[ Pain has never held Rokurou back from what he wants. A chuckle blooms in the daemon's throat as it lances across his forearm, splitting flesh and muscle tissue. It rouses the smoggy malevolence that hangs around him, a lumbering creature creaking through a heaving breath, energy sluggishly trying to create sparks. But right now there are no artes available to him; even if there were, he has no blade to channel it through.
Between reaching for what he wants and pulling away, he will always reach. The blade cuts deeper with his forward force toward the other man, beads of brilliant red curving to paint alongside green veining beneath tanned skin. Not an eyebrow twitch or grit of teeth; the clearest mark of his feeling it at all is the enthralled flush that runs along his throat. Beneath a thick cut of dark hair his red eye gleams, prey drive triggered with the man's show of skill.
He takes the slam of knee to his gut. That does make him grunt, but the hit is not without comeuppance. His free arm loops beneath to catch that knee and hold up against himself, solid body creating a snare over the man's thigh. ]
Rokurou—[ sliding a foot for stability, he digs the hand that had yanked forward against Getou's side before slamming his heel into the earth; both of their body weights shift as Rokurou hits his shoulder into that strong chest, trying to throw him down toward the earth, ]—Rangetsu.
[ Ideal if he can make him go flat down, but Rokurou doesn't expect a skilled man to fall so easily. Regardless, he slides back, disregarding the knife in favor of putting a few inches of distance between them. Not that the blade is forgotten—he glances at it from time to time like a dog that knows you've put something it wants within reach. Playing innocent before going for broke.
He raises his arm to judge the wound. Not shallow, but it won't scar. After assessing, the daemon lifts his elbow to lick along the cut, directly meeting the other man's lidded gaze as his tongue flicks upward. There's a moment of thought before he drops that arm and he questions, ]
Exorcist?
[ Before he falls back into a new stance. That scent—had felt familiar. Hints of earth strike nostalgia. Fresh sweat, a rich aroma. The incense, however, still tickles in Rokurou's nose. A nasty blight on an otherwise delicious spice. He does not wait for an answer before surging forward again, light as a sparrow on his feet as he cuts round the grass to go for an upper kick at the side. ]
no subject
Between reaching for what he wants and pulling away, he will always reach. The blade cuts deeper with his forward force toward the other man, beads of brilliant red curving to paint alongside green veining beneath tanned skin. Not an eyebrow twitch or grit of teeth; the clearest mark of his feeling it at all is the enthralled flush that runs along his throat. Beneath a thick cut of dark hair his red eye gleams, prey drive triggered with the man's show of skill.
He takes the slam of knee to his gut. That does make him grunt, but the hit is not without comeuppance. His free arm loops beneath to catch that knee and hold up against himself, solid body creating a snare over the man's thigh. ]
Rokurou—[ sliding a foot for stability, he digs the hand that had yanked forward against Getou's side before slamming his heel into the earth; both of their body weights shift as Rokurou hits his shoulder into that strong chest, trying to throw him down toward the earth, ]—Rangetsu.
[ Ideal if he can make him go flat down, but Rokurou doesn't expect a skilled man to fall so easily. Regardless, he slides back, disregarding the knife in favor of putting a few inches of distance between them. Not that the blade is forgotten—he glances at it from time to time like a dog that knows you've put something it wants within reach. Playing innocent before going for broke.
He raises his arm to judge the wound. Not shallow, but it won't scar. After assessing, the daemon lifts his elbow to lick along the cut, directly meeting the other man's lidded gaze as his tongue flicks upward. There's a moment of thought before he drops that arm and he questions, ]
Exorcist?
[ Before he falls back into a new stance. That scent—had felt familiar. Hints of earth strike nostalgia. Fresh sweat, a rich aroma. The incense, however, still tickles in Rokurou's nose. A nasty blight on an otherwise delicious spice. He does not wait for an answer before surging forward again, light as a sparrow on his feet as he cuts round the grass to go for an upper kick at the side. ]