing to slow, not until she reached the Hōju. Fresh sweat beaded along her spine, distinctively human, and blood flushed her neck and collar. When she finally bopped that crown jewel, hopped down, and leaned back against the vertical finial for balance, she was thoroughly winded and sucking in air. And, perhaps it was precisely that lack of oxygen to her brain that made her decline to ask any questions when Valerie joined her on the roof, looking no worse for wear.
“Huff, you made it.” Kazuki pushed her hair out of her eyes, tousled the same and allowed the cool night air to do its thing. Perhaps the moon was too beautiful, or perhaps it were those eyes that acted almost as though independent light sources. Either way, she decided that there were more amusing emotions than surprise. “We just climbed a pagoda barehandedly, I think that warrants you telling me your name, don't you think?” Which was to say, she was impressed. The foreigner was full of surprises. Kazuki liked surprises.
And, because that bet was unfortunately one directional - “You know, legend has it, if you kiss on the top floor of a pagoda, you might be visited by good luck.” That was complete utter bullshit of course. It wasn’t so much that she thought of Valerie as gullible, but more that the same line was clearly just an attempt to flirt. If anything, Valerie believing her would have been more surprising. As for the why, well, there were whole studies done on the effects of danger on the human psyche. Put bluntly, danger was hot. And looked good in her jacket, apparently.
This beat sprinting - death nipped at her heels instead of the monotonous hums of a treadmill. Overshadowed lifting - her arms prickled and burned, every hair on end, but there was no option to stop. Adrenaline surged and heart hammered, working double time as lungs expanded to fuel her burning muscles. Pupils blew open, taking in more light, augmented the same way as her hearing and the feel of wood grain beneath her fingertips. Dallying with death was perhaps as close a human could get to transcending the limits of said humanity, and that proximity to the divine was more addictive than any intoxicant.
By the time she hauled herself onto the final layer, racing towards the center to ascend those spiraled rings, she was puffing on vapors and still refusing to slow, not until she reached the Hōju. Fresh sweat beaded along her spine, distinctively human, and blood flushed her neck and collar. When she finally bopped that crown jewel, hopped down, and leaned back against the vertical finial for balance, she was thoroughly winded and sucking in air. And, perhaps it was precisely that lack of oxygen to her brain that made her decline to ask any questions when Valerie joined her on the roof, looking no worse for wear.
“Huff, you made it.” Kazuki pushed her hair out of her eyes, tousled the same and allowed the cool night air to do its thing. Perhaps the moon was too beautiful, or perhaps it were those eyes that acted almost as though independent light sources. Either way, she decided that there were more amusing emotions than surprise. “We just climbed a pagoda barehandedly, I think that warrants you telling me your name, don't you think?” Which was to say, she was impressed. The foreigner was full of surprises. Kazuki liked surprises.
And, because that bet was unfortunately one directional - “You know, legend has it, if you kiss on the top floor of a pagoda, you might be visited by good luck.” That was complete utter bullshit of course. It wasn’t so much that she thought of Valerie as gullible, but more that the same line was clearly just an attempt to flirt. If anything, Valerie believing her would have been more surprising. As for the why, well, there were whole studies done on the effects of danger on the human psyche. Put bluntly, danger was hot. And looked good in her jacket, apparently.
“Wanna test that theory?”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Valerie ruminated on the ugliness of the splintered wood tucked beneath her fingernails, and stared at the curled shavings like one might a dying slug because she did not have anything else to ruminate on or stare at. Her body did the dutiful climbing without thinking, having understood the well-worn pattern of where her hands and feet must go in an instant. Though she was undoubtedly lagging behind her more enthusiastic companion and was most certainly staring down the barrel of a silver cannon, none of this affected her negatively in the slightest. If anything, she was glad to let her new friend take the win -- humans were so obvious in their vicarious lust for victory, it was embarrassing.
She took a cursory glance at the tall, lanky figure clambering all the way up, picking up momentum and speed the way a simian would up a very tall tree, and suddenly wondered what she would do if Zuki slipped. Sometimes the hand did not follow the eyes, sometimes the muscles and ligaments did not call to the brain, or any other number of unfortunate possibilities. Perhaps she would simply watch as the last thing Zuki would see were two lamplights glowing back at her as the ground swallowed her whole. Or, because they were becoming good friends, Valerie would stretch her hand out like the finger of God and sweep them both to safety.
But, she thought, if Zuki were to fall then she was not worth saving in the first place.
Satisfied with this conclusion, she scaled the rest of the walls and stalked over the remaining rooftops to step into place by her (heavily panting) stranger's side. The wind carried to her the distinct tang of salt and sweat, and Valerie's unblinking gaze fell on her counterpart. Her midnight rendevous. Her liminal storm, with hair all askew and plastered to the brow, her pale skin brushed with rose dust, Zuki was a picture rife with error. There was no fault in that, and it was a stain on her reputation to admit as much. Valerie shoved the sudden, sour urge to tangle her hands into those sinfully black locks.
It was a thankless job, playing at mortality. She could have pretended to be exhausted, it wouldn't be too hard. Breathe a little more forcefully, wet the lips, and hold herself with less rigidity. Zuki could have been her mirror in which to practice her performance, but once again was struck speechless by the enormity of her Id. Not in the least surprised by Zuki's guileless attempt at beguilement, Valerie was instead enveloped in the nuances of ignorance. Was she not the Cerulean chipped from the Ocean? Had she not given her namesake in return, or did the offer of a mere nickname rankle her so, that she forgot her manners?
