#nihilomania

The man couldn’t understand what he was saying? He did sound a bit funny. An accent he really couldn’t place. It sounded soothing to his ears nonetheless even if the tone was a little gruff and rough at the edges. Maybe he had tied too many on tonight, well there could be worse things than a headache the next morning. Kisumi’s face flushed as he was caught staring, even the handsome long haired gentleman took notice. He couldn’t deny his appeal and how stunning he found the other, especially in this state. “You’re just… your hair reminds me of the night sky.” He admitted rubbing at the back of his neck. “Thought you were dressed up as a performer.”

Flamingo?!

Flamingo! 🦩 he wasn’t some bird, certainly not some awkward legged one. Well he had kind of insulted the man by calling him a nerd, maybe he had deserved it. It’s just the man’s tone made his words feel so much worse than what Kisumi had said.

            LOADING MESSAGE ... anonymous !!

what do you think of the song 'vacation bible school' by ayesha erotica?

    "Oh, I absolutely loathe it... but I do have to admit the 'Scoo-bi-doop-doo-doo, Jesus' part happens to be stupidly catchy. Heck, I once found myself accidentally singing it underneath my breath one day when I was cleaning the pews at Saint Varlam and Father Leks ( @nihilomania ) happened to overhear me. Needless to say, I had to lie and say it was a tune I made up all on my own. I mean... I couldn't very well introduce him to her music now, could I? After all, the things Ayesha Erotica sings about isn't exactly... family friendly nor wholesomely Christian."

               UNPROMPTED ASKS — ALWAYS ACCEPTING.

"Listen here, bud." He intonated his 'bud' with bruise-worthy prod's to the big man's chest. This stupid, giggling oaf of a man who thought he could just WALTZ in and out of his life as he pleased, like some back alley tomcat. Annoying mother fucker. "You are gonna learn how to use the fucking door if you want to come to my apartment--WHICH YOU AREN'T EVEN SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT."

He pointed to his window. "--that's the third fucking lock you've broken. And this is the THIRD time that I'm catching you lounging on my couch, eating my food." Never mind that he never upgraded the locks. Ignore that part.

Louis huffed as he got the thought out, prodding into the muscular pectoral one more time for emphasis.

💭 For Rytm! ( Eden ).

send 💭 for something my muse wants to say to yours, but won't. || accepting

─「エデン」─  neither of us are built for love, and that scares me sometimes. it's not like i doubt the feeling i have for you, nor the way you feel about me — but knowing we are not meant for it still gives me that sense of insecurity and uncertainty. what if the nature of our creation plays a role to how this would end ? what if we're bound to end in tragedy and reverted to the very purpose we were made for ? lust and pleasure for you, destruction and the end of all things for me. that fear is still nagging me at the back of my mind, but whenever you have your arms around me, the thoughts disappear.

                i can't let this fear linger for too long, or else you'd catch on it. heh ... you're incredibly good at reading me, you know that ? i don't think even ruin could sense when i'm not okay. i had learned how to smile to make sure others wouldn't worry, but somehow, that doesn't work with you. it makes me both happy and scared. happy that you see me no matter what, scared that you'd think i'm unsure about us. i don't want you to think i'm doubting what we have. i don't. i'd never question it. i'm just ... — ...

                this is real, right ? rytm ? our feeling, this love. even though we are made for something else entirely, that doesn't mean this is fake, is it ? it's real. i know it is. i want to believe it is.

"Confession's like... religious ther'py, right? Nah, see, I tried all 'at an' it ain't work out f'me, so, Hargraven bless m' girl Dr. Viletta-- Wha' makes ye think puttin' a robe an' makin' me call ye daddy gon' be any diff'rent? I mean, 'm open t' tryin', iffin we gon be cooped up in a box any ol' way."

What a slightly annoying hard truth it was to face.. that drinking alone at a bar did in fact, made someone feel more depressed.

In today's case, that was himself.

It wasn't like he was intentionally drinking alone, it's just most of the others he'd come with left early - and wanting to make sure he would be going back drunk - the blonde had just opted to stay back.

Except he was simply the type of person who did prefer to drink with others, so when spotting another lonely soul, he takes it upon himself to move into the seat next to them; flashing a friendly smile.

It could have been worse, she told herself. But it could just as easily have been better. The more arrogant part of her mind dismissed such feeble attempts at consolation. Nunnally let her gaze drift around the room: over the press of bodies, the glittering chandeliers, the abundance of food. Music rose and fell beneath the constant murmur of conversations. That sound, more than any other, reminded her (yet again!) that she herself was likely their subject.

The whispers concerning her fiancé had long been in circulation. She could not entirely absolve herself of blame, for she had once – before she knew better, or rather before she knew she was to marry him – lent them a certain credence. Still, Nunnally required no one’s sympathy: not her own, and certainly not that of others. Nor did she desire their envy (for this perfect match).

What angered her most was her own performance. Why did she feel like a relic from another century? A woman bartered rather than consulted? She had choices. And that was the cruelest part. They had been there, open and waiting, and she had lacked the courage to seize them. She would not defy her father. She would not fight for her freedom. She would submit, and she would do it so flawlessly. No one would ever guess how little control she had truly possessed. Nunnally would smile through the whispers, endure the compromises, and extract whatever advantage she could from the arrangement. And perhaps, if fate were merciful, Valentin would not be the man they said he was.

She set down her wine glass, nearly empty, her fingers tightening briefly around the stem before she released it. Then she crossed the room towards her fiancé, who stood absorbed in conversation with men whose faces she recognized but whose importance she no longer cared to recall. She took his arm with deliberate composure, her touch light but unmistakable. If nothing else, she would not be ignored.

Leaning in, close enough to claim him, distant enough to remain proper, she spoke in a voice meant to carry: --

“You promised me a dance. I believe I have waited long enough. I am certain these gentlemen will forgive… us.”

They would. They always did. Every one of them understood the necessity of the charade; even as it slowly suffocated those compelled to play their parts.