#♛ ¦ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇꜱ�� answered

[cryopathiic-a]

"you're the prettiest thing i've ever seen."

Slender fingers carefully pinched the brush, dusting off a few speckles of white powder littering the jade incense burner. It was a beautiful design, the silver lotus on the lid tainted with speckles of bronze from the use. Next, the shaping mold was laid out on the perfectly smoothed out white dust and there, the agarwood shavings were poured and molded in the shape of the kanji for heaven. With the same care he had applied throughout all his motions, Dōma completes the ritual by lighting a match and quickly igniting the thick line of agarwood formed. And it takes. And then he closes the lid.

And smiles up at the other as the first few pillars of fragrant smoke rise from it.

It's a smile that will disguise how little he had been expecting that comment. But then again, he hadn't expected the request that led up to it either; to keep wearing his human facade after a sermon, in private. Before another powerful demon. Given his views on the matter, it made no sense but... what kind of host would he be to deny his guest's whims?

So he had worn it. His human face. Not a day over twenty, with a head of white gold. But the most notable difference was how softer his features seemed; a gaze stripped of the penetrating glow, as beautiful as it was calming. He even brought back the dusting of freckles over his nose.

So the compliment, in his opinion, was well deserved.

❝ Thank you. ❞ He places the incense aside, to join the scent of candles and lingering smoke that still did so little to disguise the true aromas that had seeped into this room; the pungent mark of bloodspill. But in that moment, between the way the artificial lantern-light hit his mundane features and the thick coating covering his tracks, it all painted a very human picture. Dōma was proficient at that, after all; blending in with them yet never quite on their level. Even in this archaic form he still retained some striking features, after all. Primarily, the notorious set of polychromatic eyes that peered straight into the other's with a darling bat of thick lashes.

He sits back and allows his weight to sink into the pillows. There's that inviting look that's almost hubris when directed towards a superior. But he thinks he's entitled to wear it. Because, that's what he came for, right? That's why he visited, after so much time, and sat through an entire sermon and then requested him in the privacy of his own chamber, as well — surely, that must be his endgoal.

And yet he's sitting there, staring at their exposed, tender flesh like he's seeing oracles on it. The most animated thing about Kokushibo in those moments had been his hair — and that's only because an occasional night breeze slipped past the room's window. Was he bored? Was he lost to deep thought? It was impossible to tell; and the frustration was building in his younger counterpart because of it.

Frankly, Dōma wasn't one to work for things in his life; and he'd already worked so hard for this. So, his tone held the tiniest trace of frustration as he moved to undo the sash of his own robes — since the other wouldn't do it for him, apparently.

❝ But, enough of that now. I thought you were here for a reason? ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

What? Did I say something wrong, munchkin?

Judging from the commotion, apparently the collective's attention has been turned away from the previous topic; conveniently. Surely most of them will just tune it out, what with how loudly his progeny was screaming.

[cryopathiic-a]

((Hi! Mod just letting you know I love your writings and headcannons <3 ))

❝ Okay, children, gather up — ❞

❝ — Papa is still waiting for his Father's Day gift~ ❞

(( Hey hey!! Thank you so much!! Your art is amazing, so lively & cute ^^ and I love the little concepts you have for the ice children ❤️ Thank you so much for your encouraging words & I hope to see more of your content ! ))

[cryopathiic-a]

[ 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ] : receiver finds the sender trapped and unable to escape from them. ♥

A deathly silence befalls the room as the child cowers; and stumbles ; and rattles the resting bones.

What a clumsy child.

An instantaneous reaction comes from the demon; within a sole blink of the human eye he moves to catch the falling skulls as the structure spits them out one by one in random spots. A wave of cool air permeates the room with the motions. Its as if the Lord Founder has suddenly grown new pairs of arms to catch them all; like the obscure images of many limbed creatures portrayed in murals all across the temple. And not a single one shatters - but then the pots begin to rumble as well.

This was on the cusp of becoming a disaster. The oni is left balancing a tower of human remains on each hand, on the top of his head, on his raised knee — he looks as if he's about to start juggling them. It's quite comical for a moment; until it isn't.

