#◈ WE ARE THE HOUNDS OF HEAVEN THE BLOODY DOGS OF WAR [D.o.G.]

[gcldfanged]

“What's with that look … ?” Tone is low, rasping with teasing lilt. Sharp nails are barely touching, tracing the air which bends around the fine carve of Jae's jawline, causing a tangible thrum, a tension not entirely due to the residual pulse of energy bleeding from teasing digits following ( almost caressing ) the line of his flesh. They hum, in approval, leaning forward; invasive, infringing, the boundaries between them once again tested and tried— But when did they matter before? Sloan smirks, smug, shaded lenses slipping low along the bridge of their nose, their eyes shimmering eerily. “You gonna claw at me again, kitty?” They mock, “Or… You gonna gimme a purr?”

He drapes himself artfully over the nearest piece of furniture, all lean wiry muscle and elegant-limbed yet also displaying an ease with which he exists within the space- Within their vicinity, their quiet yet dominating presence, taking up the full scope of their shark-eyed field of vision.

Full lips curve into a puckish bow as his monolidded eyes fall to half-mast. The assassin still exudes a wordless satisfaction that seems to emanate from every pore, minute gesture, and visible body language that is on open display- Borderline exhibitionist in it's shameless sensuality.

It's naked intimacy.

Inviting, yet untouchable- Contrary and playful. Truly cat-like in the way he offers himself up on a gilded tray to be languorously stroked and attentively plied with affection, keeping himself but a hair's breadth from their reach.

Only his fellow bulgae would pick up on the way his spine arches, how he bares his slender throat for their fangs and the expanse of his belly for their waiting claws. The barest shiver that traverses his lithe form, seizing the very air from his lungs as a willing captive, an anticipatory frisson that plaits itself into every branching nerve singing with frightening life within his body.

The way their name can only slide from the rasp of his tongue, barely audible if not for the closeness, a prayer whispered from an open and bloodied maw.

Honed talons extend in raw pleasure, sinking into the plush cushioning of the chair in a white-knuckled grip, the energy similar to releasing mounting pressure from a maintenance valve. As ever, the focus of his single-minded obsession is a frighteningly gorgeous beast: their tenacity, loyalty unto death, a thrilling creature displaying such unearthly economy of movement that it's very existence is a warning to the other beings prowling the underworld. Nature's way of saying 'do not touch, do not approach, do not attempt to consume' and otherwise.

It's a lewd display, to open his mouth like a passive space to be filled and thoroughly used, tracing the slightly forked tip of his prehensile tongue along the underside of the offending digit. Implanted gold incisors graze their color-enriched skin so featherlight, its non-presence haunts and lingers like a lonely ghost.

There is comforting awareness of the trust that remains implicit between them, connecting them to a shared past where they existed as a predetermined set- Two arabesques perfectly joined. They are more than mere ‘instincts’ molded and shaped to their basest role and function. This is a surrender, his earnest capitulation to a force of nature hewn from ivory bone and wrapped in sun-kissed flesh.

[gcldfanged]

A tremulous hand raises to his parted lips, splaying dexterous and spider-like fingers across the angular facet of his jawline, the sharp jut of his chin. The Anomalous’ counterpart lets out a cross between a bark of manic laughter and a shuddering exhale, clearly deeply affected by the conflicted expression etched across and contorting their ever-captivating features.

"Ahh, that look… It’s so much better than anything Antitypical’s dreams managed to create with the limited palette his poor brain is forced to work with, y’know? Everything’s coming alive with this intoxicating lushness, so many vivid hues of color striping over the monotone canvas of this festering wound of a city.”

The familiar, if now much older, subject’s long gait closes the distance between them at an aggressive pace, sinewy arms steeling and bulging with coils of lean muscle as he opens his arms to envelop his compliment in a tight embrace.

“Did Anomalous miss their counterpart? Antitypical knows he missed you… Every single agonizing second, minute, hour, day, week, month, and year stretching onwards, over and over and over-”

His lips move slowly, forming words without tangible feeling behind them. 

