PENUMBRA.

[kuroywa]

THE NEW BEAUTITUDE: GOOD LUCK, YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN. independent judge eyes / judgment based, rgg / yakuza set kuroiwa "the mole" mitsuru rp blog. highly crossover friendly, oc-friendly. largely canon compliant sans finale of judge eyes for obvious reasons. completely familiar with every rgg installment but kurohyou and fist of the north star. 21+, he/it, tracking #kuroywa.

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art source for header and promo, used with permission.

[rosievelt-blog]

outlander starter sentences

from both the 1st book + season 1 of the show!

“people disappear all the time.”

“for where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary.”

“don’t be afraid. there’s the two of us now.”

“i can bear pain myself, but i could not bear yours. that would take more strength than i have.”

“does it bother you that im not a virgin?”

“you’re tearing my guts out, ______.”

“where did you learn to kiss like that?”

“a hedgehog? and just how does a hedgehog make love?”

“sometimes our best action result in things that are most regrettable.”

“and if your life is a suitable exchange for my honor, why is my honor not a suitable exchange for your life?”

“that’s what marriage is good for; it makes a sacrament out of things you’d otherwise have to confess.”

“who in god’s name is ______?”

“boldness in battle is nothing out of the way… but to face down fear in cold blood is rare in any man.”

“haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?”

“what does ‘fucking’ mean?”

“getting up once in the dark to go adventuring is a lark. twice in two days smacks of masochism.”

“i didn’t tell you because i didn’t want to lose you too.”

“i wish i could have fought ______ for you.”

“it wasn’t your fight — it was mine.”

“i can’t bloody do without you, ______, and that’s all about it.”

“ill thank you to take your hands off my ______.”

“if you ever lay a hand on me again, ill cut out your heart and fry it for breakfast!”

“i won’t have you dying for nothing.” 

“you’re the regular bob hope.“ 

“i said i was a virgin, not a monk.“ 

"i won’t surrender. to you, or any man." 

"well, if you’re going to hell… i might as well go, too. god knows you’ll never manage alone." 

"chickens are very poor company." 

"it doesn’t matter where you come from. you’re here." 

"i wake up every day, and i find that i love you more than i did the day before." 

"i’m not the meek and obedient type." 

"you don’t look that heavy. if you won’t walk, i shall pick you up and throw you over my shoulder!" 

"because i wanted you. more than i ever wanted anything in my life.”

[kuroywa]

(boops you)

[kuroywa]

the biggest tragedy for kuroiwa is that he's never met a single person who has or could match his freak or his nasty. like genuinely i think another insane person falling in love with him and expressing it the same way he does (violent covetous behavior directed not just at other people out of jealousy but at him out of need and want) would fix him

[kuroywa]

some doodles i dont think i uploaded here

[shininginyourlight]

The shiver he'd felt go up his spine was quite as easily shaken as the grimace that he'd held back. Always with people spotting him during these sorts of incidents... Though in this case, it wasn't like Yagami was even really disguised.

There wasn't much difference to his attire outside of the removal of his typical leather jacket, with his white shirt shaping his lithe body well enough. --Or, at least that had been what Kaito-san had insisted. That coupled with his skinny jeans apparently seemed enough like something a gay guy would wear. ...Maybe? Yagami really didn't have a real frame of reference, only the assurances of those who'd been in his office at the time.

Maybe he should've been more cautious. But then again, if it had been anyone else he'd seen here, he wouldn't have cared. Something about Kuroiwa spotting him here felt... ugh.

He still had an eye on his target, but most of his attention was now firmly placed on Kuroiwa. At least it made him seem a bit more natural around here, and not just some perv, drinking and leering at someone.

"And what exactly would you know of my preferences, Kuroiwa?" Hopefully nothing, but he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been poking his nose where it didn't belong.

