[ It's there; Sukuna is brash and forceful but to know how to win wars, one must know how to win people and he knows when winning is on the table and when it is not. Megumi looks at him, catches him looking in return, and for the first time since they have met, it flares. Chemistry; nothing more complex than that, though still inexplicable, pure chance. Sukuna does not look away; there's no need tonight for polite, or coy, he holds the boy's eye, and smiles widely. There are two eyes beneath his own, tattooed onto his face; his ancestors spread a rumour that their line came from a great demon with two faces, so far be it from Sukuna to allow that particular romantic reading of history to die off.
There's a way to win here, he knows. Those little earrings are coming out first, he thinks. If he has to rip them out himself, with teeth alone.
His fingers move down each notch of Megumi's spinal column, as if counting, a touch to each vertebrae lingering one and then another second.
Tokyo's underbelly; the floating world, the world that they inhabit, tends to sit more closely alongside the plane of the imaginary, of fable. Just adjacent to it. It would not be so far removed to think that some magic still lives in Sukuna's hands; in far off forests, they still exorcise invisible demons. In Tokyo, the children throw soybeans at adults dressed as oni. Store owners leave their salt piles at the doors. Cups of sake are placed at the roadside statues of minor deities. This practice, this lingering of myth— something of that is where Sukuna belongs, even here, now.
His fingers linger, and in it, there is the echo of incantation; something from long ago, that no longer lives.
He turns and his mouth is right beside Megumi's ear. ] And who knows, perhaps I'll keep you longer.
[ Not quite a threat, but— also kind of a threat.
Gojou keeps watching them, but Sukuna seems unconcerned. His hand has found its way back to Megumi's waist, and he leans back in his seat, eyes hooded. ]
Tell me what you know of me.
[ Time to talk about his... favorite subject (again)... in every universe. Some things really don't change. At least Gojou seems relieved at the focus shifting slightly from Megumi to— Sukuna himself.
The yakuza's fingers find the delicate fabric of the shirt, and he tugs gently, glancing down with arched brows, interrupting before Megumi can even start speaking. ] You know I told you to strip, yes? For now, I'll let you be defiant because I've changed my mind. But— [ He— manages to untuck a corner of Megumi's shirt, a hand creeping beneath it to find skin. ] I'm not fond of attitude, unlike Satoru.
no subject
There's a way to win here, he knows. Those little earrings are coming out first, he thinks. If he has to rip them out himself, with teeth alone.
His fingers move down each notch of Megumi's spinal column, as if counting, a touch to each vertebrae lingering one and then another second.
Tokyo's underbelly; the floating world, the world that they inhabit, tends to sit more closely alongside the plane of the imaginary, of fable. Just adjacent to it. It would not be so far removed to think that some magic still lives in Sukuna's hands; in far off forests, they still exorcise invisible demons. In Tokyo, the children throw soybeans at adults dressed as oni. Store owners leave their salt piles at the doors. Cups of sake are placed at the roadside statues of minor deities. This practice, this lingering of myth— something of that is where Sukuna belongs, even here, now.
His fingers linger, and in it, there is the echo of incantation; something from long ago, that no longer lives.
He turns and his mouth is right beside Megumi's ear. ] And who knows, perhaps I'll keep you longer.
[ Not quite a threat, but— also kind of a threat.
Gojou keeps watching them, but Sukuna seems unconcerned. His hand has found its way back to Megumi's waist, and he leans back in his seat, eyes hooded. ]
Tell me what you know of me.
[ Time to talk about his... favorite subject (again)... in every universe. Some things really don't change. At least Gojou seems relieved at the focus shifting slightly from Megumi to— Sukuna himself.
The yakuza's fingers find the delicate fabric of the shirt, and he tugs gently, glancing down with arched brows, interrupting before Megumi can even start speaking. ] You know I told you to strip, yes? For now, I'll let you be defiant because I've changed my mind. But— [ He— manages to untuck a corner of Megumi's shirt, a hand creeping beneath it to find skin. ] I'm not fond of attitude, unlike Satoru.