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blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver. ( Gojo and Nagumo )
truth be told, neither are in any position to be wasting time cleaning up the mess, and by mess he means this: blood-splattered clothes, indented weapons, empty cartridges. his mouth fills with the metallic aftertaste of it all, muscles finally itching as if to ask for attention and to be wrapped and tended by the same cloth that nagumo used on satoru’s cheek. (he makes it his life purpose to catch the asshole that bruised his face)
‘ you’re good at this, i didn’t think you’d actually take me seriously and mend the wounds. guess i owe you one. ’
in the span of one second, the atmosphere shifts into something more… comfortable, whatever comfortable was. for men of their profession, anything remotely close to peace is a far-fetched dream, so he snatches the moment and makes it his own, eyelids coming down and encapsulating sky-blues from the world, albeit briefly. nagumo’s presence is still palatable, impossible to ignore.
his fingers move methodically and almost as impersonal as the moment a knife slices through a target’s throat. if there’s something to respect about the man is exactly this: the commitment to his brand, expertise that’s only attained from the perfect combination of talent and a life on the field and not behind the monotony of a desk and a computer, aiding or sending out orders to the souls on the front.
cold liquid presses against his temple, the aching propels him forward, hands wrapped tightly around nagumo’s wrists.satoru’s eyes snap open, ‘ whoa! what was that?! are you trying to kill me? i thought we said no ethyl alcohol. ’
@tearenere
‘ dodge me then. ’ he stands in position, legs flexed and all spidery and the next thing nagumo knows is that he's under attack.
boop boop boop boop boop
Cue an exaggerated, immature dry heave as he's booped by @einshi . " Stop! I don't want to catch whatever is wrong with you. "
" you must've really pissed those guys off, huh? " - for nanami
@kyoshisaki
‘ please don’t put the blame on me when the target clearly is you. ’
though his words are shrouded in irritation, beneath the thin layer of plastic annoyance there’s an underlying current of concern, the wariness that comes after that nauseating swirl of cursed energy follows a step behind. nanami wonders if it’s ever bothered gojo, if he cares enough to sense it at all beyond what his eyes show him.
it’d be different if they were alone: nanami would have to be more cautious, watching his every move; he doesn’t have the power to be careless, or the arrogance to face a curse of that level head on, supported only by the sense of responsibility that this is something that he has to see through, that it’d be better that the wretched thing is distracted evading symmetrical cuts and raw energy fed by overtime pacts than to let it roam free where civilians most likely remain hidden, too afraid or too irresponsibly curious to seek shelter elsewhere.
gojo’s presence is a miscalculation.
the imbalance is too notorious, his proximity to the perimeter a salvation and a threat altogether. that he can play the role of illness and medicine is absurd, but nanami would take the risk of his stupid jokes a hundred times over the wails of humans being eaten alive by these ancient devils. his eyes close briefly, memories of rotten flesh and cold steel against his palms are subdued momentarily.
when he turns his attention back at gojo, the man is already standing near the edge of the building, fearless of the abyss; nanami takes a step closer and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, equally unfearing, ‘ i’d rather we finish here quickly. an extra hour is an hour too many in your company, so don’t drag this any further than necessary, gojo. ’
gojo's sakamoto days verse is literally just him and nagumo being roommates. that's all there is to it.
❛ how long has it been since you've slept? ❜ / gojo
&. 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. // @ak4rin
‘ when? ’
that might be a good enough answer on its own, so he makes use of the leeway presented to him and steers the conversation into a different direction, not quite feeling like elaborating on the specifics of his sleep schedule. ‘ eeh — don’t mind it. you’re a better driver than i am. ’
the muscle in satoru’s jaws slides across taut bone, suddenly too-aware of his surroundings: though he’s not revealing anything that doesn’t need to be let out, it still feels like he’s been stripped of something fundamental, like she’s seen a side that wasn’t meant to be in the first place. he clicks his tongue, masking the discomfort with something akin to nonchalance and waves a hand in front of his face.
