[ —so there's the line. Didn't require much toeing to find it.
That rapid-fast hand blurs but isn't impossible to follow; too caught too close too interested to pull away, the daemon's smile crooks into a smirk as pointed steel scrapes beneath his chin. His arm's a snatched sacrifice but his tongue's still loose; it curls over his teeth to sweep up smeared blood left to stain. A dour copper, off from how it tastes when licked from a freshly gouged wound. ]
Don't blame me for your lack of forethought.
[ Mean to mock a sick man for not considering consequences, but amiable and petty are attributes that clasp and lace like lovers' fingers. It's a mildly spiteful jab back at that livewire toss—for mentioning his name when none of those feelings belong in the palms of an interloper.
With his chin pressed up at a new angle, the dark fringe of Rokurou's bangs splits and parts. What's seemingly tattoo isn't tattoo at all—monstrous black stain mottles the right half of his face with a rough, broken texture. It's a matte carapace that crawls over cheek and forehead, making seamless connection into scalp to blend into silky black hair. Veining down from his hairline are crags of ruby, old blood split across unfortunate terrain in eerie fingers that seep down toward where an eyebrow should be.
Where that veining begins to taper off is a brilliant red eye set upon a black sclera sea. A bright, crimson hue with black rings laced into the color—they shift, a slow spiral as his vision focuses in to accommodate the lack of distance between them, close enough now that their breath mingles. Whereas gold remains friendly ease, that red is nothing but detached calculation. ]
Do you know shogi? [ a seemingly random question while glancing down the sharp edge of a blade, ] Been a long while since I had a game. Play me sometime, that'll make us even.
[ Itachi is air and ash—Rokurou is gravel and brimstone. ]
That's all I can think of wanting from you.
[ Right now is the implicit lure in his tone, a sultry hint against sulfur as he makes use of the hand freed when their dance changed tempo to press the edge of his obsidian kukri against the ninja's clothed rib. A romantic position between the fourth and fifth, though killing intent doesn't resonate through Synchrony. ]
[He has stared into the faces of enough monsters to feel no ill ease in this, scrutinizing those corrupt black lines like a living creature fused to skin, uninterrupted, unlike the tattoo he's seen on Guanshan's arm because this one is real. Beneath the perceptive glare of Sharingan, he sees the source of that ominous, oppressive, lurking darkness in the daemon. Perhaps not the full writ story—perhaps only the middle, or the beginning, or the end. Yet it is enough to witness physical evidence of what must be the yaksha right in front of him. Breathing close, breath a humid gust at his chin, gaze layered as a muddy pool iced over for winter. A tongue that had licked up his own blood in a gesture made almost vulgar. Mysterious and dangerous and unknown. He does not have enough information.
Severing the heavy hang of eye contact only long enough to glance down and confirm the presence of a blade at his ribs—an intimacy of violence threatening to slide right between delicate bone, into sick lungs—Itachi remains still for several seconds. He does not possess the stamina yet for a fight, even armed with Sharingan, even after this thirsty Synchrony. Neither is there any sense this man intends to strike a first blow unless properly motivated.
Shogi.
An odd and almost absurd request to make. Mild, unassuming. Why then does he feel as though he's lost his hold on this encounter, if he ever had it at all?]
... Yes, I know it. [When had he last played? It seems a lifetime ago. Perhaps against his father, or Shisui, while they were both still alive.] Fine.
[If that's all you want. It is his nature to suspect ulterior motive, even now, eyeing Rokurou with communicable distrust. Then the kunai is pointed down; his hand draws away, tucks it into a hidden pocket. And he makes to step back—demanding release from physical touch.]
[ The kunai scrapes his chin lightly as it draws away, leaving only the slight rub of red irritation from its point. With it goes his own dagger, slid back into the hilt in tandem.
It's a shame to give up the Synchrony. In all the pain there's something to relish. Full body aches that stretch with each breath, exhaustion from coming back from starvation's brink, a fluctuation of intensity and restriction. Restraint that the daemon wants to break, hungry to soak in the lashes of what Itachi had finally given him a taste of at the end. A familiar and strange darkness he wants to plunge his hands into and have ooze out from between his fingers. Keenly human.
The craving to crack it open and expose its underbelly doesn't fade when they step apart. Synchrony's remnants only remain for a few moments after, a fading ghost flush across his skin before it's gone. But he lets it go without complaint, offering another genial smile at that curt agreement. ]
Great. I look forward to it.
