NOCT OVERFLOW

[swordhardy]

OVERFLOW & EVENTS

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ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ

[swordhardy]

—▶ BIG FISH.
①

[ Their whale is particularly playful, curling its tail in proud pose before blowing water all over its guests from the top—but once they hit the sky, the winds take care of that, cutting over wet fabric with balmy ruffle. Rokurou relishes it; his hair goes wild, a mane of wild black that keeps falling into his face no matter how many times he sputters and tries to blow it back into place.

Both things he forgets the moment he spots the whale's blowhole. Creeping close, he stares at it from only a few feet away with all the wide-eyed wonder of a toddler moments before shoving a grubby little fist onto a hot stove. ]

Woahhh, check this one. I've always wanted to see a blowhole up close. [ he wiggles across a lap (yours??) to get closer, his seat not the optimum placement for bad decisions, ] Say, what do you think'll happen if we cover it?

[ With an ominously hovering hand, fingers twitching, ready for MISCHIEF. ]

—▶ THE BEACH EPISODE.
②

[ Strongman contest? As if Rokurou Rangetsu could ever turn down a competition against a bunch of other strong guys—and while some are taller than him and more stacked, he'll ticket himself as the most stubborn, refusing to give up even when the boulders they're lifting get progressively bigger and bigger and bigger.

Scrappy and hungry, the daemon sizes up his opponent—you?—with a cocky little smile. With all the bravado only a spoiled younger sibling can have, he props his foot up on the biggest rock and wags his eyebrow, ]

Think you're strong? Bet you can't lift this one. [ you know, with that smile turning into a toothy grin that teases but IIIIIIIII caaannnnnnn. ] How about a little extra fun? Whoever gets it higher gets to boss the other around for a week. Starting post-beach vacation, of course.

[ Or if you're just watching the fun, one (1) Rokurou Rangetsu might just sidle up your way, clad in only beach trunks and muscles dewy from both heat and lotion, tan already beginning to richen from all the hot beach sun. ]

How about joining in on the fun? You don't have to lift. [ with a flirtatious little grin, ] I can lift you instead. How about it?

③ can go nsfw or stay stupid;

[ Clubs aren't usually his scene; despite being an extravert, Rokurou tends to linger on the sidelines when the groups are too large, watching people instead of engaging. But curiosity is as curiosity does, and he slaps on some neon to check out the inside anyway—and beelines straight for the bar to check out the drinks.

MANY BAD DECISIONS LATER...

He's leaning against the wall just inside the club, to the right of the doors to leave, scrubbing someone's shirt (stolen, they won't miss it anyway) over his neon-splattered abdomen. Keeps scrubbing, brow furrowed with more intention, before audibly sighing and turning his eyes on the nearest gembonded. ]

H-hey .... mind helping a guy out? I can't get this off. [ he's reluctant to share, but after a moment he shows his fresh badge of shame: someone's gone and painted a very artistic piece on his nicely muscular abdomen. ] Before you ask, I lost a bet.

—▶ LUNE WEDDING.
④

[SHOTS SHOTS SHH SHUH SSHUH SHOT SHOTS EVERYBODYYYYYY!!

He ain't ever the kinda man to get married, but he is that cousin you invited to your wedding only to discover the expensive wine in your wedding suite's gone missing (and then find said cousin with his head in your heart shaped toilet soon after).

Waking up groggy is old news; so is not being able to remember where he is when consciousness begins to flood back into his body. Stiff limbs, dry mouth, throbbing headache—by all accounts, last night was fucking awesome. None of it comes to mind, however, as he forces his bones to creak with movement, realizing then that it isn't a bed under his back, but the wet shoreline. ]

Ugh ... did it again, eh, Rokurou...? [ a mutter to himself as he slaps a sandy hand against his face and scrubs, pushing himself up into sitting position and finally cracking his eyes open. ] .... Ha?

[ Old news, sure, but something isn't quite right. Namely, the following:

- He's naked, not a lick of clothing to be found (including a perfectly good knife, travesty)
- Covered in bite marks (person, dog, some rabid wolverine? unclear)
- Soggy receipts stuck in his hair (lots of drinks, some place called The Dirty Seadog, some other place called Tattoos for Less, and a banishment notice from the jellyfish stripclub because of "nefarious behavior" .... uh?)
- Splattered with neon paint (stupid club); even the sweat beading down his six pack and between his shoulderblades doesn't smudge it (annoying)
- Beside someone (??????) wearing his kimono jacket (?????????? did he even bring that to the beach?)