‘ in any case, i can just teleport back to the headquarters if it becomes too much, which i doubt. ever seen me pass out on the job? of course not. ’
i never considered us to be friends. ( Gojo and Nagumo )
‘ hate the game, not the player. ’ satoru says, matter-of-factly.
there would be more seriousness to his voice, had it not been muffled by the noodles hanging from his mouth, twisted into a hungry pout. the bowl is nearly empty, chopsticks slide across the edge and fall together with a chirp as satoru swallows his last mouthful of spicy ramen (watered down especially for him, mind you). running a thumb across his lower lip, he continues, ‘ is it that hard to make cohabitation? genuine question though. ask me about my opinion and i’d say we’re better off splitting responsibilities than leave it all to the maids, assuming there’s any that can put up with our little job. ’
it’s only a flash but he notices nagumo’s smile twitching, all humor fading out and replaced by a more cynical something that he can’t put a finger on but he knows for sure skirts around mild irritation. what’s stopping nagumo from lashing out? easy: these are his favorite bowls. satoru decides that’s a small victory worth celebrating another time.
‘ anyway, that’s not my problem. never asked to be anything more than your handsome coworker. ’ a wink, finger-guns.
‘ oh by the way... can i have seconds? ’
@tearenere
face, sender turns receiver's face towards them. ( geto & gojo )
pulling himself back to a standing position is the initial intent, only stopped by the firm hands clasped on each side of his face: garnering his attention requires less than this, but he supposes suguru wants to make a statement of it. hand seeks leverage, placed flatly on the desk as his body remains arched, waiting, unsure whether to take this as a challenge, a warning, or a third secret thing that only suguru seems to understand and perfectly eludes satoru's wondering eyes. he allows the other man the benefit of the doubt, waits it out, only to be surprised by a bold statement.
'quit it out.'
their back and forth had escalated into a drawn out argument — though not entirely one-sided, it's clear that suguru wants no part in a battle of moral judgement. his views are cemented, a sense of justice buoyed in the philosophy that hierarchy exists as a parachute for the unlucky bastards right down south in the grand scheme of things. satoru, on the other hand, believes it a conspiracy led by the beliefs that their existence is taken for granted, though he needn't explain the specifics to suguru. it's easier to face the fury head-on, bathe in it, because that's what his body and mind are familiar with. power is intoxicating, sweeter than honey. gojo's sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose, his right hand holding geto's wrist mirroring the amount of strength used to turn his around and which he unlocks from the grip with a jut of his chin.
he's met with a surge of remembrance then: retainers, old enough to butt shoulders with his own parents, of whom he barely remembered anything, only bits and pieces like the smell of jasmine coming from his mother's kimono, the unmistakable scent of wood and smoke from expensive tobacco in a pipe, signature of his father's presence, and nothing else. though his birth had elevated their position within the household, truth is that they weren't bearers of the eyes but him, and alone he stood during morning trainings, and on most nights, a pair of small, curious steps testing the boundaries of his own jurisdiction, how much he could twist the rope before it snapped. he's yet to feel the draw back of its taut line. in a sense, suguru represents the line he shouldn't cross, almond-tinted eyes hooked confidently in place, two curses measuring each other — a truth untold in that fox-like smile.
' feeling like playing substitute teacher? count me out of it. as you can see i'm a little busy right now, ' he guides suguru's attention towards his phone screen, where graphics remained static although 8-bit music played in a cacophony of robotic sounds, ' don't get me wrong, i'd love to play along but my tetris streak? oh, let me tell you how much it can't wait.'
satoru manages a determined expression, thinks about making a funny face, tongue out, clowning the tension in the air away, but decides he's not in his best behavior and he really meant it when he said the match couldn't wait, seconds ticking and signaling the approaching lock screen mode on his device. gaze darts back, fingers deftly picking up and rising his score. new-found clarity settles, making him speak loud enough to be heard, before he notices.
'oh by the way, have you been training after class? your hands have gotten rougher. girls will go mad, you player. '
@gokunoban
gojo's bleach verse... he's a captain (haven't decided the division yet) that comes from a noble family. his zanpakuto is called six eyes, all that jazz and his abilities remain relatively the same with the exception that the six eyes is actually an acute sense for reiatsu that is passed among those of the gojo clan bloodline. his existence is an anomaly, so naturally he still grows emotionally isolated from the rest, geto being the only other captain he truly became close with and whose deflection of the corps made him spiral into insanity (though only inwardly, no one knows about this being his only weakness).
his bankai is unlimited void.
the vice-captain seat is still vacant as no one really keeps up with him and they resign or request to be reassigned, not to mention he values strength and goodness of heart, influenced by geto's own morality from the past days.
