Bad Habit
Moros returned home from Styx’s abode, very very annoyed with himself. Why has he so stupid? No, really? He’d purposely forgotten what he did to Phobos because of the damage it had caused. He’d even watched it from Styx’s point of view. He’d felt her pain and heartache and anguish and why? So that he could fuck up again?
What the fuck was wrong with him? What...the fuck....was wrong?! How much damage had it caused? That one tiny and immensely selfish act. It had just...ruined everything, like he knew it would, and he’d still done it. Fucking stupid idiot.
He wandered into the kitchen to fetch a knife, feeling the tug that Aphrodite was putting across to him. Moros snarled. He really wasn’t in the mood for her. Graciously declining the invite, he slunk into the living room, dropping down on the couch.
Shutting his eyes, he tried to understand why he was behaving so...emotionally. It occurred to Doom, as he cut into his arm, that Styx could be the cause of it. He had been his typical gloomy self before going to seek her out; cold, detached and bitter. And now? He’d killed Panic twice and had been punished for it in ways he personally didn’t remember. He’d snapped Anteros’ arm twice as though it was a breadstick which Lachesis would probably...give him a stern telling off for. And finally, he had crossed a line with Styx. A very important long withstanding line of self-control. Where had all of that got him?
Doom pushed down on the blade feeling it slowly cut through his skin, muscle, flesh until it scraped the bone. He pulled it out and did it again. It couldn’t just be Styx. It had to be more. Hmm. Perhaps it was her, or at least her as a small minority of a bigger problem. Maybe it wasn’t Hate completely. Maybe it was everyone’s good intentions. That could...possibly be a cause. He hadn’t become so sociable until recently, and it was in being unsociable that he retained his aloof state of being. But then he had...mixed with Gods he didn’t particularly like. Having to be all tolerant could only be done for so long. Perhaps Styx had amplified his annoyance a little by quite a bit, but it wasn’t solely her presence that had done it, was it?
Doom huffed and sent the knife straight though his arm.
Or maybe he was just turning into a fucking bully.
Heading into the kitchen again, Moros went over to the sink and turned the tap on. The water hissed as it hit the stainless steel sink bowl. He pulled the knife out slowly and washed it under the faucet as his arm bled into the sink. Once the knife was clean again, he set it down on the counter-top and washed away the outpour of blood. His arm began to go numb under the cold water but the ichor was clotting. Not nearly fast enough though. In the time it took for his body to calm down from the shock of being injured and actually think about sealing up the wounds, Moros had already found a much quicker way. It burned and it stung, and it felt like he was being branded, but it worked. His arm was...sort of fixed, and now he had...nothing to do. There was always the other arm, but...no. Hmm.
Moros left the kitchen and headed into a different room.
Maiming himself was shit. He needed to go watch something die.
What the fuck was wrong with him? What...the fuck....was wrong?! How much damage had it caused? That one tiny and immensely selfish act. It had just...ruined everything, like he knew it would, and he’d still done it. Fucking stupid idiot.
He wandered into the kitchen to fetch a knife, feeling the tug that Aphrodite was putting across to him. Moros snarled. He really wasn’t in the mood for her. Graciously declining the invite, he slunk into the living room, dropping down on the couch.
Shutting his eyes, he tried to understand why he was behaving so...emotionally. It occurred to Doom, as he cut into his arm, that Styx could be the cause of it. He had been his typical gloomy self before going to seek her out; cold, detached and bitter. And now? He’d killed Panic twice and had been punished for it in ways he personally didn’t remember. He’d snapped Anteros’ arm twice as though it was a breadstick which Lachesis would probably...give him a stern telling off for. And finally, he had crossed a line with Styx. A very important long withstanding line of self-control. Where had all of that got him?
Doom pushed down on the blade feeling it slowly cut through his skin, muscle, flesh until it scraped the bone. He pulled it out and did it again. It couldn’t just be Styx. It had to be more. Hmm. Perhaps it was her, or at least her as a small minority of a bigger problem. Maybe it wasn’t Hate completely. Maybe it was everyone’s good intentions. That could...possibly be a cause. He hadn’t become so sociable until recently, and it was in being unsociable that he retained his aloof state of being. But then he had...mixed with Gods he didn’t particularly like. Having to be all tolerant could only be done for so long. Perhaps Styx had amplified his annoyance a little by quite a bit, but it wasn’t solely her presence that had done it, was it?
Doom huffed and sent the knife straight though his arm.
Or maybe he was just turning into a fucking bully.
Heading into the kitchen again, Moros went over to the sink and turned the tap on. The water hissed as it hit the stainless steel sink bowl. He pulled the knife out slowly and washed it under the faucet as his arm bled into the sink. Once the knife was clean again, he set it down on the counter-top and washed away the outpour of blood. His arm began to go numb under the cold water but the ichor was clotting. Not nearly fast enough though. In the time it took for his body to calm down from the shock of being injured and actually think about sealing up the wounds, Moros had already found a much quicker way. It burned and it stung, and it felt like he was being branded, but it worked. His arm was...sort of fixed, and now he had...nothing to do. There was always the other arm, but...no. Hmm.
Moros left the kitchen and headed into a different room.
Maiming himself was shit. He needed to go watch something die.