★彡— starter call for @nightmarefuele (for sukuna bc im curious and always fiending for interesting interactions :D)
(this took me a million years i'm so sorry LMAO)
❛ i know a lot about you. more than you think. ❜
A beat of silence followed after her words, head tilting back, eyes staring up and into red hues. They've told stories of horrors, atrocities that have been committed and still, Utahime looked at him like he was the problem.
Nobody’s ever done that before, or even dared to do so yet, the modern day sorcerer was here, doing exactly just that.
She's heard of him, seen old Yamato-e paintings her family had for centuries, more than likely to keep as a reminder of the nightmare who roamed throughout the Heian Era without a care in the world.
She could recall every event like she was there. Every ounce of blood spilt, every scream stored away in memory. This situation was very... out of body to say the least. There wasn't a single day in her life where she'd imagine herself interacting with someone who was front and center of people's minds and not in the good way.
"Savior to some, monster to most." Utahime's tone was far from fear-filled, she was talking to him like he was some sort of psych ward patient, listing every little thing she knew, nitpicking him with just her gaze alone.
Probably not the best idea but you only live once, so the saying goes. She's been through enough to have The King of Curses at the bottom of her list of things to fear.
animal femurs ascribed to saints who never existed, are still
more holy than portraits of conquerors, who, unfortunately, did.
both, neither. everything all calamity. hunger is hunger is hunger. an unwanted little wretch becomes the king, occasionally.
and if the devil loves details, then godliness floats in the vague.
his eyes float in a vague direction. she is not a detail; she is nothing, until she makes herself a fly, buzzing.
sukuna sits a maimed streetlight like a throne, observing the shrapnel of all his glory fall like tears in rain. the brat's body is still, quiet. shibuya is in tatters. has touched a special kind of heaven.
...the fly is still buzzing.
race of cain, crawl on your belly, die in the mire wretchedly.
this needn't grow unappetizing, it starts that way.
two fingers lift from his lap. his jaw doesn't move from its perch on his fist, as he shrugs a euphony of slashes off callous knuckles.
monsters exist because they are part of the divine plan, and in the horrible features of those same monsters the power of the creator is revealed.
fly, meet swatter.
