#vzmky

[limel1ghts]

*whispers* queen never cry

[inverteds]

"hey, been meaning to ask — " well, not so much ask as accuse, but toji isn't one to show his hand immediately. he reaches a pinky into his ear and scratches at the canal, flicking dry wax off in a direction that is, most graciously, not his fellow instructor's . . . even though the thought does cross his mind. "you absorb my cursed spirit, @vzmky?"

[cursedfell]

"happy birthday, satoru"

satoru  gojo  has  always  been  wished  happy  birthday.  in  the  shallow,  obligatory  way  of  passing  acquaintances,  in  the  overly  loud  exclamations  of  peers  trying  too  hard,  in  the  rote,  rehearsed  manners  of  the  gojo  clan  who  saw  it  as  duty  rather  than  celebration.  he’s  received  them  all—empty  gestures  wrapped  in  glittering  facades.  he  knows  the  motions,  the  routine,  and  how  to  smile  like  none  of  it  bothers  him.  because  it  doesn’t.  not  really.  or  so  he’s  always  told  himself.

but  this.  this  is  different.  the  words  fall  from  suguru's  lips  like  a  quiet  prayer,  "happy  birthday,  satoru."  soft,  unassuming,  yet  heavier  than  they  seem,  they  curl  in  the  space  between  them,  a  fragile  thread  of  something  unspoken.  satoru  hears  them,  feels  them,  not  just  in  his  ears  but  in  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  in  the  echo  of  memories  they  share  and  the  yawning  chasm  between  what  was  and  what  is.  it’s  quiet,  intimate,  weighted  with  meaning  too  vast  to  fully  comprehend.  it’s  not  performed  or  overdone;  it’s  soft  and  specific,  spoken  only  for  satoru  to  hear.  the  words  come  without  expectation,  no  fanfare,  no  need  for  reciprocation.  they’re  just…  there. 

as  steady  and  sure  as  suguru  himself.

and  it  undoes  satoru  in  ways  he  never  expects. 

he  feels  his  heart  stumble,  a  rhythm  gone  erratic,  as  if  his  body  knows  something  his  mind  can’t  yet  put  into  words.  there’s  a  care  in  suguru’s  voice,  a  reverence  that  feels  almost  like  peeling  back  the  layers  of  infinity  he’s  spent  a  lifetime  wrapping  around  himself.  suguru  sees  him—not  the  strongest,  not  the  heir,  not  the  untouchable.  just  him.  just  satoru.  it’s  that  simple,  unspoken  understanding  that  makes  his  chest  ache  in  a  way  he’s  never  known  before.  no  one  else  has  ever  made  him  feel  like  this—special  in  a  way  that’s  quiet,  not  loud;  meaningful,  not  fleeting.  suguru’s  wish  isn’t  for  the  world  to  see.  it’s  just  for  him,  and  for  once,  satoru  feels  like  he  doesn’t  have  to  perform,  doesn’t  have  to  live  up  to  the  weight  of  his  name.  he  feels  human,  not  divine.  loved,  not  revered.

the  weight  of  suguru’s  gaze  is  steady,  reverent,  as  if  satoru  is  something  holy.  and  maybe,  just  for  this  moment,  he  believes  it  too.  the  words  settle  into  the  hollow  spaces  of  him,  filling  cracks  he  didn't  know  were  still  there.  suguru's  voice  carries  no  malice,  no  distance—only  a  warmth  that  lingers  longer  than  it  should.  longer  than  it  has  the  right  to.

satoru  swallows,  his  throat  tight  with  something  he  can’t  name.  suguru’s  presence  is  an  ache  and  a  balm,  his  birthday  wish  an  unraveling.  satoru  feels  his  heart  tilt,  his  entire  axis  shifting  like  the  world  has  rewritten  itself  in  the  space  of  a  few  syllables.  his  infinity  flickers,  wavering  like  the  thin  line  of  control  he  clings  to.  "you’re  so  unfair,"  satoru  murmurs,  the  words  escaping  before  he  can  stop  them.  but  there’s  no  venom  in  them—only  a  soft,  almost  broken  wonder.  his  hand  moves  before  his  mind  catches  up,  fingers  brushing  suguru’s  cheek,  tentative  at  first,  as  though  this  could  still  slip  away,  dissolve  into  smoke.

and  then  he  kisses  him.  not  rushed,  not  desperate,  but  steady  and  deliberate,  a  meeting  of  truths  neither  of  them  could  say  aloud.  suguru’s  lips  are  warm,  real,  grounding,  and  in  this  singular  moment,  they’re  not  on  opposite  sides  of  a  fracture.  they’re  just  satoru  and  suguru,  two  lives  threaded  so  tightly  together  that  it’s  impossible  to  tell  where  one  ends  and  the  other  begins.  when  satoru  pulls  back,  his  eyes  linger  on  suguru’s,  searching,  memorizing,  like  he’s  trying  to  carve  this  moment  into  the  fabric  of  forever.  his  grin  is  soft,  teasing,  but  there’s  no  hiding  the  rawness  in  his  voice.  “guess  i’ll  have  to  make  my  next  wish  a  good  one.  you’re  setting  the  bar  too  high.”

it’s  terrifying,  this  feeling.  but  it’s  also  everything  he  never  dared  to  admit  he  wanted.  and  it’s  suguru—always  suguru—who  knows  exactly  how  to  give  it  to  him.

