OPEN RP POST SIX

[formidable]

MUSELIST This a post where I'll RP anything with you! Got a scenario in mind? I'LL DO IT. If you wanna chat IDEAS.GIF, contact me at maiscribbles or my Discord (Fujinon#6780). Have at it! ➢ Cool Mood Music No. 1 ➤ Cool Mood Music No. 2

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ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ sᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ

[psychometer]

[For someone who had the esper ability to glean information down to the finest and minuscule detail, Lien knows that this may be one of those cases where she should just roll with the punches. Of course, crashing headfirst into a world of magic, dragons, and normalized violence may warrant some kind of explanation and the only thing she could come up with was a "wormhole" of sorts. She was curious when she found it in the back of her broom closet and her investigator side magnetized her to the phenomenon. Here are the listed reasons of how this was a Not Great™ idea Lien Kha immediately penned in her head once this happened:

a) Getting cornered by severe looking and nasty men who are wondering what the hell she was wearing and why she didn't have an accent.

b) Figuring out they were slavers because they pushed her into a group of terrified people with, most with pointy ears which lead to:

c) Defending herself with the tried and true method of SING ("Solar-Plexus Instep Nose Groin! It's a great party trick!" she says to the stupefied prisoners.)

There were a lot more reasons but it was cut short when an all too familiar elf with white hair and major issues came in to make the save. Literally, he cut them down, it was rather gruesome and Lien was pretty sure she would have to clean her denim jeans to get the tiniest sprays of blood out of the fabric. God.

So here she is, in a dilapidated mansion in the city of Kirkwall. She sits at the table, legs crisscrossed, slightly messy long hair, and a crack across one of her glass lenses. She has a wooden cup of... Wine? Yup, that's probably what it is. Lien sniffs it, wrinkles her nose, shrugs and takes a sip before talking to her generous host.]

You know... The good news is, I'm pretty sure I can go home no problem. The bad news is, I wanna catch up with you Mr. Sunshine Man.

[delyrium]

[Look, Lien, you better be thankful that the blood spatter staining your jeans belongs to somebody else and not you. Also that Fenris' favorite past-time just happens to include hunting down slavers. The surly look on his face upon discovering the elves (and Lien, to his brief surprise) is enough to show that, in actuality, he only enjoys the whole stab-stab, kill-kill part. Not so much the being seen as a hero part.]

[Still, his cloudy morals still manage to speak clearly enough to lead him into doing the right thing, and that's how Lien has wound up in her current position. State of the mansion aside, she's in pretty good shape.]

That isn't bad news.

[Fenris takes a sip of wine directly from the bottle. Hope you didn't want seconds, Lien.]

It's terrible news.

[He's not about to reveal whether or not he's kidding and to be fair, he may not have to. He's shown enough soft spots to Lien over their time knowing one another to weaken any argument that he would even attempt to make.]

You shouldn't have been able to arrive here in the first place.

[psychometer]

[Lien has known the elf long enough from their time in the futuristic space vessel to know that a dour Fenris is a normal Fenris. Which means she takes his reply with good humor even if she has to return it with her own smartass quip.]

C'mon, can't you at least pretend you're happy to see me?

... But you're right about that last part. Honestly, I'm more surprised we remember each other but that's what we get with wormholes, isn't it?

[She takes another sip of wine from her cup although her line of sight is on Fenris barely hiding her amusement that he's drinking from the bottle. Of course, he would.]

Before we tumble down the usual dark hole of our banter, I do want to say thanks. Thank you for getting there in time I mean.

[Being shipped off to Tevinter may not be very fun for another world traveler like her...]

[delyrium]

[The scowl never quite leaves, but it's definitely softened. Just the thought of losing more memories bothers Fenris deep in his core for a variety of reasons, none of them even remotely good.]

[So he's, in his uniquely (and selfish) Fenris way, grateful to see Lien here and to know who she is.]

...You're welcome.

[That's as close to propriety as we're going to get.]

Did they hurt you before I arrived?

ᴋɪʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ

[sakaya]

[It's only just a dream.

There's a young boy, blonde, blue-eyed, pure, bumbling, and sincere. He finds her mountain, they find each other. She's intrigued, fascinated, and something like affection grows in her inhuman heart towards him. She invites him to her banquets and basks in his company. He regards her with bluster and caution, she regards him with sweetness and hospitality. The demon of Mt. Ooe is no fool; this cannot last. He was sent to kill her. He eventually will.

