cryopathiic

[cryopathiic]

Sometimes, Doma thinks about the time he told a naughty little half-lie to Muzan-sama.

It usually comes back to him during quiet hours at the temple, when the lily pond waters are eerily still and he can hear the echo of his own tip-toes scraping the water, reverberating in empty halls. His eye will fall on the reflection staring back at him coldly and the thought begins to eat at him from the back of his mind like maggots. He no longer feels the refreshing droplets or the smoothness of polished wood, but he still gets up from his spot all the same.

From the quiet ponds in the outback he'd once retreated to as a child in search of reprieve - he would now, on his one hundredth and third year of age, willingly leave that place to roam back inside the temple.

Off to wander in the hallways where the faithful rest — if it's one of those eras when a plague is eating away at the villages nearby, some are weeping with his presence already. Doma could readily retire to meditate using his stomach, but that, too, can become a tedious activity over time. Satiation had become saturation. What little satisfaction his demonic instincts could provide was far from enough to fill the emptiness within.

So, his hopes for entertainment were down to humans. Their teary-eyed confessions, petty fallouts, ridiculous ignorance -- humans could be an endless source of entertainment.

But for Doma, that too had gotten boring. Their stories begun to lose their edge the older he grew; and the more he realized that humanity's potential for evolution was hindered by its very nature. The emotions of humans that he had spent so long trying to understand, were ultimately their downfall. It made them into irrational, deluded beings that wasted their potential on hopes and wishes.

He often mocked them in his mind, for searching for advice on how to live their lives, in a person who had scarcely ventured out of these temple walls. They were so convinced that the bad things that happened to them somehow entitled them to help from the gods. They were so certain that this help would come, that Doma did not even have to try and act conniving anymore.

When Muzan-sama had asked Doma what his deepest fear was, during that milisecond when his claws were plunged deep in his skull - Doma had confessed faithfully that it was 'nothing'.

But the ambiguity had been lost on Muzan.

[cryopathiic]

Douma fits. Yes, he showed up to the Uppermoon meeting like this. Yes, Kokushibo did tell him to go change.

[cryopathiic]

glad to see you're still alive! missed your content <3

// :D thanks!!! I missed KNY as well uwu I've been hanging out over in JJK for some time, though this man is, unfortunately, always on the mind... so I'm planning to revamp some stuff and write here again too uwu would love to interact if you have a blog as well. Otherwise, thank you for the kind ask!!

[cryopathiic]

like n subscribe uwu ☆

[cryopathiic]

Woke up feeling normal! :D

[cryopathiic]

Hm, let him run a lavender claw over the cult calendar — yup, here it is.

It's bite day.

[cryopathiic]

a little more practice, feat upper moon 1 and 2.

[cryopathiic]

[cryopathiic]

It's his favorite day of the year ~ ♥

[cryopathiic]

[cryopathiic]

that feeling of insecurity you might feel sometimes?  it’s normal.  everyone has these moments of doubt in themselves and their abilities, especially when comparing oneself to others.  but don’t let that bring you down ― you are your own worst critic.  there are always people that enjoy what you do, that cheer you on from the sidelines and see the beauty in things while you may only see the ugly.  besides, you’re dedicating your time and even a part of yourself to this and that alone is COMMENDABLE.

[cryopathiic]

Melting, huh? Must have eaten something foul.

@cryopathiic // ( unprompted -> accepting ) "little guy" lulz coming from her? really??

' When your knee caps crumble and disintegrate, who exactly is the little one between us? Besides... who's the one reduced to nothing but a head ? Sound's like little guy behavior... '

[cryopathiic]

[cryopathiic]

( taps them on someone's skull ASMR style )

[cryopathiic]

And a mock gasp comes nearly in tandem with that bold declaration. Upper Two's lips retain their curl — which makes the entire expression into a caricature. Prismatic eyes crinkle smugly as if the younger oni had some flare.

❝ Naraku! That's an incredibly forward thing to say to your superior... ❞ And there Dōma wears an endearingly sweet pout before producing the pair of folded fans from his sash. Slowly. Languidly. Almost as if he's teasing Naraku with a glimpse of their gilded edge. ❝ At this rate you're going to force my hand to disclipine you, you know... Otherwise Lord Kokushibo might scold me again... Mmm.. ❞

He sweeps his foot across the floor, gaze traversing the room with a thoughtful hum; oh, he is so torn over this, clearly!

[cryopathiic]

❝ Oh my, Nara~ Aren't you feeling bloodthirsty tonight... mmm~ Sounds like a fun evening, though I'd like to keep a few chunks of Lower One, if you don't mind. ❞ He purrs, emerging out of the shadows in an aura of kaleidoscope fractals. ❝ You know, some people — not me, but some people might say that with the way you keep talking about Master's preferences you come off as a lil' jealous. But there's no reason for that! His Lordship has made it clear that he favors the highest ranks, after all, so you're good! — but hey, if you're looking to garner more of Muzan-sama's affections... ❞

Smirk.

