what a child, to say these things so easily to his friends.
he couldn't. not tonight. not, at least, for another year. how many corpses amount to thee? how many makes a road? only the wind and stars witness them tonight. that moon slips down griffith's face, so lonesome. filled with longing.
and for a while he does not speak.
am i dirty?
it wants him. that dread harbor on the sky's obverse side, according to which he is still virginal, a ghostly boy. he knows it. whatever it is, it wants him.
they all do.
am i dirty?
what a thing to say!
the moon is always opposite the sun. touched, never held. griffith looks across his shoulder. star-cream hair unspools along that shifting breeze. and guts, beside him, stands wrong.
so ... tall, so bold.
isn't he a gallant one.
as though there is nothing wrong in the earth, what holds him now beside griffith; who cannot do so with these hands his own.
not that he needs.
not for lack of ...
oh.
griffith turns his cheek.
he does not speak sorrowfully.
"do you think ...
... that i am cruel?"
they all want him.
all tilting to griffith's axis, self-avowed to skew.
but you.
him, in flesh of wild perfection.
by heaven, i'll know thy thoughts.
you cannot, if my heart were in your hand;
nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody.
he had meant it as a tease. a passing remark, soft and indulgent, slipped beneath the edge of a smirk. “go on, then. bark for me.” the kind of thing he says when sherlock is too smug for his own good. when he wants to watch that brilliant mind stutter for a second under the weight of something unexpected.
but then—“woof woof.”
william blinks once.
then again.
he sets his teacup down with deliberate precision, porcelain kissing saucer. the silence that follows stretches, velvet-thick and simmering, until his gaze lifts—sharp and unreadable—to where sherlock lounges, so casual in posture, yet too obviously pleased with himself. there's the smallest twitch at the corner of william’s mouth. not quite a smile. not yet.
“you really are quite shameless,” he murmurs, voice smooth, like something honeyed and laced with arsenic. he rises from his chair slowly, each movement fluid and unhurried. calculated. “or maybe just obedient. i haven’t decided which suits you more.”
his steps are quiet as he closes the distance. he stops just short of sherlock’s space, gloved fingers reaching to tilt his chin up, gentle but firm. sherlock is a sight to see. his fingers thread through the detective's hair — not roughly, but not gently either. then, he moves his hands once more. william’s movements are slow, deliberate, the pads of his fingers brushing against fine fabric as he works his way down the line of buttons on sherlock’s shirt. there is no rush to it. each button undone is an unspoken instruction. sit still. don’t move. wait. and when sherlock shifts, even slightly, william’s hand finds his shoulder — a silent correction. the weight behind it is gentle, but absolute. it says: not yet. not on your terms.
the fabric parts easily under his hands, exposing the shape of a man who has never quite known stillness. william doesn’t remove the shirt fully. he leaves it draped, sleeves caught at the wrists like an afterthought — or perhaps a reminder. not to bind, but to pause. to hold. to quiet. his visible eye is taking its time exploring and admiring sherlock’s body; the dip into the crevice of his chest before trailing his gaze down to his navel.
“what a good boy you’re being.”
he angles himself, knee coming to rest beside sherlock to allow himself to get closer. his hand trailing along sherlock’s collarbone, then further, over the plane of his chest. he takes one of his nipples between his finger and thumb, rolling it between them. and then, a rough tug to his nipple, before abandoning it and smoothing his gloved hand further down his chest, down to his stomach. moving to rest down along his hip, fingers splayed over firm muscle, thumb tracing small circles against skin.
it’s sweet, the way sherlock tilts his head, offering his throat and the curve of his jaw, eyes half-lidded beneath the fall of his hair. william can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension in his muscles. there’s no resistance, only the quiet pull of surrender. william rubs his hand along sherlock’s clothed cock, clever fingers caressing him through his pants, running along his length. william drinks in every reaction. reverent, insatiable. he leans in, brushing a kiss to his jaw, then lower, to the follow of his throat, to the curve of his ear. a sinner’s mouth, worshipful and unrepentant, leaving marks like prayers burned into skin.
he leans back, slow and deliberate, dragging his gaze up from the hollow of sherlock’s throat, still glistening where his mouth had lingered. his hand stays planted on his cock, watching the way sherlock’s lips part, breath shallow. and how beautiful he is, the way his eyes are heavy-lidded, the faintest tremble in them betraying just how deeply undone he is. his skin—so pale, usually composed—is flushed now with heat and want, streaked faintly with the red ghosts of william’s mouth. he drinks him in, like a connoisseur savoring the sight.
a man of logic, unmade by sensation.
how divine.
he is a canvas of devotion and desecration both.
“go on, then. bark again,” william says, softer this time. dangerous. delighted. testing. this game has only just begun.