𝐮𝐥𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐚 𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @unknown-in-narnia
it may be obvious by now but ulquiorra has never experienced any sort of attraction nor does he have an interest in others, he always runs cold and indifferent, his apathy to the world a tell-tale sign of what he represents which is death by emptiness. so anyway, though he's incapable of loving or wanting anything the way humans understand it, he does feel hunger, is prideful, the greed he feels is that resembling of beasts though he acts like he's separate from such primal instincts but at the end of the day he is a hollow through and through.
Ulquiorra’s jjk verse could be that he's a special grade curse born from the feelings of emptiness and void. souls of people who have been consumed by the void are the primary source of his energy. I'm assuming all the espada are special grade curses just like how they are the highest rank in their own verse. Anyways, will also be assuming that in this verse Aizen is still a drop out and recruits him along the other curses. this is not the main verse but a war that took place decades or hundreds of years before the main events, so somewhere between heian and modern day. His state in present jjk-verse is a dormant curse that has been affixed to a sword, just like his other 9 "comrades" and are kept in the hidden inventory at hq.
❛ no matter what, i’ll always be here by your side. ❜ tousen, for aizen
code geass: lelouch of the rebellion starters // @foremyth
long before dawn, tousen had approached.
the uncharacteristic silence that came with his visit felt foreign, where there would usually be simple words and remarks about the weather, all that he could perceive in a way that others couldn’t. and he followed, from the chambers to the pathway leading to the gardens, far from eavesdroppers.
it is until then that conversation begins: undisturbed, sincere, masks off - or what he intends to appear as such.
what he doesn’t reveal is that, although his own mask has since been buried deep into tissue, what remains true is that he enjoys the kind of company that doesn’t question, or expects more than it offers. that’s unlike the selfishness of captains; the ego devours. this is different. sousuke falls into step with him, flowers grow in their binary colors - white and yellow, silk and gold -, picked and bred to appease the high-ranking officers.
‘ …there is a tale among the villagers about a bird that can mimic human voices. it’s shared mostly with the kids or the people who wander outside the limits. why do you think that is? ’ leaves break under his feet, voice tangling in the networks of the wind as it carries the midday scent of sunlight and wet soil. the pause is brief, methodical, listening for any sign of activity that doesn’t resemble feet on cobblestone.
‘ surely, it must be to keep explorers from getting lost in the wide expanse of the forest. and yet there are reports of people going missing, witnesses claim that a relative, a lover, a friend called for them. that is what piqued my interest. a very human-like response to follow without questioning, the sort of undying devotion that leads you to certain death. it’s naive. ’
‘ loyalty like yours is rare. it’s not mindless obedience but a concession: the justice that you seek, i can offer. in exchange, i am permitted to count on your strength to topple outside forces. thank you, kaname. ’
birds sing, tousen’s inquisitive stance breaks him from his reverie.
‘ ah - sorry, i trailed off. in the end they were thieves . they used spiritual energy to echo sentences that had previously been said and heard. ’ it seems sufficiently honest to not dwell on the specifics. even so, his words rekindle in a last fluid statement, ‘ …and as you can probably imagine, they were disposed of. ’
had he possessed a heart, ulquiorra would resent him. perhaps even hate him, feel anything akin to the negative emotions that always drove human souls astray and kept them prisoner in this barren land. what he can sense instead is distaste, that alone was too much power over him. drawing his sword isn’t necessary, spiritual pressure being enough to crush the fingers clasping his wrist until it’s freed out of the grip. warmth veils him, unfamiliar, foreign.
‘ that you suggest blind obedience as a discipline case yourself is beyond my understanding. wonder all you want. power is the only rule that matters in hueco mundo. or have you forgotten the meaning behind those numbers engraved into our bodies? shall i remind you? ’
teeth and claws of nameless hollows surrender like this, that’s what his eyes have seen time and time again before his recruitment and arrival to the palace. this ploy, however, garners more than merely a display of intangible energy. ulquiorra steps forward, until the released energy slithers and devours grimmjow whole: he aims for the knees, the shoulders, any part of his body that can bend in a way that will break not the bones but his pride, so painstakingly secured. he awaits for groans, sharp threats, baseless confidence; in a way he’s developed a hunger of his own, too.
