We are not afraid; let the night come
Who: Hisashi Shimazu & Tetora Nishizono
Where: Shimazu's place
When: Crazy-backdating to October 4th
Summary: Hell if I know.
Rating: AS HIGH as it should need to go.
( And it's like shitty Chinese take-out food, this thing. )
Where: Shimazu's place
When: Crazy-backdating to October 4th
Summary: Hell if I know.
Rating: AS HIGH as it should need to go.
( And it's like shitty Chinese take-out food, this thing. )
But, Shimazu picked up some lemon ruskis anyway and headed out, without paying with mr. puss yelling at him and Shimazu running his ass off and flipping him off.
A few blocks. Then he would return to his sanctuary that had the lingering scent of blood and rot and innards and guts and other foul fluids. All cleaned up of course (Probably the reason why a gasmask was in this apartment anyway) and he bobbed his head along with the music that strung out of his ears and attached to wires.
The thumb in his right pocket fingered the tape recorder in his hand. This was going to be a fun reunion, even if the other didn’t know anything.
Once he saw the figure at the door, Shimazu trotted his way to the door and took out his earphones, smiling at Tetora with a mischievous impish smile while saying in a cooing flirtatious whistle, "Tecchan, you shouldn’t be hanging out in front of here! -- Someone is going to take advantage of you one day."
And with that, his jittery movements reached for the keys in his pocket and opened the front door, slamming it inwards with the tip of his shoe.
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"Bet you'd hate that, huh," he replied blithely, now, some of his frustration seeping out of him at the sight of the achohol bottles. Well okay, he doesn't really drink (it kicks off his meds in bad ways sometimes), but he's been breaking rules all his life, so why the hell not, tonight?
Today?
Sense of time is fucking up, too, isn't it? That little voice told him in the back of his head. Better watch that, Tetora, you might lose your head again.
"Not gonna happen," Tetora said, not aware of having voiced it out loud. "Did you even pay for that?"
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He nudged the door again with his elbow. And the lingering scent of rot hit him in the face like he was suffering from domestic fight and found the bridge of his nose colliding with a plate. But to the blonde, it. It was like perfume. And so he hummed, started to walk backwards into the apartment and slamming his hand onto the light switch - showing a somewhat dull and very empty apartment.
"Yea -- " Shimazu replied smoothly, "I’d cry if someone as sexy as you got raped so easily~" and with the end of his words cutting off into a sing-song mocking form, Shimazu scuttled to the kitchen, flipping the paper back over and letting the numerous glass bottles of, of what? (Lemon ruskis and mixed cocktails? Fucking children drinks, but enough to get wasted on)
But whatever they were, one rolled off the counter and hit the ground, shattering with the prettiest sound, "Oh -- ? Ha ha ha. I. I forgot. But it’s not like they’ll know. What do you think I am? Rich?"
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Something settled in his stomach. Like a worm that got kicked and squished and suddenly decided it was time to fake death, so it could die without any interruption. Which is a bit crazy, yeah, but hey. We're all mad here, as Lewis Carroll said.
Whoever he was.
"Don't you call me that shit," he replied, a lot more petulant than you'd think someone would. The place smelled like a nightmare, and felt like it too; the dry emptiness, the sordidly mundane feel to it, it all reeked of psycho serial killer to Tetora. He'd seen enough shows playing up the glamour of murder and death, and he found it funny in the same way people like watching car crashes, except without the gross sick feeling in the gut: basic entertainment, at its most natural.
He sniffed the air again, and made a face, before he shut the door behind him.
"Don't drug the drinks, at least," even as Tetora wholly suspected this person would, anyway, for the hell of it. "I'm on medication."
Then as an afterthought, as he started to move around looking for a place to sit down (and palm the broken spoon handle he stuck into his boot), "And are you gonna tell me your name yet?"
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A low whistle at the sudden reply to that -- that compliment. And then a laugh, "Aah, you’re so annoying Tecchan, I though we were friends but noooo--ooo--" Lips pursed, clamping his teeth together as the sole of his boot played a melody on the broken shards of glass as his hand gripped around the top of a bottle. He was such a weakling, taking deep heavings of his chest as though he could do it but he gave up, flinging his wrist before letting his gaze catch Tetora.