DEFEAT BURNS THROUGH HIM LIKE RANCID WINE - heady on his tongue and thick in the sands that adorn hueco mundo's never ending drifts. for a creature that coveted carnage and battle, the 6th was dissonant - ripe with his rage and wearing it the same way he always did : like armor. loss wasn't something grimmjow suffered - loss wasn't something he took lightly, and while the curl of mottled flesh across his 'skin' would be an ever present reminder of a near deathblow at the hands of that self-righteous idiot, what stung the most was ulquiorra's patient, verdant gaze - and the caress of claws across his nearly bare chest.
the feral part of his brain screamed 'danger! danger! danger!' before souring once again. ulquiorra, of course, did not think like grimmjow did - did not think that the taking of a fellow espada's life would mean a notch in the belt of power. he didn't have anything to prove because grimmjow wasn't a threat. as dark claws skim over the area, he bares his teeth - a sharp match the mask at the side of his face - and snarls.
but it's halfhearted. if he truly wanted the bastard gone, he had his ways.
❝ 'm not ashamed that i have it. ❞ he drawls, aggravation quieting for a moment, ❝ do i have to explain why to you or do you think that rational little skull of yours can churn it out, cuatro? ❞ perhaps were he to utilize his resurrección, that nuisance of a tail would've been flicking back and forth in thought. instead, his fellow espada is only granted grimmjow's stare - catlike and curious, the deep turquoise of his eyes almost glowing in the perpetual dim. frankly - he hopes he doesn't have to explain, because having philosophical discussions with anyone, let alone ulquiorra, sounds about as appealing as wiping aizen's ass - perhaps even less so.
nostrils flare, looking away from the other to instead track caressing fingertips. it's not... unpleasant. and despite the bastard's frigid existence, his touch is... warm, leaving behind tendrils of heat as he palms and skates lethal digits over grimmjow's hide. as the action persists - the espada finds himself easing just slightly, and though he never quite relaxes, long lashes bat over his cheek, the tension in his jaw easing, and he shifts his chest forward, just a slight inch, the same moment hands drop away.
grimmjow is quick - lightning fast - his own dark claws curling about a strong but delicate wrist, sharp canines bared again in a savage smirk as he grips tight, ❝ yeah yeah, of course. 'aizen's orders.' ❞ honorific ignored, and it's a distinctly good impression, actually. ❝ ulquiorra. ❞ there's his drawl again, low and lazy and lit back with a cat's growl, ❝ are ya capable of independent thinking, or you prefer blind obedience? ❞ hand discarded then - tossed to the side as he leans downwards, spirit pressure swelling with challenge. ❝ just wonderin'. ❞
𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. and this is exactrly why it's all so scary — or rather, should be, if something wasn't wrong with and within her — the lack of response for things considered fear inducing, whether unnerving by nature or happening at random. startled? of course unmei will be if something jumps in front of her face, but that's the best there is and ever will be, or so she thinks.
should she share that with satoru, though? besides, how can she be scared of anything, ever, with the strongest sorcerer as her ally? if their allyship ever comes to an end, too, she's oh so safe — geto on the loose, his activity well - known within religious communities, untouched by gojo's hand.
❝ you speak as if i already am afraid of something ; as if there were only two choices, too, ❞ the younger muses, tilting her head, more than likely reading between the lines. no sarcastic remarks follow, & she scoots closer, teetering on the edge of infinity.
❝ something on your mind, satoru - senpai? ❞
the honorific is spoken so innocently, hopefully feeding the other's ego enough to hear the reason behind his inquiry.
"good luck taking care of yourself." // geto @ gojo, hidden inventory setting mayhaps
gojo satoru never says please . all the blessing of the heavens and six eyes to back it up , all that unbalanced source of energy on the tip of his fingers , all because simply ; gojo satoru never begs . he stands amidst the crowd with dull greyed eyes , stares with a clenched jaw as suguru's black eyes disappear through his smile . his head feels hot , he recognizes this , rage . his shoulder blades feel tense and he knows this too ─ lost , heavens he has no idea how to deal with this . suguru takes his silence as an answer and turns to leave . he manages to take a few steps before satoru is right behind him , a cold hand curled around suguru's arm . oversized shirt wrinkles under his tight grip , bare eyes catch suguru's . and he doesn't look angry anymore , not when he saw suguru is actually able to leave . ‘ suguru .. ‘ he's pathetic , he swallows and doesn't know what to say . no , satoru can't survive this one with a blank face and empty eyes ─ can't push his way through the world without him . it feels like being a star and burning , it feels like he's being pulled apart atom by atom . he licks his lips , his eyes were bare since this morning and he feels exhausted , he needs to eat a few plates of sweets before he can function properly and with acceptable sugar levels in his blood . ‘ we ─ let's sit and talk . burgers on me . ‘ black rings are deeper under his eyes , he feels like he's aged centuries . his hold loosens before he tries to stand straighter , his phone rings ; it's yaga , he turns it off and slips it back into his pocket . heart hammering in his chest . ‘ come on . sit . ‘ he even pulls the seat for him , a couple of chairs tucked under the table in front of mcdonald's . satoru leans over to dust the seat off with his palm , a hand that can't touch many things because everyone knows that once you become untouchable you're also unable to touch ; he blinks , with parted lips , almost aggressively does he gesture to the chair he's pulled for suguru .
