[ There's almost always unpleasantness around the question of when did I do this? or any variation that draws Emil's attention to a blank space in his memory. Sometimes the increased scrutiny brings the memory shrieking back like an abrupt burst of static, sometimes it creeps up on him, whispering fragments back into his thoughts. Sometimes the exercise is utterly unproductive, leaving him with questions and a headache. Wrapped up in his own questions, Emil smells the hint of autumn frost, a smudge of smoke from a far-off bonfire, in the brisk disturbance in an otherwise still room, but the warning implied doesn't reach him until a mere second before Itachi acts.
Emil drops his notebook onto his desk, his spine going straight as alarm suddenly draws him taut. That window is supposed to be shut. He might have time later to wonder why Stiles is so ready a name on his tongue, but not now, not when the fist in his hair makes him yelp, or the back of his chair raises a red welt along his back when he's dragged from the toppling furniture. When his landing on the plush carpet knocks his cry into a breathless hiccup, a thought - how lucky - is a single calm thought in the blaring alarums of his startled brain.
Residing inside this slight frame is an awful power, a force that has wiped entire towns off the face of the planet, cliffsides swept clean of all sign that anyone once lived there. The Ultimate Weapon could render this whole manor and the surrounding grounds into a fond memory, leaving behind little more than a perfectly concave hole in the earth.
Emil instead flinches his hands up defensively; catching a glimpse of his intruder through the spread of his slender fingers, he sees a beautiful, pale face that seems to float in the curtain of hair as deeply black as his clothes. His stare is a red and sundered sunset split in twain. The shock of those eyes makes Emil jolt at something old, something long forgotten.
Red eyes. Red eyes.
This terror is old, over a thousand years lie between the horror that left an army of stone and the torn limbs of Red Eye littering the ground. Had he landed any closer to his bed, he might have tried to kick the wooden chest seated before it at his attacker's legs. Emil turns, trying to claw himself upright as if he means to fling himself through the open windows leading to his balcony. ]
[The positioning of his victim is more deliberate than obvious at a glance. Too far from the bed to reach anything, any makeshift weapon that might be made to defend himself; too far from the escape of a window or door without scrambling movement. The rug is a cushion, and it is also the most open area of the room—this can be used to his advantage. It will mean that the boy is not physically harmed, except for what he chooses to do now, and that he cannot escape easily from the grasp of iron hands.
None of this calculates consciously in Itachi's hungry, feral mind. It is behavior ingrained somewhere very deep down, learned a long time ago, when personal assassinations were a part of his regular life. He has not been this close to someone in such violent context in years. How strange it is now, if only he could appreciate the difference.
Emil does not successfully manage to get himself upright. Itachi is there, straddling his prone form, two hands reaching down to seize the front of a brass-buttoned waistcoat. He is taller and heavier on top of Emil—even this slight, sleek shadow can use its size to intimidate, whether it is necessary or not. What matters is that scent clinging to the boy, subtle still and overlaid with others; stronger in the room, proof a presence once was here that he recognizes. Heady, familiar, fueling the appetite that has already stoked into a simmering inferno.
One pale, spindly hand lifts to seize Emil again by the back of the head, knuckles snarled into pale hair, forcing his throat exposed in a white line down to the collar of that dress shirt. His mouth widens, sharp teeth glimpsed within. He can smell the boy's blood: hot, vital, close. In this form, the fear will feel paralyzing, a byproduct of the corrupted transformation he's taken.
He bends his head down and sinks his mouth into the shallow, soft groove of Emil's throat, teeth set into skin.]
[ Emil puts up his hands when his plan is so easily averted, his palms flattening out over the lean, larger frame that towers over his supine form, trying to push him back and away. Someone stronger could have done something more than kick against the carpet and shove ineffectually at his attacker. Someone with more conviction could have willingly brought to bear the power that hums inside him.
Someone harder of heart could pull on the power of the red dragon that fell from a sundered sky. Emil yelps pitifully, putting the length of his forearm across his attacker's chest as he bends, as he feels the humidity of breath as a mouth opens wide, as he feels something sharp pinch hard until his skin breaks, until his flesh cries out against the intrusion and liquid heat wells up around it.
