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Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. - sherliam
he’d call this a poor excuse of a foxhunt, if he’d intended to hunt william at all.
what you are is chasing skirts, Mycroft had said, mistaking alliance for attraction: Irene — who is no more, had never been source of interest, much less temptation. but Mycroft had been right about one thing: he’d been bewitched, possessed by something unearthly and older than mankind. it festered up on his bones, left no trace of his original components. it’s the damnedest thing, really, to want something that eludes you, runs from your grasp. he’d seen it fall through his fingers like quicksand.
right now, it’s all entirely his. petty possessiveness, maybe, but he’s long since accepted that this is what william provoked in him: he brought out the madman in him, blood dripping into water, and the mixture had become an unholy union of good and bad. william may be a sinner of his own kind, and sherlock had chosen to play the role of his juror, butcher and the devil if he must. sherlock shifts in place, elbows placed languidly on his knees. from the bench, the city’s buildings almost look like bricks on the playground. william’s still quiet, as if waiting for his response.
“since the bridge, this is the most honest thing you’ve told me. excluding the confession from a moment’s ago, of course.” he jabs slightly at william’s pride, maybe payback for the scare of walking up into an empty room and messy sheets. satisfied by the remark, sherlock smoothly waltzes back into the next sentence, “you know exactly what i want. i’m betting a big coin that you’ve known for a long time, and still you denied me it above everything else. it’s late to ask me to hold back, knowing how far it’s taken me — us for that matter.”
a smirk escapes him, throwing a sideways glance at him. william’s hair glows under the sunlight, and though his face is partly scarred, none of the beauty that’d drawn him in from the start like a moth to a flame is marred. before he can stop himself, two fingers take a stand of gold-bathed hair, places it aside to take a long, good look of those features. yes, the face is a lure, and the mind behind it even more so. “it’s you.”
“what i want, i mean. it’s you, liam.”
@cursedfell
❛ you've broken me. all i can think about is you. ❜ sherliam
“then don’t think.”
voice lulls the despairing pleas that came in between their pressed mouths, seeking each other’s warmth, hungry for a taste of the other. sherlock’s finger traces a line across the fine curve of william’s cheekbones, down his jawline, committing to memory every little detail. it’s not nearly enough, he thinks.
haunting william’s every thought is the beginning - breaking him is beyond his intentions, but creation doesn’t love stagnancy, nothing is created from the static. for there to be something to change, a body has to be broken beforehand, split into smaller components, rearranged and treasured, and who else is better at dismantling layers upon layers of facade than a detective smitten by the temptation of mystery? shrouded in these lies, william’s become something even sweeter, addictive like no other.
sherlock’s mind wanders, blue sapphire meeting ruby-tinted eyes. “ well - can’t say it bothers me, having every bit of you, including your thoughts. would love to listen what’s inside that head of yours. is it something you can give me, liam? ”
to purposefully goad him into something harsher feels like a poor call, and still, the gnawing feeling in his chest doesn’t fade away. instead, the pace quickens, his stomach shrinks with something akin to desire, the kind that leaves a man hovering close to the edge, stalked by the abyss. he wants to take the leap, give it all in, to be engulfed by nothing else but the depths of william’s thoughts. a selfish parts wants it to belong only to him. he lets it spill all at once: his mouth returns to its previous position, sucking at william’s lower lip, hands occupied with unfastening william’s belt, then his own.
he takes both their sensitive points in a grip.
it’s quick, insistent. he’s got none of the care and patience that distinguishes william’s gait, the way he crafts his plans; sherlock is aware of the chaos, the force that makes the house of cards crumble. william gasps beneath him, their bodies finding the perfect rhythm between fluid riding and heavy pressure as he pushes william further down into the mattress. the sun’s all set now, leaving only darkness in its absence. the night gives them privacy, bad deeds done in secret but there’s nothing sacrilegious about this. william is the closest thing to heaven sherlock’s ever had, if there was a God at all.
“come on, liam. be good and say my name. you’ve been way too quiet for someone who’s supposedly thinking about nothing else but me. show me. tell me how much you want it.”
