LIMITLESS & LIMINAL

小三. 𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙻𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽.

ARC: ryoken (post-hunt). LOCATION: vampire hospital. WITH:  @hctaru

If anyone asked, the rehearsed answer is because he needed medical attention. He would even say the same even if Kisa themself inquired. He would say it, even when he knew they would see past the lie he uses to comfort himself. 

He arrives at the hospital, immediately seeking the scent of the firefly, following their trail as if tracking prey. Hunter once again — always, craving to sink teeth into flesh.  He finds Kisa, and something like hunger flashes across his eyes, and he made no effort to hide it. He stood, silent for a moment, clothes soaked in blood (not his), skin smeared with its ruby red shine. He didn’t trust himself to speak, because any excuse he’s come up with is drowned by the truth: He simply needed their attention. 

your little secret is a horrible liar, slow smiles spreading over lips as you hear them approaching. you don’t need to read their mind to know what excuses he’s woven to clear a conscience as dirty as his hands.

just how you like. 

you purposefully busy yourself for a few minutes more before turning to zhan lei, welcoming smiles mocking. eyes obvious as they scan him up and down, mischievous. hungry. 

“poor thing.” you croon, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. fingertips gently holding onto jaws, tilting faces this way and that as if in inspection, though eyes stay sharp on his. prey with grinning canines. 

faint blood suffused through the air, pervasive as light particles and shadow, coasts along strands of scent and sound and adrenaline roar. freshly spilled, too sweet and raw for carrion-eaters. all places in hokuei are slaughterhouse places. charnel houses for the meat and feasting of the food chain — a thing no more pragmatic or mundane than a fact of basic ecology. 

valentine has been so long a vampire that he no longer needs to close his eyes and tongue for the sight. he sees it omniscient, ubiquitous. 

the little deviant of firefly house toys with predatory instinct, steps into valentine’s own abattoir a creature as if presumption alone absolves him of becoming prey. he observes him drink, mouth pressing to the rim of the glass, irreverent. crave. a note of disdain colours the word in valentine’s consciousness, souring the metallic saccharine of first blood. his gaze diverts, an eye cast towards the battle unfolding amidst the grandstands below. 

“you would do well to temper those instincts.”  axiomatic, edifying. this is not a game for children, as much as the boy still reeks of fledgling hunger and the insatiable grasping at want that stains all immortals of his youth. letting a shade of disapproval dip into the surface of measured voice, valentine levels the full brunt of scrutiny upon him. “especially when one possessing such a utilitarian gift against an opponent elected not to enter the games. did the good doctor not see fit to name you a champion?”

the point, dear student, is that you see me as whatever you want to see me: the unyielding teacher. the master with the velvet-gloved fist. the god you desire so desperately to go your knees for. the leviathan sleeping beneath your bed and your bones that holds you captive and prey, the one that reminds you of scalpel tenderness and the caress of being dissected by the one who knows each organ of you by name.

valentine leaves the question unanswered, rhetorical as perhaps intended.  

“when you are as ancient as me, little one, you will find that godhood is a transient hunger.”  opiate of the masses, anaesthetising to those unwilling to open their minds to the true and unbearable meaninglessness of existence. and gods are easy to kill.  “only a fool would desire to be something so fallible and arbitrary. a god is worshipped with prayer and incense; a wolf is hungry and kills to eat its prey. which is the one in control, and which is the one given power by the weaker?”  power lies in the undeniable. no deity has ever existed without doubt.

kisa goes still, their incessant, humming energy tapering to a finite point of concentration. watching someone slip into the reaches of their power has always been fascinating; valentine has observed lightly with the sight enough to anticipate the locking of his ribs, mid-breath and part-bloodshot. in the beginning, he braced for it, closing his mind into a still, equanimous pool, infinity stretching in all directions. 

ever since he learned kisa only listens to the screaming, he hasn’t bothered to expend so much as an afterthought to stillness. what would you hear, little monster, if you knew how to discern me from the rest?

