Post by HiEROPHANT on Apr 18, 2007 0:23:17 GMT -5
[Name]
[Age]
[Grade]
[Gender]
[Sexuality]
[Magic]
[Background]
At fourteen, Miyuki began physically harming himself during the night, and everything came to an impasse when, to escape the torture of constant strings of semi-possessions and visions of malicious night-ghasts, he tried to cut out his eyes with a letter opener. The bronze of the blade snapped quite literally in half before he could do any damage. The next week, he tried to drown himself: the water receeded just enough to not be lethal; the following week, he tried to hang himself: the noose came untied not four seconds after he kicked off from the floor. Whatever demon wanted him alive was doing a damn good job of it.
Remy, an acolyte of Ise shrine’s miko, promptly took him aside and attempted to make him into an onmyoji in the hope of giving him the “tools” to exorcise whatever it was that was haunting him. While Miyuki proved to be excellent at the art, he was hesitant about sending the oni away: he felt as though he was “killing” them by exorcising them, and as a rather peaceful person, he abstained from it until it was absolutely unbearable. As one went away, another would come, and the cycle of being haunted, attempting to kill himself, being stopped, exorcising it, and then meeting another “demon” would repeat itself.
The aphenphosmphobia developed at sixteen, right before he left for the Academie. His only goal, right now, is finding out how to die.[/ul]
[Appearance]
[House]
[RP example]
There had been no reason to leave Volgograd as suddenly as he had done; there had been no reason to seek occupation at an Academy where there would be people he knew he’d have to forcibly put up with as he did; there had been no reason to communicate past anything that was strictly necessary, as he had done. No, he had fucked up… and what was worse, he’d brought someone else into this -- he’d let that particular someone past his guard… and he couldn’t let himself go on knowing there was someone who’d seen him in a moment of weakness still alive.
He knew what he had to do: it was blatantly obvious, and meeting his level half-glare from across the room, its muzzle gleaming black and currently mounted proudly upon the wall. It had not been fired in quite awhile, and would do the job credibly provided its wielder was adequate.
…But could he do it? Shin had been nothing but sweet and accommodative with him the past few months, and while Mikhail was by no means skittish or one to hesitate, even he had reservations over murdering in cold blood someone whose mistake had been as menial as Shin’s was.
There came a knock at the door, and the young history professor was forced back into reality.
Ah, that’ll be him, then… he thought to himself, pocketing one of his hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks and casting a faint glance toward the machine he had been eyeing not five minutes ago. Having invited the wild-haired librarian over for dinner had been the first step in this half-unwilling, clandestine plot… and he had almost hoped that Shin would be smart enough to decline.
But he hadn’t. Shin had smiled that stupidly serene smile, absently tugging on a green-pink-tipped strand of his hair as he nodded an affirmation. He’d handed Mikhail a stack of reading material (“For later. And don’t give me that look, Mikhail Lavikov, you’ll like them, I promise!”) and noted that he’d be there by ten, and that he’d bring his guitar over in case Mikhail was up to hearing him play.
…He had wanted Shin to accept just as much as he had wanted him to eschew the offer, but not for the reason Mikhail wanted himself to believe; he had wanted Shin to show up because he generally wanted Shin to show up, because as much as he hated to admit his desire for emotional liaisons, the need was there, and it wasn’t going to go away as long as Shin lived.
Naturally, Shin would have to die.
Mikhail’s hand tightened around the doorknob, lingering the barest of moments before he turned it and met the glowing Shin’s eyes with unaffected distance, mutely accepting the other’s evening salutations and tugging his guitar case through the narrow doorway.
“Why is it so dark in here, Professor? We invented lights for a reason.” There it was, that fond teasing that Mikhail so hated. There it was, coming from the parting of that infuriating mouth he had wanted to strike so many times.
Mikhail shut the door and felt himself instinctively half-smile. He was aware he looked a little disheveled, his hair attractively mussed and his shirt untucked and loose about his neck. If he minded, his companion made no comments -- he simply settled himself across from Mikhail’s armchair and folded his hands in wait, his painted smile still open and inviting.
“Mikhail, I was thinking earlier today…”
“God help us all.”
“Mikhail! You‘re such-”
“Misha.”
“--Misha.” An apologetic smile. “…I‘m sorry, I forget.
