michelangelowept

[michelangelowept]

the king and his cook, the cannibal and his starling.

ethereal eyes glow, uraume's cool breath sweetens, embers flare beneath fresh air. and they wonder whether he cares.

caring is for doves, and the falcons which feed on them. caring is for children who eat their words and claim they know how to speak.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows... ...and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.

they do not need words. sukuna does not need words. they orbit each other, since the day uraume found gravity within his galaxy, since the moment sukuna found his star.

this, dear, is language. this, dear, is how mouths indulge.

sukuna hums, low and baritone in his chest, as their thumb dances the smoother planes of his face. and as they move closer, the pulse in their fingers a hint on tanned skin. gesture for gesture, concern for concern. his eyes lower down their expression, their figure—like skipping rocks on water. indulge, indulge, indulge.

if uraume were to voice to him their considerations of their own worth, he would ask them, who decides worthiness? and then he would answer, those who are strong.

but they do not. and so he tells them by lifting one hand, hot-blooded fingers drifting around uraume's like yoshino petals. guiding them further down his face. saying, without words but in motion, explore, explore, explore.

“is that right?”

red eyes lift. whisper for whisper. gaze, for gaze. sukuna has never denied himself a thing. those who are strong decide worthiness; this is creed and philosophy.

uraume has claimed their seat at the table, and he but wishes to feed and fill them.

“then tell me how you would indulge yourself. i sanction it: move, and speak, freely.”

he watched their eyes touch his lips, and he brings those lips now to the inner bones of their wrist. a brush, no more.

“serve me now by serving yourself.”

[michelangelowept]

they move, and sukuna's eyes shift; master and follower, call and response. they reach forth their snowy hand, and sukuna's neck crooks, lines of muscle licking along his tanned skin. it is not to deny, but to offer. it is not to berate, but to teach.

after all, what is a destroyer if not a maker?

his eyes. red cyclones, cherried suns. the deepest of fiery hells are nothing, compared. the artists and artisans weep; they may only honor him with paints borne through blood.

he spoke poetry, you see—the tremor in his voice, the crypts breathing like strangers under his tongue. poetry, the purchase of light with blood. there are few things that claim the honor of rousing he, ryomen sukuna, curse and king, from his throne of disinterest and disdain; food, drink, power. and poetry. light with blood.

...sukuna lowers his face. he watches, a great bird of prey. worry and wonder whisper and mingle within the celestial body that is his subordinate's face.

they should lean into this side of themself more—worry and wonder. the unspoken, cellular knowledge that works its way in only through unknowing.

“no,” simple question, simple answer. no need, never.

the white chrysanthemum is disguised by the first frost. if i wanted to pick one i could find it only by chance. — oshikochi no mitsune.

“you have never known indulgence.”

simple. fact. he remembers when first they met, their fear was not for him; it was for what they had done, what others had spurned and hated them for. just as others have spurned and hated him.

“i want you to learn it. life is tedious without that hunger—the desire to satisfy oneself.”

Uraume’s head snapped toward Sukuna, sharply enough that the ends of their pale hair followed with a cold sweep, like ivory curtains caught in a sudden draft. The air shifted around them, still and tight with apprehension.

They stared—no, scanned—eyes narrowed into glacial slits, inspecting the familiar lines of their master’s face, the set of his shoulders, the shape of his breath. The details mattered. The details always mattered.

Was there a tremor in his voice just now? A stagger in cadence, a softness wrapped in something they could not name? His tone, usually honed like a blade—sharp, commanding, deliberate—had slipped into something… blurred. Cryptic. Disordered.

That wasn’t like him.

And when things were unlike him, Uraume’s mind turned immediately toward one thing: intervention.

Their gaze became clinical, but laced with a tension they rarely let show. Illness. Poison. Madness. Influence. Any of these things could take root, even in a being as powerful as Sukuna—especially because of that power. And if any foreign element had dared to touch him, it would answer for it.

“Lord Sukuna,��� Uraume said finally, the words leaving their lips slowly—each syllable flattened into careful neutrality, but underneath it all was the faintest tremble. A note of concern, almost imperceptible, like frost tracing the edge of a mirror.

They stepped forward, unhurried but precise, their robes whispering across the stone floor. One pale hand extended, cool and slender, first reaching for his neck with reverent caution, then rising to his forehead. Fingers brushed lightly across his skin. Measuring. Listening. Interpreting.

Was he feverish? Cold? Damp with sweat?

Their hand lingered, resting against his temple as if they might divine the source of his strangeness through touch alone.

“Have you eaten or drank anything outside of what I’ve prepared for you?” Uraume asked, eyes never leaving his. The question wasn’t just practical—it was sacred. Their offerings were curated with care, protection, and ritual. To ingest anything else was not only dangerous, but a betrayal of the order they maintained.

