[ And for an answer like that, he certainly does flash a grin that turns the whole thing on its head. The expression melts in a moment, turning into a put-upon moue. ]
Maybe I'll tell you a thing or two. If you ask me, very nicely.
[ And then, the boy is away from him; slippery thing, this one— he likes the idea of taking Gojo Satoru's toys, but he also doesn't like it when they don't play along. Or— well. He could learn to like this one, he supposes; he likes pretty things; likes collectables. But also the impression of gentleness has not faded yet, and he has the feeling that this boy is precious to the clan head for a reason that he has not yet fathomed, but has the outline of set in his mind. Some men do not understand what it is that they have; he suspects that this is the case here.
He wonders, if Megumi belonged to him in the way he does to the Gojo clan, if he would part from him so easily.
There's an answer for that almost immediately: what has Ryomen Sukuna ever let go of that does not have bloodied claw marks raked through it?
He's no bleeding heart, but he has always been a jealous man.
The doors open to reveal the penthouse; that same dim lighting stretching along the length of an open-plan, vast suite. It's rather showy, of course; the walls are hung with kimono and tapestries that probably were stolen from a museum, but also potentially bought on an auction so private that even the museums were unaware of them. There's a certain Japanese sensibility in the place; Sukuna seems fond of this— a lot of yakuza fancy themselves more modern, these days, like to parade around in suites at the Ritz-Carlton in Roppongi, or at the top of the Grand Hyatt, but his lair seems more like a transplant from an old temple; something cut from much older flesh and stitched a bit roughly into the facade of a very sleek Shinjuku skyscraper.
Well.
First thing's first.
He walks up, behind Megumi, closing the space between them to take his jacket. The mobster leans in, speaks against the boy's ear in his drawling, purred voice: ] I think it'll be better for you if you take out those earrings and put them somewhere for safe keeping.
[ The suit jacket he sets aside, over the back of an armchair (mid-century modern; he's got a few expensive looking pieces that don't appear to be antique).
He doesn't back off though, stalking in, close once more, but not touching. ]
Or I'll take them out for you.
[ Bloodied ears won't be as pretty, but hey. Anything to upset the Gojo lot. ]
no subject
[ And for an answer like that, he certainly does flash a grin that turns the whole thing on its head. The expression melts in a moment, turning into a put-upon moue. ]
Maybe I'll tell you a thing or two. If you ask me, very nicely.
[ And then, the boy is away from him; slippery thing, this one— he likes the idea of taking Gojo Satoru's toys, but he also doesn't like it when they don't play along. Or— well. He could learn to like this one, he supposes; he likes pretty things; likes collectables. But also the impression of gentleness has not faded yet, and he has the feeling that this boy is precious to the clan head for a reason that he has not yet fathomed, but has the outline of set in his mind. Some men do not understand what it is that they have; he suspects that this is the case here.
He wonders, if Megumi belonged to him in the way he does to the Gojo clan, if he would part from him so easily.
There's an answer for that almost immediately: what has Ryomen Sukuna ever let go of that does not have bloodied claw marks raked through it?
He's no bleeding heart, but he has always been a jealous man.
The doors open to reveal the penthouse; that same dim lighting stretching along the length of an open-plan, vast suite. It's rather showy, of course; the walls are hung with kimono and tapestries that probably were stolen from a museum, but also potentially bought on an auction so private that even the museums were unaware of them. There's a certain Japanese sensibility in the place; Sukuna seems fond of this— a lot of yakuza fancy themselves more modern, these days, like to parade around in suites at the Ritz-Carlton in Roppongi, or at the top of the Grand Hyatt, but his lair seems more like a transplant from an old temple; something cut from much older flesh and stitched a bit roughly into the facade of a very sleek Shinjuku skyscraper.
Well.
First thing's first.
He walks up, behind Megumi, closing the space between them to take his jacket. The mobster leans in, speaks against the boy's ear in his drawling, purred voice: ] I think it'll be better for you if you take out those earrings and put them somewhere for safe keeping.
[ The suit jacket he sets aside, over the back of an armchair (mid-century modern; he's got a few expensive looking pieces that don't appear to be antique).
He doesn't back off though, stalking in, close once more, but not touching. ]
Or I'll take them out for you.
[ Bloodied ears won't be as pretty, but hey. Anything to upset the Gojo lot. ]
And neither of us will like that.