The temperature drops notably when Dōma begins to lower himself and allow some to topple over on the floor gently, from a height that won't damage the delicate bones and turn them to naught more than ash on the floorboards. And then there's a stern expression when he stands up again and glares daggers at the child. They're alone in this cold room; and if Inosuke tried to scream for help before that look, no one would hear.

And if he tried to run, the sliding doors would have blended at the seams.

❝ How predictable. You can't go one day without giving me a headache, can you? ❞ He has sobered up considerably; and if there's a lingering smirk, it's drips with sarcasm. ❝ Your life here would be so much easier if you only listened. I don't understand. Do you not enjoy it when you see your mother smile? Would you prefer it if she was crying all the time? You must not love her very much. ❞

There was nowhere to go, other than this room, with the creature he harbored such dread towards that it weighed heavy and dilluted the vibrant green of his eyes.

❝ You will help me clean up this mess. ❞ Dōma begins, somberly. He looks jaded. The evelasting smile has pressed into a thin line; and his voice is curt. ❝ And then you will polish the skulls and dust off the shelves. ❞ There won't be any room for protest. His lavender claw has commanded Inosuke already, pointing to the shelves. There's a thin layer of dust; and a brilliant opportunity has presented itself to eradicate it effortlessly. He won't even have to call for his trusted acolytes ( as the child would know by now, if a man in this temple has made it past the age of thirty, they are probably in the monster's service ) He is careful when placing the skulls down, however.

❝ And be wary of the pots. As I said, they're a gift from a friend of mine. I would hate to see him upset if one of them breaks.❞

[cryopathiic-a]

POWER, SAFELY DEFIED, TOUCHES ITS DOWNFALL

It was a calamity, a brewing storm that wished to be unleashed. Nakime place was secure, a heavy sigh leaving them to be spared the wrath of their lord and master. Their creator was not pleased, with lack of results, diminishing returns upon the investment of their blood. The chosen had stalled, staggering and fallen, the system, for centuries has been struck at by their enemies, a thousand times it had remained standing tall within the land, but the lower levels have at last crumbled under the weight of expectations, simple and easy to be obtained for those who had been chosen –

“Lord Doma –”

Their appearance, was out of nowhere, they were just standing right behind him. Head lowered down, to bow to him. The laws clear, demons could slaughter and kill all that they wish, they can turn upon their brethren at a moments notice and devour them and steal their power, but this one, was a well guarded secret, only shared with the upper moons. Not to be touched, not to be bothered, not a single word to be passed to them, that would be an insult. The great eye of there lord, the voice of there master, the one who protects them more, than all the others combined, without rank, station, titles, yet she stands higher than them all combined –

“Your presence has been requested my lord –”

Did he know, did he feel it, the end and downfall of the lower moons. There cries and attempts to bargain with their creator, or rather foolishly, to merely try and flee from the wrath of the one who had brought them into the world and gifted them every single advantage they needed to fulfill their roles. Yet nothing, for centuries the lower moons, offered nothing to there master, but everything to the enemy, a means to test slayers, experience gathered, the measuring stick and final selection to who will become a pillar and who will not - that was not the purpose of them, to be used for the enemy, to become stronger.

“Immediately, it would be unwise, to stall my lord –” As they offered the mighty lord this at least, for his station and titles, she did not pluck him out of thin air, less he had been in the middle of a sermon. “They are at the entertainment district to clear there head –” With a small bow of there head, they stepped back to allow them to finish what they were in the middle of, time was limited, there master would not wait, especially now considering —

“My lord –” A small hesitation, should they tell them, offer this to them, they where to be seen and not heard, only speaking when necessary, only doing what they were told, and speaking to their lord to offer advice. “I advise caution, a warning to you –” That it would be unwise to test the patience of their master, it would be suidice, if lower moons have been killed, what was stopping.

An upper moon being killed to ease the pain and suffering.