@cursedfell
✨HE IS SO PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL✨
You’re lonely too. / from nanami to gojo!
deathless ♚ sentence meme // @heartsbind
is it self-projection or have the sleepless nights become obvious?
satoru would love to make the bet, but even if his peers believe so little of himself and his emotional intelligence, sense wills him to keep the idea to himself. nanami looks tired - worn out, more like. though the other man has lapsed into silence, satoru started to realize that perhaps what he searched for, when coming here and speaking the observation aloud to satoru instead of continuing the avoidant game, wasn’t exactly a particular response but the company.
‘ nice observation, nanamin. ’ something tells him that he should laugh it off, brush away the tension. he doesn’t. instead he rolls his weight on two heels, hands in pockets. past and present entwine: the corridors, their old seats, a vacant room, white tiles in the cold baths. he’d underestimated the weight of solitude, the sinking feeling in his stomach and that the bigger the absence, the higher the leap. the world moved forward, earth continued its cicle, but the two of them had left some part of themselves behind, never to be retrieved. lost forever.
he tries not to think about it.
he tries not to be swept by the current.
kill me if you want.
‘ well, i can’t speak for the both of us, but it’s hard to imagine a sorcerer that doesn’t feel one bit lonely. objectively speaking, we’re a minority amongst the population. ’ a small laugh follows. satoru shifted from his position, his head against the wall, contemplative. ‘ i know a thing or two about the consequences of isolation, so make sure to chat with me, OK? ( peace sign ) we can exchange line stickers. ’
‘ no one should feel alone. ’
he’d known grimmjow’s mouth to be full of needles, ready to be spat. patience begins to waver. it had, perhaps, collapsed even earlier, when the scarce distance had been narrowed, when his kick had connected with taut muscle. or maybe a more primal part of him - the monster that constructed him - isn’t quite so averse to giving in to his desires, or the temptation that presents before his eyes.
the sully of lord aizen’s name gives him leverage. the heel that’d dug itself into grimmjow’s groin pierces deeper still. ‘ you’re crossing the limits, grimmjow. what exactly do you wish for, running your mouth like this? what else if not to be punished. that, i can give you. ’
it’s within my power, anger is foreign, but he understands discipline. if lord aizen asked… what are the boundaries to hierarchy? ulquiorra couldn’t remember the last time he’d received orders that rose doubts. perhaps. perhaps not. as long as it’s necessary. it’s pointless. it’s dark, the only source of light comes from the partitions near the tall ceiling, gray moonlight. an appropriate place for grimmjow to confront his feelings, to be taught. a place to be cornered.
this was not supposed to happen.
hands on hips, fabric moved down and teeth around sensitive skin - grimmjow is as fast as he fights, and though ulquiorra could’ve dodged the action, something hooks him in place. the two of them, ulquiorra staring down at the other arrancar in their perfect isolation. there’s nothing between them but the empty air and silence that no longer than a second is all but devoured: grimmjow’s teeth gnaw at his hip-bone, claws tearing their way in, where there should be tender skin, had they been human. but they are not. ulquiorra’s eyes flare open, a moment of confusion, evaluation - it would be a lie to say that he’d been unaware, that he hadn’t seen beyond the goading, the circling like two predators testing the limits of their territories.
‘ grimmjow, you — ’ ulquiorra whispers through gritted teeth, earning him little. his body tenses with anticipation, watching with rapt attention as his shaft disappears inside grimmjow’s mouth, teeth pressing at parts that he hadn’t know could respond in that way to the rough treatment. everything sounds loud, even louder in the silence. the wetness of it. their gasps. white noise pounding and unforgiving in his head.
the sudden closeness astounded him, only momentarily. pride, as he wields it, is sharp, like the edge of a sword. his hands grip at grimmjow’s hair, forcing him into stillness, ‘ is this what you wanted? is this your idea of what punishment should be, because it is not if you’re enjoying it. ’, and presses forward, fingers tight, the almost urge to shove, to savor. to hurt, to break. to destroy.