A rabbit on the track sprints itself in frantic circles, so too, Emil thinks in his panic:
-and the circle of lilac iris in each wide eye begins to fill with light. ]
[ It isn't chakra, it's not lifeforce exactly, but it is manna and intent given form that snarls like gathering lightning just before it barks across heaven. The air around the boy grows thick with power.
Then the balcony is blown out by a howl of violent, violet light, arcing into the night like a skylight, leaving nothing in its wake, no balcony, no glass and wood doors, no memorial candles, no clouds in a collapsing, briefly-perfect hole in the canopy of condensation above.
He sobs aloud in the awful, silent wake of it, like he's less concerned now about the teeth in his neck than the near miss of such destruction. ]
[He tastes only that first, perfect lick of blood—rich and hot as melted velvet on his tongue—before that force blooms up and punches a hole to the side. His own reaction is all instinct: an arm closes itself around captured prey, eyes flashing not red with transformation but red with Sharingan, then pinwheeling Mangekyou. In those split seconds before the strange, crackling power ignites, the jutsu is cast.
As destruction cools and a draft blows in from the obliterated balcony, Susanoo has formed around them—a large, skeletal warrior shaped out of chakra, manifesting pale red and translucent, enclosing them both within its embrace. It is a less evolved form, no more than the ribs, one arm, and glowing gold eyes inset a jagged skull. But it is enough as a defense. More than enough, considering the blast did not hit them.
Itachi draws himself to his feet. In the process, he doesn't release the boy, keeping one arm coiled tight and hard around his waist, forcing him to stand alongside him, even if it means dangling feet. A slow, languid look surveys the scene. Even through the fervor of his current state, interest and thought seeds itself in his mind for another time. Was that redirected? If so, why, and how?
There's blood on his mouth. He licks it away, then looks down at the top of the boy's head, hearing him sob.]
Shhh. [It's a soft, cooing sound. The hand in Emil's hair smooths over a warm skull, petting, then forms another tight clutch at the roots.] I'm not here to kill you. Only... it may hurt a little, what I need from you.
[He pulls gently on the boy's scalp to expose the raw ring of teeth on that white throat.]
Will someone come soon, hearing that explosion? Tell me the truth. I will know if you lie.
[ He doesn't know what it is the stranger has done, but the crushing weight of pressure he feels against the backs of his eyes tells him it's powerful. Except Emil can't begin to speculate on what it is — a weapon, an attack, some kind of magic, a shield? — with fear crumpling him into himself like he's made of so much paper. There is no debris, no dust, just the strong scent of ozone and a perfectly smooth hole where the balcony and its windowed doors had been, substance deleted by the onslaught.
Emil is light and pliant, paralyzed by fright and trembling, a matter that grows more pronounced into a shudder at the soothing. Too quickly, that contradictory gentleness becomes a tight fist around the roots of his hair, yanking a whimper out of his lungs more from terror than pain. With no barrier against the elements, the room grows cold; he feels the night lick at his injured throat and stays almost breathlessly silent. Listening.
To the silence outside, to the steady threads of formed bonds inside, stretching out in varying directions, as delicate and still as a spider's web.
If Saint or Osiris had noticed anything amiss, he has no doubt they would already be here, but there's.... nothing. There's nothing. Knowing that there was doubtlessly a good reason isn't quite the same with a heart gripped by terror; bereft, Emil's eyes well, and in the moment before he answers in a tremulous voice thick with emotion, they spill as he closes them. ]
No. Nobody's coming.
[ He's alone.
He realizes he's done this to himself — he sent away everyone, hoping to protect them from dangers lurking outside. He thought he could protect them. Maybe he still can. Maybe, like with a thief, if he simply gives him what he wants, he'll go away and leave his friends alone. It might be too trusting and naïve, but the word he used — need — keeps haunting Emil. Like he isn't doing this out of cruelty, and Emil doesn't believe he deserves to die. As a weapon, his options are limited.
Quailing, he turns his watering eyes to the side. ]
You said you needed something. If I, if I let you, will you leave without hurting anybody else?
[When the threat is clear, Susanoo disintegrates—its drain of chakra too much to maintain when the well of his manna feels empty and desecrated as hunger eats through his sanity. No one is coming; he believes it. He can even smell those tears in the air, a sting of salt at the fluctuation of emotion picked up by enhanced senses, and it only makes him more ravenous to rip the boy open. Not physically—he has said he will not kill him. It's a promise he can keep, because death isn't the pursuit. Even in this state, he knows that much.