“yes. you can.”  valentine commands.  “listen deeper. you are treading water on the surface, do not linger in it. submerge yourself. are the things you hear any more terrifying than what you have tasted yourself?”  tybault, valentine concedes, because the small-minded populace of hokuei could not fathom a house leader falling in the first round. and yet… a baser inclination. the yearning for blood on the colosseum floor, ichor spilling from olympus’ summit. besides, he knows tybault’s opposition. knows the unholy blaze of the destroyer within him.

“they are animals, nothing more than beast or cattle. listen for the instinct that we all harbour in our veins. the braying of livestock hungry to be fed. the cry for a killing.”

the thing with drowning is that it is a choice — your lungs will crave the surface but you will force your body to grow gills, to dissipate into the still blue that surrounds you. this is what he asks of you, cradling your jawline gently before lowering you under the water. fingers moving down to throats, closing your airways, feeling how you try to shapeshift into another being for him. one he can love, or at least use. to you, there is no difference. 

it hurts to become, doesn’t it? but you’ve spent your whole life telling yourself that you like the pain and what would you be if you didn’t? what would all of it have been for if you let it hurt the way it’s supposed to? 

you turn to valentine, find a grounding in his eyes. take a deep breath and let the void of his gaze swallow you as you allow the floodgates of silent screams open in your mind, trying to turn your fear into a welcoming. letting them feast on it. 

time is not well kept when they are under, seconds or minutes they stand too still, corpse held up by marionette strings. watch as glazed eyes go from bloodshot to bleeding, a horrible red bubbling over corneas before it overflows, streaming down cheeks. stillness shattered by shaking, stumbling towards the man who sits patiently in waiting, nearly falling onto his lap as they struggle for purchase, for grounding — you. never looking away, never blinking; tethering themselves to something they can hold onto to come back again even as red fills their vision. 

you may not want to be a god, but they still look at you like one; crying blood at your altar, at your command. there’s fear, then panic, when they try return and see only crimson, blinking rapidly until the colour smears into the familiar shadows of you. 

“divina and ilyas. then — then, oseye and... and rakshasa for the other semifinals. i don’t — i can’t see, can’t hear the — the finals, i don’t know who makes it to the finals, who wins, i’m — “ 

voices are raspy, cracked, words tripping over one another too quickly in an attempt to hand him the fruits of your self-harvesting, blood dripping down your chin and staining his lap. you don’t remember when you were gripping his wrist like a lifeline but you know you’re afraid to let go of it. 

you let tears mix with the blood as the hurt starts violently in the base of your skull, refusing to close your eyes even to soothe the ache, refusing to look away from the dark familiarity of his gaze. you curl up closer instead, taking up as little space as you can while emulating the nearness you crave. 

“’m not good for the ring. i don’t know how to fight. ‘nd i’m too volatile, i think. might crack and take myself out instead of the opponent.” said quietly once breaths even again, bloodstains drying slowly as tear tracks now, answers to rhetoricals. a need to explain. 

 you think when you closed the gates, you didn’t do so properly. something — or multiple somethings — in you are still screaming. 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  —  THE DOME BAR 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇  —  @hctaru​ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍  —  ROUND ONE: nara vs. yena

THEIR VIOLENT DELIGHTS DID, INDEED, PROPHESIZE VIOLENT ENDS. None of them can feign an unknowing. They have been alive too long, living more as the undead than they might’ve ever done as half-alive human beings — though, there remains more than a fair share, Rina is aware, of those who squander it. Is there so little left for entertainment? she muses, weaving through the throng thick with the crimson velveteen of their waging murmurings, complimentary besides the accoutrements courtesy of the House of Spiders. An idle, hypocritical ponderance when she skirts their way to the Dome Bar, hanging off of Kisa’s arm as though it weren’t he who is their accessory. 

