THE MOMENT THEY WANTED TO MARRY YOU

THE MOMENT THEY WANTED TO MARRY YOU

FEATURING. sanemi shinazugawa, giyuu tomioka, obanai iguro & mitsuri kanroji

WARNINGS. gn!reader, fluff, comfort, reader and iguro are naked (no nsfw), hints to iguro’s past

NAVI | KNY MASTERLIST

SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA realized he wanted to marry you one day when he came home late at night to find you asleep at the dining table, apparently waiting for him. after the loss of most of his family, the shinazugawa brothers had moved into your home after you offered. you lost your mother to an illness not too long after, making it only you three who inhabited the tiny home.

you always cared for sanemi, and sanemi had always cared for you. so when you learned of his nightly activities, it worried you. sometimes he’d come home with torn clothes, and other days sanemi returned with fresh wounds. if you hadn’t fallen asleep by then, you’d dress his wounds tenderly. it wasn’t any better after joining the demon slayer corps.

the thought of him putting himself in danger like that gnawed at your stomach the first few weeks. but then time passed, and you no longer feared as much. there was always a possibility of losing sanemi, but he proved himself to be strong, both physically and in drive. though, you always prayed for his safety.

your upper body leaned on the low table, chest rising and falling as sanemi approached. the meal you set for him had grown cold a long time ago, but he’ll eat it regardless. first, the boy was going to carry you to your futon. though, the sight of a sleeping genya, whose head rested on your thigh, made him pause.

in his sleep, the young boy clung to your figure. and it was no wonder you only supported your head on the table with one arm, the other one rested on genya’s back. it must’ve been uncomfortable for you, yet you remained in that position for hours, awake or not.

the first one sanemi carried to their respective futon was genya. he was much heavier than before, the older boy thought. he was glad that genya was growing properly, especially with how much you fed him. the black-haired boy loved your cooking so much he almost always ate nearly half of it.

sanemi eventually carried your slouched form to your futon. he set you down gently before placing your blanket over the lower half of your body. you got warm easily, so sanemi knew it would be best to not cover you completely.

the moonlight shone on your sleeping figure as sanemi brushed your stray hairs away from your face. his eyes traveled from you to the cold plate on the table. always so caring, you were. his gaze then landed on genya, who you always treated as your own brother.

sanemi, despite the many things he has yet to comprehend, was sure of one thing— his love for you. the two of you were still teenagers, but he was sure of his feelings. as his fingers traveled from your forehead to your cheek, cupping your face lightly, there was only a single thought that occupied his mind.

one day, in a world free of demons, he’d take your hand and ask you to be his.

it was when you were crying in his arms that GIYUU TOMIOKA knew that he wanted your hand in marriage. although he was skilled, he was rendered unconscious during a mission after slaying two demons with tricky demon blood arts. although he was only unconscious from night till the next afternoon, you couldn’t help but worry.

you were no demon slayer, so the thought of your partner being bedridden had scared you. you rushed to his bedside when giyuu’s crow informed you of his state. and as you sat by his sleeping form, the little butterfly estate girls told you that although he was littered with cuts, none of them were deep.

part of you always believed that giyuu was invincible. even though you knew he was the highest rank in the demon slayer corps, he never came home with worrying injuries. a few small cuts here and there were all treated by you before the two of you fell into bed.

seeing giyuu’s bare torso covered in white patches reminded you that giyuu was not invincible, and even someone skilled like him was vulnerable to injury.

compared to the corps members that already died before giyuu was assigned the mission, he was barely harmed. but since you didn’t see it that way, he saw the tears that brimmed your eyes after he woke up. your hug was gentle as if you’d hurt him if you squeezed him tight.

giyuu snaked his arms around your waist as you cried and told him how you worried for him. your words, even your tears alone spoke volumes about how much you cared for him. the black-haired man held you tighter, knowing that he cared for you just as much, and one day hoped to show you by proposing with a ring fit only for you.

you and OBANAI IGURO were lying bare in bed the moment he realized he wanted to marry you. it was late at night and the two of you had your limbs tangled together underneath a thick blanket, skin-to-skin for half an hour in near darkness. the muted moonlight that shone through the shoji door was only enough to outline the other’s figure.

obanai’s skin burned beneath your smooth fingers, the gentle touch scorching his very being. you always had that effect on him, especially when he was most vulnerable to you, when he was bare.

your fingers brushed the skin of his cheeks, lightly touching the part of his face that he always kept bandaged up. your fingers ran over the bumpy skin once more before you cupped his cheeks, pressing your forehead to his.

there were a few nights you’d spend like this. though, it was always so dark. you wanted to see your lover in full, but knowing how he felt about it, you never forced him to. after all, it had taken you some time to get used to the reminder of your own past; the large scar that ran from your chest to your belly button.

you laid your head back onto your pillow before you asked him if it was okay to light up a candle although you expected him to politely decline. instead, he hesitated before saying you could. after you asked once more to be sure, the black-haired man decided to light the candle for you.

his face, illuminated by the candlelight, turned towards you. obanai watched as you crawled towards him and sat on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. you told him that his beauty never failed to make you awe as he snaked his hands onto your hips.

you smiled at him lovingly before you laid your head in the crook of his neck, finding comfort in your position. he tucked back a piece of your hair before resting his cheek atop your head. obanai thought someone as tainted as him didn’t deserve such love from you, someone so pure. however, you wandered into his arms with no argument, embracing his being. obanai was sure that when the time was right, he’d marry you under your favorite cherry blossom tree.

the two of you were having brunch when MITSURI KANROJI realized she wanted to marry you one day. being the absolute bundle of joy she was, mitsuri was excited about the brunch the two of you planned days before. you’d be coming over to her estate, so the woman made sure to have lots of food prepared.

you arrived at mitsuri’s estate earlier than planned with a tray of sakura mochi you made just for her. although she ushered you to the dining room while she rushed the rest of her cooking and baking outside, you couldn’t help but wonder what was taking her so long. and when you realized it was because mitsuri was running all over the place to pay attention to everything she was cooking at once, you opted to help her.

you smiled at the love hashira, telling her she didn’t have to do all of this by herself, especially since she was providing for their meal. with a blossoming pink dusted across her cheeks, mitsuri thanked you and the two of you finished soon enough.

with everything set on the table, the two of you dug in. mitsuri babbled about her recent adventures like always, and you listened with a small smile on your face. from the moment you met, mitsuri was always so bright. the happiness she had always oozed out of her being and spread onto you, though you’ve never minded it.

while you found yourself lost in admiring her, another blush made its way onto mitsuri’s cheeks. your fond stare nearly made her heart melt when she noticed it. setting down her bowl, she felt her heart race against her chest as a certain thought crossed her mind.

you seemed to have caught yourself and quickly coughed before eating some of the fluffy pancakes she had made, commenting on how good they tasted. mitsuri giggled before she grinned endearingly. if you got married one day, then maybe the happiness of sharing a single meal would continue forever. truthfully, she wished that day would come soon.

NOTE. i was so into sanemi’s coming up with the other 3’s was a bit difficult 😓 sorry it’s a bit ooc (imo) this is my warm up dw

—requests are open + join my taglist !

@aureatchi @soleelia

જ⁀➴ FOR SHE HAD EYES AND CHOSE ME

SUMMARY. under a sky filled with stars, you and giyuu tomioka make your feelings clear for each other

WARNINGS. 1.4k words, giyuu x shinazugawa!reader, fluff

a diary entry of the “mono no aware” series !

“it’s not like you to want to meet this late.”

“apologies, were you asleep?”

“i was actually tossing and turning in bed, so i’m glad you asked to meet. was there something you wanted to talk about?”

giyuu tomioka sighed at your question. yes, there was something gnawing at his mind. though, the man didn’t want to confess that the very thing causing him worry was you, who only seemed concerned for his well-being.

dreams are rare for giyuu, and that’s because when his mind conjures something in his sleep, it isn't always so happy. you appeared in his sleep this time, and that lovely dream of his quickly turned into a nightmare.

he remembered the ghostly feeling of holding your hand, and the next, you trying to bite his face off. you turned into a demon in his dream, and it was when he imagined himself taking his sword and decapitating your head that it turned into a nightmare.

a gust of wind suddenly blew, causing you to hug your figure. you were rubbing your arms when giyuu let out another breath and walked closer to you. without saying anything, he threw his haori over your shoulders. he stood less than an arm’s length away from you when the shine in your eyes caught his attention. he shifted his weight onto one foot.

“don’t die, y/n.”

you stared at him strangely. although giyuu’s words were quite straightforward, they only left you confused. did he send his crow all the way to you as a warning, and then come to your estate himself just to say those three words? if so, you wondered what prompted him to say something that could’ve waited until the next morning.

“is there something i should know?” you asked, itching for an answer. “are you… are you actually leaving the corps, giyuu-kun?”

ever since his participation in the final selection, giyuu never thought that he was worthy of being a demon slayer. you remembered the day he told you about his late friend sabito, whom he trained with until the final selection. it wasn’t too long ago, maybe a month since he told you. the young boy had saved plenty of the other slayers and not a single life was taken, except for his. the only one to die then was sabito.

even as one of the highest-ranking demon slayers, giyuu thought that sabito would’ve been a much better water hashira than him. if only he had lived, then maybe the man who stood before you would’ve been him and not the black-haired boy.

giyuu was plagued with survivor’s guilt, and you couldn’t help but relate. the thought of your younger siblings dying before you did was always a punch to your gut. giyuu didn’t know you felt the same as he did until then, and as sad as it was, it felt like it only brought the two of you closer.

“i really hope you rethink your decision,” you continued after his face grew slightly confused. “you’ve worked hard to become as strong as you are, and you leaving would be a huge loss to the corps.”

“do you really think that?”

“of course,” you nodded, sure. your ears grew warm as you turned your gaze to the stars, “i also know that if you left, i’d miss you every day. it won’t be the same without you.”

his heart skipped a beat at your reply. although you thought his words were a farewell, he only meant it as a warning. giyuu cared about you much more than he let on, and seeing you hurt in such a way, even if it was all just a nightmare, reminded him of such.

“i’d miss you too,” he admitted. “that’s why… i won’t leave the corps, not unless you come with me.”

your eyes widened. what did leaving the corps have to do with you? you thought about it for a moment before you spoke again, “why me?”

“when you’re by my side, things feel easier.”

“that’s- giyuu-kun, do you perhaps-“

“giyuu,” he corrected you. “please call me giyuu.”

you took his hand, “giyuu, please correct me if i’m mistaken, but do you… have feelings for me? if i’m reading into things wrong, don’t be afraid to tell me.”

ah, you actually hit the nail right on the head. although you didn’t notice it, the tips of giyuu’s ears turned pink as he held your fingers with your own. he didn’t say anything, but you didn’t have to be an expert in romance to know what he meant. your heart raced as you inched closer to him.

giyuu’s actions spoke louder than words. the first time you met him on the way to your first hashira meeting, you realized that fact quickly. you were navigating your way to the ubuyashiki estate when you became lost. giyuu had been walking some distance behind you for a few minutes when you stopped in your tracks.

‘which way should i go?’ you thought.

as you tried to decide which way to go, giyuu passed you. he didn’t spare you a glance as he continued ahead. since you noticed that his uniform had gold buttons like your own, you knew that he was also a hashira and that he was your best hope of finding the estate.

you followed giyuu, though you made sure to distance yourself to not make it obvious. but at every turn, after you ran to catch up and not lose him, he waited for you. after you turned the corner he had, the black-haired boy trudged ahead towards the next turn he’d wait for you at.

part of you wanted to believe it was just a coincidence that he happened to make a turn within your sight, but when you arrived at the meeting you quickly realized he was doing that on purpose.

“the master has been waiting,” gyomei, who was kneeling, commented when you and giyuu arrived. “it is unusual for you to be this late, tomioka.”

you then put the pieces together as you got down on one knee as well. you didn’t just happen to see him make every turn, giyuu had been waiting for you to follow. you felt yourself grow warm in embarrassment when you realized that he knew you were lost but pretended he didn’t.

it was difficult to tell because giyuu was no talker, but he was kind. since he helped you find your way, you felt obligated to thank him, and that was part of the reason why you started to talk to him in the first place, other than the fact you were curious about him and it would only be best to get along with someone you’d fight alongside.

it began with small talk when you passed each other, but quickly grew into longer conversations that took place even outside of work. all the time you began to spend with him developed your current feelings. your curiosity about the black-haired boy grew into genuine affection over the past 2 years, and you had completely fallen for him. and now, underneath the moon’s light, you realized he felt the same.

everything felt right when you moved your lips closer to his and connected them. giyuu cupped your cheek with his left hand and held your waist with his right before he leaned into you. your lips moved against each other with a nearly intoxicating hunger that would’ve consumed you whole if you didn’t pull away.

“giyuu,” you breathlessly whispered.

he pressed his forehead against yours and hummed, finally confessing, “i want to be yours, y/n. and if you allow me, i’d want for you to only be mine.”

his blue eyes met yours fiercely, and you didn’t bother resisting. you gave in immediately, nodding happily before pulling him in for another kiss. you threw your arms over his shoulders as he snaked his own arms around your waist, his haori falling to the ground without either of you noticing.

