#metancy

❝    only  if  you  give  me  a  reason  to.  ❞  the  barista  reaches  into  his  pocket  to  withdraw  his  cigarettes  and  with  the  flick  of  his  fingers,  the  end  ignites  as  if  he  was  holding  a  lighter  (though  it's  clear  as  day  he's  not).  i  wasn't  that  he  was  bothered  by  the  gojo  clan's  child  weapon-  more  of,  he  pitied  him.  he  wasn't  ignorant  to  who  he  was  talking  to.  being  what  he  was,  he'd  done  plenty  of  research.  he'd  remembered  events  playing  out  in  the  real  ground  in  near  by  districts  where  the  platinum  blonde  sorcerer  was  involved.

curses  and  noise  coexisted  fairly  seamlessly,  often  time  blending  into  the  same  plane.  it  meant  that  there  had  to  be  a  bit  of  flexibility  when  the  jujutsu  sorcerers  came  into  the  ward  and  added  to  the  reapers  game  totals.  it  wasn't  pleasant  but....  well,  curses  were  out  of  his  own  jurisdiction,  even  if  he  could  interfere  if  need  be.  the  producers  realm  focused  on  the  dead,  though  he  kept  an  eye  on  the  living.

he  doesn't  grace  him  with  entertaining  the  bravado  that  the  others  holding  up.  it's  laughably  fake.  a  wall  that  the  sorcerer  put  up  to  protect  himself  paired  with  over  confidence  of  his  strength  and  abilities.  it  made  for  confidence  that  he'd  only  ever  seen  in  minamimoto.  the  difference  was,  in  most  cases  from  hanekoma's  observation,  gojo  satoru  was  actually  untouchable.

it  made  things  interesting.

                    𝘢𝘴   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧   -   𝘮𝘢𝘯,   𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧   -   𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦   𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴   𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳,   𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦   𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴   𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭   𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯   𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥   𝘪𝘵,   𝘢𝘴   𝘪𝘧   𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥   𝘰𝘧   𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘨𝘰   —   it's   happening   almost   like   she's   not   aware,   and   so   she's   quick   to   readjust   her   grip,   handing   the   puppet   to   the   other.

                    it's   no   wonder   the   popped   stitch   is   located   around   where   the   head   connects   to   the   rest   of   the   body,   as   a   noose   hangs   from   its   neck   —   and   it's   usually   being   held   by   the   rope   there,   too.   as   much   as   the   precious   belonging   is   handed   with   care,   it   just   so   happens   that   the   cursed   technique   of   mimiko's   damages   the   plush   toy   (   and   it's   never   -   ever   intentional   ).

                    doe   -   eyed,   geto's   daughter   glues   her   gaze   to   choso   ;   hazel   orbs   follow   every   move   of   his   arms.   there's   little   trust   there,   too   —   when   nanako's   not   around,   mimiko   becomes   skittish   &   mistrustful   even   to   the   allies   of   her   chosen   dad.   nonetheless,   she's   willing   to   seek   help   when   her   most   beloved   persons   aren't   by   her   side   —   a   rare   sign   of   independence.   moreover,   she's   willing   to   let   choso   handle   it   :   let   him   carry   her   toy   whilst   seeking   needle   and   thread.

IT   WAS   SO   VERY   MUCH   LIKE   SATORU   GOJO   to   be   utterly   irreverent   in   the   face   of   what   the   world   viewed   as   the   ❛   king   of   curses   ❜   -   the   unrelentingly   malevolent   entity   which   cut   through   his   foes   with   ease.   it   was   hard   to   decide   if   he   valued   his   life   or   not   when   he   cast   his   wicked   grin   in   the   other's   face,   the   full   brunt   of   those   limpid   eyes   mingling   with   sukuna's   crimson.   in   the   so-called   king's   presence,   information   seemed   to   slow   a   bit,   the   relentless   assault   that   satoru   often   found   himself   intaking   easing   to   a   trickle   while   he   focused   all   his   senses   upon   the   currently   tranquil   threat   before   him.   instead   of   everything   rushing   around   him,   there   was   bits   of   calm   -   like   staring   into   the   crackle   of   a   firepit,   or   the   stormy   waves   lapping   at   the   shore.