"It’s not my fault if you are. You know. You were programmed to be good-looking anyway...I--I can’t believe you’re back. Hehe. I. I thought you were gone for good." The laughter spewed from his lips like a disease as he took up two bottles and made his way to Tetora, holding them both out for him as thought to confess he was a little bitch who couldn’t do shit.
"Hmmm -- ? Ah, that. How are the drugs working out for you, then?" It was a very simple question, really, but he continued as he leaned against the wall with his arms folded against his head, "Shimazu. Not as cute as Tecchan, right? We -- ah -- "
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In a really gross way.
Then the words started coming out, and the urge to ram his fist right up against the bleached blond's face came back full force. "Say what, again? Programmed? I'm fucking back?"
He didn't even notice that he's reached out, went to the man, took the beer bottle and had set it neatly on the floor, the glass bottom tinkling faintly against the linoleum. And he didn't care to notice that his leg had swung out, to knock the other's shin back hard and let the man fall into him, catching this Shimazu in his hand, by the jaw.
He did mind, on the other hand, when he reached down and cupped the other's balls hard, that vomit-feeling in his stomach rising to wet his throat up and make him feel like he swallowed a giant shit-eating slug.
"Got your balls, don't I?" Tetora sneered, squeezing them none too gently. "You telling me we were on the down-low?"
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He was pretty much ignorant to Tetora’s words. Not when actions spoke them firmer. And with the fingers that clasped around his jaw, Shimazu could only smirk and lean in. Not in one of those ’Oh this is so fucking hot’ ways, but more like ’Fuck I’m going to fall if I don’t balance myself’ ways, and he cooed, " -- You don’t know that either, eh -- ? Wow. They really messed you up."
Then a hand slithered their way to Shimazu’s pants and cupped...
...his balls.
The sensation itself made Shimazu jerk slightly, tensing himself but made no effort to pull away, only placing a hand on the couch arm to keep himself from falling over and having his head faceplanted in Tetora’s chest. He breathed deeply, letting out a light littering laugh that ended with a shallow exhale before he reached up and pull down his bottom eyelid, reveling that barcode tattoo, "You have one too, don’t you? See -- we could be like twins." Only, Tetora had black-hair, Shimazu had bleached blond, their tattoos didn’t match at all. But Shimazu was delusional anyway.
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He had this creepy fag on top of him, flashing him a tattooed eye, and he had his fucking hand on the guy's balls. "You're probably getting off on this, aren't you."
But there it goes. The tattoo? The barcode? Tetora had to sneer, had to smirk - and hell if it was his most charming, most badass, most I'm-gonna-fuck-your-shit-and-make-you-love-it shit-eating grin ever - because haha haha what. A. Fake.
"Twins?" Tetora shoved him off to the side, moved over, half a straddle and half a lean-over, letting the other's balls go but tightening his grip around the other's throat. He lifted a hand, pulled down skin under his right eye, put out on display the letters marked on his eye. LUC_Y, in clear letters against the white of his eye. "Yeah it's cool, you've got a barcode on your eye? But you know what? That just means you're some manufactured POS. Even condoms have barcodes on their packets, people make them by the dozen. You're not my twin."
And in one fluid movement, Tetora cracked his fist against the other's jaw.
"I am one of a kind, motherfucker."
Somewhere in the back of Tetora's head was a tiny voice that was screaming at him. In joy. Sweet Baby Jesus wrapped in plastic, thank you.
Things are finally getting interesting.
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And. There it was. That smirk Shimazu was semi-familiar with. The smirk that told Shimazu that he was going to lose another molar today and ah -- there it went. Tetora changing his position so he was not having this guy semi-ride him. Such a fucking tease, just leaning in and not taking the whole thing. Hahaha. What a fucking pussy.