Knees sunk in plush pink; sinking deeper with the hunch of broad shoulders. The pointy tips of lavender claws threatened his chin with a scratch every so often, held before his chest, pressed together firmly. Dim light shone through the imposing mural of the Sun God, casting a half-glare, half-smile to the faithful beneath; primarily, the Lord Founder himself as his cadence murmured the lead of their joined condolence.

❝ Reverently, I prostrate with my body, speech, and mind; I present clouds of every type of offering, actual and imagined; I declare all my negative actions accumulated since the beginning of time—❞

Lord Dōma.

❝ ... And rejoice in the merit of all holy and ordinary beings. ❞

Mundane voices joined to accompany the hymn. It was as melodic as it was imposing; music and prayer combined. Some whimpered, without knowing why. The frozen lotus' palms lowered ever so slightly, prismatic hues moving to meet the depicted cat-like slits that had cast punishment and gifted pleasure to so many; himself included.

Nakime-chan? What honor do I possibly owe this intermission to?

His voice is bubbly through the connection, nothing like the tranquil mutter that passes through the humans like the caress of a relieving summer breeze. One minute, he was in that room, surrounded by his followers' warm breaths and joined heartbeats, the other, he was on the floorboards of the Infinity Castle, prostrated before his master's favored guard dog. Upper Two straightened up, sitting on his knees with a bewildered expression, hands dropping to rest idly on his lap as he listened; prudently.

Of course he had felt it. When one powerful demon dies, it can be felt, to those who open their minds to the collective and reach out through the blood bond shared amongst their kin; so, when several died at once... It would be safe to say there was a reason for the pensive atmosphere in tonight's evening sermon. All but one; that he could still feel, pulsating with fresh blood — the Dreamweaver had been chosen, as the last lower moon alive.

Even he had the sense to know what that meant.

She was furious.

My lord, I advise caution, a warning to you...

❝ Awh, you worry about me, Nakime? That's so sweet of you~ ❞ A boyish smile would not give away his true thoughts on the matter. This would require a practiced silver tongue to untangle; and soothe the mess that was their master's hearts at that rate. Only a demon that was truly pure and enlightened could carry through with such a task; a demon that held no animosity, that reached out to the poor and suffering to offer solace; and to those who have yet to achieve nirvana, he would deliver it.

❝ Don't fret, I'll be fine! I'm sure Master just needs a compassionate ear, right now, more than ever; and as you know, I'm a great listener... so if anything's bothering you at some point— ❞ A playful swat of his hand, waving her worries away with a chuckle - yet, measured, as he was soon returned to the very same space from which she contacted him, a parallel dimension that was not even perceptible to puny human eyes. The sudden strum of her biwa had him facing that unyielding glare of the mural once more, and all effervescence was killed on the spot, his expression turning to a cold deadpan.

Please, remain until the end of cyclic existence...

❝ Tenzin. ❞ The name was uttered softly. One of the acolytes clad in ceremonial pulu with a yellow cloth apron lifted his bald head. It was an older man, elder than most. The Lord Founder wore a pensive furrowed brow and pout when addressing him. ❝ Finish the sermon for me, will you? I don't feel so good. ❞ They were already on their feet, towering to full height.

" My Lord- "

❝ Do as I ask, please. No questions. ❞ Their clawed hand left a gentle caress over the human's chest as they brushed past him; and almost seemed to walk through him, with a prismatic gaze seeming lost as it swam in the nothingness in the distance — heading for a direction only they could know.

... and turn the wheel of Dharma for living beings...

The aura of colors; a nauseating, hypnotizing sight — a portal, through which to step into the other; the unknown that awaited him in that disheveled room of some prestigious entertainment house. A long time ago, Upper Two would roam these streets for spoils, wearing a different mark in his eye. And he had lavished the various houses and known them all by name, once, but that was some time back. Now, he could only hope whatever awaited him at the other side of that door would not be heralding his own demise; because the Goddess' whims are mercurial, and even he would know better than to challenge her wrath.