Raking a hand through his thick, salt-stiff hair, the daemon sighs, brow scrunched as he tries to remember what happened last night. After some drinking it keeps getting fuzzy... wincing, he draws back his hand only to find that his fingers are sticky with vague pink. The throbbing continues ... ah, was it not just a hangover? ]

Hey, wake up. That's mine.

[ Says the very naked man who may or may not know the body currently taking refuge in his kimono, sliding his foot over and prodding the shape with his toe. ]

—▶ RED STRINGS OF FATE.
⑤

[ The red string .... funny, how even something he knows of has found its way into a completely different culture. It isn't called the same and he hadn't ever known it to be a real string—but the thin crimson line that's tied to his pinky finger doesn't vanish when he blinks.

Someone he's fated to meet? More than anyone, Rokurou knows fate is a twisted thing, but he's long since grown cold to its tumultuous nature. Slipping on his sandals, he makes his way out and weaves into the throng of people, following where the line leads like a fish furiously reeled by a fisherman's hand.

Where oh where are you, soulmate? It doesn't matter where he has to deck into—he's committed to seeing this through. ]

Beach 3

[frozenbird]

[Ibis crouches down a bit, examining the handiwork. And the canvas it was painted on.]

A profound piece. I think it speaks to the absurdity of the human condition, or something.

[She stands up and shrugs off a shoulder of her shirt (it's fine, it was open anyway, she has a bikini on under it), revealing more colorful paint across her shoulders. It continues from there up one side of her neck and onto the side of her face. Even more designs on her upper chest. There's more artistry to it than, uh, dong.jpg, at least, but she really went for a lot and is mildly regretting it now.]

How about a trade? I'll help you with your paint if you help me with mine.

[swordhardy]

I'll trust in your artistic appraisal. I'm not much for it myself.

[ Sure, it's dong.jpg, but it's a decent dong.jpg. Even if the guy at the bar had taken advantage of winner gets to do anything they want to the loser, at least he had a steady hand about it. Begrudgingly, that much the swordsman does acknowledge, glancing down at his 'art' with another sigh.

Lament that doesn't last long. Rokurou's eyes are drawn to the ripple of fabric when her hands move and then the stretch of color across narrow shoulders. No dicks to be seen, thankfully, but it's quite a lot of paint. Neon stands out, highlighting shoulder and collarbone; his attention draws along it, like the trail of ink that follows the calligrapher's pen. ]

Paint for paint? Sounds fair to me. I would have owed you one anyway.

[ And a Rangetsu always pays his debts. ]

You want all of that gone?

[frozenbird]

It's more paint than you have, so I'll understand if you only want to do half.

[ She doesn't sound like she'll object if he decides to deal with the whole length of it. Probably. She can honesty be a little hard to read. ]

Should we just do this right here, or find a dark corner somewhere first?

[swordhardy]

[ Wow, so bold ... and though he's shameless in most ways, Rokurou doesn't particularly relish the glances that naturally occur whenever someone passes through. So, the swordsman nods his chin toward the door, ]

How about we head to the surface? The beach should be pretty clear right now, and it might be easier there. Unless you want to stick around here?

[ He turns his attention back to her, but indeed—she isn't as easy to read as many of the other club-goers (though, to be fair, alcohol tends to loosen up even the most strict of personalities). ]

2

[fistsofchange]

[Lin wasn't really interested in JOINING the strongman competition. She was pretty strong, but pointless competitions of machismo had never really been her scene.

What she WAS interested in was sitting on the sidelines and watching shirtless guys (and some girls) with big muscles lug rocks around. She sipped at her drink (in a coconut with a paper umbrella and a straw) and imagined what it would be like if they were carrying her. That sounded very fun indeed.

Then Rokuro kind of appeared next to her and jumped STRAIGHT into her idle fantasy. It actually threw her off balance for a moment.]

What? I- er...

[Only for a moment, though. Then she abruptly stood up.]

...Yes. Yes lets do that.

[swordhardy]

[ What else are himbos for, but to jump into the fantasies of pretty girls and make them real? Or something. Which is why he looks quite pleased when she readily accepts his proposal. This is much more fun than just picking up rocks. ]

Alright! That's the spirit. You can even hold onto your drink.