“this nearly feels like a dream,” you murmured.

“i hope not,” a faint smile adorned his lips. “when i dream of something, it doesn’t last very long. i don’t want this,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, “to end.”

“well then, we best not let it.” you fought back your own smile as you rested your head in the crook of his neck, “i don’t want this to end either. so, if you allow me, i’d love to be yours.”

giyuu’s lips then curled further as he stared at you in adoration, “yeah, i like the sound of that.”

this entry’s taisho secret— ever since you and giyuu have gotten together, whenever he misses you and is unable to talk or speak to you for some reason, such as being on a mission, he takes a look at the stars and remembers your shared confession. the thought warms his heart and helps him get through the time he spends missing you

signed on 07/20/2024 | other diary entries

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@aureatchi @piichuu @queenof3ferrets @todorokies @staygoldsquatchling02 @luffy0s @egoistars @soleelia @kazunish @ravencrow1995 @koraarchives

Just a Lucifer headcannon that I have and think about alot: Lucifer may be the rizz master, but he has one fatal flaw; he can NEVER do it intentionally. Yeah he can banter back and forth all day, jokingly flirt with his friends, and make any stranger in a room blush; BUT as soon as he actually gets feelings or tries to flirt seriously, he is a complete dumpster fire. All his words come out jumbled and wrong, his stutter is 10x worse then normal, and everything seems to end up broken, spilled, or otherwise on the ground somehow.

I love this dork.

Imagine Lucifer…

• Casually sliding onto the barstool next to you, introducing himself with that big goofy grin of his, setting his drink aside. You reach out and try to shake his hand in greeting, but he brings your knuckles in for a fleeting kiss instead, making you blush. ‘So, what enticed a pretty little thing like you to give redemption a shot?’ he suddenly asks.

• Smoothly apologizing for his forwardness as you dip your head with an ‘Oh?’, clearly amused but also somewhat flattered by his question. ‘Well?’ He asks, his thumb teasingly swiping against your knuckles, almost in an attempt to accentuate the blush decorating your features. You dodge his question by focusing on Husk.

• Letting go of your hand to take a sip of his drink, chuckling as you ask the bartender what he put in his cocktail with a nervous laugh. ‘Nothin’ he can’t handle,’ Husk shrugs, his eyes lazily flitting down to the glass in his hand. ‘It’s an Old Fashioned, so…whiskey.’ He assures you that he can hold his liquor quite well when you turn to him.

• Toning down on his flirtatious remarks but still slipping in something every now and then, savoring how responsive you are…until you start reciprocating his energy. ‘So, you’ve been single for 7 years,’ You hum, resting your cheek on your palm and looking him up and down. ‘Can you explain to me how that’s possible?’ He stiffens.

• Stuttering out, ‘Oh! Well, uh, I’m not sure—wh-why do you ask?’ as you squint your eyes at him in amusement, a coy smile playing on your lips. ‘You’re just quite the charmer, that’s all,’ You say, enjoying how effortlessly you had turned the tables on him. He tries to change the topic, but it’s too late, you’re interested in him now.

• Dissolving into a blushing mess as you flirt with him left and right, shrinking into his seat and looking up at you with bated breath, the grip on his glass growing tighter with every move you make towards him. ‘Say, would you like to come over to my room after this?’ You suddenly ask him—that’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.

• Shattering his drink in his hand, only realizing what he’s done when you gasp and ask if he’s okay. ‘Oh, shit!’ He says, but Niffty quickly comes to the rescue. ‘I gotta change, got whiskey on my vest!’ He says, trying to save himself from further embarrassment, but when he steals a glance at you from over his shoulder, he pauses.

• Walking backwards and snatching your hand, his heart racing as he wordlessly drags you away to his room. You can feel the nervousness radiating off of him, so you bite your tongue and accept that you managed to snag the King of Hell. Meanwhile, he has no idea what to do, especially when you’re finally alone together.

• Staring at you as the door softly clicks behind him, trying to remember what he used to do with Lilith. ‘I—it’s been so long,’ He eventually stutters out in apology, but you just shrug, clearly unbothered. ‘How about I help you out with your vest for starters?’ You approach him. ‘Oh, yes please,’ He practically whines, his knees buckling.

Golden Girl.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: The psychological damage inflicted from Gojo Satoru's presence, canon-typical violence, Gojo and Geto are both kinda questionable in their own ways. Word count: 16k.

-Index-

April 1st, 2005. 

8:02 a.m.

-

You don’t get it. 

This campus is huge. Unbelievably so. If someone said you’d waltzed into the Imperial Palace, you’d believe them, and not just because you’re gullible. Although, that’d certainly play a significant role. 

Your suspicions strengthen after you walk over the third arched bridge. That’s an arched bridge too far. No school can have this many fancy-looking bridges, the schools back home are practically held together by chewed pieces of gum and scotch tape. Your jetlagged brain combs through the whirlwind you’ve endured in the past few hours. Did you give the wrong address to the taxi driver back at the airport? 

He did look confused, but you hadn’t given it much thought then. 

You go as still as a statue. 

… What if this is the Imperial Palace? If that’s the case, you’re definitely trespassing, right?

How do you explain that to any guards that might happen by? You can envision the headlines now — Foreigner Extradited for Trespassing, Sentenced to Life, No Chance at Parole. All those hours you spent working on your student visa would be for nothing! And you’d be in prison, which is a bummer, because you’re not rich enough to weasel out of the criminal justice system. 

You’ll have to join a prison gang, there’s no way around it. Would they let a fourteen-year-old in? In the event they don’t, you could always form one yourself. Leadership’s never been your thing, but it beats—

“Hey there,” a feminine voice calls out. “You lost?” 

You whip your head around to the sound’s source. Instead of seeing an intimidating guard ready to haul you off, there’s a girl about your age. She has brunette hair styled in a bob, a beauty mark beneath her left eye, and an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips. 

Unless the Emperor is issuing major budget cuts, this can’t be a guard. 

You consider her uniform. The high collar, sheer tights, long sleeves, and brown shoes match yours, but the skirt’s different. Yours flares out and cuts off right above your knees. This minor discrepancy makes you wonder if you’re breaking the dress code on your first day. You push the concern aside for future you to deal with.

“That obvious, huh?” You laugh. 

“Just a bit.” 

She introduces herself as Ieiri Shoko, a first-year student like yourself. You respond in kind, offering up your own name and grade. It’s a relief to know you won’t be arrested or wandering this complex for an eternity. She walks by you and turns on her heel, tilting her head. 

“Gonna come with?” 

You nod and happily fall into step beside her. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, not that you mind. It gives you time to admire the idyllic scenery around each turn. There are lush green forests, gardens, and more traditional buildings than you can count. The only detail you find odd is how empty the area is. Besides Ieiri, there isn’t a soul to be found. 

“Ieiri-san, is today a holiday by any chance?” 

“Just Shoko’s fine,” she says, feeling around her various pockets. “And I don’t think so. Why? Too quiet?” 

“It’s almost like a ghost town.” 

Shoko smiles. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous, but you’ve yet to meet anyone in the jujutsu world who is 100% normal. You think it might be an unspoken requirement at this point. 

Shoko gives up on whatever she was searching for — a lighter, if you had to guess — and tucks the cigarette away. This reinforces your theory that those involved with jujutsu have one quirk at the bare minimum. By that logic, you must have some peculiar quirk of your own. Recalling your earlier Imperial Palace debacle, you realize it might be more than one… 

“Oh, by the way. All our classes got canceled,” Shoko says. 

You blink. 

“On… the first day…?” 

“Yeah. Something about a last-minute meeting,” she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I’m heading back to the dorms for a nap. I think yours is near mine, there are boxes with your name on them in the hallway.” 

What a relief! There had been no word on the packages full of your personal belongings you shipped here ahead of time. The hellscape that is checked baggage had no bearing on you. Immensely pleased with this revelation, you set aside the urge to explore and accompany Shoko to where you’ll be living for the foreseeable future. 

In keeping with the spirit of the rest of the school grounds, your room is spacious. 

Shoko left you to your own devices. You can faintly discern her presence in the room beside yours, laying down as she said she would. You thought you’d want to do the same, but something about the crisp morning air sliced through your exhaustion. You’ll ride the high and crash later. 

Adventure awaits — the exploration of the unknown, the sharpening of a faint, hazy image. 

You’re back outside again. It’s amazing how, no matter where you are, you can feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. This serves as a grounding reminder that you’re real. Reality and the ambiguous nature of jujutsu are often at odds with one other, fighting to occupy the same space. Each side spins a convincing speech about why you should give it credence while discounting the other. 

Unlike a politician’s diatribe, there’s no changing the channel or turning down the volume. This invisible and perennial battle won’t ever gain total victory or retreat. There’s bound to be collateral, such is the nature of war. For some, it’s their life in a literal sense, for you, it’s sanity. Coherence. The incorrigible truth that two plus two equals four.

See, young kids aren’t given enough credit. They’re always watching, learning, and absorbing. They get the basic idea that two plus two equals four before they even know what numbers are. For instance, as a baby, you cry and writhe until your needs are met. There’s a framework. An adult in the vicinity plus wailing equals getting fed. Then later, it gets more complex. Not eating your vegetables plus getting mouthy equals timeout. So on and so forth. 

You accrue this network of information that makes life navigable. 

Then, while visiting some distant relative in the hospital, a massive hole gets blown into this previously steady network. Such was your experience. 

Something strange sat atop the IV in the small, cramped hospital room. The adults exchanged well wishes for the man surrounded by beeping equipment and blinking screens. Everyone present focused on this man, except you. You observed this thing, about the size of a sparrow, that flitted to and fro. Whatever it was, it had too many eyes. Each rolled in a different direction, like a bowling ball that couldn’t stop spinning. 

Eventually, a long yet thin appendage emerged from the unidentifiable creature. You stood petrified as it entered the man’s ear canal and sipped. The man groaned, beeps increased, and numbers flew high. It sipped harder. His screams grew louder. Everything got chaotic. People in white and blue entered the room. You heard words like ‘cardiac arrest’ and ‘defibrillation.’ Your parents dragged you away. 

The creature continued to sip. 

On the car ride home, you asked why no one stopped it. The creature plus its sipping equaled the man’s horrible pain. That’s what you figured, anyway. They asked for clarification. What creature? Where had it been? What did it look like? Since young kids are smarter than they’re given credit for, you recognized the tone that was directed toward you. Disbelief, but in a nice, adult way. 

If you insisted on the creature’s existence, they grew worried. When you told your friends — who in turn, told their parents — their worry grew. If every drawing you scribbled tried to depict the creature’s likeness, their worry overflowed. You overheard words like ‘traumatic experience’ and ‘coping.’ 

So, you stopped mentioning it. This stopped the concerned murmurings you’d overhear. You tried really hard to believe what they said about nightmares and mean imaginary friends. This worked well enough until you noticed similar creatures everywhere. On the playground, bus, graveyards, and abandoned houses. They weren’t all the size of a sparrow either. Some were tiny enough to be mistaken for gnats. Others were huge and salivated large pools against the ground.

It was around this time that you developed a second shadow. A spinning golden ring that could fit in the palm of your hand followed you everywhere. No one else could see it, but unlike the creatures, this ring didn’t scare you. Just the opposite, in fact. You considered it a guardian angel. 

If the gnats got too close, it’d slice through them. 

When the huge, drooling ones reached out their mangled hand, it’d cut through their wrists.

Later on, you’d learn this ‘guardian angel’ was called a ‘cursed technique.’ 

Smiling, you descend a flight of stairs. From today onward, you’ll be surrounded by people who don’t discount the equation you spent your early years erasing. They’ll be around your age too! You already like Shoko, she’s pretty and has a calming presence. You wonder what the others in your class will be like. How many will there be? Twenty? Your social studies class topped out at thirty-four. 

You hope you can befriend everyone. 

The gears turning in your head grind to a halt upon noticing the view. Maybe it’s how the morning sun casts a soft glow upon the verdure, or maybe you’re just easily impressed. Whatever the case, the sight stokes awe inside you. Trees line both sides of the gravel path ahead, their canopies inclining as if leaning down to hear a whisper. Smudges of green streak through the air, accepting any destiny the wind bestows.

What an image, straight from the pages of a fairytale book! 

You fish out your new phone, a hot pink Razr V3, recalling its camera feature. Even if the photograph isn’t award-winning, you want to preserve this moment. 

You can’t explain it. This intuition isn’t rational, it doesn’t adhere to that ever so reliable two plus two. It transcends. The fall of a domino, a flap of a butterfly wing. Seemingly unrelated yet intimately interwoven by invisible lines. 

Whether preordained or the consequence of chain reactions you’d have to trace since birth to understand, what happens next stains you its color. The soul grasps what logic dismisses. And right now, your soul says this moment in time and space should never be forgotten. 

As for why, your soul suggests you uncover that for yourself. 

Alas, you can’t actually stop time. Perception and reality don’t always agree. While it felt like everything came to a grinding halt, the wheels never stopped turning.

