Deathless ♚ Sentence Meme // @heartsbind

Tyki

(DGM chapter 250)

Let's dance 'till one of us die. ~~

i'll only hurt you if you let me . / Uta @ Yomo

hurt, by definition, comes together with pain.

pain is familiar. pain is something that ghouls as species have known for longer than they’d remembered each other’s faces, what little they saw of them, when the masks were cast off. renji observes more than he speaks, notices the wounds and torn skin already patching itself together in a gruesome display of rank: back then, they’d been considered a dangerous threat to the CCG, or to the general public. 

humans. ordinary humans whose bodies broke and didn’t mend. 

bodies that did nothing similar to what uta’s system is beginning to try, under the influence of whatever it is that kept that clownish smile plastered on his face. excitement? seems likely.

he waits until the open tissue is all healed, black ink molten across a pale canvas. there’s a revelation in the way uta’s eyes reflect the dim moonlight. fluorescent signs sprout from the tall buildings, further narrowing the already reduced space in this back alley, cascading them in bright hues and deep contrasts, their shapes a pair of protruding anachronisms in the urban landscape. 

this privacy - the pause that follows feels loud enough to drown everything else: noise of artillery, debris moved around and across the asphalt, disaster and what comes with chaos. even the rattling heartbeat in his ribcage which hadn’t ceased to plague him since they first laid their fists onto each other sinks deep into oblivion. he picks up where uta left off, his voice returning to its usual listless baritone, “it won’t be pleasant, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

there’s childish amusement in this, in the thrills uta seeks. he’s never understood it, always drawing a blank when he tried to sympathize with it. what he knows, however, is rage. he’d tasted it on the roof of his mouth, even now, if he searched long for it. on the cusp of an old era, only uta and, perhaps itori, were unburdened by it, his baggage, his vengeful appetite. 

they’d cannibalized, and they’d probably done so much worse, sins that follow them each to the grave - but it’s not all there is to it. not all there is to uta and him. perhaps he simply wants to drain it all dry: his options, the reasoning, any word that can keep his friend from self-immolation. renji paces closer. 

“aren’t you cold?” he doesn’t know if uta misses him. renji’s never asked. part of him, a shallow part, believes that uta’s unselfconsciousness is indicator enough that he’d do well no matter renji’s stance in his circle. another part - a more selfish, boyish part that hadn’t entirely died out since their rooftoof talks, had mistaken these jabs and mockery for fondness, of a kind. so it often went. he exhales through his nostrils, sharp breeze cutting through loose strands of white hair. the scent of rain, drying blood, this; it’s all a grim reminder that anything could’ve gone wrong, had he not been sincere from the start.

“do you remember” renji asks, “the first time we met? it wasn’t much different than how we are now.” normally, teens outgrow their fixations. renji doesn’t think uta has dropped it entirely, but it’s still difficult to figure him out in a way that won’t piss renji off. even now, he feels annoyed. there’s time for the two of them to try and hurt the other. that entirely depends on how well uta fares from here on. a creature of terrible potential. renji lowers his knees until they’re touching the ground, hooks uta’s arm around his shoulder, working as an achor, and eases him back to his feet, eye to eye, just like it’d been a decade or so ago. 

“it was like this, too.” his lip twitches, the birth of a smile, one that he’d thought long lost. “you can walk, let’s go.”

@antinomos

i've been walking through a world gone blind . // @ Kogami !

playing clever, isn’t he?

it’s only for a moment - a minute twitch of his hand and a perk of his brow that gives away the absurdity of makishima’s words. blindness. blindness. kogami laughs, curt and listless as he meets makishima’s gaze impassively.

“The longing for Paradise is man's longing not to be man.” he quotes, “it doesn’t make me happy that we agree on something like the stripping of man’s conviction in favor of automatized data processing.”

and of course it doesn’t. he’d left without so much as a warning to keep their guard on, after all, tossing aside his own connections for the pursuit of his own personal devil and though he isn’t precisely at Hell’s doorstep, his heart aches with sickness, hatred that’s boiled for too long, a necrosis of the heart. hoping he might see that batard’s face one more time before it all came crashing down, so he could bash it in, had suddenly turn into reality.

fuck makishima, honestly, for even bringing that up.

but it’s enough to rattle kogami’s nerves. he’s certain that he’d been searching for makishima’s face just a moment too long, desperate for a hint that remorse is foreign and that his ghostly silhouette framed in a polaroid hadn’t only existed in his darkest nightmares - the kind that haunt him at night, curled up under the sheets while sasayama’s memory breathes in the back of his mind. when the dark, oppressive silence leaves him with nothing to do but imagine blood - his, makishima’s blood - coating him like crimson rain. makishima’s eyes are clear, he notices, through the distance, through the gun’s lens and amplified only by nebulous contempt. clear and indifferent and offering more questions than answers.

kogami doesn’t lower his gun.

he’s grateful, suddenly, for the privacy that came after the chase, hiding from onlookers as though there was anything else to bury besides the corpse that he will soon make. he’s not killing time. but he doesn’t dare speak of how desperately he wanted, waited for this - how quickly his hunger was reignited when he saw makishima stumble, ragged breathing, blood-stained and snaking his way out into the empty landscape.

briefly, kogami wonders, if he’ll be disappointed in himself tomorrow, so quick to pull the trigger and shove a bullet into that pretty skull. he’s almost certain he would be as he reveled in the weight of metal in his palm, so different from how a dominator felt when his badge still meant something. the taste of gunpowder. the subtle scent of makishima’s blood in the breeze. the way his back is turned and facing him, brittle as a bird. it’s all and the same, the man in the photograph, the shadow in his memories, the man kneeling in front of him. the helping hand that skinned sasayama alive. kogami lets that consume him. he doesn’t want to think about what makishima wants. not here. not now.