[ He steps back to where there's a bit more room. Still close to the other spectators but not close enough for them to get in the way. Crossing one arm over his chest to stretch and then the other, ]

Are you okay with me holding you by the waist? Guess we could do a princess carry too, if you prefer. I'm okay either way.

[fistsofchange]

[Lin was honestly a himbo in spirit as well. She stretch a bit herself and tried to arrange her swimsuit to look as fetching as possible while he wasn't looking.]

Waist is fine, I think.

[swordhardy]

Alright. [ stretching out a little bit, arms over chest and then rolling his neck, he reaches for her waist without more preamble, ] Here we go!

[ With a loop, he's secure, hoisting her up easily in a ripple and stretch of muscle. High enough that he leans back slightly to rest her hip against his shoulder, keeping his arm around her thighs to act as a brace. ]

How's it look from up there?

beach episode - 3

[bunnycore]

[Noiz's body had ended up a bit overpainted (as in, whoever had ended up putting a lot of emphasis on the skin around his piercings, to make them stick out more in the dark). He doesn't mind most of the paint on him. He could cover it up with his clothes mostly anyways.

When Rokurou points out the paint he wants to get rid of, Noiz just glances at it without a reaction.]

You need spit.

[That's what they said.]

[swordhardy]

What?

[ Eyes narrowing with suspicion, he glances down to the dick drawn on his stomach and then sighs again. Spit? Really? Sounds fake......

But he still swipes the fabric against his tongue and scrubs it over the spot, crease between his brows deepening as it goes from somewhat dedicated to furiously rubbing. Hard enough that it leaves his skin chaffed and pink, dick even more obvious with the color contrast of neon green. It isn't even smudged, still proudly a cartoon dick. ]

So that was bullshit.

[ He already has a dick painted on him, give him a break!! ]

[bunnycore]

[Noiz watches him chafe his skin with no real comment until Rokurou says something else. He wasn't bullshitting, okay! Just omitting important details for the sake of expediency. Like. Well.]

Someone else's spit.

[To illustrate, he licks his thumb and runs it roughly across the uh, head of the cartoon dick. So now it looks somewhat less like a cartoon dick (emphasis on somewhat), and more just like a rectangle with two circles at the bottom. Which is the same thing.

Noiz raises an eyebrow.]

See?

[swordhardy]

Ah....

[ Rokurou watches the man's thumb as it rubs across his skin, a little dumbfounded, unable to really process how that works. But it's true enough: the paint finally smudges, dick still a dick but now a smudged dick. Easy as that. ]

Oh. [ he flushes a bit and then huffs, rubbing his neck, ] You could've said that before.

[ Biting the inside of his cheek, the swordsman glances up again, giving the stranger new appraisal before, ]

Alright, so help me. I can't do it myself. I'll owe you one.

5

[interacting]

[ the string around his finger is something yuta is familiar with, in the way fairytales are familiar to children. yuta's never placed much stock in fate, but lately, he's been inclined to think otherwise. at least, that was before he found his way to another world entirely.

still, he chalks it up to the fairytale it is and doesn't think too much about it... but his curiosity is hard to deny. eventually, he ends up following it also, in a less hurried pace due to the crush of the crowd and nearly runs smack into his would-be soulmate. ]

Oh— [ startled out of him, yuta blinks up at the taller man, dark blue eyes wide in surprise. he had his free hand up to brace against the guy's chest and quickly retracts it, lifting up the one with the string tied to it instead. ] Hello.

[ a red string meet cute was not how he was expecting to start his day with, but you know. it could be worse. ]

[swordhardy]

H'oh.

[ Right in the middle of public—the string's shortened, red thread a slight droop between the shortened distance of their hands—Rokurou mirrors the gesture, raising his up to follow the trail along to the other man's finger. A match is a match is a match. ]

Hey there. [ his visible golden eye shifts from string to take in the stranger's face, the other hidden behind a thick sweep of inky hair—but even obscured, it follows too, sharper and more focused by virtue of its malevolent discordance. ] You weren't hard to find.

[ Nerves prick to sharp attention, and an itch tickles the back of his hand—marks of curiosity when he's found interesting prey, but by all accounts, this kid just looks........tired. Aaaaand like he needs some beach time, for some sunlight. Yet it's rare for his demonic senses to fail, quick to hone in on something alluring whenever its close.