And so the powerful gust soaring from your right punches the air from your lungs. 

Gritting your teeth, you dig your heels into the ground. The sheer force pushes you back some inches. Next comes a hail of debris. Chunks of soil, sediment, and splintered wood descend. Recognizing this threat, your mind yells at your body to move. Those earthly implements are soaring faster than a bullet. However, the baleful gale restricts precise movement. You’re nothing but a bag of flesh and viscera to the indifferent swell. It’ll send you tumbling the instant your feet lift off the ground. 

Dodging isn’t an option. 

Those rocks… your cursed technique could dice them up, but then you’d get pelted with shrapnel rather than stone. 

Which is the better outcome? A body littered with numerous holes or a few craters? 

Your arms fly up to protect your major organs. You’ll endure what you can. 

Except, instead of enduring an onslaught, nothing happens. Nothing hurts, rips, or gets torn to shreds. 

The wind hasn’t stopped, but it no longer touches you. You jump back, out of the line of impact. The debris parts like the Red Sea and grants you safe passage. From this vantage point, you’re a witness rather than an unwitting participant. The unrelenting force rages on. You gape at the path of destruction it’s left behind, indiscriminately swallowing trees, foliage, and the ground. It looks like a meteor surged in a straight line through the forest. 

No matter what you’d chosen to do, if it weren’t for that abrupt opening, you would’ve died.  

Heart thumping wildly, you snap your head toward the direction this miniature storm originated from. Was it a curse? If it is, then you’re hopelessly outclassed. 

No, that doesn’t seem right, you think. You’re familiar with how it feels when a curse is nearby. Should it be close to your power level, it’s like getting splashed with frigid water. For curses above your abilities, that sensation gets amplified. It’s as if you’ve been plunged into the Arctic Ocean. Right now, you’re not experiencing either of those sensory nightmares. 

A silhouette walks through the dusty haze that destructive force left behind. 

“Whoops,” the person within says, “That was close.” 

You run over, swatting the dust lingering in the air. Anyone close to that force could’ve gotten severely injured. Concern seeps into your being as the figure emerges. 

“Are you okay?!” 

The first thing you notice is a head of white hair. Next is this person’s height, you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Eyes that were, for some reason, covered by circular sunglasses. There’s a sideways grin on his face, the absolute last expression you were expecting. From his uniform, you guess he’s a student like yourself. His most prominent feature isn’t anything visible. It’s the sheer aura he exudes, you’ve never experienced anything similar. There’s no hostility, but it’s intense. 

You inhale shakily. 

“Never better. You?” 

He sounds chipper. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, giving yourself a once-over. 

You pinch your eyebrows together while assessing your condition. The white-haired figure notices this and asks, “Ya sure? Nothing hit you, right?” 

“That’s the weird thing, though,” you frown. “I should be covered in dust, but there’s not a single speck.” 

His grin widens, like he’s in on some joke you aren’t. This plucks a cord of irritation within you. Narrowing your eyes, you take a step back. You focus on the cursed energy engulfing him, then compare it to residuals left behind by the force. The residuals in the path it carved out are too faint to properly discern. All you have implicating his involvement is a hunch. 

You remember how the gust itself felt, though. The ferocity that had every nerve in your body ringing funeral bells. 

Your eyes flit between the gaping maw and the sunglass-wearing stranger. 

“Want a hint?” He asks. You don’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice. 

“You caused that surge,” you deadpan. 

“Close enough, I’ll give half credit. Next question! What stopped you from getting buried in layers of dust?” 

You have no reason to play along, yet scampering off feels like you’d be conceding something. The competitive nature boiling in your blood refuses to admit defeat. Especially after he subjected you to that terror, without even apologizing! It’s the least he could do. What an inconsiderate jerk. You’ll knock him down from that high horse if it’s the last thing you do. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you consider the information you have to work with. Whatever he did had to involve his cursed technique. Did he apply a shield to you? It’s the most obvious answer, but that doesn’t explain everything. A shield would lessen the damage, not negate it entirely. 

How did he pull that off…? 

As you’re piecing this puzzle together, someone in the distance yells, “Satoru!” drawing out each syllable. The person before you winces but doesn’t lose his boyish smile. You sense another presence heading this way. After you turn around to face this new addition, two large hands settle on your shoulders from behind. You bristle and try shaking them off, but this weirdo doesn’t let go. 

An older man with a severe expression stands atop the staircase. His uniform is pitch black, denoting a different status than a student, if you were to guess. 

“One hour,” he huffs out, “One hour, I ask for you to sit still and behave. And what do I come back to? An entire tunnel running through the school grounds?” 

“It was for good reason, sensei,” this ‘Satoru’ insists. He squeezes your shoulders. “[First] here mistook a bug for a curse and yelped, ‘Kya, there’s a curse!’ I, being the good samaritan I am, dispatched the threat with what I thought to be an appropriate amount of force at the time.”  

You make a face. “Eh?” 

“Huh?” Yaga must find this explanation as convincing as you do. His countenance filters through multiple emotions. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, and then, finally, exhaustion. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?” 

“I didn’t come up with anything! Tell him, [First]! Are you going to abandon your savior when he needs you most?” 

Yaga turns his attention to you, pity evident in his eyes. 

“Satoru did… sort of protect me from something… in a way?” You mumble. 

Satoru’s fingers twitch when you speak his recently learned name.

Yaga sighs. “We’ll discuss this later, Satoru.” 

And with that, the first teacher you’ve met walks away, shaking his head. His demeanor reminds you of a disappointed parent. Suddenly cognizant of the unwelcome contact on your body, you jerk your shoulders forward. This time, he releases you. You get the sense he could’ve easily held on if he wanted to.

“Man, you suck at lying,” Satoru whines. 

“Me? What sort of cover story was that? If you ever become a defense attorney, your clients are screwed.” 

He throws his arms behind his head and grins. “You gotta admit, the impression was solid.” 

“That was the most egregious part!” 

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

You roll your eyes. Before this back-and-forth drags on, there’s a specific detail that’s nagging at you. 

“By the way, how do you know my name—” 

“Suguru, how long are you gonna sit back and watch? Voyeurism is frowned upon, y’know,” he cuts you off mid-sentence. 

Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at his not-so-subtle implication. Thrown back into a weirded-out limbo, you start slinking off. Forget trying to understand how he knows your name despite never telling him. These are the types your parents warned you about, you need to flee! Hormonal high school boys should be sectioned off until they’re no longer threats to society. Nuclear warfare pales in comparison. 

“She’ll never want to come near you again if you keep saying things like that.” 

Another student calmly strides out from behind a nearby tree. You squint, ensuring this isn’t an illusion. How long has this guy been here? Why couldn’t you sense his presence? Especially when he’s been so close, just a few measly feet back. The black-haired addition gives you a closed-mouth smile. Similar to Satoru, he’s rather tall. You’ll need a neck massage from all this looking up. 

“Geto Suguru. It’s nice to meet you,” Geto greets. 

You introduce yourself as well. 

“It’s your first day here, correct? How are you finding everything? Have any questions?” 

“None that I can think of, but thank you! It’s been uneventful, up to a certain point.” 

Satoru yawns obnoxiously loud, interrupting your exchange. “Look what you did, Suguru. She’s all prim and proper now. I might fall asleep.” 

You shoot him a scathing look but bite your tongue. 

“What? No need to hold back. Say whatever you want, I can take it,” he asserts, tilting his head enough for his sunglasses to slide down. Two pools of frosty blues bore through you. You freeze up at the sight. Snowy eyelashes, glittering, gemstone-like eyes, why would he ever hide them? You’ve never seen such a bewitching color. 

He strikes like a serpent at the opening you’ve given him. 

“All this staring’s gonna make me shy. You can take a picture, if you want. I don’t mind.” 

Any spell you were under withers and dies. 

“Actually, I was just thinking that you remind me of a celebrity,” you say. 

Satoru preens, interpreting your words as a compliment. Before his ego inflates enough for him to float away, however, you give him a smug smile of your own. 

“Ever heard of Sanrio’s Cinnamoroll? You two could be twins! It’s adorable.”

His shoulders droop and Suguru chuckles, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hand. You spin around, content, humming to yourself as you walk up the stairs. You block out whatever Satoru shouts in retaliation. His words go in one ear and out the other. Something tells you this is the best strategy for dealing with him. 

So far, you’ve met three classmates, and that was enough to exhaust you thoroughly. 

You wonder what everyone else is like. 

-

Later that evening, Shoko explains it’s just you four in your class. 

You finish chewing your takeout, swallow, and then reply, “Eh? Seriously? But this place is crazy big.” 

“Not many folks can use jujutsu,” Shoko says. She picks a mushroom up with her chopsticks and places it in your container. “Four students is a high amount, all things considered.” 

You plop the mushroom into your mouth. Savory flavors coat your tongue, warming your heart and your soul. Delicious food is the antidote to all woes. Presently, your biggest woe happens to have white hair, unfairly pretty eyes, and a knack for getting under your skin. Recalling your previous encounter makes you grimace.

“Hey, Shoko. Would I get in trouble for spraying Satoru with water?” 

Instead of responding, she stares at you, blinking owlishly. 

“What’s up?” 

“Haven’t heard any student but Geto call Gojo by his first name,” she explains. “We’ve only been here a few days though, so who knows.” 

You tilt your head. “Who is Gojo?” 

“Satoru. Gojo Satoru’s his full name.”

“... Ah.” 

You swipe a pillow from Shoko’s bed and slam it into your face. 

“I’ve been calling him by his first name?!” You whisper yell, heat rushing to your cheeks.

That’s far too intimate. This is awful, a tragedy, the end of your life that had just begun! 

Shoko rubs your back reassuringly as you process the harrowing information. 

-

This has been the first proper school day. 

Teachers have come and gone depending on the class. You and Geto have been taking notes, Shoko’s fallen asleep, and Gojo occasionally throws a wadded-up note at the three of you. Shoko’s collection piles up on her desk, Geto throws his away after reading them, and you chuck yours back at Gojo when the teacher isn’t looking. 

He catches it with a grin each time, as if you’re playing a friendly game of baseball. 

This guy really irks you. 

When it’s time to eat lunch, he’s the first to get up. 

“What does everyone want from the vending machine?” Gojo asks while clapping, earning your attention. “It’s on me.” 

Suguru requests Coca-Cola and Shoko, newly awake, says Oi Ocha. 

“I’m okay, but thank you,” is your response. 

Gojo swaggers over and you immediately regret sounding so polite. 

“First you don’t open my notes and now you won’t accept my generosity? Is this what it’s like to get bullied?” 

“I think bullying is typically worse than that,” you respond. His deep frown, although likely an act, still tugs on your heartstrings. Empathy is truly a double-edged sword. “... Georgia canned coffee, please.” 

Gojo points a finger at you. “Aha! I knew it! Something about you struck me as a caffeine addict.” 

(You throw a pen at him, which he easily sidesteps).

“Does the resident sugar addict have any room to talk?” Geto hums. 

“Plenty. When you eat sweets, it’s to enjoy the flavor. In other words, an experience! When you drink coffee, though, you’re only torturing yourself to keep your eyes open.” 

“Some people like coffee’s flavor,” Shoko chimes in. She rests her chin on her fist. “You would if it was sickeningly sweet.” 

You take in the sight of your classmates bickering. It stirs a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest, like walking outside on the first day of spring. Such a simple exchange instills a sense of normalcy, no matter how fleeting. Gojo’s larger-than-life personality, Geto’s sneaky ways of goading him on, and Shoko’s occasional wry comment; you sear it into your memory. 

There’s no real weight to the jabs everyone flings around, it’s like water off a duck’s back. 

“You’ll meet lots of interesting folks, I’m sure,” your jujutsu mentor, Ishimoto Akane, had told you. “Make the most of each day. Forgetting to live is the worst injustice you can commit toward yourself.” 

Smiling, you retrieve your pen/ammunition, intent on hitting Gojo with it eventually. 

-

Drizzle and heat olive oil in a pan. Add grape tomatoes, seasoning, and minced garlic. Stir occasionally until the grape tomatoes break down. 

A mouthwatering scent fills the dormitory’s kitchen. The clock reads 10:04 p.m, indicating how late this dinner is. You keep an eye on your pan as different shades of red smear together, forming the basis for your sauce. Content to leave it unsupervised for a spell, you walk to the drawer silverware is kept in.

The plates are up in an overhead cupboard. You stand on your tiptoes, straining your arm to grab a plate that has no business being up so high. 

“Need help?” 

You could recognize that voice in your sleep. Or, to be more specific, your nightmares. 

“I’ve got it,” you insist. 

“Yes, obviously, my sincerest apologies,” Gojo's cadence shifts to a somber, apologetic tone. “Please proceed.” 

You stretch your body to its limits, the muscles in your arm crying out for reprieve. Your fingertips brush over the plate’s outer rim. Mistaking this for victory, you pull it out at an awkward angle. The porcelain comes tumbling down to its imminent demise. Out of instinct, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact. 

In the moments that follow, you hear nothing shatter.

Confused, you reopen your eyes to see Gojo Satoru holding the still-intact plate.

You stare at him.