“that’s all you have to say? unless you want to piss me off any more than you’ve done. then by all means, keep talking.”

@achroanimus

still in awe at the constant flow of posts using the same line of "sorcerers aren't heroes in the story" to somehow diminish geto's actions throughout the series which, albeit born from reaching a breaking point after exploitation and misuse of his ability as well as the circumstances in which both he and gojo were forced to grow up into fine killers, it remains true that he killed more than a hundred of people indiscriminately (how convenient it would be that he only chose those who were "culprit" of mimiko and nanako's lynching, right? because there was a reliable way for him to know it right? there wasn't. it was indiscriminate killing under the assumption that not a single soul was free of sin), the murder of his parents who, as implied, were non-sorcerers as well and in order to add value and weight to his point, he considered their status as family didn't exempt them from sharing the same sin as the people in the village: by being ordinary humans they are bearers of cursed energy and their negativity would invariably end up being consumed by him, or the curse would consume someone else, someone like haibara, who was weaker, could be anyone but a sorcerer like him. and the treatment of every other non-sorcerer that he´s come across in the series.

i've mentioned this before in a different blog but i bring it here too: there is no possible way in the main timeline where geto will choose anything else but his goal of total erradication of non-sorcerers, because as a person who needs a purpose, who needs something to live for, the dawning realization that he'd wiped out entire bloodlines in a single night, the emptiness gnawing at him from within, made him seek for something that would justify his actions and he latched onto the first thing that he knew: the only way to prevent curses from being born is either to erradicate cursed energy from humans or the humans themselves. he chose the latter, so it ended up becoming a fundamental part of his identity, giving it up means giving up on himself altogether, it means that leaving everything behind, leaving his one and only best friend behind, the school, his comrades, the killing of his own family, all of it held no meaning at all and he needs it, he needs it to mean something, needs his existence to not have been that of a machine grinding meat for the higher ups to feast upon, that maybe this way he can have the liberty of acting upon his own desires and not those of others who only benefitted from the sacrifice of others. he turned his fangs back at them, and they hated him for it, but he hated himself more because he knows no other way to defend himself from total failure and meaninglessness.

so basically, while he is a victim of a corrupt system, just because sorcerers are not exactly heroes or molded to be saviors, it doesn't mean absolution: at the end of the day, even those who were also victims of the same system did not arrive to the same conclusion. his actions are entirely his own, it's the path he chose. he doesn't wish to be forgiven, he doesn't think to force others to follow. does the snake ask for the mice's forgiveness? does it expect it? it does not, it is hungry, it doesn't know any other way to eat but this. and would you tell the mice, the snake is misunderstood, it is hungry. would it make sense to them? silly metaphor because animals hunt by instinct but truth remains relatively the same: he knows what he can do and what his strength amounts to, and he makes conscious use of it, unrelenting. you can't exactly categorize him as anything else but what he is: a curse. the worst curse user.

sakura in a jjk setting would have a heavenly restriction which gives him enormous strength of course, but he's never been able to see curses so he was isolated in the jujutsu society same as maki and toji were, thus turning him into that mistrustful boy that he is in canon. i just think that would be neat.

❛ all you can say are pretty lies. ❜ hi :)

he could let it pass, leave him waiting. he could summon one of the most vicious curses and go. he knows what should be done. he could do all these things, too. he really should. and yet, as he stands on his feet, hands carefully arranged inside his sleeves, all that suguru can conjure is the signature smile of a deity that’s taken pity on his followers.

the impulse seems to abandon him. “that you consider them pretty at all is a personal gain, don’t you think? but isn’t it for the listener to decide? truths and lies are all subjective. if the intent to conceal information is conscious, that can be called a lie from the speaker. but what if the other person believes it?”

there’s no traffic, the road is empty. worn out with use, suguru assumes the busiest hours must be at dawn, or the early stages of the afternoon. the absence of sounds from passing cars makes it all the most eerie, misplaced within the space of time. his attention travels from the winding roads and towards the pitch-black tunnel unfolding and twisting beyond their sights just a few steps away from them. it feels like facing the gaping mouth of a snake. it looks like nobody ever comes here at night.

“you were right. there’s a presence right down the tunnel. i’m surprised that only three of your men have disappeared, the nature of this curse is ravening, but i guess it’s no strangeness that you haven’t reacted negatively to it. familiarity? maybe.” he throws a side glance at Vein, shrugging a shoulder. “i’ll take a look. stay there or come with, it’s up for you to decide.”

@burntpa1ace

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

guys im too busy to make a promo but pls recommend me blogs to follow

❝ yeah, yeah ⸻ they called me in for this. ❞

leone's arms uncross, expression disgruntled. he hates doing jobs for the school, but money is money, as long as they're not expecting him to beat up a damned grade 1 or worse on his own. but, that's what contracts are for ⸻ covering his pathetic ass so that this grown adult can be chaperoned while he does his job.

sorcerers are usually capable of conducting their own investigations, but there's no denying that when leone's cursed technique is useful, it's useful.

still, he's decidedly glad to be such a pain in the ass to the school in turn. he's known @vzmky since his unemployed days of sitting on stoops and drinking himself into a spiraling stupor, and as much as he's actually come to like his company, a special grade companion means a ridiculous job.

❝ you still carry that lighter around ? pass it here, will ya ? apparently, i'm gonna need it. ❞