Rokurou smiles, an easy stretch across his mouth that fits perfectly with how the gentle laughlines around his eye crease lightly. ]

Since this is supposed to mean that you're my soulmate... [ he presses a palm against his chest, over his heart, and bows his head without breaking eye-contact, ] ... Rokurou Rangetsu, at your service.

[interacting]

[ there's couple of things that make yuta take notice—the man's visible gold eye, the brightness of his kimono; the sweep of dark hair obscuring one side of his face. but what makes him pause is... whatever it is that surrounds him; not quite like cursed energy, but thick enough to resemble it. not for the first time, he finds himself feeling glad that some of the people he's met here so far aren't from his own world.

but there's a sense of familiarity in that, and in his name and the shape of his hand he places against his chest. broad, likely calloused. hands that resemble his own, as much as that not-quite-cursed energy does. yuta's head tilts gently as if to hear the sound of his name better, the sharpness in his eyes softening back into the typical boy next door who could definitely use another nap or two, even if he can't quite tuck away the general unsettling vibe that always seems to hang around him like his personal rain cloud. ]

Ah, Yuta Okkotsu. [ he dips into a bow a little stiffly, caught off guard by the greeting, but still eager to meet someone new. ] I'm not really sure how being soulmates work, but it's nice to meet you, sir.

5

[formant]

...Y'gotta be kidding me.

( is what he had grumbled when he had found the red string tied around his pinky finger, trailing along the floor and out the crack of the partially-open sliding glass door, allowing the sunlight, light breeze, and briny scent of the ocean in to the room. great. just the sort of thing he wants to worry about, on top of his pounding headache, riotous stomach, and general state of complete disarray which still requires investigating to solve several very important questions. like... where the hell his phone went. and whose cabana he'd woken up in? he'd woken up alone, mind (he's not quite ready for the fallout which would've accompanied if he hadn't), but the place wasn't familiar in the slightest and the walls were covered in memorabilia and photos of one of the gem natives he'd never seen before.

or, at least, he's pretty sure he hadn't... god, he hopes it'd just been a good samaritan who had just offered him the place for the night and not him having broken in...

the odds for that don't look good, considering he has seemingly lost his shirt at some point last night but gained a replacement that had been cause for concern. he doesn't even know where to start. he wants to blot out all the light from the windows, curl up in a corner somewhere, and pray for unconsciousness until he wakes up and feels a little bit less like he was receiving a divine punishment from god.

a red thread of fate? really? in shinsou's mind the connotations are immediately romantic, and there's no helpful local around to steer him in a less anxiety-inducing direction. can he just ignore it? that's the leading solution in his mind for all of this — ignore it and just focus on the basics of breathing in and then out until he feels well enough to at least try to find his phone.

oh, if only he could be so lucky. the individual on the other end of the string is following it to its source, which meant: along the beach, toward one particular cabana in a row of the same, up a few wooden stairs and onto the small porch where the aforementioned sliding glass door was slightly ajar into a dim room. there's a key still in the lock, half-turned. that has to be enough of an invitation, right? though if rokurou decided to open the door any further, he will find shinsou, clearly hungover, sitting on the floor with his back propped up against the bed and head resting against its edge — he'd fallen asleep on it, but woken up when he'd rolled off of it and only gotten so far as this before squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think as little as possible. hard to do when the door rumbles and rattles in its metal lane like an oncoming freight train, letting in a guillotine of bright, summer light. shinsou throws his arm over his eyes, half-turning away from the door. ) Ngh, ( oh, god, is it the owner of the cabana, come back home to a stranger?? can he pay him back??? he hasn't even checked to see if there any damages —

shinsou's usually pretty good with his polite platitudes, but for now, all he can manage is, ) ...Whatever it is, I can fix it. ( ??? )

[swordhardy]

[ The red string is a reliable guide over sandy dunes and seaglass, color a standout weave against aquatone backdrop. It leads him to the stagger of blue bungalows and thatched cabanas, hatbox shapes strewn across the top of the shoreline. Sand shifts beneath the daemon's sandals as he presses on, resting a hand on a wooden post on the porch of one cabana in particular. The thread slips inside and doesn't continue out into the sand around the back, solidifying the fact that whoever his supposed soulmate is, they're inside.