From @metancy.

if akira was going to be notorious for one thing: it was his delinquency. secondly, he was notorious for his sleepiness; much like the cats he takes his other habits after, his eyes fail him on the trail ride home, and while holding his bag with Morgana ( complaining , ever complaining ) inside of it . much like a feline, his falling asleep in public is more a testament to his trust in those around him than to his late nights and tired mind. one of his most trusted? ryuji, no doubt. from the first moment, he continuously puts his trust in the sprinter's hands, counting him capable on all vital occasions.

he's simply dozing on the ride back to leblanc, but all in all, the leader was still in a precarious position; but that's what friends were for, weren't they? watching one another's vulnerable sides. / from akira ! 🐾

In contrast to his friend, Ryuji had been slumped against his seat his eyes wide open and a handheld game preoccupying his attention - not that taking a doze wasn't a nice idea although he was still feeling rather restless at the moment - that was just part of being a runner he supposed, his knee twitching and his fingers idly tapping the sides of the window as he occasionally glances out to see what's passing by them - it was only when glancing over at Akira, mouth half open to make an observation, that he even noticed his friend had fallen asleep - there was admittedly something so strange about seeing his best friend, his fearless leader, asleep and looking almost just...like a regular guy - hell, even if he didn't know any better - he looked just like some mildly stressed and fatigued high school student (which wasn't wholly untrue) but Akira was much more than that.

Smiling to himself, he keeps his gaze on his friend as he settles back into his seat - for Akira to fall asleep like this at his side speaks volumes and it's a sentiment he returns absolutely - he won't let anything happen to his friend, he'll keep watch over him and look after him. An affectionate hand lightly but gently pats his sleeping friend's back and soft words are uttered.

                    𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘪   𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭   𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴   𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬   𝘩𝘢𝘴   𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥   𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘧𝘦𝘸   𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴   𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴   𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯   𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦.   apparently,   they   have   a   kid   now   —   they,   as   in   her   and   satoru,   because   she   knows   for   a   fact   that   man   is   not   responsible   enough   to   take   care   of   one   by   himself   —   let   alone   two,   as   she   discovers   upon   her   arrival.

                    with   her,   she   brings   the   smell   of   cigarette   smoke   and   it   mixes   with   rain   and   gojo's   perfume   and   wet   fur,   and   as   far   as   she's   been   informed   (   or   rather,   scanned   the   apartment   with   her   ever   -   perceptive   eyes   )   there   were   no   animals   in   there   and   so   there's   a   sigh   :   deep,   heavy.   it's   a   rare   occurrence   for   them   to   see   each   other   —   after   what   happened   with   riko,   and   then   geto   —   and   although   still   affiliated   with   the   jujutsu   society   &   the   school,   unmei   avoids   its   grounds   ;   travels   away   for   days,   weeks,   months   and   for   what   —   to   come   back   to   this   mess?

                    ❝   aren't   they   like   what,   six?   ❞   she   questions,   lifeless   gaze   directed   at   the   boots   by   the   door   ;   at   the   coats   on   the   hanger.   she   would've   been   fine   at   their   age,   living   by   herself   —   but   she   also   knows   she's   special,   different   —   thus,   she   deems   it   irresponsible.   then   again,   what   was   to   be   expected   from   gojo?

