Vengeance is a dish best served...

[Reverance]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhJh5_6MuCk​

Soup, a consistency of thickness, splash and plodding as the bones and marrow drifted between floor and crushing fists, adding to the flavor. A mounted body shudders against the weight, hands once clinched against legs went limp, rocking with every impact, oars of the boat rattling against waves. Knuckles turned flesh into meat dangling from a cord, gray matter pounded into flat steaks that were soon adrift in the wakes and ripples.

His arms were so heavy, he thought they might drag him down into the red abyss at any time. But where exhaustion could overcome him, passion for the feeling pushed through, until the evidence of the this tragic collision was beyond aberrant. There was art here, a creative mind let loose with the symptoms of containing himself for far too long. A departure from what made sense, he was expressing himself with every ounce of his being, pistons firing and pulverizing with heat and impact, until his efforts might turn blood into seasoning powder. At least, that was his train of thought until he saw the words echo across his mind. Synethesia, he didn't hear the words as much as saw them, dripping and melting across the frame of his vision in deep tones of red.

He blinked looking up, feeling the fingers running through his matted hair and across his scalp. Tantalizing, strafing and scraping, the words flashed against his mind again. "Come...I want to celebrate." That sultry voice, long drawn out and echoing in dull thuds against the drums, he seemed to have misplaced his capacity to hear. He could understand it, he just couldn't hear it, and the nearly broken mind placed that usual tone on it. Like ringing in the ear, manifested by the anticipation of ringing, he couldn't know what was real and what wasn't. Except the pain, the grip and yank as he closed his eye. There was something there, butter clarified and thinned out, as he turned from murkiness to red tinted transparency. He let out a growl with the bare of his teeth, his hands coming up to grab her wrist before turning.

It was too late, he couldn't see her before the spin and charge. A bull seeing nothing but red. Red room, red floor, red lighting. The calm collection he had come with, for this plan, had long fled from the scene. Nothing resembling logic would placate the notions that crossed the mind of the Wrath. Only anger and hate and pain and lust. And blindness. And as he charged, his shoulder would knock against her abdomen, hands wrapping around, as he lifted and attempted to slam her to the ground and follow in headlong. He'd dive into her, if she'd let him. It wasn't that he hated her or that he wanted to do her harm, though the thought of the expression of pain and pleasure on her face was arousing beyond explanation. But in a sense, it was for this moment, a cold fire catching kindling and running amok. Should the tackle be successful, the charge of the bull bearing fruit against the matador, he would lift himself from her body and lean back. The floor was slick with the crimson viscera of these men, whether they were friends or neutrals, it mattered little now. Resting on his knees, he lifted his left hand to his mouth. The knuckles were swollen, skin cracked and bleeding. Taking a long sniff, he smirked as it came back into focus, tongue dragging across the wound.

"Celebrate..." He said, eye heavy as he looked directly into those electric eyes. They were the two remaining pieces now, uncooked yet tender and raw, marinating in the remains. He would attempt to reach down and grab her by the threads of her shirt, pulling her towards him. "...What did you have in mind?"

[member="Vrag"]
​

 

[Vrag]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSoSDCQ20L8​

The whole Universe might have been coming down around them, and Vrag never would have noticed, for all the attention she was paying to her surroundings. The two of them were all that existed int hat split moment, cut from time with a rusty scalpel and torn out with naught but bare fingers, bloody and dripping. It was hard to tell whose blood it was at this point, and neither Vrag nor Gabriel cared.

His were the shaky breaths, like broken proclamations to the beauty of the Galaxy, to its twisted, rotten core that they so craved to understand. Perhaps they did, and had simply never realized it; how terrible, to arrive at the end only to search for new horizons to explore. And where else to turn but to one's shattered soul, when there was no other unknown to discover?

And his was the declaration, the blossom of pain that erupted in her gut as a battered shoulder met yielding flesh. Connected at the point of impact, they tumbled to the floor with a groan that was hers, or his, or perhaps a cruel offspring of both; a mingling of minds and bodies that existed only to complete each other and destroy everything else. Like a mockery of creation, the hybrid of limbs and blood and scars hit the floor, and an edge of something sharp and metallic sank into her flesh, smooth and burning like the aftertaste of whiskey that [member="Reverance"] kept in the cabin of the Right Hand.

She gasped for breath, lungs filling with the scent of smoke and death as she struggled to reconnect to reality. Before her eyes, a myriad of broken images danced, his arching form above her angled and fluctuating as sight betrayed her. Other senses, however, stayed loyal to the woman, and the press of his weight settling over her hips made her pause. He shifted, leaning back to kiss his slickened knuckles, cracked lips parting against broken bone.

The ghost of Dhaladii reeled, and horns of jealousy gored the skin of her forehead as Vrag reeled forward. Their momentum combined brought them face to face, breath heavy as three lidded eyes measured one another, locked in what could be a stare to outlast the Universe itself. Crimson and electric, two ends of the same spectrum. Seek to delve into icy depths, and you will find they leave burns deeper and harsher than any flame.

But he liked that. He liked the pain she offered him, the scars she would leave whenever they danced and lingered against each other long enough to leave marks. He bore his proudly, like medals; a painted canvas riddled with cuts and knots pushing up against the skin, memories etched and buried forever.

Wincing slightly, Vrag would extract from her side the metal rod that had so easily penetrated the unprotected flesh, yet no sound would escape her. She had left all screams in the hollow skull of her former master, all wails and cries and bays. All that remained was whispers.

"I want…" she started, softly, and pressed her palm against his chest to push him further back.

"…to feel…" she would continue, splayed fingers peeling the blood-drenched shirt away from the red line of the fresh wound.

"…what you feel."

Red and blue would mingle, flowing freely as she would drag the sharp edge of the iron across the seal, eager to taste what his lips had tasted. Leaning forward, she would put her mouth to the well and drink deeply, like a nursing babe suckling at her mother's breast.