// Throwing This Back At You, For Akechi's Opinion Of Yusuke. :) Or Even, Ralsei's Opinion Of Kris!

🔥 // Throwing this back at you, for Akechi's opinion of Yusuke. :) Or even, Ralsei's opinion of Kris!

send me a 🔥 and i'll tell you one thing my muse finds attractive about yours // always accepting!

" Oh! " ━ the brief flicker of being caught off guard, charitable; good natured, as though it was an unexpected but not disliked surprise. spinning the wheel in a teenage game & watching the tinted bottle land on you, abruptly asking just how well they could do; trivia, kissing, something else; always something else; it didn't matter. ( it masks a brief, insufferable bolt of panic that glimmers like lightning from his heart down to his stomach. it's just a game, but still, a tv-ready feeling takes over, the polish of someone who must live off of how well they can dance around the unexpected, and dance well. )

" You're asking me? Well, I'm sure there'd be plenty of girls quite interested in Yusuke-san's features, but alright! hmm... " a laugh, shifting into pondering, think on it, act as though you haven't thought about it before, an invasive thought curled around the brainstem far more descriptive than what is being asked. run the list in your mind again, ignore the fact you have a list at all, again, again. check the time. 30 seconds is appropriate. get it right. get it right.

" Ah, his eyes perhaps? he's very attentive to other people in his own way, which as a detective, I have to appreciate! " ━ as a detective, of course, only that. nothing more. nothing further. something shivers inside him and keels over in the cold apathy to his inner self as a trained dog jumps through hoops. poodle; greyhound; akita. ( 'his hands,' offers a different, quiet part of him that could never be shared, never be heard. 'dexterity along the length of fingers, brutality along the backs of knuckles : the way he uses both to make something beautiful.' )

// dyn. tag dump! @tenebriism // @gldhte // @theyrots // @cardedsoul

━ ♔ Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside / We'd sit back and watch the world go by ━ SANS/O’DELLE: theyrots

━ ♔ Just believe me when I say / I mean no harm; open arms; I will keep you safe until you / Pass me the knife ━ AKECHI/YUSUKE: tenebriism

━ ♔ Silver; crystal; carousel your effervescent touch / But everybody knows that home is where your teeth sink love ━ BILLY/STU: cardedsoul

━ ♔ After the foxes have known our taste; After the raven has had his say; I'd be home with you / I'd be home with you ━ LINK/GAIA: gldhte

☕ (My Harry & your Kim)

Send me “ ☕ “ for my muse to drink tea uniquely flavored after your muse, and I’ll tell you what my muse tastes! // accepting!

When the thermos is passed, Kim is dubiously hesitant to sip its contents. Glances spared into the dark metal container where a thousand tiny lights reflect back up at him off the angles of glitter that seem to consume the liquid, bouncing off the sharp lines of his glasses, highlighting the ridges of his face; cheekbone meeting upper-eye meeting the crease of his nose between. He questions, and the answer he receives is likely as inane but incredulously trustworthy ━ which is to say, only Kim would trust it ━ and he is prodded to drink. A sigh, a murmuring of If you're trying to poison me, at least have an alibi… before it's raised like a chalice to the lips and, tentatively, he drinks.

He swears the glitter clogs his through the moment he does, and he chokes. ( although, the choking may not all be from the glitter. ) Like congealed blood, glitter clinging, he can feel the pieces cut micro-ribbons of flesh down his esophagus as it slides down in a wet mass, leaving behind it a terrible feeling of glitter lining the space between his lungs down, down, down. The taste is indescribable ━ sharp and salty and sweet and bitter and tangy all at once, apricots and rotten fruit and alcohol, the taste of sweat and iron and cinnamon, unpleasantly cold at first which becomes kinder as it soothes the roughness of the throat's wounds before the heat hits the way habanero in coffee does. like dark chocolate, like stale cake frosting, like pleasantly unpleasant soreness, sweet-sour wine, cloying cheap children's medicine, nausea-inducing cigarette smoke.

Indescribable the way cubic measurements of atmosphere containing updraft are indescribable, not indescribable the way metrics too large and too small become nothing. indescribable like space, like music, like sea.