Or maybe she had been distracted. Was it so wrong of her to concede that within the first minute of the dark-haired stranger stepping into her peripheral, her night was spoken for? It was a given the same way the pregnant moon magnetized the wayward waves, the ships to the shore, anchor to the seabed. She was smitten the same way a painter might look at their latest work and tearfully call it a failure. Zuki was not quite Kanbetsu, she was the opus lacking the magnum.
In lieu of her name, she asked: "Is it a legend, or is it a theory?"
Then she added, "Can luck be quantified?" If luck shadowed her doorway, she would shoot it. Luck was the word cowards used to describe the supernatural. It was a pyramid of superstitions, and it was the tip of the sandy iceberg. So: Valerie could have donned her human mannequin. She could have cupped the stranger's cheeks, make a chalice of her lips and teeth and tongue. She could have started an argument and prompted a philosophical misunderstanding, and it would be delightfully useless and boring.
And of course, Valerie did none of these things.
Instead, she stepped up to the plate. The tips of her boots nudged Zuki's shoes as her heels lifted from the rooftop, her arms resting languidly on those warm shoulders. Valerie looked up beneath dark lashes and close-up, one might glimpse the sharp swirl of galaxies erupting deep in the molten void. She pressed her brow against the sharp rise of the sternum, scenting the hot blood and sweat fighting against the bleach and starch of that haggard shirt. Her lips pressed a kiss there, leaving a faint red mark laid upon the receding flush of adrenaline.
"This is for winning," she murmured softly and addressed Zuki's breastbone directly when she said, "Valerie. Do not shorthand it; I hate soubriquets."
She took a cursory glance at the tall, lanky figure clambering all the way up, picking up momentum and speed the way a simian would up a very tall tree, and suddenly wondered what she would do if Zuki slipped. Sometimes the hand did not follow the eyes, sometimes the muscles and ligaments did not call to the brain, or any other number of unfortunate possibilities. Perhaps she would simply watch as the last thing Zuki would see were two lamplights glowing back at her as the ground swallowed her whole. Or, because they were becoming good friends, Valerie would stretch her hand out like the finger of God and sweep them both to safety.
But, she thought, if Zuki were to fall then she was not worth saving in the first place.
Satisfied with this conclusion, she scaled the rest of the walls and stalked over the remaining rooftops to step into place by her (heavily panting) stranger's side. The wind carried to her the distinct tang of salt and sweat, and Valerie's unblinking gaze fell on her counterpart. Her midnight rendevous. Her liminal storm, with hair all askew and plastered to the brow, her pale skin brushed with rose dust, Zuki was a picture rife with error. There was no fault in that, and it was a stain on her reputation to admit as much. Valerie shoved the sudden, sour urge to tangle her hands into those sinfully black locks.
It was a thankless job, playing at mortality. She could have pretended to be exhausted, it wouldn't be too hard. Breathe a little more forcefully, wet the lips, and hold herself with less rigidity. Zuki could have been her mirror in which to practice her performance, but once again was struck speechless by the enormity of her Id. Not in the least surprised by Zuki's guileless attempt at beguilement, Valerie was instead enveloped in the nuances of ignorance. Was she not the Cerulean chipped from the Ocean? Had she not given her namesake in return, or did the offer of a mere nickname rankle her so, that she forgot her manners?
Or maybe she had been distracted. Was it so wrong of her to concede that within the first minute of the dark-haired stranger stepping into her peripheral, her night was spoken for? It was a given the same way the pregnant moon magnetized the wayward waves, the ships to the shore, anchor to the seabed. She was smitten the same way a painter might look at their latest work and tearfully call it a failure. Zuki was not quite Kanbetsu, she was the opus lacking the magnum.
In lieu of her name, she asked: "Is it a legend, or is it a theory?"
Then she added, "Can luck be quantified?" If luck shadowed her doorway, she would shoot it. Luck was the word cowards used to describe the supernatural. It was a pyramid of superstitions, and it was the tip of the sandy iceberg. So: Valerie could have donned her human mannequin. She could have cupped the stranger's cheeks, make a chalice of her lips and teeth and tongue. She could have started an argument and prompted a philosophical misunderstanding, and it would be delightfully useless and boring.
And of course, Valerie did none of these things.
Instead, she stepped up to the plate. The tips of her boots nudged Zuki's shoes as her heels lifted from the rooftop, her arms resting languidly on those warm shoulders. Valerie looked up beneath dark lashes and close-up, one might glimpse the sharp swirl of galaxies erupting deep in the molten void. She pressed her brow against the sharp rise of the sternum, scenting the hot blood and sweat fighting against the bleach and starch of that haggard shirt. Her lips pressed a kiss there, leaving a faint red mark laid upon the receding flush of adrenaline.
"This is for winning," she murmured softly and addressed Zuki's breastbone directly when she said, "Valerie. Do not shorthand it; I hate soubriquets."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Like just about anything else that required a suspension of disbelief, luck wasn't for everyone. Luck required faith, a belief in unquantifiable forces that deviated from elegant equations and elaborate expositions. And faith, well, the lid on that particular can of trouble ought not to be lifted. Besides, the rundown pagoda they conquered succinctly summarized the absence of a divine spark in Kanbetsu. If kami once roamed this land, then surely, they were as dead and decrepit as their shrines and worshipers. But, sometimes, there needed not be a higher power for faith to have purpose. All of that was to say - Kazuki absolutely believed in luck. More specifically, in pushing her luck.
“Valerie,” she repeated, managing to avoid butchering the ‘v’ on her first try thanks to Kanbetsu’s abundant exposure to the west. “I’m feeling luckier already.” One arm drew lower, southbound like water to mirror the barely there weight rising above her shoulder and looping as though vapor. Her hand slipped beneath the bottom hem of leather, tightened around the slinky black fabric, and locked the equally sleek waist against herself. “But testing theories require more than one attempt.” Pivoting, she spun Valerie around such that she backed her foreigner into the spire, freeing a hand to slip between their bodies. Two digits pressed beneath a narrow chin, presumptuous in intent. Their gaze met - supernova and its aftermath. Much like the black holes those abyssal eyes might be compared to, they beckoned with the same gravitational pull. Present and future. Light and the absence thereof. “This is just because I want to.”
