[ When Sukuna raises an eyebrow; or actually, when he makes any expression at all (and he does— all the time; there is a multitude of Sukuna expressions in his repertoire; ranging from the bawdy to the outright ridiculous)—all of the tattoos on his face move along with it as if in emphases, like the sliding, rippling pelts of tigers. His eyebrow arches now, the strange, sharp symbol at the center of his forehead shifting over to one side along with the pull of skin. ]
Am I boring you, Fushiguro Megumi? [ He sits back in his seat, not even looking mad about it. He watches the boy breathe against the window, the faintest cloud blurring the glass as if he wishes to keep even his own breath to himself. Sukuna's lip curls; he doesn't take his eyes off the boy. ]
I suspect you're used to this sort of thing.
[ This sort of thing. He waves a hand in the air as if to encompass whatever exactly that means. Being sent home with the various clientele and allies and enemies of the Gojo clan. Being in cars with yakuza of ill-repute.
A shrug. ]
My, my. I suppose I'll have to work harder to entertain you.
[ With Sukuna: this could mean a whole array of things. Whether they are or aren't good— well. It would be a very small, very specific lot that would be pleased to hear that. Particularly given his reputation.
But still— there is no real compulsion in him to torment the boy; there's a quietness to Megumi that does not actually irritate or cause issue with him. It's quietness combined with gentleness that he senses from him; and some faint, near-dead part of his heart knows that the boy's hands would be cool and that he'd be kind and attentive, that he'd be able to lay his head in the boy's narrow lap and feel those hands on his face. Dangerous, he thinks. There's a good reason why Gojo is infatuated with him, why it's Megumi who is his trump card in the long-running cold war against Sukuna's faction.
The car pulls into a vast, upscale hotel building, driving through the below-ground tunnel with its golden lights, to the double doors that slide open; staff standing on either side. Sukuna's men are out first, to open the door.
The yakuza steps out with a roll of his shoulders, and offers a hand to help Megumi on the step down. ]
Don't think I forgot your question.
[ He's keeping his voice low; that treacherous, throaty purr, just for Megumi, hand still out in offer. ]
And yes, what you enjoy does matter.
[ There are two ways to say that; Sukuna chooses the latter: full of implication, and a smirking, teasing glint of teeth in his crook of a smile. ]
no subject
Am I boring you, Fushiguro Megumi? [ He sits back in his seat, not even looking mad about it. He watches the boy breathe against the window, the faintest cloud blurring the glass as if he wishes to keep even his own breath to himself. Sukuna's lip curls; he doesn't take his eyes off the boy. ]
I suspect you're used to this sort of thing.
[ This sort of thing. He waves a hand in the air as if to encompass whatever exactly that means. Being sent home with the various clientele and allies and enemies of the Gojo clan. Being in cars with yakuza of ill-repute.
A shrug. ]
My, my. I suppose I'll have to work harder to entertain you.
[ With Sukuna: this could mean a whole array of things. Whether they are or aren't good— well. It would be a very small, very specific lot that would be pleased to hear that. Particularly given his reputation.
But still— there is no real compulsion in him to torment the boy; there's a quietness to Megumi that does not actually irritate or cause issue with him. It's quietness combined with gentleness that he senses from him; and some faint, near-dead part of his heart knows that the boy's hands would be cool and that he'd be kind and attentive, that he'd be able to lay his head in the boy's narrow lap and feel those hands on his face. Dangerous, he thinks. There's a good reason why Gojo is infatuated with him, why it's Megumi who is his trump card in the long-running cold war against Sukuna's faction.
The car pulls into a vast, upscale hotel building, driving through the below-ground tunnel with its golden lights, to the double doors that slide open; staff standing on either side. Sukuna's men are out first, to open the door.
The yakuza steps out with a roll of his shoulders, and offers a hand to help Megumi on the step down. ]
Don't think I forgot your question.
[ He's keeping his voice low; that treacherous, throaty purr, just for Megumi, hand still out in offer. ]
And yes, what you enjoy does matter.
[ There are two ways to say that; Sukuna chooses the latter: full of implication, and a smirking, teasing glint of teeth in his crook of a smile. ]