He stares at you (from behind his sunglasses, despite the sun not being out). 

Remembering your manners, you say, “Thank you.” 

Gojo hums. The low note injects dread throughout your system, as you can guess how the melody will continue. You reach for the troublesome plate. In accordance with your premonition, he takes sadistic glee in raising it high above your head. It stays up there as if it were a full moon. 

You take a deep, deep breath. 

“Gojo-san, can I have that back?” 

“Say ‘Pretty please, Satoru,’ and I’ll think about it.” 

“...” 

He stares at you.

You stare at him. 

“From this day forward, you cannot have any more of my cooking,” you announce as if you were a politician making a new law known. 

In what’s an exceedingly rare occurrence, Gojo doesn’t have an immediate retort. You may be unable to see his eyes, but you can tell his expression fell at your proclamation by the muscles in his face. 

“Wait, really?” 

“Really.” 

“Really really?” 

“Really really.” 

Gojo silently hands over the plate with a bow. 

“For you, madam.” 

His melancholic act is so convincing and disproportionate to the situation that you can’t hold back your laughter. Gojo’s true strength is his ability to annoy and endear in the same breath. For this reason, your irritation toward his antics never lasts long. You’re sure he’s aware of this and uses it to his advantage. So long as it remains innocuous, you’ll play along. 

“Start helping by chopping that basil and I’ll reconsider your verdict.” 

Gojo gives a hearty salute. 

“Yes ma’am!” 

-

Geto plucks the manilla folder you’re holding and says your name. Perplexed, you glance at him.

“This isn’t worth rereading a fourth time,” he explains. “It won’t be anything near as dangerous as it’s been made out to be.” 

He closes it and slides it across the table. You watch through heavy eyelids, blinking off sleep’s seductive whisper. The contents within — census data, maps, photographs — each piece of information refuses to absorb into your weary brain. You’re amazed you had the cogency to slap some proper loungewear on and stumble to the dormitory’s shared living space. 

“S’gotta be somewhat important, though, if we got woken up at three in the morning over it.” 

Geto laughs airily at that. “You’d be surprised.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He means that anything involving the Zenins gets a fast track to becoming everyone’s problem,” Gojo adds from the doorway. 

You turn your head in the direction of his hoarse voice. He didn’t bother to fix his bedhead or put on anything half-decent. He’s wearing a gray v-neck and slacks, unlike Geto, who at least put on a pair of jeans. His trademark sunglasses sit ajar on his nose. 

Despite yourself, your heart skips a beat. He’s kinda cute.

Gojo gives you a lazy wave and grin. “Wow, you’re actually awake. I thought we’d have to drag you out of bed.” 

“In the spirit of maintaining harmony, I’m going to ignore that comment,” you grumble, getting up from the floor to sit on the couch. Gojo sits to your left, slouches into the armrest, and throws his legs on the table. What terrible posture. “Going back to what you said — who are the Zenins? Are they important or something?” 

Gojo furrows his eyebrows. 

Geto blinks. 

You glance between the two of them, feeling increasingly out of the loop. “W-What?” 

Gojo, being the fiend that he is, breaks out into unapologetic laughter. You gape at him, your cheeks going from cold to scorching. Geto shakes his head in disapproval over Gojo’s behavior. Still, a small smile works onto his face, further exacerbating your embarrassment. Gojo loudly poking fun at you is one thing, but you’re used to Geto having your back Or at least abstaining from either side.

Vexed, you shoot up, ready to storm off, but Gojo’s hand encircles your wrist. 

“My bad, my bad,” he manages through the occasional chuckle. “Come back. We’ll explain it to you.” 

You grumble beneath your breath yet ultimately acquiesce. 

Gojo peers at you from above his sunglasses. “Ever heard of the Big Three Sorcerer Families?” 

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?” 

“Man, that must be nice. I almost feel bad ruining your innocence like this,” Gojo sighs, ever the melodramatic performer. “Hm… let’s see… think of them as the lame, jujutsu versions of Zapdos, Articuno, and Moltres.”

Sitting patiently, you wait for him to elaborate. 

He doesn’t. 

“Geto-kun, care to translate?” 

“With pleasure. So, since cursed techniques are inherited, families often want them passed on from one generation to the next. The Big Three come from bloodlines that hold some of the strongest techniques. As you can imagine, this has granted them lots of influence and power over the centuries. How they leverage these advantages, well…” 

Geto trails off and clears his throat. 

“—They use it to advance their own agendas and snuff out any meaningful change,” Gojo finishes for him. 

You nod. 

“Okay, I think I get it! So they’re like jujutsu lobbyists?” 

Gojo bursts into another fit of laughter. “I like that! Yeah, let’s call them that. Most of those geezers aren’t even jujutsu sorcerers themselves. They just sit around in the dark and scheme. It’s pathetic.” 

Gojo doesn’t care about mincing words. He’s the type to call it as he sees it, for better or for worse. Rarely do you sense such acrimony festering beneath the surface of his remarks. This matter is different. He’s smiling, but there’s a tense underpinning to how he sets his jaw. 

“Wait, okay, so, there’s the Zenins, but… who are the other two?” You ask. 

“The Kamo and Gojo families,” Geto answers.

Gojo, gojo… that name sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? 

This reveal doesn’t knock the breath from your lungs. You’ve been able to guess for some time now that Gojo came from money. How much exactly, you weren’t sure, but his designer clothes raised your estimates high. Your rich kid radar is as accurate as ever. 

You point an accusatory finger toward the white-haired male beside you. “We have a double agent in our midst, Geto-kun.” 

“It would appear so. How should we proceed?” 

You stride over to Geto’s side, creating the appropriate distance between you and the traitor. 

“Imprisonment without trial,” you declare, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “Solitary confinement too. Cosplaying as the working class is a federal offense.” 

“Hah? What sort of kangaroo court is this?” Gojo complains. He removes his legs from the table and sits properly, then crosses his arms over his chest. Continuing your charade, you pay him no mind. Instead, you stand on your tiptoes, cup your hands, and whisper into Geto’s ear: 

“The convict is disparaging our blameless judicial system. Shall we add ten years of hard labor?” 

A malevolent gleam passes over Geto’s eyes. 

“Let’s make it twenty,” he whispers back. You nod. Great minds think alike.

You return your attention to the couch, intending to update Gojo’s sentence, only to find he isn’t there. Yours and Geto’s deliberation couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds! Where did your prisoner run off to? His presence vanished as well, leaving not a single trace. It should unnerve you how in control he is of every aspect of his being. Maybe it would’ve had you not known him personally. 

Warm breath fans against your ear from behind. “I’m taking this corrupt official hostage.” 

With that, your legs give out faster than your brain can register. Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as two arms lift you. The abruptness of it all has your limbs flailing for purchase and a squeak escaping your lips. Gojo takes care to ensure you don’t fall or harm yourself, but he doesn’t bother hiding his sadistic glee. You’re held bridal style against his firm chest. 

Trying to wriggle loose is a meaningless endeavor. Accepting your fate, you go limp, but not without requesting assistance. 

“Geto, are you really going to abandon me to the machinations of this criminal?” 

Geto walks over, consideration etched into his countenance, stoking hope of rescue in your chest. He reaches for you. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gojo’s grip tightens ever so slightly. However, his hand doesn’t pry you from the jaws of the beast. He just pulls down your shirt, which has risen to reveal a sliver of your stomach. 

Wow, what a gentleman.

“Did you ever consider that I might be a double agent?” Geto challenges, relishing in your visible frustration as much as Gojo. Such is the plight of those who wear their heart on their sleeve. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson alright,” you retort. The foreboding nature of your words isn’t lost on them. They await your next move, which you swiftly deliver. “Gojo-san, let me down. If you don’t, I will bite you.”

You can feel how he beams down at you. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed that’s what you’re into— ah, Suguru, a little help here…?” 

Geto assesses the situation. After thinking it over, he helps steady you, then uses his newfound leverage to pull you free. He takes great care in putting you down, holding you steady until your feet are firmly on the floor. Your balance rushes to restore itself. In the meantime, Gojo clicks his tongue, processing the weight of Geto’s betrayal. 

You give Geto a thumbs up. “Good work. No one ever sees a triple agent coming.” 

“It was a split-second decision,” Gojo dismisses with a wave. His impassive expression morphs into a knowing smirk, like he just had a seismic revelation. “Ah, I get it.” 

“You do?” Geto hums. 

“He does?” You ask. 

“Yes and yes. Suguru, you were holding out to see if she’d use her cursed technique, right?” 

Geto doesn’t respond immediately, indicating Gojo’s theory holds some merit. Gojo stuffs his hands into his pockets and slinks back to the couch. His gait radiates smugness, although you can’t imagine why. Is that supposed to be a ‘gotcha!’ moment? 

“I’ll admit, I am curious,” is what Geto settles on saying, his smile apologetic. Or it’s meant to come off as such. 

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.” 

Geto and Gojo exchange looks. 

“You should be careful who you go about revealing information like that to,” Gojo warns. You’re not used to hearing this serious timbre in his voice. “Some cards should remain close to your chest.” 

Even if he’s being sincere, you can’t help but feel patronized. You’ll be the first to admit it — certain nuances of jujutsu society are lost on you. Akane wasn’t the type to care for such details. She said worrying about all that bureaucracy would age you prematurely. You half agree with her. Certainly, you shouldn’t let that influence you in the areas it matters most, like combat. However, while you’re in Japan, you’re under their regulations. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that. 

You purse your lips. “Obviously, yeah. I’m not going to go blabbering it off everywhere. But, I mean, you two are my friends. This’ll be our first time on the field together. Knowing what cards you have to deal with seems useful to me.” 

Gojo turns his head to the side and a few seconds pass.

“Friends, huh?” Geto finally murmurs, testing the word on his tongue. His next smile reaches his eyes. “Who would’ve thought a little sincerity is all it takes to get you flustered?” 

Gojo snaps his head back at Geto’s taunt. “Sorry, what was that? Aren’t you the one who—” 

You clap to redirect their attention. 

“Hey, hey, cut it out already. We’re going to be together for the next few days, right? Let’s all get along.” 

“You just care about going back to sleep,” Gojo accuses. 

“Yes. Exactly. That is all I care about right now. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m headed to bed.” 

You don’t wait for their response. As stealthily as you can, you sneak through the hallways, careful to avoid creaky floorboards. Upon returning to your room, you kick your house slippers off. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand says 3:53 p.m. Those two kept you up far later than necessary! If this assignment isn’t a big deal like Geto claims, you wish he would’ve said so sooner.

There’s always the option of sleeping during the car ride, but if there’s anything you know about Gojo, it’s that everything in his vicinity can be subjected to torment. You wouldn’t put it past him to draw on your face or blare the horn once you finally nod off. 

Your head hits the pillow and you pray for rest to take you soon. 

Meanwhile, back in the shared living space, Gojo stares at the spot you once occupied. 

“Satoru.” 

“Hm?” 

“I think I get it now.” 

“That so?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “As long as you don’t get it too much.” 

Geto chuckles. After a pause, he muses, “Neither of us would be very good for her.” 

“You gonna let someone else scoop her up?” 

“Are you?” 

“They can try,” Gojo smiles. There’s no kindness behind it. 

Although this conversation could last well into the morning, in an unspoken understanding, they leave it at that. 

-

“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.” 

Ink blots descend from above as if the sky were weeping. The viscous teardrops curve downward, creating a dome that swallows the surrounding area. Geto and Suguru have gone ahead, leaving you to carry out basic protocol. You jog to catch up with them. Geto slows down enough to make rejoining them easier, unlike Gojo, who carries on. 

“So, this is the stomping grounds of the mean ol’ curse that sent Kenji Zenin packing?” Gojo hums. 

“He sustained some serious injuries,” you remind him. Gojo just shrugs. “A fractured sternum and twelve broken ribs… that’s not exactly a walk in the park.” 

“A Grade One sorcerer getting whooped that bad by a Grade Two curse? Probably deserved it.” 

You sigh, recognizing that Gojo won’t empathize no matter what you say. 

The three of you were driven from Tokyo Jujutsu High to Kaizu for this assignment. According to Geto, the information you received likely exaggerated the curse’s capabilities as a way for Kenji Zenin to save face. It looks better for him if the higher-ups deem the threat he faced severe enough to ship off two of the school’s most promising students to handle it. Regarding your inclusion, Gojo so kindly said, 

“You’re like the little garnish on top of the entrée.” 

You can’t find the energy to get upset if he’s right. 

There’s no denying the immense gap in your abilities compared to theirs. You could feel it in the air the instant you met Gojo. For Geto, all it took was hearing a description of his cursed technique. The potential for storing and controlling curses at will is beyond your comprehension. There are so many applications, and so many advantages… you’re utterly outclassed. 

Should this demotivate you? Perhaps. You’ll never be as strong as them, it’s delusional to think otherwise. An individual’s proficiency with jujutsu is almost determined at birth. That doesn’t mean it’s static, it just means you have to find ways to excel with what you’re given. Envy is a waste of time. You want to learn from them and hone your abilities. For this reason, you’ve avoided an inferiority complex. 

