Do Kuro's Dream of Elderly Sheep

As a general rule, Kuro does n o t imbibe. He drank when he was a younger bun, certainly - by the bottle full. Those were years when he could afford to swerve his motorcycle across the road and around the burrow streets and end up dragging his drunken tail into his home. Of course, it's not that his body has changed significantly, as succubuns are gifted with long and hard to end lives, but it's a mental block! He's old dammit - or he's going to act like it, at least! Ignore the fact that he's not an upstanding model of debauchery to prove that he is a good church attending demon and sin loving bun... He takes his gluttonous urges out in things that aren't mochi and food and drinks that make his stomach hurt. 

However... His living arrangements are a touch different recently. This has thrown a considerable, and considerably annoying, wrench into the side of Kuro's solitary, routine existence. It's not that many weeks now since he found a wandering doll outside of his burrow door, dressed up to the nines with a vacant, melancholic gaze in their eyes and mud cakes on their heels so thick they looked brown and black instead of cream and gold. Kuro is cold, and distant, and mean, and rude... but he isn't terrible. He pulled the doll inside, gave them a bath and a room in his burrow, and even scrubbed their heels until they were pretty and shining again. To help take care of Citronella until they're ready to move out and handle themselves, he's called in someone he hasn't spoken to in ages - his old littermate, Blanche, a very calm and quiet bun - a stark difference from Kuro. 

Mercy makes themselves at home on the Mochi Moon, appearing at Kuro's door with a knock, a basket of mochi, and a very strong insistence that Kuro let them inside so they can celebrate together. Kuro can't exactly say no. He also can't not invite over his other partner, Taro, if he's going to be having an unexpected party. Taro doesn't seem happy about the amount of company Kuro has any more than Kuro does, though Kuro thinks it's because the pride bun has more of a problem with sharing and needing to be the sharpest crayon in any box than it's because Taro doesn't like company. Much like Mercy was so generous, haha..., to provide the party with a gluttonous portion of mochi for each mouth, Taro brings his share of fermented tea-wines for the group to drink. 

Kuro starts slow: one sip, one mochi. And then Mercy bats their eyelashes and brushes their lips against the corner of his mouth and he caves for a second of both. And then Taro pouts at him, crosses his arms, and exclaims that he is certain Kuro won't be able to drink as much as HE can. So Kuro has a third, a fourth, a...

Before he knows it, he's unconscious. He's curled up between Mercy, who fell asleep playing with the white streaks in his hair and the golden rings on his horn, and Taro, who is pressed snug into Kuro's chest, drooling and holding onto his tail like a stuffed toy. 

As a second rule, Kuro does not dream. Not as a metaphor, dreams and hopes for his future, or as his sleeping entertainment. Perhaps it's because he chooses to eat clean and healthy and stay away from the bottle or substances that he hardly dreams... and perhaps it's because he's stubborn enough that he scares the dreams right away - or at least forces himself to forget they happened upon awaking. Tonight, however, with his stomach full of mochi and wine, vivid imagination takes over his brain.

It begins with the sound of motorcycles revving - and it's only through the blur of vivid color streaking around his head that he realizes he is rising one. He sees his old gang members dotted around his sides, each their own blur of new color. One of them turns sharply, wheels screaming against the street, and points in front of them. Facing them at the other end of the street is a site that is more than terrifying for a dreaming old man. Mercy stands at the front of a small, rival gang of buns. Behind them: each of his guests. Mercy, Taro, Citronella, and Blanche each have their hands full with bright white mochi. He might have mistaken them for snowballs on any other day. Mercy doesn't say anything but silently lifts a dainty hand, straightens a finger, and points directly at Kuro. The mochi balls begin flying in his direction, splattering their dough and fillings against the street. 

Kuro screams like a girl. 

The bikers shift gears, turn around, and floor it down the street. They gain considerable ground, almost enough to outrun the group of mochi bandits. The mochi, however, sticks to their wheels and gums them up, making them spin and scream and squeal out of control. Bikers go careening off the road and into the mysterious darkness of a dream, until the only one left remaining is Kuro himself, staring down his two partners and two guests. Taro and Mercy lift big, fat mochi at the same time - and hurl them right toward Kuro's face.

He sits up between the two, causing a disturbed grumble from each sleepy bun, with his forehead glistening with sweat.

"Water," he wheezes. "I need water now. And never. Ever. To each mochi again."