the Talker

Hi. I’m Goji. Random thoughts. Multifandom. Mostly writing. Sorry I took a cool url, by the way.

[godzillatalks]

I'm not nearly finished with this, but I thought feeding you all would be better than nothing because I haven't posted much at all. Have a Medic.

CW: Descriptions of blood.

Fritz knew he shouldn't have cared when he heard that scream ring out somewhere above. He should have kept walking. Should have kept following his Heavy, stayed in the relative safety of his 'pocket' (as many called it,) but... Unfortunately, curiosity kills the cat, they say. All the more reason to find out what that curiosity was, to see what killed that cat. And so, with a nudge to Heavy, who responded with a nod, he was off, Übersaw out and at the ready as he tiptoed up the nearest stairwell.

At the top, all that lingered was a spatter of old blood where the wall met the ground, a few stray droplets near the highest couple steps looking like dark beads of dried venom. Old battles would always leave their mark. But there was nothing immediately of interest to the Medic, so Fritz moved on to the connected hallway, hugging walls with his back turned toward the safety of the hard surface, weapon raised and eyes sharp.

It doesn't take long to find fresh blood painting the walls and the floor near one of the many open windows. His first thought was of Arthur, the BLU Sniper— the poor man had probably been face stabbed again. He wasn't the most observant of his surroundings when scoped in, always focused more on actually getting kills than his own life. Fritz sighs, lowering his saw.

But then, some things catch his eye. Things far out of place with his original idea that make him immediately backtrack on his last train of thought.

Firstly, the positioning of the blood spatters was wrong. A face stab wouldn't have warranted a splatter on the wall opposing the window, and if it did, it certainly wouldn't be this big. It'd be droplets at most, unless the attacking Spy got lucky and scored Arthur's throat. To go along with that, no Spy that Fritz knows would *drag* a body anywhere, too worried about their own suit or the thinning time remaining in the match to really hide a body, so there was no reason for there to be smears of blood leading away from the place of the attack. (He knew what the dragging footprints of an injured Spy looked like. This was not it.)

Secondly, something that would confirm his suspicions further, a yellow tipped sniper's bullet. One of BLU issue— he'd dug enough of RED's bullets and shrapnel out of his comrades to know that their ammo differed in color, to match with their uniforms. Arthur, for one, certainly wasn't one to waste rifle bullets in close combat. Or touching his wounds at all, which is probably what would've been required to get the bullet out.

No, that's not it. Fritz frowns. The bullet would've gone straight through, considering the fact that there's a spatter on the wall directly opposite the window, and that most of the rifles of the Snipers were powerful enough to punch a hole through steel at fifty meters. That'd be the only reason the bullet lay on the floor. Arthur would immediately find him if he lived through a shot from a RED Sniper and the thing didn't go through all the way.

So, with all this, Fritz makes a conclusion, and he finds he doesn't like the answer.

The RED Sniper was shot.

Verdammt, Mick, is his first thought. Wo zum Teufel bist du jetzt? is his second.

[godzillatalks]

Team Fortress 2 has recently come back into my life. I thought I might write something for it.

Have a Sniper.

-

Maybe he was in love.

He couldn't tell, really. (Well, he could; he just didn't want to admit it.)

It was just something about the Medic. Something about Herbert Ludwig, about the dark haired man with the eyes of cold blue ice, with the terrifying and charming smile that always gleamed sharper than it naturally should and spelled out danger with every breath he took and grin he gave.

Something about the way his body moved; precise and elegant, threatening, in the way of a man who knew the power he held. Like a lynx, or some other animal, dancing about its prey like it already knew the fight was won, that it had the upper hand but simply chose to play along with the chase because it was fun.

If he thought about it, there was no true explanation for his feelings. Mick Mundy took one look at that man, the terrifying man of blood and needles and science, of life and death and resurrection, and decided he could be in love. Of course, he isn't, no, but he could be. (Oh, stop denying it.)

And still.

He saw others turned their heads more often than not toward the fairly tall and handsome German. Who could blame them? The man was a work of art. And they had no troubles expressing that to the Medic, which made him just smile and utter a quiet "Danke," in return. (Mick really wishes he had their confidence.)

He watched how Heavy— Mikhail, —looked at the Doctor. How infatuated he was with the pretty man, how much he cared. And he knew how much Herbert cared back. How Mikhail and Herbert absolutely loved each other. (How it hurt to watch.) But he didn't mind. Because Herbert was happy, and he'd leave it at that.