What could be better than learning from the best? 

The atmosphere inside the curtain is dingy. It’s like a dark filter glazed over your eyes, maiming any bright or vibrant colors. 

Grass crunches beneath your feet despite summer’s abundant rainfall. Nature itself flees the scene, retreating into the woods surrounding this derelict nursery. The briefing you were given went over the business’ murky past. In the seventies, there was an unprecedented boom in births around this area. Working parents needed proper childcare until their children were old enough to attend school. What few facilities existed nearby found themselves overwhelmed. Then an older, childless couple, Mikami and Fujikawa Tetsuo, purchased a plot of land outside the town with their retirement money. They cited the picturesque scenery as their reason for choosing this location, believing that the unpolluted air would be good for the children. 

The nursery was built and opened. For years, parents entrusted their little ones with the tight-knit staff headed by the Tetsuo’s. Nothing of note occurred until early in the eighties. On March 24th, 1982, a child was hospitalized after crying ceaselessly for three hours straight. The mother reported that when she picked her daughter up from the daycare, her daughter had been unusually distraught. She didn’t think much of it at first. Toddlers are known for being emotional. However, as time went by and her screams became hoarse, she felt something was terribly wrong. The little girl was given mild sedatives and IV fluids as her body began to suffer from dehydration. 

The next day, all seventeen children at the daycare suffered the same mysterious ailment. 

Each child underwent tests ranging from bloodwork to brain MRIs to determine what the inexplicable cause of this nightmare could be. Professionals in every area, ranging from renowned neurologists to child psychiatrists flew in from around the world. Naturally, an investigation was opened into the nursery and its owners. No formal charges were made against Mikami and Fujikawa, since no evidence of foul play could be found. Regardless, the community ostracized them and any employees present during the incident. 

Tragically, none of the eighteen children recovered. From the instant their sedatives wore off until they were administered again, they’d screech, thrash, and display aggressive behavior toward nurses and family members alike. Parents were faced with the impossible decision of keeping their child ‘alive’ through life support, holding out for a cure that may never come, or granting them a peaceful yet permanent rest.

Only one family kept their child on life support. He remained in a vegetative state and died from complications related to an infection two months later. The seventeen other families, who had grown close through the harrowing ordeal, turned the machines keeping their little ones alive at the same time. 

This report might be one of the worst things you’ve read. 

Scanning the area, you note faint residuals of cursed energy throughout the decrepit playground. The swings, slide, and both sides of the seesaw contain trace amounts. Did curses form as a consequence of what happened here, or did a curse initiate the disaster? It may not matter now, but all those families never receiving proper closure makes your chest feel tight. 

Painfully so. 

Considering the officials never found physical evidence, you believe a curse was the cause. What were the victims supposed to do? What could they do? Non-sorcerers can’t perceive curses, much less defend themselves. They have to be chewed, swallowed, and digested. 

You kneel at the playground’s edge, inspecting the planks of rotten and peeling wood. It must’ve been assembled by hand. Each piece was planned, cut, and dutifully laid down. All to hold the wood chips that’d protect the kids as they ran, laughed, and played. This place should’ve been a fond memory for them to recall throughout their life. 

Instead, it’s the reason they’d never got to have one.

“The cursed energy is concentrated in the nursery room itself,” Gojo determines. 

You follow his line of sight and squint. You could tell the building was submerged in cursed energy, but you couldn’t pinpoint an exact location. 

“It’s moving in the same pattern, like a grid,” Geto says. Another observation you couldn’t make. “Starting in the top left corner, ending in the bottom right, then starting the process all over again.” 

Standing up, you dust the dirt off your skirt. “Why would a curse do that?” 

From a tactical standpoint, moving predictably is reckless. Any combatants could use the knowledge to their advantage. Curses have some degree of self-preservation, hence why they don’t waltz everywhere without a care in the world. They’re intelligent enough to avoid spots that sorcerers frequent. Fly heads are the lone exception, but that’s because they lack the intellect necessary to care for their survival. 

A curse capable of inflicting such serious wounds on a Grade One sorcerer can’t be that weak. 

Gojo exchanges glances with Geto, a semblance of understanding connecting them. You’ve witnessed this wordless exchange before. No matter how much they bicker over conflicting values or petty non-issues, they maintain the ability to synchronize their thoughts and actions. 

“What is it?” You snap. As soon as the acrid words leave your mouth, you regret it, although they don’t react. Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Communication is important for these missions, guys. Keep me in the loop… please?” 

Geto parts his lips, but Gojo cuts him off. “There are eighteen cribs inside. The curse is fixing the blankets in each one.” 

You shiver. 

“... Oh.” 

“How do you want to go about this, Satoru?” Geto asks. “It can’t be as simple as walking in and exorcising it.” 

“Why not? Its cursed energy is consistent with what you’d expect of a Second Grade. We both know this job’s smoke and mirrors, anyway. Let’s wrap it up already and head home.” 

“Isn’t it strange the curse hasn’t been drawn out, despite a curtain being cast?” You point out. 

For the first time since exiting the car, Gojo looks at you. You stare back at the two black circles that obscure his omnipotent eyes. Something’s been off ever since you embarked on this mission. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, as its location shifts elsewhere whenever you try. His words have had an edge to them when directed at you. You’re used to his lackluster manners, but this is different. 

This cuts and it cuts deep. 

Are you that incompetent to him…? 

Gojo redirects his gaze toward the ramshackle building. 

“I’m getting this over with,” he says. Simply, decisively. Leaving no room for argument. 

Leaving no room for you. 

Massive tendrils of cursed energy coil around him, flowing unimpeded like water through a rushing brook. You step back solely from reflex. Anticipation thrums through the air and ignites every nerve in your body. You’re left wide-eyed and breathless as it gathers and grows, its potency hundreds of times greater than anything you’ve been able to achieve. It feels as though minutes have dragged by, reacquainting you with the surreal sensation you underwent upon meeting Gojo Satoru that fateful day. 

“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.” 

Up until this point in your life, you thought you knew destruction. What hubris, what naivety. Gunfire, grenades, tanks, bombs, missiles; they are nothing but ants before the looming skyscraper that is Gojo Satoru. 

This is destruction in its raw, purest form. 

This is what it means to be the strongest. 

… Somehow, you feel lesser than that ant. 

A speck of dust would be a more fitting description. 

You expect total disintegration when you reopen your eyes. You aren’t disappointed.

Concrete, wood, glass, steel, plastic, stone, and fabric alike were eviscerated. The ground where the nursery once stood is gone. A bygone era wrought with tragedy. The force behind this apex of energy blasted the wood partition around the playground, leaving nothing but a shadow to signify it ever existed. 

Gojo lowers his hand and turns away from the wreckage. 

“Don’t you think you went a bit overboard, Satoru?” Geto’s tone reminds you of the many scoldings Yaga has given the white-haired menace. 

“Just wanted to ensure the threat was dealt with, so Kenji can sleep through the night without wetting himself,” Gojo replies, smirking. “Alrighty then, who wants to sightsee—” 

“Naptime… naptime…” A garbled voice intones from the aftermath of Gojo’s attack. 

The deformed curse lifts itself like a marionette fastened to invisible strings. It’s tall, with an emaciated build and haggard skin. Long clumps of thick hair emerge from its scalp, greasy and matted. Each feeble step it takes is accompanied by a snapping sound, as if its joints are begging for collapse. The humanoid shape disturbs you most of all. Cracked lips, bloodied eye sockets, chunks of deathly pale skin sloughing off brittle bones; this curse looks more like a corpse than anything else. 

Most damning, however, is the sheer power it’s radiating. 

“Do… they… slumber…?” It croaks.

Suguru assumes an offensive position, but Gojo puts an arm out, stopping him. 

“Something’s off,” Gojo warns. If you thought he sounded serious before, that doesn’t compare to his timbre now. “Don’t attack it.” 

The curse’s legs give out. That doesn’t stop it from crawling on. Lanky fingers claw at the rubble, searching desperately.

Geto summons a handful of curses in its radius. He keeps them on standby while the three of you track every movement, every ebb and flow of cursed energy. The curse grabs and cradles the sediment in its crooked hands, then rocks the amalgamation as if it were a baby. 

“Did you hit it?” You whisper, knowing fully well the question is pointless. You don’t care. You need any semblance of control possible when confronted with the terrifying unknown. 

“I did. The impact inflicted zero damage,” Gojo removes his sunglasses and tucks them away.

“A special condition, then?” Geto proposes. “One that makes it impervious to all harm until…” 

You hear a sniffle. 

Then a whimper. 

And a gurgle. 

“Hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush—” 

The curse repeats this mantra with increasing aggravation until its shrill voice is all you can hear. The cursed energy that enveloped it seconds prior flows out in multiple directions, like a heart pumping blood to the rest of the body. The energy is absorbed. Not a meager trace remains, every drop was sucked dry by multiple sources. 

All is still. 

All is silent. 

A bloodcurdling wail reverberates throughout the curtain. 

Eighteen appendages propel out of the curse in the middle, puncturing it from the inside out as if the limp mass was a cocoon. 

There’s no need for deliberation.

The three of you scatter in different directions. 

“Cursed Technique: Ophanim.” 

Two glowing, golden rings the size of wheels manifest by your side. The outside surface is adorned with closed eyes, each arranged individually on top of the other rather than in pairs. The two rings work in tandem to slice through the appendage barreling toward you. You recall them to your side, running at a breakneck speed to avoid the five fleshy appendages still seeking your demise. 

Gojo and Geto are in a similar predicament. Running, leaping, and dodging the seismic attacks that leave massive craters in its wake. A single hit from that would crush your body in an instant. Then there’s the disorienting wailing, originating from multiple locations throughout the curtain’s interior. You can’t pinpoint where the sounds are coming from. 

Adrenaline pumps through your veins, oxygen rushes with each sharp inhale, and your muscles strain to keep up with the demands you make of them. 

The sixth appendage, which your cursed technique cut through, lurches from above. Whole and better than ever. Unlike before, its momentum is lightning-fast. The change is so instantaneous that you have no time to respond accordingly. Death’s harbinger looms, engulfing your existence in its hungry shadow. Instead of slicing it off at the wrist, you propel your rings up, accelerating their spin at the cost of speed. Flesh and cartilage rips above you in the shape of a thin slit. 

The appendage plummets down. 

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear voices yelling out your name. 

An unpleasant, viscous substance coats you from head to toe. 

You grimace and wipe off what you can. Geto’s curses managed to cut the appendage off at the joint, preventing it from rising and trying to crush you again. Your rings barely managed to carve a hole big enough to span the width of your body. That doesn’t mean you’re safe just yet — the five remaining appendages that have you as their target are seconds away. Unlike the one you just faced, their speed is manageable. 

The more damage inflicted, the faster they are after healing, you think. This must be why Gojo and Geto are dodging instead of going on the offense.

However, since you remained still to avoid getting crushed by what your rings hadn’t cut through, the other five appendages are inbound. They’ve fanned out, blocking any angle you’d use to dodge. 

You dismiss your cursed technique. 

What can be done here? This curse is easily a Grade One. The centermost part is invulnerable and the eighteen limbs growing off it speed up when damaged. Summoning more rings so you can escape this attack means the next will come swifter, building and building to unimaginable speeds. You know your limits. The second healed limb was a hair below the fastest you’ve ever run. 

Gojo and Geto could handle the levels above that. Maybe there’s a limit to how many times the limbs can regenerate, reaching that could exorcise the curse. No curse is truly invincible, even if it seems like it in the moment. You must be the reason why they haven’t commenced a counterattack. They knew anything above a second regeneration would do you in. 

Is that really the only way? 

Something wet drips on your head.

You use what little time you have to glance up. 

Suspended midair is a small outline, made visible by the viscera that spurted from your cursed technique’s earlier attack. Sluggishly, you blink, wiping the blood from your eyes to ensure you aren’t hallucinating. The outline’s edges wriggle and squirm. You realize that it’s doing so in time with the incessant wailing. 

“What do you think you’re doing, spacing out in the middle of a fight?” 

Gojo must’ve warped in front of you.

You recognize the hand motion he’s making, and cry out, “Don’t! That’ll only make it—” 

“I know, I know,” Gojo launches a devastating blow that obliterates the five incoming appendages, reducing them to pitiful scraps. “I didn’t just run a marathon for you to give up and become a pancake.” 

“I didn’t give up,” you snap back. 

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Good. Cause we need to hose you off as soon as possible.” 

You let out a noise in between a laugh and a cry. How can he crack jokes under these dire circumstances?

“Gojo—” 

“Ah ah ah,” The menace cuts you off, “Satoru. Call me anything else and I’m leaving you to handle this on your own.” 

While speaking his untimely quips, he continuously forms and releases his Cursed Technique Lapse, Blue. This forces the broken appendages into a cycle of stitching themselves together only to get destroyed again. It stuns you, how he can casually hold a conversation while performing a technique that’d use all your cursed energy to execute once. Never mind countless times in rapid succession. 

“Satoru,” you try again, to which he hums, “This… thing above me, do you think it’s…?” 

“The weak spot for this Ju-On ripoff? Yeah. Just noticed that. Suguru’s curses are self-destructing near them, so their invisibility’s useless.” 