He notes the door left suspiciously ajar and the key still in its lock. Almost reassuring—because it brings him to two conclusions. Either the person rich enough to rent a beachfront cabana during a high tourist spike is an all out drunk (suitable) or it's a petty criminal who snuck the key from a loose pocket and helped themselves to the place (more suitable). It's dim enough that trying to squint past the glass plane doesn't work well, and the angles aren't quite right anyway.

By all accounts, the door is already open—so it isn't really breaking and entering to continue along (as if that would stop him anyway). Fingers hooking, the daemon slides it completely open, stepping inside for a better look. The string continues on, looping on the ground and winding its way to a pale hand—a hand he knows, he realizes belatedly, blinking owlishly at the crop of thick purple hair that belongs to that seemingly boneless body. It's a bonelessness any good lush knows, along with that particular edge of "if you kill me I may say thank you" exhaustion that comes on the cusp of a hangover gripe.

There's no way Shinsou rented this cabana. The kid might have some cash, but surely Rokurou would have heard some whisper of Shinsou getting some sweet beachfront digs, professional wandering bum he is. What's more—what is with that shirt? Everything about this beautiful scene screams I made a mistake. Before anything else, Rokurou pulls out his phone to snap a quick pic. ]

... Haha. [ stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him with a thud once he's established proof (for the corruption scrapbook, everyone gets one), Rokurou raises his threaded finger and gives it an approving nod. ] I understand completely. The gods wanted me to witness this day.

[ Before pressing his fist to his chin, eyes glistening with approval. ]

Your first bender........ I'm so proud of you.

[formant]

( a mistake? oh, rokurou, you are far too generous to him. what lies before you is the aching, nauseous culmination of many, many mistakes.

the first thing he hears is the shutter click of the communicator's camera. his eyes snap open, his posture shifting with a sudden jolt of guilt-spurred alarm. this is roughly around the same time he's hearing a very familiar laugh as his part-time roommate steps into the room and closes the door behind him. shinsou attempts a growl, but it mostly comes out as a half-choked gurgle. ) Delete it. ( instinctive. reflexive. delete it, or I'll make you, the authoritative tone of his voice seems to threaten, though for some reason the thought of using his quirk right now goes against the grain for him. instead he squints at the silhouette in front of what sunlight still streamed through the sliding glass door, attention catching in a snag on the red string that has suddenly grown very short: going directly from shinsou's hand to his own.

he'd managed to straighten up, no longer using the side of the bed as a make-shift backrest, but... eurgh. he slowly pitches to one side, eventually collapsing onto his shoulder in a heap. curls in a ball. rolls over toward the bed, almost as if he was considering beginning to wriggle underneath it (he definitely is).

why'd the string have to connect to rokurou of all people? it was going to be embarrassing no matter what, but now it's ... awkward in ways only shinsou thinks are awkward, most likely. in comparison to those self-conjured concerns, the link drawing them together just so the guy could bear witness to shinsou scraping the bottom of his parabolic fall from grace was almost preferable. at least he could extract some enjoyment from this, even if shinsou was once again thoroughly entertaining the idea of the earth doing him a favor and opening up to swallow him whole. )

Shut up, ( he groans. from his perspective he can't even see rokurou at this point, but he doesn't have to; the validation pours out of his tone, beaming almost as bright as the morning sun. ) 's nothing to be proud of.

( first one that you've seen, ro... you didn't see the state of him the morning after guanshan had taken him out drinking for the first time and decided to make a make-shift rhode island iced tea out of him. which only meant he should have known better, but... )

4

[mensrea]

[ The burrito-shaped body grunts in response to the toe prodding, curling in on itself more as if to escape the light of day filtering through the kimono jacket. But the damage has been done; Stiles is gradually stirring to life. Long naked legs unfold from where they’re drawn up to his chest, stretching to full length as he works out the kinks in cramped calves and hamstrings. His feet make the mistake of scraping over a clump of beached seaweed in the process, the wet, slimy texture causing him to yelp in a mixture of disgust and fear as he jolts into an upright position, eyes wide open.

The sudden movement is another mistake. A grave one. Rokurou gets no warning as Stiles turns to the space between them and, without further ado, paints it in a spray of bile and alcohol. He’s still wrapped up in the kimono jacket, which somehow successfully escapes the upheaval of his stomach, even as Stiles gags and chokes – and here’s round two, followed by a round three. It’s an impressive amount of puke. Tears are streaming down his face by the time he’s finally done, gasping for breath and dizzily climbing to his feet. Without a word to Rokurou, he shambles over to the ocean’s edge, crouches down, and gargles a handful of water to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Once that’s done, he turns around and squints wearily at the other man.