Actually, he didn't care. Because Mick Mundy wasn't in love. No. He was a Sniper, he didn't need it. He didn't need anyone to watch his back like Medics watched Heavies, or Pyros watched Engineers (even if it would've been nice to have someone.)

He couldn't care. He refuses to care. It's not his job to. He's here to shoot people and get paid. That's it.

But he does want to care.

He is a Sniper. He isn't an overly emotional Scout, or a drunken Demoman, or an insane and violent Soldier.

He is calm and collected. Focused. Professional. Feelings aren't professional. He was.

[tenderwatches]

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[tenderwatches]

now for all your bodily perception needs

[godzillatalks]

The door opens with a hiss, but Rodimus doesn't even have to look up to see who it was— militaristically quiet and carefully measured pedesteps from a mech far lighter than him already giving away exactly who entered the room.

"Fancy seeing you again, scout." Rodimus snorts, finally dragging his optics away from the actually unimportant data pad to watch Bumblebee stride over to the desk in the middle of the room. The yellow bot doesn't turn to look at Rodimus, grumbling quietly as he sets down the reports he'd brought in onto Optimus' desk.

"Why're you here, fire hazard? I thought you were supposed to be causing troubles elsewhere. As in, not on Cybertron. At all." Bumblebee glares at Rodimus out of the corners of sharply narrowed optics. The Prime just grins at him, sharp teeth shimmering in the synthetic light.

"Oh, maybe it's 'cause my dad kept me around for a reason," Rodimus drawls, voice cutting through the air like an arrow aimed straight at Bumblebee's composure; something he struggled to keep together in the first place. He grits his dentae together, swiveling on the heel of his pede to respond to the fiery colored bot, but Rodimus continues before Bee can get the words out.

"Y'know, cause he actually needs me?" Rodimus' head tilts oh so slightly, tone lilted and taunting as he tapped right at the center of his chest, where his half of the Matrix resided, with a sharp digit.

Bumblebee doesn't let himself think before he lunges with a right hook.

It connects harshly with Rodimus' chin and he drops the data pad he had been holding, the fragile thing crashing to the floor, screen shattering into chunky shards that skittered across the floor alongside Rodimus, sent skidding backward from the sheer force behind Bumblebee's punch.

His inner temperature rises, heat raging from the core of his spark and outward through every line of energon in his frame. Fire flashes from the chrome piping winding around his arms and legs, cerulean optics shifting to a dark and angry, storming blue.

"Oh, because he needs you?" The scout sneers, his own optics flaring near white with anger. "The kid who wasn't even around during the war, who let his own father die—"

Bumblebee is cut off when Rodimus charges at him with a roar of rage, sharp digits extended and ready to tear, flames pouring from the pipes on his arms as if he could drown the other bot in flames, even if now they were just for show.

He could, in a sense.

Bumblebee barely rolls out of the way, feeling the heat of the flames score nasty (but superficial) burns into his paint job as he ducked under the anger-fueled lunge. He aims a fist as he moves, sending it hard into Rodimus' side.

Rodimus' plating burns. Bumblebee recoils in pain at the same time Rodimus does from the punch. He shouldn't have been surprised.

Rodimus, of course, immediately takes advantage of the slight hesitation, wrapping clawed servos around Bumblebee's throat and slamming him into the floor. Plating sizzles on contact between them, the sheer temperature of Rodimus' frame enough to make paint bubble. His servos burn indents into Bumblebee's throat cabling.

Bumblebee doesn't even scream. He can't. Primus damn, it hurts. But he'll keep fighting.

His servos twist around Rodimus' forearm, pushing through the pain to toss the larger bot off of himself with a well anchored and executed jerk of his arms to the side.

Rodimus is sent rolling, sliding to a stop with his claws dug into the floor. Bumblebee heaves himself onto his front, one servo tentatively pressing at his now fried throat. (Voicebox fine. Just hurts.)

They're just about to jump at each other again, optics shimmering with a long burning fire of jealousy and hatred for the other, when the door slides open.

Optimus squints at the two mechs on the floor of his office.

"What in Primus' name..?" He mumbles, glancing to Rodimus and then to Bumblebee.

Immediately, they point at each other.

"It was his fault." In unison, they speak, Bumblebee's voice laced with pained static and Rodimus' dripping with layers of venom.

Optimus pinches his nasal ridge and sighs.