An exquisite adornment Rina lures towards the bar-top, never so plebian a creature who’d surrender all weight to elbows atop the tainted, germ-ridden surface, though she orders and accepts the rich, altered chalice of Sauvignon, waving their hand at any additions. She saves the verbal response for the coy moue that enquires from Kisa: “A dash of your life’s blood nectar for the wine mixer.” It isn’t quite an order, and it isn’t quite a question. An instruction, perhaps. She is his teacher, is she not? 

tw self harm

anxiety looks strange on you; flighty, carefree thing with wings you clipped yourself, a cavernous mouth, a cavernous heart; byproduct of your own hunger, your own chaos. nothing should bother you now, but here you are. nervous. 

sending yena into the brawl was not a good idea. 

lips are nearly bitten through with their worrying, fingers tangling and untangling. they follow rina almost unthinkingly, trailing behind her and trying not to think of how to put back together a friend again. 

“hm?” they look up to meet rina’s eyes, takes a moment to registered her request. simple, really. needed, even. as familiar as a childhood blanket and kisa pulls it closer to him, pulling blades tucked into belts out and pressing it onto skin. there is a warmth to the ice-cold blade next to veins; nostalgic. 

insolent thing, valentine muses, smile tempting to grow like weeds that can only survive in dark. did they truly believe that all they would require to conceal themselves from him was a mask? as if he couldn’t count the beats between muscle pulling against bone, the self-satisfied pleasure caressing down vertebra. 

“and which house would that be?” quite pointedly, his gaze snaps from the arena before him to the intruder. as he speaks, a hand stretches out to lift the crystalline glass of chilled wine. “you could be forgiven for lack of insight into the tangled web of council politics.” the tone is academic, didactic, save for the underbelly of cool disparagement. “but it’s no secret that there is no love lost between the mother of spiders and i. so it certainly couldn’t be our patroness of wine and revelry.”

a flick of slender fingers fit for the dismissal of a faceless attendant. he has little patience for charades, even ones as charmingly sealed in pantomime as this. 

and always with these little transgressions, darting minutely forwards to toe a line across the boundary between sanity and propriety. if he hadn’t invested so much time and consideration in them already, he’d consider them forfeit to their own audacity. more fearful creatures have certainly died for less.

“you’ll find solitude is an enviable respite before the evening is over, particularly if the amount of blood yen exchanging hands and illegal trade taking place has any part to play.”

he still hasn’t touched the wine, for all that it must be perfectly decanted to have crossed the threshold of the house of beetle’s designated area. an open snub of tricks and flimsy farces. and here he thought he’d taught them better than that. 

“do you think i deign to play god, kisa?”  

lesson number one: you will learn nothing at this altar of blasphemy if your intention is to claw at the gates of a hollow pantheon. the purse of his lips is lenient, still. patient.  “why don’t you tell me who you think i’m wagering on, who you think i believe will win. what do your voices whisper to you?”

tw injury ideation

there must be a word for this kind of love  — one where you hold the knife and i press my hand into it, watching it slice through palm and trusting that you won’t push it into beating hearts. you trusting that i’ll cut myself on the edge. knowing that i want to. the blade to my blood, the bane to your boredom. 

kisa grins. 

masks are slipped off easily, no need for guises; finding different games to play. valentine does not touch the wine and the scientist takes it as an invitation to drink themselves, taking small sips before setting it back down on the table. 

“i don’t particularly crave respite tonight — not when nothing’s even happened yet.” mischievous smiles, a flash of boyish devilry when they turn to look at you again. there is no attempt at hiding how eyes linger on how the other sits like a king above a stadium of blood, teeth tugging at the edges of lips. 

“what better game is there to play than god? what would you like me to see you as then?” 

your pupil is a troublesome one — this you knew the moment you took them in. still, there is some semblance of studiousness in them, heads turning to the stage in quiet concentration. 

quietly, the voices press their mouths to ears, eyes, lips. you can hear both worry and ignorance, wagers and bloodlust, feel it trickling down throats and cutting skin; voices growing from a whisper to a screaming, tidal waves of words, feelings, dreams crashing into lungs, throats working on swallowing —

“i hear — “ 

he says your voices and you are never sure if the screaming is you or another’s, if it is in your throat or in your head. 

Cai admires their audacity, truly. Though, given the younger vampire’s blatant disregard of any propriety, shame or self preservation, she kept wondering just how their lifespan endured for as long as it did.

