[ Ozen-through-Yuri has used the sword, but the longer this goes on it seems the more the wolf's mind is fracturing, rendering any thought more complex than escape and kill more challenging. Whether it's just the wear of the rain's effects, how tired they're both getting, or something else, Yuri can't say. Either way, he feels like if he can just weather out these last gasps of brutality...Ozen will finally still.
He just needs to get there.
The Second Star looks at home in Rokurou's arms and the sight unwinds a last vestige of stress from Yuri's heart. Rokurou's question, delivered with sincerity, makes Yuri smile. ]
Just don't mess this up. [ A dry huff of laughter. ] No pressure.
[ The rest of this will likely be uneventful, hopefully. He lets himself walk over to the torn-up futon, intending to settle in. He wouldn't say he's letting himself relax, exactly, because nothing about this is relaxing, but it's nice to let someone else handle the particulars. All he has to do now is focus on keeping the wolf at bay. He feels weak and worn, but hopeful.
Speaking of: ]
Don't suppose you're much of a cook?
[ He hasn't eaten in...days, probably. It's not helping. ]
Don't underestimate me. [ his smile is easy as he steps toward the hole connecting their closets, hand resting on the hilt of Yuri's sword. ] Hold on a second.
[ The daemon vanishes back to his room; there are soft noises, a shuffle, and then he's back without the blade. Put away for safe-keeping, somewhere Yuri won't find it easily if the wolf does go wild again. His own swords are gone too, because he has no intentions on killing Yuri unless he has to.
Wrestling with a wolf? Sounds fun. ]
I'm a decent cook, depending on what it is.
[ To answer that question. He walks over to the sad leftovers of Yuri's futile attempt to cook, gripping the handle of the pan before striding over to the window. Which he promptly cracks to fling out its contents; grimy, molding food flies out into the rain, and the window closes with a thump. ]
What do you have to work with? Something's better than nothing.
[ He snorts out loud when Rokurou defenestrates his aborted stir-fry. ]
I have noodles and rice left. Some vegetables in the fridge, I think.
[ They're probably a little wilted, but beggars can't be choosers. He also has some convenience store snacks stashed away, maybe one or two onigiri, though whether they're still edible is up for debate. He hasn't really checked in on the contents of his banged-up refrigerator, though he'd done a shop right before the rains.
The wolf, ironically enough, had sensed something was coming.
He lets Rokurou get on with it. Closing his eyes, he focuses himself wholly on the wolf's rumbling presence. The world slips away, and for a moment it's just the two of them, face-to-face in the dark expanse of his mind, the wolf's snarling teeth trailing spittle.
Crazy to think this slavering animal had been a god, once.
watch your mouth, boy
He's not afraid of any old man.
'Fighting' is a strange word for what they do. It's a very literal contest of wills, crashing together at the speed of thought. The goal, for Yuri, is a clear mind, trying to push away all the extraneous information the wolf is throwing at him while grounding himself in what's real. The feeling of the futon beneath him. The sound of Rokurou moving, the smell of blood and rot, the want to bite tear kill—
Yuri gets pulled under that cresting wave, and back in the apartment, his body jerks forward, teeth massive in his mouth, eyes flaring as gold as the sun. His hair seems wilder, face contorted into an unnatural snarl.
Ozen hauls himself off the futon and launches himself at Rokurou's back, body half-shifted, claws and teeth and raw power. ]
[ The daemon goes through Yuri’s things like he lives there, peering in cabinets and nosing around the fridge without hesitation. How the other man’s gone quiet doesn’t miss his attention, senses on high alert despite the ease in which he helps himself to what little there is to find. Maybe he fell asleep—or maybe it’s something else. He leaves the man alone, keeping an ear out while he works.
He only gets as far as putting a few ingredients that could cobble into something palatable when tension snaps through the space. It’s the only forewarning before Yuri—no, Ozen—launches forward, teeth sharp and eyes gone wild.
Rokurou spins, brandishing a large wooden spoon like a knife, cutting it forward in a hard swing to hit the youkai back. He won’t use a real sword even if Ozen could tear his skin open with his nails alone—the risk of hurting Yuri is too great. Makeshift blunt weapons will have to do.