[godzillatalks]

Something short

—

Fushiguro hadn't opened his eyes once since Suguru had met him, even if his blindfold was off. He had worn sunglasses, but he still didn't open his eyes. And if he did, Suguru hadn't seen them.

Why was he so keen on hiding them? What secrets did they hold? Were they some weird color or something? Was he blind? No, that couldn't be it. Fushiguro knew his colors and could point at something and tell you what color it was without even squinting his eyes open. What could it be??

Suguru was abruptly brought out of his thoughts by the feeling of a hand ruffling his very neatly combed hair. He blinks, then frowns and shakes his head vigorously as he waves away the hand on his head. Just from the snort alone, he could tell it was Fushiguro.

"I thought you said you weren't distracted easily, Geto?" Fushiguro hums, returning his hand to his pocket. He steps back from the stormy looking first year, blindfold over his eyes as always.

Suguru pouts, removing his chin from his hands and glaring up at his teacher from where he was seated on concrete steps.

Satoru and Shoko argue in the background, Kugisaki watching quietly even as she stands by Fushiguro. She had dragged Fushiguro and his students outside, away from the morgue so that it wasn't loud in the cramped and echoey room.

"Sorry, Sensei. I was just thinking about something." He mumbles, squinting at the other dark haired sorcerer. He turns his attention to Satoru screeching as Shoko pulls on his ear, yelling something about girls being better.

Fushiguro stares at Suguru for a moment, before sighing.

"It's the blindfold, isn't it." He points at the dark fabric covering his eyes, head tilting in question. Suguru startles, and frowns again. How does he do that?

"I mean... yeah, it is. Why do you wear it? What purpose does it serve? And also, why don't you open your eyes when you're wearing sunglasses? It kinda.. looks weird, y'know? Are your eyes sensitive to light or something?" Suguru rambles, getting increasingly quieter as he asked more questions. Fushiguro just snorts.

"Always one for questions." He muses, then shifts his stance, leaning his weight onto one foot. "My eyes are.. special, Geto. They're part of my cursed technique, in a way. So yes, they are very sensitive. I'll explain, briefly, how they work.

"Imagine that I have three pairs of eyes--- for a total of six. One pair sees everything how you see it. The next pair sees cursed energy and how it works down to a really fine level. The third pair.. well, I suppose it's what guides my cursed energy into more potent attacks."

[godzillatalks]

It seems I posted this without tags. No wonder nobody saw it.

Satoru Gojo meets Void Ghidorah. Interaction I've been sitting on for a while; I like Void Ghidorah, and I like Gojo. Simple, to me, to put them in a little confined space together, to let them talk.

No content warnings, other than the fact that this is entirely in laps(e)lock aside from dialogue.

I just like line breaks. They make it easier to scroll through tumblr without many big post lag.

time slows as an invisible pressure pulls at the chariot’s reins, stopping the progression of the universe for as long as the being halting the force that pulled the hands of time along pleased to hold them, and it watched the infinity before it pause—

it watched as two physical (six, of a human soul) blue eyes widened, shock rippling through ocean irises like blood in water.

it had just nullified— no, not nullified, paused; it had paused the Infinite Void with a blink of its many eyes. the termination of the flow of time was almost instantaneous. the flux of infinite information that had begun within a heartbeat of the domain opening— or, in this case, lack thereof —was deafening, to both parties.

“So. This is the Infinite Void?” it merely hums, voice(?) echoing through the endless expanse of nothing and everything, the sound reverberating even through the contained and silenced pull of the black hole that hovered behind the blue eyed sorcerer like a death omen. “I’m impressed.”

the white haired man in front of it sputters, two visible eyes blinking in confusion as it took in the golden demise in front of it. the space it occupied rippled as it moved, a trine of shimmering aureate heads with necks that curled endlessly as they observed the space they had been entrapped in.

“..What did you do?” the little human murmurs, mouth curling into a frown as the power of the being in front of him reached forward and fell away like the tide from his grasp, the six eyes of his soul glaring with an icy frustration that had no bounds.

the thing chuckles, strangely, and its heads bob as they move toward the black hole behind the sorcerer. enormous horns pass by the man floating on the stars and the very matter of the space around them.

