*

@limel1ghts @burntpa1ace

at the end of the day it's about who you'd creampie in missionary. forehead to forehead. while maintaining eye contact

one of the most challenging things about kogami to portray in writing is the mental gymnastics going through his mind the moment someone questions him about the real motive behind his obsession with avenging sasayama and chasing Makishima because at one point it stops being about the pursuit of justice and more about the destruction of your distorted image in a mirror staring back at you and when the abyss is mentioned to conceptualize kogamis turmoil and descent into an unhealthy obsession it's less about the darkness of the act and more about seeing your likeness in someone else, the sense that that something you always felt was wrong in the world, the bell tolling in a dark forest is closer to you than you ever imagined and you can grasp it and it can graze you back but all you need to do is accept it and that feeling alone scares you disgusts you but more terrifying than anything is that it entices you, otherwise why else would it haunt you afterwards? Why would it follow? Why would you let it stay in the shape of an illusion? Why did you respond to its calling? But that's hard to portray in like 2 paragraphs without making kogami look insane.

" Are you expecting me to be surprised, Sherlock?" ( from Mycroft)

‘ hardly the issue here, shitty brother. ’

sure enough, the vacant space in 221B for the better part of the years following their fabricated demise makes him feel sorry enough to not act on the defensiveness as he’d usually do, faced with his brother’s unwavering stare. what he can’t entirely wash away is the sense that the more he gives away, the less he has to call his and william’s own, as if the mere telling of those private moments would signify losing that exclusiveness to them and yes it’s selfish, yes, it’s unkind, but he’s never bothered to learn how to give up this hunger that started since the moment he laid eyes on those ruby-tinted eyes, near the spiral staircase.

sherlock rolls the filter of his cigarette between sharp teeth, eyes scanning the room - anywhere else but his brother’s face. ‘ that’s all you’re getting out of me anyways. you’ve probably heard from Albert already — we’ve been hopping cities since New York, solved a couple of mysteries here and there, nothing that should concern you. or what? you’re trying to act like a doting mother at your age? gives me the creeps. ’

@lightcreators

GOJO SATORU

she's not dead , i can see her breathing . (Chrollo at Makima if you’re familiar with hxh!)

‘ are you familiar with blindness? ’ gaze inquisitive, never wavering. there’s no double intention in the topic chosen, though she finds the irony of it amusing enough to let the silence eat at the last syllables, her voice a lullaby in the empty space of the cathedral’s towers.

she moves away from the place where sword and arrow intended to pin her down — perhaps there’s something about buildings of this kind, always craving for a sacrifice. she notices a second scent, too, almost hidden by the soft cologne from his clothes. it’s barely noticeable, though desperately wanted to be seen, to be chased. makima’s head tilts to the side, spirals and his black voids meet in the middle. ‘ i’m talking about the essay. the author has long since passed away, sadly. but his work left an impression on me, when i first read it. i won’t bore you with the specifics, but i’d like to talk about the overlap in our situations. ’

the lights do little to help her, echoes satiate her curiosity and she calculates the proximity as she descends from the stairs, her gait slow and casting shadows, longer and longer the more her figure comes into view beneath the thin veil of the moonlight. ‘ you have correctly discerned that i wasn’t truly dead and by no stretch of the word. just like there is only one person who can see in a world of perpetual blank canvases for the rest of humanity. ’

‘ it’s an interesting work. the author died slowly from an incurable disease. ’ she dusts her clothes off, slowly braids her hair back, wipes the blood from her face. her attention never leaves him, and neither does his. ‘ disease is not something i know. or death. and it doesn’t seem like you do, either. can i know your name? ’

@lustraveil

“ this you? ” 🙄

" your drawing skills have improved. i can't say the same for mine, but i tried. you can keep it. " @limel1ghts

Gojo's flip phone definitely has charms hanging from it, the anime may not have shown it but the truth was given to me by the gods

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.

“ can you host a hassle-free party? one without noise. ”

‘ can you play one of your rhythm games without thumbs? ’ gojo scoffed dismissively, the absurdity of the question so comical it almost makes him laugh. almost. ‘ you stand by this statement? doesn't matter, don't answer me! you just have to be there to understand it. parties without noise are an inexistent equation. need a quiet place? tell qiao ling to bring you a crib, you crybaby. can we get going though? these drinks are getting warm. ’

@trapshot

❛ 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