#indawns

   behind him, genji's voice flickers that same instinctive alarm of defensiveness cloud only recently became aware of.  “  what ?  hate it ?  i don't hate it !  ”  again, it's an instinct, all the frowning and, on an equally noticeable degree, pouting. he's still kneeling after the cat left to hide behind genji's leg, remaining defeated and .  .  . a little jealous. but jealousy isn't the way he wants to maneuver the slums——— and, distantly, he remembers the fair share of envying he did as a kid. so, his frown dissipates along with the sigh he lets out. alright. better now.

  (  what is it with genji inadvertently inspiring him to actually think, anyway ?  )

@indawns​ asked:

“Ah...Nanao-chan, why not celebrate with me? You’re old enough for a drink, but we’ve never shared one! I would consider that a shame, wouldn’t you?” from kyoraku!

“... I suppose.” It was odd, not being able to find an excuse for once. Nanao knew the other was smart, but he always allowed her to artfully dance her way out of such things with words of responsibility or something of the sort; the fact that she couldn’t now meant he knew she needed this more than she required her careful introspectection she seemed to favour. Perhaps he could read it in the subtle tremor of slender fingers as they had passed out paperwork all day, or the darting of her violet gaze as anyone approached. It was a hard day for her, even though nothing of interest or particular stress had occured - though that was how that horrible tangible anxiety was sometimes, rearing its ugly head despite everything that assured her otherwise. 

She was secretly grateful for the older man’s perceptiveness. 

      𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝗸𝗲𝘆,   𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗶𝘁.   the decision had been simple,   born out of a notion that had not required much thought.   reckless haste.   tarnished renown.   fleeting devotion.   to throw abarai renji within a cell   &   have him sit on his own wounds had not earned a sliver of sympathy.   mere moments before,   slate grey hues were witness   to the quiet submission   the childhood friend of the rokubantai’s fukutaichō had shown.

      the syllables upon the lips of kuchiki byakuya had been cast   without revealing a single shade   of his thoughts.   none would be privy to quiet contemplation,   lest kira be given   𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲.   the captain would only present him with frigid insouciance,   gaze not cast on the wounded subordinate at his feet.   the statement was sharp.

@indawns​ said:

“ i’m not afraid to die, just wish i could live a little first. ” from kyoraku!

the concept of death is not something foreign, even to soul reapers themselves. it always intrigued her — how the strong ones portray cowardice or regret before the possibility of losing their lives. as for the specific man who happens to be uttering those words, regret sounds like a sentiment he feels at the moment.

bizarre. he always seemed like the person who made sure to enjoy life first, duties second. what could possibly trigger this reaction ?

@indawns​ said: “ he looked at me like i was stupid. i’m not stupid. ”

“ ... that’s just how he is sometimes ”

           it’s said quietly, reverently. he gets a look from over the cyborg’s shoulder, from a man with a neon red braid and a glowering, withering stare. words are shared between them over the expanse of the hallway, come get it. silent, taunting glares. the cowboy looks away. 

“ .... he’s taking... everything a little hard ”

like you’re not? like you’re immune from this grief? take stock again, kid. 

            “ you ain’t stupid, shimada. you ain’t even deservin’ of it ”