[inverteds]

❛  drag .   to  pull  my  muse  closer  by  a  piece  of  clothing .

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝒀 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬 | @vzmky

IN THE HALF-LIGHT, toji can see why the six eyes favors him.

it's dim in the gymnasium, empty save for shadows that melt into the gloom and a unlikely pair of instructors stalking the floor, but garden-variety darkness doesn't hinder eyes blessed by a heavenly restriction. with his vulpine lineaments and long black hair, geto is handsome — pretty, even, despite the reddening welt toji's gifted to the crest of one cheekbone. maybe even prettier because of it, or more interesting to look at, at least.

beyond that, his form is better than what it used to be. he's stronger, more filled out, beneath his loose-fitting garb. the smile toji wears is all too knowing, seems to mock the leaps and bounds geto has made with just one observation: who brought the best out of you?

toji won't hold his breath waiting for gratitude.

so, anyway, this little sorcerer may have worked his body broader, harder, but neither of these things account for tensile strength, and toji has this funny idea: put him under a stress test and ——

oh, there's his opening, toji a cinereal blur in the dusk, his foot a scythe sweeping geto's ankles with decisive momentum. balance broken, it's an old dance from here, toji's fists wrenching into the ample fabric of geto's fashion to send them both barreling onto the floor, until toji has his combatant pinned. toji even feels the gust of breath ghost out of geto's lungs as he straddles the man's chest. it's just a shame, really, that his hands are so damn big, because toji thinks he'd have more fun if his full grip wasn't wasted on clamping this bastard's wrists to the ground, but his plans never go perfectly, do they?

"well, not bad this time, sensei," he taunts, grin toothy and mean. "still not better than me, though. sorry."

[koseigu]

it didn't used to be like this. they snuck around, mostly for the thrill of it, but never in a way that would explicitly break rules—why risk incurring a wrath that prevents future encounters? shoko smoked on and off campus, snuck into bars and danced far too late until medical school became all-encompassing and she matured even more for her relatively young age. she's never claimed to be the prime example of perfection, or anything. she's capable of misbehaving. case and point...

suguru wasn't even doing anything, which was perhaps the most frustrating part of all of this. sitting casually, asking about her day with a seemingly polite and genuine interest in her answers. boredom does come easy these days, which is as much of a curse as it is a blessing. no pun intended.

even in these periods of stagnation, her particular work keeps her tied to tiled floors underneath fluorescent lights. like always, like forever, he comes to remind her of what it's like to taste the sun.

"my working late isn't going to surprise anyone," she ashes the last of her cigarette in the portable case she keeps in the pocket of her lab coat. "neither is the fact that i'm smoking." my morgue, my rules. // it's only us and the ghosts. sometimes she wonders what exactly he sees in her, in this—wonders what it'll feel like he ever decides he doesn't see it anymore. like a knife. no, a scalpel.

there is always a corpse on the table, she wants to say, we're on the table.

instead, she says: "let's see if we can stay quiet enough."

mustn't wake the dead.

@vzmky, continued from here

[inverteds]

🌵🌲🌙 pls i need to follow more ppl

positivity meme | @vzmky

send 🌵 and i'll recommend a canon rp blog

@cursedfell has an incredible handle on their canon jjk characters! i find their writing a joy to read, very evocative with excellent flow. i've only written opposite their mamaguro, yume (and as someone who roleplayed a stupid amount of characters with fridged wives, i'm... prohibitively... selective about such portrayals), but everything that i've seen from them has been equally delightful. they're also lovely to talk to!!! 🗣️

send 🌲 and i'll recommend a blog with thought-provoking headcanons

@b0kksu had me up at 1am on monday thinking about the duality between gojo and toji... sighs!!! i love thinking about gojo's divinity and the potential his character has to be an almost eldritch force in the waking world. cereza's gojo is canon divergent but their meta broaches topics that feel salient regardless of whether or not you're completely brushed up on their interpretation. they address a number of issues that i think would've benefitted gege to consider as well (🤨) and do so in a way that exhibits command of their character.

send 🌙 and i'll recommend a blog for my favorite character

@harerazor is my fellow media literate toji enthusiast and i've had such a blast chatting with reuben so far! i always get nervous following people with whom i share a character, but reuben is so friendly and disarming that i didn't worry at all. 😭 they have an excellent grasp on their cast of muses and have clearly put a lot of thought into each of them individually, which i admire greatly (as someone who picks one [1] character and hyperfixates on them).

