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｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻° ‘ YOU HESITATED BY FOUR SECONDS, @antinomos ‘ she’s quick to peer over her shoulder, momentarily stopping whatever fluttering it is, eyes moving to watch him curiously. “Grandmaster, that isn’t like you, are the labs truly that off putting?”
s.c. 🌸
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𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 // @antinomos
‘ THEY SAID THERE WOULD BE AN AUTHOR HERE, I’m suspecting it’s you? I thought most were somewhat plain looking, turns out I was wrong, you look too cool ‘
𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 to comprehend his circumstances . first , that he was bound ; captive , hostage , in more than just metaphor and in the bastard charon blood , struggling but just once against his bindings and finding them stubborn enough to resist whatever he now was . second was that he was without trial or jury . no audience , only warden apparent , a flash of cloth white against a black backdrop . third , which pools thick and viscous with dread like spilled ink from the mind , escapes him quietly in query as his head drops -------- it falls and hangs as a dog's . ' [ ... ] how many was it ? ' how many had he injured , had he torn apart and killed this time ? ' i implore you . the punishment does not matter . pray tell , please , what's the count ? ' // @antinomos
𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒄, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓𝒔, one singular brow raising in curiosity. Ascending from the stairwell, the latch to his dominion opens, hands that are clothed in white, rubbing away the residual of herbs, sinew, whatever lingered as he tucked the fabric away. The crackling hearth gave room to an aromatic flavor, pungent in the air with citrus undertones, though it lacked the airy nature he was accustomed to when the wind changed & the cage bird once more ran back to safety. Broad shoulders falling in disappointment, a father’s lament of bitterness when he frets for safety, others deem it over coddling to which he merely retorts; lest they forget the balance remains in their palms. Family was such a fickle notion for Itsuki, a long lost relative, distant cousins, whatever it may be - he hadn’t the time or need. Even those within the inner circle knew to play their role diligently, revolve, instead of grow.
“You make quite an entrance, @antinomos” the Old Viper speaks, calm with a lilt that dances in cadence despite the roughness from years long gone. He sits, beckons for tea, herbal to relish in good health & grilled mochi, an indulgence even now. “Shared ancestry, our blood moves in one but branches in different directions” inquisitively, amber eyes linger, studying with an acute precision till he laughs. “Not a single drop of white on your head, born not of the snow, yet powerful all the same. Still, we are kin, so speak swiftly”
s.c.
&. 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐬* 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. [ … ] accepting !
@antinomos asked : ❛ how long has it been, huh? a year? ❜ // hisagi !
“Maybe more.”
After all, what is a year to Shinigami?
Naoto smiles her most pleasant smile, reaching for a stack of papers to bring to her chest. While it’s hard to say whether Naoto has held any remarkable relationships in her days as a student, Hisagi’s kindness stands out the most in her memory - it's duly returned, being the girl that Naoto is.
She'd been far too caught up in her personal quest for retribution - she almost didn't recognize him with his greeting. It takes her a moment to attach name to face – and when she does, the tension in her shoulders eases. Friend. At least, the closest thing she's come to one. Would he think the same – that she's a friend? “How are you? I mean, besides this.”
Naoto has never been good at small talk - or … any talk for that matter. But she tries. She gestures to the copies of the Seireitei Bulletin that she's picked up and the stacks that remain.
“And how's your Captain? Does he treat you well?”
Naturally, they've separated since their graduation from the Shinigami Academy - Naoto honestly didn't think she'd be reacquainted with any of her classmates like this again, but it's not unwelcome, especially with the way her life has been since their graduation… but she could use a friend.
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' oi , that thing you're holding . hand it over . ' // @antinomos
THE SCREEN FLASHES, THE UNMARKED NUMBER, CALLER ID CANNOT BE RETRIEVED. He pockets it, without a second to spare tossing the device haphazardly into his jacket, a spare phone, burner most likely. Like most things in Satoru’s life, there is often an unseen force, the side he conceals from those close to him && even himself. Various IDs located in his wallet, phone numbers to reach him that will never connect to a personal line, he ponders how long they will keep playing this game. “It’s late, @antinomos” slithering, the lilt of his voice is frigid feigning indifference, designer glasses that slide down the bridge of his nose as he tuts.
A creature that rarely sleeps, haunting the streets && soaking in whatever neon lights remain awake in the midst of the perpetual darkness, until the morning comes. “What’s so important we need to speak now? I was having dinner, you could have joined me” a break in the virtues of piety, fatty tuna && jasmine tea, an aromatic combination but enjoyable. The half smirk finds him as he tuts, “Or did you forsake good sushi on your path to enlightenment?”
"The ghost writer returns! Did you miss me that much, @antinomos? I never asked if you had any other clientile that you visit or am I just that special?"