[kuroywa]

' detective kuroiwa. ' the correction is made purely in jest, smug and by the teeth--mitsuru would hardly care if yagami upheld the title or otherwise, really--but he can't help himself, the predator animal that he is. his eyes fold, narrowing at the lids into self-satisfactory arcs, before his sockets relax. he leans against the bartop, one leg folding over the other, enunciating the strength in them when they tighten against his cargos.

his gaze flits from yagami to his apparent subject, deducing through elimination that the man he sought was at a table of three, likely the middle aged individual. he drums his fingers against the countertop, openly observing yagami--albeit, his stare didn't seem lecherous. it was appraising, like he wanted to know every avenue of yagami's body simply because it thrilled him, because he would like to sink his teeth around his narrow neck.

finally, kuroiwa shrugs. ' i had assumed.. fujii-san was forthcoming enough about your past with her when i spoke with her at the station. and those girls orbiting you are doing it for one reason, you know? ' he smiles when he takes a sip of his whiskey sour. ' but i must be mistaken. why else would you be here? '

[kuroywa]

my fave thing about mitsuru is that i think he does actually really enjoy being a detective, ive talked a bit about a dissociative split; its not quite an alter but it is significant enough there is a presence of 'kuroiwa the detective' who is a good man who enjoys his job and wants to actively solve crimes, and 'kuroiwa the assassin' who is a hitman who enjoys taking part in crimes from financial to homicidal and doesn't feel bad about anything he does. post je stuff is the only time he acquires any sense of consciousness / less diluted empathy. being beaten by yagami isnt humbling per se but it... kind of... rewires him if that makes sense? its hard to explain

[kuroywa]

' you're good, but-- ' for now, mitsuru has the upper hand. he sinks his fingers into the depth of dyed white hair, gripping at joongi's scalp. the tug is a threat, the slide of his cold knife against han's warm throat; he holds it there steady, a promise and threat in equal measure. ' the real joongi-han died. what a poorly fashioned double you are. ' yank. kuroiwa is careful not to lance joongi's throat, pricking merely a bead of blood at the apex of the adams apple. he adjusts his posture, weighing his knees into joongi's upper back. the effort is to keep him pinned. ' answer me truthfully and i will release you. who are you servicing by attacking me? the jingweon? why? '

@captianimarum

[kuroywa]

(peeks in)

[kuroywa]

it's easy--too easy, really. there is no subtle stab of embarrassment as mitsuru's eyes lock with yagami's, dark and daring and sparkling in the low establishment lights; he bears confidence like a mantle, looking half like a black leopard in the dark, smooth and sleek and strong. his usual police attire is traded for something more definitively casual, a black tee cut at the lower arm, just tight enough to show off his musculature, loose enough to let the eye wander and brain wonder; the shirt is complemented by cargo pants bracketed on both ends by a tight belt and chunky combat boots. he looks as suited to the gay bar as he does a good mountainous hike, and he likes it that way.

he watches takayuki's hand fly up to his ear, likely to communicate with that idiot partner of his, pursuing some poor unfortunate who'd upset his wife or a father who hid his proclivities from his grown children, then watches it drift away slowly to his side when they meet eyes. kuroiwa's held stare is a challenge. he has nothing to contend with.

' taabouuuu, ' the nickname is drawn out, and extremely intentional: he's aware its the word kaito used, and he's aware it might dig a thumb or two under yagami's veneer of professionalism. thats how he liked it, when things hurt. ' not a place i expected to see you. i thought you only woo'd the ladies? '

@shininginyourlight

[kuroywa]

[kuroywa]

i think perhaps i was mistaken. kuroiwa is not a top, the stabbing gestures are redirected desires. yes he is a crazy stalker girl-boyfriend. yes stabbing is a metaphor for penetration. yes i think he needs to get crushed and railed.

[creekfiend]

[guy who has handled two conversations well in a row] I think I might be the most emotionally stable person on the planet of earth

[kuroywa]

mitsuru literally just cant be normal about someone he loves or even has a crush on, btw, like, he wants to be so close he's inside of you (nonsexually but hey), he wants to crawl into your skin and live in your spine and grow a garden in your ribs and sleep against your heart. he wants to breathe the air in your lungs, he wants to BE the air in your lungs. he wants to be the blood in your veins, the sweat on your skin. NOTHING excites him as much as his partner does either, like, mitsuru is the kind of guy to bury his face into an article of clothing that smells like you and fuck/finger himself while taking in your scent. he very much falls into tropes of consumption as love (e.g. cannibalism so you'll be forever part of each other) and wanting to be hurt and brutalized by his partner because it's an expression of devotion and adoration in his head and not abuse.

