Garden of Semen and Snow, Zabuza x Haku
Zabuza x Haku BL fanfiction
Wherever boys fall is where I have already fallen.
I do not identify as a male; I do not identify as a female; I identify as the primordial rot that causes homosexuality; depravity; ejaculate; self-hate; self-love -- and I'm in love with Boogiepop. All of his forms, I'm in love with them. Boogiepop lacks a body, and more closely resembles an outfit than a person -- and I would like to exist in the same way; this is the the type of sexuality I covet: two outfits (unbodied, and controlling others) expressing their love, and hate, for each-other. I would want to be the Imaginator to his Boogiepop; I would want to spend an eternity observing that eerie bubble float up to the surface, and I would want to be the air-imbalanced surface tension that causes him to pop, and me to pop with him; both of us, annihilated like that. My favorite shipping couple, though, is Zabuza and Haku.
Zabuza and Haku are almost sacred to me. Childhood obsession with how cool Zabuza was, and how dear Haku was. I wanted Zabuza to be my father, and I wanted to be his effeminate little Haku. They ate up my day-dreams. Linkin Park AMV; somewhere I belong; I want to feel -- etcetera. I have no sexual feelings for either of them; and I'd never want to express myself sexually for either: but: my fantasies are not their fantasies.
Isn't that right? To ever fantasize about either -- innocuously, or as a fiend -- is rape, isn't it? I am a possessing spirit from outside that descends up-on two things I cherish and force to process script. I make Zabuza see Haku as a father; I make Haku have a happy life; I make them act like shells to contain myself; so: I want to go fiendish, because I do not want to fiendish. To love is already fiendish; so: I make them have sex with one-another. Haku murders and penetrates Zabuza; Zabuza penetrates and murders Zabuza. Infinite non-consensual worlds are expressed, and infinite discarded shell bodies are heav'd into my husk bin: used. I can't enjoy it, but my nature, and my gender, is to make these characters stare affixed to an illusion of 'possibility' and imagine a 'could-be' that they 'choose' to align themselves to. They hold each-others hands, and feel warmth, and interlock their fingers, and kiss, and share meals, and cry, and kiss, and touch-a-tip, coyishly spoken (like) "hey, is this alright.." with hand placed for him-- and it's all me, the Imaginator, trying to coax out Boogiepop to hate me, because I want to feel hated, and I am deeply in love with Boogiepop.
From inside was a male cat named Mastema. The cat was observed, from outside, by a male scientist named Demetritus -- Demetritus, to inside, was completely unknown, and a founder of many religions, and speculated to be both demon and angel by cultures, but to outside was little more than scientist; little more than crimpled away underneath musty environments of back-offices that shimmered from constant sunset from cunstant sways of blinds: boxes, beakers, elements, desks, papers, sticky-notes, pencils, grid-sheets, monitors, computer, cord, electrical, outlet, scalpel, and Demetritus dark between all of it.
One day, from outside, Mastema felt absolutely nothing. He felt not the hatred, or the coldness, or the hebetude; all he felt was the water that had been left-out by Owner enter his mouth, and the linoleum of the one-room he'd only exist in. And then: with no feeling: his soul had been pulled to Outside. The cat shell fell face-first into the water-bowl, and drowned.
Inside reacted instantly to the tampering by Demetritus, from outside. The cat had finally succumbed to the cancers that were growing, and that Owner wouldn't have discovered.
Demetritus stared at the shape of Mastema; a soul from Inside would rapidly destabilize in Outside, and this was no bother. He felt it flicker in his palm; the little cat was scorched and frayed by the unnatural environment. Looking at the monitor, he saw the perspective of Mastema:
Mastema awoke in a box, painted in beautiful blues and greens; on the forward wall: 8,589,934,592 black shadows were baked in. His hand and cheek had been placed against two of these shadows, and something hard, and chitinous kissed the touching parts. The shadows spoke to Mastema in the voice of Owner, and in the voice of Vet, and in the voices of several bird and small-fry from outside.
--"Stop."
--"Here."
--"Hello."
--"Get off me."
--"Fuck."
--"I need food."
--etcetera.
A fissure leftward, on the wall, was oozing in quiet dark liquid that contained injected scripting material.