“In any case, I’m leaving the Academy for winter break to visit my father in Nagano. I’m sure he’d love to meet you, and so…”
Shin’s guard was totally down. He didn’t even notice as his host set down a glass of warm amber malt and turned, removing something from the wall and shifting it between his fingers.
Mikhail couldn’t do it. He had cocked the hammer and turned the handle in his palm, letting himself settle into the comfort of freeing himself from this attachment. Shin took a sip of the drink he’d been given, but grimaced and put it down, inclining his head toward his friend and simpering again.
“You always drink such weird stuff. What is that, Misha? It’s terrible. Besides, I don‘t want to end up getting lit, like last time -- you and that junior Kai had to carry me back to my room, remember?”
“I remember.” Noncommittal. Yeah, he remembered. He remembered damn well how Shin had relaxed so trustingly against him as the two carted he and an inebriated Rabbit up to the dorms, his smile not even flickering in spite of the headache incubating in his half-sentient mind, his living warmth radiating and transferring through their shirts as Mikhail pressed closer to ward off the fall chill…
…And then he lost his nerve. The gun was placed back up on its mounts as if it had never been moved, and Mikhail switched his focus to his guest, sinking into that incognito personality he’d been so known for at this school.
Shin talked on until late in the morning, smiling ninety-percent of the time, until finally he had dozed off mid-conversation. With such an opportunity, how could he hesitate now? He knelt down and pulled Shin into a tight embrace, bitterly grimacing when Shin giggled and locked his arms around his shoulders to reciprocate the hug.
He didn’t do much when Mikhail’s right hand stiffened and slid through his shirt, through his abdomen, through his ribcage, and through his back with all the ease of a hot knife through butter. Mikhail couldn’t believe it until after Shin had slumped against his body and his left hand brought itself behind the nape of the librarian’s neck as if for comfort, the warm blood trailing down the fingers of his right hand as Shin had pressed himself so that he was impaled nearly halfway up Mikhail's arm. When finally his eyes closed, the history professor knew it was over; he removed himself and stared, deadpan, down at the figure lying on the red-carpeted flat.
Professor Mikhail Lavikov would worry about what to do with his friend’s body later tonight, when he was suitably calmed.
For now, he’d simply reflect on why it was that he suddenly regretted it.[/quote][/ul]
[Age]
[Grade]
[Gender]
[Sexuality]
[Magic]
[Background]
At fourteen, Miyuki began physically harming himself during the night, and everything came to an impasse when, to escape the torture of constant strings of semi-possessions and visions of malicious night-ghasts, he tried to cut out his eyes with a letter opener. The bronze of the blade snapped quite literally in half before he could do any damage. The next week, he tried to drown himself: the water receeded just enough to not be lethal; the following week, he tried to hang himself: the noose came untied not four seconds after he kicked off from the floor. Whatever demon wanted him alive was doing a damn good job of it.
Remy, an acolyte of Ise shrine’s miko, promptly took him aside and attempted to make him into an onmyoji in the hope of giving him the “tools” to exorcise whatever it was that was haunting him. While Miyuki proved to be excellent at the art, he was hesitant about sending the oni away: he felt as though he was “killing” them by exorcising them, and as a rather peaceful person, he abstained from it until it was absolutely unbearable. As one went away, another would come, and the cycle of being haunted, attempting to kill himself, being stopped, exorcising it, and then meeting another “demon” would repeat itself.
The aphenphosmphobia developed at sixteen, right before he left for the Academie. His only goal, right now, is finding out how to die.[/ul]
[Appearance]
[House]
[RP example]
There had been no reason to leave Volgograd as suddenly as he had done; there had been no reason to seek occupation at an Academy where there would be people he knew he’d have to forcibly put up with as he did; there had been no reason to communicate past anything that was strictly necessary, as he had done. No, he had fucked up… and what was worse, he’d brought someone else into this -- he’d let that particular someone past his guard… and he couldn’t let himself go on knowing there was someone who’d seen him in a moment of weakness still alive.
He knew what he had to do: it was blatantly obvious, and meeting his level half-glare from across the room, its muzzle gleaming black and currently mounted proudly upon the wall. It had not been fired in quite awhile, and would do the job credibly provided its wielder was adequate.
…But could he do it? Shin had been nothing but sweet and accommodative with him the past few months, and while Mikhail was by no means skittish or one to hesitate, even he had reservations over murdering in cold blood someone whose mistake had been as menial as Shin’s was.
