Lookit Them . . . @einshi

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.

❝  when there is greed, there is hope.  ❞ ( from manami <3 )

‘ men who live by the waterfall cease to hear it, ever heard of that phrase? ’ is what he offers, fingers idly skimming through the pages.

the monthly statements are a formality, mostly managed internally. numbers tell no lies — numbers are exact, constant, always true to what they represent, unlike the humans that arrange them in fine paper and leather folders. suguru gives a last glance at the paper and turns his attention back to her, ‘perhaps i’ve got playing the pious deity to these monkeys down to a fine art so well that i no longer hear them complaining about their diminishing shares. ’

the view outside is painted in dull oranges, perfectly content with being swallowed by the quick-spilling dark of the night. there’s always been a mean air about her, too. as if cut by the same razor, their sharp edges complemented each other in funny ways. the carpet snaps shut in his hand, back pressed lightly against the windowsill.

‘ well, diminishing is too generous. they weren’t getting any more than what they deserved as creatures at the bottom of the food chain. scavengers like them did always make for greedy little things, and this cult is run precisely because their ambitious bellies are filled with misguided faith. so on. ’

‘ it’s rare for you to point it out in that way, however. ’ suguru’s gaze is bold and unflinching, peering up from beneath the veil of dark bangs and shadowed by the setting sun. it’s in that moment that all truth is stripped bare, he thinks, because the otherworldliness of the room pushes him further into honest curiosity: ‘ am i thinking too much, manami? ’

@koseigu

kogami is the type who doesn't think much of valentine's chocolates, just accepts them as long as they're friendly but if it comes with a confession he might turn them down or just say a polite thanks.

gojo however is the type to parade around receiving chocolates because he loves sweets even though he's not going to accept any proposal he just wants to eat so that makes him sort of an asshole but no one cares because he's being cute about it.

geto is the type to politely accept chocolates and kindly reject confessions, but he does it so nicely that there's a line of people waiting their turn to be rejected.

as for liu xiao he will disappear that day, he doesn't exist.

actions speak louder than words non - verbal / action prompts from yours truly. (add a "swap" to swap the sender/receiver in the prompt (or just do it manually).)

back, sender gives receiver a back hug.

beckon, sender beckons receiver closer with a finger.

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

book, sender helps receiver get a book from a higher part of the shelf.

care, sender takes care of receiver when they're sick.

catch, sender catches receiver by the waist after they bump into each other.

choke, sender saves receiver from choking by giving them the heimlich.

cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

cry, sender wipes tears off receiver's face with their thumbs.

dance, sender sticks a hand out to receiver and invites them to dance.

dip, sender skinny dips in front of receiver and invites them to join.

dog, sender's dog pulls them in receiver's direction.

drive, sender drives receiver somewhere in their car.

drag, sender drags receiver into a room and closes the door behind them.

draw, sender draws receiver like one of their french girls.

face, sender turns receiver's face towards them.

flower, sender gives receiver a flower.

footsie, sender initiates footsie with receiver under the table.

forehead, sender presses their forehead against receiver's.

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving.

jump, sender jumps onto receiver's back.

kiss, sender kisses receiver.

link, sender links arms with receiver while walking.

massage, sender offers receiver a massage.

patch, sender patches up receiver's wounds.

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

pin, sender pins receiver's hands behind their back.

pluck, sender plucks something out of receiver's hair.

press, sender presses receiver against a wall.

propose, sender proposes to receiver.

quiet, sender gestures for receiver to be quiet.

rest, sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder.

serenade, sender serenades receiver with a song.

sign, sender walks into a sign and receiver sees.

size, sender measures the size of their hand against receiver's.

shoes, sender removes receiver's shoes for them.

sun, sender rubs sunblock onto receiver's back.

tattoo, sender gives receiver a tattoo.

tie, sender helps tie receiver's tie.

tuck, sender tucks receiver's hair behind their ear.

umbrella, sender lets receiver under their umbrella.

warning, sender presses a knife against receiver's neck as a warning.

zip, sender needs receiver's help to zip up the back of their dress.

❛  is this what you wanted to see?  ❜ / also grimm to ulqui....

🐝  *  ―  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen

he knew better than to taunt. but this is not taunting: it’s exploration, it’s mindplay, the sort of dynamics that only the espada found delight in, and while delight itself is not a source of pleasure and much less what he seeks, ulquiorra would be concealing the truth if he’d denied that seeing grimmjow this exposed, open and raw like fresh-cut meat didn’t gnaw at the corners of his mind with new-found curiosity.