A slender palm placed on the door to offer one, no two knocks, just in case, and wait for permission to enter; clad in human clothing so as not to attract suspicion from the oiran whispering at the hallways; a long kimono adorned in golden lotuses and gilded with a silken sash. And upon entering, to take in the sight, looking only a little lost as his mind begun to make that first assessment of just how dire the situation could be, he slid the door shut and dropped to his knees gracefully, the kimono sprawling around his prostrated form.

❝ Konbanwa, Master Muzan. ❞ A honeyed tone. Their palms connected, sprawled between their knees as they sat, and avoided those blazing plum reds for once; knowing better than to challenge her gaze at such a moment. ❝ I extend my condolences. How may I service you, my Lord? ❞

I dedicate my own merits and those of all others to the great enlightenment.

[cryopathiic-a]

❛  oh, i’m not going to rush this. i’m going to take my sweet time.  ❜

The hotel room was rather frugal, for something that costed as much as it did. But it had a jacuzzi and a California king sized mattress, and so that was about as many amenities as he would consider obligatory. He would concur that life in the new world had made him picky; especially when it came to beds he did not even sleep in, but such was to be expected when one has lived as long as he had. You taste too much; you begin to understand that there is always something better, something more. Such is the blight they shared between them; the blight of greed.

They had agreed to spend the night, if only for his Master to clean up and have some time to himself; seeing as there was a lot to plan. In truth, Dōma held some suspicions that all this excessive staring right into the sun had left poor Muzan-sama with a sunstroke. But, alas, who was he to argue; who but a meager servant to his infinite glory...

But, demons don't need sleep. And this one was well-fed, too ( truly, finding new and exciting ways of nourishment had been the only task Dōma had seen through in this last century ) so he certainly could part with the rest, as well. So, his first course of action was to grab the menu from the bedside table, let the pages roll between his fingers until he reached the second to last and there trace his index across the print whilst looking for two very specific words; Hookah Rent. Lavender nail tapped them as a wide smile blossomed on his lips. The menu was placed aside, phone grabbed instead.

It was then that the corner of his eye caught the shadow of her arms through the half-shut bathroom door. She seemed to be examining her reflection. The phone was tucked between ear and shoulder, dialing the number as he spoke.

❝ Couldn't agree more, Muzan-sama! Self care is very important, even if your physical form is already perfected. ❞ Voice dripped with syrupy sweet flattery, but the wording, as always, was ambiguous. It could be taken to mean something offensive, or otherwise; there was no telling. The only thing made certain by those words was that Dōma was, indeed, looking to spice up what he predicted would be a very dull night.

Beep... beep...

❝ — you deserve all the time in the world to lavish that wondrous body... Especially with how have worked towards your rebirth. Hey... If you'd like a back rub, I'm right here, you know, oh— ❞

The service picked up.

[cryopathiic-a]

 [ RESCUE ]  for one muse to intervene upon seeing a third party making the other one uncomfortable. + [ TENSION ]  for one muse to get in a fight on behalf of the other. 

jealousy starters || accepting

He's seen it more than a handful of times at this point. The air outside is thick with hostility; an aggression that has built up in the people the longer this torturous calamity plunders the land. With so much malice in the atmosphere, it's easier for fights to spark. In fact, it's tremendously easy.

All it had taken was a step too close, a quip too forward and a touch to his bicep that bordered on invasive — Dōma was the Lord Founder. And his job was a vocation to the people. His title entailed many services, but not that. Was it not a heinous act, to taint that which is blessed and holy with such amorous thoughts?

Nevermind that the man who jumped to his rescue had done far, far worse to him than that.

But he would never complain about it. Even if Michi's touch was much more coarse than this wealthy Lord's from the province and his fists were not meant for tender strokes. A step back was taken instinctively when the samurai approached to cut the conversation short. But, unfortunately, the esteemed 'guest' was not budging.

" In these dire times, I find myself in urgent need for a guiding word; your light has spread all across the Province, my Lord. Do you believe in might be possible to arrange a ... little counselling in private? " The man's sleazy smile was impervious to a third presence, as rich people often are. The expression on Dōma's face, however, spoke of concern.