Like God, he thinks, like Innocence. he corrects; Like God. Like Pale. Innocence is a dead language they've been trying to read, and neither of them, neither of them, were born enough to be that again. But maybe they were, once. Like Pale. Like dreaming. Like oblivion. ( Apricots still linger in it like fruit floating on saltwater, fermenting on waves, cracked wide as geodes and spilling guts, spilling light. Beneath it is an oil spill 300 kilometers long from a model of motor carriage that has not been made since the day he was born, mingling, separate, beneath, above. Like tainting it, like swallowing it whole, like becoming more by virtue of what he gives, by no virtue at all. ) Like God, he thinks, like Innocence.

Kitsuragi's composure returns to him, and with the embarrassment of a freshman being handed a drink he couldn't handle, he screws the thermos shut again, and passes it back with the more guttural-than-usual sound of clearing his throat. He pulls off a glove and swipes the flesh of a hand over his mouth, bottom lip coated in the shine of something like lip-gloss beneath the chunky square glitter clinging to it. Stubbornly, pieces remain regardless of how hard he scrubs it away, caught in the cracks between lips, before he sighs, slips a glove back on, and resolves to chew on the skin for the rest of the day, if only to hide it, until he can attempt to better extract it somewhat mournfully with the bristles of a toothbrush. A small part of him asks him to let it stay, and the rest of him refuses. A moments consideration, but little else ━ at least for now, anyway, at least for now.

As the flavor lingers on his tongue like an unwelcome guest, progressively, it shifts. never does it lose the sharpened edges, the quality of chaos, the almost fermented kind of age & simultaneous unblended freshness to it, all mixed together and separate all at once, but over time it mellows, perhaps, or maybe Kim just gets used to it. the acidic highs mesh better with the taste of artificial fruit and the heat lends itself as he considers it to the taste of cheap coffee and dark chocolate. grape sugar with the salt and bitter not better but a different taste than they would be alone, iron manageable with the undertone of something other than the blood ━ maybe it becomes more palatable the longer its in his mouth, accustomed like an acquired taste king of all acquired tastes, or maybe it just burns itself out the longer it's left to mix with something other than itself. Saliva like a neutralizer to however many medications he can feel, chalky, on the underside of his tongue.

The heat subsides and the bitterness erodes, slowly and fast all at once, and a smoother kind of flavor emerges from beneath all of it. soft lime and distant haze of honey and a kind of watered down cocktail, no longer sharp with alcohol, but cold anyway. like something hidden, like something suffocated, like something that couldn't afford to come out unless it knew, really knew, it wasn't going to be rejected. the craze of the rest does not die, but the aftertaste offers a different kind of kindness, like hangover medication after a bad night. charcoal pill, cool water, dimmed lights. ( acts of love, acts of not wanting to see someone dear in pain, acts of staying with them; staying with them; regardless of how wretched they were the night before. people cant get that sad, she said to you once, or you thought she did, but people will love you enough to kneel at your bedside and hold your sweaty hand and close the blinds so the world can't see you for just a little while more. people will love you and be loved and try to save you, and maybe you cannot be saved, no one can, there is no messiah waiting at the foot of your bed to cure you, the world just doesn't work like that, and you can't keep waiting for it, but people will love you enough to wash the stains out from your favorite shirt so you can keep it a little longer.

people who bring cold cloths when you are sick and sweet coffee when you need something to keep you warm, people who can't save you but can in the same strokes; where it's not saving you, it's giving you the means to save yourself. people who work you through it as you lift the stones you're building castles out of, hoping, praying that you don't smash them down again. people who stand proud for you at the checkmarks in the road, and tell you that you're doing good, and wait for you when you can't keep running, or even when you turn back and decide it's easier to give up than to sink in deeper. people you've treated bad before, and cannot stay forever, and cannot save you, but they love you enough to stay a little longer. they love you enough to hold you when you need it, and hold you down when you need that too, and make the hard calls you'll hate them for. they love you hard enough that it turns into hate when it's fed the wrong things, giving dogs chocolate, but they love you, love you, love you. )

it soothes pain of his throat, and Kim does not concede to the fact he finds himself wanting another sip, another shot of chaos and that sweeter smoother aftertaste, knowing what he's putting in his body and deciding to come back anyway, wondering, but he admits; quietly to himself as he holds the pieces of glitter in his hands like the shed skin of a disco ball in his little bathroom in the Whirling that night; that maybe the pain is worth the reward. that maybe he's crazy, but maybe they both need a little sanity, a little less, a little something else.