Kazuki didn’t ask for permission before leaning down to bridge the gap. Unlike the hard lines of her body, her lips were mochi soft. Glutinous in the way that they adhered to the equally enticing pair, a hint of something sweet from the abundance of fruity liquor she consumed earlier. Her fingers transitioned smoothly to cup the back of neck, competing with the wind to see who might disturb those aquamarine locks the most. She kissed in the same manner as she did just about anything else - unrestrained. The moon haloed both of their silhouettes and stretched their shadows upon the tiles, and her lips pursued Valerie’s as though hellbent upon devouring the same.
Fingers flexed against the small of back, latched into hair and bent Valerie to her will. Kazuki slanted her jaw, sucked in a breath, before returning more ferociously than before. Humans were capable of a vicarious lust for far more than victory, and she demonstrated the same with gusto. Where the arduous climb failed to steal Valerie’s breath, Kazuki strove to remedy that failing. Tongue probed for a gap, assailing forward, as bold as the way she waltzed into the posse of armed penguins and stole away their charge. Confident was the way she bracketed her plus-one-for-the-night against the bronze construct, recklessly exploring the tips of those rather sharp canines. Greedy was her nails sinking against scalp, tangling into the free flowing tresses and guiding Valerie back to present her throat. The irony there was lost upon Kazuki, but she took full advantage of her superior height, tipped her friend-in-the-making backwards, and chased kiss after kiss until she was quite sure that she had maxed out any hypothetical luck stat.
Then and only then did she lazily part. Her thumb brushed over Valerie’s temple, smoothing back a strand of hair. From their vantage point, they had an excellent view of the city, of those blurry neon lights competing with the luminosity of the moon. But Kazuki's gaze was fixated upon those sunburst eyes, upon the dash of color she herself added to those ravishing lips. “There’s somewhere else I want to show you. Race you back down?”
“Valerie,” she repeated, managing to avoid butchering the ‘v’ on her first try thanks to Kanbetsu’s abundant exposure to the west. “I’m feeling luckier already.” One arm drew lower, southbound like water to mirror the barely there weight rising above her shoulder and looping as though vapor. Her hand slipped beneath the bottom hem of leather, tightened around the slinky black fabric, and locked the equally sleek waist against herself. “But testing theories require more than one attempt.” Pivoting, she spun Valerie around such that she backed her foreigner into the spire, freeing a hand to slip between their bodies. Two digits pressed beneath a narrow chin, presumptuous in intent. Their gaze met - supernova and its aftermath. Much like the black holes those abyssal eyes might be compared to, they beckoned with the same gravitational pull. Present and future. Light and the absence thereof. “This is just because I want to.”
Kazuki didn’t ask for permission before leaning down to bridge the gap. Unlike the hard lines of her body, her lips were mochi soft. Glutinous in the way that they adhered to the equally enticing pair, a hint of something sweet from the abundance of fruity liquor she consumed earlier. Her fingers transitioned smoothly to cup the back of neck, competing with the wind to see who might disturb those aquamarine locks the most. She kissed in the same manner as she did just about anything else - unrestrained. The moon haloed both of their silhouettes and stretched their shadows upon the tiles, and her lips pursued Valerie’s as though hellbent upon devouring the same.
Fingers flexed against the small of back, latched into hair and bent Valerie to her will. Kazuki slanted her jaw, sucked in a breath, before returning more ferociously than before. Humans were capable of a vicarious lust for far more than victory, and she demonstrated the same with gusto. Where the arduous climb failed to steal Valerie’s breath, Kazuki strove to remedy that failing. Tongue probed for a gap, assailing forward, as bold as the way she waltzed into the posse of armed penguins and stole away their charge. Confident was the way she bracketed her plus-one-for-the-night against the bronze construct, recklessly exploring the tips of those rather sharp canines. Greedy was her nails sinking against scalp, tangling into the free flowing tresses and guiding Valerie back to present her throat. The irony there was lost upon Kazuki, but she took full advantage of her superior height, tipped her friend-in-the-making backwards, and chased kiss after kiss until she was quite sure that she had maxed out any hypothetical luck stat.
Then and only then did she lazily part. Her thumb brushed over Valerie’s temple, smoothing back a strand of hair. From their vantage point, they had an excellent view of the city, of those blurry neon lights competing with the luminosity of the moon. But Kazuki's gaze was fixated upon those sunburst eyes, upon the dash of color she herself added to those ravishing lips. “There’s somewhere else I want to show you. Race you back down?”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
Valerie closed her eyes and tilted her chin up without thought, falling quickly into old habits. She was arrogant enough that her mouth opened unflinchingly, taking her first real breath to take the plunge. Her hands first fell to the juts of the woman's hips, fingers splayed out to the waist, to massage circles around the sensitive bone. Her tongue flicked against the invading muscle, granting permission to swipe over her teeth without fear. She did not moan or gasp, but she did let a soft hiss of a sigh escape. The kiss was hot - temperature hot - and unfairly so. It burned her up inside and out, it spilled molten heat through the marrow of her bones, through the quick pump of blood in her veins. It was liquid luck evaporated into heady fumes; it was a balm to the ever-persistent chill that plagued her slender frame.
