jigokulogs | [OPEN] only god can see what i've become.

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[OPEN] only god can see what i've become.

⬤ Andy @ the CR Meme ⬤
⬤ Permissions Post ⬤

Who ⬤ Andromache of Scythia (now of Enma) & YOU!
What ⬤ The bastard woman drinks and brawls her way through May substories
When ⬤ Throughout the month of May
Where ⬤ A bar, a backlot, and a bloody arena
Content Warnings ⬤ Profanity, violence, substance use, sex, etc. To be updated as needed!

A | MOON MEDICINE / SUBSTORY #1

[ This might be the most alive she's felt since arriving in hell. Whatever the fuck was in that medicinal mochi — it's like being high on cocaine and bloodlust at the same time. It feeds into that part of her that has always loved a fight. That up-close and personal shit where you can practically smell your opponent's breath. That's what she was raised on, seven thousand years ago on the Eurasian steppe — heir of the warrior-queen, bare and bloody on the battlefield, her mother's axe in her right hand.

No axe now. No battlefield either. Just the dirty alley out behind some dive bar. But that look in her eye is the same now as it was back then, wild and bright as she slams her fist into the unrecognizable pulp that was formerly the face of the yokai who had gotten fresh with her inside. Her knuckles are split open, but she doesn't seem to notice. Tunnel vision, everything else utterly irrelevant while her opponent is still standing — and he is, just barely. Just enough to take another clumsy swing at her, a move so obvious and slow that, in her violent fervor, she barks out a mean laugh, teeth bared. Bracing herself, she lets gravity do most of the work as she catches her victim by the clothes and flings him out of the alley towards street —

Right into anyone unfortunate enough to be passing by. ]

B | VEND ME A DREAM / SUBSTORY #2

[ Normally, on a day like this, Andy would have found some way to drink herself into oblivion by now. But she's spent most of her time in hell hungover, and somewhere between the constant headaches and violent nausea, she figured her newly mortal body was probably begging her for a break from the bottle. But being both idle and sober lends itself too readily towards her tendency to wallow uselessly in her own misery, so when the shirime approaches her with its winking butthole and a request for item A5, well...

Fuck it. It's not as if she has anything better to do.

That's how she winds up in that backlot, leaning up against a porno vending machine with a dwindling cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth as she flips through Juicy Peaches. The look on her face is one of stoic apathy, but either she's bored or the asses within are just that compelling, because she's still turning pages. This page in particular has her head turning slightly one way, then the other as she considers it. Out loud, to nobody in particular: ]

...That's a fucking fish.

[ Given the context, she might mean that literally. Only one way to find out. ]

C | BRUISED & BLOODY / SHUTEN TERRITORY ARENA

[ She'd been beating up people for free in bars this whole time, so it seemed only practical to at least get paid for that shit. The booze and cigarettes don't pay for themselves — and gods forbid that Andy hold a regular nine-to-five. She'd rather have her bones broken. Besides, she makes for a good underdog bet. Compared to some of the monstrous yokai that have stood opposite her in the ring, Andy looks decidedly ordinary. A woman who is neither particularly tall or strong. Nothing to betray the centuries she's spent mastering different ways of using her body to cause others pain. Except maybe that certain look in her eye. Something sharp. Something a little mean.

On one of the nights that she fights, she might find herself facing off against another Lost Soul in her next match. Or maybe afterward, with her left arm hanging loosely from its socket, she might be looking for someone to lend her hand — hopefully someone who isn't too squeamish to shove a shoulder back in. Otherwise, after the fighting is done, she makes a habit of smoking a cigarette right outside the arena, usually more interested in indulging that bad habit than patching herself up. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ PAIN THRESHOLD - The body remembers. You made *her* feel good back then. Her fingers yanked your hair as if she would fall into the abyss if she didn't hold on.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You don't need to answer her with words. Put your money where your mouth is.

A muffled moan vibrates through his throat and it's the closest thing to a response Andy can expect. They're pushing against each other in a grind neither fast nor slow, taking their time together. His tongue laps with the fervor of a dog desperate for water, his nose sharply breathing in the thick musk of midnight sex between her thighs. Fuck, he's alive. They're alive together. Would she cum in his mouth if he kept her here? Then the thought that she might squirt involuntarily strikes a match on his brain matter.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Yeah, that's the good shit brother. You're obscene and hungry and you want it all. No shame about it. ]

[ She can feel that muffled moan between her legs, and yeah, that's answer enough — words seem beside the point now anyway. Words were for that dirty back alley with a half-empty can of beer shared between them. This is something else. This is communion. And his mouth brings her nerves to life just as well as beating men bloody in the arena did. Maybe a little better. She can't tell if it's skill or just earnest eagerness, but she's wet enough that the distinction really doesn't matter. Technique is a minor detail when she's grinding against his mouth like that anyway, each rock of her hips relentless and deliberate.

