#einshi

what a child, to say these things so easily to his friends.

he couldn't. not tonight. not, at least, for another year. how many corpses amount to thee? how many makes a road? only the wind and stars witness them tonight. that moon slips down griffith's face, so lonesome. filled with longing.

and for a while he does not speak.

am i dirty?

it wants him. that dread harbor on the sky's obverse side, according to which he is still virginal, a ghostly boy. he knows it. whatever it is, it wants him. they all do.

am i dirty?

what a thing to say!

the moon is always opposite the sun. touched, never held. griffith looks across his shoulder. star-cream hair unspools along that shifting breeze. and guts, beside him, stands wrong. so ... tall, so bold. isn't he a gallant one. as though there is nothing wrong in the earth, what holds him now beside griffith; who cannot do so with these hands his own. not that he needs. not for lack of ...

oh.

griffith turns his cheek. he does not speak sorrowfully.

"do you think ... ... that i am cruel?"

they all want him. all tilting to griffith's axis, self-avowed to skew. but you. him, in flesh of wild perfection.

by heaven, i'll know thy thoughts. you cannot, if my heart were in your hand; nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody.

william pauses mid-sip of his tea.

he had meant it as a tease. a passing remark, soft and indulgent, slipped beneath the edge of a smirk. “go on, then. bark for me.” the kind of thing he says when sherlock is too smug for his own good. when he wants to watch that brilliant mind stutter for a second under the weight of something unexpected.

but then—“woof woof.”

william blinks once.

then again.

he sets his teacup down with deliberate precision, porcelain kissing saucer. the silence that follows stretches, velvet-thick and simmering, until his gaze lifts—sharp and unreadable—to where sherlock lounges, so casual in posture, yet too obviously pleased with himself. there's the smallest twitch at the corner of william’s mouth. not quite a smile. not yet.

“you really are quite shameless,” he murmurs, voice smooth, like something honeyed and laced with arsenic. he rises from his chair slowly, each movement fluid and unhurried. calculated. “or maybe just obedient. i haven’t decided which suits you more.”

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.

❝ 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.

gojo satoru never says please . all the blessing of the heavens and six eyes to back it up , all that unbalanced source of energy on the tip of his fingers , all because simply ; gojo satoru never begs . he stands amidst the crowd with dull greyed eyes , stares with a clenched jaw as suguru's black eyes disappear through his smile . his head feels hot , he recognizes this , rage . his shoulder blades feel tense and he knows this too ─ lost , heavens he has no idea how to deal with this . suguru takes his silence as an answer and turns to leave . he manages to take a few steps before satoru is right behind him , a cold hand curled around suguru's arm . oversized shirt wrinkles under his tight grip , bare eyes catch suguru's . and he doesn't look angry anymore , not when he saw suguru is actually able to leave . ‘ suguru .. ‘ he's pathetic , he swallows and doesn't know what to say . no , satoru can't survive this one with a blank face and empty eyes ─ can't push his way through the world without him . it feels like being a star and burning , it feels like he's being pulled apart atom by atom . he licks his lips , his eyes were bare since this morning and he feels exhausted , he needs to eat a few plates of sweets before he can function properly and with acceptable sugar levels in his blood . ‘ we ─ let's sit and talk . burgers on me . ‘ black rings are deeper under his eyes , he feels like he's aged centuries . his hold loosens before he tries to stand straighter , his phone rings ; it's yaga , he turns it off and slips it back into his pocket . heart hammering in his chest . ‘ come on . sit . ‘ he even pulls the seat for him , a couple of chairs tucked under the table in front of mcdonald's . satoru leans over to dust the seat off with his palm , a hand that can't touch many things because everyone knows that once you become untouchable you're also unable to touch ; he blinks , with parted lips , almost aggressively does he gesture to the chair he's pulled for suguru .

deathless sentence memes | @einshi

SHOULD NOT THE HONORED ONE REMAIN IN HIS KINGDOM, and leave the hells to those most wretched, far beyond the five pillars of heaven?

"we," toji echoes back, like he's never heard the word. a beat stretches by before he snorts, head dropping into a loose shake, one hand waving as though it could clear the air, efface any record of something so absurd. "that's a good one. maybe if being the strongest sorcerer of the modern age doesn't work out, you can try your hand at comedy."

there's something like humor in his voice. if not for the apathy dulling his eyes, expression withering as he cases the six eyes' face for any hint of sincerity, toji might seem entertained. flattered, even if cynically. for now, however, he disregards gojo, drinking deep and loud from a cup of genmaicha, its complexity more convincing than the sorcerer's.

 𝑺𝑳𝑬𝑬𝑷𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾 .

     “ Believe,  Lord  Aizen? “      words  ooze  from  his  lips,  lifes'  blood  from  the  open  wound   -   had  lord  aizen  not  known  who  he  was  by  now?  how  could  belief  of  any  sort  deny  the  facts  of  what  had  been  seen  with  his  superior  eyes?  Perhaps  it  had  only  been  a  test.  A  question  for  his  opinion,  or  rather,  seeking  his  opinion  when  it  was  not  needed.