Or hands. It’s all bodily tumble as Rokurou throws himself back against the blow after trying to meet it head on, a mess of limbs as he tries to pin the wolf back against the wall or bed. ]
[ It's a beast that lands on Rokurou, Yuri's clothes splitting under the strain of the sudden transformation. Ozen's enormous white teeth snap in the air, spraying spittle as Rokurou's ladle handle comes crashing against the side of his head. The momentum knocks him out of the air, sending them both down. The jaws close on the spoon, snapping it cleanly in half. ]
make me, sixth son
[ Under Rokurou's weight, the wolf thrashes, twisting his massive head to sink those frothing teeth into the nearest piece of exposed flesh. Golden eyes stay locked on Rokurou's face, pupils like tiny black pinheads nestled at their center. Gathering his hind legs beneath himself, Ozen abruptly kicks out sharply against Rokurou's belly and thighs in a powerful sweep to try and dislodge him. ]
[ What looks at him now is all beast—none of the softness of Yuri's gaze, or the tilt of his usual fond (if a bit exhausted) smile. The lack of association makes it easier for the daemon to grit his teeth and apply pressure, weathering the blow of a sharp kick to his gut. Hard enough that it aches deep; there'll be a colorful bruise there in a few hours.
It isn't anything he isn't used to. What are war daemons for, if not this? ]
You're nothing compared to my brother.
[ Ten years of being that man's favorite punching bag have prepared him well for this. Each blow leaves marks, red now but promising purple later, yet Rokurou refuses to unlatch. Swinging his legs, the daemon straight-up straddles the wolf, throwing his weight into becoming a constricting clutch of limbs.
Locking down, he hits his chin against the top of Ozen's head and again commands, ]
[ The wolf struggles, thrashes under the unyielding pressure of Rokurou's weight and strength. He's being doubly attacked, both without from the daemon and within from the boy, clawing at their shared mindspace.
Inside, man and wolf are locked in a similar battle, wrestling without bodies. Yuri grasps at every hazy memory, everything that keeps him whole. The feeling of the Lower Quarter cobblestones beneath his feet; Flynn's flaxen hair in the sun; Karol's bravery and Estelle's books and the old man's rambling stories. Here, the closest thing to warmth he possesses: Six's quiet presence, the erune's ears twitching in tune to every sound; Rokurou's fierce gaze over blades and over cards; Alex's laugh while she cooks; Shinobu's smile while she dances, firelight licking her hair. All his bonds, the things that make him human.
His pack.
The thought shatters through Ozen, crystalizing ancient memories of summer pups, of hunting and stewardship. The wolf snaps back into himself, his own mind. Just like that, Yuri can feel it, the beginning of the end.
In the apartment, the body beneath Rokurou stills, the enormous canine shape folding, melting down, becoming a man again. The clothes are in tatters, Yuri's pale body gathered in Rokurou's arms, and when he blinks his eyes open, they're silver again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
swordhardy) wrote2020-10-29 08:10 pm
no subject
He just needs to get there.
The Second Star looks at home in Rokurou's arms and the sight unwinds a last vestige of stress from Yuri's heart. Rokurou's question, delivered with sincerity, makes Yuri smile. ]
Just don't mess this up. [ A dry huff of laughter. ] No pressure.
[ The rest of this will likely be uneventful, hopefully. He lets himself walk over to the torn-up futon, intending to settle in. He wouldn't say he's letting himself relax, exactly, because nothing about this is relaxing, but it's nice to let someone else handle the particulars. All he has to do now is focus on keeping the wolf at bay. He feels weak and worn, but hopeful.
Speaking of: ]
Don't suppose you're much of a cook?
[ He hasn't eaten in...days, probably. It's not helping. ]
no subject
[ The daemon vanishes back to his room; there are soft noises, a shuffle, and then he's back without the blade. Put away for safe-keeping, somewhere Yuri won't find it easily if the wolf does go wild again. His own swords are gone too, because he has no intentions on killing Yuri unless he has to.
Wrestling with a wolf? Sounds fun. ]
I'm a decent cook, depending on what it is.
[ To answer that question. He walks over to the sad leftovers of Yuri's futile attempt to cook, gripping the handle of the pan before striding over to the window. Which he promptly cracks to fling out its contents; grimy, molding food flies out into the rain, and the window closes with a thump. ]
What do you have to work with? Something's better than nothing.
[ Yuri looks... ghostly, to put it kindly. ]
no subject
I have noodles and rice left. Some vegetables in the fridge, I think.