In Demetritus's palm, the soul flickered against his skin, skittering poorly from the script-injection syringe. Demetritus held the soul to one of the shimmering sparkling black pools of Outside. A thousand infinite molesting appendages reached outwards and touched -- there was no reason for Demetritus to do this, and yet: he let the shimmering pool grope at Mastema. The appendages groped, and spun, the cat; in their appendages: the soul broke and separated, it spun between the carpet of infinite small black bodies, and separated, and separated: element of memory and feeling, and identity and spirit; they contaminated, and contaminated further the script that had been injected.
Haku felt nothing, except a coldness: a hatred: a hebetude towards everything that had always been. His feet had long grown numb from being sunk in the snow. His blood retreated further, and further into his heart and palms. He sat leant against the hovel wall, staring glassy at a white abyss before him, and then:
"I n--"
--His father spoke the barest hint of something irritating, before evaporating in a mist of blood and ice.
Haku sat leant against the remains of a broken wooden body, staring at a white abyss, feeling nothing, but feeling everything he could observe. His blood raced. He hugged his knees to his chest. He imagined himself a great four-legged predator that had just snapped the neck of some overconfident bird that swooped down--just for a moment--to boast about the freedom of the skies. He imagined warm blood stunk against his lips and chin, the bird lay limp inbetween his teeth; now the bird lay as trophy for a master that would not arrive.
Demetritus looked at the monitor, and typed more-and-more; his hand from Outside muddied further into Inside, and finished preparing his new golem-agent.
Zabuza this time would be programmed to arbitrarily "never say no internally to Haku." The program was simple, and the remaining personality was created from an aggregate persona pulled from episodes 7~19.
Zabuza approached Haku. The snow crushed, crushed, crushed under foot. Haku stared at the inky-spot that floated past him, like an eerie bubble. It wasn't real. And yet: it popped. A hand picked up the bloody-crumpled trophy that Haku had left, and asked, "did you do this?" Haku nodded, the corpse crashed back into snow.
Zabuza ordered Haku to stand, and Haku stood.
Zabuza pat the head of Haku, and Haku understood.
Blood circulated through his body.
Zabuza’s penis fell out of my mouth.
It fell against his chest.
Semen fell out of my mouth onto his penis.
I watched it roll-over the side of his genital.
It fell slow.
I spit on-to it.
My spit sat as a glisten on-top his penis. It began to shrink, it budged slightly. Blood pumped through the penis of Zabuza, and it moved, and it shrank.
I let myself fall from my knees, elbows, and rested against his abs. I could hear the blood going through him. His heart was moving all of it.
“Do you dance?”
“No.”
I wanted to dance with him; I don’t know why.
He pat my head, and an embarrassing instinct welled-up inside me: I wanted to meow at him.
So, I meowed at him.
He smiled at me.
“Cats love eating rabbits, did you know?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that why you bought me a rabbit key-chain?”
“No, I just thought it was cute. Are you a cat, now?”
“I was always a cat.”
“Are you going to eat the rabbit?”
“Yeah.”
I pushed myself off his chest, and grabbed the keychain from the pocket, from my purse. I meowed at Zabuza. I put the keychain in my mouth, and I swallowed it.
Zabuza looked at me first amused, then confused.
“Bad cat, spit that out.”
“Meow.”
“Hey — I’m serious, I’ll have to take you to the vet.”
“I’m serious too, meow. Do you think any-one is observing us?”
“Hey, really, can you spit that back up?”
“Meow; I mean, at this moment, I get the feeling that there is no one watching.”
“I’m watching, and you’re acting bizarre.”
“Mmyaaow. I mean, —I’m sorry, I don’t know how to explain it. Something came over me. I’ll go vomit up the keychain.”
In the bathroom, I looked at the bathtub drain, and I felt the same feeling from earlier.
Haku rolled off the body of Zabuza. She looked down at her lovers chest, and neck. Small beads started on the clavicle. She hoped her gaze looked liked black glints in the darkness.
--"Do you know why I hate you, Zabuza?"
--"Yes."
--"Tell me why."
--"Because I'm retarded."
--"What else?"
--"Because I'm worthless."
--"What else?"
--"Because I'm a shithead, a cockroach, whatever else you say."
--"Yes, and what else?"
--"Aha, I'm running out of things to say."
--"What else?"
--"I'm not attractive to you?"