Maybe it's not what she intended when she first kneeled over him, but she might just ride his face all the fucking way home. ]

That's it, Harry. [ Praise, low and breathless — a counterpoint to her fingers still tightly twisted in his hair. ] Good boy.

[ INLAND EMPIRE - Those two words are the only fuel you need. The furnace is warming, coming back to life. The husk in her voice burns your drums and will leave wounds for days to come.

Praise is an easy way past his heart and to his vast soul, the ocean willing to take any drop big or small. Again he moans with abandon against her and if she hears a little sob along with it then that can only be good. His eyes are wet with the mix of her fluids and salty tears welling up in his eyes, chest heavy with emotions he can't put words to. His mind is blank except for the want, the *need*, to bring her to climax. To please her and give her reason to praise him. Faintly he feels a tightening hardness between his legs, but doesn't let it distract from eating her out with greedy mouth motions up and down, tongue catching her taste even as it begins to ache. ]

[ He gives, and she takes — she takes like it already belongs to her, as merciless with the motion of her hips as she was with her fists when he first laid eyes on her. Maybe another woman — one more kind or more whole — she might go a little easy, looking down at this man with tears in his eyes and a sob in his chest. But not Andy. This woman's instincts say that she can ride his mouth to catharsis for both of them, and she won't let up. No — she goes harder, muscles tight in her thighs with the effort of it.

Both hands meet in his hair, pulling to the point of pain. She sinks down more fully against him, leaving little room to breathe as she chases that building tension. The space between her legs must become claustrophobic as she tenses up reflexively, everything going taunt for one eternal moment before she's finally letting go, biting down on a wretched noise as she bows over him, shudders running the length of her body.

Everything between her cunt and his face is a warm, wet mess. She should probably move. Make sure he's still alive down there. Maybe she will, in a minute. ]

[ In the final moments, the painful pull that goes straight to his dick, the severity of her weight on his face beginning to shorten his breath, her grind relentless, his mind blanks. Well, almost blanks. There is the thought that she could accidentally kill him like this, forgetting he is a human and not a large man-shaped fuckdoll. The next thought is "what a way to go".

Then, she stops and he swears he can feel her whole body seize up above him. He follows suit, panting heavy into her folds and knowing what this means. A moment later comes her release, his gasp muffled underneath when he feels it smear against his face and coat his muttonchops.

LOGIC - That is going to take a vigorous scrubbing to clean off.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY- Bold of you to assume it should be cleaned, nerd.

He keeps holding onto her hips, fingers gradually loosening their grip without need to keep on for dear life, but doesn't so much as twitch otherwise. When's the next time a woman will let him rest his face between her thighs? There are worse places to be. He even likes the smell, suffocating as it may be. ]

[ Moving a man's dead body would be impossible for her now, limbs loose and warm as they are — so it's a good thing, really, that she deigns to roll herself off Harry's face before he actually suffocates. Face buried against the musty motel sheets, she huffs out a half-amused breath, reaching out with one hand to pat Harry amicably on the chest for his efforts. ]

Still with me?

[ There's another thing to check on. She hasn't forgotten, even if she's reluctant to move around too much just yet — so she lazily drapes one leg over his, nudging her thigh up between his legs to see if anything of interest has stirred. ]

[ A well-earned inhale is the first thing he does with the new found freedom from carnal warmth between her thighs. It's let out after a short hold, beating heart beginning to calm down from the rush. Good thing too, it can't weather much damage. He offers a hoarse sound from his throat in response to her question, not in the right state to form proper words.

His eyes are shut and he feels himself nodding off, only for an electric pulse to roll through his body when she nudges his crotch. It's still covered up by his underwear, but the bulge is undeniably there. ]

Damn woman, give me a moment.