"You are so testy Tecchan." Shimazu murmured with a high-pitched whistle, "Lots of diseased sluts are called Lucy, why are you so special, hmm?" And it was then that his smile spread the width of his visage, contrasting to the almost-friendly wink that he preformed. Then, as soon as he reopened his eye, he felt his nerves being twisted as a shockwave of a slamming fist collided with his jaw. It cracked, went slack for a moment and tore his lip. Blood pooled in his mouth and seeped through the crack of the corner of his mouth as his body responded with falling flat on his back.
His hand reached up, rubbed his cheek, a pained moan and a light cracking of the movements of his jaw as he spoke, "Aah. That hurt -- " His figure rolled into a sitting position and in a instant he was on his knees. One hand grasping at Tetora’s shirt and he ungracefully threw a clumsy punch at the back of Tetora’s skull as his other hand slipped into his pocket to pull out a tape recorder.
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He landed face-first on Shimazu's shoulder, his teeth clacking together and making him see stars for a good second or two, and even then he was scrabbling to get back up, hands shoving at Shimazu's chest, against the couch, anything so he can grab that bottle he'd set down and whack the night away with it to the guy's nose. Like in those movies, bottle bottom to face until it caved it.
His blood was roaring in his ears. Tetora had to laugh a little.
"The fuck are you doing?"
He'll even ignore the "slut" jab; I mean, who was the fag here, anyway?
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He took a moment to watch Tetora elegantly split his way along the floor and laughed. Softly. But laughed anyway with his thumb on the press play button. But all that shit of starting a real life movie was all but interrupted as he felt the other’s face on his shoulder, teeth grazing along the material of his jacket. It didn’t help Shimazu. Not really. Not when he was fucking slugged along the jaw and still feeling the aftereffects of his brains swirling around his skull.
Of course, Shimazu himself was a touchy-feely guys. So all these hands and fingers going everywhere were no problem for him. It was until he noticed that Tetora was aiming to reach for the bottle that was settled on the ground that he started to motion his legs to get Tetora off him.
Which actually eventually end up having both of them sinking down in the couch.
Then slipping off the couch. With Tetora in Shimazu’s lap and Shimazu’s ass on the floor.
Then. He pressed play with a flourishing victorious gesture that matched his shit-eating smirk.
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And then the music started playing.
At first he was a little confused at it - what the hell, did Shimazu need a soundtrack for getting beat up? - but then the sea-sick wash of guitars kicked in, and the warbling high-note voice creeped on over the melody and shit--
It started at the chest. It started with a constricting feeling that crept from just above his diaphragm and spread over his lungs, over his heart, and closed his throat up. It was never this bad with other sorts of music. It was only somewhat like this with pop music, when it's a tiny girl warbling like a computer program on static.
It was never this pronounced.
"What the shit?" Was all he said as his eyes widened, and his mouth went slack and for all it was worth it looked like he was either gonna have a seizure right then and there, or he was pissing himself. Both of which felt adequate - right before the loud, painful white crashed through his nerves.
What the fuck is this? He wanted to yell, but instead he dug his fingers deeper into skin - didn't matter whose, didn't matter at all - until he felt the nails cutting in deeper, biting crisply into fleshy meat or scratching unyielding cloth and fuck-
[Hey, Tetora, did you just get hard?]
"You FUCK," he breathed, whether to the voice in his head or to Shimazu he wasn't sure. All he knew was that it was getting really fucking loud inside him, like a hundred voices starting to scream, one by one, until it felt like his ears would explode into his brain and crack his skull, letting out a thousand fingers crawling out like bloody spiders all over his leather clothes.
It felt like a really bad LSD trip gone bad; with an odd gentleness, Tetora shaped the words in his head, breathed them out as his his heart rattled in his ribs. A whole list of names was scrolling past his mind, each name with a lifetime and a hundred different memories.
[You're tripping really badly, you got that right.]
"Holyyy shiiiiiiit..." he dragged out of his mouth, fingers tingling. "I think I could kill you."
