#malient

       ‟             Oh     yes     !      i     even     use     your      mother's     eyeliner     to     make     my     scar     everyday           …           bet     you     having      two     dicks      is     also     a     lie,      what     you     put     in     there           ?      ----------            foam     float              ”  

this is how i see you.

❝ how rude. then again, i suppose i shouldn't expect better from you... ❞

the  air  was  dead.  a  perfect,  heavy  silence  in  the  heart  of  sukuna's  domain.  the  water  was  black  glass.  the  grotesque  shrine  of  bone  and  malice  was  the  only  feature  in  the  endless,  dark  space.

but  it  wasn't  empty  anymore.  gojo  stood  on  the  surface  of  the  black  water,  not  a  ripple  disturbing  its  surface.  he  wasn't  summoned  here.  he  wasn't  dragged.  he  had  walked  in.  an  uninvited  guest  at  the  heart  of  hell.

sukuna  was  on  his  throne.  impassive.  a  god  of  primordial  malice  watching  a  gnat  buzz  in  his  temple.  gojo  didn't  look  at  him.  he  was  busy  examining  his  own  reflection  in  the  perfectly  still  water.  "you  know,  i  was  thinking."  he  continued,  his  tone  light  and  dangerously  cheerful.  "this  whole  'king  of  curses'  thing.  it's  a  good  brand.  very  edgy.  very  'i  was  misunderstood  in  high  school'."  he  finally  lifted  his  head,  his  blindfolded  gaze  sweeping  over  the  monolithic  bone  shrine.

"but  the  execution  is  a  little…  lacking.  i  mean,  all  this  power,  a  thousand  years  to  plan,  and  your  big  comeback  is  squatting  in  some  kid's  ribcage?  it's  a  little  sad,  you  know?"

he  took  a  slow,  deliberate  step  forward.  then  another.  each  footfall  was  a  silent  thunderclap  in  the  dead  domain.  "i  guess  that's  the  difference  between  us."  he  finally  stopped.  a  respectful,  yet  utterly  insulting  distance  from  the  throne.  he  reached  up,  hooking  his  fingers  under  his  blindfold.

"you  were  the  strongest  thing  in  your  era.  the  big  fish  in  a  small,  dirty  pond.  you  had  to  fight.  had  to  claw  your  way  to  the  top.  had  to  earn  your  throne."  he  pulled  the  blindfold  down,  letting  it  rest  around  his  neck.

his  eyes,  twin  blue  supernovas  of  infinite,  untouchable  power,  flared  to  life  in  the  oppressive  darkness.  they  were  the  only  light  source  in  the  entire  domain.  and  they  were  fixed  on  sukuna.

fake ass i got evidence / @malient

continued from here. | @malient

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙂𝙐𝙔'𝙎 𝙂𝙊𝙏 𝙂𝙐𝙏𝙎. that's all axel can muster to think the moment he watches his fist connect with the guests cheek. it's dark, but between the strobe lights he manages to make out the chaotic scene. axel's used to the touching, the flirting, the punching. he'd handled just about every situation the same. humor. usually it works, success rate being somewhere in the seventy - percental. but punching back works too, he supposes. the guy had finally left in a fit of rage. but it's not as if much could be done. he doubts the asshole even saw his coworker with how dark it'd been. the make up around his eyes and messy, smudged. punk vampire was his character tonight. but his faux leather jacket is torn and covered in red corn syrup, same with his white tee. and now after a long night of scaring he looks even worse for wear, the fake blood having now dried to the fabric and his skin.

❛ i mean, you definitely could have. ❜ it's not as if he really knew the guy that well. the dude owed him nothing. people come and go in this type of field easily . . . it's not exactly the most conventional or well paying gig out there. turning his head grey eyes meet his face, taking in the almost annoyed look he offers. ❛ thanks, though . . . feels like i owe ya now. ❜ axel slides off his boots as he sits on the bench. the place is about to close anyway. regardless if he follows suit, axel is peacing out early. ❛ i usually go to this whole in the wall pizza place on shitty nights like this. wanna come ? ❜

Saint   don’t   look   at   him   right   away.   He   don’t   need   to.   He   can   feel   Sukuna   behind   him,   heavy   as   storm   pressure,   hoverin’   like   he   got   a   claim   he   ain’t   earned,   breathin’   down   his   neck   like   heat   in   August.   He   exhales   slow,   like   it’s   a   chore,   and   tips   his   head   just   enough   for   that   silk-black   hair   to   spill   down   his   back.   Ruby   stare   draggin’   over   Sukuna   as   if   he   ain’t   impressed   in   the   slightest,   like   he’s   inspectin’   a   pair   of   muddy   boots   someone   tracked   through   his   chapel.   His   smile’s   crooked,   sharp   as   cane   cut   fresh   ⸻   lookin’   all   too   pleased   with   himself.     ❝     mon   dieu   ,    look   at   cha.   Jus’a   sniffin’   ‘round   my   doorstep   like   sum   half-wild   stray.         ❞        There   a   blade   folded   right   in   the   middle’a   sharp   words.   A   laugh,   light   and   dismissive,   rolls   off   his   tongue    (   y'all   know   damn   well   it's   not,   it's   ugly   ). 

He   leans   in,   just   enough   to   be   rude,        ❝        nobody   told   y’not   t’linger   where   y’ain’t   invited   ?        ❞           A   mighty   long   pause,   then   a   much   more   amused   lilt   no   doubt   put   on   hus’   t’push   on   the   cursed   king   nerve,     ❝        maybe   y’jus’   like   beggin’   quiet   ?     ❞         

「   (   ♡    𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒   𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘   ,        @malient   .   )   」

Twin pinpricks of ruby red against the flat midnight of his own. Normally, Hiromi bears the inscrutable weight upon others, but with him ... the stillness feels more like untouched earth before a strike of lightning. A wick mere seconds before being lit aflame.

"If that's what you want to hear." Dismissive in a way that feels thick on his tongue. "I never specified who is subject to such observations." A small shrug follows, daring, perhaps — purposely tempting an act of play among embers of wildfire. "But if you presume yourself to be aligned in any capacity.. then who am I to disagree?"

Careful, now, a voice reminds him. Self-preservation most likely, but it wears ever-thin to the frayed ends of curiosity. What other reason is there for him to be here and entertain conversation, no less?

Thus, he sits.