[ The enthusiasm is appreciated, but the flesh is weak and spongy. He likes to think he had more stamina for this once upon a time, but he doesn't remember any of it. ]

[ A moment exactly is about how much she's apparently willing to give. This man, with his weak and spongy flesh, is simply too easy to torment, and she's never been especially good at resisting that impulse. No mercy, as a rule. No mercy unless they beg. And there he is, laying vulnerable, utterly defenseless for when her hand sneaks down to give his dick a rough squeeze.

The mean little smile on her face says she just knows his reaction won't disappoint. ]

*Fuck*--

[ A fast hiss and it comes free with his hand snatching her wrist to yank it away. His dick didn't *not* appreciate that, but he needs more than one moment before he can get revved up again. He keeps her wrist in an easy to pull from grip, head turning against the pillow to muster a glare at her. ]

Are you trying to kill me? Because there are people who would wonder where I am if I went missing for a day or so.

[ Well, *people* might be a stretch. There's a *person* at minimum though. ]

[ Her eyes are waiting for him when he turns to glare at her, faint crow's feet betraying her amusement — and that damnably smug smirk too. This woman is, without a doubt, a complete and utter bitch. And she is not sorry. Not even a little fucking bit. She lets him hold her wrist almost as a consolation prize, knowing full well they're both aware that she's humoring him — humoring the idea that such a half-hearted grip could ever protect him from her. ]

You did follow a strange and violent woman to a motel. Seems like the kind of situation where being killed might be possible. [ Dryly: ] Maybe I'm a serial killer who fucks men like you to death.

[ INLAND EMPIRE - A very specific and sexy designation for a serial killer. Perfectly plausible.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - You're fairly sure you read something like this out of a Man from Hjelmdall book. ]

[ To that, he gives a tiny shrug and a soft sputter of breath past his lips. He releases her wrist and occupies his fingers with pulling the skin on his neck. ]

Like a devil woman from some tasteless male fantasy book? I think you're a little more *nuanced* than that, Andy.

Do you? [ She seems a bit entertained by that assertion, amusement underlying her usual wryness. ] All you've seen me do is fight and fuck.

[ But now that she's been released, she can muster the effort it takes to sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. Moving with the lazy grace of a woman who just got reasonably good head, she wanders off into the little adjoining bathroom, disappearing for a few seconds before returning to toss a hand towel over Harry's face — for the mess she made of his muttonchops, apparently. Then she goes to find her pants on the ground, just to dig out her cigarettes and her lighter before coming back to join him, sitting casually cross-legged on the mattress as she lights up.

She takes a slow, easy drag before holding the same cigarette out to Harry, offering to share. ]

You have layers! I can tell.

[ He pushes his way further up the mattress to rest his back on what passes for a headrest, hands bolting out to catch the towel tossed. His hand/eye coordination isn't *that* awful at least. He buries his face and scrubs, softly grunting as he blindly tries to catch all the gunk, knowing he'll need to bathe later to get it all out. Being seen looking like a cum rag is... not the *least* unappealing thought he has had, but this is one impulse he's going to rein in.

The towel is set down between them as he reaches for the offered stick, turning his head away to take a quick drag and blow it out. Nothing says 'good fuck' like an aftermath cigarette. Even if his dick is still half-hard, waiting to see if he'll pay it any mind. For now it can wait. He wants to enjoy the silence punctuated by the faint hum of electric lights. ]

[ He missed a spot. She reaches out, thumbing away a bit of her own mess from the fringe of his now properly tousled muttonchops. ]

Maybe. [ Andy offers a little shrug as she settles back, allowing the man a bit of space so he and his half-hard dick can recover. ] Or maybe I'm just fucking sad, and you've mistaken that for layers.

[ Wryly, and a bit dismissively then: ]

I wouldn't worry your head about it. I'm sure living in hell with amnesia's got the gray matter plenty occupied.

[ VOLITION - It's the latter. You have a *habit* of doing this with women.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - No way. You two get each other. You *connected*, emotionally and especially physically. ]

Oh yeah. My head's constantly running with thoughts. I have so many thoughts you wouldn't even believe. [ He smiles with a touch of tooth before offering the stick back to her. ] But I also like learning about people. I'm a detective, y'know.

[ She might believe it. She has seen that look in his face - the one where he forgets to blink. ]

Well. [ With wry amusement, as she reaches out to accept her turn with the cigarette: ] It’s not every day you get head from a detective with amnesia. That’s one for the books.

[ She inhales a leisurely lungful of smoke, then leans to offer the cigarette back to him. ]

You should be careful, Harry. Learning about people is dangerous. Leads to actually giving a shit about them.