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Shimazu didn’t bother listening to the muttering from above him, but hell Shimazu felt like throwing up any moment, feeling his skull in the same sensation as though his brain was expanding and ready to pop like a new-born sack of shit.
He kicked and squirmed when he felt the nails biting into his skin and clothing, mumbling unintelligently with a -- a -- was that a fucking moan? "T--Tecchan you’ve got your screws loose. I. I thought so..." The throbbing pain in his head increased as though a drill was going right through his brain with no connection and with a deep heaving of his chest, Shimazu removed himself from underneath Tetora.
But.
All that.
Fucking movement. All the squirming, all his attempts to pull away from Tetora ( -- Who he knew would sooner or later turn into a fucking human chainsaw -- ) and clutch at his skull, the tape recorder falling from his hand and he crawled limply on the couch, fingers gripping at the edges as the swelling in his brain continued before moving his head over the creaking leather whilst kneeling and felt his afternoon lunch boil in his throat before emptying all over the floor like avant-guard bloody picasso.
Bringing the sleeve of his jacket to his mouth to wipe off the excess fluid, Shimazu turned back around to Tetora, giving off a croaking noise before speaking breathlessly, "See. See! You. You’re a complete psycho!"
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He didn't hear anything, and he didn't care to hear, and he certainly didn't mind it. Tetora watched the vomit fly in slow motion, watched the sour-smelling fluid arc gracefully in the air before splattering all over the floor.
It was the wrong color. It was the wrong smell. It should be copperish red, he was thinking, Tetora was thinking and he reached into the back of his mind for that certain sound, that certain thing that shut everything out and made him feel really good about himself.
Then he began to laugh.
He had the vague idea that Shimazu was hard beneath him (if he was to judge that turgid lump that was half-pressed up against the back of his thigh), and that there was a crazed look oh the other's face, like watching a light show while high. He watched Shimazu's mouth work out the syllables of some word or other, read the sentence of his mouth.
Then he stuck three of his fingers into that mouth - what are you doing? - smiling all the time. Something was winding up in him.
[Name starts with an S, kid. Shit if I died because of you and you can't even pull this off right.]
"You oughta shut up more, Shimazu," Tetora said, as he leaned over, his pupils dilated, his blood hot on his nerves. "You're less annoying when you're quiet."
Then he pushed the digits in deeper.
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Even if it was so very familiar ( -- He swore that it almost sounded like his, and there, and right then it bolted him to the spot) It was wrong for Shimazu to think he was scared, but his hand went to his pants either way to check to see if he pissed himself.
But instead he was just touching himself like some goddamn pervert.
His head was forcefully jolted back as he felt the slender appendages make their way into his mouth, shoving the back of his head back against the cushiony furniture. Though it could have been defined as rather sick, the way that Shimazu ran his gooey liquidly thick-fluid tongue around the fingers and tasting the lingering flavor of carrots ( -- Why was it always FUCKING carrots?) before he sunk back into the couch as the fingers passed his gag reflex and jolting a surge of tension through him.
Then, he smiled as he let out a choking sound before biting down on the fingers. Hard enough to threaten breaking bones as he moved his jaw in a gnawing motion so his molars clamped around the knuckles, and the sole of his shoe planted against Tetora's abdomen.
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"You kick me off you and I promise you, you're never gonna get off," Tetora sneered, "ever."
He let fingers rub down against tongue, sick in how it massaged the appendage like it was something more tender, and Tetora hitched up closer, tipped his head back to crack stiff joints on his neck with a sharp cracking sound. Rolled his shoulders, like it was some shiver-spin he was throwing out of his body.
"You're probably older than me, right?" Tetora began, as he gripped Shimazu's ankle tightly. "So you're probably more... haha, learned in shit like this more than me, right? So how about you play nice and treat your guest properly, share some fuckin' knowledge, come on."
Tetora run the tip of his tongue over his canines. He can still reach for the spoon handle. He can still jab at that eye, pull it out and put it in formaldehyde, pickle it in a jar and use it as a lamp light. But no, not yet.
Not yet.
"Your house, Shimazu. What you wanna do?"
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