There came a knock at the door, and the young history professor was forced back into reality.
Ah, that’ll be him, then… he thought to himself, pocketing one of his hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks and casting a faint glance toward the machine he had been eyeing not five minutes ago. Having invited the wild-haired librarian over for dinner had been the first step in this half-unwilling, clandestine plot… and he had almost hoped that Shin would be smart enough to decline.
But he hadn’t. Shin had smiled that stupidly serene smile, absently tugging on a green-pink-tipped strand of his hair as he nodded an affirmation. He’d handed Mikhail a stack of reading material (“For later. And don’t give me that look, Mikhail Lavikov, you’ll like them, I promise!”) and noted that he’d be there by ten, and that he’d bring his guitar over in case Mikhail was up to hearing him play.
…He had wanted Shin to accept just as much as he had wanted him to eschew the offer, but not for the reason Mikhail wanted himself to believe; he had wanted Shin to show up because he generally wanted Shin to show up, because as much as he hated to admit his desire for emotional liaisons, the need was there, and it wasn’t going to go away as long as Shin lived.
Naturally, Shin would have to die.
Mikhail’s hand tightened around the doorknob, lingering the barest of moments before he turned it and met the glowing Shin’s eyes with unaffected distance, mutely accepting the other’s evening salutations and tugging his guitar case through the narrow doorway.
“Why is it so dark in here, Professor? We invented lights for a reason.” There it was, that fond teasing that Mikhail so hated. There it was, coming from the parting of that infuriating mouth he had wanted to strike so many times.
Mikhail shut the door and felt himself instinctively half-smile. He was aware he looked a little disheveled, his hair attractively mussed and his shirt untucked and loose about his neck. If he minded, his companion made no comments -- he simply settled himself across from Mikhail’s armchair and folded his hands in wait, his painted smile still open and inviting.
“Mikhail, I was thinking earlier today…”
“God help us all.”
“Mikhail! You‘re such-”
“Misha.”
“--Misha.” An apologetic smile. “…I‘m sorry, I forget.
“In any case, I’m leaving the Academy for winter break to visit my father in Nagano. I’m sure he’d love to meet you, and so…”
Shin’s guard was totally down. He didn’t even notice as his host set down a glass of warm amber malt and turned, removing something from the wall and shifting it between his fingers.
Mikhail couldn’t do it. He had cocked the hammer and turned the handle in his palm, letting himself settle into the comfort of freeing himself from this attachment. Shin took a sip of the drink he’d been given, but grimaced and put it down, inclining his head toward his friend and simpering again.
“You always drink such weird stuff. What is that, Misha? It’s terrible. Besides, I don‘t want to end up getting lit, like last time -- you and that junior Kai had to carry me back to my room, remember?”
“I remember.” Noncommittal. Yeah, he remembered. He remembered damn well how Shin had relaxed so trustingly against him as the two carted he and an inebriated Rabbit up to the dorms, his smile not even flickering in spite of the headache incubating in his half-sentient mind, his living warmth radiating and transferring through their shirts as Mikhail pressed closer to ward off the fall chill…
…And then he lost his nerve. The gun was placed back up on its mounts as if it had never been moved, and Mikhail switched his focus to his guest, sinking into that incognito personality he’d been so known for at this school.
Shin talked on until late in the morning, smiling ninety-percent of the time, until finally he had dozed off mid-conversation. With such an opportunity, how could he hesitate now? He knelt down and pulled Shin into a tight embrace, bitterly grimacing when Shin giggled and locked his arms around his shoulders to reciprocate the hug.
He didn’t do much when Mikhail’s right hand stiffened and slid through his shirt, through his abdomen, through his ribcage, and through his back with all the ease of a hot knife through butter. Mikhail couldn’t believe it until after Shin had slumped against his body and his left hand brought itself behind the nape of the librarian’s neck as if for comfort, the warm blood trailing down the fingers of his right hand as Shin had pressed himself so that he was impaled nearly halfway up Mikhail's arm. When finally his eyes closed, the history professor knew it was over; he removed himself and stared, deadpan, down at the figure lying on the red-carpeted flat.
Professor Mikhail Lavikov would worry about what to do with his friend’s body later tonight, when he was suitably calmed.
For now, he’d simply reflect on why it was that he suddenly regretted it.[/quote][/ul]