Yet even as their hand rested on his skin, no answer came to mind. No irregularity, no toxins, no heat. Nothing to explain the odd cadence in his voice.

And worse—Uraume couldn’t understand the message he had tried to convey. The words he’d spoken circled in their mind like storm clouds, refusing to form. They dissected his phrasing, considered hidden meanings, scanned for allegory, for threat, for command. But nothing fit.

It was not logic. It was not war. It was not the cold, sacred order they built together.

It was something else.

And Uraume did not understand it.

That truth sat bitter and unfamiliar on their tongue.

But their hand remained where it was—steadfast, loyal—as they waited for the one thing they had always trusted to return: clarity from their King.

[michelangelowept]

[michelangelowept]

@frostbounddevotion from here.

“nature,” he says, simply.

but he is telling them, you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing. in the spaces between vowels and consonants, he is telling them, here is the deepest secret nobody knows, and that secret is the language they create together, and add to, with every companionable silence. here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; by virtue of their service, he, too, serves.

“whatever satisfies the soul is truth,” he says aloud, finally. hedonist and glutton that he is, has always been, since he tasted his first meal in the womb. uraume knows this about him better than any other, butchers and cooks for and feeds him exceptionally. “i believe you are beginning to learn satisfaction.”

[michelangelowept]

“satoruuuu— let’s ditch today.” - bonus shoko 🤭

“oh yeah? so now you want my company?”

well of course. but the other day he ditched without her and she made fun of him after yaga went and broke out the metaphorical teacher's ruler. iron fist, big stick, blah blah. and his head still hurts, so. at least suguru was, like, sympathetic about it.

(satoru doesn't care at all. he's doing just fine. of course.)

“tell me how you're gonna make up for the transgressions,” big word, bigger recline into the library couch, “and i'll consider it.”

[michelangelowept]

"what's with your obsession with torturing non-sorcerers. geto did it better. get fucked." -shoko ieiri, june 2025

૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა

"geto's a little busy with the night-night binky i stuck in him. i got another one here that's just callin' your name, missy."

@koseigu

[michelangelowept]

i literally woke up hearing "if i am with you" in my head why does happiness disagree with me so

[michelangelowept]

when gojo messed up his hair, that was him saying, yes. yeah, kid, kiddo, you're 'basically' my kid.

"relaaax, i'm screwin' with you! obviously i wouldn't want to expose a bright little youngster like you to the effects of senility." obviously, yuuji's not pink in the face 'cause of what he said about gakuganji, but he can point it out without pointing it out. sly that way. that's why they made him a teacher. 'cause he's sly. "don't think this means i'm gonna start adopting your weirdo siblings, though."

From here | w/ @michelangelowept | Yuji & Gojo

Yuji felt slightly embarrassed, realizing that it had slipped a bit too much. He did view Gojo as someone very important to him in his life, but, Gojo was, ultimately, his teacher. Gojo viewed them all as "his kids," right? The only father figure he had ever truly had was Wasuke. Friends and teachers were different from actual family. Choso was his family.

But, when Gojo messed up his hair, Yuji couldn't help but smile a bit.

❝ I mean, a teacher is basically like a parent - sort of? You call us your kids. So, you're basically like our parent, in a sense. ❞

The pink haired Sorcerer smiled softly up at the older man, feeling a bit silly now. Gojo didn't care about that stuff. It was too mushy. Yuji still wouldn't mind celebrating it with him and Nanamin. It was nice to spend the day with the two most important adults in his life outside of Choso.

[michelangelowept]

@colorescaelistis *

somebody definitely slipped him something and he's definitely enjoying himself about it. strangers, strange schools (they're not at jujutsu high), spice of life. what can he say, he's feeling it.

—a lot. he's feeling it a lot. fractals in his diamond eyes, the whole neon place like someone's spray paint rendition of a bruise. he looks like he's about to fall backward over himself, through himself, through the floor and the world and drop back out the other side. in the sky where he belongs.

"hhhh—" there is no need for the dramatics. suguru is still just suguru. same-old, stable, a sixth sense locked down tight in gojo's skin. and yet, "is that suguru!? ohhh, his face looks all weird!" wooaaaa, as he plays with and flicks around suguru's bangs. woosh, woosh.

[michelangelowept]

new & olds feel free to meme me up, with the understanding that i am (attempting) to not write novellas rn.

shorter things with more back-and-forth potential are where my focus is<3

[michelangelowept]

prompts:　random quotes + excerpts.