ㅤㅤㅤIN HUECO MUNDO - THERE ARE NO GENTLE TOUCHES, and among the espada - this rings especially true. they were primitive creatures in their own right, boiled down to their singular aspects and governed entirely by those. grimmjow was a being of destruction in all he did - all he felt, for in pursuit of whatever feeling or fight had caught his attention, the arrancar would raze the world to the ground, and then himself in the process. he supposes it might be similar to ulquiorra - but with grimmjow, at least his destruction wrought joy to the marrow of his bones. at least he felt complete when pain crackled through his body and he saw his efforts rewarded in depthless, emerald gaze - saw the reflection of himself crazed and hungry and...
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ hah! ❞ he can't help it - the indignant laugh that leaves him, the startled noise of outright surprise. it's like catching the scent of blood in the water. fresh ichor scattered across the sands. he feels his mouth salivate, feels every predatory instinct hone in on the man above him, even as bones grind beneath his touch, even as his jaw aches. he just purrs louder, and louder, and louder - and skates that feline rough tongue between the bat bastard's elegant fingers, and sucks.
ㅤㅤㅤnext thing he knows, he's own his back, staring up at him, stomach smarting.
ㅤㅤㅤyet somehow - grimmjow doesn't look that angry. instead - he looks smug. were his tail out, it might have been swaying with delight. ulquiorra only gets the benefit of his bright eyed stare though, the amused curl of his lips, and the way sharp black claws rake into stone flooring, cracking the tile beneath them. ❝ you've never done this before, have you? ❞ grimmjow sounds positively elated actually, especially as the fourth looms over him - all monochrome colors and depressed, empty gaze. his hands are surprisingly alive, the sensation almost sensuous and he's not above baring his throat a bit further, and also not above another jolted out purr.
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ i don't think that's what you're actually interested in right now, dumbass. ❞ there it is again - that permeable smugness, and grimmjow is lightning quick, snapping a hand upwards to quite blatantly rest upon the heat of his companion's crotch. ❝ never fucked, ulquiorra? never leaned into anything carnal with another arrancar? ❞ as grimmjow speaks, his grip tightens - dangerous and divine all at once, ❝ guess i shouldn't be surprised. aizen isn't telling you to do it so why would you? ❞ his fangs glint in the night then, and the espada raises onto one elbow - the inviting dip of tongue over a bloodied canine, ❝ c'mon. ❞ he purrs again, ❝ come at me again. i wanna see what you really want to do to me. ❞
truth be told, this is the first time he’s ever been faced with the question. brows rising in surprise, all that liu xiao can do is listen attentively, his eyes catching glimpses of fangs beneath saccharine lips. he returns the smile, ‘ all those examples can be attained simply. money, pleasure, violence; they’re all corporeal in a way. what i seek is… well, let’s just say that it can’t be grazed with your fingertips. not in the physical sense anyways. ’
no other humans around, the privacy that the room offers is welcomed. something about the dark incites truths, like the thrill before the leap down the waterfall. it lures you in, magnetic temptation. he feels a similar pull from vein’s words, just for that moment. serenity shrouds his expression, fingers idly tapping at the bar stool behind his back, where he leans.
vein watched him with a fierce stare. something about the stare makes his skin crawl, even after all this time, like being gutted alive, needles lined up across the wings of a butterfly for display. he’d seen him push a knife inside a man’s stomach, coming back bloodied and reeking of death, and his eyes had been exactly the same as they were now.
when vein gestures him closer, his first instinct is to stay, but decides to humor him, slow gait driving him closer, enough so that when he glanced down, vein’s face was just a dip away from his own face. through the narrow space, he can sense the vacancy become filled with his warmth, danger, an invitation that he deliberately ignores.