“Nothing to hurt you, little one.” it murmurs, kilometre after kilometre of its body passing by the sorcerer as it inspected the frozen black hole in the domain. "I am merely observing my new cage."

even without the passage of time, the essence of the being imbued itself into the domain, further entrapping the entity that curled around the void like ribbons.

twenty kilometres— twelve and a half miles —of eldritch being trapped within Infinite Void, now and forever. Satoru could feel his lifespan increasing with just the presence of the being.

what is this thing?

something, deep in the back of his mind, whispers to him- "My name is Ghidorah, Satoru.”

“Void Ghidorah.”

figure 1 ;

VOID GHIDORAH

SOURCE; GODZILLA’S NETFLIX TRILOGY — MOVIE 3 : PLANET EATER

GIF FROM destroyer-of-monsters (Thank you for putting the gif on tumblr :] )

[godzillatalks]

Warnings: Blood, self h@rm, mildly descriptive language(?)

If I need to add more warnings, please let me know. I'm not very good at them.

Yuji can't breathe.

His lungs feel like they're being squeezed, constricted by the largest of boas, as if he's being crushed—

He claws at the skin of his throat, shimmering yellow eyes a dull orangey-brown and brimming with tears from the agony that rockets through his bones and spreads throughout his flesh like poison.

Blood drips to the floor of the bathtub, where he had hastily thrown himself as soon as he felt blood trickle down his chin (why would he make the floor dirty? it's easier to clean this way) and he doesn't regret doing that because—

Claws, of his own hands and yet not his own body, tear his throat to shreds, even as it heals over and over again because god he needs to breathe and he can't.

He can feel his body tearing itself apart, rebuilding itself slowly and painfully. He can feel phantoms of cursed energy that isn't his burning on his skin, leaving marks that wouldn't fade this time.

He opens his eyes, vision unclear. Salty water flows down his cheeks, dripping to the floor and mixing with carmine, and he can smell the blood, his gore, ichor, lingering as he stares down at the splatters of crimson that empties slowly from the tub.

He chokes, blood bubbling up in his throat even after he's stopped tearing at it, after he's stopped destroying himself, spitting out crimson that leaks away from him and down into the drain. His arms brace him from falling because he can't feel his legs anymore and he doesn't trust himself to just kneel without falling completely into the sanguine liquid below him, claws that he wants to tear out of his skin digging into the hard enamel of the tub as he waivers where he leans.

His ears ring (he doesn't know why), and he can't focus with so much input so he stares straight down, down at the blood that marred the white tub and soaked his uniform pants. He stares down, at the faint, faint and blurry reflection of himself in the thin sheen of red and it makes him gag even as vermillion still drips from his mouth and the slowly healing gash in his throat.

He can barely make out his reflection, but what he sees— Ugh.

He can see a second pair of eyes that weren't his and never would be his blink beneath the first. Dark echoes of tattoos curl along the surface of his face, a thin band over his nose and a symmetrical pair of lines that ran down his cheek from under his eye to follow his jaw. Two points on his chin that looked like tiny, blacked out arrowheads, and— that damn mark on his forehead. A filled in circle with the split halves of a trident on each side, nestled between and just above his eyebrows.

He wanted to punch his reflection, shatter the tub and dent the metal hidden carefully under the white enamel sheen, but found he couldn't do so. All he could do was stare back at himself and dig his claws deeper into the tub, glaring down at himself and his hands as darkness reached forward from the edges of his vision.

The door to the bathroom bursts open, and someone shouts something before they're at his side in a heartbeat, warm arms wrapping around his back and pulling him close even as scarlet drips down his chin and winds down his arms to be sucked down the drain. He briefly registers a smell (lavender. Fushiguro.) before his arms wobble and give out underneath his weight, but Fushiguro catches him and—

Darkness.

[godzillatalks]

Shoko hums, smiling at the sound of laughter to her left and an exasperated sigh to her right. two warmths at her sides, one of a bright sunny day and the other of a hearth during winter, lean into her softly.

"—and you should've seen the look on his face when I hit him with the Purple!" the sunny day laughs, brightness chiming in her and the hearth's ears as it continues, "I mean, he looked like the apple logo! Not his face, but you know what I mean—"

"Satoru, calm down." the hearth chuckles from the other side of her, and she can tell it's shaking its head by the way the sound waivers through the air. "We've heard this story before. Many times."

Shoko lifts her head to the sky as the sunny day makes an indignant sound, opening her eyes to stare out at the sea of stars, but not quite looking at the bright lights beside her. they cast no glow, no indication of their warm lights on the surfaces around them.

