Portrait: Muraki
He sits and drinks tea from a delicate china cup, a cup that could be so easily crushed within his hands if he were to will it. But he does not, and so it remains whole, poised between his fingertips, drifts of steam rising above its gold-leaf rim. Like the cup, all his things are delicate, beautiful, priceless.
His dolls sit upon the shelf, with perfect hands curled into little fists, and tiny painted teeth showing between cherry-bright smiles. They look down upon him, glassy-eyed, with malevolent, unblinking stares. He bears their gaze like penance, atonement for his multitude of sins.
With infinite gentleness, he sets the cup back down upon the table, the liquid within barely stirring. He takes care with all of his things, his lovely, pretty things. He wouldn't want to damage them accidentally. That would be unforgivable.
He folds his hands together in his lap, lacing his long, tapered fingers together. His hands are elegant, slender; the hands of a surgeon, every movement precise and calculated. But the moonlight falls upon them, and for a moment they appear to be hands of bleached bone, stark and white, the hands of death.
The moon slides behind an inkswirl of cloud. Once again he is cast into shadow, save for the glint of a single eye which seems to see through the darkness. Or see through mortal flesh, into the soul itself. It gleams, eerie and captivating from behind the wire frames of his glasses. The night is his playground.
He stands, stretching to his full height, his movements feline, with a predatory grace. He feels the rows of porcelain faces turned towards him, chastising him silently. At random, he reaches and plucks a doll from the shelf, cradling it in the crook of his arm, neatening a stray lock of hair. It stares at him with accusing green eyes. Each cheek is dusted with a pink as pale as sakura blossoms.
Green eyes and sakura. He remembers.
He remembers the child's body bent beneath his hands, so thin and fragile, skin smoother than the finest silk. The look of terror in wide emerald eyes, the delicious screams that continued through the night. He remembers every painstaking brushstroke, ink redder than blood slowly seeping into flesh, into muscle, into bone. Into every part of his beautiful puppet, to claim him, possess him, curse him.
His lovely living doll, writhing beneath him in torment.
But it could not last. Eventually his pretty little boy had escaped this mortal coil, just like all the others. A part of him had resisted letting the child go; he was an amusing toy. But there are only so many ways to make a person scream.
No regrets. He sets the doll back with the others and turns away, a fall of silver hair veiling his mismatched eyes. His pretty little toy, a Shinigami now. An irony, he thinks, with a wry twist to his sensuous mouth, that the child should thank him for.
But it isn't his puppet that concerns him now. Oh, no.
It is the taller figure that walks at the boy's side that has his attention now. The man with the confident stride, the ready smile, and the depthless indigo eyes, so utterly mesmerising, entrancing, enchanting. So perfect a specimen, and yet so frustrating, in his resistance to Muraki's advances. Ahh, but then it wouldn't be nearly as much fun, he smirks to himself, if his quarry didn't at least try to run. The chase is such a delight, the delay a delicious torment, making him anticipate the catch even more.
He picks up the cup in his hand, takes a final swallow, and peers down at the leaves strewn at the bottom. He gives no credit to those who claim to know his fate. He makes his own destiny; what he is not given, he creates, or he simply takes. It is his way. He is patient, and crafty, and ruthless.
Still, he is becoming a little tired of all the Shinigami's games. His puppet does not know when to leave well enough alone. Seeking petty revenge, disturbing his intricate lacework of plans like a dragonfly that blunders into a spider's web and tears it apart with its thrashing.
He'd had Tsuzuki, had him within his grasp, only to lose him to the green- eyed brat!
The cup shatters abruptly within his grasp, the shards piercing his flesh. He makes a fist, feeling the bite, revelling in the pain. Slowly he extends his fingers again, letting the white and gold pieces fall to the floor, flashing in the moonlight.
Such a lovely colour, the blood that wells, and trickles down his thumb. He brings his hand to his mouth, licks his palm, tastes the coppery- metallic tang that fills his mouth. The essence of life, so rich and warm, spilt and absorbed yet again.
His hand falls back to his side, leaving a streak of crimson smeared from his mouth across one pale cheek. He can feel its wetness, like a promise of things to come.
He will have him. Strong, handsome, immortal Tsuzuki, with his devil's blood, and his soft, human heart. One way or another, Muraki knows that he will have him. For now, he is patient. He waits. He has all the time in the world.