❝ Uh... I— I don't... ❞ A glance to the side, where his family stands greeting their guests and making arrangements — and oh, all the donations they will expect to receive from people just like this greasy man who insists on touching him. And then, to the other side, where he can see Michikatsu has gotten up to head this way with that gleam in his eye... And he could smell the wine on that guy's breath as he leered at him; and he was still stuttering by the time his 'good friend' wedged himself between them—

❝ Michi. Don't. ❞ Barely a whisper. And he can only watch and stutter as the warrior convinces this disturbing man to follow him outside. He knows what that means. It means that man won't be coming back to harass him. Certainly not in one piece. They'll probably never find them all to put him back together again.

...As a man of the cloth... shouldn't he be a bit bothered by that?

Fingers reach up gently to hover over his own cheeks... and feel the heat of a blush.

[cryopathiic-a]

i thought our love was enough for you.

You don't understand. I am not someone who can take care of you out there. I am just a soldier. A nobody.

Michi... who you are... is enough for me.

❝ Ugh, you always do this! ❞

Ornaments chime with the abrupt motion; pulling up the fabrics with him as skin parts and breaks their shared tranquility. The Lord Founder rises from a sea of hair and silk, intertwined to form a sacrilegious nest. His pale skin reflects the moonlight's glow through the open tent, looking out into quiet ponds that surround the dormant temple. And there's a light breeze to sway the lanterns and the tassels adorning the samurai's blade as it rests against a dock. Almost as if nature itself seconds the Lotus' indignation.

❝ I request one little favor and you act as if I'm asking you to deliver me the Emperor's head on a silver platter. ❞ He leans, endless tresses of birch oak white dangling over the other's lying form. Those famously innocent features contort with frustration. ❝ You always tell me how hard things are for you out there, but have you ever stopped to think about what it's like for me? ❞ His fist comes to press against his own chest, form hunched as he continues to whisper-yell. They need to be quiet after all. It might be late, and the place secluded at the temple's back, but there's always that lingering dread. The fear of being discovered. As if what they do is anything to be ashamed about.

As if the endless litanies within those walls are any less condemnable.

❝ You get to leave and venture off in faraway places and I'm the one who has to stay behind and give your wife my blessing. ❞

A pregnant pause. The prophet's gaze is wet when it finally allows Michikatsu's face some reprieve and withdraws to traverse over his lying form instead. His fingers are cool when they reach over the bandages wrapped around his ribs and gently stroke a path over his stomach. And for a moment, they just rest there, following the labored heave and fall of the samurai's chest.

He knows it's too risky. He understands the dangers. But he is still young. Spoiled. No is not an answer that comes often to the blessed one; and he has been raised sheltered. Maybe the other has a point, in that Dōma is still so naive. He's never been outside those walls. And before coming across this one, he never really dwelled on it either. His path in life was predetermined for him; not by the Gods. By the ones who profit off of the lost souls venturing in Eternal Paradise; and frankly, its prodigal son does not care for that either.

But he has come to care about one thing. That face marked for death. The endless recounts of epic battles that he is certain will be written in history; and Michikatsu has a hand in shaping it. And yet... he never quite seems satisfied with his chosen path, either. If he was, he would not be visiting here that often. He would not be forsaking his vows to his family and soiling the skin of one who abstains from all earthly delights; the one none other dare approach so closely, lest they provoke divine wrath with a blasphemous touch.

He swallows the tears welling up. That sweet cadence grows a little hoarse as he hovers over his forbidden company; and exasperation mellows into a pleading look.

❝ I'm not asking for much. Just this one thing. Take me to see the ocean. We will be back before sunrise, no one will even know we were missing! ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

[ stormy ] sender arrives at receiver's doorstep soaking wet + i'm sorry if this is a bad time, but i need your help. (modern/forbidden @_@)

He usually would not be found in this appartment during these night hours. It had been made into more of a day reprieve, in the downtown, in the eye of the storm; there was a busy district right beneath and so the streets were always crowded and noisy and full of life. Especially during night-time. But today the rain was strong; and the news had spoken about an all-night pour. So there were only a few people dwelling in the street below and most undeground clubs had long sealed their doors for fear of waters pouring in through the streets.