Will it mean he won't feel compelled to target someone else? Hesitation seizes this brief window of conscious thought. He nods, slowly, hands still like claws on Emil's pliable body, unrelenting in contrast to the quiet tone of his voice.]
Yes. [There is no one else to hurt.] ... I will leave. I won't need more than this.
[He lowers to sit on the ground, right there at the center of the room. Emil is brought with him—dragged into his lap with an arm like a steel bar around his upper body to prevent movement, pinning arms, faced forward because anything else would be too intimate. And because he saw those eyes glow just before that explosion. He is not so stupid, even deranged and starving and cursed.
The other hand remains buried in feathery hair, keeping Emil's throat exposed. The wind gusting through that hole feels almost pleasant on his own hot, red-veined skin. His mouth opens, sharpened teeth flashing in anticipation of what is to come. But first, in a strangely polite utterance:] Thank you.
[Saliva pools in his mouth. He's forced to swallow past it. He can taste the quick, flickering pulse beneath the boy's skin—and he bites back down in the same sore spot, sieving Emil's manna.]
[ None would be faulted for calling Emil a sentimental fool; for what reason should he trust a stranger who stole into his home, who attacked without warning, who for whatever reason needs to drink another living being's blood to satisfy some animal need, who possesses a power that Emil has come to identify as paracausal and could go back on his word once his appetite is sated?
On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Emil drops his notebook onto his desk, his spine going straight as alarm suddenly draws him taut. That window is supposed to be shut. He might have time later to wonder why Stiles is so ready a name on his tongue, but not now, not when the fist in his hair makes him yelp, or the back of his chair raises a red welt along his back when he's dragged from the toppling furniture. When his landing on the plush carpet knocks his cry into a breathless hiccup, a thought - how lucky - is a single calm thought in the blaring alarums of his startled brain.
Residing inside this slight frame is an awful power, a force that has wiped entire towns off the face of the planet, cliffsides swept clean of all sign that anyone once lived there. The Ultimate Weapon could render this whole manor and the surrounding grounds into a fond memory, leaving behind little more than a perfectly concave hole in the earth.
Emil instead flinches his hands up defensively; catching a glimpse of his intruder through the spread of his slender fingers, he sees a beautiful, pale face that seems to float in the curtain of hair as deeply black as his clothes. His stare is a red and sundered sunset split in twain. The shock of those eyes makes Emil jolt at something old, something long forgotten.
Red eyes.
Red eyes.
This terror is old, over a thousand years lie between the horror that left an army of stone and the torn limbs of Red Eye littering the ground. Had he landed any closer to his bed, he might have tried to kick the wooden chest seated before it at his attacker's legs. Emil turns, trying to claw himself upright as if he means to fling himself through the open windows leading to his balcony. ]
no subject
None of this calculates consciously in Itachi's hungry, feral mind. It is behavior ingrained somewhere very deep down, learned a long time ago, when personal assassinations were a part of his regular life. He has not been this close to someone in such violent context in years. How strange it is now, if only he could appreciate the difference.
Emil does not successfully manage to get himself upright. Itachi is there, straddling his prone form, two hands reaching down to seize the front of a brass-buttoned waistcoat. He is taller and heavier on top of Emil—even this slight, sleek shadow can use its size to intimidate, whether it is necessary or not. What matters is that scent clinging to the boy, subtle still and overlaid with others; stronger in the room, proof a presence once was here that he recognizes. Heady, familiar, fueling the appetite that has already stoked into a simmering inferno.
One pale, spindly hand lifts to seize Emil again by the back of the head, knuckles snarled into pale hair, forcing his throat exposed in a white line down to the collar of that dress shirt. His mouth widens, sharp teeth glimpsed within. He can smell the boy's blood: hot, vital, close. In this form, the fear will feel paralyzing, a byproduct of the corrupted transformation he's taken.
He bends his head down and sinks his mouth into the shallow, soft groove of Emil's throat, teeth set into skin.]
1/2
Someone harder of heart could pull on the power of the red dragon that fell from a sundered sky. Emil yelps pitifully, putting the length of his forearm across his attacker's chest as he bends, as he feels the humidity of breath as a mouth opens wide, as he feels something sharp pinch hard until his skin breaks, until his flesh cries out against the intrusion and liquid heat wells up around it.