But she wishes to keep sharing drinks with him.

❁ ❁ ❁

The Heian Era of Japan is an unforgiving landscape. When the blood-red twilight bleeds into the horizon, the oni come out to play and the humans of Kyoto despair. They play, they drink, they feast, they love, and they consume. Oh, how much they consumed of the humans that had the misfortune of living near their mountain! Surrounded by her demonic brethren, the leader of the mountain, Shuten Douji, lives to her heart's content.

She takes any human she pleases. She takes their blood, their bones, their marrow, she takes it all. It enriches her liquor and the treasures she and her demon kin take as their spoils.

The boy is a grown man, powerful, enough to push her back if she's not careful. Their blades clash, she coaxes him with her sensuality, but he doesn't give in. They have both fought so many times to the point where Shuten has lost count. He wants to fight because it's the only language that they can share between them that he can understand. She obliges because she wants him, wants to be near him, she wants to tear him apart and break him. She wants his bones, his marrow, and his everything. Their battles always end in a draw. The rivalry makes her shiver with pleasure and she always looks forward to their next confrontation, to their next drinking bout.

This cannot last.

The demons of Mt. Ooe are gifted with a luscious and intoxicating brew that she simply could not resist. Of course it was suspicious and of course, it's too good to be true. It makes her feel pleasant, drunker than she had ever been, there is no other drink that could give her this much satisfaction...

And then it mixes with the taste of her own blood.

Her head lies on the floor. She sees the casket of poisoned alcohol, her handsome boy, his remorse in his blue eyes and her blood on his blade.

She grins. Her very last murmur is just for him.

"Guess I'll go a bit ahead of you... 'kay?"]

❁ ❁ ❁

[Shuten Douji drowsily opens up her eyes. While she yawns daintily, the Assassin Servant sits up and stretches her limbs before settling back into the luxurious chaise sofa that was provided for her by her Master among the many other decorations and items that beautify a small but comfortable section of the Sanctum that was set aside for her.]

Mmmm.

[It's early nighttime and the period where the thin line of sunlight is just about to disappear in the horizon making way for the moon and stars. Shuten lets out a petulant sigh reaching for a large and hefty bottle of high-quality sake provided for her.]

Waking up alone is no good. [Her sake dish is filled to the brim and as natural as breathing was to living creatures, Shuten starts to work on drinking it slowly (never mind that around her living area, there are several empty vessels drained of their contents whether she drank slowly or not). Regardless of her complaint expressed to no one in particular, the Servant chuckles.]

I haven't thought of that time in a while. Maybe that little dream should wake him up.

[Shuten usually doesn't sweat the details about the Master and Servant relationship which causes her to gloss over the detail of having an intimate link in both body and mind; which includes the Master being privy to the details of her life before becoming a Heroic Spirit. Ah, well. Whatever.

Dr. Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme owes her his company for drinking anyways.]

[sorser]

[His dreams are, for a lack of a better word, strange.

Ever since he left his old life behind, opened his eyes to the universe, they weren't the same; he saw its many gleaming facets, the way it twisted and existed a hundred, thousand, million, billion times over — more than that. Infinite. Fractals of color and experience and shapes and faces that he doesn’t always recognize. Friends that he does, loved ones and old enemies. Their lights shining at the corner of his mind, singing brightly. Asleep, he sees it all, almost with the same clarity of meditation. He sees time moving fluidly (the stone gleaming bright and green and nestled in the Eye, is the Eye), he moves with it, he sees the past and present and future in alien shapes and it stretches him thin and fills him fully and makes Stephen feel so very small.

And feeling small is sometimes a comfort in its own way.

Tonight is different. Tonight is a straightforward dream, but it is decidedly very specific. It doesn’t belong to him, he knows it — he can feel the threads of connection leading away from his spirit and to a different part of the house. His physical body, running on impulse and low-grade instinct, can follow that line. But his mental acuity, lost in a dream like only Stephen can have, focuses on the scene. Fondness, affection. Violence, death. A severed head landing on soft ground, and the smile of a demon that he knows.

He wakes up. A slow process, only jolting up from the worst of them, so this is like pulling himself out from beneath the sea — and eventually Stephen can breathe. And he knows that he will not be able to sleep after this.