Then her hands came to life, slipping up over the cloth and juddering over the thin speed bumps of Zuki's ribcage, fighting for space as a cool breeze stroked the underside of her exposed throat. It was when they parted did Valerie come up for air. Her eyes opened to the gaze of the moon, to the vast expanse of a cloudless and starless sky. The warmth was already fading, and Zuki's lips looked strawberry red, her own pale lipstick smeared at the corner of her stranger's mouth. It was like looking at a bruise of her own design, or like a wine stain on an expensive rug.
She leaned forward to thumb the stain away, to whisper low under her breath: "Testing theories require more than one attempt."
Valerie fisted Zuki's collar and dragged the taller woman down to cheat away another kiss, her back hitting the wooden pillar once more. Though she rarely waited for a verbal grant of access, she undoubtedly possessed the key and saw fit to make liberal use of it. Not quite as carnal as her mortal counterpart, where Valerie lacked in human enthusiasm she made up for in precise contact. Her lithe tongue ran along the loose seam of pink lips, noting the rush of blood to the sensitive skin with little encouragement. She tasted the sweetness that lingered in the soft warmth, that citrusy sharp note that brought to mind a floral arrangement. Her grip tightened in the loose shirt, the fabric pulling taut against the nape as punishment for making such a mess of her hair.
Of her... sensibilities.
Her fangs, their length still tucked into the gums, itched as she scraped them against the exploratory tongue. They pressed daringly down on the foreign mouth as her hand reached up to frame the woman's neck in the vee between her index and thumb. It was just one kiss, but it was unnaturally long. Space was given when she felt the throat throb underneath her palm, offering a gasp of air, a gulp of oxygen before continuing her pursuit. Where Zuki was greedy and groping, Valerie's hold was unyielding. They were locked until the heartbeat grew faster until the pulse fluttered like a wounded bird, and until she was so sure her own ears had turned scarlet, and only then did she free the other woman from her clutches.
Smoothing her fingers through her hair, she combed it all behind her shoulders. Not a strand out of place. Slipping away from her acquaintance was easy enough, pulling away and ducking below the arm to traipse to the edge of the roof and peer down. The ground was clear as day. It was matted soil and clumps of dead grass. It was hard-packed earth -- it was not a cushion for landing. Zuki had won the race up, and Valerie was not so gracious a loser to let two challenges slip by. Nobody said anything about climbing either.
Turning to face her midnight snack, Valerie tucked her hands into the warm leather pockets and winked a desolatingly golden eye before taking two steps right off the edge into a free-fall.
Then her hands came to life, slipping up over the cloth and juddering over the thin speed bumps of Zuki's ribcage, fighting for space as a cool breeze stroked the underside of her exposed throat. It was when they parted did Valerie come up for air. Her eyes opened to the gaze of the moon, to the vast expanse of a cloudless and starless sky. The warmth was already fading, and Zuki's lips looked strawberry red, her own pale lipstick smeared at the corner of her stranger's mouth. It was like looking at a bruise of her own design, or like a wine stain on an expensive rug.
She leaned forward to thumb the stain away, to whisper low under her breath: "Testing theories require more than one attempt."
Valerie fisted Zuki's collar and dragged the taller woman down to cheat away another kiss, her back hitting the wooden pillar once more. Though she rarely waited for a verbal grant of access, she undoubtedly possessed the key and saw fit to make liberal use of it. Not quite as carnal as her mortal counterpart, where Valerie lacked in human enthusiasm she made up for in precise contact. Her lithe tongue ran along the loose seam of pink lips, noting the rush of blood to the sensitive skin with little encouragement. She tasted the sweetness that lingered in the soft warmth, that citrusy sharp note that brought to mind a floral arrangement. Her grip tightened in the loose shirt, the fabric pulling taut against the nape as punishment for making such a mess of her hair.
Of her... sensibilities.
Her fangs, their length still tucked into the gums, itched as she scraped them against the exploratory tongue. They pressed daringly down on the foreign mouth as her hand reached up to frame the woman's neck in the vee between her index and thumb. It was just one kiss, but it was unnaturally long. Space was given when she felt the throat throb underneath her palm, offering a gasp of air, a gulp of oxygen before continuing her pursuit. Where Zuki was greedy and groping, Valerie's hold was unyielding. They were locked until the heartbeat grew faster until the pulse fluttered like a wounded bird, and until she was so sure her own ears had turned scarlet, and only then did she free the other woman from her clutches.
Smoothing her fingers through her hair, she combed it all behind her shoulders. Not a strand out of place. Slipping away from her acquaintance was easy enough, pulling away and ducking below the arm to traipse to the edge of the roof and peer down. The ground was clear as day. It was matted soil and clumps of dead grass. It was hard-packed earth -- it was not a cushion for landing. Zuki had won the race up, and Valerie was not so gracious a loser to let two challenges slip by. Nobody said anything about climbing either.
Turning to face her midnight snack, Valerie tucked her hands into the warm leather pockets and winked a desolatingly golden eye before taking two steps right off the edge into a free-fall.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Not that she would have refused, but Kazuki was certainly caught off guard by the strength behind that yank. A surprise further compounded when, at the tail end of their sacrilegious midnight rendezvous, Valerie appeared to suddenly gain a new found devoutness and attempt a leap of faith. Literally. Kazuki didn’t scream. Didn’t shout. She just…blinked. Couldn’t say that she ever met a girl so desperate to get away from her (her, her?!) that the selfsame girl jumped off a five-stories tall building. Or was this about winning? Either way, she couldn’t resist her curiosity. Given that she had already lost the race in record time, she took her time scrolling to the edge of the ledge, peeking down. Couldn’t say for sure what she was expecting to see; this delightful foreigner was like a fascinating matryoshka doll - each additional layer revealed was unique, but oh so colorful. Still. Kazuki was human, one who only semi-believed in the supernatural. So, seeing Valerie alive and well, waiting by her bike, that was, hm.