"Just because you've heard it before doesn't mean I can't tell you both again, Suguru!" the sun argues, leaning forward to glare past Shoko at the flame. the hearth only smiles, not that she can see it; she just has a feeling it does. the sun speaks again, loud and bright, "Besides, it makes you both laugh! And Shoko needs cheering up, so what else can I do?!"

the sunlight wilts slightly, as if a cloud is covering it. the hearth sighs, its flame dying a little with a quiet hiss of its lungs, even as Shoko closes her eyes again, leaning back on her hands.

"I'll be alright, I think." she hums, long hair slipping off her shoulders as she tilts her head back toward the sky. the sunlight grows warm again, and the hearth crackles with flame as they lean back with her.

they stay like that for a few minutes, sunlight and summer to her left and the warmth of a cozy day in winter to her right.

she doesn't have the heart to speak again, but if she doesn't, they'll be stuck like this forever and she doesn't think she can take that.

her heart sinks in her throat as she sighs, then speaks.

"Now, what were you saying, Satoru? Suguru interrupted you, very rudely, I think."

Shoko doesn't get a response as she opens her eyes, tracing the once-trio of faded stars in the sky that she had always come out to watch during these months.

she shakes her head as she stands, dusting off her coat and shoving her hands in her pockets to dig around for a cigarette.

two stars had died, and only one was left. lonely, flashing in the night like a beacon.

the chilly night air wraps around her like an icy set of claws, settling into her bones with a finality that nothing but sunlight and a hearth could chase away.

[godzillatalks]

Satoru lies quietly on his back in the grass, eyes tracing the flickers of cursed energy in the stars.

"Look at that one, Satoru." a voice murmurs softly beside him, and he slowly drags his eyes to where the light points for him. "It's blue, I think. Like your eyes."

he focuses, slowly, on the star, and scoffs, even as the light drops its arm. the warmth from it crowds around him in waves, even if it doesn't really light up their surroundings.

"...It's a white dwarf, not a blue giant, or whatever they're called." he mumbles, half to himself, scrubbing his eyes with the base of his palms before massaging his temples. "'s not blue."

the voice beside him chuckles, a soothing wave of warmth washing over Satoru as it moved closer.

"I thought it was. It still reminds me of you, though, Satoru." it has something soft to the sound of its voice, a teasing lilt with a quiet whisper of affection that had always and would always be there.

Satoru sighs, resisting the urge to lean toward the warmth entirely. he stares up into the sky in silence, refusing to even look, even as the light reaches out and cups his face in one of its hands, running a thumb over his cheek.

"Oh, come on, Satoru," it chuckles again, a smile present in the way it talks, "Not even going to ask why?"

Satoru swallows hollowly, squeezing his eyes shut as he heaves a breath out through his nose. a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"I already know why." he mumbles, still not turning his head even when the light tugs gently. "I know exactly why."

the light huffs, softening its grip and letting its hand move to rest in Satoru's hair before it spoke, carding slowly through white strands.

"Really? And why is that, Satoru?" it muses, softer than any tone Satoru's heard in his entire life, even from the light itself. it tugs again, still gentle, voice a murmur against his ear. "Come on. Look at me."

Satoru opens his eyes, finally turning his head. a crystal tear slips down his cheek, feeling like acid burning his skin.

"It's because I'm alone. Is that it, Suguru?" Satoru whispers back.

he gets no response.

there was nothing beside him, no life around him besides the endless plain of grass.

the star shimmers, lonely in the sky; for there were no stars around it close enough to be considered a friend.

[godzillatalks]

Ryomen Sukuna knew he couldn't run fast enough. Megumi Fushiguro knew that too, but he didn't seem to care all that much seeing as how he was dying.

Footsteps, not Sukuna's, crunch in the snow, loud even through the howl of the wind. Sukuna's eyes widen and he stops, crouching lower to the ground and frantically searching for the sound through the storm and the trees even if for just a moment. A pair of golden eyes flash through the heavy snowfall but Sukuna's blood can't get any colder.

He turns tail and runs, breathing heavily as his numb feet break through the snow. He isn't trying to be quiet— he couldn't be anyways with how large he is —he's just trying to run at this point.

Yuji simply walks. He follows in silence, letting the messy footprints in the snow guide him. He follows the blood.

Sukuna can't run for much longer. Every step, every breath, every move hurts and he hates it and he wishes he could stop the blood that trickled out of the cracks in the crimson ice coating the missing pieces of his face and his body, but he can't. He can't stop moving or he'll die. Megumi Fushiguro will die too but that death will unleash upon the world a force of pure, unstoppable hatred, and Sukuna himself fears it. He doesn't wish even that upon the world.