( kneeling at your bedside when you are too afraid to sleep, he traces the scars nickering your hands, and cleans his glasses, and slowly; slowly; the apricots stop mattering. as you notice a little more how the oil spill gleams on the crest of waves, as the oil spill becomes something different. )

-100 HP. +660 HP.

This is still the prettiest thing I've ever written

Taking someone's cigarette out of their mouth: Multiple meanings - used a lot in media to convey control, power play, very masculine, I'm your boss and this is mine now, get over it. Mildly flirty, look at me, all in your space and shit, seductive. You're not allowed to smoke, because I say so.

Putting the cigarette back in their mouth afterwards: Ground-breaking. Would be less erotic to just fuck honestly. Who does this?

The haze over her vision clears as she comes to, eyes spiraling her skull in their dizziness. The first thing she sees is soft, candle-lit light, and smoke that gently rose from a crackling fire at the center of the hut she'd woken in. Mari is strewn neatly across a bed, her body feeling stiff as a rock, as if she'd hit something hard and fast before waking up. She groans in response to muffled, incoherent voices that steadily become clearer the more that she wakes. She finds just enough strength to turn her head and stare drowsily at whoever else occupied the room, looking as spaced out as a slowpoke in a coma. | for adaman!

Some of the times he checked up on her, he almost couldn't believe she was still alive.

At first, they hadn't thought it'd been the case. The body worn and broken, harsh under the gravity of the world hauling into the earth, before someone felt the cold strawberry skin of her nose and realized that it still drew air, breath turned to mist when warmed enough to do it. Lucky, that her landing close enough to spot in the frosting river reeds of the mirelands, to rouse ruckus, to be hauled back. Lucky, that her landing was softened, perhaps, by the mud & the foliage & the tension of that crackling frenzy in the air that might've spat her out in the first place. They'd not have been able to save her, as autumn rolled in on itself further into summer's sleep, if she stayed out there too long.

A story Adaman recalls to himself as he overlooks her; a duty, in a way, to himself to ensure, to manage, to see. Each day, she continued. Each day, an anticipation. He doubted it to be one of Galaxy's, the clothes too different, the person too unknown. Not theirs, but whose? who, where, what did she come from?

A secret to be answered in time. He tried not to get his hopes up that it'd be answered at all. Even if she hadn't died yet, a fall like that rarely goes without aftershocks.

It's late by the time consciousness dribbles back into bones. The smell of herbs through the warmed air, something bubbling atop fire, the sound of fabric and skin shuffling as he moved, attentive and slow, as he spoke to the more medically wise who'd been attending her. he'd offered to take the responsibility to look after her while they rested, with only so much to be done, that could be done. Easiness in his voice, reassurances, then goodbyes as he attended to the broth. ( a family recipe, one said to bring new life. he liked to think, even slightly, that it could help... )

It's only when the two left that dark eyes flick over, her breathing turning harsher with unconsciousness slipping back, and see her coming to. The task dropped, the sound of Adaman's robes shuffling is quick as knees shuffle in a scurry to her side, searching for something over her form; over her face. How long has the stranger been asleep? ( the answer comes instantly, second sight, second intuition. 4 days, 19 hours, 42 minutes. like clockwork, like divine knowingness. )

Sinnoh, he was glad to see any life at all, regardless of how distant she was now.

" Come on... Come on... You've got it... " the words are a soft wind through teeth as he leans a little closer as though trying to make it easier for her to recognize, one hand's knuckles pressed into the edges of the mat, her old clothes folded nearby. It's as a hand reaches, soft in the open air nearby, that he sees the white of her eyes; regardless of how distant; and relief takes him only for a moment. Perhaps pride, bubbling beneath the surface, at the other having drew breath long enough to do it at all. a complete stranger, and yet, still they lived.

" There you are. " a subtle congratulation he doesn't expect to be felt as the reaching fingers make purchase, gently at the side of her face, the other joining it's brother, slipping under her other cheek as he gently lifts her head, thumbpads lightly pulling taught the edge of the eye where crows feet would one day linger as Adaman studies her face, her eyes, looking for something unknowable.

It's unclear if he's found it after the moment passes, and he carefully sets her head down to rest back 'pon the cushioning beneath, gingerly, as he softly speaks not fully intending for Mari to listen, " Hey, Stranger. We thought you were a goner. Glad to see you prove me wrong. "