‘ if i say yes, will it change anything? will it make you cover the scar again?... or maybe you will mirror shame as humans feel when their most vulnerable sides are exposed?  ’

arrancar flesh didn’t bend, hard like a carcass. even more difficult it is for it to scar, to leave behind traces of soul energy that isn’t your own — for grimmjow’s body to have patched itself up like molten stone on a crass surface, that must mean the boy drove him into a position where it was either stay and fight or early suicide. grimmjow is strong, so it ought to be the former.

there’s only a brief fire in his eye, like the sharp flutter of a candlelight before it’s blown out. his hand moves slowly, pointedly reaching its destination atop grimmjow’s bare chest, where skin meets tissue, muscle and whatever else their bodies are made of. cold, hardened — the quartz trees on the outside would bend beneath his touch, yet this body doesn’t.

ulquiorra glances up, surprised to find a vacancy of fury in his features. where there should be anger, there’s only an unwavering gaze thrown back at him. ulquiorra is patient, far too patient, and albeit only momentarily, ulquiorra has the sinking feeling that something is amiss, that the longer his fingers remain static it would only give grimmjow another reason to gloat, same as he always did, always expectant that ulquiorra will react in kind. ( he didn’t - on most occassions. )

he knows it’s inevitable, so his hand is withdrawn, back into his pockets.

‘ it’s pointless. i’m merely assessing the damage on lord aizen’s orders. ’

❝  you feel misled; you were promised victory.  ❞

song of achilles rp starters // @inverteds

extremities go limp, gravity's pull coming from all directions as his back flattens perfectly against the wet soil. mud clings to his hair - he figures it’ll be a hassle to wash it off the tips when he gets back, if he makes it back at all. the man’s heel buries deeper into his sternum, a heron’s hungry dive into the water, pressing the last mouthful of air out of him.

victory is one thing. success on the mission meant keeping riko alive, make her choices worth it and all that came afterwards. but this? this is worse than loss. if suguru didn’t know better, he might interpret it as the hunter’s reticent way of pointing out his failures, of calling him weak. the snide in his sharp eyes tells him a different story.

‘ promised is a strong word. it doesn’t matter at all to you, does it? save your pity for the ones who want it. ’ voice flat, careful. the perpetual calm is replaced by asinine courage: lying there, beneath his foot, nothing about his stance cautions for upcoming danger. it’s pitiful, the quivering in his throat treacherous as spring ice. his eyes narrow, preparing for whatever that’ll become of him after this:

‘ you don’t need to worry about it. worry about that luck of yours running out before the pay out for this hit and kill does. ’

his expression becomes inscrutable, looking him dead in the eye, before everything turns dark. 

there’s only black water beneath, a cold and grasping undertow. 

and then, nothingness.

how many ppl do you think he can hide under his coat

oh btw i also write geto in case you're interested writing something there too -> @vzmky

just got hollow purple'd

Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. - sherliam

he’d call this a poor excuse of a foxhunt, if he’d intended to hunt william at all.

what you are is chasing skirts, Mycroft had said, mistaking alliance for attraction: Irene — who is no more, had never been source of interest, much less temptation. but Mycroft had been right about one thing: he’d been bewitched, possessed by something unearthly and older than mankind. it festered up on his bones, left no trace of his original components. it’s the damnedest thing, really, to want something that eludes you, runs from your grasp. he’d seen it fall through his fingers like quicksand.

right now, it’s all entirely his. petty possessiveness, maybe, but he’s long since accepted that this is what william provoked in him: he brought out the madman in him, blood dripping into water, and the mixture had become an unholy union of good and bad. william may be a sinner of his own kind, and sherlock had chosen to play the role of his juror, butcher and the devil if he must. sherlock shifts in place, elbows placed languidly on his knees. from the bench, the city’s buildings almost look like bricks on the playground. william’s still quiet, as if waiting for his response.

“since the bridge, this is the most honest thing you’ve told me. excluding the confession from a moment’s ago, of course.” he jabs slightly at william’s pride, maybe payback for the scare of walking up into an empty room and messy sheets. satisfied by the remark, sherlock smoothly waltzes back into the next sentence, “you know exactly what i want. i’m betting a big coin that you’ve known for a long time, and still you denied me it above everything else. it’s late to ask me to hold back, knowing how far it’s taken me — us for that matter.”

a smirk escapes him, throwing a sideways glance at him. william’s hair glows under the sunlight, and though his face is partly scarred, none of the beauty that’d drawn him in from the start like a moth to a flame is marred. before he can stop himself, two fingers take a stand of gold-bathed hair, places it aside to take a long, good look of those features. yes, the face is a lure, and the mind behind it even more so. “it’s you.”

“what i want, i mean. it’s you, liam.”

@cursedfell