If Megumi Fushiguro dies, Yuji Itadori will burn the world of sorcery to ash.

Sukuna stumbles, crashing into the snowy ground, taking down tree branches he had grabbed onto with him.

[godzillatalks]

When Ryomen Sukuna had first heard Gojo tell him about The King Of Curses, he'd had a hard time not believing it. After all, giant monsters and creatures manifested from negative energy were real. He wouldn't have doubted that Gojo's description was accurate.

"Itadori Yuji is described as a benevolent imaginary God by his worshippers. He lived a over thousand years ago, and, though human, he was stated to be some kind of divine being. An angel, in some texts, and the incarnation of whatever heaven was believed to exist in others. But his deeds were far from angelic. In the Golden Age of Jujutsu, sorcerers from all over gathered up all their might to challenge him.. and failed." Gojo had explained nonchalantly. He didn't seem bothered by any of this.

Sukuna stared down at his hands as they walked, eyeing the faint, scar-like marks on his skin that had appeared after he had eaten the cursed finger. (He suspected they looked different when Yuji was in control.)

"Though many used to call him Sukuna for unknown reasons," Ryomen's gaze momentarily turns to ice as he redirects it at Gojo, a 'You're kidding me.' hanging in the air, "Nobody really does that anymore. He's usually called 'The King' in most texts. Anyways, we couldn’t even destroy his grave wax as he traversed the ages after death as a cursed object. Without a doubt, he is the king of curses."

And Sukuna believed that. Yuji didn't deny or even confirm anything, only opening an eye on Sukuna's cheek to glare at Gojo. So Sukuna assumed it was the truth.

They barely talked. Yuji stayed mostly silent, observing through Sukuna's eyes, watching the world and building an understanding of the current era as best he could. Sukuna ignored the presence behind his eyes that gave him double vision, just glad that he wasn't stuck in Yuji's place- unable to do anything but watch and make a rare comment.

He didn't think they'd get along anyways.

—

Sukuna felt like he wanted to give up. He was doing his best. And he was losing. He hadn't helped a single person yet, and he was going to die. He was missing a whole hand and he had a feeling he'd bleed out before the battle was over. He wouldn't come out alive and if he did Yuji would be in control. He didn't even have a choice if he wanted to live.

But he had to stall. He had to make sure Fushiguro and Kugisaki got out.

Tears streamed down his face as he screamed in agony, the Finger Bearer cackling as it sent surges of cursed energy at him. Pain shot through his veins from his hands as they were burnt away by the cursed energy being thrown at him like a wall of flame.

The pressure behind Sukuna's eyes intensifies, Yuji's cold gaze making him feel insignificant even if it was directed at the special grade that was currently rending Sukuna's hands into stumps. No emotion radiated from the second presence that was rooted into his being like a disease.

The Finger Bearer just laughs, shaking like a child high on sugar. He- he was tougher than this! So why was he so weak all of a sudden? Sukuna grits his teeth and steps forward, but falters as a howl rings through the halls of the incomplete domain.

"The.. The signal." Sukuna's vision blurs as he sways back and forth, eventually deciding to take multiple steps backwards. Cold hands wrapped around his consciousness, frost crawling across his vision as his eyelids fluttered. Yuji's voice when he spoke was.. bored. Bored.

"My turn. Go to sleep."

Sukuna doesn't wake up to anything other than flashes of fighting until he's outside, in the rain. Pain whispers through his chest like venom, and he coughs. Warm blood drips down his chin.

Fushiguro is there. Angry red scratches and bruises blossom on his neck and head. He's sure there's more, judging by the cracks in the concrete around them. His expression is pained, worried. Yuji must have done something. No, he did do something.

He notices there's no pressure on his eyes as Fushiguro speaks, the words muddled. He can make some of it out, something about being selfish. The last line is what he hears clearly.

"I’ve never once regretted saving you." Fushiguro stares at him, a blank expression on his face. Sukuna blinks slowly. He acknowledges Fushiguro's statement with a grin, and then makes his own.

"You're smart. You've planned your words. I think you'll be okay without me, though. Thanks for saving me." Blood drips to the ground. "I think I'm done, now."

"Live a long life." He falls forward and the world turns black before he hits the cold asphalt.