[entomic]

there's an unrelenting scent that tinges kamurocho's air, rife with debauchery; a filthiness which clings to one like a second skin. yagami is soaked to the bone with it, flesh and tendon waterlogged with the stench of perpetual cigarette smoke and grime. it fits well among his guilt - ridden anatomy, nestled somewhere between malnourished sinew and knuckles that always seemed to be scabbed over, joints that ache from sleeping on anything but a real bed and brittle nails from a scavenger's diet of whatever's quick and easiest. he'd only recently begun to live outside of pure convenience again, outside of whatever bare minimum it took to keep alive; thanks only to a partially cleared conscience.

perhaps that's why the sight of someone like kuroiwa so rigorously maintaining his physique gives him pause for a moment. it's not quite shame drying his tongue, not envy or enmity, but something he can't quite parse the name of, pulsing uncomfortably just beneath the skin. regardless, yagami doesn't let his eyes linger for more than a cursory moment, out of the fragile sense of cordiality held between them.

he's nothing if not observant, however.

there's a shake of his limbs as he makes his way to the desk, skirting around the push of furniture, as if such a motion could knock away the heaviness that has settled over him with the atmosphere. he sits with a distant hum reverberating from him, hollow and almost absent. like he's only half considering the other's words, like he hadn't been paying attention, like the mottled collection of scars hadn't caught his eye. yagami swallows the questions that burn their way up his throat, knows whatever curiosity he feels won't be sated this way. it doesn't take a detective to put these pieces together.

there's a hiss of air sucked in between his teeth, casually, arms loosely crossing over his chest. " well, pity isn't exactly at the top of the list of things i'm feeling right now, so you don't have to worry about that. " in spite of himself, however, his gaze finds its way over to kuroiwa again, sweeping over him one last time before darting away, unsubtle in its interest.

" you take care of yourself pretty well. " it's spoken like a passing observation, like an admittance of his own failure to do so, of this gap between them; an attempt at getting him to talk and let something slip. " looks like i interrupted you. i don't really mind as long as you don't break anything. "

[kuroywa]

' is that so? good. ' ever the spiteful devil, mitsuru holds his contempt close to his heart, and though he is as sharp as a knife, there's something about it--something failing in it's severity, like he just can't be bothered. still, he's no brittle old spear, to be tested and broken by someone like yagami; he moves with an eerie grace as he snakes around the leather couch, bending to grip the most malleable edge of the chabudai with both hands. it moves when he does, settling back into the place it'd been before, the impressions dim marks on the floor that told kuroiwa the office wasn't thoroughly cleaned very often.

he wasn't foolish. he was exceptionally aware of the litany of reasons yagami would reasonable foster an odium so ripe it might as well be lustful: there was only one act he bore any amount of guilt for, and he didn't feel the need to recite that to a man who had no reason to believe it. the old man--he hadn't meant to kill him. those bullets were for hamura and his leaky mouth. if nothing else, it was unprofessional. when he looks at yagami, sometimes he sees the old man's face, contorted in a way that spelled a sensation kuroiwa was overtly familiar with: pain. what would talking about it achieve? he could not understand the purpose, so he did not participate or offer his condolences: they would surely sound hollow to him.

' yes, i do. ' kuroiwa returns, almost thoughtlessly. the soft fat around his mouth puffs out when he presses his lips together, looking years younger, suddenly. he reaches up to push his hair away from his forehead, the sweat he's accrued working out some of the soft gel he used to keep his cut parted the way he liked. it was important to him, maintaining a physique that ensured he remained strong, unflinching, difficult to conquer. it soured him that he was sharing a space with the only man who could--soured him, and made him feel unspeakably perverse. he couldn't say it out loud. yagami wouldn't understand, and it would only affirm to him that kuroiwa wasn't all there--he was almost sure of it.

he'd never appreciate or remotely comprehend what it was like--the way a wolf hungered for a hare, the way it fought to deny its own nature so that it could love the damn thing, too. the way an overzealous gardener will kill it's plants with excess water. the brutality of it was unattractive to the average person--and certainly wouldn't be understood by someone so fucking normal.

mitsuru reaches for his shirt hung over the back of the leather couch cushion, balling the black cotton into his hands in order to blot the sweat off his face. it'd have to go to laundry, anyway. he pulls the fabric down so he can look at yagami, letting it fall beneath his nose, above his lips. the look he gives is almost accusatory, but not quite, something fiendishly amused in his eyes.

