“hah-a-! that's a bit rich coming from you -- last time i did trust you, it went horribly wrong.” not entirely true - her trust in him is blind - but that's how it always goes. @tenkoseiensei plays the cat, and she gets the role of a pathetic mouse for him to poke 'n prod at his leisure. it's habit, she decides - it is habit and nothing more. but their first shared cigarette; how he'd nearly thrown up on her freshly polished shoes, her peculiar fascination with his ever-growing collection of glasses, the countless summer nights spent together ; when their problems shrank to teenage mischief ( ... ) all of it may be just a pantomime for doppelganger to perform, but to shoko, it is the sensation of her heart catching in her throat.
who messes up a microwave, anyways? “are you serious right now?” she purses her lips. “you did. last week. you tried microwaving one of those pre-packaged sweets you always eat and left the plastic on. don't tell me you forgot already.” but her attention is soon drawn back to the limp corpse on the surgical table, sprawled there like meat left to rot. gross, but it's the only comparison her jaded mind offers. “what are your vitamin b-12 and d levels? don't make me draw your blood.”
growing up with someone like gojo satoru - or, in this case, whatever-the-hell-this ridiculous mimicry of him has managed to put together like some well-brewed witch's concoction - will inevitably inure you to the absurd. really, the instinct to question is drowned beneath the incessant hum of the microwave. reflected in the chestnut depths of her eyes is only acceptance now -- the sort you surrender to when there is nothing left to do but give up. and if there is one thing shoko knows ( truly knows ) it is that she gave up a long while ago.
“i asked because i thought it would be fixed by now. clearly i was wrong. does yaga even know?” probably not.
the air in here is sickly and nauseating and it always smells the same, but it could never feel as familiar as this; even if it isn't genuine. shoko doesn't bother moving aside when it gets all up in her space - her sanctuary of bones and flesh to dissect - but she does acknowledge its curiosity.
gloved index finger traces a path from the veiled face down to the pale expanse of the sternum, pressing slightly to the left of the breast. “mhm. i usually save the best for last,” she jokes right back at him in that impossibly dry flourish of hers. it is hard to tell whether she is serious when she gets like this. . . “the heart's still warm when the rest is cold. tender, a little mushy at the center. . . chewy on the outside, but easy to get through. say, i'll chop it up for you to eat with your popcorn. like a salad. or would you prefer the neck? it's crunchier.”
