LOST KINGS. *

throned sent : give love. give love to kureto. right now.

offering free pick up and kiss services for tiny kureto! also for the sake of his survival.

                   it   has   become   a   habit     ,     same   routine   at   the   other’s   ,     light   meal    as   an   exchanged   favour     —    but   now     ,   he’s   memorised   your   favourite   tastes     .     your   eyes   reflect   his   features      ,     of   concentration   more   attractive   than   any   other   dormant    moment      .     it   strays   you   absent   from   his   words    ,    and   you   perk   up   to   the   repeated   call   of   your   name      ,       ‘      ah     ?       yeah      ,    sorry     ,    i   zoned   out     .     too   busy   looking   at    you     .     ’  

                    eyes   narrow      ,     winter   in   deepest   caverns   beneath   veneers   of   centuries   left   behind     .     you   have   stumbled  upon   something   of   utmost   foreign   customs     …     an   undeniably   strange   large   gathering    .     ‘     how   peculiar     .    who   are   you     ?     ’  

                    ‘     i   recently   found   out   that   fairy   penguins   aren’t   actually   half   -   fairy   and   i’m   upset     ,     but   i   also   found   out   that   swans   mate   for   life     .     don’t   you   think   that’s   kind   of   like   us     ?     ’     big   grin     ,     kureto   would   make   a   pretty   swan     .

isolov sent : WAIT WE'RE KICKING DOWN YOUR DOOR TO LOVE YOU??? *mickey mouse laugh* WELL I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MISS JUNE 🥺💕💕

MISS LAYLA ... yes, i do enjoy my fair share of your mickey mouse laugh. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, MISS LAYLA, YOU ARE ALWAYS SO PATIENT AND KIND AND WONDERFUL AND SO INCREDIBLY FUNNY. i adore you to pieeeeces, PLEASE NEVER CHANGE 💕except for your car edits, they can change.

                   delicacy   lives   not   in   your  survival     ,     but   found   in   those   deft   hands      ,      tender   as    fingers   nurturing   blossoming   belles   for  their   florescent   prime    .     at    last      ,     stepping   out   of   hunted   murk      ,      where   filth   within   your   sleeves   aren’t   the   trump   card   to   a   worthy   life      ,      into   edenic   picture  of   an   unattainable   dream      .     pockets   that   are   still   tightly   sewn   shut      ,      seams   that   feed   hundreds   of   families   just   by   several   letters   of   warped   logo     ,    the   new   clothes   fit   ill     ,     sized   perfectly   but   suffocatingly   burdensome     .     slow   strides      ,     watch   piece   cold   against   the   counter   ,     gazes   colliding   with   the   nudge    of    a   polite    nod       ,       ‘     shinazugawa     -     san      .       as   arranged      ,       i’m   here   for   the   windflowers     .     ’   

                   willed    by   delight    ,     weight   rested   against   the   other’s   shoulders   from   behind     ,     draped   over   with   a   lazy   nuzzle     .      cheeks   brush    ,     close   with   palms   pressing   against   neck     ,     contrast   of   temperature   drawing   out   a   satisfied   sigh        ,       ‘     you’re   always   so   warm     ,     kazuya   …     just   what   are   you   made   of    ?     maybe   you   were   a   heater   in   your   previous   life  or   something    ?     ’  

                      ❝         uh,         i’ll  do  my  best  not  to  disappoint  you.         ❞         it’s  a  start                                 proclamation  born  of  necessity;         sin  by  association,         it  baptized  him  in  citrus  skies  and  a  sheen  of  blood.         crowley  knows  not  of  how  his  presence  will  serve;         he  adorned  the  flesh  of  a  noble,         sure,         but  what  good  was  a  thirteenth  to  a  second?         doubt  still  clings  to  his  ribs,         draping  itself  over  the  shadows  of  his  heart,         and  embedding  itself  in  the  myriads  of  root.         urd’s  weary  visage  follows  his  own,         it’s  recognizable  and  his  lips  don’t  quite  curl  as  they  clash  in  silence.         offhandedly,         he  offers  a  nudge  of  his  hand  against  his  ankle,         an  attempt  at  usual  playfulness         (         and  what  will  hopefully  be  disregarded  and  not  perceived  as  an  attempt  of  indiscipline         ).         ❝         after  all,         this  is  a  mean  game  of  his,         isn’t  it?         i  am  not  so  enthralled  with  the  idea  of  dying  just  yet  because  of  ferid,         heh         …         ❞