❝ You can always have a shot at climbing up a step. Though... I don't think Master will let me take it easy on you this time~ ❞

"The lower ranks have fallen into disgrace over the centuries, it's embarrassing. I think that we should trap all the upper and lower ranks in the pits and fight to the death. Though I doubt the Master would approve of it, given his sudden bout of sentimentality when it comes to the upper ranks. "

[cryopathiic]

A SOFT GRUNT ESCAPES THE GURU with that second landing. He can tell his quads will be sore tomorrow from that collision, debris and dust beckoning him to choke on a few coughs. And he does; in between sparing a few knowing glares to the younger goon. For as pathetic Dōma looks in that moment, stripped of all dignity and laden with various metal bits and a whole unconscious child, his serenity matches that of the more experienced mobsters present. But his left eye flutters after that blaring 'crack'.

Ah. Perhaps he's gotten too used to Naraku's much swifter way of popping those bones back in their sockets.

Get me some rope.

Good. That will ensure Inosuke won't cause more problems than he already has with that entrance. Dōma wasn't exactly irked with him, in the same way he could not find it in himself to be upset with The Bald One when it knocked a favored vase over. There was no use getting angry with animals and he had learned to view this 'disciple' as such. Inosuke had simply gotten what was coming to him; curiosity killed the cat, isn't that what they say?

But when Sano made that comment about failing the child, he could not help the pang to his chest — a realization sunk deep like an anchor to his chest, that he simply could not afford to be all blasé about the situation anymore. Because that creature screeching and writhing in its binds like a rabid dog needed his help to get out of there. In one piece and not several.

He had been on the cusp of another snarky retort when Sano smacked the gull out of him. A sharp jolt of pain finds the side of his neck as it snaps to the side and a pitched 'beep' fills his head, alongside the burning sensation that creeps on his flustered cheek. It left a perfect handprint behind. Dōma's hair lies ruffled over his features as he turns back to face the man with a rekindled edge to his smile — ah, yes. He got under his skin. The gleam of satisfaction is impossible to conceal on his features.

❝ Mm, she'd love my hands all over her, trust me. ❞ A hoarse giggle speaks of malevolence simmering under the amicable facade he had chosen to wear initially; it's almost as if his mask came off with that slap. And none of what lies underneath speaks of any trepidation.

Not until the drug is brought up.

Shit.

His bluff about the personal use bit had backfired horribly. And he swallowed the suspicion that maybe Sano would have noted a subtle twitch to his lip when it was brought up — Dōma's brow quirks with an audacious smirk that will cover up the truth; that he has never tried Blue Spider Lilly before. Any sane man would know not to as the drug was at its experimental stage. And releasing it to the market was a ploy to get free test subjects and profit off of their violent ends.

Sarcasm coats his voice hoarse.

❝ D'aw you spoil me, Uncle. Are you sure you want to waste an entire dose of that thing, though? It is quite expensive — at this rate, soon it might be the most expensive thing you own ~ ❞ A sardonic cant of the head as his features press in an unpleasant smile — the goon approaches ominously and Dōma's eyes cross over the needle. He sucks a deep breath in before the injection. Veins colored with poison; it seeps down to the heart.

A resounding silence.

For the next few minutes, there's only the visible struggle to retain his composure, breath becoming a little uneven as his heartbeat picks up. Oh, that's not good. Inosuke's face becomes a blurry image in the back of the room, the distance between himself and the bound boy somehow lengthening in his vision. Or, rather, he is sinking.

He is sinking deeper and deeper in his mind; and his thoughts are a whirlpool, seized by the drug's influence. It orchestrates a violently bright scenery and Dōma finds himself magnetized. To the onlooker, it would seem as if he has just slouched back into the chair, head craning skyward and mouth slightly parted open. Oh, he's tripping. Within minutes.

The flowers bloom in psychedelic lights, cascade and melt into ponds of color tessellating into red cracks — and they leak crimson into his lap. He looks up; the primordial oculi cast their tranquil gaze and guide his sentiment gently to the reminiscence of that night; the humid forest air, the distant gallop of a quivering heart, the sound of her agony echoing in the woods. And he looks down at his hands, that are no longer bound but splayed open and filled with red. The trees have eyes. And they stand as silent judges around him as he clutches himself and stumbles about with a frigid mask of horror — a porcelain mask tied to his face with red string.

Trembling, his bloodstained hands rise to take it off; and reveal the nothingness beneath. A headless corpse drags its feet back to the cabin -- a shriek strained from a baby's throat makes him stop, arms limp and dangling as the world fades to a blur and naught remains; naught but the memory of those deep green eyes.

The same eyes staring at him from the other end of the room now, as if pulled out of the depths of some fever dream. His own fix back into that gaze like grappling a lifeline.

Thick bangs conceal part of his hollow expression; when he looks down he sees his own thighs, splotched with red and dust and parted slightly atop the chair as he's hunched forth. Then he spots it; the glimmer of a thick, silky line dangling from his lips. Drool.

What-- ... What is this thing? What is it doing to him?

The nausea gives way to hunger.

Before he knows it, his teeth are chattering — he snarls in the child's direction and his hand reflexively tries to shoot up and cover his leaking mouth, only to break skin against the binds holding him in place.