#naraku tag pending

[cryopathiic-a]

[ 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 ] + reversed 💜

horror actions prompt || accepting

The sutras often speak of a fountain in the great Heavens. It is raised from stones and sprouts deep from the earth's bowels, pouring infinite life-giving water into the land. In the Fountain of Paradise, the water is fresh, running. In Hell, it grows lifeless, stiff and frigid. Many believe Hell to be riddled with fire. But fire brings life the same as it takes it.

No, if Hell exists, it is more likely frozen over.

Dōma thinks about that as the hoarfrost begins to settle. Particles of debris float gracefully amidst the ravaged room. The silence is blaring, only disturbed by Naraku's rhythmic panting. There's shattered test tubes and furniture shards everywhere, spritzes of bloodspray across the walls from which crystallic vines bloom. Spikes protruding from them keep any aspiring aid at bay. Naraku's troupe of traitors, the younger oni and that woman Muzan-sama so loathes, have been dealt with; the ice encases them beautifully. And even through it, Upper Two can feel their features squirm in futile efforts to form an expression upon witnessing the battle that ensued. A flurry of blows orchestrated by the sizzling of corrosion eating through the frost. It left that lingering hiss like a snake's rattle; just as Naraku's words had left a lingering whisper in the back of Upper Two's mind.

You fulfill me.

You are my chance.

And oh, how he longed to silence it once and for all. To go back to the way things were. All his life, Dōma had longed to experience the shivers of first love and the gut-wrenching heartaches of grief. But as he watched his best friend collect himself from being splattered on the floor, all he felt was a knot at the back of his throat. Naraku's head bobs with a cough and black bile comes out to eat through the floorboards. The ice imprisons a gasp from their passive audience in the back of the room. And Dōma heaves; his shadow casts over the disgraced Kizuki and piercing eyes fix upon Naraku's battered visage with an unyielding glare as the fan's gilding catches a gleam of the room's light.

Each pompous footfall brings him closer to the pungent smell of venomous blood; the explosive blend of ash and death that lingers on those dark tendrils. And he had found himself growing fond of it. Just as he had found himself memorizing the texture of his hair, or the feel of his acid when poured down the throat; Naraku's blood burned like sake down the gullet.

And the more Dōma stared at him, prologing the cruel silence, the more he could not understand why those images were more vivid than ever before now, when they had not seen each other in months.

❝ Don't bother trying to get up. ❞ A cadence that carries the same comfort as a heaven-sent messenger. Dōma's aimless gaze settles on his companion's; through ruffled hair, Naraku looks up at him with eyes like stained glass. ❝ I don't want to hurt you more than I have to. More than you forced me to. ❞

He pauses only when he's hovering directly above the other. And there a thick brow twitches as something plays on Dōma's features; something threatening to form, but not quite. Perhaps it was just his contempt seeping through. What more could it be, when one harbors such a cruel element in their veins?

❝ Heaven and Hell might be man-made concepts. But, as you all know... ❞ Languidly, emotionless eyes traverse over the imprisoned traitors before returning upon the former Kizuki's visage. ❝ — our God is very real. And I am here as proof of his generosity. Muzan-sama is kind. He loves his creations in equal measure; that is why he sent me, Naraku. ❞ The fan is pressed sealed under his chin, tilting it up so they can properly face each other. ❝ To liberate you from your suffering. What else could you hope to find outside of Master's embrace? Face it, Nara. The humans view you as a monster. The second you are no longer of use to them, they will turn on you as well. And as for these two pathetic outcasts you've thought to side with... do you sincerely believe you can live out the rest of your days on the run? Surviving on crumbs, lest you offend a couple of airheaded buffoons that prioritize the pitiful life of a human over their own? Look at you. ❞

Gently, he smacks the other's cheek, shaking his head in repulsion.

❝ It pains me to see you like this. You are but a shell of what you used to be by my side... remember? Remember how much stronger you were, how much better you were. Remember, all the times we— ❞ Pause. Dōma swallows hard as something stirs the tranquility of his gaze; something wrinkles his expression. And he bites his lip. The light casts a dim halo around his tresses; slender fingers tighten around the handle as his weapon is raised; splayed open in its full golden glory.

