#demiroirs

[lus-a-chalmain]

disastrio text starters episode II:  teeth and tomfoolery. 

demiroirs said:  

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   as if you could curb your scientific curiosity for long enough to leave the only place on earth where someone might use “hey who wants to hear a fun fact about the progression of time” as a conversation opener

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   Hey it ain’t just mine! You should be grateful. That whole charade was an excellent exercise in seeing how your friend reacted. It’s just this was a fluke. The more troubleshooting I do in these things the better I can tell you what your not boyfriend thinks is romantic. I’m telling you, that’s a great opener, and some day it will work. It’s just that not many people want to talk about physics first meet up... [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   Sharing all aspects of your life, even in the smallest of ways helps bonds grow... don’t come for me unless you’re coming to kiss my feet. You did ask me for advice. I’m giving it. [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   Don’t come for the wingman’s neck.

[apos-teriori]

               “Won’t you please help an old man rest his bones, Father?” The voice utilized, like countless others, arrives suave, natural in his throat. This masquerade of his garments lend credence to the realism of disguise when sweat, however marginal it may be, blends well and evenly with makeup along his skin. The faux yellowing of sclera, too, adds a greater promise to the presentation of a worn, tired man seeking absolution, comfort. The image is nothing new to the man before him, stalwart and, had it not been for his pup-like expression, foreboding for his stature. Hiraga, or as he’s known here, for now, Satō - lends himself farther against his cane, hands tremulous against one another so he may gaze upon him. 

                “Never was one of your strength, even in my prime, you know. I suppose I should pray for acceptance, Father, but my heart mourns the inabilities of this body greatly. What course should I take? I should think, if I am honest with you, that I pray you never become as I in your old age. Don’t get old like me, it is not worth it.”  

                              @demiroirs

[lus-a-chalmain]

|||  ◣ @demiroirs .  

            ◥   “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was-...” lids hush themselves from what scarce light had remained. How long was it, precisely? seven, eight, or ten... maybe thirteen years now? “Forgive me, Father... for my sins are many, and I cannot recount last when I came to give my confessions.” A teen, maybe. Scratching off the scabs and renewing the wounds of the twentieth year, still holding fast to that old number. Or perhaps when he last wept pitifully at sixteen, baring his flushed, dampened cheek to the grate as if the steel could carve out imperfections from the outside in. A deeper breath is taken... Terrence falls silent and reminiscent for older, infected things which still stir his head hot with ill and his blood sick with misery. And yet, none of which is why he has shambled here. In failure of the Italian tongue, with booklet and apps and trial and error, to be told of a singular Priest available to hear him with an accurate word. None else around speaking English, Nor Welsh, nor German, but - Gaelic. His most intimate and sacred dialect to his heart. The Historian swallows his nervousness, and holds no intention of finding out who he’d been given to. 

             ◥   “Italy does not find me welcomed... again. My second confession is my admittance to having no intent of having myself cleansed, forgiven, but that I came here out of desperation. I am homesick. So much so that this is the only reprieve from my lonesomeness... the only familiar thing here, even if my reputation precedes me.” He gives pause, glancing then unto darkness beyond the grate. “...I’m a Historian. I give lectures and my own form of sermon. I have made myself distasteful before to many religious people here for my candidness in schools... both as a child and adult. It was... difficult to find anyone willing to hear me. Or so, I perceive it. I cannot blame them. If anything, it is times as these that I envy their deep faiths and soulful prayers. The last I found solace in that was a long, long time ago...” 

[apos-teriori]

demiroirs replied to your post: My whole body had gone inside her. I went in with...

rob, swirling his wine, asking politely what in the good god damn this is

               “This is precisely what happens when the education system praises inability over constructive progression. I literally have heard better noises coming out of a cadaver.” It’s been one of those days.

[apos-teriori]

demiroirs replied to your post: ytoob ruoy stnaw natas

roberto will fite satan in the pit

I mean.... I mean but roberto literally has in canon already SO LOL ??? 

[apos-teriori]

           Not out of their jurisdiction, exactly. However requirements have twisted his arm to shape something else. Lauren has made known his great amusement, personally seeing to details Hiraga would prefer go more unknown to the hacker in particular. Had it not been for his merriment, this wouldn’t be nearly such an embarrassment. Already - humored murmurs are hushed with his brisk pacing past, having no interest in the tomfoolery of comrades newly home to lick their wounds.              While there is scarce other souls about the library now, still is his presence made well known, never an interest to catch his companion off guard - or worse, lost in thought. 

           “You’re not going to believe this...” curt, for vexation makes of him as it will. Languid breath takes priority to ease nerves thereafter. After all, one needn’t be anything but calm when in company of their partner. “Forgive me... I apologize for interrupting your work, however Archbishop Saul has requested I gather you immediately.” Clipped papers are placed alongside Roberto’s books while a chair is taken from elsewhere. “It’s short notice, but we’re needed on a... slightly different front than usual. Have a look.” A moment to spare. Hiraga rests himself politely beside the other man. He allots some passing moments before sighing again, giving observation forefront for reaction. “...if not for my faith in our people, I would have sooner thought this some nasty jest. Unfortunately, as you can see, we’re being sent off to investigate for a period of some months due to the situation involving the guilty and innocent - those unwittingly and those willfully masking the sins of these necromancers. The catch is that we’re to feign poverty, having just moved there, meaning we cannot bring comforts from home sans some exceptions. And...” sullen, he crosses his arms. “-...we are to feign being a couple. Lauren has personally seen to it that my hair stylist come this evening, so I can have extensions placed. I... have to masquerade as your wife.”

[grotesque-puppet]

          Children of the church. How amusing they are in their reverent glance upon this or that awe-inspiring thing, made to watch with large eyes wait for realisations unbeknownst to humanity’s grace. He’s sitting there like a ‘delusion’ out of a story [ the incarnation of death, easily to be seen ], and unfurls only slowly enough like darkened smoke gracing itself over the occupied seat of marmorean stone. It’s amusing for him, to watch that god-believing child drowned in disbelief.

          It’s enough of an interesting meeting that he had decided to come a little bit closer to that lost little lamb. “ You seem surprised. ” Surprised, as if there was anything else to be when it came to something that was so clearly human, and yet did neither move nor speech like it.

          Sometimes, only sometimes, would he be like this [ playing more often than not the perfect deception of mortal grace ]. “ Am I so different from the norm you know? Some would call me sure eccentric---- ” Some might call him even crazed. His own dear kin to be of judgment where none should unfurl from poison-dripping mouths [ not rightfully able to tinker about with the souls of long lost ones ]. How quickly had they not been thrown down? Slain to the ground, before ground to dust. [ nought elsewhere do they belong ]. 

          ” ---alas, I am merely wandering here in search for this or that literature rare to behold. Would you like to assist me~? ” || @demiroirs | cont.

[apos-teriori]

         A touch more spontaneous than most times, having found distaste with himself in the moment. An earlier sign off from Lauren held the mood despondent, though, blame could too elsewhere be placed. While the mundane here settles, Hiraga too believes should he himself, despite one’s own unspoken feeling. Choosing solemn prayer instead, a deepened breath. 

        It is then that melody chimes out the silence, hushing it. His hands may not be well with most things, but for the softness he’s thankful for this evening - he will play the music practiced for his companion. Yiruma, a grand pianist the scientist only wishes he could emulate.