[ If that's all he says as though he hadn't been the leech. Regardless, Rokurou shrugs, stepping around the ninja toward deeper, thicker forest. He has no interest in following to make sure Itachi makes it out okay, or even offering to get him there. If he's weak, he'll die.
Ah, but Rokurou doesn't think he will. It'll be a fun game of shogi. ]
Until then, Itachi.
[ And just like that he's gone, a quick step before melting into shadow. ]
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no subject
That rapid-fast hand blurs but isn't impossible to follow; too caught too close too interested to pull away, the daemon's smile crooks into a smirk as pointed steel scrapes beneath his chin. His arm's a snatched sacrifice but his tongue's still loose; it curls over his teeth to sweep up smeared blood left to stain. A dour copper, off from how it tastes when licked from a freshly gouged wound. ]
Don't blame me for your lack of forethought.
[ Mean to mock a sick man for not considering consequences, but amiable and petty are attributes that clasp and lace like lovers' fingers. It's a mildly spiteful jab back at that livewire toss—for mentioning his name when none of those feelings belong in the palms of an interloper.
With his chin pressed up at a new angle, the dark fringe of Rokurou's bangs splits and parts. What's seemingly tattoo isn't tattoo at all—monstrous black stain mottles the right half of his face with a rough, broken texture. It's a matte carapace that crawls over cheek and forehead, making seamless connection into scalp to blend into silky black hair. Veining down from his hairline are crags of ruby, old blood split across unfortunate terrain in eerie fingers that seep down toward where an eyebrow should be.
Where that veining begins to taper off is a brilliant red eye set upon a black sclera sea. A bright, crimson hue with black rings laced into the color—they shift, a slow spiral as his vision focuses in to accommodate the lack of distance between them, close enough now that their breath mingles. Whereas gold remains friendly ease, that red is nothing but detached calculation. ]
Do you know shogi? [ a seemingly random question while glancing down the sharp edge of a blade, ] Been a long while since I had a game. Play me sometime, that'll make us even.
[ Itachi is air and ash—Rokurou is gravel and brimstone. ]
That's all I can think of wanting from you.
[ Right now is the implicit lure in his tone, a sultry hint against sulfur as he makes use of the hand freed when their dance changed tempo to press the edge of his obsidian kukri against the ninja's clothed rib. A romantic position between the fourth and fifth, though killing intent doesn't resonate through Synchrony. ]
no subject
Severing the heavy hang of eye contact only long enough to glance down and confirm the presence of a blade at his ribs—an intimacy of violence threatening to slide right between delicate bone, into sick lungs—Itachi remains still for several seconds. He does not possess the stamina yet for a fight, even armed with Sharingan, even after this thirsty Synchrony. Neither is there any sense this man intends to strike a first blow unless properly motivated.
Shogi.
An odd and almost absurd request to make. Mild, unassuming. Why then does he feel as though he's lost his hold on this encounter, if he ever had it at all?]
... Yes, I know it. [When had he last played? It seems a lifetime ago. Perhaps against his father, or Shisui, while they were both still alive.] Fine.
[If that's all you want. It is his nature to suspect ulterior motive, even now, eyeing Rokurou with communicable distrust. Then the kunai is pointed down; his hand draws away, tucks it into a hidden pocket. And he makes to step back—demanding release from physical touch.]
If that's all, I can make it back on my own now.
no subject
It's a shame to give up the Synchrony. In all the pain there's something to relish. Full body aches that stretch with each breath, exhaustion from coming back from starvation's brink, a fluctuation of intensity and restriction. Restraint that the daemon wants to break, hungry to soak in the lashes of what Itachi had finally given him a taste of at the end. A familiar and strange darkness he wants to plunge his hands into and have ooze out from between his fingers. Keenly human.
The craving to crack it open and expose its underbelly doesn't fade when they step apart. Synchrony's remnants only remain for a few moments after, a fading ghost flush across his skin before it's gone. But he lets it go without complaint, offering another genial smile at that curt agreement. ]
Great. I look forward to it.
[ If that's all he says as though he hadn't been the leech. Regardless, Rokurou shrugs, stepping around the ninja toward deeper, thicker forest. He has no interest in following to make sure Itachi makes it out okay, or even offering to get him there. If he's weak, he'll die.
Ah, but Rokurou doesn't think he will. It'll be a fun game of shogi. ]
Until then, Itachi.
[ And just like that he's gone, a quick step before melting into shadow. ]