And he'd stayed in. And he had been content in the company of little packets filled with all sorts of colorful pills and the tv playing some obscure late night game show with watchers calling in to guess a word that was far too obvious when a knock at the back door roused him from the couch. The cigarette was balanced at the edge of the tray. He wore a puzzled expression when he made his way to the appartment door, fastening the belt around his lounging robe—-

Only to be met with the last face he expected to see. Especially in that condition. Water was dripping from his chin and his hair was sticking to his face, the poor guy!

❝ Michi ? ... Oh god. Come to me, come here. ❞ Dōma bit down on a gasp before reaching out to pull the other closer by the shoulders, away from the fire escape stairway and under the threshold to shield him from the rain. There was a pre-emptive rub up and down Tsugikuni's forearms as a hasty attempt to warm him up a little. His younger counterpart seemed indifferent as to the mess they would be bringing in; what with Michikatsu's boots making a squelching noise with every step.

❝ What happened to you? Oh, you feel so cold... come sit. ❞ It was such a stark difference from the man he was used to seeing at that nightclub, always sitting upright on his barstool, poised and collected in spite of the seedy surroundings. But given his line of work, it wasn't impossible that the other had landed himself in some serious trouble. And so Dōma sounded genuinely worried about his condition as he dragged him inside; past the still playing TV and made him stand in the middle of the room.

❝ You're soaked to the bone! Do you not listen to the forecast or what? ❞ A playful tease, as he fumbled around the mess of blankets tossed over his couch to pick one and wrap it around the other's shoulders. ❝ Here, sit. I'll brew you some tea to warm you up, okay? And I'll get you a change of clothes. You poor thing... ❞ He strolled off to the kitchen to get some water going.

[cryopathiic-a]

"I appreciate your protectiveness, but remember, I can take care of myself too." (as smoil?)

There's a subtle puff where the fan's edge meets a far sturdier chestplate. As frail as it is, there's decisiveness in the act. And that somehow makes it feel more compact, like a true boundary thwarting the other from exiting the room. Their expression is somewhat petulant when they move to stand in front of the other.

❝ No. I mean it this time, Michi. ❞ Given their discrepancies, it would be easy for the warrior to brush past them. What would those smooth hands do against his coarse fingers? Still, Dōma doesn't budge. An indecipherable sentiment sits on his features. And the tone remains cool; but not in the usual, carefree fashion. Cool as the steel of a well sharpened blade.

❝ I'm not going to entertain the topic any longer. I don't care what rumors you've heard about your brother, or anyone else for that matter. The villages are on lockdown for a reason. ❞ His hand lowers, comes to meet its counterpart and hold the fan taut in his grip. There's commotion outside, people wailing, muffled sobs reverberating in the hallways. Whatever that calamity is, it's coming to their doorstep soon.

And that fear strengthens faith. The air is laden with the smell of incense. Dōma takes a step closer, palms reaching out to rest atop the marks littering that scarred face. But it's not the mellow touch his companion would be used to. There's something commanding in the tone; the same element that has so many looking to him for salvation in the first place. Is it his detachment from the horror of the situation or his so-called charisma that beckons it? Impossible to tell. But he looks determined to keep the other there, no matter the cost.

Everyone else can perish, for all he cares. Michikatsu will not be sent out there like some lamb for the slaughter, as long as he has a say in it. And he does.

❝ You are the person that is most important to me. So, you are not leaving this temple. Don't make me call the guards on you. It would be very shameful. ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

[ 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲 ] : sender spares receiver's life. [ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ] : sender warns the receiver to not antagonize them.

The biwa's strum can only mean one thing; interwoven in the very cells they have been gifted. Some, more generously than others. For some time now he has been considered a favorite and the ember glare has dimmed on his person; but the all seeing eyes are still there, etched on the ceiling of the Audience Chamber that raised him since youth. Always watching.

