Cut Me Clean

No One Likes Us Anyway

"So maybe when we're old and dead. Then we can all hang out. But probably not."

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It's pathetic. Pathetic for a man like Muzan, to be petrified by the one that works for him. It's irritating. But Douma, he can't feel any of that. And it pisses him the fuck off. He doesn't think there is any way for the media to find distaste in this blond man with the sexy smile. One who is everything, won't be parted from the opposite of that same epitome. Nothing, nothing is only for everything. He'll just have to find that nothing. That pitiable little nobody he'll have so much fun breaking. At least, not unless he himself is broken before any of that comes around.

That thought makes his guts wretch and flutter. It's almost satisfying. Almost. At least in his mind, his weak mind that would be better off completely and entirely shut down. Dead. Oh, but he won't be doing that any time soon. He has a career. A reputation and women love him. Actually, everyone loves him. There isn't a single person out there who does anything more than slander the poor thing if they really do find the way to hate him. Nothing else.

He is perfect. The embodiment of whatever anyone could want. Want, need, take. He is a desire. Not desirable, desired, he is desire. That's on period. The fans can explain this extremely well, despite them lacking more brain cells than their own obsession. It's sweet of them all to think so highly of someone who shouldn't even be in this high position, he supposes.

It makes him roll his eyes. Something he doesn't do very often. Unless it actually makes sense. This, does not make sense in his already basically nonsensical mind. Sorry, it's the truth. Anyone who is anyone can agree with the truth. Especially a truth so stupidly obvious. With an asshole like Douma, and a bitch like Muzan. Pitiful, really. Paired with the voices they grant for their audience, the acting; even if they aren't even proper performers. Not by a shred.

Though that facade is the only thing keeping them all afloat with the fame. The fame that is better off depicted as ego torture. Ego torture is real, genuine torture to a pretty man like Douma. Douma, is a nice example of confidence. Well, half lacking the other half being pumped full of nerve. A bit too pumped full? Yeah. Totally. His ego is as high as dick. High as him after a show. What can he say? They all like to smoke. He is a terrible parent. Perchance.

Gyutaro and Daki find too much comfort with him to label him as terrible. They are both adults anyway. Douma had adopted them not that long ago. Actually, he hadn't even adopted the two little fuckers. He saw them out in the middle of the road one winter night way back and again, being the generous and beautiful man he was and still is, he took them in. He can't remember it exactly, oddly. He can remember the sharpness of the boy, and the sobs of the girl he carried on his back. The utterly poor, poor things. Figuratively and literally. The scent of ash, coming from the frail bodies. He won't be asking the reason for that anymore.

It's not like there aren't times where he's an absolute idiot. There is actually a lot of those times. Moments where it's not just a phenomenon and he is drunk out of his mind. Throwing up, crying, and then sleeping. Sleeping is an inevitable addiction that he barely does anymore. Although it's quite negative, it's not all bad. Since the shadows beneath his eyes adds to the look. Sleep deprivation, but still sexy. Still a desire nobody will ever not want to have all for themselves in their greedily gay hands.