Not effective? There is barely a soul in existence brave enough to disregard her purred out warnings, not when the tone is as hushed as it was mere heartbeats ago. This little thing has some balls. “Hm.” she hums, a hint of amusement igniting her eyes, before the little audacious thing spoke again - and Cai’s last nerve started to become strained.

“And I thought herding the men in Cicada was a tiresome task.” Tongue clicks, a displeased tsk echoing from her mouth as head tilts to the side - displeasure of the vampire’s initial mischief now turning into a long overdue lecture.

Crackers were probably the last straw straining her already frail nerves. “Aid you? In stealing? From your Head, no less. You know this is the third offense you did in less than a minute? First, breaking and entering. Second, an attempted theft - of classified, medical information, no less. And third,” she pauses, a mockery of a soft smile tugs at her lips before she continues ; “attempted bribe of a high ranked, military officer. I head the prison is lovely at this time of year. Plenty of sunlight.”

Amused by her own wit, she observes the little thief as the information sinks in.

tw scar mention

little firefly, little thief, little frankenstein-monster running around with your mind half-screwed and your heart-ash littering the hallways — 

you sit at the maw of danger and make a home out of it. does this make you brave or foolish?

soft blinking, then a stopping. papers still in their hands, then are carefully put away. the slight thing moves to sit on the edge of their head’s desk, and carefully presents outstretched wrists, pulling up sleeves to unveil the criss-crossing of patchwork scars of a human life. 

“then imprison me.” not said as a challenge, but a welcoming. a pleading, if you wanted it to be. “but i am not a man, nor am i cicada’s. if you want to execute me, then have it done by tybalt.” 

said simply, said clear. what respect that is known is given almost subconsciously to the man, with little left for anyone else. there is an ease to the thought of the head to be the one to deliver the gracious blow. 

“Let’s hope not.” In his hands, the manila folder felt almost heavy with it’s unearthed possibilities, limitless potentials intertwined as statistical probabilities. Superimposed states of what he could know, might know, or will know, just barely peeking from the edges of the file.

But for a moment, his attention was caught elsewhere, the file left forgotten in his palms. Eyes darted across the dim room almost instantly at the voice of his companion, jarring against the silent air that had occupied the space previously. The glimmer of gold caught his sights just as easily, well-contrasted against Kisa’s pale skin. It was beautiful. But it barely held Titus’ interest.

“We’re not here to steal jewelry,” Titus muttered, “What if he tries to find it?” He turned back to the folder in his hands. This. This was what they might be looking for, perhaps a drop of knowledge that would sour the waters of the city. Taint the Beetle’s husk. He held up the folder, shaking it lightly without looking over. “Don’t know, want to look with me and see?”

“if he tries to find it then he’ll find it on me. easy.” wide smiles without a hint of fear for a master’s rage bound to drown him slow. you spend your whole life waving red flags waiting for someone to notice, waiting for someone to do something about it; put their hands on you as to remind you that you are not a ghost. 

you exist only in your near-dyings. you do not bother to explain this to your friend, knowing that he will not know how to listen the way you know how to be heard. 

yet. 

“whatcha looking for anyways? i forgot to ask — if it’s just files you’re looking for, i bet you valentine’s probably aren’t as interesting as tybalt’s, at least in my opinion. oh, unless they’re diaries — did you find his diary?” curious eyes peek over shoulders, now all too intrigued by the folder in titus’ hand. 

More than ever, Zhan Lei wished he could have smelled their presence before he felt it.  Their voice cut through the thick glaciers of his reverie, and it startles. What surprised Zhan the most about it, however, was that he did not find it unpleasant. Not even when they seemed so openly ( and playfully ) seductive. His breath catches in his throat like a sharp blade, lodged deep the moment they clean too close — so close that in the hundreds of smells around them, he was beginning to drown in theirs.  He sat immobile and lets them speak, teeth gritted, listening closely even when he initially intended to close his ears to the firefly. He deigns to ignore them, and would have continued to do so, until he insinuated something he has never dared to speak out loud. How do you know?  With effort, he tried to appear nonchalant, even as his cold hands grab at their jaw, pulling them down to level their faces.  “You talk too much,” Zhan Lei tells them, voice cold, eyes flashing. “What would it take to shut you up?” 

oh, there it is — the moment a lucky guess turns into truth, soft as a feather on outstretched tongues. the way the other grips jaws is as telling as a confession, and smiles widen, eyes more pupil than iris. 

it was an easy guess to make — who else would think of rin in that way? — but to place the thought to brain, hand to near-throats — oh, this is everything. 