“ you are so vulnerably haunting; your eeriness is terrifying irresistible. ” “ we’re not that different, you and i. ” “ you are a child of the cosmos, a ruler of the skies. ” “ you’re just becoming more of what you’ve always been. ” “ i’m not changing, none of us are changing. everything is fine. lets have a picnic. ” “ my father had the kind of anger all fathers do – loud and terrible. it lingers for your whole life. ” “ girlhood rots between my teeth, a sickness so sweet it aches. ” “ i wished so badly to have my own life, but you wouldn’t let me. ” “ parts of me died in the house i grew up in and i visit them in dreams. ” “ today i heard your name and my hands started shaking. please make it stop, make it stop. ” “ i wasn’t even allowed to cry over any of it, anyway! i wish the only thing that i spilled in my life was milk. ” “ this is not fun! it’s just scary! ” “ but if i hadn't fallen, i wouldn't have met you. ” “ have you let go of the ails that anchor you yet? ” “ have you let this marvelous spinning earth pull you into its arms and sweep you off your feet yet? ” “ i dream, i dream, i keep dreaming. one word in my mouth crystallises like sugar: hope. ” “ the nights get heavy like they always do. ” “ heavy wind, cold rain, and yes the stars. ” “ drifting apart always seems to hurt more as it happens. ” “ i am trying to say: look at me. ‘i am weightless. you make my heart grow light.’ ” “ right now, everything without you is almost sticky-sweet. it tastes like nectar. ” “ can you accept help or are you the eldest daughter? ” “ i swallow a bee for each ill deed done. i am a hive walking. i strain to hear you over the regret. ” “ i knew that it was cruel to be so optimistic, but, in my solitude, i couldn't resist the urge and spent entire days basking in idiotic fantasies, sometime verging on prayer. ” “ grief is not a feeling, but a neighbourhood. this is where i come from. everyone i love still lives there. ” “ there is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get. ” “ i was once very close to getting out of here. ” “ there is no moving on. only running away. ” “ i don’t love anyone. well, maybe my sister. ” “ i am infatuated with the private life, and with anonymity; perhaps even invisibility. ” “ sometimes you just need someone to tell you you're not as terrible as you think you are. ” “ i opened my mouth, almost said something. almost. the rest of my life might have turned out differently if i had. but i didn't. ” “ she is still inside of me. i carry her with me wherever i go. ” “ being a confessional human being for me is like a defense mechanism. if i can tell you the flaw before you see the flaw, then maybe it's okay. ” “ being a person didn't come naturally to me the way it seemed to for others. people who were sure of themselves awed me. i studied them and tried to mimic their ease. ” “look back at the mess you've made. try your best to pick up the pieces. ” “ not only had my brother disappeared, but– and bear with me here–a part of my very being had gone with him. ” “ i kinda wish i was buried six feet under ground. but oh god i also wish i was buried in your arms. ” “ we tell our stories differently, don’t we, you and i? ” “ you poor thing. sweet, mourning lamb. there’s nothing you can do. ” “ a golden cage is still just a cage. ” “ although i may not be yours. i can never be another’s. ” “ my mother didn't foresee what was going to become of us as a result of witnessing her despair. ”

[michelangelowept]

they are lying on their backs. they are lying on the bed in satoru's room, over the covers. they are lying together.

not to each other.

satoru's hands are folded loose over his belly, he's tilting his head this way and that to get an eye-feel for patterns in the ceiling. while suguru thinks, and stiffens, gets swallowed up by something; an uncomfortable intrusion on their comfort. but that's okay. satoru rolls onto his stomach. starts to pick stray hairs and lint only he can see off suguru's shoulder.

touch, always touch, with satoru. someone somewhere probably has a thing or two to say about searching for warmth when all you've known is a cold skinless place—but whatever. satoru just does what he does.

the air's a pressurized bottle, in the pauses between words; careful, suguru, or you're gonna make yourself sick on it.

"yeah? what, like pills for schizos? your parents think you were looney?"

he's talked about being born into a non-sorcerer family before. mostly because satoru is a bother and gets what he wants out of people.

he swishes his feet, chin to forearms. fuzzy head rolls over, looking at long hair and the side of a shadowed face.

"...still messing you up, huh. what else did they do, besides feelin' that way?"

they are not lying to each other in any way that matters. words can play their magic tricks, but time builds its own language upon the fact of togetherness. tracks in the sand.

˚꩜｡ @michelangelowept SAID ❛ DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE YOU'RE NOT . . . LIKE YOU'RE NOT A PERSON? ❜

SUGURU IS HALF-CERTAIN HE IS HALLUCINATING : silence has stretched long enough & the splotches of light-grey-intermingled-with-black-and-blacker in the ceiling of satoru's room have started to move, the soft artificial light making him squint ever-so-lightly but still resolutely not look away, somehow engrossed by the sight of blobs-against-white. the soft lull of conversation has died, taken place by a comfortable silence that sits between them with the intimacy of those who've known each other for an entire life, even when they've known each other for the lesser part of a year, now. AND THEN SATORU SPEAKS.

suguru's eyes had been near closing before, but now they are opened wide, the blobs of black on the ceiling replaced by specks of white & blue. he doesn't quite look at satoru — he knows he doesn't have to. his hands grab at the fabric of his uniform, tugging it uncomfortably as it suddenly makes itself known against the softness of his skin, an itch you can't control.

DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE YOU'RE NOT A PERSON?

it's an interesting power, this magic-trick that words do to transport you to a different place, a different time, A DIFFERENT SELF ENTIRELY — suddenly, as though all at once, suguru feels his blood run cold, the world turn muted, every sound in the world slowed down until the very core of the earth stopped spinning around, and even breathing came as a labour. his bones turn heavy, his tongue melts into his mouth, and he blinks and blinks and blinks — to feel like you're not a person, like you don't exist, like the world does not move or spin or , or , OR — suguru thinks of the dread in his mother's eyes each time he told her the creatures were still lurking in the corners regardless of the pills she gave him, the path between pity and fear that finally made him stop telling her at all. somehow she knew he was lying, but it was easier to live on that lie — DETACHED & NUMBED OUT TO THE WORLD , NOT A PERSON , BARELY A THING.

„ i guess. “ a beat. suguru still doesn't face him, he doesn't dare to — there's a vulnerability here that he is not sure should be present, has never been present with anyone else before. he's not entirely certain of what to do with it — what to say, what to keep hidden. his instincts all them him to make a joke, to end this moment now before it spirals into something else, into something neither of them can control, before it leaks out of their hands like water. he doesn't. instead, he sighs. „ before i knew what being a sorcerer and curses were, i used to take all sort of medication. they messed me up. “

[michelangelowept]

real talk yall ever just put on a sad song and start sobbing about gojo

[michelangelowept]

[michelangelowept]

it's too early for this shit. suguru's limbs creak, bones protest like they want out. he knows the feeling. he scrambled at the chance to spar with satoru just to feel something and now he feels dirt in his mouth and rust on his muscles. these days his curses do most of the work for him and all he has to do first is choke them down.

"go again." glutton for pain. he misses easy afternoons sparring with his best friend, sun beating down, shoko heckling on the sidelines. late dinner after, greasy take-out food or a home-cooked meal for them all if suguru felt like braving the kitchen. it's been too long since then. annoyance thumps in his chest. nothing's aligned right. everything's off. can't seem to snap it back into place so he snaps at satoru instead, grabbing him mid-punch and biting down on the bony curve of his shoulder. illegal move, technically.

who cares? feels better than losing again.

it's the perfect time for this shit. satoru hasn't slept in eleven days and he's got bells in his ears all the time—figuratively—the heavens and the earth ringing together, switching his cells out for divinity. and he wants nothing more than to share it; touch and be touched. eleven days and his skin is starving.

suguru gnashes in like he's looking for the same, steal the gold in satoru's veins, and it's close to what he wants. pick-me-up.

he shows his appreciation with a knee to the navel. could be worse, not enough. puppy teeth. he digs in deeper for a kiss at suguru's ribs, yanking him until their stomachs rub, blood sloshing brotherly, in time and together. “cheater,” hissed into his ear, he rips suguru off him feverishly enough the blood spatters. crazed red lines down his muscle tank. “taste good?”

all sweets and sun.

[michelangelowept]

"Happy Father's Day, Gojo!"

- Yuji to Gojo

he's in the middle of screwing around with nanami on the phone when it happens. and he promptly shuts up. turns to look at the kid.

nanami's talking some tune about tariffs and it's ludicrous that a tie should cost— which is about where gojo stops listening. a smile breaks wide across his face, and he seems to get back with the program, slinging his arm around yuuji's shoulders and pulling him in. screwing up pink hair with his phone hand.

“you kids and your weirdly-timed mushiness. huh, it sunday already? well, maybe we should celebrate. i'm sure gakuganji would love a visit, since the poor old geezer must be missing his grandkids.” which he doesn't have. probably?

[michelangelowept]

@einshi

the prison realm shudders. stars collect and then give out in its alien eyes. a second human should not fit, and true, scarce would satoru gojo, alone, at any point in time. but he is as he is: other. human? he's beyond it.

he expects to see a husk, anyway. something worn-down and raw, waxing depraved. this is not the first time he has come; it is the first time he intends to meet him halfway.

him. suguru. whatever remains.

who is worn-down, really? you could map constellations with all the miles of satoru's wanting. longing. wanting.

he emerges from death's brittle hands, pushing skulls and spines aside.

“cozy. smells like home,” and home is empty.