The six appendages that tracked Satoru join the fray, granting Geto additional space to maneuver unhindered. Floating blobs covered in the innards of curses appear one by one like macabre lanterns in the night sky. You can’t stop yourself from admiring how effortless they make it look. It was all you could do to avoid the curses’ attacks, that required every ounce of your cognition. Meanwhile, they pieced together the curses’ gimmick and started countermeasures. 

“Anything broken?” Satoru asks. 

“Just a few sprains.” 

“Great. Now, I’m about to ask for a lot, but it’s nothing I don’t think you can’t handle.” 

You exhale shakily. 

“There’s another application of your cursed technique, right?” 

How does he know that? 

You’ll worry about this oddity later. 

“There is, but,” you stare down at your blood-soaked hands, “Why are you asking?” 

Satoru takes a moment to consider his response. The gory splatters are reforming faster and faster, you’ve lost count of how many blasts he’s used to cut them down. It’s almost imperceptible, but you can tell he can’t keep this up forever. Each subsequent use of Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue requires more energy than the last. If he’s a sliver off in his calculations, then the appendages will heal instantaneously and skewer your body faster than death can claim you. 

Geto leaps down from a hovering curse. 

“There are seventeen sources, just like you said,” he huffs, wiping the perspiration trickling down his temple. “Each one is visible now.” 

Seventeen sources? 

“This eyesore’s a distraction. Those screaming curses — they’re the real target here,” Satoru says. 

You consider the curse a few feet above your head. “So we should attack them, right?” 

Geto shakes his head. “We tried that. They didn’t sustain any damage.” 

“Seriously?” 

“This is just a theory, but,” Satoru takes a deep breath, “Seventeen of the eighteen victims from this place had their life support pulled simultaneously, right?” 

Huh. So he did read the briefing after all. 

This conjecture prickles at your skin like tiny needles. The screaming, the small stature these curses have, every detail comes crashing down at once. Maggots writhing beneath your skin would be more pleasant. 

It isn’t them, you tell yourself, because you have to. It’s an echo. The curse they left behind. 

You steeple your fingers. Cursed energy thrums around and through you, reverberating in your bones, and crackling throughout your soul. Simultaneously. That’s the key here. These curses can pull off their various immunities by using conditions to their advantage. 

The two warding off the original curses’ attacks before you are strong, yes, but this niche fits you well. 

If you’re able to perform it properly, that is. 

You accept every drop of cursed energy your body can handle. Once you’re filled to the brim, it’s expelled, rushing through the air like geysers. 

“Cursed Technique: Null.” 

Your ability is versatile if not simple. 

You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth. 

There’s an additional application beyond this. 

Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.

The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within. 

Your record is halting thirty mice for a total of two minutes and four seconds. 

Afterward, you can either dispel the rings or pull them toward the epicenter. The rings then slash through the target like a fruit slicer. 

You see the seventeen silhouettes emphasized with blood. 

As you will it, three golden rings surround each one. The cursed energy swaddling them hisses and resists your designs. Their wailing crescendos, culminating at an ear-piercing pitch. The fussing stops abruptly as the eyes on each ring open wide. Seventeen different targets, fifty-one rings… it is draining cursed energy from you fast. 

Four seconds. This is as long as you trust the halt to work.

That leaves the issue of cutting through them. 

These aren’t the used soda cans you’ve practiced on. They are curses, Semi-Grade One if you were to guess. You’re a Grade Three sorcerer. The chasm here won’t be bridged by a miracle, you’ll have to risk catapulting across and plummeting to your demise. Satoru’s likely unaware of your technique’s specifics, as even you required trial and error to determine this much. You never found documentation on Ophanim. Every unraveled facet is owed to you. 

These fifty-one rings are too dull. They won’t make so much as an indent.

What you need here is a binding vow. Your own strength isn’t enough. Risk, danger, and death breathing down your neck; these are the ingredients you require. There’s a chance it won’t work and you’re condemning yourself to an early grave. If you don’t try, though, you don’t know how long Satoru and Geto can keep those appendages down. 

Time to leap across. 

For every second I don’t exorcise these curses, ten of my bones will break, you think. Should I reach ten seconds, my heart will stop.

Cursed energy surges through you. It finds the prospect of your end tantalizing, but without providing itself, won’t have the opportunity to claim you. 

One.

(The rings gain immeasurable speed).

Two. 

(It hurts, but the curses will hurt too). 

Three. 

(Simultaneous incisions are made through seventeen curses).

The wailing stops. 

…

So does your breathing. 

-

August 15th, 2005. Grade One Curse  ‘The Caretaker’ and Semi-Grade One Curses ‘Little Ones’ were exorcised at 9:34 p.m. in Kaizu.

-

Hospital rooms aren’t renowned for their interior design. 

Flimsy pillows, scratchy gowns, thin blankets, bright yellow lights, ghostly white walls, it’s an affront to the eyes. You almost want to continue resting if that’s all you’ll get to look at. Considering how stiff your neck is and how your limbs feel heavier than a grand piano, you assume you’ve done enough sleeping. 

You prop yourself up as much as you can. This slight shift makes your body complain, nice and loud. 

Footsteps rush over to your bed. You hear your name spoken, intermixed with a relieved sigh. 

“You don’t stay knocked down for long, do you?” Geto muses. His smile is gentle and his eyes crinkle in delight. “Welcome back. How do you feel?” 

“Like I got run over by a train,” you rasp. 

You’re in desperate need of some vocal warmups. 

Geto grabs a water bottle from the windowsill and hands it over. While you gulp the heavenly elixir down, he continues speaking. 

“You weren’t out for long — two days. Well, two and a half days. It’s noon now.”

You relax after hearing this. Geto knew how to assuage any worries you might have before you dared to voice them. Everyone has their own way of bringing kindness into the world, this happens to be his. 

“Seriously? I was expecting you to say it’s the year 2010 or something. No flying cars yet?”  

“None that I’ve seen,” Geto’s laugh sounds light and airy. “Shoko’s reversed cursed technique is truly a marvel. It accelerated your healing, but I imagine the pain will linger a while longer.” 

You’ll have to cook Shoko one of her favorite dishes when you get back. You don’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken for you to heal naturally, much less if it’d heal right. Bones are finicky like that. You imagine yours weren’t happy at how you offered them up on a silver platter. 

She spared your family so much pain. You’ll forever be indebted to her for that.

Glancing around, you notice three mismatched chairs surrounding your bed. Geto follows your line of sight.

“Shoko and I finally chased Satoru out about an hour ago. He’s lived in this room since you were admitted. Didn’t sleep a wink either,” Geto gives you an expression you can’t quite place. “Around the forty-two-hour mark, he started making strange suggestions.” 

Heaviness seeps into the air, thick and palpable, like a noxious gas.  

“What kind of suggestions?” 

“Suggestions like killing the higher-ups, for starters.” 

Your thudding heart leaps to your throat. “... Huh?” 

“It’s not anything he hasn’t said in jest before. This time, however,” Geto fixates his attention on the intravenous line threaded into your arm. You can feel the weight of his stare. “He wasn’t joking.” 

It feels like you’re in one of those dreams that mimics reality so well, the line separating the two becomes increasingly distorted. You entertain the theory briefly. A single sweep of the room dispels the illusion. The loose thread on Geto’s shoulder, the sounds of carts rolling down the long hospital corridors, the lemon-tinged scent from cleaning supplies; could a dream be this detailed? 

You don’t think so.

Sensing your haziness, he clarifies, “I talked him out of it by speaking in your stead. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.”

“What… what do the higher-ups have to do with anything…?” 

How do they factor into the two plus two equals four equation? 

Geto pulls a chair over to your bedside, sits, and contemplates. Such a grave visage doesn’t belong on a fifteen-year-old’s face. It reminds you of a father preparing to explain why he and their mother are getting a divorce to their children. 

He weighs his next words on a scale only he’s privy to.

“Satoru had a gut feeling that there was more to the Kaizu mission. He must not have wanted you to have that in the back of your mind out on the field, since all it takes is one mistake to—”

He cuts himself off. His complexion takes a pallid shade.

You give him a gentle smile. Geto is more considerate than you initially gave him credit for. Ignoring the dull ache, you lean forward, placing your hand over his.

“It’s okay. You can keep going.” 

The tips of his ears turn red. 

He blinks rapidly, clears his throat, and then soldiers on. “R-Right. Well, you saw how he acted. With his Six Eyes, he spotted the remains of another sorcerer when he looked at the nursery. The briefing conveniently omitted the fact that Kenji wasn’t alone. This confirmed Satoru’s suspicions. He wanted to wrap things up fast to get you out of there, but… that curse proved challenging.” 

“I’m getting this over with.” 

Ah. So that’s why he came off that way, you think. Still… couldn’t there have been a better way? Why is blocking people out his go-to?

“We believe the Zenins — those in Kenji’s immediate circle, to be specific — hoped that you’d be… killed, to emphasize how formidable the threat he faced was. Since this job was assigned through the school, some of the higher-ups must’ve known and granted their blessing.” 

“... Oh.” 

The room’s air conditioning whirrs to life, billowing the beige curtains draped over the closed window. Outside, a cicada crawls over the glass pane. It pauses to recite its buzzing melody. Since it’s summer, you can expect to see and hear these insects until autumn’s chill sweeps away the heat. 

You hope Satoru witnessed a similarly trivial scene while sitting in this room.  

It’s important to remember just because you feel stuck, the world won’t stop spinning onward. 

“Would it be okay if I called you Suguru?” 

He nods without hesitation.  

“Suguru, earlier you said that you changed Satoru’s mind by voicing my perspective since I couldn’t,” you start, your cadence gentle. You handpick each word with great care. “Does this mean that, personally, you agreed with him?” 

His countenance is like that of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. This look doesn’t overstay its welcome. Once he assesses you, from your open posture to your soft stare, he’s back to his usual self. 

“Busted, huh? And here I thought you’d be too groggy to pick up on anything incriminating.”

“A corrupt official such as myself must remain vigilant,” you reply with a cheeky grin. Then, you reorient yourself to communicate what’s been gnawing at you properly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about these ‘higher-ups’ or ‘Zenins,’ that you keep referring to. What little I do know doesn’t paint them in a favorable light. For all I know, they could be irredeemable in every sense of the word. But…”

“... Even though this is a selfish wish, I’m making it anyway. Say they do have to go. That it’s 100% certain they’re just that bad. I don’t want you or Satoru to be the ones to carry it out. Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that? Doesn’t a part of yourself die with them?”

A lump grows in your throat. You force it down. 

“So, thank you for stopping him and yourself. Sorcerers are meant to fight curses, right? Protect those who can’t protect themselves. That sort of stuff.”

Suguru squeezes your hand gently, as if you were made of porcelain. 

It stops you from shattering. 

After a few minutes, your erratic breathing settles. He whispers your name like he’s making a promise.

“You’re right,” he says, a newfound resolve built into the very fabric of those two words. “Protecting the weak is what matters most. Tossing everything into disarray would threaten that. It’s easier to fix what’s broken than to demolish and rebuild from scratch.” 

… Is that what you meant? 

Exhaustion clouds your senses. You must’ve burnt through your scarce reserves of energy. You can vaguely discern Suguru running the pad of his thumb over your hand, before detaching himself. He readjusts your pillow so it supports your head better. After murmuring your gratitude, you sink into sleep’s warm embrace. 

Right as you’re traipsing the fine line between wakefulness and the unconscious, there’s a light sensation of something brushing your hair back. 

This unknown doesn’t inspire fear or outrage. 

Instead, it lulls you further into the recesses of peace. 

-

You’re discharged from the hospital later that day. 

An auxiliary manager from Tokyo Jujutsu High drives you back. You spend the car ride staring out the passenger side window, taking in the bustle of busy citizens and dazzling lights. It never fails to amaze you how people wordlessly maneuver around each other to maintain the flow of traffic. It’s a tempo that can’t be instructed, rather, one must adapt in real time without a conductor.  

Can non-sorcerers truly be considered weak? 

The description torments you as if it were a thorn in your side. 

Your fingers drum over the dashboard.

What does it mean to be strong, anyway? 

-

The next time you activate your cursed technique, you can summon and maintain four rings without sacrificing sharpness or speed. 

For the past few days, you’ve been playing around with different formations. Four rings orbiting your body provide considerable defense from projectiles and close combat. Then, if you let two out, you gain the means to attack. Lastly, ditching defense to pour everything into offense is a viable option as well. Your biggest obstacle is how mentally taxing it is to track and manipulate four rings at once.

It requires great concentration. This isn’t an issue if you’re alone, but you doubt that curses will play nice and let you stand perfectly still. 

You flip your My Melody notebook to the next page and scribble down, 

Two rings uptime — twelve hours.Four rings uptime — one hour. Four rings uptime w/ distractions — ten minutes. Maximum distance — one hundred meters. Maximum rings at once — sixty. Uptime on maximum rings — five seconds.

Thinking back to The Caretaker, you twist your lips.