“do i talk too much or do i simply say what you’re afraid to hear, sweetheart?” get comfortable with the proximity, close enough to taste the cold of your veins. “funny how a couple of small words can take down such a big, bad, warrior like yourself. perhaps firefly should have put me in the ring.” 

brave or stupid, how they pull themselves closer to you, noses touching. when was the last time you were seen like this? 

location: firefy hq, Tybalt’s office. with: @hctaru

This whole Blood Brawl thing was certainly getting out of hand. It was pointless carnage, gladiator games that did not even end in a glorious death. She fails to see the point in vampires tearing at each other’s throat without actually tearing at each other’s throats.

It was certainly an upgrade from the mindless bloodshed back in the day. But a downgrade in any sense of propriety or, well, good ideas. Honestly, they could’ve just played cards. Or Go. Have a sprinting contest. But no, their eternal lives will get so pitiful and dull if they don’t - within the bounds of law - attempt to rip each other to shreds.

Men.

And now not only her favourite pup is attending, but also probably her only friend and had it not have been for the blasted arm ( the secrecy of it ) she would’ve participated herself. Her plan was to visit Tybalt again and give him some more advice on fighting - if only to do her duty as a friend ; and a fighter - but something smelled… different in his office. It was a somewhat familiar scent ( in a way that scent of all vampires she’s seen at least a couple of times in her long lifespan ), but not as familiar as to pin it to a face.

Cai had long since kissed her manners goodbye, especially when intruders are concerned ( and not having smelled her friend’s presence meant someone was intruding ), pushing the door open with an ominous creak. Wolfish smile tugs at the corners of her lips, gaze fixed upon the vaguely familiar vampire.

“You know what they say about fireflies, dearie? They do not have a long lifespan, lesser so when they flutter in the places they should not be fluttering in.”

“fireflies have a lifespan of a year. with that, i’m over a century overdue. at this rate, perhaps my lifespan will run backwards.” 

the scientist does not look up as they speak, hardly perturbed at being caught at their head’s office. fingers continue to flip through the papers on the desk before moving to the drawers, pulling them open carefully. 

“a creative threat, albeit not effective. i’ll die as a consequence of my actions one day, but it won’t be by tybalt’s hand — at least, not over this. i do quite like the metaphor, though.” they finally look up, flashing cai a quick wink before resuming their search. 

“i know he has the research findings somewhere... fucking... old geezer couldn’t have put it somewhere that difficult to find...”

a light pout, tresses of hair ruffled when they stand up straight again. 

a disclaimer should be made: it was an accident, so it wasn’t technically his fault. 

corner after corner was slipped around and maybe he overheard some movement plans of staff and guards with a little tap into their minds and just so happened to avoid the busy routes and find the hidden back-paths into the area that was very clearly marked as restricted —

an accident, really. no one taught him how to read until a touch too late in life, and sometimes the words elude him. oops. 

and the now angrily-bubbling bath spring with black water and a faint acidic smell was also most definitely an accident that was not the firefly’s fault. they were just running quickly to get some exercise in. 

“excuse me, sorry — oh! tybalt. hello. how’s the fight going? fighting well? excellent to hear! anyways, i’ll be on my way — “ 

crashing into their head of house’s solid form was definitely not a part of their getaway plan — exercise plan — but kisa supposes they could make it work. maybe. 

“would hate to get in your way, much like how you’re in my way so i’ll just be out of your hair in — what the fuck happened there?” sentences are cut short at the sight of badly-hidden injuries, wide eyes now sharpening and staring at his head of house accusingly. 

it was almost too easy, they think. a quick peek around corners, a little close listen in the kitchen — he doesn’t even have to try, really, to find an attendant’s uniform and a mask to don, their trademark mane twisted into a neat bun at the nape of their neck. 