A rabbit on the track sprints itself in frantic circles, so too, Emil thinks in his panic:
-and the circle of lilac iris in each wide eye begins to fill with light. ]
no subject
Then the balcony is blown out by a howl of violent, violet light, arcing into the night like a skylight, leaving nothing in its wake, no balcony, no glass and wood doors, no memorial candles, no clouds in a collapsing, briefly-perfect hole in the canopy of condensation above.
He sobs aloud in the awful, silent wake of it, like he's less concerned now about the teeth in his neck than the near miss of such destruction. ]
no subject
As destruction cools and a draft blows in from the obliterated balcony, Susanoo has formed around them—a large, skeletal warrior shaped out of chakra, manifesting pale red and translucent, enclosing them both within its embrace. It is a less evolved form, no more than the ribs, one arm, and glowing gold eyes inset a jagged skull. But it is enough as a defense. More than enough, considering the blast did not hit them.
Itachi draws himself to his feet. In the process, he doesn't release the boy, keeping one arm coiled tight and hard around his waist, forcing him to stand alongside him, even if it means dangling feet. A slow, languid look surveys the scene. Even through the fervor of his current state, interest and thought seeds itself in his mind for another time. Was that redirected? If so, why, and how?
There's blood on his mouth. He licks it away, then looks down at the top of the boy's head, hearing him sob.]
Shhh. [It's a soft, cooing sound. The hand in Emil's hair smooths over a warm skull, petting, then forms another tight clutch at the roots.] I'm not here to kill you. Only... it may hurt a little, what I need from you.
[He pulls gently on the boy's scalp to expose the raw ring of teeth on that white throat.]
Will someone come soon, hearing that explosion? Tell me the truth. I will know if you lie.
no subject
Emil is light and pliant, paralyzed by fright and trembling, a matter that grows more pronounced into a shudder at the soothing. Too quickly, that contradictory gentleness becomes a tight fist around the roots of his hair, yanking a whimper out of his lungs more from terror than pain. With no barrier against the elements, the room grows cold; he feels the night lick at his injured throat and stays almost breathlessly silent. Listening.
To the silence outside, to the steady threads of formed bonds inside, stretching out in varying directions, as delicate and still as a spider's web.
If Saint or Osiris had noticed anything amiss, he has no doubt they would already be here, but there's.... nothing. There's nothing. Knowing that there was doubtlessly a good reason isn't quite the same with a heart gripped by terror; bereft, Emil's eyes well, and in the moment before he answers in a tremulous voice thick with emotion, they spill as he closes them. ]
No. Nobody's coming.
[ He's alone.
He realizes he's done this to himself — he sent away everyone, hoping to protect them from dangers lurking outside. He thought he could protect them. Maybe he still can. Maybe, like with a thief, if he simply gives him what he wants, he'll go away and leave his friends alone. It might be too trusting and naïve, but the word he used — need — keeps haunting Emil. Like he isn't doing this out of cruelty, and Emil doesn't believe he deserves to die. As a weapon, his options are limited.
Quailing, he turns his watering eyes to the side. ]
You said you needed something. If I, if I let you, will you leave without hurting anybody else?
no subject
Will it mean he won't feel compelled to target someone else? Hesitation seizes this brief window of conscious thought. He nods, slowly, hands still like claws on Emil's pliable body, unrelenting in contrast to the quiet tone of his voice.]
Yes. [There is no one else to hurt.] ... I will leave. I won't need more than this.
[He lowers to sit on the ground, right there at the center of the room. Emil is brought with him—dragged into his lap with an arm like a steel bar around his upper body to prevent movement, pinning arms, faced forward because anything else would be too intimate. And because he saw those eyes glow just before that explosion. He is not so stupid, even deranged and starving and cursed.
The other hand remains buried in feathery hair, keeping Emil's throat exposed. The wind gusting through that hole feels almost pleasant on his own hot, red-veined skin. His mouth opens, sharpened teeth flashing in anticipation of what is to come. But first, in a strangely polite utterance:] Thank you.
[Saliva pools in his mouth. He's forced to swallow past it. He can taste the quick, flickering pulse beneath the boy's skin—and he bites back down in the same sore spot, sieving Emil's manna.]
no subject
On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]