Hm.
Kazuki rubbed at the back of her neck, whistling low. One brow went about as far up as it could beneath her bangs, and she did a bit of a double take. Nope. Definitely not that drunk. Distressingly sober, even, considering the long passage of time between her last beverage to the present. Which meant…damn, should she be concerned? A list of possibilities raced through her mind, each and every single one more far-fetched than the last. Considering how much she chased after danger, now that danger has thrown down the door, crossed the threshold, and all but proclaimed ‘here I am’, she was almost startlingly at a loss.
But, and of course there was a but. Danger hasn’t done anything to her yet, despite ample opportunity to. And more importantly, danger was so goddamn hot. Ah well, いちごいちえ*, right?
And so, she made her own way back down, much more conscientiously by comparison (Kazuki, conscientious, what is the world coming to). “Looks like we are tied.” A good-humored grin was all she offered regarding Valerie’s not-so-little stunt. Because, eh, yakuza didn’t like fielding questions about being yakuza. That same analogy probably applied generally? She wasn’t a fan of asking unnecessary questions, though the rather obvious semi outlined in burnished leather kind of gave away her thoughts. “I think you deserve a reward for winning, yeah?” No helmets, not this time. In fairness to Kazuki, whatever unease she might have harbored over a passenger going sploot on her watch has definitely been thoroughly eradicated. Besides…
Kazuki didn’t wait for Valerie to straddle the motorcycle this time around. Nah, bracing one arm around Valerie’s back for support, she dipped down and swept the much shorter girl into a princess carry. An endeavor that was short-lived on account of her positioning her midnight question mark however she damn pleased over the bike. In this case, back against the fuel tank, reclining over the sleek black machine like one of those Harley-Davidson commercials from the 80s. It was always the most random bits of media that made its way across international lines, after all.
A tiny bit of maneuvering was required to mount her motorcycle properly, not to mention pulling those pale thighs over hers. But the very suggestive posturing, not to mention the abundant accessibility, made the undertaking more than worth it. She gripped the handlebars, revved the engine, and leaned down all in the same motion to steal a cheeky kiss. “At cruising speed, one hand is more than sufficient to pilot this babe. Perhaps you could assist with a creative solution for the other?”
*Literal: “One life, one encounter”. Japanese proverb for “Seize the day, you only live once.”
Hm.
Kazuki rubbed at the back of her neck, whistling low. One brow went about as far up as it could beneath her bangs, and she did a bit of a double take. Nope. Definitely not that drunk. Distressingly sober, even, considering the long passage of time between her last beverage to the present. Which meant…damn, should she be concerned? A list of possibilities raced through her mind, each and every single one more far-fetched than the last. Considering how much she chased after danger, now that danger has thrown down the door, crossed the threshold, and all but proclaimed ‘here I am’, she was almost startlingly at a loss.
But, and of course there was a but. Danger hasn’t done anything to her yet, despite ample opportunity to. And more importantly, danger was so goddamn hot. Ah well, いちごいちえ*, right?
And so, she made her own way back down, much more conscientiously by comparison (Kazuki, conscientious, what is the world coming to). “Looks like we are tied.” A good-humored grin was all she offered regarding Valerie’s not-so-little stunt. Because, eh, yakuza didn’t like fielding questions about being yakuza. That same analogy probably applied generally? She wasn’t a fan of asking unnecessary questions, though the rather obvious semi outlined in burnished leather kind of gave away her thoughts. “I think you deserve a reward for winning, yeah?” No helmets, not this time. In fairness to Kazuki, whatever unease she might have harbored over a passenger going sploot on her watch has definitely been thoroughly eradicated. Besides…
Kazuki didn’t wait for Valerie to straddle the motorcycle this time around. Nah, bracing one arm around Valerie’s back for support, she dipped down and swept the much shorter girl into a princess carry. An endeavor that was short-lived on account of her positioning her midnight question mark however she damn pleased over the bike. In this case, back against the fuel tank, reclining over the sleek black machine like one of those Harley-Davidson commercials from the 80s. It was always the most random bits of media that made its way across international lines, after all.
A tiny bit of maneuvering was required to mount her motorcycle properly, not to mention pulling those pale thighs over hers. But the very suggestive posturing, not to mention the abundant accessibility, made the undertaking more than worth it. She gripped the handlebars, revved the engine, and leaned down all in the same motion to steal a cheeky kiss. “At cruising speed, one hand is more than sufficient to pilot this babe. Perhaps you could assist with a creative solution for the other?”
*Literal: “One life, one encounter”. Japanese proverb for “Seize the day, you only live once.”
Last edited:
Erebus
show me
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2015
now ive got your teeth on my tongue,
see, i told her,
the devil is a lie.
If Valerie ever responded, the answer was lost to the wind -- she'd subjected herself willingly to playing the part of a mannequin, legs there, hands here, bones so sharp they could cut a man. They left the temple there to rot in its own dilapidated existence, useful only as a temporary, boring pit stop. It barely passed for a tourist attraction, the sight of it already speeding out of view as the engine roared and sizzled and thrummed against her. She couldn't make up her mind whether it was more pleasant without the helmet. On the one hand, her field of view was filled with a singular face bracketed by everchanging myopic blurs. On the other, her hair was whipping wildly about her face, bringing some color to the surface of her numb cheeks.
A quick look over her shoulder told her that Kanbetsu was no closer. They had veered sharply at one point as Valerie was introducing Zuki's free hand to the slow pulse point at the hollow of her throat. She welcomed the thought of careening off a cliff, delighting in the crash and crunch of hot metal against the thick trunk of an unyielding tree. She fancied the smell of burnt rubber as the wheels turned and turned and turned, faster and faster still as they ripped through an abandoned cluster of flora too small to be a proper forest.