' you just want to watch...? '

[backwaterscum]

Daryl contemplates this. It's a reasonable question, and one he poses an inquiry to himself: "Were those men you saw out there?"

He remembers what he experienced of Ed Peletier-- the marks on Carol's arms, the handprint he's seen on Sophia's. He remembers Sophia's inclination to stay away from Shane, from himself. He's certain the only reason she wasn't immediately put off by Rick was likely because of the way Carl must've spoken about him.

"If they were, I doubt she'd've stuck with 'em." Daryl doesn't blame her in the least for it, either.

The rest of the observations made in the radius around Kuroiwa's camp provide no form of comfort. Daryl fails to find any traces of Sophia that're presented in any way that matters. On the bright side, it isn't late enough for the sun to be setting by the time he calls it for the day, and this allows him to offer--

"Those traps you set up-- they were for humans, right? I can fix 'em up for you."

With the knowledge of no immediate danger in their surroundings, Daryl's more than comfortable slinging his crossbow onto his back.

"Least I can do after fuckin' it up the way I did."

[kuroywa]

it was only in children that kuroiwa found a subdued sense of humanity. when he thinks about a lost little girl, it clenches at his heart in equal parts sickened thrill (the loss of a child was a sweet tragedy, a theatric melodrama) and wistful pain. he thinks about how scared and lost he'd been all those years beforehand, withering away at home under the brutal rage of a father who simply could not love him, and it pains him to imagine it inflicted on another little girl.

the part of kuroiwa that liked to hurt people and things was always quieted by the other part that wanted to see them safe, wanted a child afforded the innocence and life free of adult burdens. for a professional killer, it was one of his few virtues: he'd look for sophia until his feet wear through the soles of his boots and bleed into the earth, if he had to. if thats what it took. he always finished a contract, no matter what it was.

' i didnt see them doing it, ' mitsuru returns honestly, squinting as he recalls when he'd came upon the bodies. they were a couple, middle aged, a single bullet to the side of each temple. he remembers the impression of the soles of boots, circling the side of the woman's corpse before fading off into the stretch of asphalt and stubborn plants. he remembers wondering why they hadn't taken anything, what the purpose of their deaths was; whomever had killed them hadn't even bothered to strip them of their shoes, a shockingly valuable commodity. ' but if i had to guess by the size of the boot prints they left behind, yes. '

kuroiwa's gaze flicks to the crossbow when daryl allocates it to sit at his back, then back to his face. his expression told of nothing: he was coldly unreadable, up until daryl suggested fixing his traps. his lips twitch, the fat hugging his lower eyelid smoothing. ' for the living or dead. ' they were counterweight snares; he'd been using an old rideable mower as the weight after he'd found it no longer worked (and was rooted by overgrown plants). the snare was meant to snag around the offending limb--typically a leg--and yank the trespasser into an upside down, immobile noose. ' i.. would appreciate that. ' it surprises mitsuru when he says it, recognizing it as truthful; he never liked setting and resetting traps, preferential to a direct approach. he supposed he would never shake that part of who he'd been. who he was. ' do you want to go back? '

[backwaterscum]

The sight of Kuroiwa seeking his pleasure is one that Daryl may never be sick of. His body is incredible, of course-- naked only for him, strong and sturdy and difficult to conquer and for him-- but the look on his face as he circles into Daryl's steady thrusts is nothing short of incredible.

