it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

((PR MODE...kinda-sorta))

And I knelt at the foot of the bed beside the corpse of the demon I loved, tears pouring down my face, and I raised my claws to my throat to end my life--

Wait. Let's back up.

Demon and I needed to talk. Yesterday he pulled what's becoming his perpetual trick--"I want to spend time with you" followed by "Hmm, she looks interesting, let's follow her home". I suppose it's better than Hellboy's alternative--"I want to spend time with you" followed by "Hmm, she looks interesting, let's drag her home for a threesome". Be thankful for small favors?

At any rate, I let him go, and let hours go by, and finally, sent an IM saying I was feeling perhaps the smallest bit of slightest neglect...and he got out of world. And I spent the rest of the day thinking how often this has happened of late, and what it bodes for the relationship in toto, and whether I should, or even can, continue this.

Over the course of the day I did personal research, wandered calming places, bought a bed, bought an anim package for it...dragged it back to Tombstone and started work reclaiming the hole in the ground under the cottage, into an actual room.

When time came for the Tombsstone meeting, I showed up a bit early, finally getting a Fizzworks HUD and a little pocket Derringer--fairly useless in a fight, but something's better than nothing--and wandered over to the meeting. Whereupon a storm blew up, lashing me into limbo and mist, until nearly eleven that night.

When I logged back in, the demon was still there, and we talked, a bit. About my inability to press of late. About his distractibility. About a lot of things. And he promised to meet me the next day, early.

Whereupon my late evening turned into a very early morning--partially, I admit, because I had to set eyes on the fellow building that evening, and recharge in his presence. I wore the very bright chrysanthemum kimono, in the bright colors he'd recommended I buy, and he complimented me, said it suited me. That warmed me more than my fire at home, and I stayed longer than I should have. I went to bed with dawn brightening the sky, stumbling into my house and falling on a couch, and woke some scant two hours later, groggy and feeling as if I were missing pieces.

But the demon called, and I went to his side, and we began talking again.

Timing. Timing of things. If he'd been more forward, less afraid, in December; if I hadn't wanted to offer my neko lad some partial replacement for turning down his marriage proposal...maybe things would have been different. But they are not, and we must go from here, regardless of how far here seems from shore.

We talked until talking had to end, cuddling on a low couch embracing, and then he asked me if I wished to punish him.

Punish him. Punish the incubus. ME. Dealing any sort of retribution to a Prince of the Court of Erebus. It seemed inconceivable.

He wanted me to hurt him. To claw him. Wanted me to lose enough control to claw him in the first place; but wanted me to lose control, which meant whatever hurt and anger I bore, I'd pour into the wounding; which meant I wouldn't have control of how deep I clawed him, or by which set of claws--the kitten's, the fox's, the demoness' long razor talons.

I was nervous. I tried to explain. But he pulled me down to the bed anyway, and...slowly began to drive me beyond all limits. The way he has...I revealed the secret of how I hide my fangs to him, and began to claw his shoulders, still keeping a tenuous thread of control...and he found a way to push past that.

Two things happened I think he did not truly anticipate. The first was, my genuine sense of outrage, secreted far down in my shadows, rose to preeminence. The second was, the threads of it bound together my demoness, my scattered Unseelie Sidhe, and they had control of my claws.

And we three used them. We sank hungry fangs into his neck, drawing at killing speed, drawing enough to make me reckless and drunk on borrowed power. We opened his back to air, eight ragged, bloody scrapes down, eight new jagged wounds returning. We pulled the claws, long and razor-tipped, through his shoulders, not over them, hooking on his collarbone and breaking it as we pulled them free. We screamed in his face, asking if he'd had enough.

He pushed. And I threatened to tear out his throat.

I am still trembling that I--I--could make that statement to anyone I love.

And still he pushed. And I set fangs to his throat.

And he gave in. Asked me to forgive him. Which I was always willing to do.

And then...he shuddered all over, and...died.

Sweeping cold wind through the eaves, the earth under the house, me, the corpse on the bed--I heard the demon's daughter clearly scream his name.

And then she was there, an avenging angel, the glow of her red eyes filling the subbasement room. She all but threw me off the bed, where I collapsed at the foot, sobbing, and she fought to bring him back with all the art he'd taught her and all the skill of her own abilities.

And for a moment...I lost all hope. I thought she would fail. And I set my longest claws to my own throat, sinking them in, preparing to feel nothingness again.

She pulled a gear from somewhere inside her construction and threw it at me like a shuriken. It knocked my hands from my throat and embedded in the soft dirt on the other side of the room. She screamed "Enough bloodshed!"--and her father breathed.

It is not what he would will, I am sure, but I must be wary of him for some time. I have never...killed...anyone I loved. I did not want to start with a demon. I will be wary. And even when he tells me he is well, he is recovered, that black-dripping wounds don't cut across his tattoos and his pale and perfect flesh...I must needs still be wary.

Current build: Too shaky. Can't.