Their destination was on the right. It was a small village, not quite a farming community but close enough to it that Valerie thought she'd rather die than dismount the bike. Well, she did it anyway, and without aid. The reverberations of a hungry engine lingered in the backs of her thighs and she placed a cool hand on the seat to steady herself. She did not wait for Zuki to bore her with explanations, nor was she going to stand around and submit herself to the obnoxiously chilly breeze. Icy blue hair was not the norm, nor were her eyes which lacked the appropriate warmth and expected emotion.
Once again presented by another piece of Japanese architecture, this one was a little more evocative. It was traditional where the pagoda was not: a familiar entrance with a pointed roof and curved gables, its tiles a mix of dark brown and black. It was run-down like an antique grandfather clock, where the paneled walls looked old but smelled like alcohol wipes and hose water. Classic squares of dark blue fabric draped over long poles at the doorway displaying painted kanji she did not stop to decipher. Two stories and longer than it was wide, Valerie could pick up the faint hint of wooden buckets and the plink of a bamboo pipe.
The humble fencing made it look surprisingly inviting, and the large koi pond near the entrance was a nice touch. Fat, burbling fish floated about lazily but all of them came swimming to the edge and suckling on their river stones excitedly as Valerie swept past. There was a copper light beaming from beneath the sliding door and it rattled when she opened it. The sound was nostalgic in its own right, appealing the way a piano cover slamming down was not. Ignoring the sudden rush of pleasantries and sweet calls of irasshaimase!, she was far more interested in the familiarity in which Zuki was being treated, all the while pretending as if she had better things to be interested in like this country's strange customs.
Shoes were tucked away into their own cupboards and given towels both big and small, fluffy white bathrobes, and a woven basket of haircare and body wash all the while being lightly jostled into an adjoining room. One exit leads to the indoor bathing area, complete with a communal line of faucets and little stools to sit on. She saw the ofuro too, symmetrical tubs used solely for soaking, they were all rectangular and lined up neatly near the back end near a larger pool nestled against clean tiles. The tubs were hinoki, the pleasantly old aroma of fresh paper, lemon, and pine mixing with the various shampoos and conditioners used throughout the day.
She stepped toward the other door as her dress pooled at her ankles, leaving her clad in nothing but her brassiere and underwear. Black and lacy. Clean and elegant. The knife was nowhere to be found and the leather strap had made a disappearance. Valerie treated her body like a temple, and any blemish or bruise would be considered a malfunction of the eyes. The steam was already condensing into pearlescent drops of water on her porcelain skin and glittered like diamonds on her lashes and in her silky locks. Then, the rest of her clothes were shed and a towel was wrapped around her body.
Sure, etiquette dictated that they bathe themselves from impurities first, but the outdoor bath, the onsen, was the real prize.
"It is not common to see such a mix," Valerie remarked, brushing past Zuki to stand at an equal distance between both entrances. "Water temperature for onsen can reach well over 70 degrees Celsius." It was just a simple fact, with no rhyme and no reason. "So, an indoor tub will always be the logical choice." Her eyes lingered on her companion for an uncomfortably long time, two gold coins sparkling at the bottom of a wishing fountain.
"I suspect the threat of heatstroke is enough to entice you."
No rhyme, no reason. A challenge of her own, as of yet indent. She pressed two fingers to her own lips, recalled the bruises there both tender and cruel; she wanted a friend, a good friend. A friend who chomped at the bit for a bit of danger and Ego.
Fascinating.
A quick look over her shoulder told her that Kanbetsu was no closer. They had veered sharply at one point as Valerie was introducing Zuki's free hand to the slow pulse point at the hollow of her throat. She welcomed the thought of careening off a cliff, delighting in the crash and crunch of hot metal against the thick trunk of an unyielding tree. She fancied the smell of burnt rubber as the wheels turned and turned and turned, faster and faster still as they ripped through an abandoned cluster of flora too small to be a proper forest.
Their destination was on the right. It was a small village, not quite a farming community but close enough to it that Valerie thought she'd rather die than dismount the bike. Well, she did it anyway, and without aid. The reverberations of a hungry engine lingered in the backs of her thighs and she placed a cool hand on the seat to steady herself. She did not wait for Zuki to bore her with explanations, nor was she going to stand around and submit herself to the obnoxiously chilly breeze. Icy blue hair was not the norm, nor were her eyes which lacked the appropriate warmth and expected emotion.
Once again presented by another piece of Japanese architecture, this one was a little more evocative. It was traditional where the pagoda was not: a familiar entrance with a pointed roof and curved gables, its tiles a mix of dark brown and black. It was run-down like an antique grandfather clock, where the paneled walls looked old but smelled like alcohol wipes and hose water. Classic squares of dark blue fabric draped over long poles at the doorway displaying painted kanji she did not stop to decipher. Two stories and longer than it was wide, Valerie could pick up the faint hint of wooden buckets and the plink of a bamboo pipe.
The humble fencing made it look surprisingly inviting, and the large koi pond near the entrance was a nice touch. Fat, burbling fish floated about lazily but all of them came swimming to the edge and suckling on their river stones excitedly as Valerie swept past. There was a copper light beaming from beneath the sliding door and it rattled when she opened it. The sound was nostalgic in its own right, appealing the way a piano cover slamming down was not. Ignoring the sudden rush of pleasantries and sweet calls of irasshaimase!, she was far more interested in the familiarity in which Zuki was being treated, all the while pretending as if she had better things to be interested in like this country's strange customs.