‘ this is how it should be — obedience goes in tandem with submission. you who stands two steps below on the ladder speak too loudly for what you're worth. ’ it occurs to him, belatedly, that perhaps this is what he wanted. rebellion craves violence, and violence’s nature is to be subdued, by any force or means necessary. his right hand finds its way back to grimmjow’s exposed torso, steadies the body about to rise on its own and pushes him down to his knees, fingertips sharp and whetted appetite. if he had a heart. though the absence is ever-present in his chest, what he does have is a stomach, an ego, the self. his foot manages to kick one of grimmjow’s legs to the side and spreads just enough of his limbs to dig a heel unnervingly deep and firm to grimmjow’s groin, drawing something just short of a gasp out of the beast.
grimmjow could probably get off like this - no, he definitely could, and the thought itself is horrifically unsatisfying enough to make him ponder the attention, reminding him where the limits lay. in the midst of all their bloodshed, he finds that he wants it. wants it just as much as he despises it.
‘ stop squirming. stay still or fight it, it’s all the the same to me. fact remains that you’ll have to submit to one thing or the other. which will it be, grimmjow? ’
con't - @einshi
DEFEAT BURNS THROUGH HIM LIKE RANCID WINE - heady on his tongue and thick in the sands that adorn hueco mundo's never ending drifts. for a creature that coveted carnage and battle, the 6th was dissonant - ripe with his rage and wearing it the same way he always did : like armor. loss wasn't something grimmjow suffered - loss wasn't something he took lightly, and while the curl of mottled flesh across his 'skin' would be an ever present reminder of a near deathblow at the hands of that self-righteous idiot, what stung the most was ulquiorra's patient, verdant gaze - and the caress of claws across his nearly bare chest.
the feral part of his brain screamed 'danger! danger! danger!' before souring once again. ulquiorra, of course, did not think like grimmjow did - did not think that the taking of a fellow espada's life would mean a notch in the belt of power. he didn't have anything to prove because grimmjow wasn't a threat. as dark claws skim over the area, he bares his teeth - a sharp match the mask at the side of his face - and snarls.
but it's halfhearted. if he truly wanted the bastard gone, he had his ways.
❝ 'm not ashamed that i have it. ❞ he drawls, aggravation quieting for a moment, ❝ do i have to explain why to you or do you think that rational little skull of yours can churn it out, cuatro? ❞ perhaps were he to utilize his resurrección, that nuisance of a tail would've been flicking back and forth in thought. instead, his fellow espada is only granted grimmjow's stare - catlike and curious, the deep turquoise of his eyes almost glowing in the perpetual dim. frankly - he hopes he doesn't have to explain, because having philosophical discussions with anyone, let alone ulquiorra, sounds about as appealing as wiping aizen's ass - perhaps even less so.
nostrils flare, looking away from the other to instead track caressing fingertips. it's not... unpleasant. and despite the bastard's frigid existence, his touch is... warm, leaving behind tendrils of heat as he palms and skates lethal digits over grimmjow's hide. as the action persists - the espada finds himself easing just slightly, and though he never quite relaxes, long lashes bat over his cheek, the tension in his jaw easing, and he shifts his chest forward, just a slight inch, the same moment hands drop away.
grimmjow is quick - lightning fast - his own dark claws curling about a strong but delicate wrist, sharp canines bared again in a savage smirk as he grips tight, ❝ yeah yeah, of course. 'aizen's orders.' ❞ honorific ignored, and it's a distinctly good impression, actually. ❝ ulquiorra. ❞ there's his drawl again, low and lazy and lit back with a cat's growl, ❝ are ya capable of independent thinking, or you prefer blind obedience? ❞ hand discarded then - tossed to the side as he leans downwards, spirit pressure swelling with challenge. ❝ just wonderin'. ❞
❛ this is the choice — this is the point of no return. ❜ / grimm to ulqui
🐝 * ― 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen
words are too abstract for reprimand. ulquiorra sees no fault in honesty, however quaint. what drives his senses into alert is the prospect of a fight: grimmjow isn’t the type of creature that will sit and obey, not without a baseless display of strength and the back row of teeth clenched and ready to bite authority. that is the charm of carnivorous species, their mouths are made for mauling.
though his voice attracts ulquiorra’s attention, bringing his steps to a halt, there’s little else to tempt him into wasting more time than necessary to hear an explanation.