Minutes later, and Shuten will hear his footsteps. Quiet, barefoot. Dressed in a plain shirt and pajama bottoms, a very far cry from the garb of a sorcerer. He looks…. normal.

Moonlight shines in through the window.]

Oversharing is considered a character flaw.

[Dry, smooth tones slide through shadow from where he stands.]

[sakaya]

[One eye opens and Shuten turns her head to glance at Stephen while her back leans against the arm of the chaise. Her drinking vessel rotates around her fingers as she gives him a lazy wave. He's dressed normally and it does remind the demon that for all his experiences and power that he's proven and displayed to her so far he really was just a man.]

And good evening to you, Master. Did you have any sweet dreams?

[Chuckling, the demon straightens up.]

Kidding. No need to answer that. Call it a side effect of our contract instead of implying that it is a flaw of mine. I have many but revealing my unsightly demise in a casual manner is not one of them.

[She's dressed in a casual but elegant yukata instead of her usual garments and her feet, as always, are bare. Shuten had taken to trying out different clothes surprisingly even dressing up in what could be considered proper clothing with decent coverage even if she would default back to something loose and free.

She pats at a space next to her on the sofa.] Come, sit. After a dream like that, you aren't going to be sleeping any time soon.

bedi

[hoasen]

[gimme]

[airgetlarm]

[Let's sit around the campfire and sing the Campfire Song... I mean

It's a dark night out in the forest, but "Saber," or rather Bedivere, has set up the campfire. The ring of firewood burns brightly and crackles as the knight carefully pushes another log into the center to keep the flame fed.

He turns to his charge, his Master, looking at her with concern.]

Lady Sen. Will you need another blanket to stay warm for tonight? We are fortunate that the night skies are clear, but the air is dark and cold. It would not do for you to catch a fever.

[is he a knight or a butler who knows?]

[hoasen]

[WHY NOT, guess it's time to bring out instruments (wait).

Bedivere certainly takes good care of her, that here she was wondering if she should make him anything to eat. Sure, Servants don't exactly need food, but it is one way she thought that could show her appreciation. Something that tastes good.

On the other hand, he's definitely servicing her more than he needed to.]

O-oh! [Though it is true that she is generally weak to the cold--] I should be fine, the fire you've made is already warming me up! Wouldn't you need the blanket as well?

𝖣𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖨 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌

[infusion]

[It's never a dull day in alternate 1879.

Time had passed between Iona J. Oakes, her golem, and the Aubert brothers, from visits to her beloved Midnight Grind and then to Paris, one of the few back and forths the witch made consistently to her own surprise. She's aware of her tendency to get attached and affectionate towards anyone who she became friends with, but something else had flourished, more than she had anticipated. There were so many things that mattered to her, but she had found that someone whose hand she wanted to grab, to run away with, and to show all manners of wonders and awe they had yet to explore together.

Her mettle and resolve had been put to the test; agonizing questions and logical fallacies that she had to face head-on if she were to pursue this path. Obstacles of the physical, mental, and emotional kind had strained Iona's heart and had made her wonder if she could truly change anything for the better. The scars of a bloodline were not meant to be healed by others, a dirty business that could only bring more heartache. But still, she endured wanting to prove that there was meaning in everything they had gone through, that there was another path in an entirely different direction; not only for her own sake, but for...

❂❂❂

Iona sits on a rooftop of the apartment building she had been staying in every time she and Oren visited the Aubert brothers. The smell of ash had lessened over the week, but from her height, she can still see some smoke in the far-off distance of some ruined buildings. The witch nurses a large mug of chamomile tea in her lap, letting out a heavy sigh, bringing the mug to her lips.]

Turf wars and magic do not mix.

[It's a long story.

Oren, for the first time in a long while, returned to her grandmother's side to be repaired after the extent of damage that had been done in the resulting aftermath of their involvement in the city and its longstanding feuds. She was alone. It was an odd feeling, knowing she would not see him for a week and a strange sense of unease with the freedom of having to look after herself. In a way, Iona continued to be in the process of recovering from what seemed like a world crashing down on her to somehow making out of it okay. She didn't lose anyone this time. She was alive.

And she knew who was important to her.

