[ the soft laugh it inspires him is like an exhale of old, dusty air — something authentic that catches him off guard, the first gasp of catacomb opening. he didn't realize how much he'd been craving a touch that's gentle, unafraid, without hesitation. when she goes in to knock her little button tip against his fingers, he laughs, parting them open oh so viciously and pantomiming a serpent that's found its meal. contrary to the story, there's no 'saving' what it's found, Getou's fingers harmlessly pinching: ]

Mwoar-ar-rar. Yeah? No, that's probably not a very good name.

[ that, he works out for himself. the literal concept is a bit foreign to him; sure, each curse spirit he takes in might become a part of his energy, a part of him, but he's no more named the limbs he still has or the one he'd lost. the arsenal in his belly has no more differentiation between it than right arm, left leg do. aside from that, it'd only be good on a plaque for a torii, the closest thing a local deity gets to an epitaph. ]

You decide! That's probably— oh. [ oh. that's got some black on it... hm. well, he's eaten worse, and she's giving it her all, so... ] ...Wanna know the secret to cooking absolutely anything?

[ he doesn't scold her; he doesn't even interrupt or intervene to take over himself, in spite of the slightly crispy scent in the air. she's learning! ]