Shoes were tucked away into their own cupboards and given towels both big and small, fluffy white bathrobes, and a woven basket of haircare and body wash all the while being lightly jostled into an adjoining room. One exit leads to the indoor bathing area, complete with a communal line of faucets and little stools to sit on. She saw the ofuro too, symmetrical tubs used solely for soaking, they were all rectangular and lined up neatly near the back end near a larger pool nestled against clean tiles. The tubs were hinoki, the pleasantly old aroma of fresh paper, lemon, and pine mixing with the various shampoos and conditioners used throughout the day.
She stepped toward the other door as her dress pooled at her ankles, leaving her clad in nothing but her brassiere and underwear. Black and lacy. Clean and elegant. The knife was nowhere to be found and the leather strap had made a disappearance. Valerie treated her body like a temple, and any blemish or bruise would be considered a malfunction of the eyes. The steam was already condensing into pearlescent drops of water on her porcelain skin and glittered like diamonds on her lashes and in her silky locks. Then, the rest of her clothes were shed and a towel was wrapped around her body.
Sure, etiquette dictated that they bathe themselves from impurities first, but the outdoor bath, the onsen, was the real prize.
"It is not common to see such a mix," Valerie remarked, brushing past Zuki to stand at an equal distance between both entrances. "Water temperature for onsen can reach well over 70 degrees Celsius." It was just a simple fact, with no rhyme and no reason. "So, an indoor tub will always be the logical choice." Her eyes lingered on her companion for an uncomfortably long time, two gold coins sparkling at the bottom of a wishing fountain.
"I suspect the threat of heatstroke is enough to entice you."
No rhyme, no reason. A challenge of her own, as of yet indent. She pressed two fingers to her own lips, recalled the bruises there both tender and cruel; she wanted a friend, a good friend. A friend who chomped at the bit for a bit of danger and Ego.
Fascinating.
Last edited:
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
This particular onsen was small enough to not have a name beyond ‘onsen’. But that suited Kazuki just fine. Yamaguchi’s influence was largely confined to the populous Kanbetsu City, if just for the practical reality of having most of its manpower being concentrated there. This was not there. If they were being technical, this was still Kanbetsu, this being the outskirts yet untouched by the sprawling megalopolis. More importantly, this was part of Kazuki’s personal domain. A strange spot to claim, all things considered. Too far from the harbor to be of any significance. Downright inaccessible, even, with how they drove up a mountainside to get here. But that was precisely the point. Here, with its terraced rice paddies and hilly landscape, was an escape from the hustle and bustle of city life. Nobody cared enough to claim this small village for their own, and so, conveniently, Kazuki made it hers.
She had never taken anyone to this particular onsen before though. In a way, this was her home away from home, a sanctuary that she wasn’t keen on sharing. Besides, not many girls were gutsy enough to follow a stranger, dark and mysterious or not, to such a desolate part of the province. No, they would have definitely balked at the first instance of spinning rubber digging up gravel.
And then there was Valerie. Kazuki could not get a good read on her, which was strange, because the yakuza considered herself an excellent judge of character. In their initial interactions, she got the distinct impression that Valerie did not particularly care for the grandeur of Kanbetsu proper. And so, with that random bit about birch trees as her hint, Kazuki opted for an obscure angle. Only, this wasn’t quite hitting either. There was none of the wonderment or curiosity expected of a tourist, but rather than being off-putting, Valerie’s dry quips and cool façade just instigated her competitive streak. Valerie was a puzzle, and the instructions were in a language she couldn’t read, but she was going to solve it through trial and error, one cog at a time.
“Heatstroke?” She remarked off-handedly, stripping down efficiently and methodically. The Smith & Wesson capped off her neatly piled clothing, pressing down like a makeshift paperweight. “That would require an awful long time spent in there,” a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, and she craned her neck to the side, perfectly at ease beneath the assessing gaze. “Are we going to spend an awful long time in there, Valerie?”
If bodies were to be likened to temples, then Kazuki had utterly desecrated hers.
There was the nobori-ryu, encircling her right arm as though a totem, menacing with its bared fangs. Rolling black clouds spanned the same side of her torso, spilling down each rib, transitioning into an artistic rendering of cherry blossoms. A koi sleeve decorated her right calf, while a full leg sleeve - a snarling tiger rearing up in the direction of the dragon - ensconced the leg opposite her arm sleeve. And, when she turned, the design covering the entirety of her back drew the eye every which way. Red spider lilies framed jagged hook-like fangs of that wickedly horned monstrosity - oni. Serpents, waves, and yet more clouds served as a muted backdrop. Every single tattoo was done in the traditional tebori style, an attention to detail shown in each unique design and saturated hues.
A discerning gaze might note the scars beneath particular designs. Raised welts from where bullets had grazed, and, in the fleshy muscle of her shoulder, penetrated. Thinner, faded cuts along her arms and torso, souvenirs from serrated knives, razor-pointed shivs, and that one time she misjudged the arc of a wakizashi. In a way though, all of her scars served only to add character to the canvas, points of interest lovingly caressed with ink.
All of it screamed yakuza loud enough to both ruffle and intrigue sensibilities. Although, judging from that pointed stare, definitely more of the latter. A very good thing, considering that the towel wrapped around her waist was doing an exceptionally poor job and masking her interest. Because on the topic of temples…Kazuki loved desecrating temples, remember? And there was a prime example of one, with its domed summits and marble columns, that was calling her name.
She huffed her obvious disagreement at the inclination towards an indoor tub, because she did not drive halfway up a mountain for an indoor tub. That said, action spoke louder than words, and so, it was her turn to brush past Valerie - quite literally at that, hipbone briefly dallying with hipbone - before proceeding past the exit into the open-air onsen. “Etiquette be damned, I own this place. But, if you are scared of a little heat, that’s alright. I’ll be waiting when you get bored with the logical.”