                    ❝   satoru.   ❞

                    although   the   first   name   is   used,   the   tone   of   unmei   carries   a   hint   of   scolding   —   like   a   teacher   catching   a   cheating   student   red   handed.   not   only   was   she   not   asked   for   her   opinion   and   presented   with   a   fait   accompli,   now   she's   being   lied   to   as   well.   despite   the   careless   nature   of   gojo's   response   —   the   way   he   tries   to   resolve   any   tension   with   comedic   relief   —   it's   something   his   significant   other   won't   justify.

                    they've   been   away   from   each   other   for   a   while   &   she's   so,   so,   so   tired   —   and   frankly,   the   kids   aren't   her   responsibility   per   se.   she   wants   to   get   away,   catch   up   and   talk.   despite   her   ever   expressionless   visage,   she   missed   him   —   dearly.

                    ❝   whatever   that   is,   resolve   it   and   let's   head   back   somewhere   private   and   quiet.   ❞

THE MIRACLE OF LIFE TAKES FORM before their very eyes; a squiggle in the petri dish that would suffice to delude the common man into thinking he is god. Do it once, twice; a dozen times — until the palpitation in the quietude before a new creature wakes ceases, the grip of excitement in watching it grow quickly forgotten. The failed expreriments mount a pile in the room's corner, lifeless and discarded with their eyes still open ( under-developed, no more than bags of flesh held in vague unvarnished shapes by the cursed energy stored within them ) It is a pile that keeps growing, as Noritoshi Kamo's research is inching towards its fateful conclusion.

The subjects are wasting away as half-breeds, deteriorating more and more with each try — each more decomposed and rotten than the one that came before it. And the woman whose unique trait had darkly excited them once, is counting her days. There's a gnawing frustration brewing within Kenjaku that resembles the blood roiling in the testing tubes they hide behind — so when a knock on the lab door stirs him from his thoughts, Noritoshi's voice comes sharp, honed by that long forsaken sentiment that has visited them anew.

Glassy eyes peer over the neatly arranged bottles and bibliography to examine the sole result that may yet hold value; first of nine, the half-curse 'Choso'. For one thing, it is the only one that has displayed some level of conscience; the only one that still poses some interesting questions. Does that conscience comes from the cursed energy Kenjaku has gifted from his own soul, or the physical mind Choso inherited from his mother? Where every memory from lives and offspring past has abandoned them after living in this man's body for so long, the day of Choso's birth is still vividly carved in the mind; for it was the one day that Kenjaku experienced some fleeting gratification and that first cry of life from Choso had inspired the birth of his eight siblings as well. All in all; he was the firstborn. And he was favored.

And that was why he was allowed to hover at the door of Noritoshi's study and interrupt him with redundant information about his dying mother. In other times, before Kechizu was born, he would have rushed to her aid. But after that devastating disappointment, he realized nothing better would come out of that woman. So, he settled for testing what would come, if anything. Until it couldn't come anymore.

His eyes roll back to the notes sprawled between his hands without expression. The silence is cold, as there is nothing there to connect them; no bond that could tense or break under the weight of animosity exuded from Choso in that moment. But it is very much perceived. The slight shift of motion under the fabrics ( Kenjaku has allowed him to dress, albeit wanting to monitor his shape and growth, if only because he wanted to explore the peculiar bond between Choso and his mother — see if there's more to it than the instinct of something that was brought into light to creep back into the darkness from which it came ) A note of curiosity creeps into Noritoshi's brow with the delay in response and the way he can distinguish a restraint in Choso's voice. Verbal comprehension, visual and spatial perception, working memory — he has yet to test Eso's intelligence, but that response begs a question of whether Choso ( who they have already concluded, is capable of fluid reasoning as well ) could be capable of more complex emotional responses...

He's not entirely human. And he's not entirely curse. And yet — he clenches his fist under the gifted garment and Noritoshi's eye witholds the rekindled spark of curiosity when it meets those bloodshot ones on his offspring.

❝ Choso. ❞ The tone is somber, but soft. Summoning, but not inviting. It's called in the way he would call him if he had remembered a last minute thing to add — as Noritoshi often did, witholding the most important information for when he was already with one hand on the doorhandle. He doesn't move from the desk, the distance between them never bridged. And so the question comes off as alarmingly tranquil.