‘ you sound confident… thinking that i will tell you without receiving something in exchange. a truth for another truth. ever played truth or dare? i was never fond of it, growing up, but i've come to like it. ’
gravity makes his sunglasses slide off from their place, his hand moving to take them between two fingers. their absence, by all logic, should make him feel bare, exposed. he searches for the feeling, finding none of it. what he does find is an ache, burning like a plague. his free hand traces a line across vein’s jawline, lifts his chin up so their gazes meet.
lips part slightly, voice serene, ‘ what about you? ’
liu xiao / @einshi asked: "Freedom isn't enough. What I desire doesn't have a name yet." // lx to xf vein 😏
“ that wont do. here I thought you were a wordsmith. have I rendered you speechless? chasing a nameless dream? ” the smoke that exhales from vein’s lips collides with liu xiao’s face, momentarily engulfing his features in a sea of cloudy haze. despite the atmosphere around them carrying weight, leaning back into the plush cushions of the chair, vein appears laxed. a shrug of his shoulders. not often does he get to pick his brain, learn about the innerworkings of a mind he'd still felt a stranger to. “ bridon currently houses two million impoverished people— and wouldn’t you know? your family happens to one of those sitting on wealth, large enough to outlive generations. " a scoff leaves him, " now, it couldn’t be monetary liberation you’re seeking… ”
lips curl, the smoking pistol pipe dancing in his fingers as he swaps hands. fishing for the answer, seemingly coming up emptyhanded at each suggestion he makes. “ maybe it's the itching desire to kill? watch the light leave the eyes to the mere touch of your fingertips. but— you’re no stranger to that either, ” wagging his finger, luring liu xiao closer. he'd be welcomed to take a seat on his lap, if pride allotted him to. whilst vein mentally toys with the principles and concepts these two share. blood. money. connections. indulgences. power. yet liu xiao is greedy enough to crave beyond these vices. there's no judgement in the way vein prods. only curiosity. " enlighten me. when you've got nearly everything, what more could you want? "
‘ no particular reason, just curiosity. ’
on the unlikely scenario that she might’ve been afraid of something, maybe the conversation could’ve led them elsewhere, a place emptied of walls and labyrinths. that was a possibility that the childish part of him wanted to test, a dive into uncharted territory, though the rewards were little in comparison to what had been stirred now, as her soul burned with curiosity and he wondered if it was born from the same star as his. two specks of the same stardust, finally facing each other in the expanse of nothingness.
satoru muses for a moment, voice rumbling in his throat as he leans back in thought. perhaps he ought to give an honest answer. a truth for a truth. ‘ never thought about it, actually. ever watched Shutter? pretty scary if you ask me. i couldn’t sleep that night. ’
not a lie.
nightmares carved out of memories, the unholy mixture of reality and the imaginary specters born from night’s belly, their unchanging shapes stalking about satoru’s dark room. the ache in the back of his eyelids remained until dawn, most nights. others, he simply let the mud engulf him, falling into quicksand, and it felt more comforting than to fight it, because its weight and density was familiar by now. seeing it reflected in a film caught him by surprise — though the graphics were nothing to write home about, the idea of death and regret and all the ugly things clawing their way into the very soul frightened him. more than strange panic, anger seeped through the cracks, the carefully maintained mask of imperturbable capacity.
that is how the head of a clan should be.
well, if suguru ever came back to haunt him, wouldn’t that be petty? it’s a hard scenario to conjure, but the idea amuses him briefly. satoru sips idly at his drink, suddenly too aware of his own surroundings. propping his head up on a fist, elbow atop his knee, he takes notice of her change in positions, now closer, side by side.
‘ hm. you’ve never been curious about me, though. what made you change your mind? want to be besties? i’m sure that would give the old farts real fright. no need to ask them. ’
@einshi's gojo satoru & the fate
𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥 getting rid of all the humans & sorcerers who fought against him, not afraid of the greatest curse user since gods only know when. not afraid of the strongest sorcerer by her side, not afraid of the old small - minded people who stand behind the whole grand scheme of jujutsu society things.
like she's playing a game of her own ; like all this doesn't revolve around her, too. like her life is not on the line, like she's not literally in the middle of it all — an upcoming war that threatens her in her restless dreams. puzzle pieces she cannot yet fully put together, so she doesn't say much about what she sees.
neither can she see the smile gojo so generously offers.
sadly.
she would really like to.
