#(( koku vc: do that again. that AmSr thing. do it. ))

[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? ❞