[ confidence was never the question, but now he's certain he's thoroughly assessed where this... man currently stands in the hierarchy — in the graces of natural (and supernatural) world order. even as the city hollows out a portion of whatever it is that fills them, a ratio is left behind. is it a fair, evenly distributed, egalitarian thing? that remains a mystery, but awareness into one's own jug is a precept of jujutsu, and Getou knows how much his has been poured and cored out: enough juice left to make him an exquisite sorcerer still. ]
[ this man beneath him, with all of his attention drawn to one intense focal point of gold, feels split down the middle by something unseen, but gravitational. the swirl of it draws him in, and he can just make out how curse energy is redistributed in a jagged, broken way before reaching a smooth, swirling epicenter — and how strange to see it maintain its location here, instead of the usual chakral meridians and spinal system. there's something special about it... ]
[ and for all the lack there is to do (and all the violence he hasn't tasted in just a little too long), his interest fixes on it with receptive curiosity— ]
[ the knife is sharp enough to cut instead of tear, separating the layer of his sweatpants and splitting skin enough that he feels warmth seeping down his leg, stickier than the humidity of the gleaning sweat dappling his own skin. he tilts his head in consideration, but his dark eyes stay so very still, keeping the daemon fully in his scope, lenses widening into a close-up. he is receptive to praise and empathetic to the weak — so long as they aren't fucking monkeys — and their sense of justice. ]
Thank you. I also feel it wasn't a complete waste of time. [ he doesn't move, balanced patiently with just enough pressure of his toes on the man's sternum. Rokurou might count himself lucky in that his shoes look less than days old, primarily dirtied by the soil of his hike getting here. without the presence of the simian like in this city, things become much more sanitary, don't they? ] Please remove the knife. I'll let you invite me out for a drink.
[ full of himself, isn't he? maybe a tickle at the back of Rokurou's neck knows why, the ancient way every animal can feel when it's being watched. ]
no subject
[ this man beneath him, with all of his attention drawn to one intense focal point of gold, feels split down the middle by something unseen, but gravitational. the swirl of it draws him in, and he can just make out how curse energy is redistributed in a jagged, broken way before reaching a smooth, swirling epicenter — and how strange to see it maintain its location here, instead of the usual chakral meridians and spinal system. there's something special about it... ]
[ and for all the lack there is to do (and all the violence he hasn't tasted in just a little too long), his interest fixes on it with receptive curiosity— ]
[ the knife is sharp enough to cut instead of tear, separating the layer of his sweatpants and splitting skin enough that he feels warmth seeping down his leg, stickier than the humidity of the gleaning sweat dappling his own skin. he tilts his head in consideration, but his dark eyes stay so very still, keeping the daemon fully in his scope, lenses widening into a close-up. he is receptive to praise and empathetic to the weak — so long as they aren't fucking monkeys — and their sense of justice. ]
Thank you. I also feel it wasn't a complete waste of time. [ he doesn't move, balanced patiently with just enough pressure of his toes on the man's sternum. Rokurou might count himself lucky in that his shoes look less than days old, primarily dirtied by the soil of his hike getting here. without the presence of the simian like in this city, things become much more sanitary, don't they? ] Please remove the knife. I'll let you invite me out for a drink.
[ full of himself, isn't he? maybe a tickle at the back of Rokurou's neck knows why, the ancient way every animal can feel when it's being watched. ]