❝ ... It doesn't matter. I would grant you the mercy of a few last words, but you are only going to use them to worm your way in my head. Master has warned me that this might happen. You have poisoned me. You have tainted me. So, I am really sorry to do this, but I must sever the infected limb. ❞ And there he thought he would hear the swipe of his own fan, held by a hand that looked like his own but felt like someone else's. There he'd thought he would be blinking away a splash of red as a tingle of acidic blood might caress his face; there he'd thought something, some force of faith or whatever, would take him over and land that finalizing blow.

But nothing happened. Dōma's hand remained raised, as if a rope was tied around his wrist and holding it in place. Lavender claws scratched the fan's wing ever so slightly, betraying that his grip was clenching around it. Holding onto the one thing he can rely on when his world is collapsing around him; when all he has known is but a rug pulled under his feet.

❝ What... ❞ A voice that comes darker, raspier than before; deliberately wrapped in darkness to disguise the tremble within it. There's a faint crackling from the ice that encompasses everything around them; and the lower the temperature seems to drop, the more Upper Two's hand begins to shake. To bring the fan down and open Naraku's throat should be an effortless, swift blow; yet it feels like he's pulling on a chain made of lead. And he.... he can't.

He can't do it.

Naraku would be able to detect the exact moment that realization hit; with a twitch of dark brows — and, oh, how Dōma's breath picks up. How his heartbeat comes to a climax. It's a rush; it's a thrill; it's a shiver of fear. His breath hitches; voice drops to a terrified whisper.

❝ — what... what have you done to me? ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

💐💐💐💐 [ plot twist, they are made of bones and meticulously shaped & carved into flowers ]

flower prompt if you even care :/ || accepting

The flower festival is a celebration of color. Plucked fresh from the temple's hanging gardens, arrays of bouquets are tied off with red string and decorate the rusty statues guarding shrines. An air of jubilance hangs over the faithful on that day, as they prepare to welcome the oncoming spring.

Winter comes to its fated end; the ice melts into rivers, returning life-giving water back to the earth.

It is with the same generosity that The Lord Founder greets his many faithful in the aftermath of a busy evening. Filled with dance, laughter and rejoicing in love. His wave, soft and airy, matches the impalpable entrance of the midnight moon. And there, under the cover of night, his mask falls sweetly as silk from a maiden's skin and there reveals something few may dare to gaze upon. Because so few blossoms dare bloom in the darkness.

Standing alone in the quiet outback, Dōma's expression had been harshly empty. His eyes reflected a round moon over the ponds and his sternum lay flat, as if he had sucked in a greedy breath and refused to let it go. In the utmost stillness of the night, he was not unlike the demon Kokushibo's statue, hoisted proudly over the waters on a pedestal. Perhaps it was those hollowed carved eyes that urged Upper Two's shoulders into jumping slightly when the familiar scent of poison filled his lungs.

He turns slowly, the smile slipping back on like clockwork. Pale lips part slightly as his vibrant gaze falls on the third moon's offering. Watching Naraku's poised gait closer without a word, the priest's face wears an indecipherable pause — somewhat lost in thought, dreamy or perplexed; the knot between his brows would not confess.

❝ ... You made this for me. ❞ He acknowledges, or eases the admission out of the other anyway. Naraku has trouble with words, at times. When they're most heartfelt, Upper Two has noted. ❝ You should have given it to me before. Mm— I know, I was a little busy mingling and whatnot. But, you shouldn't be shy to approach me, Nara. If any human catches onto what you are, I will say that you're some malevolent spirit that haunts me from time to time. And then— well, you might get some salt spritzed on you but... you'll be fine~ ❞ Dōma laughs. They didn't get to interact as much as he had hoped during the festival. These celebrations were meant to keep the humans happy and healthy, after all — and placid.

❝ Let me see what you've made there. I must admit, I'm not the best at telling flowers apart. ❞ A convenient lie their Master has heard all too many times. ❝ But... ❞ A sharp claw reaches out then, tenderly scraping the marble-like petals before taking them in his arms. ❝ I would say those slightly resemble carnations, to me. ❞

His gaze snaps up and thick lashes no longer protect Naraku from its penetrating glow. At times like these, Dōma looks as if he is gazing directly in the pitch black void that is Upper Three's soul. His eyes do not wonder the darkness in search of something. He doesn't seek to run from it, either. He simply stares at the void, expecting it to blink back, eventually. And it is with that same meticulous perseverance that his tongue trails the edge of one of those petals, never breaking eye contact lest he miss the nuances of his companion's reaction.