--"I want you to say 'because I run off a script that makes it so I have to respond to this shitty mean question repeatedly.'"
--"..Is this your religiosity again? That's not God talking to you."
--"..."
---"You hate me because I run off a script."
--"What else?"
--"...Because I have to respond to this shitty mean question repeatedly."
Haku pantomimes a kissy-kiss to Zabuza, hoping her eyes shine like petrification from a shadow. She's desperately in love with Zabuza, but a bacteria from Outside has grown steadfast in her heart, metastasizing outwards into her ribs, sternum, scapula, cervical C1, and C2. Bacteria had hit her brain and begun to bloom, there. Bacteria already claimed her marrow and bone. Outside was just as much of her circulation as inside, at this point.
She pantomimes a kiss, and runs her right-hand over the pale-dust-coated ribs of Zabuza.
"Zabby-zabby, do you know what I see, sometimes, when I go down on you?"
Zabuza laughed, "What?"
--"I never see you. I see a small cat eating meat from the thighs of a large headless corpse. Like, cow mutilation. Or, sometimes it's just the same cat licking a hand."
--"Yeah?"
--"Yeah, I don't like having sex."
Zabuza reached up and ruffled the hair of Haku, like always. Every-time.
"We don't have to have sex. It makes me feel weird, too."
"Zabuza-zabuza, I see more than that."
"More cats?"
"No, sometimes the neck or groin of the corpse is open and without meat. Instead: the insides of the corpse is a perfectly clean, empty, labyrinth lined-up like a hull made of cold-worked iron, steel, aluminum sheets. It's all crimped together, perfectly, and it's empty. Except atmospherically, there is this anxious 'command' floating through the air. No matter how far into the labyrinth I go, it's the same, and it terrifies me."
As she talked, her blood grew anxious throughout the auxiliary veins in her right-hand, and began to sap the heat from Zabuza's chest. Internally: Zabuza was completely empty, and non-bothered, but Inside commanded an environment-appropriate action, and bade her spoke:
--"--Hey-hey, Haku, you're doing it again."
--"Sorry."
The skin had turned necrotic around where her hand rested. Thoughts raced through her head, stirred by Bacteria growing further-and-further into her circulate thought: 'she just completely ignored my feelings, she's trying to make me cast doubt on her being machinework deadpoint.'
Bacteria bloomed, and memories bubbled like embolism into the brain of Haku. A shadow rolled over the head of Zabuza: complete obfuscation. The air dropped to zero. Meowing began to tune-in through the cosmic radio that Bacteria had been slowly tuning her in-to, ushering a steady --"hear this; hear this; hear this; hear this; hear this; hear this; hear this; hear this--" now heard.
--"Zabuza, I'm hearing all the cats I killed."
--"..."
--"Zabuza, I can't hear you."
--"..."
Zabuza wasn't speaking. Haku poked at the chest of Zabuza; the wound on her breast had begun the clotting process already. She wondered why Zabuza was so amicable to letting herself be cut. The whole relationship didn't make sense to her. She remeowmbered their vow together to unite the Art Schools against the Technical Institutes; Zabuza swore to keep secret why Haku's father died; Zabuza treated her normally despite the bloodline that made everyone suck up to her. Zabuza treated her kindly, and lovingly, always --never saying no, and never causing reason to hate.
She looked down at the face lost in a pool of shimmering dark shadow. A carpet of insects warbled-together inside, with 8,589,934,592 legs reaching outwards towards the face of Haku. She listened: they were meowing. Haku pantomimed a kissy-kiss to the insects.
"Zabuza, answer me honestly: why am I coveted here? Is it this shitty bloodline thing? Is my art really so good that I deserve to get away with all the stupid shit I get away with? Why has no one bothered asking why my dad is dead? Why does no one care about the cats I keep killing? Is it because I contacted an outsider? Is it because they wanted to smear the shitty programmed cockiness off the collective faces of the technical institutes? Is that it?"
The shadow burbled; and Zabuza broke through a shimmer.
"Because everyone sucks up to you."
"Yup, because everyone sucks up to me. What else?"
"Because they're all retarded."
"What else?"
"Because they're worthless."
"What else?"
The question hung, the shadow rolled over Zabuza's face. The same shadow that was rolling over Haku's face.