❝ oh, i can pay you, ❞ unmei muses, getting up from her spot beside him ; looking at all the snacks in the vending machine. all the lights blocked by the blindfold, all the shades blocked by color blindness. in a way, they both see too much and not enough. ❝ sweet treat? ❞
that usually works, stimulates the brain — sugar turns into energy their brain consumes in milliseconds ; fuels the endless amount of information processed. besides, satoru has a sweet tooth, and more than likely won't see her spitting onto said free little gift.
pun intended. height, prosopagnosia, blindfold. depth of what he says, so many levels of it. seemingly, every conversation they have means something else ; subtext, context, all of it combined to create a different meaning. as she sits back beside satoru, mei wonders : is the infinity of his shielding him from the outside world, or shielding the outside world from him? won't ask out loud. will find out herself.
❝ now i want to know what are you afraid of, senpai. ❞
she assumes there is something. there must be.
❝ and why did you ask me about that in the first place. ❞
satoru could decide to ignore the sarcasm in her voice, but something about ending the exchange that way felt more pleasing — to his ego anyways.
‘ these don’t come for free, you know? ’ to emphasize his words, a finger flies up to his forehead, tapping the surface twice.
what curse had befallen them, satoru wasn’t sure of. but it’s unequivocal that something in the air shifted since that time, when twos changed into ones and the empty space by his side bared its fangs right at him like a cheshire smile. the memory of it haunted him, the lashing out, the refusal to admit that there was nothing he could’ve done to prevent it, that even if she’d spoken the words before everything came crumbling down his hands alone wouldn’t be enough to sustain the damage: suguru’s back, swallowed by the crowd, lost among the dark shapes and beyond where satoru could reach.
since that time…
and maybe before that, too, because he’s never known how to handle her.
he could hear the engines working inside the vending machine. through the blindfold, there’s hardly anything that he can see but he imagines what it’d be like: fluorescent lights snaking around their shapes, eyes that gaze straight at him as they’d always done, unafraid, unyielding. that is strength, too. his thumb presses lightly at the rim of his soda can, traces along the rim, ‘ sorry, sorry. i didn’t mean anything bad by it. just a thought. we haven’t always met eye to eye — no pun intended, so it’s hard to tell what’s exactly going through that mind of yours.’
he follows up with a lighter tone, hoping to divert the attention from the pulsing tension building up his spine since the question left his mouth. ‘ don’t think too hard about it, unmei-chan, ’ a smile, wide and amused. returning the favor is polite, even more so when he was so kindly addressed by her.
@einshi's gojo satoru & the fate / prompted
❝ are you afraid of me? or of yourself? ❞
𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. and this is exactrly why it's all so scary — or rather, should be, if something wasn't wrong with and within her — the lack of response for things considered fear inducing, whether unnerving by nature or happening at random. startled? of course unmei will be if something jumps in front of her face, but that's the best there is and ever will be, or so she thinks.
should she share that with satoru, though? besides, how can she be scared of anything, ever, with the strongest sorcerer as her ally? if their allyship ever comes to an end, too, she's oh so safe — geto on the loose, his activity well - known within religious communities, untouched by gojo's hand.
❝ you speak as if i already am afraid of something ; as if there were only two choices, too, ❞ the younger muses, tilting her head, more than likely reading between the lines. no sarcastic remarks follow, & she scoots closer, teetering on the edge of infinity.
❝ something on your mind, satoru - senpai? ❞
the honorific is spoken so innocently, hopefully feeding the other's ego enough to hear the reason behind his inquiry.
thinking about how aizen makes it seem like a complex thing that he "looks down" on everyone but when you boil down everything that he's said and done all that he really means is that he's alone. his character shares this detail with gojo and makima, the feeling of isolation that comes with the crushing weight of power that goes beyond your peers' understanding, perfectly summarized by "the night beyond the tricornered window" quote:
"…for instance, the flower is beautiful. but if you don't know the words flower and beautiful, not only will you not be able to see beauty, you can't even see the flower."
it's nearly impossible for him to properly form a bond with someone who's not even able to see him, not past him, not his power, not his reiatsu. to him the soul society existed in a reality that restricted him, a system to which he was only tolerable so long as he submitted to its rules, but once he paced close to the boundaries he's handled as a threat.
i don't think there's really any "redeemable" part about him because redemption comes with change, change is not stagnant and although he is restrained his nature can't really be changed. it's like asking a snake to cut its fangs so it can live among mice. there's no real belonging in there.
it's only among those of close-range strength to his that he might come to feel like he's among equals, the illusion of companionship and isn't that ironic? that the zanpakuto, shaped from his soul and very core, is able to shift the reality as we know it with our senses?
anyway i just think that no matter what there'll always be a divide bewteen him and others not from conscious action but the natural rejection to that which doesn't care to understand you.
haisugi:
“You haven’t changed at all.”
