Maybe The Real Kaisen Was The Sugurus We Fumbled Along The Way

❛  fervent .   to  have  sex  with  my  muse  after  a  fight . :^) stsg

@cursedfell

chained together in the throes of fate, willingly or not, this is where it always takes them. company is less burdensome when neither of them speak about it, about the decades long since faded in their own side of the puzzle. unfitting pieces worn at the edges, though he wonders sometimes if they were even meant to blend in to begin with?

suguru watches quietly as satoru’s breath halts, the intake that comes afterwards, like the first breath of a drowning man who’s reached the surface. desperate, kicking at the void below his feet. he likes that kind of desperation, reminds him that maybe he’s not entirely on his own, that he, too, wants this just as much as he does. suguru’s yukata falls with a hiss to the ground, knee pressed on the mattress’ edge and his weight guides satoru closer when it bends under his body. he crawls, hair cascading in black strokes. it should feel threatening, knowing what he can do, what stains his record and places him a galaxy away from satoru’s own heroic presence. satoru is a savior and suguru’s long since resigned to be the false prophet. his body aches where satoru’s been unkind: the blows, an elbow to the rib, a curse thrown back at him. it’s familiar, just like every one of their sparring is.

do they even need to pretend that they’ve been stalling the inevitable? satoru’s been tasked with his execution, and suguru… suguru knows what it takes to turn limitless off, to make his guard drop and every necessary word to pull him in to his arms. it would be so easy.

but it isn’t.

suguru swallows through a dry throat, tongue flitting out to lick at the falling blood from his nose as he brings himself closer to satoru. “are you happy with this? i lost, and this is what you ask for? how does it make you any different from a perverted old man.”

there’s no real malice in suguru’s words, though neither does he make it sweet for him. it’s a courtesy, really, that he’s speaking to him at all. or perhaps he likes this, belated punishment for having left everything behind and no look back or goodbyes. satoru’s grip comes faster than he can avoid it — no, it’d be a lie to say he didn’t see it coming, that his heart hadn’t raced with expectation. his head is shoved violently between satoru’s legs, face only a thin line of air away from his hardened cock.

suguru glares up, meeting satoru’s concealed blues and the irritating expression that’s saying well? what are you waiting for? wordlessly.

satoru knows… of course he does. keeping the black bandage above his face - as if he’s preventing suguru from enjoying himself a little too much, like the mere notion of eye contact would be intimate enough to transform this into anything different than what it is. suguru hisses through his teeth, before licking up a wet stripe across his length, moving north, until his lips and mouth wrap tightly around its girth. he’s mean enough to swallow him whole, making use of his lack of gag reflex to his advantage and enjoying the gasps and groans that satoru’s fighting fiercely against.

hands press around his head, sinking him deeper and his nose rubs against the trimmed hair of his underbelly. sweat runs down his spine, brows knitted together in concentration. he can’t perceive the world as satoru does, so he plays his cards right and uses the angle of his bobbing head to have a long, direct look at satoru’s face, contorted with pleasure, the fine features distorted into animalistic desire. suguru likes being the cause of it.

and he has two choices: either he allows satoru to ride out his pleasure in his mouth, or he can pull himself off his leaking cock, make him beg for it. satoru will snap for it but the reward is a risky prospect. suguru is in no mind to think any better outcome, so he opts for a third unlisted option: his mouth opens near the tip, hand working on milking every last bit of satoru’s cravings, eyes locked with his, through the bandages, and even deeper than that, where he knows there’s a connection, coiled deep into that pretty skull.

“come on, satoru. just come already.” he croons.

HAPPY LINK CLICK ANNIVERSARY - THEY DROP THIS???

thinking hard about the line 'i loved you longer than i knew you' because i used it months ago for a piece i drew and it's been haunting me since bc that's how i imagine the dynamic between gojo and geto, spending only 3 years of their youth together but loving each other in distance for 10 more also this is the piece

Gojo will eat any chocolate that Geto receives so keep him in mind when you confess to Geto

how many ppl do you think he can hide under his coat

the way you write geto really stuck with me i remember reading your threads with him AGES ago and going oh my lord i need that engraved on my tombstone that is SO POETICALLY MOVING

stoppppp, this coming from you means a lot to me 😭😭😭 legit gonna follow all your blogs across verses so I can get that itchy feeling when reading your writing I was especially a fan of your dabihawks stuff but U probably already knew that 😏 also one of these days I'll figure out a proper verse for hua cheng and Luka and I'll have them bother your muses somehow TRUST @altarfates

THE SPECIAL GRADES

there’s not a breath to be taken without precaution. whether it’s the will of the hot, sinister flavor of victory or a more primal apprehension, ulquiorra isn’t sure. but he wants to hear the monster growl again, cry if he must. beg, like the rest of them had when faced with something larger than themselves.

it’s hardly a sweet sound, grimmjow’s baritone carried defiance the kind that you could only find in untamed hollows, the misguided souls that are still too raw and persistently detached from authority, save from the chains that bind them to the skeletal forms. there is no placid trolling to it. unlike ulquiorra’s own voice, apathetic, cruel in its manner devoid of empathy, grimmjow’s groans feel more corporeal than ulquiorra’s own presence. the applied pressure burying itself deep into grimmjow’s marrow becomes the only symbol of his wicked existence in a room so wide and empty.

tongue darts out to wrap itself around ulquiorra’s digits, the sensation a shot of liquid fire when it’s met with the hierro layer that always seemed to run cold. curiosity. confusion. the reasons for such action escaped him, though he’d heard bits of it from other espada — desire, lust. it hardly matters now. ulquiorra doesn’t relent.