The Parisian sky transitions from a peachy-orange sunset to a darkened blue sky, with just a hint of starlight, managing to peek through the smoke and clouds of that day. Iona sits and waits. She waits and hopes.]

... Oh, who am I kidding?

[She pulls up her legs and wraps her arms around them, burying her face in her knees.]

Even after all of this, he'll probably laugh at me.

[The witch really hopes that nothing else crashes down around her if she's going to go through with her delivery. ]

[pragnanz]

[ Claude Aubert, they say, has a heart of stone. He's carved from marble, congenial in a way that only affects the surface of his smooth exterior; when he smiles, the emotion begins and ends at the curve of his lips. A learned behavior, passed down from another hand— if anyone asks about the state of his personal distance with everyone and anyone, he'd refer them to his better, more exuberant half-sibling for lessons in affection.

"I'm your doctor," is his excuse. "It wouldn't do for me to be distressed should my assistance ever prove to be insufficient."

(the thinly-veiled implication that he deals in life or death is enough of a turn-off to most.)

What most people don't know, however, is that stone can warm over. With enough patience and firepower, even marble yields and fissures; it flakes, revealing the uneven underbelly, the hidden patterning.

Claude Aubert never stood a chance against Iona Oakes, who bleeds and burns as brightly as the sun.

So he's here, after a month fraught with ill-advised infighting. Some of his favorite arrondissements are in tatters, caught in the crossfire of territorial bickering ending in mass injuries and inconvenience; his phone's been ringing nonstop for balms and salves and splints, but he's taken the afternoon off.

Is it unprofessional of him to take a break for a personal visit? Probably, but he's beyond caring.

Polished shoes tap on reinforced roofing, and Claude shows up exactly on time. Not a minute or second out of place, even if his mussed hair and slightly crooked tie speak to the fact that he did, in fact, speedwalk his way on over. ]

Oh, I don't doubt that I will.

[ He heard that, Iona. Oh, ye of little faith.

He smiles, anyway. ]

No need to look so glum. You've seen worse, haven't you?

[infusion]

[His voice startles her, causing her shoulders to sharply jump in surprise as she whips around to look at him with her tea mug still covering her lips.

When things were normal (in a manner of speaking) between them, Iona's usual reaction towards Claude Aubert would have been a perk in expression, a light in her eyes, a smile, and an impudently cheerful greeting to spar with his snideness and self-loathing. Instead, she regards him with an uncharacteristic reservedness with averted eyes and a pout.

("What am I going to say? How am I going to say it? It feels like it'll hurt, I don't want to be hurt, I don't want to hurt him, I don't want to let go, I don't...")]

I've seen worse, but I think being involved with a citywide catastrophe is a first for me.

[She's still young. There are so many ways to screw up badly as her years march on as a witch.]

...

[A pause hangs between them when it's usually filled with the witch being insistent on his company. It's awkward. She coughs and pats an empty spot next to her.]

Can you sit with me?

[She asks this time, undemanding.]

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ sᴇᴇ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʟɪɢʜᴛ

[mindskip]

[Let's rewind to a few months back.

Regular customers of the Midnight Grind have a passing familiarity with the table that is nearest to the counter where the owner and employees are easily accessible for both service and pleasant conversation. Like every seat in the cafe, some people have designated certain areas as their main spot when dining in and may be more than a bit offended when they are reminded otherwise with the presence of another customer. The table near the counter is rather special, however. 

There are people who remember the last person who exclusively sat there and for one obvious and specific reason. They remember a tall man, with lightly tanned skin, dark hair, and even darker eyes, occupying the spot, nursing a large mug of coffee, sometimes a cheap cigarette between his fingers, and some sort of journal or sketchbook laying flat on the table. They remember he was a friendly fellow who smiled at everyone, but shared a special one with the owner, the kind that can only be described as intimate.

That was a few years ago. Something changed. He began to sit there less and less until he was gone, like a good memory passing through. 

But just so happens, that he's come back after several months.

The golem, Oren, is manning the cafe today, expressionless in his features, and yet an aura of irritation emanates from him. It's directed at the man near the counter with loose dark hair that frames his face in an appealing manner, enough that some of the younger female customers keep stealing glances and giggling amongst themselves. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge the attention. He's much more interested in his drink and takes a deep sip to assess the flavor.]

... Coffee's good as ever, Oren. Hell, I say it's an improvement too.