A long moment passed where Sugimoto sensed nothing apart from the ragged tempo of their breathing in the still night air, suffocating as the whisper of Ogata’s words passed like tiny daggers over his skin. He let it linger, heavy and silent, ignoring the lump in his throat that threatened to crescendo into tears beneath the fabric of his scarf. He wouldn’t fucking cry. Not here. Not now.
He remembered that he’d cried the night of Umeko’s wedding, when the agony of loneliness set in and he wondered why he hadn’t been been good enough, or worth waiting for. Of course, he cried when his father died, and he began to understand the fragility and impermanence of life. And Toraji - when Toraji died, he cried for many nights, because finally there was nothing left of his old life that he could call his. No friends, no family, no lover.
But not here. He couldn’t cry here, because doing so would be admitting that what happened between the two of them was over, and that Ogata had won.
He released Ogata from his grip, lowering the man’s head gently to the futon before he freed himself from their entanglement. Legs heavy and body numb, he edged away, feet pressed flat against the floor as if urging him to leave. He should, he realized. He should walk away now, instead of clinging to the shallow strands of hope that Ogata might have loved him once, had he done something differently. But that resentment wasn’t something he could escape, he knew. He could run all he wanted, but Ogata’s gaze would always be there, boring into the back of his skull in silent judgment.
Sugimoto glanced back towards the man behind him, unsurprised to catch Ogata staring with what was left of his dark, heady eyes. Absurd. It was all so absurd that Sugimoto had to laugh, sharp and piercing and full of regret.
“You know, maybe I’m a liar. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m just as much of a frigid, unchanging bastard as you,” Sugimoto hissed. He tried to close himself off to the yearning he’d felt when Ogata pulled him close, but the sensation of the other man’s touch still sat heavy on the back of his neck. It wasn’t enough to just let go, anymore. Not after all this time. Sugimoto felt compelled to bend over him, caging Ogata between his arms as he stared back at the man defiantly. “But despite it all, I thought, you and I… Together, we could…”
Could what, make it work? Live happily ever after? Sugimoto was surprised to find that after so many nights agonizing over what to say when they finally crossed paths again, he still couldn’t find the words.
Maybe words were useless anyways. After all, Ogata had a beautiful way of twisting them and carving them until they lost all semblance of meaning. The sniper was also a butcher, in his own right.
But there were other ways to tell him. Sugimoto didn’t know if it was right. Knew, almost certainly, Ogata would push him away if he had the strength. But when he lowered himself down to Ogata’s lips and kissed him chastely, he found that he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t even care to try.
The taste was familiar and strange all at once, unexpectedly sweet and intoxicating in a way that made Sugimoto sick. For all the times he’d thought of killing the man, he’d thought of this tenfold - of the soft curve of his mouth, the tenderness of his tongue contrasted against the harshness of his actions. Sugimoto sank into it, not bothering to hide the desperation in his pace, the need, even if Ogata felt none of the same, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair as if he might run at any moment.
“Live or die, I don’t give a shit,” he lied between breaths. “You did your damage. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
Ogata thought of killing Sugimoto numerous times before, but not quite as many as Sugimoto claimed to have done. No difference had been made after Abashiri, not in the frozen lands of Russia. For better or for worse, Sugimoto avoided the fatal blows by a narrow margin, one that Ogata hadn’t figured out how to get rid of. Putting an end to their back and forth war felt like a distant goal, less likely to happen than finding a speck of gold dust. No matter how many times Ogata fired his weapon, Sugimoto always came back from the depths of whatever hell accepted him.
Part of him liked the chase, there was no use denying the obvious. He liked the thought of having something to look over his shoulder for - the thought of someone waiting for him at the other side of the lense.