‘ what are you doing, grimmjow. ’ fiercely, his right hand clasps around the other’s jaw. bones give in, something cracks. it’s nothing compared to the damages of drawn out battles, the sort of commodity that blood-thirsty beings seek and get drunk off on most nights - it always is night time - so he applies more pressure just to make a statement. 

ulquiorra’s gaze doesn’t falter. ‘ how convenient. your mouth taunts and yet you choose to take the punishment with baseless threats. go. try to defeat me. you can’t? or do you not want to? what could you possibly say to make excuses for yourself after this—? ’ the heel that had remained motionless aims a kick to his stomach, sending him back to the floor. ulquiorra is quick, looming over grimmjow’s tall figure sprawled on the ground. slowly, as if testing the waters, ulquiorra lowers his head, locking gazes. here, now, there’s only grimmjow and him. here, only one man could judge him.

‘ your body is more honest than your tongue. what should i do with it? ’ frigid fingers run down grimmjow’s bared throat, down to his sternum, keenly aware of their new proximity, the heightened nerves beneath his touch,  ‘ should i rip it out and feed the troops with it, or should i make you swallow your own sword? show me, i might begin to understand you. ’

THE  PROBLEM  WITH  CRAMMING  THE  ESPADA  TOGETHER  -  WAS  too  much  power  and  too  many  big  personalities  for  the  proffered  space.  they  were  no  better  than  feral  animals  really,  scratching  an  existence  out  of  survival  of  the  fittest.  the  primordial  part  of  him  knew  sharper  teeth  and  claws  meant  victory,  but  ulquiorra  (  despite  him  knowing  better  )  had  a  vast  well  of  untapped  power  -  an  unending  wealth  of  dominance  that  might  sink  into  grimmjow's  flesh  at  any  moment.  he  hated  it  -  loathed  it  through  the  emptiest  part  of  him.  the  bastard  had  no  spark  -  no  fire.  his  cold,  unfeeling  mish-mash  of  souls  was  appalling  to  number  6,  who  felt  unerring  destruction  to  his  very  marrow.

but  that  was  the  thing  about  being  an  arrancar...  sometimes,  the  wires  got  a  little  crossed.

spirit  pressure  swells  around  him  -  a  threat  and  a  promise.  it  writhes  against  his  own,  melding  against  his  skin  and  cracking  his  defenses  far  too  quickly.  grimmjow  feels  that  he  can't  breathe  (  or  at  least  he  thinks  that's  what  this  sensation  is  )  -  each  inch  of  him  grinding  in  agony.  the  weight  of  a  million  souls  presses  down  down  down  -  and  white  teeth  are  bared  again,  the  phantom  outline  of  a  tail,  black  claws  taking  shape  as  he's  pushed,  pressed,  and  bent.

his  knees  hit  the  hard  floor  with  a  painful  crack,  and  the  hiss  he  lets  out  his  predatory.

of  course  grimmjow  tries  to  stand  -  of  course  wildness  and  rage  and  the  thirst  for  a  fight,  fight,  fight  permeates  his  very  being,  pooling  saliva  into  his  mouth.  ulquiorra  -  a  worthy  opponent,  right  there,  ready  to  struggle  for  the  top  spot...  yet  strong  pressure  and  a  hand  keeps  him  on  his  knees,  and  grimmjow  is  about  to  lean  down  and  simply  sink  his  teeth  into  his  arm,  tear  into  him  with  unfettered  savagery  when…

❝ nn- ❞

he's  not  so  much  ashamed  by  the  noise  that  leaves  him  -  not  so  much  ashamed  by  the  heat  that  curdles  in  his  limbs  when  ulquiorra  does  that  with  his  foot  -  as  he  is  by  the  sheer  knowledge  that  he  has  effectively  been  scruffed  like  an  an  unruly  cat  -  and  has  to  stare  up  at  the  fourth  with  a  different  sort  of  guarded  hunger  in  his  gaze.

❝ you're  so  fucking  annoying, ❞   he  eeks  out,  breathing  still  labored,  body  wired.  black  tipped  claws  sluggishly  raise,  coiling  about  his  wrist  again  -  except  this  time  he  forces  ulquiorra's  hand  upwards,  and  the  pad  of  his  rough  tongue,  feline,  skates  along  fingertips.  ❝ all  self-righteous  an'  haughty.  you  think  you've  gotten  the  best  of  me? ❞  yet  his  voice  is  breathless,  whether  from  the  swell  of  desires,  or  the  thorough  disciplining  -  it  was  hard  to  say.  even  so,  he  bumps  his  jaw  against  the  back  of  his  fellow  espada's  hand,  rubbing  lightly  -  the  faintest  rumble  resonating  from  deep  within  his  core.

❝ just  wait,  you  bat  bastard. ❞   the  purr  rises  and  swells,  a  continuous  cacophony  while  grimmjow  dares  to  eek  his  hips  upwards,  and  dares  to  smirk  once  more.   ❝ just  wait,  until  i  get  my  fangs  in  you. ❞