Out here, the hot spring beckoned, whispering seductive promises of heat and wet. Unevenly seized gray boulders framed tranquil blue-green water. Warm, dim sconces lit the private enclosure, providing the only light source apart from the silver moon. Their hazy glows reflected upon the surface, vivid tangerines smeared by the rising steam. The natural coverage of cypress and cedar encircled the oval-shaped pond. A shishi odoshi tipped at regular intervals, adding to the time-honored ambience. Kazuki made herself comfortable at the shallower end of the hot spring, sinking in. The heat prickled her skin, washing away the chill imparted by the cool night air, and she hissed her satisfaction at the same. Sitting with her legs straight out in front of herself, the water reached just below her collarbones. She ladeled handfuls up and poured the same over her shoulders, eyes lidded contemplatively. Her hair spilled in inky waves, framing her equally inked shoulders and back. Updos were favored in onsens, but again, her onsen, her rules.
Reclining with all the indolent grace of a sunbathing panther, she peered through the vapors and issued her own challenge. “Mm, water’s fine.” The quirk of her smile was not visible through the steam, but the drawl of her voice was hard to miss. “Are you going to join me?” And, because the thought tickled her pink. “Don’t make me beg.” Payback was a bitch and all that.
She had never taken anyone to this particular onsen before though. In a way, this was her home away from home, a sanctuary that she wasn’t keen on sharing. Besides, not many girls were gutsy enough to follow a stranger, dark and mysterious or not, to such a desolate part of the province. No, they would have definitely balked at the first instance of spinning rubber digging up gravel.
And then there was Valerie. Kazuki could not get a good read on her, which was strange, because the yakuza considered herself an excellent judge of character. In their initial interactions, she got the distinct impression that Valerie did not particularly care for the grandeur of Kanbetsu proper. And so, with that random bit about birch trees as her hint, Kazuki opted for an obscure angle. Only, this wasn’t quite hitting either. There was none of the wonderment or curiosity expected of a tourist, but rather than being off-putting, Valerie’s dry quips and cool façade just instigated her competitive streak. Valerie was a puzzle, and the instructions were in a language she couldn’t read, but she was going to solve it through trial and error, one cog at a time.
“Heatstroke?” She remarked off-handedly, stripping down efficiently and methodically. The Smith & Wesson capped off her neatly piled clothing, pressing down like a makeshift paperweight. “That would require an awful long time spent in there,” a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, and she craned her neck to the side, perfectly at ease beneath the assessing gaze. “Are we going to spend an awful long time in there, Valerie?”
If bodies were to be likened to temples, then Kazuki had utterly desecrated hers.
There was the nobori-ryu, encircling her right arm as though a totem, menacing with its bared fangs. Rolling black clouds spanned the same side of her torso, spilling down each rib, transitioning into an artistic rendering of cherry blossoms. A koi sleeve decorated her right calf, while a full leg sleeve - a snarling tiger rearing up in the direction of the dragon - ensconced the leg opposite her arm sleeve. And, when she turned, the design covering the entirety of her back drew the eye every which way. Red spider lilies framed jagged hook-like fangs of that wickedly horned monstrosity - oni. Serpents, waves, and yet more clouds served as a muted backdrop. Every single tattoo was done in the traditional tebori style, an attention to detail shown in each unique design and saturated hues.
A discerning gaze might note the scars beneath particular designs. Raised welts from where bullets had grazed, and, in the fleshy muscle of her shoulder, penetrated. Thinner, faded cuts along her arms and torso, souvenirs from serrated knives, razor-pointed shivs, and that one time she misjudged the arc of a wakizashi. In a way though, all of her scars served only to add character to the canvas, points of interest lovingly caressed with ink.
All of it screamed yakuza loud enough to both ruffle and intrigue sensibilities. Although, judging from that pointed stare, definitely more of the latter. A very good thing, considering that the towel wrapped around her waist was doing an exceptionally poor job and masking her interest. Because on the topic of temples…Kazuki loved desecrating temples, remember? And there was a prime example of one, with its domed summits and marble columns, that was calling her name.
She huffed her obvious disagreement at the inclination towards an indoor tub, because she did not drive halfway up a mountain for an indoor tub. That said, action spoke louder than words, and so, it was her turn to brush past Valerie - quite literally at that, hipbone briefly dallying with hipbone - before proceeding past the exit into the open-air onsen. “Etiquette be damned, I own this place. But, if you are scared of a little heat, that’s alright. I’ll be waiting when you get bored with the logical.”
Out here, the hot spring beckoned, whispering seductive promises of heat and wet. Unevenly seized gray boulders framed tranquil blue-green water. Warm, dim sconces lit the private enclosure, providing the only light source apart from the silver moon. Their hazy glows reflected upon the surface, vivid tangerines smeared by the rising steam. The natural coverage of cypress and cedar encircled the oval-shaped pond. A shishi odoshi tipped at regular intervals, adding to the time-honored ambience. Kazuki made herself comfortable at the shallower end of the hot spring, sinking in. The heat prickled her skin, washing away the chill imparted by the cool night air, and she hissed her satisfaction at the same. Sitting with her legs straight out in front of herself, the water reached just below her collarbones. She ladeled handfuls up and poured the same over her shoulders, eyes lidded contemplatively. Her hair spilled in inky waves, framing her equally inked shoulders and back. Updos were favored in onsens, but again, her onsen, her rules.
Reclining with all the indolent grace of a sunbathing panther, she peered through the vapors and issued her own challenge. “Mm, water’s fine.” The quirk of her smile was not visible through the steam, but the drawl of her voice was hard to miss. “Are you going to join me?” And, because the thought tickled her pink. “Don’t make me beg.” Payback was a bitch and all that.
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