Note: There was a big ol' inspiration in my head so enjoy this yandere Kazuha. ———————————————————— "指切り"
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Maple eyes bore onto their figure, as frail as a feather, as fragile as glass, as brittle as ceramic. They were like a subject of paintings, masterpieces of art, be it literature, music or crafts, like a waning moon on a cloudless sky. If poems are indeed the best words in the best order, they were beauty incarnate. No words can describe the melodious laughter when they grin, the vibrance of their eyes basking in contentment; definitely, not even his myriad of haikus can indicate such radiance. Y/n, dear Y/n, as delicate as Jasmine vines.
He, Kaedahara Kazuha, was infatuated, very infatuated, yet he never once touched the smooth skin of their hands, never once heard his name on their lips, never once felt the experience of talking to them. They were only seen once, and gone like maple leaves in the fall. To talk to you and convey to you the silently brewing admiration he has for you.
The night was chilly. Shadows lurk in their territory as human sleeps. The adeptus silently watch over them, the yaksha on Mt. Tianheng, observing the dock where he stands. Everything is at momentary peace. Shadow walked the silent pavement, onto a house. It was silent, too silent, in fact, that its figure blended the penumbra of everything in the moon's wake. It slipped through the window, as unseen as the unseen razor, and touched the floorboards with the alarming knowledge of what creeks and what quiets. And the shadow admires the figure under the sheets, tempted to feel the caress of their cheek, the plump of their open lips. His four fingers reaching towards them, yet the shadow ceased. Instead, he did as planned, placing a box on their nightstand before slipping out of the window, and out of the sleeping human's residence, becoming one with the shadows, like nothing happened.
The shadow mumbled before being devoured by the kin shade of the dark alleyway, "Maybe not today, but soon, little firefly."
———————ˋˏ༻✿༺ ˎˊ——————––
The next morning came, and as peaceful as the sun's awakening can be, the sound of screams interrupted the Grieg-esque morning mood. It was as loud as a horror movie, emotions frightened down to the core of an apple. The same vibrant e/c eyes dilated in fear, lips trembling as bile reaches the top of their throat.
On the box was a finger.
A dismembered finger, with old burns, now but a scar, from the base to the tip. The nails were short, yet it was never uprooted. The blood has long dried where it was once connected. Yet, it was wrapped up like a gift, with a pretty bow, and a single sun flower. It was sickening, but his eyes never leave their figure, no matter the expression on their face. Was the raise in their heartbeat a flutter of surprise, or was it a splatter of warnings? Whatever it was, his soft smile remained just as his love for them continue to grow ten fold.