What he didn’t like was that Sugimoto tried to force a name on this thing.
Heat began to build up in Ogata’s body - warm and liquid where there should be coldness; it made him feel sick. Like staring down a precipice, the knot in his stomach twisted. It made Ogata want to hurt Sugimoto badly, so much that he wouldn’t have a reason to try his luck a second time. Or a third. Yet, his limbs flinched and his breath was caught in the space between their mouths, like a spell or a curse he swallowed halfway through a dry throat. Sugimoto was persistent, desperate - frantically looking for Ogata’s response, which, hazed by the narcotics and swept by the spur of the vivid memories engraved into his flesh, he gave. Ogata returned the kiss at first, savage as he could, but Sugimoto didn’t let him lay a single bite.
The acid sensation at the pit of his stomach didn’t resemble anything he’d felt before. It was foreign, so much that he couldn’t draw a proper reaction out of his system until it was already too late and Sugimoto was touching him with tenderness so unlike Ogata’s cruelty and his fruitless attempt at goading Sugimoto in. His lips planted against Ogata’s half-opened mouth like he was afraid of hurting him. Distaste crawled up his skin. Live or die, stay or leave; Sugimoto muttered all these words so close to Ogata’s ear that he almost missed it.
The look Sugimoto gave him afterwards… did he think of Ogata as a lover?
“…” He pushed himself apart.
Ogata had never been in love - if love was anywhere. So for Sugimoto to try and attempt to give meaning to what they’d done all those months back in the mountains, he must have been feeling equal parts bold and stupid. He wished, more than anything else in the world, to have the strength to reach for his bayonet and open Sugimoto’s rib cage in half, see what was stored inside. He supposed it’d be warm, slippery, red. Sugimoto’s tongue was that way, too, when it brushed against Ogata’s lips - or when he sucked all the poison from Ogata’s empty eye socket.
He moved sluggishly beneath Sugimoto’s body, restricted by the firm grip in his hair. “You and I, what? You think we’d run away together with the gold and build a life as bandits or live in hiding in the forest? Surely you haven’t forgotten that we’re drop outs. Worse than that, First Lieutenant Tsurumi would never let his grip on us come loose, not after you’ve traded your soul away for that false act of heroism.”
“What did that gain you? Do you still think we’d get away from this unscathed?” Despite his words, Ogata was surprised to find that he wanted to know Sugimoto’s answer. He buried the embers of that foolish curiosity, licking at his lower lip. It was still coated with Sugimoto’s scent and flavor. He held up his gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sugimoto. I want to kill you, I thought I’d made that clear.”
❝ you will never gain fame from your fighting. does this surprise you? ❞ @aizen
‘ that you see my actions as absolutes is a mistake of its own. gain and loss are subjective, the rabbit whose death is quick and painless has gained more than the fox whose only hunt for the winter is a small rodent. ’
the pursuit of something intangible is beyond any other death reaper’s understanding. that is what initially separated kings from gods, gods from the nothingness that follows. for him to be able to reach that which cannot be grasped, a lifetime of this became a curse of its own though curse is a strong word to describe the inner machinations of what his heart truly desired. sousuke doubts it’s so simple to say during idle conversation, even less when there’s a key to each of his senses, darkness unfolding and endlessly shrouding them had it not been for the particles of reiatsu softly moving like fireflies at dusk.
it takes him a moment to reconsider his words, the intention to further elaborate long subdued and replaced with something austere, though a tad bit malicious. in the end, he could not entirely separate himself from poisoning what doesn’t care to see him.