‘ so you say. ’ patterns are obvious. bait is dangled in the shape of a discussion, perhaps he wants to divert ulquiorra’s focus elsewhere, using provocation. very well, two can play this game. ‘ or are you implying desertion? neither lord aizen or i have any interest in wayward soldiers. ’
cowardice is too direct, and he still hasn’t gotten the answer he wants to hear yet. grimmjow can’t hide truths for too long. the other espada have since scattered, each to their own section of the palace, so the only remaining figures in the hall are the two of them, separated only by the empty space and a couple of steps that, if his temper were any similar to grimmjow’s, he would’ve crossed the bridge moments ago. he’s more manageable when hungry, not like this.
ulquiorra eyes him once more, unsure what to make of this talk, ‘ for argument’s sake, let us believe there is a choice. what is your intent? i had assumed fighting was your main drive. you’re unpredictable as always. ’
❛ why is it secret? what have we to hide? ❜ / jazz hands, gin to aizen.
🐝 * ― 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen
a smile, ‘ it’s unlike you to reflect on such thoughts. ’
then, a pause.
secret is too simple, too vague. hiding is rash, leaves out too many openings for the mind, and isn’t it such a dangerous weapon, a man’s assumptions? it captivates him more than it sets the alarms, so he makes a show of considering it, head tilted up and eyes scanning the wide expanse of the night sky.
‘ nothing at all, gin. precaution would be more accurate. there’s a timing for everything — every step, however little, serves its purpose. picture it as a round of shogi: pieces ought not to be used for anything else but what the rules have them predestined to do. ’ that said, his right hand reaches for the piece on the board, holds it between two fingers and examines its edges, worn out and slightly yellowed with time, each turn to emphasize his words as he continues, his voice serene, ‘ …they are the pieces. as for us… ’
sousuke places the rook back on the board with a tud. his attention returns to gin, sitting on the opposite side of the table, haloed by the lamp light and its golden gleam. his fingers lingered there for a moment. how ironic, that he revels in all the pleasure that the inadvertent misery of his comrades offers, letting it seep down into his core.
‘ are the pieces aware that they are being moved around? they aren’t. we are the players, gin. it’s not a secret nor are we hiding. unawareness isn’t equal to deception. does that answer your question? ’
❛ is this what you wanted to see? ❜ / also grimm to ulqui....
🐝 * ― 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen
he knew better than to taunt. but this is not taunting: it’s exploration, it’s mindplay, the sort of dynamics that only the espada found delight in, and while delight itself is not a source of pleasure and much less what he seeks, ulquiorra would be concealing the truth if he’d denied that seeing grimmjow this exposed, open and raw like fresh-cut meat didn’t gnaw at the corners of his mind with new-found curiosity.
‘ if i say yes, will it change anything? will it make you cover the scar again?... or maybe you will mirror shame as humans feel when their most vulnerable sides are exposed? ’
arrancar flesh didn’t bend, hard like a carcass. even more difficult it is for it to scar, to leave behind traces of soul energy that isn’t your own — for grimmjow’s body to have patched itself up like molten stone on a crass surface, that must mean the boy drove him into a position where it was either stay and fight or early suicide. grimmjow is strong, so it ought to be the former.
there’s only a brief fire in his eye, like the sharp flutter of a candlelight before it’s blown out. his hand moves slowly, pointedly reaching its destination atop grimmjow’s bare chest, where skin meets tissue, muscle and whatever else their bodies are made of. cold, hardened — the quartz trees on the outside would bend beneath his touch, yet this body doesn’t.
ulquiorra glances up, surprised to find a vacancy of fury in his features. where there should be anger, there’s only an unwavering gaze thrown back at him. ulquiorra is patient, far too patient, and albeit only momentarily, ulquiorra has the sinking feeling that something is amiss, that the longer his fingers remain static it would only give grimmjow another reason to gloat, same as he always did, always expectant that ulquiorra will react in kind. ( he didn’t - on most occassions. )
he knows it’s inevitable, so his hand is withdrawn, back into his pockets.
‘ it’s pointless. i’m merely assessing the damage on lord aizen’s orders. ’
