💬 + i heard your scar isn't real, and that you draw it on every morning. thoughts ?
‟ Oh yes ! i even use your mother's eyeliner to make my scar everyday … bet you having two dicks is also a lie, what you put in there ? ---------- foam float ”

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💬 + i heard your scar isn't real, and that you draw it on every morning. thoughts ?
‟ Oh yes ! i even use your mother's eyeliner to make my scar everyday … bet you having two dicks is also a lie, what you put in there ? ---------- foam float ”
this is how i see you.
❝ how rude. then again, i suppose i shouldn't expect better from you... ❞
unprompted // @malient
stares longingly at nanami's ample yet firm butt.
"i'll give you seven seconds."
( @malient )
the air was dead. a perfect, heavy silence in the heart of sukuna's domain. the water was black glass. the grotesque shrine of bone and malice was the only feature in the endless, dark space.
but it wasn't empty anymore. gojo stood on the surface of the black water, not a ripple disturbing its surface. he wasn't summoned here. he wasn't dragged. he had walked in. an uninvited guest at the heart of hell.
sukuna was on his throne. impassive. a god of primordial malice watching a gnat buzz in his temple. gojo didn't look at him. he was busy examining his own reflection in the perfectly still water. "you know, i was thinking." he continued, his tone light and dangerously cheerful. "this whole 'king of curses' thing. it's a good brand. very edgy. very 'i was misunderstood in high school'." he finally lifted his head, his blindfolded gaze sweeping over the monolithic bone shrine.
"but the execution is a little… lacking. i mean, all this power, a thousand years to plan, and your big comeback is squatting in some kid's ribcage? it's a little sad, you know?"
he took a slow, deliberate step forward. then another. each footfall was a silent thunderclap in the dead domain. "i guess that's the difference between us." he finally stopped. a respectful, yet utterly insulting distance from the throne. he reached up, hooking his fingers under his blindfold.
"you were the strongest thing in your era. the big fish in a small, dirty pond. you had to fight. had to claw your way to the top. had to earn your throne." he pulled the blindfold down, letting it rest around his neck.
his eyes, twin blue supernovas of infinite, untouchable power, flared to life in the oppressive darkness. they were the only light source in the entire domain. and they were fixed on sukuna.
the lazy, mocking grin was gone. replaced by something quiet. something absolute. the calm, confident smile of a true god. "i was just born." the air didn't just crackle. it shattered. "so. king." his voice was a soft, final, beautiful threat. "are you going to get off my chair?"
fake ass i got evidence / @malient
continued from here. | @malient
𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙂𝙐𝙔'𝙎 𝙂𝙊𝙏 𝙂𝙐𝙏𝙎. that's all axel can muster to think the moment he watches his fist connect with the guests cheek. it's dark, but between the strobe lights he manages to make out the chaotic scene. axel's used to the touching, the flirting, the punching. he'd handled just about every situation the same. humor. usually it works, success rate being somewhere in the seventy - percental. but punching back works too, he supposes. the guy had finally left in a fit of rage. but it's not as if much could be done. he doubts the asshole even saw his coworker with how dark it'd been. the make up around his eyes and messy, smudged. punk vampire was his character tonight. but his faux leather jacket is torn and covered in red corn syrup, same with his white tee. and now after a long night of scaring he looks even worse for wear, the fake blood having now dried to the fabric and his skin.
❛ i mean, you definitely could have. ❜ it's not as if he really knew the guy that well. the dude owed him nothing. people come and go in this type of field easily . . . it's not exactly the most conventional or well paying gig out there. turning his head grey eyes meet his face, taking in the almost annoyed look he offers. ❛ thanks, though . . . feels like i owe ya now. ❜ axel slides off his boots as he sits on the bench. the place is about to close anyway. regardless if he follows suit, axel is peacing out early. ❛ i usually go to this whole in the wall pizza place on shitty nights like this. wanna come ? ❜
Saint don’t look at him right away. He don’t need to. He can feel Sukuna behind him, heavy as storm pressure, hoverin’ like he got a claim he ain’t earned, breathin’ down his neck like heat in August. He exhales slow, like it’s a chore, and tips his head just enough for that silk-black hair to spill down his back. Ruby stare draggin’ over Sukuna as if he ain’t impressed in the slightest, like he’s inspectin’ a pair of muddy boots someone tracked through his chapel. His smile’s crooked, sharp as cane cut fresh ⸻ lookin’ all too pleased with himself. ❝ mon dieu , look at cha. Jus’a sniffin’ ‘round my doorstep like sum half-wild stray. ❞ There a blade folded right in the middle’a sharp words. A laugh, light and dismissive, rolls off his tongue ( y'all know damn well it's not, it's ugly ).
He leans in, just enough to be rude, ❝ nobody told y’not t’linger where y’ain’t invited ? ❞ A mighty long pause, then a much more amused lilt no doubt put on hus’ t’push on the cursed king nerve, ❝ maybe y’jus’ like beggin’ quiet ? ❞
「 ( ♡ 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 , @malient . ) 」
say my name, say my name ( cue loudest gulp soundtrack ever ) — @malient
Twin pinpricks of ruby red against the flat midnight of his own. Normally, Hiromi bears the inscrutable weight upon others, but with him ... the stillness feels more like untouched earth before a strike of lightning. A wick mere seconds before being lit aflame.
"If that's what you want to hear." Dismissive in a way that feels thick on his tongue. "I never specified who is subject to such observations." A small shrug follows, daring, perhaps — purposely tempting an act of play among embers of wildfire. "But if you presume yourself to be aligned in any capacity.. then who am I to disagree?"
Careful, now, a voice reminds him. Self-preservation most likely, but it wears ever-thin to the frayed ends of curiosity. What other reason is there for him to be here and entertain conversation, no less?
Thus, he sits.
Hands come to rest atop each bent knee, though the coil of tension never quite leaves him. "If you aren't the victim, then what would you categorize yourself as?"