‘ does it surprise me? it does not. because i never humored the thought from the beginning. ’
@kagehanabira
❛ books mean more to me than people anyway. ❜ / mei mei
‘ knowledge is currency. anything that can be traded for benefit is profitable. more so than certain people, anyway. ’
in a sense, it’s easier to discard those who add no value to life, relationships or the flow of cursed energy that she so painstakingly worked to strengthen. met with the tough wall of reality, her mind shifted elsewhere, to those confines where limits are to be bended, and isn’t money an equally powerful force as a sorcerer’s bow? toji fushiguro did kill the strongest, after all.
but there are other things, too…
mei mei watches her carefully, the almond-shaped fingernails that trace words on paper softly, the scratch of a butterfly’s kiss on petals. it reminds her of the tranquil mornings sharing tea with her grandparents, the first days of high school when they were so young and so naive, yet filled to the brim with hopes that their powers will be of use. maybe this is what akari’s nature inspires on others: memoirs, rekindling, the fresh honesty of an earnest girl. that’s what she looks like to mei mei anyways.
she moves her braid, just above her shoulder, silver-snake against black silk.
hand on her waist, mei mei continues, ‘ what did it take to make you realize that, hm? just curiosity. you don’t have to answer. ’
@ak4rin
thinking about how 80% of Gojo's character is intrinsically connected to Geto's, you can't separate one from the other without taking away something fundamental. Teacher Gojo exists because of Geto, his speech manner is as it is now because of Geto's reprimanding, his only weakness is Geto, all his nightmares always take him back to that place 10 years ago, he killed the higher ups with Geto in mind expecting to catch up to him. It's always Geto.
Suguru. Suguru. Suguru.
i do not fear ridicule. i never have. ( Gojo and Nagumo )
@tearenere
‘ well, surrendering it won’t be of much help, either. i say pick your poison. ’
always terse. always mocking. it’s become a ritual to them, this back and forth exchange of mild amusement and mild sarcasm. satoru’s especially fond of the times when nagumo is less forgiving, when the words cut deep like knives on tender flesh. morbid comparison. before his mind loses its tracks, satoru lets out a big exhale, shoulders hunched in a dramatic gesture as long legs catch up to nagumo’s pace on the sidewalk.
‘ what’s it to you, though? never thought you’d be the type to worry about that sort of thing. unless you’re hiding your cute self. are you a tsundere? ’ he says with a grin.
lamp lights haloed their shapes, two tall men moving through the crowd. blending with their surroundings comes easy in the anonymity provided by the rush-hour waves made of tired salarymen, students, workers of all kinds returning to their homes. they stop by the intersection, lights turning red.
engines rev up. cars begin to move.
‘ pride’s just as important as power. you can’t really separate one from the other. isn’t that scary? strength that doesn’t make you proud is a burden. if you’re raised to become a weapon or a top class assassin, the very least you should do is to have something to show for it. for pride’s sake. otherwise that’d just be a pretty empty life. ’
the red man changes its color, turning to neon green. satoru takes a couple steps, notices that nagumo isn’t moving from his place and turns around, head tilts slightly to the side.
‘ you’re not coming? ’
Liu Xiao - Shiguang Dailiren II - Episode 12 - Can’t live without a good brother
chat, my cousin keeps bringing up my ex during family reunions, do i hit on his crush y/n
❛ ah, so you aren’t heartless after all. ❜ to my cousin, gojo :)
‘ what's that supposed to mean? ’
three years of memories aren’t so easily forgotten, after all. though the words press a wound that he’d thought dormant, he makes no bigger show of it. maybe the way his words get stuck in his throat briefly signals that his mind is doing a leap back in time, to those days of blue skies, listless smiles, the chill of spring-time; besides the pause, hardly anything shows on his perfectly shrouded face. he scratches at the back of his head, suddenly not liking the sour taste left in his mouth, so he swallowed thickly and through a dry throat.
‘ just because we're related doesn't mean you can go around poking at me — what, did you think i'd let you off easily? now you owe me four strawberry milkshakes, so get moving. ’
Do you have any characters you can see working with Gojo specifically?
If we're talking about other jjk characters, I can see him working with Geto ofc, there's also Nanami and Sukuna. As for my personal tastes I also like him with Higuruma and Choso tho that would need some plotting and see if our interpretations work out :>
Now about characters outside Jjk?? I guess it depends but Gojo is drawn to strong people, I can't see him being interested in someone who needs "being taken care of", he likes equals. Small rabbits won't catch his attention imo he prefers the cunning fox type do u feel me
gave it some thought and shipping with gojo is ok, i just don't think i'll be doing m/f shipping bc i really can't see him with a girl😭