❝ -— you know... out of all my subordinates-- ❞ Spoken with such intonation as if he meant for Upper One's statue to hear. And then his cold hand reached out to take the other's, leading him gently into a spin. ❝— you taste the absolute sweetest~ But... now that you gave me flowers, it is mandated that you'll dance with me as well. What else would you be giving me flowers for, huh? ❞

[cryopathiic-a]

By now, he had come to expect that reaction out of Douma. Laying out a little bait and then feigning surprise when Naraku took it. But, if the third moon cared, he didn't show it. He never showed much of anything, really.

" I fail to see why that would matter. But, I do promise to behave. "

Oh, but they both knew how that usually went. But, it could be a fun date, if they were to go behind the Master's back to hunt down hashira, they should enjoy themselves at the very least.

His countenance darkens as malice seeps into his expression, coating his rich voice with poison.

"Now. I did learn something from Gyokko. The location of a certain place of interest in the Master's eyes. If we seize the opportunity, we'll have a good night... and bring something back to show for it."

The scandalized impression does not last long. No sooner had Upper Two's claws brushed over his own bottom lip than an impalpable gasp faded into obscurity. That is as much time as Dōma had afforded to honoring his faith. The pensive sigh he had let out whilst reminiscing over his last encounter with a pillar did not fall on deaf ears.

It was a nice reprieve from the gloominess of eternal dissatisfaction.

❝ Of course it matters! ❞ Comes the playful protest. There's that boyish giggle under his words that the third moon's presence often seems to elicit. And the subsequent nudge from one shoulder to the other as the priest shifts a little closer. Not yet dangerously so. ❝ You know I don't like to put ugly things in my mouth. And some of those pillars really don't bathe as often as they need to, so when I happen upon a cute one, I really think I should get to enjoy it. ❞

It must be the relentless training regimen. He found it quite sad, that these humans would devote their entire lives to having a silver of a chance at injuring one of their kin. Only the weak spawn had something to fear from them. A true demon... a true demon does not feel fear.

❝ And I promise you, that promise will be bro-oh-ken~ ❞ Dōma sings, with a gentle rock from side to side. If either of them knew how to stay in line, this conversation would have never happened. Even if Upper Two goes to great lengths to frame it as someone else's idea... it had been on his mind for some time.

What would it be like, if it was just the two of them outside of Master's domain? Out there, in the real world; where things happen. He has heard so many recounts of nights like that from his flock. Nights under the moonlight, on an empty street or the forest's threshold, with whispers exchanged under the cover of darkness, promises and... secrets.

The word brought a flutter to his chest.

And he was quick to dismiss it with a hard swallow, his hand coming to rest sacrilegiously close to his companion's as he relays his scheme. Because, of course there was a scheme. Leave it to Naraku to come prepared for that; always. If Dōma was the spark, Naraku was the visionary and sometimes vice-versa. And in that way it was very apparent why this dance of theirs had been forbidden.

He would not question the Lord's whims. But as of late... he had not been respecting them as devoutedly as expected, either. Though there was always an outlier to fall back on, in case they got caught. Hunting for pillars was part of their duties, after all.

Pale lips curl mischievously, his eyes slanting in tandem. Milking Gyokko for information was a favored past-time; and it seems his habits were rubbing off on Upper Three as well.

❝ Naraku! ❞ The faux scandalized tone is almost comical to watch. Coupled with the way Upper Two rolls some white gold strands off of his own shoulder and bends closer with a spirited smirk. ❝ If I didn't know better, I would have thought you had this all planned out from the start. Are you looking to take me aside? ❞ The quirk in his brow and the nuance of a flirt are a stark contrast to his solemn companion; and yet that rigidity seems to have done naught but rile the younger oni up even more.

For some reason, a subtle curl on those poisonous lips has become somewhat of an achievement nowadays. Something to be earned.

❝ Fine. Sounds like a plan. Let's meet by my temple's gate after sunset. ❞

He would... need some time to prepare for this 'hunt'.