SHOULD NOT THE HONORED ONE REMAIN IN HIS KINGDOM, and leave the hells to those most wretched, far beyond the five pillars of heaven?
"we," toji echoes back, like he's never heard the word. a beat stretches by before he snorts, head dropping into a loose shake, one hand waving as though it could clear the air, efface any record of something so absurd. "that's a good one. maybe if being the strongest sorcerer of the modern age doesn't work out, you can try your hand at comedy."
there's something like humor in his voice. if not for the apathy dulling his eyes, expression withering as he cases the six eyes' face for any hint of sincerity, toji might seem entertained. flattered, even if cynically. for now, however, he disregards gojo, drinking deep and loud from a cup of genmaicha, its complexity more convincing than the sorcerer's.
"talk to me when you've done something worse than make some geriatric windbags shit themselves."
“ Believe, Lord Aizen? “ words ooze from his lips, lifes' blood from the open wound - had lord aizen not known who he was by now? how could belief of any sort deny the facts of what had been seen with his superior eyes? Perhaps it had only been a test. A question for his opinion, or rather, seeking his opinion when it was not needed.
” I am not wont to believe. It is not a matter of what I believe. Belief is as worthless as the humans you seek to capture, and that is the truest and most honest words that I can give you. If that is out of line, I will apologize. But you saw exactly what I saw. I do not understand why you want for garbage like that. "
[ hand ] a chivalrous kiss on the back of the partner's hand // sherliam first meeting mayhaps
𝑫𝑰𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝑻𝑶 𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑶𝑵𝑬.
william feels the weight of sherlock’s gaze before he even hears the footsteps. it’s sharp, piercing, a blade honed to precision, and yet there’s something else there—a warmth that prickles against the edges of william’s carefully constructed walls. he turns, his crimson eye meeting sherlock’s vivid blue, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he’s caught off guard. the man stands there, utterly unflinching, as though he belongs in every room he steps into. william detests it, admires it, and feels a pull he can’t quite name. their conversation is an intricate dance, one of wit and deduction, a match of equals in a game neither seems willing to lose. but even as words flow effortlessly from his mouth, william can feel it: the way sherlock doesn’t just listen but dissects him, peeling back layers that no one else has dared to touch.
it’s unsettling, almost maddening, and yet it stirs something deep within him—a spark in the cold, empty hearth of his soul.
and then, just as he thinks he’s regained his footing, sherlock steps closer. william freezes, his every sense screaming to move, to pull back, to reinforce the carefully placed boundaries that keep him safe, untouchable. but sherlock doesn’t stop. he takes william’s hand with an ease that feels entirely too intimate, entirely too bold. his crimson gaze flits to sherlock's face, and for once, william finds himself at a rare loss for words. sherlock’s expression is unreadable, his blue eyes alight with something sharp and playful, yet disarmingly genuine. it’s as though he’s issuing a challenge, not just of intellect but of something far more profound, far more personal.
the kiss is soft, fleeting, yet it sears itself into william’s memory as if branded there. the warmth of sherlock’s lips burns his skin, spreading up his arm and into his chest like a fire suddenly roaring to life. his breath catches, his heart skipping in betrayal of his usual calm. it’s not the action itself that unsettles him, but the complete disregard for the barriers william so painstakingly constructs. sherlock acts as though they don’t exist, as though he’s entitled to step past them without hesitation. william’s first instinct is indignation—how dare this man, this stranger, cross a line so casually, so carelessly? but beneath that indignation lies something else, something raw and unwelcome: a yearning he hasn’t felt in years. the audacity of it all is infuriating, but the warmth left behind by sherlock’s touch lingers, refusing to be ignored. it’s as though sherlock’s very presence is a flame, thawing parts of william he didn’t even realize had frozen solid.
“you’re certainly full of surprises, mr. holmes,” he says, his voice steady but softer than usual, betraying the intrigue now coursing through him. he retracts his hand with measured grace, fingers brushing lightly against sherlock’s as he does. the contact lingers just a moment too long, as if neither of them is entirely ready to let it go. william forces a small, practiced smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes. he takes a step back, just enough to create space, but not enough to sever the strange, magnetic pull between them. as he turns to leave, his fingers twitch at his side, still burning with the ghost of sherlock’s touch.
as william steps back, his composure returns, but the warmth remains—a flicker of life in the cold, empty fireplace he’s carried within himself for so long.
he watches sherlock with renewed curiosity, something unspoken settling between them like the first notes of a melody yet to be composed. he departs with his usual elegance, but his thoughts are anything but composed. the memory of that touch, of that kiss, stays with him long after their paths diverge. it feels as though something irrevocable has shifted, a thread now tied between them, pulling taut across the divide. and as william walks away, he realizes with no small amount of trepidation that he doesn’t mind being bound to sherlock holmes in the slightest.
for the first time in years, the cold emptiness inside him feels... alive, ignited by a flame he doesn’t know if he wants to extinguish or feed.
and the thought of it terrifies him more than anything else.