I mean, you didn't even try to give me fake sugar this time.

[Oren doesn't reply, opting to busy himself with organizing the counter.

Dominique Vargas, is used to this treatment. Shrugging, he takes another sip before setting the mug down. He speaks up again, as if replying to s ome unsaid words.]

Yeah, yeah, I didn't come here unannounced. I let her know I'm back in town; no ulterior motives, promise. Just wanna see how she's been doing and I wanna check out the new people here. 

[Dominique inhales the bitter aroma and then breathes out, leaning back against his seat to look up at the ceiling.]

From what I'm hearing, the person who sits here might not be happy to see me. 

[The fact is, no one actually "told" him. 

He's just good at picking up context clues.]

[pragnanz]

[ Unlikely experiences make for unlikely bonds. Claude Aubert, older than he looks and sharper than he suggests, is always anachronistic in the warm decor of the Midnight Grind— dark three-piece suits resting against soft wood, white gloves against pastel porcelains. He's a cut-and-paste figure in an otherwise harmonious space, all angles and corners to the cafe's rounded edges; yet he's somehow he's become something of a regular fixture.

He'd like to think of himself as an oddity. What's unfortunate is that he's become a welcome oddity.

When he pushes through the portal to their shared limbo today, Claude brings the tail end of Paris rain with him. He smells like smoke and watered-down iron, like old machines doused in an autumn thunderstorm; he's shaking the elements off of his damp jacket, combing his unruly bangs until they fall into appropriate chaos.

My usual, please, he's mouthing as he shuffles his shoes along the doormat. His thoughts are a jumble of expectation (it's been a while), annoyance (will those faction leaders ever be less irritating at our monthly functions), and relief (I expect Iona will be happy to make me taste her newest recipe), but they're all interrupted when he sees Someone occupying a spot that he usually reserves as his own.

He'd frown, but he's been "raised right". So he smiles, polite and refined.

(internally, he clicks his tongue.) ]

I see you've found the best seat in the house. [ okay this is still incredibly passagg, tho </small.]

[mindskip]

[Telepathy Rule No. 1: You don't take what you hear personally. And if you do, you don't show the offense on your face. Surprisingly, Dom veers more towards the former, even after years upon years of direct and indirect negativity.

He grins at Claude, perhaps a bit too eagerly due to the interest that sparks in his eyes, leaning forward and resting one arm on the table.]

It's not a new discovery, but I'll agree with you about it being the best.

[Next, he pats at the spot across from himself.]

Two's a company right? I don't mind sharing the best seat in the house. Looks like your side's been seeing some rain. We got a thunderstorm recently too and I say it's about time.

[Telepathy Rule No. 2: You don't give hints about what you hear. If you do, it's something that can be easily deduced.

The details on the blonde man's jacket say enough and are safe to pick up on. The other points of interest however...]

sɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ, ᴄᴏʟᴅʟʏ

[nerine]

[A warm puff of breath emits between Marianna's lips as a thin wisp of air.]

... Would you look at that? The weather matches how I feel for once.

[She refers to the glittering snow falling in the evening that is illuminated by the soft glow of weathered down lampposts that line the streets of an eerie city, reminiscent of a Victorian urban sprawl, but altogether different. It was a world pieced together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that happened to fit (the dreariness of Gothic style, the feminine curves of Noveau, the sharpness of Art Deco, all twisted, always something off) but created an entirely different image that deviated from their end result. If one had asked Monts why she decided to explore this dreary world instead of playing it safe and enjoying the snowless and less sharp chill of the western coasts, she wouldn't have given a satisfactory answer. Curiosity. Spontaneity. Boredom. A combination of all three. But mainly, she went because there was someone else who was accompanying her tonight.

Dressed in a dark fur-lined cloak and a warm dark dress that matches the aesthetic of the area, Monts turns to her traveling companion with her usual charming smile.]

Can you imagine? I think this is only the second or third time I've experienced snowy weather.

[bloodvials]

[Simon's bowblade rustles against his back and he steps evenly through the crisp snow. It's dreadfully cold, and gloved hands reach up to tug his collar of his long dark hunter's coat upwards, burying his chin briefly into the barely-there warmth of his attire. His breath catches and becomes visible in the air.]

Matches how you feel... and what's that? Cold and dreary?