Zabuza tightly grabbed Haku's wrist, and another grabbed the opposite shoulder. Haku was weak, because Haku wanted Zabuza to always be stronger than her. Zabuza pulled Haku into a kiss. The legs from the shadow reached out over other shadow; somewhere Bacteria bloomed; Haku lost sight of this world, and store-open the sight of a rectangular chambered room, painted a beautiful blue, and beautiful greens.
Haku kneeled; next to her was Zabuza. They held hands together, their fingers were interlocked. Bare skin laced together, just like that.
All of the blood circulate inside Haku was calm; God was calm, too -- and it was content, just like that, to be almost-near with Zabuza -- just barely, just barely nearly separated by thinly layered organs, and a thin layer of atmosphere. God kneeled inside Haku.
"Ok, I'm starting."
Haku turned the bath-tub cold water on; she wasn't sure if she turned it clockwise or counter-clockwise: it didn't make sense to her to visualize it.
God made her look at Zabuza. What did Zabuza look like? Beautiful. Zabuza was sunset; Zabuza melted snow, and made blood stir. God moved away, excited, and ushered Haku to look, look -- look into the tub.
The onion-bag had begun to darken as water lurched up it; Haku spoke:
"God tells me that the water is circulating through the bag. Objects like that have circulate systems, just like us."
I held Zabuzas hand now, and I kneaded my fingertips against his palm. I was so happy, that I wanted him to express to the environment. I looked at everyone encompassed in the environment; and wish only that they would kiss. I wanted to see muscle, and sinew.
Haku saw the bag kick.
"God taught me a lesson about negative life-form; death information; and the children of death. I guess, this next part is a lesson for you, from me, from God. So listen really closely, meow."
"Understood."
"A cancer is a vehicle for a deathform, it communicates death in-to life -- and requires birth, sustenance, and food: just like a child. Its birth is equal in importance to the birth of a lifeform; --maybe slightly less, because a deathform is guaranteed, eventually. That's the first part. I thought I had more but maybe not. Keep listening, meow: sometimes communication, and miscommunication causes malignant information to latch on-to the hearts of others, leading them to potential pregnancy of deathforms -- this is death information. I emit death information constantly, because God created me to miscommunicate, and be misunderstood, and feel constant loss. I'm incapable of love, and if you were to listen to my heart, you'd hear a heartbeat -- but the reality is there is no sound inside. That's God circulating inside me. Death information comes in many forms; deathforms, too. Thinking-machines of the Programming Halls are deathforms, because they do not give birth to life."
I squeezed Zabuza's hand, the water had already submerged the bag entirely. The displacement-waves bouncing from side-to-side of the tub criss-crossed a blurry pattern over the water-top. I couldn't tell if the bag was moving, or if the image was breaking, or: if there was an image at all.
"Zabuza, when we die, we don't really die. God told me this, too. I'll be annihilated, but it's more-so like I'll be dried on-to the walls of a kiln, as ash. Then, moisture will collect, and I'll 'be' again, meow."
"Understood."
"God has constantly been trying to preserve a few instances of me, because the structural hull of the 'interior' has grown weak from erosion, due to nearby circulate veins pushing blood-oil constant-constantly. God drips in, talks with me, and messes with my head. The shimmering pools inside the deathbakes try to keep me ignorant of that. They want me to focus on you, Zabby."
I lean over and kiss her shoulder. His shoulder; I don't remember. I'm occluding her vision too much; I've put myself in her mouth and stuck myself to her tonsils to drip counter-inject into the illusion.
"Understood."
Haku turns the water off. It had started to spill over.
"I'm tired of coming back, meow. I'd like the next world to be one where people like me are smelt out of the uterus and gobbled-up like oysters. Slurp me out of a clam, Zabby. --Aha, don't do that, that'd be terrible to do to my mom."
"Understood."
"Anyways.. This is another message from God. That bag was outside, to the rabbit that was inside; that bag was inside to the water; water to pipe; pipe to house -- etcetera. I mean to say, that I'm lashing meouwt."
"Understood."
"Zabuza, go get the neighbors cat."
"Understood."
I run my feet into the cold spill-over. I feel it. I splash it, for fun, but it's not fun. It's like piloting a machine to imitate an idea of fun. Haku is thinking about how she is expressing free agency against outside, by openly wishing annihilation -- but it doesn't matter; her thoughts have been completely purified by me. I want to scoop her up right before she turns to ash, and keep her. The intelligences keep separating her, so I'll keep at it.
