@vzmky

"You look like you've got something to say," Koito glares at Ogata defensive in advance.

a brat will always be a brat.

maybe it’s the irony of fate, should ogata believe in fate at all, or maybe another force was secretly at play, and they’d always be bound to meet halfway, in the same position as all those years back. ogata huffs out a mirthless laugh, ghost-pains where his eye should’ve been - had been not longer than a few days before - anchor him to the present. second lietunant koito, sprawled on the ground, helpless, a wounded puppy for all the barking he did around tsurumi’s feet on the daily. it’s annoying, it makes him want to break him badly.

he doesn’t, only keeps the urge at bay, for now. his gun remains still against the back of koito’s head, feeling his muscles tense below the barrel. he won’t hold out for much longer, the aching wounds becoming more persistent by the second, but he finds enough strength in himself to roll koito over and on his back, heel digging in the crook of his adam’s apple and sharp collarbone. ogata knows what it feels like, to feel cartilage giving into the pressure of a heavy step. it would be so easy…

“heh, i sure do. didn’t realize you were so concerned about me that you’d come visit. i’m moved.” ogata watches him with a dark gleam in his eye, mockery undisturbed, only heightened by the morphine traversing through his veins finally kicking in in-between words. “it’s not the first time you’ve been cornered like this. how many times is that going to happen until it sticks, that you’re not cut out for this?”

his foot presses lower, above koito’s ribcage, and the gun hovers on the space between his eyes. the gun's been unlocked from the start; it's unfinished business. at last his foot was in the throbbing expanse of his chest, which had only grown broader, a man's frame, even larger than ogata's had been when he was koito's age. heartbeats rumbled against bare skin. sweat pools like jewels on his temple, framing those features, as though painted from the finest inks. as if everything about him is a mirror of his lineage.

“spoiled brat.” the vowels come sharper than japanese, rusty from misuse. he searches for that feeling again, sour on his tongue, invokes the anger that had made him try and riddle his pretty skull with bullets back then.

instead he watches, quietly, as koito squirms. fights to regain control. the kick comes faster than he assumed his body could take, but he strikes koito’s face with the unceremonious grace that you’d haul corpses on the battlefield. he throws a last glance over his shoulder, for memory’s sake, perhaps. or because he just wanted to see him cry a little, as he’d done at tsurumi’s lap many times before.

@muddsludge

 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

I'm so sorry, guys, but he IS hot.

what's your literary archetype? — tagged by @lustraveil for kogami

the mentor.

you're a natural leader, you've got a specific aura about you that draws people to you. you're smart, not just academically, but worldly smart. people tend to go to you for help and advice, and you're more than happy to help. of course, that also means that you feel like you're a therapist rather than a friend, family, or lover. it can make you feel isolated from everyone else, and i hope that people realize you are human before a teacher.

tagging: @psielapki @limel1ghts @burntpa1ace @sukareo @cymerae @yeonban

would've really liked to learn what geto's parents were like. from what we know about the power distribution in sorcerers world, that a boy was born with cursed spirit manipulation catalogued as special grade, it means that either a powerful sorcerer or an aparition can be traced back in his bloodline but there's never any mention of it, unlike the rest of the cast who are either grouped in the kind that belong to a clan or the descendants of powerful entities, like yuta for example.

however in regards geto's bloodline or origins we have nothing, which only makes me assume that his existence is an anomaly the kind as gojo's birth, which is said to have destabilized the carefully mantained balance in the world. curiously, geto was born after gojo, can't be said to come from any special clan or family and yet his ability at one point was on par with gojo's own and their fates entwined in a manner that his very existence handicapped gojo's overwhelming power. fate works in funny ways so i think that in order to keep the balance in check again, life, the fods, fate, coincidence, whatever almighty power there might be, it created geto, the dark side of gojo's moon.

before  bed  kiss. 🧍🏾‍♂️ souma and mr geto sir.

it’s in bed that he feels the most restless.

like an earthquake, memories that he’d long since buried would resurface, the epicenter of which started with the familiar voices of old classmates and friends murmuring his name, in the dark, sometimes obtaining a physical form in the corner, sometimes as lingering touch on the set of his brows, ghostly as thin air. he rolls up on his bed and is greeted by the blurry vision of still curtains. summer’s embrace coated him in a layer of sweat, uncomfortable enough that lying down and still on his mattress does little to appease the thoughts swirling in his mind. 

it’s until he grasps at the strings of consciousness that he notices the body lying next to him, the soft breathing pressing at his sides as though cradling a new-born bird in hand, warm and fragile to the touch. the night sat still, eerily so. if a pin dropped, maybe souma and him would’ve been able to hear it echo in the quietness of the room.

“can’t sleep?” more like an observation than a question, suguru whispers from his position, his voice a hiss as though every syllable carried the weight of exhaustion as they left his lips. though this night is like any other, souma’s presence in his room is entirely new. not for the first time he’s overcome with urge to touch him, unsure whether the souma in front of him is corporeal or a midnight illusion, a haunting presence to torture his lonely soul.

or an escape.

suguru blinks weariness away, a single digit traces the sharp dip of souma’s nose, then down to his lips. there, his skin is greeted by the warmth of his shallow breathing. he remembered, then, like a flame flickering before it’s put out, the taste of those lips against his own. 

they’d been soft, feather-like, and bittersweet. it had none of the innocence he imagined, so foreign, and he remembered having to chase after the sensation, as though it eluded him, not out of fear but something else entirely. ‘have you been told’ he’d said in an undertone, burying his nose in the crook of his shoulder, lips pressed onto sun-kissed skin and into a thin smile, ‘that you’re like a scaredy cat.’

although he meant nothing bad by it, his words gained him a light reprimand, and the moment subdued into quietness and then into deep sleep. he wondered how long souma had lay awake, if he’d waited for suguru to open his eyes and pick up from they stopped - the conversation or the intimate exchange altogether. he glances at the clock on his bedside. it’s way past midnight.

“usually, people are scared of the dark.” the hand that touched souma’s face had moved down, two fingers waltzed across his arm and the dip of his waist, voice going down by a few octaves, “sorcerers aren’t the exception. i believe that there’s an irony in that. we’re born with the ability to stare into the dark, the blackest darkness you can imagine, and yet we can conjure a primal fear like that. if a darkness curse existed, i wonder if it would be something that can be exorcised. it’s rhetorical, you don’t have to answer.”

a pause. their gazes meet, gold and grey, the shades of a cloudy sky. though it’s too hot outside to bring their bodies closer, the proximity mirrors the feeling of spilled blood.

“are you afraid of the dark?”

@sukareo

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.

You'll forget it when you're dead, and so will I. When I'm dead, I'm going to forget everything–and I advise you to do the same.

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

Color pinups of the crew three years ago