He sits and drinks tea from a delicate china cup, a cup that could be so easily crushed within his hands if he were to will it. But he does not, and so it remains whole, poised between his fingertips, drifts of steam rising above its gold-leaf rim. Like the cup, all his things are delicate, beautiful, priceless.
His dolls sit upon the shelf, with perfect hands curled into little fists, and tiny painted teeth showing between cherry-bright smiles. They look down upon him, glassy-eyed, with malevolent, unblinking stares. He bears their gaze like penance, atonement for his multitude of sins.
With infinite gentleness, he sets the cup back down upon the table, the liquid within barely stirring. He takes care with all of his things, his lovely, pretty things. He wouldn't want to damage them accidentally. That would be unforgivable.
He folds his hands together in his lap, lacing his long, tapered fingers together. His hands are elegant, slender; the hands of a surgeon, every movement precise and calculated. But the moonlight falls upon them, and for a moment they appear to be hands of bleached bone, stark and white, the hands of death.
The moon slides behind an inkswirl of cloud. Once again he is cast into shadow, save for the glint of a single eye which seems to see through the darkness. Or see through mortal flesh, into the soul itself. It gleams, eerie and captivating from behind the wire frames of his glasses. The night is his playground.
He stands, stretching to his full height, his movements feline, with a predatory grace. He feels the rows of porcelain faces turned towards him, chastising him silently. At random, he reaches and plucks a doll from the shelf, cradling it in the crook of his arm, neatening a stray lock of hair. It stares at him with accusing green eyes. Each cheek is dusted with a pink as pale as sakura blossoms.
Green eyes and sakura. He remembers.
He remembers the child's body bent beneath his hands, so thin and fragile, skin smoother than the finest silk. The look of terror in wide emerald eyes, the delicious screams that continued through the night. He remembers every painstaking brushstroke, ink redder than blood slowly seeping into flesh, into muscle, into bone. Into every part of his beautiful puppet, to claim him, possess him, curse him.
His lovely living doll, writhing beneath him in torment.
But it could not last. Eventually his pretty little boy had escaped this mortal coil, just like all the others. A part of him had resisted letting the child go; he was an amusing toy. But there are only so many ways to make a person scream.
No regrets. He sets the doll back with the others and turns away, a fall of silver hair veiling his mismatched eyes. His pretty little toy, a Shinigami now. An irony, he thinks, with a wry twist to his sensuous mouth, that the child should thank him for.
But it isn't his puppet that concerns him now. Oh, no.
It is the taller figure that walks at the boy's side that has his attention now. The man with the confident stride, the ready smile, and the depthless indigo eyes, so utterly mesmerising, entrancing, enchanting. So perfect a specimen, and yet so frustrating, in his resistance to Muraki's advances. Ahh, but then it wouldn't be nearly as much fun, he smirks to himself, if his quarry didn't at least try to run. The chase is such a delight, the delay a delicious torment, making him anticipate the catch even more.
He picks up the cup in his hand, takes a final swallow, and peers down at the leaves strewn at the bottom. He gives no credit to those who claim to know his fate. He makes his own destiny; what he is not given, he creates, or he simply takes. It is his way. He is patient, and crafty, and ruthless.
Still, he is becoming a little tired of all the Shinigami's games. His puppet does not know when to leave well enough alone. Seeking petty revenge, disturbing his intricate lacework of plans like a dragonfly that blunders into a spider's web and tears it apart with its thrashing.
He'd had Tsuzuki, had him within his grasp, only to lose him to the green- eyed brat!
The cup shatters abruptly within his grasp, the shards piercing his flesh. He makes a fist, feeling the bite, revelling in the pain. Slowly he extends his fingers again, letting the white and gold pieces fall to the floor, flashing in the moonlight.
Such a lovely colour, the blood that wells, and trickles down his thumb. He brings his hand to his mouth, licks his palm, tastes the coppery- metallic tang that fills his mouth. The essence of life, so rich and warm, spilt and absorbed yet again.
His hand falls back to his side, leaving a streak of crimson smeared from his mouth across one pale cheek. He can feel its wetness, like a promise of things to come.
He will have him. Strong, handsome, immortal Tsuzuki, with his devil's blood, and his soft, human heart. One way or another, Muraki knows that he will have him. For now, he is patient. He waits. He has all the time in the world.