𝑫𝑰𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝑻𝑶 𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑶𝑵𝑬.

william  feels  the  weight  of  sherlock’s  gaze  before  he  even  hears  the  footsteps.  it’s  sharp,  piercing,  a  blade  honed  to  precision,  and  yet  there’s  something  else  there—a  warmth  that  prickles  against  the  edges  of  william’s  carefully  constructed  walls.  he  turns,  his  crimson  eye  meeting  sherlock’s  vivid  blue,  and  for  the  first  time  in  what  feels  like  an  eternity,  he’s  caught  off  guard.  the  man  stands  there,  utterly  unflinching,  as  though  he  belongs  in  every  room  he  steps  into.  william  detests  it,  admires  it,  and  feels  a  pull  he  can’t  quite  name.  their  conversation  is  an  intricate  dance,  one  of  wit  and  deduction,  a  match  of  equals  in  a  game  neither  seems  willing  to  lose.  but  even  as  words  flow  effortlessly  from  his  mouth,  william  can  feel  it:  the  way  sherlock  doesn’t  just  listen  but  dissects  him,  peeling  back  layers  that  no  one  else  has  dared  to  touch. 

it’s  unsettling,  almost  maddening,  and  yet  it  stirs  something  deep  within  him—a  spark  in  the  cold,  empty  hearth  of  his  soul.

and  then,  just  as  he  thinks  he’s  regained  his  footing,  sherlock  steps  closer.  william  freezes,  his  every  sense  screaming  to  move,  to  pull  back,  to  reinforce  the  carefully  placed  boundaries  that  keep  him  safe,  untouchable.  but  sherlock  doesn’t  stop.  he  takes  william’s  hand  with  an  ease  that  feels  entirely  too  intimate,  entirely  too  bold.  his  crimson  gaze  flits  to  sherlock's  face,  and  for  once,  william  finds  himself  at  a  rare  loss  for  words.  sherlock’s  expression  is  unreadable,  his  blue  eyes  alight  with  something  sharp  and  playful,  yet  disarmingly  genuine.  it’s  as  though  he’s  issuing  a  challenge,  not  just  of  intellect  but  of  something  far  more  profound,  far  more  personal. 

the  kiss  is  soft,  fleeting,  yet  it  sears  itself  into  william’s  memory  as  if  branded  there.  the  warmth  of  sherlock’s  lips  burns  his  skin,  spreading  up  his  arm  and  into  his  chest  like  a  fire  suddenly  roaring  to  life.  his  breath  catches,  his  heart  skipping  in  betrayal  of  his  usual  calm.  it’s  not  the  action  itself  that  unsettles  him,  but  the  complete  disregard  for  the  barriers  william  so  painstakingly  constructs.  sherlock  acts  as  though  they  don’t  exist,  as  though  he’s  entitled  to  step  past  them  without  hesitation.  william’s  first  instinct  is  indignation—how  dare  this  man,  this  stranger,  cross  a  line  so  casually,  so  carelessly?  but  beneath  that  indignation  lies  something  else,  something  raw  and  unwelcome:  a  yearning  he  hasn’t  felt  in  years.  the  audacity  of  it  all  is  infuriating,  but  the  warmth  left  behind  by  sherlock’s  touch  lingers,  refusing  to  be  ignored.  it’s  as  though  sherlock’s  very  presence  is  a  flame,  thawing  parts  of  william  he  didn’t  even  realize  had  frozen  solid. 

“you’re  certainly  full  of  surprises,  mr.  holmes,”  he  says,  his  voice  steady  but  softer  than  usual,  betraying  the  intrigue  now  coursing  through  him.  he  retracts  his  hand  with  measured  grace,  fingers  brushing  lightly  against  sherlock’s  as  he  does.  the  contact  lingers  just  a  moment  too  long,  as  if  neither  of  them  is  entirely  ready  to  let  it  go.  william  forces  a  small,  practiced  smile,  the  kind  that  never  quite  reaches  his  eyes.  he  takes  a  step  back,  just  enough  to  create  space,  but  not  enough  to  sever  the  strange,  magnetic  pull  between  them.  as  he  turns  to  leave,  his  fingers  twitch  at  his  side,  still  burning  with  the  ghost  of  sherlock’s  touch.

as  william  steps  back,  his  composure  returns,  but  the  warmth  remains—a  flicker  of  life  in  the  cold,  empty  fireplace  he’s  carried  within  himself  for  so  long. 

he  watches  sherlock  with  renewed  curiosity,  something  unspoken  settling  between  them  like  the  first  notes  of  a  melody  yet  to  be  composed.  he  departs  with  his  usual  elegance,  but  his  thoughts  are  anything  but  composed.  the  memory  of  that  touch,  of  that  kiss,  stays  with  him  long  after  their  paths  diverge.  it  feels  as  though  something  irrevocable  has  shifted,  a  thread  now  tied  between  them,  pulling  taut  across  the  divide.  and  as  william  walks  away,  he  realizes  with  no  small  amount  of  trepidation  that  he  doesn’t  mind  being  bound  to  sherlock  holmes  in  the  slightest.

for  the  first  time  in  years,  the  cold  emptiness  inside  him  feels...  alive,  ignited  by  a  flame  he  doesn’t  know  if  he  wants  to  extinguish  or  feed.