So when Dōma was called to answer for his crimes, he expected to be met with a tsunami of rage before a sole question was placed before him. He had anticipated to be flung across the halls or hung out to dry in the sun or beaten to a pulp and made to plead within an inch of his life — or any other creative punishment his Master would pour their entire soul into crafting!

And instead he had been left there, sitting on his knees, unable to do anything other than stare at them idly whilst they merely bothered to give him the most half-hearted verbal scolding. A scolding. For him. For Upper Two.

That tightening in his chest... is this what it feels like, when the waters are left stagnant on a moonless night without tide? Is this what it feels like when the leaves are left yearning for a breeze to sway them out of their stillness? Because, if that is the case... then he wishes to abstain from that feeling.

❝ You... are going to let me off with a warning? ❞ Head cants, platinum tresses adorning the deep cut of a tightly fitted garment, that was deliberately selected for the occasion. Because that's what they do, isn't it? He knocks things over and they shove his face in the shards before cleaning it up. That's the pact. He offers his lifeblood, his possessions, his servitude; in exchange for that breeze. And when it doesn't come... oh, the silence is overbearing. Lavender claws click against each other as he fiddles with his hands on his lap.

❝ I don't understand. Are you not angry with me? ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

.... get stickbugged. lol.

There's some initial confusion on the demon's part; but it clears up once the insect begins to... dance. And the Lord Founder's squinting snaps to a cheerful grin instantaneously.

❝ Awh, Inosuke! You brought me a friend from outside? That's so sweet of you, my little piglet... ❞ And of course, he is utterly impervious to any cringed comments that might follow — especially since he has already moved on to letting the little guy climb up on his palm. The insect only starts bobbing faster, though. Almost as if it's sensing some kind of threat.

❝ Oy, oy, look at him go! He's putting up a show for us! Oh, and he dances just like you~ ❞ Spoken quickly, but it was clearly not meant as a compliment. ❝ What should we name him? ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

receiver shows up at sender’s house drunk after they’ve broken up. 

It had been some time since they last saw each other. But the memory was still vivid.

A piercing glare, harsh words pointed at him once more, accusations and threats wavered about; and normally Dōma would have been happy to stay the night, but, even between the two of them there was a line that could be crossed. There were things one does not simply mention and dangle over the other's head. She had pushed him too far this time.

He could also remember the slam of the door behind him, the way the docks had rattled on his wake. After two centuries of servitude, he had been dumped. Over some minor incident that she chose to throw a tantrum over, and take it too far as per usual. Then, after housing her wrath, he'd been tossed aside like a cup left in the filthy sink - and given the final blow with cruel words, to shatter him completely. This newfound, strange bitterness in his mouth and the rise of his heartbeat when they were screaming and throwing stuff at each other...

It kept his expression from wavering when the door opened and he was met with those familiar plum reds again. Rhinestone eyes wet and hooded, painting an image of heartbreak.

"I'm here to pick up my things." It was instant, and cold, and yet the hints of intoxication on his breath laced his voice with a light tremble. He swallowed a sob. "It won't be long. 'M just taking - ... " His hand rose to point inside, revealing the bottle clenched in his three fingers. It was empty, and it had contained something crimson that smelled strongly of alcohol. A potent heap of intoxicated human blood? Actual wine? It was dubious, as long nails were concealing the label for the most part. He made a motion to step forth and stumbled, leaning against the doorframe for support. " ...the lava lamp... "

[cryopathiic-a]

I just wanted you to know, I read your threads with Fallesto like they are fanfiction. I don't know what's going on half the time, but I am here for it all the way. 🎔

thread sum up with @fallesto

[cryopathiic-a]

C2 + F2 XD

how to lose a hand tutorial || SOURCE || accepting ( one more )

[cryopathiic-a]

Soo... how would you feel if you were called 'Daddy' by any of the upper moons?

❝ Do you mean in the way that Gyutaro might say it or in the way that Karaku keeps saying it— ❞ He gives an amused eyeroll at that.