If you’d been sent on that mission by yourself, would this have been enough to win the fight? You’re alive because you were with Satoru and Suguru. There’s no denying the infallible truth. You can’t always rely on reports to accurately grade a curse. There’s also the chance once certain conditions are met, the curse can gain strength throughout the fight, and—

“Cute handwriting.” 

“Eek!” 

Hugging your notebook to your chest, you jump back, indignation rushing through you like molten magma. Who snuck up on you? How did they do it? You can ascertain the presence of others in your vicinity well. You know when Shoko’s sneaking out through her window at night, if Suguru’s about to enter the room, or when Utahime is seconds away from busting into the classroom to lecture Satoru about levitating her lunch onto the roof again.

Squinting, you assess the assailant. Pearly white hair, round sunglasses, a lean and towering figure… 

“Satoru? You’re back?” 

According to Shoko, Satoru was called to Kyoto for business relating to the Big Three not long after they returned from the hospital. It’d been two weeks since then. You’ve gotten so used to having him around, that his absence felt pronounced. Shoko mainly lamented that her ‘walking free meal ticket’ was gone whereas Utahime rejoiced. You’ve never seen your upperclassman so ecstatic. 

Her hopes and dreams will be dashed come morning. 

“Just got in, yeah. Why? Oh! I know! You must’ve missed me terribly. Here, here. It’s alright. C’mere and tell me all about it— oof!” 

There is a barrier that separates Satoru from everyone and everything. 

‘Infinity,’ he calls it. The ability to slow down encroaching mass to such a degree that it appears as if it stopped. He can keep it activated for long lengths of time. One day, he intends to reach a level where he’ll never have to turn it off. Anyone else who proposed a goal like that would either be conceited or delusional. The amount of cursed energy necessary to pull that off is immeasurable. 

Satoru isn’t just anyone, though. 

So when he sets an impossible goal, it enters the realm of feasibility. 

His infinity is active once you leap toward him, lasting up until the very last millisecond. When you breach the threshold that denies access to anyone else, it recedes, rushing away to accommodate your presence. Infinity remains present, molding itself around your shape. The top of your head, the slope of your shoulders, down to your soles; for a fleeting moment in time, infinity chooses you over Satoru’s parameters.  

Your cheek hits his chest. He has to steady you so you don’t go tumbling back. While he does this, you snake your arms around him, squeezing him tight. In doing so, yet another anomaly occurs. 

You’ve rendered Gojo Satoru speechless. 

When you pull back, you notice his sunglasses are crooked. You straighten them out for him and nod in approval. Smiling ear to ear, you chirp, 

“Welcome home, Satoru!” 

He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“... Isn’t this a school, though?” He finally manages to get out. 

“Pfft, I didn’t think you were the type to get hung up on details like that,” you laugh. “Home’s anywhere you want it to be. For me, that’s here.” 

You gesture to the surrounding area. Tall trees sway per the wind’s wishes, their green leaves painted blue and silver by the night sky. The moon overhead serves as your silent witness. No matter where you are, it will find and pursue you to the ends of the earth. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, and frogs croak by ponds rippling with their young. The night air is damp, but the coolness granted by the sun’s absence makes it tolerable. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes,” Satoru tries painting a veneer of nonchalance over his words, but you can see through the cracks. You’re getting better at doing that.  “Suguru said you were as peppy as ever; I didn’t believe him. They checked for brain damage, right? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

(He holds up two). 

“Ten,” you reply without missing a beat. 

“Funny girl.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

You both silently size one another up. Or, in Satoru’s case, down, because he’s freakishly tall. You’re the first to break the supposed standoff. Laughter rings through the air, just yours at first, but it’s soon joined by his. The two of you stand in the middle of a forest at midnight cackling like a bunch of witches before a sabbath. 

You feel absurd and giddy in a way that only comes from being around Satoru.

Some point after the laughter dies off, you can feel Satoru’s eyes scanning over every dip and curve of your being. 

After reaching some conclusion, his shoulders droop. The dopey grin on his face shifts into something more neutral, more reserved. His hands find their way into his pockets. He kicks a pebble into the woods, and you both listen to it tumbling downhill until the sound fades away. The thickets shift from wildlife’s constant antics, accommodating what little fauna lives inside Tengen’s barrier. 

“I’m not going to take back what I said, because I meant it,” Satoru asserts. He doesn’t have to elaborate — you know what he’s referring to. “Had you… had that mission gone as they intended, I wouldn’t have hesitated.” 

An owl hoots on a distant tree branch. 

Chills nibble all over your skin like little bug bites. You hug yourself to stave the sensation off. 

“Even if you knew that isn’t what I’d want?”

“Even then.” 

“So, you’re admitting it’d be for your sake?” 

“Most things are.”

“I don’t buy that,” you frown. “You’re kinder than you realize.”

His eyebrows pinch together and his rosy lips part. It takes him a moment to dislodge the words stuck in his throat.

“... Not many people would agree,” he smiles thinly.  

“Fine, just me then, since that’s easier to prove,” you hold up a single finger and raise another for each subsequent point. “One, you always leave my favorite coffee cans where you know I’ll find them. Two, whenever we’re facing a curse, you step in front to guard me. Three, if I look all sad and homesick, you make stupid jokes to take my mind off things. And four, there’s what happened in Kaizu. You—” 

“I told you to use a technique you weren’t ready for.” 

You blink. 

He tucks his sunglasses away, removing yet another barrier. His crystalline eyes shimmer beneath the moon’s glow. 

“How much do you know about your mentor’s history?” 

Ah, yes, your mentor — Ishimoto Akane. 

She stands at 5’8, boasts piercing green eyes, short, tousled black hair, and a tattoo of a thorny rose that envelops her entire left arm. When it came to reading the room, no one could fail as spectacularly as her. She never minced words, found basic tasks boring, and doted over her iguana named Wormwood like he was the second coming of Christ. When she wasn’t pampering Wormwood, she could be found in her very disorganized garage, tinkering with cars or motorcycles. Her neighbors filed numerous sound complaints thanks to her speakers blasting disco at unholy hours. Somehow, she never got caught. 

For lack of a better word, your jujutsu mentor is eccentric. 

Most notably, she saved you and your parent’s lives from a curse when you were six. You’ve been joined by the hip ever since. 

As for her history…

“Um, well, I know that she’s from Omachi. She moved out of Japan in her late teens because ‘jujutsu sorcerers are an absolute drag,’ or something like that.”

“That’s a start,” Gojo hums. “Let me fill in the blanks. The Ishimoto family goes back a ways. They might not be as influential as the Big Three, but their connections are nothing to scoff at. They’re like little leeches, sustaining themselves off others. Arranged marriages are their whole thing. Akane was set to marry some third son of a Zenin bigwig. She dipped on the day of the wedding.” 

That sounds like your mentor alright. 

“Personally, I find that hilarious. Her family and the Zenins aren’t of the same opinion. They essentially disowned her. Anyway! Fast forward a few years. Rumors spread that the infamous Akane is popping up in Tokyo every now and then, with some kid by her side. Ring any bells?” 

You point to yourself and he nods. 

She took you on training trips under the guise of an ‘exchange student program’ in the summer, which your parents considered to be an excellent opportunity. You felt bad for deceiving them, but explaining the whole ‘fighting invisible monster things with emotion magic’ would’ve made for a rough conversation. 

“It wasn’t until a couple of months back that I ran into her. I came right out and asked what I’d been curious about — why did she come back? She just shrugged and said she was done being a teacher. That answer didn’t satisfy me. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that. I’m far worse though,” he boasts, fully looking and sounding the part. “In return for picking up her tab at an izakaya, she fessed up the truth.”

He steeples his fingers together, pantomiming a hand motion you’re intimately familiar with.

“Cursed Technique: Null, the advanced application of Ophanim. Akane’s convinced an ability like that, at its full potential, would be crazy strong.” 

She never said anything like that to me, you think.

You shake your head. This isn’t the most pressing matter now. 

“Satoru, what are you getting at here?” 

“That you shouldn’t think I’m kind. I wanted to judge your technique’s potential for myself, so I had you take on more than you could handle.” 

“You wouldn’t have let me die, though.” 

He chuckles mirthlessly. “And what a hero I am for that.” 

You purse your lips. You’ve never seen Satoru be this hard on himself. His cadence is the same — lighthearted, easygoing — but there’s an underlying acrimony to it. His smile doesn’t reach his brilliant eyes. He comes across as a spirit mimicking another’s likeness. This should unnerve you, maybe it will upon further reflection. 

Right now, however, you just want him to get across that you aren’t upset. What’s done is done. 

“It’s—” 

Satoru puts a hand up, stopping you prematurely. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t forgive me, not yet, anyway. You need to get better at looking out for yourself. You’re nice to a fault.” 

You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s so wrong with being nice?” 

“Living in a world like this, where there are people like me.” 

“A world full of Gojo Satoru’s… that is a terrifying thought,” you murmur. His lips twitch upward, but he catches himself. “Bleh, what is it with you people and rejecting basic human decency! Akane was the same way. I’m fed up with it!” 

You storm toward him, your eyes narrow and jaw set tight. 

“I’m going to be who I want to be and that’s that. Maybe I’m naïve—” 

“—Oh, it isn’t a maybe, you definitely are—” 

You hush him by placing your finger to his lips, much to his surprise, if his wide eyes are of any indication. 

“—But you don’t get to tell me how to act or think or feel. That’s my business. I forgive you, alright? Now cut it out with the brooding. Let’s be real here. Doing that’s for you, not for me.” 

There’s an intensity to his stare you’ve never experienced prior. It makes your head feel light and hazy. Remembering yourself, you pull your hand back, heat rushing to your face. You may have gotten carried away. He isn’t wrong about you exercising more vigilance, but something about him critiquing a core aspect of your identity stings. The description ‘oversensitive’ can join the same limbo your ‘nice to a fault’ and ‘naïve’ proclivities hang out in. 

Finding your current predicament too overwhelming, you break eye contact. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, quit scowling. Remind me never to piss you off again, it’s scary,” he sounds more like himself, much to your relief. “I thought of a happy medium, just for you.” 

Satoru compromising? Did you die during that fight after all? You never thought you’d see the day. Shoko isn’t going to believe you. 

“And that happy medium is…?” 

His dumb grin makes a triumphant return. He knows he’s got your attention, no matter how cool you try to play it. 

“Keep being your sweet little self. If anyone tries taking advantage of that quality, and I mean anyone, come tell Suguru or myself. We’ll take care of it.” 

What is he, a member of the mob?! 

Whatever, it’s a step in the right direction. You think. Maybe. 

“I’m not a snitch,” you huff. 

“Fine, I’ll use my own discretion then.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re gonna have to get used to it.” 

You quirk an eyebrow. “How do you figure?” 

“Call it intuition,” he hums, smoothly sliding his sunglasses back into place. It makes you angry how cool he looks while doing so. “Or, better yet, love at first sight. Yeah. Let’s go with that, actually.” 

Wait, what? 

Your heart thunders against your ribcage and you gape at him like a fish. 

“You…! Y-You can’t just say something like that!” 

“But I did.” 

“Ugh, I’ve had enough. I’m headed to bed. Go find somebody else to mess with.” 

Satoru pauses, considering the words you’ve spoken without any real bite. Then he smiles. Not in the cocky, arrogant manner he’s infamous for either. The curvature is gentle. Almost sentimental. It takes you aback and makes you wonder if your eyes are malfunctioning. 

“I can’t,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It has to be you.” 

It has to be you, it has to be you, it has to be you… 

These five damning words loop in your head like a mantra. Who gave him the right to sound so sincere? 

“Sleep well. You get all grumpy if you don’t. Having one Utahime around is more than enough, I don’t need you getting on my case too.” 

Satoru turns around, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wave halfheartedly. You observe his retreating figure before snapping out of your daze. He drops a cryptic line like that and dares to casually waltz away, whistling while he does so! The nerve! The audacity! The whistling is off-pitch too! Jujutsu Tech seriously needs to consider adding music theory to the curriculum. 

You jog to catch up with him and his stupidly long legs. 

“Hey, Satoru!” You call out. 

He stops and looks at you from over his shoulder. 

“If you’re gonna watch out for me, I plan to return the favor,” you say, your tone leaving no room to argue. “You hear me?” 

He waits until he’s facing forward again to respond. For this reason, you can’t see his expression. All you can make out is the outline of him giving a thumbs up, the edges of his skin swathed in silvery moonlight. 

“Mhm. Loud and clear.”  

-

December 23rd, 2017. 

8:02 p.m. 

-

You assess the man in front of you.

Pearly white hair, bandages wrapped around his eyes, a lean and towering figure… it’s Satoru, alright. There’s no mistaking his remarkable cursed energy. You could sense it — sense him — even in your deepest sleep. Amongst those at Jujutsu Tech, you’re the only one who can tell when he’s about to warp out of thin air. It’s become a running joke of sorts. Gojo Satoru has the Six Eyes and you possess a sixth sense for him. 

Or so you thought. 

“Are you hearing yourself?” 

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Loud and clear, yeah.” 

“This isn’t funny, Satoru!” 

“I’m not laughing, am I?” 