[cursedfell]

[ HEAL ]: sender ends up in the receiver's lap trying to tend to their wounds to the best of their abilities. // to gojo...

sitting in someone's lap - prompts!

satoru  can  feel  the  fire  in  his  bones,  smoldering  deep  in  his  chest,  a  hunger  that’s  been  fed  with  every  inch  of  suguru’s  body  pressed  so  close  to  his  own.  satoru,  sitting,  suguru,  above  him,  leaning  in,  dabbing  at  his  wounds.  it’s  not  the  burn  of  the  wound—that’s  a  distant  thought  now—but  the  heat  of  something  far  more  primal,  far  more  dangerous,  coursing  through  his  veins.  it's  a  pull,  a  tug,  as  if  the  flames  in  him  are  reaching  for  something  they  shouldn’t,  and  they’re  being  fed  by  the  way  suguru’s  hands  move  so  damn  carefully,  as  if  he's  afraid  of  hurting  him,  even  though  satoru’s  body  is  already  a  battlefield  of  cuts  and  bruises.

there's  a  trembling  under  his  skin,  an  ache  that  gnaws  at  his  ribs,  at  the  hollow  between  his  chest  and  his  heart.  his  fingers  twitch,  itching  to  pull  suguru  closer,  to  press  him  into  his  body  and  just  feel.  but  the  line  between  the  fire  of  desire  and  the  fear  of  losing  him,  the  fear  of  breaking  the  thing  that  binds  them,  stops  him  from  doing  more  than  just…  watching.  waiting.  every  second  feels  like  an  eternity,  but  his  hands  stay  still,  clenched  against  his  sides  as  if  trying  to  keep  the  madness  contained.  because  if  he  lets  go,  if  he  lets  that  part  of  him  rise  to  the  surface,  he  might  not  be  able  to  stop  it.

and  that’s  the  problem,  isn’t  it?  he  doesn’t  want  to  stop  it.

he  feels  a  sickening  rush  of  jealousy,  sharp  and  ugly,  when  his  mind  drifts  to  the  thought  of  suguru  patching  anyone  else  up  like  this.  not  with  the  tenderness  in  his  touch,  the  way  his  hands  are  so  soft  and  precise,  as  if  suguru  cares.  cares  too  much  for  someone  who  doesn’t  deserve  it,  someone  who  has  always  known  how  to  shield  others  from  the  world,  yet  is  now  letting  himself  be  vulnerable,  in  this  way,  for  satoru.  the  thought  of  him  tending  to  another’s  wounds,  of  suguru  being  gentle  with  someone  else,  strikes  a  deep,  possessive  chord  within  him  that  satoru  can’t  ignore.  it  feels  like  a  betrayal—unjust  and  twisted—and  it  burns  like  acid  in  his  gut.  he  can’t  imagine  it.  can’t  fathom  suguru’s  hands,  so  careful,  so  delicate,  ever  touching  anyone  else  the  way  they  do  him.  it’s  maddening,  that  pull  he  feels  when  suguru’s  fingers  brush  over  his  skin,  like  they're  claiming  him  in  some  way,  and  satoru  can’t  bring  himself  to  push  it  away.  it’s  all  too  damn  much.

but  he  can’t—won’t—admit  that,  can  he?  not  to  suguru,  not  to  anyone.  the  fire  inside  of  him  only  grows,  but  he  holds  on,  teeth  gritted,  eyes  burning  with  a  longing  he  can’t  voice.  the  desire  to  keep  suguru  locked  away,  to  shield  him  from  the  world  and  the  others,  from  anyone  else  who  might  dare  to  touch  him  like  this,  weighs  down  on  him  like  a  curse  he  can’t  shake. 

satoru  winces  as  suguru  presses  the  cloth  to  his  side,  the  sting  of  the  burn  still  sharp,  but  there's  a  flicker  of  something  else,  something  that  smolders  underneath  the  pain.  he  can  feel  suguru’s  breath,  warm  and  steady,  close—too  close.  there’s  no  time  to  think  before  he  pulls  suguru  into  his  lap,  a  deliberate  motion  that’s  as  much  for  his  own  comfort  as  it  is  a  quiet  challenge.  the  heat  of  suguru’s  body  as  he  stumbles  into  his  lap,  the  press  of  his  legs  on  either  side  of  his  waist.  it’s  like  the  world  goes  quiet  for  a  moment,  the  chaotic  storm  of  pain  and  the  dull  ache  in  his  side  fading  into  the  background.  suguru  is  so  close,  closer  than  he's  ever  been,  and  satoru  can’t  breathe.  not  from  the  wound,  but  from  the  way  suguru  fits  so  perfectly  against  him,  like  this  was  the  way  it  was  always  meant  to  be.

