` WRATHFUL CARNAGE

    ❝ well well,  aren’t you feisty for your size! ❞   with large club thrown over broad shoulders,  fanged smirk is ever present against the oni’s facial features as he gazes down upon the other.   sure,  his size was much LARGER than ordinary when compared to everyday inazumans   …   but this was just ridiculous!  honestly,  it was like looking at a child!

and just to add even more fuel to the fire,  free hand comes to plant itself on the harbringer’s shoulder,  almost akin to how one would pat the head of someone much younger than one’s self.    ❝ better watch my fingers,  i don’t wanna loose any! ❞

@wrathtorn​,  starter call!

❝ don’t treat me like a mutt when you’re the one looking the most like one.  ❞  what a way to instantly to get on someone’s nerves.  his hand wastes no time in slapping away the offending extremity that dared to repose on his shoulder ( adding a tinge of electro in the mix just in case force wasn’t enough, which he doubted it’d be ), expression already utterly miffed.

faux adrenaline rushes with the thrill of conflict, for a machine designed for killing will of course be innately predisposed for it.  a cough splits the battlefield as his back meets the ground, a brutish body landing on his with the grace of something unkind.  it doesn’t take much for the hunger to bleed into disdain as azures opened to meet ocean blues, smug ones at that.

at least their desire for violence seemed to match at this moment.

❝  get off,  ❞ he almost snarls ( rabid things they became ), though if one were to squint and look close, perhaps some satisfaction could be found beneath the electric gaze.   ❝  we don’t want this ending too ugly, do we ?  ❞  and words match actions as a hand suddenly lays atop an exposed stomach, static generous but momentarily forgiving as he waits for an answer.

bitter, hungry, and ruinous want stripped of meaningful reason.  he gasps against her mouth, eyes closed in a tumultuous dance of empty reason.  claws dig unto her as fingers grip his hair, and oh the relief that sings in the basking nonsense of this...  is almost putrid in its essence.

he wants, he does not love.  the meaning of faux humanity rips through his very being and look at how cruel he can be, to divert the mind of another organic creature with the promises of that ‘I might love you one day’ and...

am I capable ?

a kindred soul, or lack thereof.  he had never found the need to venture out to seek out the perfected version of the tool, which they both were.  one discarded, one not, though such miserable thoughts brought no ill will from the puppet, for he was rather content where he was.  there was curiosity where there should be wariness, a lack of self-preservation for his state of existence, and oh did he wonder-

send me ur muse's height and I'll draw them together // still accepting