[Some things transcend his own transformation from human to not human. The driest subtle touch of sarcasm is one of them, though it's hardly edged in anything ill. This place sings against his nerves, sets them oddly on edge in its surrealism.]

This place reminds me of Cainhurst. A castle stained with the blood of its slaughtered residents. A mausoleum of the past. [Which begs the question-] Why did we come here? The air feels strange.

[nerine]

[There are other residents, all heavily cloaked and going about their business and eying the duo with suspicion, but some instinct kept them at a distance. For the time being, they were innocuous and harmless travelers, just passing through.

Monts looks up at Vincent with a bemused look that always appears when he alludes to or expresses his bloody past experiences. When he asks her, she gives a light shrug.]

I actually felt like I had to come. Somehow. Like... This place was a magnet.

[Her "flower" buzzed under her skin when the door from the Grind opened up and they had peeked outside. Monts rubs her cheeks, warming them up as she thoughtfully continues.]

Do you feel it too? This place feels like it's a balancing act and it's barely holding itself together. Maybe there's something out there that's similar to what we are.

[And then she smiles even more brightly at him.]

Also, I wouldn't have gone if you weren't with me. I'm counting this as a date that I asked you out on.

A little fall of rain to help the flowers grow

[snackattacks]

[From a prompt: “Naeris and Dominique must take shelter during a storm”]

[Adventuring, as fun and full of wonderful surprises as it could be, also had its downsides. Peaceful walks could turn into ambushes, a good deal could quickly reveal itself as a scam, a cool, breezy evening could quickly turn into a destructive storm, with trees bending to the howling wind and ice-cold water splashing down onto unprepared faces.]

[Naeris tried to find the positive in everything. It was the largest part of how she was raised and one of the core tenets that her goddess, Lliira, expected of her. Still, it’s pretty hard not to look miserable in a downpour as her elf eyes saw... very little, given the circumstances.]

[She scans the area, taking stumbling steps in any direction that seems fit before settling on what looked like a small cave. She can’t tell if there’s another figure in there, or if her eyes are playing tricks on her. All Naeris knows is that she’s cold and wet and needs a place to hunker down and wait out the storm. So she books it as quickly as the slick forest floor will let her and ducks into the rocky fissure. Her normally wild red hair is planted against her face and neck, and she begrudgingly wrings out her shawl.]

Oh man, I can’t believe that—

[She looks up.]

[And. Welp. Looks like someone else was already occupying this space. Maybe another person who got caught in the storm? Maybe this is their house? Either way, it’s pretty awkward.]

...Um, hi!

sorry for the late, brain is frying

[mindskip]

Huh?

[It's rude, but a natural response. A tall man stands before Naeris, a human one to boot. He looks utterly confused at the other living being he's found in the cave.

Dominique wasn't really expecting to find anything much less anyone in a cave on the far side of the beach. And so, looking dumbfounded, he squints at Naeris, while shining a flashlight at her face (sorry)]

... Hola? where the hell did you come from?

ah i thought i smelled eggs...

[snackattacks]

[Rude but natural is something Naeris is used to dealing with, so she doesn't say anything about the greeting.]

[...Except for the flashlight thing. That's not cool, bro!!!]

H-Hey!!!

[She flinches away from the light and blinks a couple of times to clear her vision.]

[Okay, it doesn't look like she's gone blind. Not completely, anyway.]

It was raining, so I needed someplace to get dry... do you live here or something?

TFLN

[ataraxic]

[ooc: Choose your text to respond to!]

a) No I didn't say it was safe, I said it was legal. I didn't say anything about it being safe. It's not my fault if you weren't listening properly.

b) If I die bedazzle my coffin please.

c) I successfully cockblocked 5 people in one night. I wasnt getting any, why should they.

d) Not going to lie, when I looked in the tub I expected to see what might have been remnants of a squirrel.

e) i don't like interrupting booty calls. thats just rude.

f) Choose your own text!

C

[memoriams]

[Was this.... meant for him?]

That seems unnecessarily petty.

surprise drunk

[sakaya]

[Now Shuten Douji wasn't really supposed to be messing around with Chaldea tech, such as the text communication devices, but little disruptions like this are harmless, really. Also, she wasn't expecting anyone to reply, so she's got a bottle of sake and one hand texting, let's do this.]

wellll it's just so easy to distract both parties y'know? it's alll about the timing