“compliments of the house, sir.” a swiftly-nabbed drink is placed on the table next to valentine, the scientist having little to no trouble finding his teacher’s booth and waltzing right in with the last-minute disguise. you would think security would be a little tighter, really. 

“shall i close the curtains, sir? some privacy?” 

you know how canines grow in the backs of throats for that voice the crawl out of those lips. this was not a guise meant for you, anyways — not unless you wanted to play. 

“must be dull up here, all alone. blood was not meant to know distance like this.” fingertips dare to graze shoulders, fireflies leaning down until you are nearly cheek-to-cheek despite eyes being trained at the stadium before you. 

“can i buy you a drink, handsome?” 

there’s a little too much delight in sneaking up behind zhan, no care for whether or not the fighter jumps or not — you’re close enough to see the gentle raise of skin, the shiver running up spines, and isn’t that everything?

“or better yet, can i be your drink?”

a laugh that’s serrated by their teeth is let out before eyes meet the fighter’s properly, shrapnel hanging in the air. there is no such thing as too close, and the scientist is a firm believer of this; leaning in enough to see reflections in dilated pupils. 

“no need to turn me down just because you’re a married man, zhan. we all know that’s just for show. but what i know — “ fingers almost ghost jawlines, careful. “ — is that that’s not true now, is it?” 

the scientist pulls themselves away just as quick as they came, sipping on drinks too casually. 

you should know better than to trust that smile, all butterfly-sweet on rosebud lips with snakebite venom at the tips. why you do matters little to the firefly; cares only that you are here with them, footsteps soft and fingers itching. 

“wouldn’t put it past val to have some sort of secret dungeon ‘round here — gotta have a stash of bodies or blood or something, right?” they start pulling at books on the shelf, uncaring of the fingerprints left behind in the dust. 

say it loud: i exist here. say it louder: what will you do about it? 

“how’s this look on me?” a gold chain, pressed to throats. a pendant sits proud at the perch of collarbones arching, design a dead language etched onto the gold. “pretty, isn’t it?” 

soft clicks of clasps behind necks are an announcement of a new owner. 

Location: Vampire Hospital  With: @hctaru​

TW: mention of bodily harm 

Drugs felt good and Nezha knew exactly who to get hooked up with for the right amount of pain relief. Stepping foot into the hospital with his arm or leg bleeding had become the usual - and even now, he stared down at his fingers grimacing at what it looked like. It’d go away in a couple hours but he was still nevertheless, a bitch about it. 

“Do you people rent out equipment? If I can purchase something to saw myself off easier next time, that would be great.” 

He rested on the hospital bed, watching as the usual attendants come in and out. He was a regular at this point and it was infuriatingly annoying how much of a cost it had been. Half of him had wanted to steal the drugs. At least Kisa had given him a generous discount - but there always seemed to be some kind of fucked price in return. But Nezha didn’t think of it much, whatever made the pain go away. 

tw bodily harm

“does it hurt, sweetheart?” slim fingers entwine themselves with the fighters’, almost delicate if not for the tatters of skin adorning the others’ hands, if not for the way the scientist’s nails are digging into open wounds almost imperceptibly. 

a smile as sharp as knives, pulling their hands away from the man before he snaps like a bear trap around too-curious touches; dragging tongues across his own knuckles where nezha’s blood seeped into his skin. slow. taunting, almost. 

“sawing without me? a crime, nezha. how dare you.” they’re already reaching for vials and pills strapped to hips, counting them with long nails. “you can rent me out next time, how about that? i’m certainly not too hefty of a price for a night and can do a much cleaner job than whatever you brutes call... that.” 

you know better than to take this as a mere joke. 

TASK 001 ✣ ABILITIES

TELEPATHY » hears the thoughts of everyone around them. lack of control, cannot pinpoint whose thoughts they hear.

KISA ✣ EMERALD HELLION ✣ HOUSE OF FIREFLY 

you made a monster out of me and now you love my ugly features, the blood behind my eyes, the soft cadence of my bones

FULL APPLICATION ✣ SKELETON