[ They're probably a little wilted, but beggars can't be choosers. He also has some convenience store snacks stashed away, maybe one or two onigiri, though whether they're still edible is up for debate. He hasn't really checked in on the contents of his banged-up refrigerator, though he'd done a shop right before the rains.
The wolf, ironically enough, had sensed something was coming.
He lets Rokurou get on with it. Closing his eyes, he focuses himself wholly on the wolf's rumbling presence. The world slips away, and for a moment it's just the two of them, face-to-face in the dark expanse of his mind, the wolf's snarling teeth trailing spittle.
Crazy to think this slavering animal had been a god, once.
watch your mouth, boy
He's not afraid of any old man.
'Fighting' is a strange word for what they do. It's a very literal contest of wills, crashing together at the speed of thought. The goal, for Yuri, is a clear mind, trying to push away all the extraneous information the wolf is throwing at him while grounding himself in what's real. The feeling of the futon beneath him. The sound of Rokurou moving, the smell of blood and rot, the want to bite tear kill—
Yuri gets pulled under that cresting wave, and back in the apartment, his body jerks forward, teeth massive in his mouth, eyes flaring as gold as the sun. His hair seems wilder, face contorted into an unnatural snarl.
Ozen hauls himself off the futon and launches himself at Rokurou's back, body half-shifted, claws and teeth and raw power. ]
no subject
He only gets as far as putting a few ingredients that could cobble into something palatable when tension snaps through the space. It’s the only forewarning before Yuri—no, Ozen—launches forward, teeth sharp and eyes gone wild.
Rokurou spins, brandishing a large wooden spoon like a knife, cutting it forward in a hard swing to hit the youkai back. He won’t use a real sword even if Ozen could tear his skin open with his nails alone—the risk of hurting Yuri is too great. Makeshift blunt weapons will have to do.
Or hands. It’s all bodily tumble as Rokurou throws himself back against the blow after trying to meet it head on, a mess of limbs as he tries to pin the wolf back against the wall or bed. ]
Down.
no subject
make me, sixth son
[ Under Rokurou's weight, the wolf thrashes, twisting his massive head to sink those frothing teeth into the nearest piece of exposed flesh. Golden eyes stay locked on Rokurou's face, pupils like tiny black pinheads nestled at their center. Gathering his hind legs beneath himself, Ozen abruptly kicks out sharply against Rokurou's belly and thighs in a powerful sweep to try and dislodge him. ]
no subject
[ What looks at him now is all beast—none of the softness of Yuri's gaze, or the tilt of his usual fond (if a bit exhausted) smile. The lack of association makes it easier for the daemon to grit his teeth and apply pressure, weathering the blow of a sharp kick to his gut. Hard enough that it aches deep; there'll be a colorful bruise there in a few hours.
It isn't anything he isn't used to. What are war daemons for, if not this? ]
You're nothing compared to my brother.
[ Ten years of being that man's favorite punching bag have prepared him well for this. Each blow leaves marks, red now but promising purple later, yet Rokurou refuses to unlatch. Swinging his legs, the daemon straight-up straddles the wolf, throwing his weight into becoming a constricting clutch of limbs.
Locking down, he hits his chin against the top of Ozen's head and again commands, ]
Down! You ain't going anywhere.
no subject
Inside, man and wolf are locked in a similar battle, wrestling without bodies. Yuri grasps at every hazy memory, everything that keeps him whole. The feeling of the Lower Quarter cobblestones beneath his feet; Flynn's flaxen hair in the sun; Karol's bravery and Estelle's books and the old man's rambling stories. Here, the closest thing to warmth he possesses: Six's quiet presence, the erune's ears twitching in tune to every sound; Rokurou's fierce gaze over blades and over cards; Alex's laugh while she cooks; Shinobu's smile while she dances, firelight licking her hair. All his bonds, the things that make him human.
His pack.
The thought shatters through Ozen, crystalizing ancient memories of summer pups, of hunting and stewardship. The wolf snaps back into himself, his own mind. Just like that, Yuri can feel it, the beginning of the end.
In the apartment, the body beneath Rokurou stills, the enormous canine shape folding, melting down, becoming a man again. The clothes are in tatters, Yuri's pale body gathered in Rokurou's arms, and when he blinks his eyes open, they're silver again. ]
Huh.
[ He looks up blearily at Rokurou, then grins. ]
I think we got him.
[ And promptly passes out. ]