Too true. [ The offering is taken and inhaled, a longer drag held in for three seconds. It's released through a half-whistle funnel, tapped against his finger before offered back. ] But giving a shit *is* the point. You have to care about something - someone - in this world.

[ Even if it's one person or a hundred people, who are they without caring for each other? Surely all the apes duking it out for money on the ball have other apes they love. Love is at the center of it all. ]

[ She’s quiet for a long moment, something rueful in her expression as she considers him. At length, she reaches out for the cigarette, absently tucking her knees to her chest as she takes another drag. Smoke wisps around her words when she finally murmurs in reply: ]

Even if it hurts?

[ PAIN THRESHOLD - *Because* it hurts. ]

Especially when it hurts. That's how you know it meant something.

[ People don't get hurt over things they have no attachment to. They hurt when something they love, something they believe in, is shattered. Broken into one piece or a million and the effort it takes to reform it dictates the count. You only love something as much as you're willing to let it cause you pain. ]

[ It always hurts. And it hurts so much for so long. A fucking chasm inside her that just seems to grow and grow and grow as the centuries go by. But he's right — he's right, or they're both the same kind of stupid, because love is the only thing that's ever mattered. The only thing that's ever made living bearable. Even the tender agony of it — the grief — that was better than the dull emptiness she felt when she was alone.

The little ache he inspires in her chest is a reminder. ]

Is that romance? Or just masochism? [ Wry and quiet, as she finally offers their dwindling cigarette back to Harry: ] I'm not sure I can tell the fucking difference anymore.

Me neither.

[ He loved, once. He was also loved in return. Now she hates him - no, worse than that, she thinks *nothing* of him. All they are is electric waves transferred through radio towers into the other end of a receiver. She's a whole world away through the Pale. Now they are even farther.

The last bit of the cigarette is held between his fingers, but he has suddenly lost interest in finishing it. His eyes then glance further down and it dawns on him that his dick is limp again. Stellar. ]

Fuck. Think we should just call it a night.

Yeah?

[ It's almost a question, but mostly agreement. There's something sad and weary that's settled into her bones that has nothing to do with the day's fighting or fucking. It's familiar. She doesn't bother resisting it. Instead, she reaches out to gently take the stub of their shared cigarette from Harry, leaning away to smother it in the ashtray on the nightstand. Then, she slowly settles back onto the creaky motel bed, stretching her legs out and glancing Harry's way before lightly patting her thigh in an invitation more platonic than the one she gave him in the alley. An offer, if he likes — a safe place to rest that troubled head while they still have the room. ]

[ EMPATHY - Two beasts drained of their will to do anything but rest in each others arms. She's seeking comfort too.

She is warm, he thinks as he rests his head across her lap. When did he even shift down to meet this spot? Time is lost to him when he is exhausted in mind, body, and soul most of all. How does a man live without the comfort of another to help shoulder all the weight of the world? No one can live like this. Alone, abandoned, apart. There is a white mourning in his dreams and he every day he is getting closer to seeing its true form.

INLAND EMPIRE - It will be the end of you. Just as it was before.

It keeps him from closing his eyes. ]

Have you ever been in love, Andy?

[ Her hand, which had been cruel before, is gentle now, absently reached out toward him to brush the hair back from his forehead. She makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment in response to his question, but the answer is too heavy to come right away. It sits in her chest a few moments, weighing there before she finally responds, low and rueful: ]

Nobody becomes as tired and wretched as me without being in love.

[ But there’s a small, sad little smile on her face as she says it. Like maybe she wishes she had the good sense to regret that more than she does. ]

I’ve loved more than was probably good for me. Recklessly. Even desperately. Until I thought it might be the thing that finally killed me. [ With a quiet wryness: ] That sound familiar to you, Harry?

[ He lets out a humourless breath of a laugh. All too familiar. ]

I think in my case it *did* kill me. And then I came back.

[ The world wasn't done with him yet. Maybe that was the case? Or some innate instinct in all creatures to live, no matter the adversity. It isn't lost on him that he woke up brand new to the world from a suicide attempt. Maybe it was worth it though, all to feel the gentle stroke of her fingers brushing his hair. Maybe Lely thought that too when Klaasje did it for him. ]

Careful, Andy. You're stroking the hair of a dead man.

[OPEN] only god can see what i've become.

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