Even hungover as he is, Stiles’ eyes linger unconsciously at the groin level before jerking back up. ]

Who… Who the hell are you? [ Then, becoming increasingly aware of the situation, he balks. ] Why are we naked!?

[ Rokurou isn’t the only one with memory gaps, apparently. ]

[swordhardy]

[ Oh. Great. Just what every guy needs after a night of hard drinking and probable criminal activity—a puke shower. Truly disgusting. If Rokurou were a gagger or sympathy puker, there'd be no end to the bile onslaught .... but thankfully, being a callous killer gives you a pretty metal stomach when it comes to bodily fluids.

Stiles staggers to the water's edge and the swordsman promptly removes himself from vomit vicinity, drawing to his feet with half a groan and a generous neckrub to work out the kinks from passing out on the ground. The scrub continues to his cheek, palm sliding along his jaw as he blinks wearily into the morning sunlight. When was the last time he was this hung over? This might not be outside of his usual track record .... but it's still unsettling. ]

I know why I'm naked. You're wearing my jacket.

[ Blatantly ignoring the fact that he probably wears more than that on a normal day, but the nudity doesn't bother him much—there's nothing but confidence in his posture as mismatched eyes idly scan their surroundings, with no moves whatsoever to hide any part of his physique. The thought doesn't even cross his mind; if there's anything he's vain about aside from his skills with a blade it's that he's as chiseled as a Greek statue.

Besides—there are more pressing matters at hand. Much more important. ]

I don't see my swords.

[ Or anything else, actually. It's alarmingly desolate around them, void of so much as a stray sock strewn against the sand. Surveillance and assessment of the immediate area finished, the daemon turns his attention back to Stiles—seems that they're equal strangers, because he sure as hell doesn't remember hooking up with this guy. Gaze unwavering, he studies every inch of the other man, running from brown scruff of hair, along jaw, down to dramatic adam's apple, and then flickering south—trying to trigger a memory of last night ... but it all comes up black and hollow.

After running a hand through inky black hair and licking dry lips, Rokurou puffs out a breath. ]

Do you remember anything at all? [ glancing over at the marks along his arm, the swordsman cocks an eyebrow, ] Are you usually a biter?

[ But looking at them again, maybe they aren't actually bitemarks. Messy red spots could be anything. ]

[mensrea]

[ Clutching the kimono jacket around him like the easily scandalized virgin he certainly is not, Stiles eyes the stranger suspiciously. If the impressive musculature hadn’t tipped him off, then the comment about the absent swords certainly would have: The man is some form of warrior. What looks like tribal tattoos crawl up the right side of a ruggedly handsome face from the collarbone. Stiles finds himself doing a doubletake however, sharp gaze snagged on something off about the right eye. Salt-stiffened, messy hair obscures most of it, but the bloody red sclera is just visible through the curtain of bangs. Curiosity coaxes him close, movements like a nervous foal ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

God this guy’s body is something else. ]

I’m definitely a biter, [ he acknowledges wryly, jaw shifting from side to side as if he’s trying to recall setting his teeth in anyone recently. ] Only one way to find out.

[ Head throbbing, he brings up his own forearm and bites down – hard enough to leave an impression behind. Then, using the exercise as an excuse to eat up the remaining distance between them, he raises that arm to Rokurou’s, comparing the imprints. They’re fortunately dissimilar enough that only a single conclusion can be reached. Stiles sighs in relief. ]

Not me. [ Thank god. If he’d been getting that nippy, it would have been a sign of a struggle or, worse, sex. As hot as this stranger is, Stiles really hopes they didn’t casually hook up. It’s just not his style. ] But I think I do remember something.

[ From the dark void of his memories, he can see Rokurou’s chest. The man must have already shed his clothing by that point. Stiles was pinching a nipple, drunkenly muttering about “big mommy milkers.” In the present, his face grows hot with embarrassment. ]

…Never mind. False alarm. I remember nothing. Tit’s fine. It’s fine, I mean.

[ If there is a god, they will smite him where he stands and put him out of his misery now. ]

five.