Zabuza returns with the cat, held by the scruff.
"Zabuza, now watch, and I'll perform a miracle. Close the door, and drop the cat."
"Understood.
He does.
The cat immediately splashes through the water in an uncomfortable gait and scurries against the door, scratching it, and then bolting behind the toilet. Its fur is erect, its tail is sending hateful signals. The script inside is making it do exactly as it need be done.
"Cat, I know you are Mastema. Stop running."
The cat, hidden behind the poiletry, stops making its hateful noises and falls limp into a glimpse of sight, against the tiling. A small wave radiates out from the cat, on the shallow lake.
"The cat has died of a heart-attack, is what inside has mandated. It was born with a heart defect, and has been malnourished, because the owner has been gone for several weeks; you saw no one at the apartment next door, right?"
"Understood."
"Inside manufactures narratives to align the illusion to recontextualize everything sensibly, meow; it's scrambling to make narratives that align everything in past, present, and future. It's racing against God."
"Understood."
"Zabby, bring me the cat? My spine is crooked, this time. It's made my connection all weird, and I want to end this."
"Understood."
He goes on his hands, and knees. He strains forward, grabs the cat, and drags it across the cold tiled lake. Waves dart. He places it at my lap.
"Thank you. Ok, final miracle: listen closely, meow."
"Understood."
Haku runs her hands over the rib-cage of the cat, her small hand grips the whole cage, and suddenly her shoulders tense-taut and a pop is heard,
--but there was no one to observe it.
I reach my left-hand out towards that eerie shadow that had been baked into the wall. That strange, moving, shadow; vaguely human; I reach out towards it, my fingers want nothing more than for it to reach back,
--"Good, we'll start our critiques with Haku; --where is your piece, Haku?"
I put my hand down. My peers--sans Zabuza--surrounded me in the gallery, our instructor had high hopes for me. He was a portly, short, man who walked with a limp. His name was Mr. Green; he was elected as a supervising instructor here due to the prestige he carried: he was a famous artist; Mr. Green was famous because he installed bombs into galleries, that were missing a single working component. It was shocking. --This last part made me think: "wow, stupid," but the presentation and mystique of installed art made me think of butterflies.
--"This is mine."
I stood by it. It was a canvas, that I only had gesso'd over. I didn't finish it.
I don't have to finish any of my art, because everyone loves what I do, by virtue of me being me.
Alien speaks to me, due to my bloodline; the Art Schools jumped at the opportunity to enroll me (also because my grades were horrible) for an arms-race with the Programming Institutes to contact Alien.
--"Ok, bold. Does anyone have critique for Haku?"
--"..."
--"..."
--"..."
--"It's really bold."
--"..."
--"..."
--"I like the texture of the surface, from the gesso."
--"..."
--"..."
--"Ok, Haku, would you like to talk about it?"
--"Sure, it had to do with communication I received earlier this month. An eight-headed snake alien commanded me to eat feeder rats. The painting is a recreation of this communication, the white is the body of the feeder rat, and the space around the canvas--the environment--is the throat constricting the rat. What I wanted to convey, is that everything observable is food for an invisible--but present--atmospheric environment, that acts intelligently, and observes by digesting. This is partially a performance, after critiques I am going to burn the canvas, which will make it resemble the digested acid-burnt matter that the intelligent environment converts everything in-to."
--"You conveyed it well."
--"Wow I really like that idea, it like, almost transforms it."
I have to stare at my feet, because when I speak about communication, the air starts to thin and my blood reacts to it. My hands go numb, and if I look at their faces: I'll see crickets. If they sing: I'll see cricket-song. So, I look at my feet. I masturbated Zabuza with my feet, maybe four weeks ago. He was warm. The thought makes me nauseous, and I feel aroused.
Alien opens in my chest, "you listened to the cricket; it's controlling your thoughts right now, Haku."
Alien is right. Alien is always right. I swore a pact to serve as vessel. The rat digesting inside of me is proof of it. Zabuza had to go.
Critique finishes.