he  swallows  hard,  his  chest  tight,  and  the  blood  from  his  wound  feels  like  it's  running  too  hot.  it  doesn’t  make  sense,  but  it  feels  right—the  weight  of  suguru  in  his  lap,  the  way  their  hips  brush  together  when  satoru  shifts  even  slightly.  it  kills  him,  the  proximity,  the  way  he  can  feel  every  breath  suguru  takes,  every  soft  touch  that  shouldn’t  feel  like  an  invitation,  but  somehow  does.  it’s  a  torture,  this  closeness,  because  satoru  wants  it,  he  wants  more.

suguru’s  hands  rest  gently  against  his  chest,  and  the  soft  pressure  sends  a  jolt  through  satoru’s  body,  as  if  every  nerve  is  waking  up  all  at  once.  he  wants  to  move,  to  say  something,  but  he  can’t.  his  body  is  frozen,  caught  in  the  heat  of  suguru’s  touch.  every  shift  of  suguru’s  weight  on  his  lap  feels  like  a  spark,  and  satoru  can't  help  the  way  his  chest  tightens,  how  his  pulse  picks  up.  this  closeness—god,  it’s  too  much.  he  craves  it,  needs  it,  but  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  handle  it.  suguru’s  hands  begin  to  work  over  his  wound,  pressing  with  slow,  deliberate  movements.  there’s  a  tenderness  to  the  way  he  touches  him,  a  care  that  makes  satoru’s  heart  race  in  a  way  he’s  not  used  to.  suguru’s  fingers  glide  over  his  skin,  soft  and  careful,  as  if  afraid  of  breaking  something  fragile.  it  makes  satoru’s  chest  tighten,  the  space  between  them  so  close,  the  pull  between  them  so  strong. 

“you  know,”  he  says,  his  words  dripping  with  unspoken  meaning,  “you’re  making  it  hard  for  me  to  focus,  suguru.”  satoru  shifts  his  weight  beneath  suguru,  letting  their  bodies  press  together  just  a  little  more  than  necessary,  his  breath  hitching  slightly  as  their  proximity  intensifies.  “you’re  so  careful  with  me,”  he  continues,  “almost  like  you’re  afraid  i’ll  break.  do  you  think  i’m  fragile,  suuguru?  or  is  this  just...  your  way  of  teasing  me?” 

his  fingers  brush  against  suguru’s  skin  again,  lingering  just  a  little  longer  than  they  need  to,  before  he  pulls  his  hand  back,  but  his  eyes  stay  locked  onto  suguru’s,  challenging,  daring  him.  “don’t  even  think  about  moving,”  satoru  murmurs,  his  voice  a  quiet  command,  dangerous  in  its  intimacy.  his  fingers  dig  into  suguru’s  skin,  holding  him  there,  not  letting  him  escape,  not  letting  him  pull  away.  every  inch  of  their  bodies  is  a  taut  line  of  tension,  and  satoru  feels  the  pulse  of  his  own  hunger  in  the  way  his  hands  grip  suguru’s  waist  like  he’s  afraid  of  losing  him.

[ak4rin]

"what's wrong? you're never up this late." // to curse user akari!

they say home is the first grave yet it doesn't hold a candle to the mausoleum built throughout the years with her own hands - everything in the penthouse she owns thanks to the help of her side activities reminds akari of how she never truly left the golden cage that her childhood home used to be, it just changed form a little the same way she did. underneath this aura of fanciness there's actually nothing. "uh?" suguru's voice brings pause to her thoughts, thin white lines on the coffee table put on hold for a moment. "wrong number," by a mile too, but whatever. "do you think they despise us?" she asks then, a pause and a loud snort before leaning back on the couch, phone in hand with call on speaker as she begins to aimlessly scroll on the first social that comes to sight.

"the people we know, i mean." it feels superfluous to mention it, but then again akari can tell there are layers to this question - it's always a specific person in mind ... at least for her. "how do you explain to a kid that even though what you're doing might not make sense now it will in the future?" geto's got kids, she figures getting an advice from him might be better than trauma dumping on whatever poor soul she was meant to call instead. "i don't want my little brother to hate me." not when everything she does is for his future. another pause, frustrated sigh leaving her lips. "on a less depressing note, my wanted photo on that dark net website looks so good, i need details on their photographers."