He couldn’t even remember the actual question that his other half had asked him in the first place. 

But now that they had, without thinking, it all came spilling out of him. From his mouth, his throat, the cavernous depths of his chest. Bleeding from the very core of his being in an agonizingly steady stream, like water flowing from a burst pipe.

“The Antitype was alone when he was first born, but then he immediately was given The Anomalous. They were always together- Their thoughts were his thoughts, their feelings were his feelings… Everything. Always, always together. For days and weeks and months- They knew that they would be like that until they eventually died,” he continues to ramble, both vulpine eyes wide but downcast and unseeing- Not registering true visual input. 

“But Antitypical had known.  Antitypical knew that, more than anything about him, Anomalous had something else they wanted much more… For all that Antitypical loved Anomalous, they didn’t love him back the same amount. Since the beginning, all Antitypical ever looked at is Anomalous, so he knew. But even so, Antitypical longed to be with them. As long as Anomalous would stay with him, he was fine with only that.”

The limber arms entwined around their body begin to tighten, paler flesh bulging beneath the force of his freakishly enhanced strength, talon-like claws gouging deep tracks into bared skin and fabric alike.

“Antitypical had Anomalous with him ever since he was first born... And now Antitypical is alone. And until Antitypical dies, he’ll stay alone. Forever.”

He had cried so much when Anomalous abandoned him.

It was still painful, so painful- Like he was the one dying, not Anomalous. Their Masters should have killed him, instead. Why didn’t they kill him, why wouldn’t they kill him, why-

And yet The Anomalous in his mind had said nothing. They never spoke, never talked, never responded in any noticeable way. Just stared, until their Masters came in and asked even more questions, made more demands. Ran more and more experiments.

He wanted the real Anomalous to say something. Anything. Even if it was hurtful, even if it was nonsense- so long as they were the one talking, not him.

He was so tired of talking to the cold, empty space where their body should have belonged- Beside his, and having no one answer.

It hurt- It hurts.

it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts.

He didn’t care if their Masters hit him again, took away parts of his body again, forced their shiny tools and hands into his skull again.

His dominant hand reaches out, desperately, fingers sliding so nicely around his beloved’s neck. He could kill them, then maybe their Masters would finally let Antitypical rest.

Slowly, so slowly, he increases the pressure around their beautiful throat- Eyes widening as his senses begin to monitor their vital signs.

The Antitype draws in close, almost in silent curiosity. Nose-to-nose, until he can feel each choking gasp against his skin. He pulls Anomalous flush against the front of his torso and does not let go, watching in abject fascination as a bead of crimson gathers from a puncture wound. The tip of his thin, forked tongue snakes out from between his lips to impulsively worm itself into the still bleeding trench.

A strange spark, tasted like copper. Warm and alive.

He wants even more now.

sc. / closed / @gcldfanged

TEN YEARS ⸺ A whole goddamn decade of running , killing , purging their existence of everything they once were.  All for naught ( a hound is still a hound , isn’t that right ? you’d be nothing without your masters , remember ).  

Of course the Project would send someone after them.  But this?  It is anger , of course , that Sloan feels.  Yet something else , something Sloan cannot remember the name for , also curdles their gut , makes them nauseous with forgotten sensation suddenly forced to the surface of their ruined being ( a scar reopened, fingers gouging into flesh & tearing them open asking how it feels to feel again ).  Memories infringe , unwanted , a visceral menagerie that eventually , PAINFULLY narrows to a singular , fixed focus of flickering , vibrant energy standing before them.  Choked , as if the collar still is there , a chain jerking them taut and strangling their voice , Sloan speaks , the words nearly dying between them , ❝ You … ❞ It drags , drops and shatters onto the pavement like an accusation until , ❝ Y- you’re fuckin’ … Alive ?! ❞  And here to KILL THEM , no doubt ( or is he ? ).