[ sorry, sevenfold. it keeps going. the burn of the thing sears itself into his mucus membranes, paints itself over his tongue and for a hectic, hacking moment, choso can’t see worth shit, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but cOUGH hard enough to wrack his shoulders and set his odango to shaking, like shrubbery in high winds.
when he’s caught some semblance of breath, choso clutches the deathstick tightly, almost scrunching it between his fingers as he turns watery, stinging eyes up at the meatwall with an almost accusatory look. ]
He had such terrible tastebuds. You have horrible tastebuds. That was horrible.
4/4
when he’s caught some semblance of breath, choso clutches the deathstick tightly, almost scrunching it between his fingers as he turns watery, stinging eyes up at the meatwall with an almost accusatory look. ]
He had such terrible tastebuds. You have horrible tastebuds. That was horrible.