They're one like this: Kuroiwa fucking him with the squeeze of his cunt, Kuroiwa's hands on him, Kuroiwa's palm pressed to his neck. The press of his thumb almost makes Daryl laugh-- the hand of a killer touching him with love is something that will never fail to make his head swim with joy-- but he squeezes his hands over Kuroiwa's waist and fucks him about it instead.

The rhythm is good, practised and learned to the point of instinct. It's skin on skin and Daryl's cock thrusting steadily into dripping heat. The mess of Kuroiwa's arousal drools down his length and over the swell of his balls, and between the perfect pressure of his insides and the soft whispers of please in a tongue Daryl's beginning to recognise, he's hardpressed not to give this man the world.

First, Kuroiwa'd said, cheeky and breathless in his promise. Daryl grips Kuroiwa's wrist, digs his thumb in the hollow between the bone, and pulls the hand off his neck only so he can turn over and pin that same hand down.

There's a muted thud on the mattress beneath them with the shift of weight. With all this new leverage Daryl can yank Kuroiwa close by the waist, pulling him forward so inch after inch of cock can fill him again. Their skin meets in a slap. Daryl throbs inside him, drooling out the tip of his dick.

The metal frame of their bed starts to creak-- not loudly, but certainly obvious to anyone who might still be awake. Seeing the way Kuroiwa's pussy stretches around him with each thrust, however, Daryl decides he doesn't care. He keeps his boy's hips raised, spreads his own legs to keep himself steady, and rocks his hips in thrust after wet thrust until he finds that spot he knows now to aim for.

First, his lover said. God.

"Wanna see you dripping with me," Daryl breathes, bending to loop an arm around Kuroiwa's back. With his other hand freed, he doesn't wait to start rubbing a rough thumb over Kuroiwa's dick.

[kuroywa]

if anything, mitsuru anticipates the relocation of his hand--his grip treaded unfair, the vice of a desperate, messy predator (the way he'd get on the rare occasion his mark was quick enough to react to the sharp sting of his knife, that hungry need to rip into something alive and rend it apart with his teeth, like some sort of vampire)--but he doesn't foresee exactly what daryl is going to do with it, with him.

as his back thuds into the mattress, he sharply inhales, holds the breath as it swells his ribs open, a gasp he can't take back or hide. it thrilled him when daryl wrested with him like this, how little he tolerated kuroiwa's little nippy attempts at asserting control--it was both mind-numbingly attractive and reminded him that he loved him, that it was just as much about devotion and adoration as it was possession. it could make his fucking heart give out.

the hard press and drag of his cock when daryl resumes his rhythm feels unbelievably good, though he could not think of a time that it didn't. kuroiwa always felt stunningly full, the sensation of his nerves jolting under his ministrations--dutiful, impassioned thrusts, never quite needy to mitsuru, but famished--striking all the way to the center of his gut. his muscles contract and flex accordingly, each plunge taking him to the silky hilt.

if mitsuru thought he was ever fragile enough to break, he might've voiced it here, the angle of his thighs widening then closing to neatly cinch where they landed at either side of daryl's hips. but nothing felt better than this magnetic want, the way he could fit his beloved inside him and never let go, in absence of slipping open his belly to fit into his flesh, in lieu of letting him--begging him to--split him like a vivisected corpse, so daryl could know every red inch of him. sift through his muscle, squeeze his innards in his hands, run himself wet with blood--

the thought, however grotesque to a different mind, makes him tighten around daryl's cock, hard. it was sickeningly close to orgasmic just to imagine, and reminded kuroiwa of his ever-unabated bloodlust. his breaths pick up into hard pants, a fitful whine passing through his teeth as he bites his lower lip. his spine easily curves to accommodate daryl's arm as it passes beneath him, supports him; the withheld sounds unbutton and punch out of kuroiwa the moment his thumb runs flush with the head of his cock. he moans, and he does it loudly, his fingers twitching as he moves a hand to hook it into his partner's hair. the other follows down his shoulder, his back, pawing almost indignantly at the muscle and scar tissue he finds there.

he cranes his head up just enough to mouth at daryl's skin, his neck, chest, whatever he can get in his mouth. ' come inside me? ' kuroiwa says it more like a question, a half-plea, creaky and weak in his throat.