sympathy of the honoured | s. gojo × reader

iii. tragedy written in absolute loathing

There she is again, walking in the streets, gaze so very cold Time itself might just freeze and hold its breath until she is gone. And black boots dip in red again, hungry crimson licking eagerly at leather worn out by years' worth of wandering this world - she really should do something about that. Now is not the time.

She tilts her head to the side, an achingly graceful movement, strands of hair falling oh so gracefully over a mask of alabaster neutrality mastered with the utmost perfection (do believe me when I say she had the time).

A pair of eyes, black and blue disturbingly mismatched in a mocking gaze fall on her as bloodied lips curl upwards at her sight, a grin so twisted a life might be teared apart by his hands. At his feet, a whimpering mess of tangled limbs deformed by a cruel hand.

"Oh? You can see me?"

No answer comes from lips sealed shut in a thin line of red- so very similar in shade to the one covering those filthy lips of his. Instead, she steps closer, one long stride after another, almost silent and her gaze does not fall on the deformity she stepped over - a mere brush of her bare fingers would end its suffering. Poor thing, not even shaped enough to be called human.

Fingers close on pale cheeks, and the bumps and twists of skin haphazardly stitched together by a maddening creative hand are perceptible despite the dark fabric shielding all from her touch. Surprise is written as clear as day in his orbs, slowly merging with a sick kind of amusement she oh so loathes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her lips curl up in a smile neither soft nor tender, and is it really lipstick on this brutal mouth of hers?

"Humanity hating itself, isn't it?"

Laughter fall past those bloody lips of his, so twisted, much like his own vile psyche - really, would it have been that difficult to stich them in lieu of his pretty face?

"Ah, you've heard of me?" A shaky intake of air, revolting pride in himself on his pale features. "I'm glad my power gets some recognition, even from pesky little sha-"

Inky blackness of leather she never departed from dig in his cheeks, hard enough for the bones underneath to crack alarmingly - he tumbles forward, eyes widening in realisation. Chuckling, she lowers her gaze, mere inches apart from his features, and she too can grow amused at the expense of weaker than herself - it is all too easy when you are amongst the first at the top of the food chain, isn't it?

Truly, he should have known better.

"It's nice to see some things never changes." A simple statement uttered matter-of-factly, as if she had been there to witness Fate's whims since the dawn of times. "Mankind's loathing for itself is familiar, but you..."

The pretty little curse in her arms stills. He does not laugh anymore, and in the air familiar drum of cursed energy, slowly rising from scarred hands rising to grasp her flesh.

A sigh leaves her parted lips.

"Tell me, Mahito." He freezes, just who, no, what is she and how does she know his name? "Isn't it terrible to be ultimately bound to hate yourself?"

He reels back, violently so, without any care for the new lines on his cheekbones, scarlet bids pouring out of the thin line left bare by torn flesh. Anything to get away from her, how could he have been so stupid, to even think she could be a shaman, to consider the possibility of she being a mere human-

A mere brush of now bared fingers over a moaning corpse begging for salvation and she turns around, dark satisfaction etched in pools of [colour] ink no lenses could ever protect them from.

"See you around, darling."

She is gone.

So is the life of the pathetic idiot he was toying with.

(She does not discriminate. Little sinner, pretty little curse, what will you say when she comes for you?)