[hashira]

[Experience doesn't drive his actions, instead frustration is a motivator, once again he has found himself tethered by a red thread. Aware that at the other end he would find another hapless victim of this land making myth come to life, Giyu finds the idea of another encounter exhausting. Apparently, it is a lot more tiring to become acquainted with a stranger than to rush about the islands of Marilla in an attempt to keep his distance. Swift-footed, not only does he make great progress through the beaches but he takes paths that would be hazardous to most, downright inconvenient or ridiculous but necessary to unwind the thread.

Through some beach huts, over them, several times around a beverage stand, back to the beach then all over the shopping center, even areas that would require someone able to breathe underwater, Giyu would not make finding him easy, it was a way to give himself some reprieve from this world's whims. He knows by now the price of freedom came with bonding, whether physically or emotionally, it didn't matter, it just has to happen.

Some solitude is needed to prepare himself.

Even surrounded by crowds, he can still find himself alone, especially when he is so adamant to continue trekking through the island of Filia. Heading to the transportation terminal he weaves through posts and fencing before making a round back to where he began. But he is aware that this cannot go on forever, he is sure the person at the other end seeks their freedom, and so Giyu relents and stops his march allowing himself to be found.

While most of these islands remain lively playgrounds for native and Gembonded alike with festivities still to be found, and naturally people engaging in summertime activities, there are some secluded areas. Giyu finds himself a lonely patch of beach to wait, sitting with his gaze fixed on the horizon, his arms around his knees pulling them close, his figure doesn't stand out. His locks free in the soft breeze barely hidden by the straw hat over his head, he appears much like any other beachgoer. It's his actions that spell he might be a little different. Giyu does not turn despite the sound of approaching steps, his greeting comes in the form of a water bottle set at his side. An offer to an exhausted hunter.]

[swordhardy]

[ This one's a tricky tail. The thread never seems to get smaller, a constant wind of red acting as an endless yellow brick road. No reward only serves to encourage him to continue, stubborn streak growing the clearer it becomes that the other party is running from him. A challenge, ehhh? Rokurou Rangetsu never turns down a challenge, even a silent one.

The hunt continues. Undeterred, Rokurou plucks through beach huts and streets, shopping areas and streets, the samurai hunts. Back to the sands it is—the string finally begins to lose its loops, tighter when he tugs, showing that the distance between him and his quarry has finally shortened. Finally got exhausted, did they? Hueh hueh hueh, mark off another one for a Rangetsu win.

Clad in swimtrunks and a tee, he's looking much different from the last time they met—but there's no change in the wide smile and strut as he follows the lead, breaking into a jog when he spies the straw hat and the final end of the red string of fate. For a while there it felt like it was going to go on forever; daemons have excellent endurance, but even the most patient man's gonna groan about running all over a hot island all day with no reward. ]

A-ha! [ his pleased little crow comes with the stomp of his foot; he stands in front of Giyu with hands squarely on his hips. ] Finally, I found you, you rascal.

[ Giyu......... the fates have not been kind to you............... ]

[hashira]

[The view of the horizon (along with the setting sun) blocked, a shadow cast over him, it takes a moment for his sight to adjust. Giyu raises his hand ever slightly as if to impede whoever has taken the spot before him from coming closer, unnecessary it seems because the same distance remains constant but the familiarity of that voice warns him that this may hold true long. Words are met by a prolonged silence from him, while he may not be uttering a single word there is recognition in his gaze is clear, and the memory of their previous encounter . He has not forgotten the chase, when he lowers his hand upon the sand he begins to push himself back away from Rokurou.

Not expecting to see this face, this person, in actuality Giyu had completely forgotten this man. He didn't even ponder over his absence, for him Rokurou Rangetsu was irrelevant, that is, until now. Now that they are face to face once again, when he is feeling pressed to flee it brought back all the discomfort of that time in the alley but he does recall he managed to make a retreat once, surely he can do that again.

Only a glance at his hand, his pinky, where the thread is tied neatly into a red bow tells him that fleeing would only get him so far for so long.

The reprieve he had given himself would not be enough to handle this, it's a feeling that settles in but at least he has stopped trying to widen the distance between them. He lowers his gaze, then motions towards the water bottle: a peace offering (that will hopefully allow some normality). Assured in that fact that this man would not attempt to engage in battle given the circumstance he braces himself for whatever else will come.]