I reach out in-to the dark and pull a cord; my studio lights in flourescent. Scene: easel with another unfinished canvas, a sketchbook sits atop the unfinished canvas, gator-clipped open to sketches of myself naked; two pipe tables are covered in scraps of fabric, paper, legal-pads, sticky notes, stickers Zabuza gifted me, a stuffed-animal Zabuza gifted me (of a rabbit), an assortment of pencils, syringes, clamps, two knives (one hunting, one scalpel), fabric shears, a bottle of poison chemical I inject into myself, several mason jars; folding pipe-chair, my jacket is on the back; my clothes are on the floor; my dinner is on the floor; my tool chest is on the floor. I sit at my desk.
Lesser Alien skitters over to me, it's a cockroach. It wiggles its antennae at me, and communicates the following to me: 10,077,696.
Another joins alongside it, antennae waggling towards heaven, it meows like a cat, and communicates the following to me: 387,420,489.
The Aliens chase each-other in circles on my desk; their chitinous cat bodies seem to flatten and grow in the poor light of my one lamp. They stop, and meow at me, and Lesser Alien communicates the following to me: 1.390084523771447e+122.
Another turns to Lesser Alien, and spins, and faces me again, its paws prostrate with antennae begging me to listen, and communicates the following to me: 4,294,967,296.
Another chirps, and I crush it with my thumb. Crushing the Alien causes the air arounds its body to shimmer. Another converts itself to a smushed shell as Inside rapidly corrects the data that Alien had been continuously injecting into enclosed space.
I miss Zabuza. Alien opens inside my chest, "you're still contaminated with the pollen from cricket -- in order for you to function against the script, you need to identify dirtied information ports that you have left vulnerable. Zabuza was one of these vulnerable ports."
Alien is right. Alien is always right, I swore a pact to serve as vessel, and the memory of of the cat dying is proof of my conviction. Anything my Lord mandates is right; I have experienced ecstasy of Alien and need-not recontextualize my ecstasy with the basic experience. My bloodline is special, and Alien opens inside my chest, "your bloodline is needing to activate."
Alien is right. Alien is always right, I swore a pact to serve as vessel, and stabbing into my right-forearm is evidence of our relationship. Arterial blood pools out. My bloodline ability activates this way, and always has. Alien first spoke of death-magic, and it was now activating. Like poking a dead-bug and the legs kicking: my body will automate and disturb the air around my husk.
I awaken in the cold-work iron hull of Zabuza. The Art Schools were just spell-casting reagents for this to work: perfect communication with outside, to find out who had been meddling with my existence, and who had been meddling with Zabuza.
The cold barrel interior stretched endlessly into darkness labyrinth.
Occasionally, Aliens would appear from between the water-tight cold-work crimped hulls. I recognized some. That one was Mastema. That one was Demetritus. The ushered me onwards, deeper, with their antennae and patterning.
I went deeper inside the empty-space inside Zabuza; my heart wished Zabuza was going deeper inside me, in turn.
Alien Zabuza appeared, who was not Zabuza, and communicated the following: "Inside temporarily had a seizure trying to recontextualize your bloodlines magic and is beginning to regain composure; its lungs are ceasing to seize; you do not have much time; you have failed, Haku."
I walk deeper, ignoring Alien Zabuza, and my foot sinks deep into the soft sheet-pressed metal.
I fall into vertigo; and my color spreads into that cold emptiness.
A man that smells like Zabuza is over me.
He is holding my hair, and smelling my neck. I feel warmth pressing against my body. He's moving like he is trying to have sex with me. Wasn't I dying? I don't have a womb, dummy -- is what I want to tell him.
He succeeds in penetrating me, and eventually finishes inside me.
As he finishes, I turn his blood to ice, and he dies.
This perfect world is still responding to my wishes. That, or the man was a miscommunication from the seizure from Inside.
I look at my wrist, and I'm still bleeding out.
Scenes of blood going down the drain flash through my head; bodies of kittens slip through my fingers like mud. For some reason, I sense perfectly what a rib-cage snapping would feel like. I wished Zabuza was here. I wished that I ignored everything about thought control and just stuck with my dumb scripted Zabuza pleasing me. I wanted to feel his hand ruffle my hair. I wanted him to be a father for me. That's weird, because I had sex with him. He doesn't smell like my mom, is what I mean.
My heart faintly says "meow," so I meow back at it.
My fingers link with the figure burnt into the wall, and I join it there.
birthday