“No, but,” you inhale shakily, wisely taking a second to tame your tongue. “You’re not taking this seriously— not taking me seriously.”

He frowns. You come close to regretting your words, falling just a few inches short. Arguments aren’t your forte. Determining when to surrender ground, bolster your defenses, or charge into enemy territory; this is a skill that requires practice. Especially when facing Satoru. You don’t want to consider him an opponent, but that’s what he feels like right now. An imposing wall blocking you from the road you have to take. 

You regret turning up the duplex’s heat. Chilly as it is outside in the throes of winter, the air in this room has become scorching. 

“Is that genuinely what you think?” 

And there it is. He already knows the answer, as do you. He simply wants you to have your confession on record. 

You grab the water bottle you left on the kitchen countertop, drinking enough to help ease the lump in your throat. This isn’t the time to cry. Not yet. Not before anything major occurs. The crisis hasn’t taken the stage, Christmas Eve holds that honor. Illogical as it may be, you don’t think you’ve earned the emotional release crying brings. That should remain a consolation prize to you in the future. 

The you who will witness the horrors Geto Suguru plans to orchestrate. 

The you who will learn how this decade-long saga ends. 

Can the human heart endure anguish worse than this?  

Tomorrow, this question will receive an answer, whether you want it or not. 

“... It isn’t.” 

“Good,” he says, somehow soft and firm. He opens up his arms. “C’mere.” 

You’re sinking into him before he finishes the word. He secures you against his chest and the two of you tangle together like you’d unravel should you part. Satoru rests his chin on the crown of your head, mindlessly tracing patterns into your back. Or so you think, until you recognize the distinct grooves and curves of the characters which form Gojo. 

He engraves it into you over and over again as if casting a spell. 

This action must soothe him. You count each thump of his heart, noting how it settles into a steadier rhythm as the seconds tick by. The world’s strongest sorcerer is made of flesh and blood just like you are. It’s easy to forget that those you love and admire are mortal, regardless of how well they hide it. Those close to godhood must act the part, lest their audience murmur in suspicion. 

“I don’t think I could do it, Toru.” 

He doesn’t need to ask what you mean. 

“Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that?” 

No, you desperately scream to your younger self, as if there were any way to make her hear you. There really isn’t. 

“I know.” 

“... Could you?” 

Satoru’s muscles stiffen. From this alone, you can glean his answer. From your lack of prodding, he must piece this together too. Talkative as you both are, it’s in these pockets of total silence that your communication shines best. Everything from the subtle hitching of breath to the twitch of one another’s lips reveals streams of information to sift through. 

You can tell he doesn’t want to let you go, but you manage to wriggle out of his vice-like grip, creating a few inches of distance.

Reaching up, you undo the bandages around his eyes. He leans down to aid you in your task. Once the last strip comes off, you fold the linen neatly and put it aside. Satoru’s pretty eyes follow your every movement. When your attention returns to him, it’s impossible to overlook how hard he’s straining to fight back a smile. 

He quickly abandons the farce. 

Large hands seek out yours. Subconsciously, you meet him halfway, automatically drawn to him as if you were both different ends of a magnet. His slender fingers interlace with yours. His countenance radiates such fondness, such unfiltered reverence, that you find yourself getting embarrassed.

“W-What?” You choke out. 

“Just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy alive, is all,” he hums. His grin widens at how his unabashed compliments fluster you. Shame isn’t in his lexicon. “You went from looking like you wanted to bite my head off to doting on me.” 

You roll your eyes yet chuckle nonetheless. He visibly perks up at the sound. He must’ve made you laugh thousands of times over the years, but he still treats each instance as if he’d experienced the most delightful composition. 

He whispers your name. 

“You trust me, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then do this for me, baby.” 

“But…” you trail off, unable and perhaps unwilling to reinforce your argument, “Everyone is going to be risking their lives. Nanamin, Ijichi, ours and Iori’s students; even Shoko’s going out on the field. How am I supposed to sit still knowing that?” 

“You don’t have to sit still, my little energizer bunny.” 

The deadpan look he receives has him (wisely) reconsidering his word choice. 

“I’m not asking because I don’t trust you, I’m asking because there’s no one I trust more,” Satoru tries again. You bite your lower lip. It’s unfair how much his rare glimpses of sincerity move you. 

“And this is all based on a hunch?” 

“Mhm.” 

Satoru lifts your left hand. He caresses your skin, his smile softening into something tender. An expression that’s exclusively for you. 

“Historically, my hunches are rather reliable.”

You can’t argue with the truth. 

Suguru appears to have some unknown design for Okkotsu Yuta, who is to remain at Jujutsu Tech during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The special-grade curse Orimoto Rika poses too many risks for him to be on the battlefield alongside allies. Since everyone down to the Ainu society is being called upon to deal with this threat, you’ve been awaiting your assignment. There’s no way they wouldn’t utilize every resource available. 

Satoru ruined this assumption.

He personally requested that you remain on standby at the school. 

He didn’t even tell you this himself. You found out from Maki of all people, who earlier asked why you were stuck ‘babysitting the exchange student.’ You were confused. This made her confused. Then you both remembered the menace that is Gojo Satoru and everything started adding up. 

His explanation upon answering the phone? 

“Oh, I was just getting around to telling you about that!” 

Needless to say, you didn’t share his enthusiasm. 

“Alright,” you sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on Yuta until everything is finished.” 

Content, he squeezes your hand. As he does so, the gemstone on your ring finger catches the light, mesmerizing you both.

You close your eyes and smile. 

‘Call it intuition,’ huh?

all my love

pairing. itoshi rin x gn!reader

genre. fluff, slightly suggestive (towards the end) | established relationship | new boyfriend!rin 

content/warnings. 1.8k+ wc | characters are in their 20s ! | pro-athlete!rin | making out | narration heavy! | profanity | pet names | me and my word vomit | minimal proofread

in which: new boyfriend rin struggles to keep his affection within the delicate bounds of too much and too soon.

“he’s beefing with a phone now?”

“he’s beefing with anyone - anything, it’s actually a bit concerning at this point.”

“guys, stop. he can hear us, you know.”

itoshi rin sure does hear bachira, chigiri, and isagi talk shit about how he’s holding his phone tightly while glaring at the little screen. for once, rin paid them no mind and simply rolled his eyes. seemingly more focused on what is happening in his phone, or rather, what he is waiting to happen in his phone.

it’s stupid, he knows. he actually feels like he’s 18 again, back when he was pining on you so hard that he waited a whole day before you asked him to hang out. now at 23, after what felt like a whole century (he’s being dramatic) of wishing you were his, the day finally came. 

and once again, he’s here sitting, impatiently waiting for your updates about your silly grocery shopping you told him about just an hour ago. he wanted to tell you to wait, and that he’d come with you after practice. but before he could even send the message, he caught himself showing what he would call, for a lack of better term, lukewarm ‘feelings’ (it’s clinginess, he just doesn’t want to say the word himself, it’s distasteful in his own tongue).

he’s not clingy. he’s not needy. he doesn’t need to see you all the time. he doesn’t need to hear your voice or even receive a foolish text message from you. it’s not like he’s going mad about it this instant if you don’t update him. 

that's beneath him — or at least he firmly believes so before refreshing his notifications for the nth time for your long overdue text.

he could just text you first, right? to tell you how he hopes ego gets an urgent call from whoever, allowing them to leave practice earlier. tell you how desperately he wishes the earth would spin faster until he sees you again. and most importantly, tell you that he misses you, and he wants to see you despite staying over just a day ago for your weekly date.

after all, you're together now. he could simply just text you and let you know. what's the worst that could happen?

well, you might think he's being too much (he reached that conclusion on his own), and it might throw you off a bit — which is probably the last thing rin would want to happen. 

it’s too much, and too soon. no matter how long he had known it would be you for him, it doesn’t change the fact that the two of you are new to this. 

it has been nearly three months since you made it official for him, yet he’s still uncertain whether the length of your relationship could gravitate the spontaneity of him showing up to your place unannounced, or if he could ask you to stay the night after your weekly date, heck he doesn’t even know if could say those three damn words whenever he feels like it.

rin fears of overwhelming you. he can try and deny, but rin harbors big feelings that for as long as he could remember, stayed dormant for his own good. but now that you’re here, he’s afraid of putting it all out there for you.

rin thinks, or at least how he treats it, that your relationship is a new form of delicate. something he would need to handle with care, something he needs to approach slowly, even when all he wants is to give you all that he is— the good and even the bad that he would make better, just for you.

this is new and delicate. you are delicate. 

and rin knows his hands have never been known for their ability to handle something so precious.

sighing in defeat, rin threw his phone inside his gym bag, but as he was about to leave the locker room, he heard the faint buzz coming from his phone.

it was faint, barely detectable to some. but for someone who had been waiting for it for a whole damn hour, it felt like an angel whispered in rin's ear, letting him know that someone from above took pity on him.

“damn, that was fast. did you guys see that?”

bachira wasn’t lying. rin did turn to pick up his phone from his bag as quickly as one would turn when someone yelled ‘fire’. and for it, bachira received his second (it’s 2 pm, two is still a merciful number) glare of the day for pointing out his patheticness.

hastily, rin opened your conversation to be greeted by a photo of two different brands of protein powder followed by a harmless question from you, yet it almost burned him.

it’s your break, right? just wanted to ask you which would you prefer. i’m getting one of each for you to try if you can’t reply right away :D

fuck what he thought, he needs to see you – and he will. 

rin almost clicked the call button just to tell you he loves you. all because of some protein powder. just because you're so thoughtful and kind to him, it's downright unbelievable. he needs to hear your voice so he can process how real it is that you are his.

rin glanced at the clock of his phone. four more hours ‘til he’s free. four more dreadful hours, he can make do.

just before he got called by his team, rin quickly typed a reply to you.

Right one. Thank you :)

on the other end of the texting, you almost dropped both brands from your hands into your cart as you stared at rin's reply, particularly to the emoji he sent.

is this my boyfriend? you thought with a bemused grin. shaking your head, you placed his choice in your cart. you'd tease him about it when you saw him this saturday.

little did you know, even before saturday arrived, rin would be standing in front of you, hours after your last conversation. he was dressed in his sweats, wearing a white shirt, and had his gym bag slung across his chest. his hair seemed still damp from the shower, and as he looked at you, it was as though he just realized he had come here on his own.

“rin? what are you doing here?” you ask, breaking the silence first.

it was only after your question that rin realized he had more pressing matters to face than letting his eyes wander around you in your pajamas.

“i…” fuck. this is torture, and he curses himself for not finding the right words, “i wanted to see you.”

“you want to see me,” you echoed.

“is that fine?” rin’s voice came out strained with uncertainty.

a soft smile crossed your face, and you nodded. “of course…” you answered, “do you want to come in?”

rin nodded and slowly walked towards the entrance of your home, letting himself in as he dropped his bag on the floor. he still hadn't met your eye, reluctant to face what he might see in them.

instead, he indulged in the way you looked, seemingly so soft and warm to the touch in your flowing pajamas. his hands ached and itched with the urge to hold you close against him.

but he can’t – it was too much, too soon. 

“you can come here anytime you want,” you said, pulling rin out of his thoughts.

taken aback, rin took a few seconds to process what you said. “it’s not… too much?”

curious as to why he would ask that, you gave him a bashful smile. “it’s you, baby. why would it be?” 

and just like that, rin cast aside all of his hesitancy at the sound of your words, as if they were the green light signifying him to let go of the brakes holding his own affection.

rin took a step closer to you until you were inches away from him. your curious eyes followed every movement he made. curiosity immediately turned to bewilderment when you felt one of rin's firm hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him. his other hand settled in the curve of your neck below your jaw, gently guiding your face to meet his.

“how about when i hold you like this? still not too much?” rin's voice sounded hoarse, an octave lower. his hands roamed around your back, gently caressing your clothed skin.

“no…” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

rin exhaled with your response, the scent of fresh mint wafting around your face. his hand on your neck climbed up until you felt his thumb caressing the side of your lip.

“and if i tell you i love you— perhaps a little too much. how 'bout that? does that bother you?” 

so, this is what it is about.

feeling bolder than you were minutes ago, you caught rin's hand, enclosing it with your smaller ones as you guided it to your lips, leaving a featherlight kiss on his knuckles.

smiling up to him, you say, “never. i think i’ll love that.”

as the moment lingered in suspended anticipation, rin wasn’t able to suppress it any longer. he closed the distance between your lips with an urgency that bordered on desperation. the kiss was more than a mere meeting of lips; it was a collision of hearts.

his lips molded against yours, and his touch was not just gentle, but also fervent, as if trying to give you all that he is, without any reservation. his hands, once hesitant, now found their place on your waist, pulling you even closer to him, feeling the warmth of your body against his. his fingers traced a delicate path along your spine, memorizing every curve, every contour, as if etching your presence in his memory. 

as the kiss deepened, a soft sigh of contentment escaped your lips, inviting rin to explore further. he took the invitation, his tongue gently parting your lips to taste you more, more, and more.  because just when he thought it was too much, it was apparently not enough. he needed more – touch you more. 

when you both finally pulled apart, your breaths were intertwined, and your gazes locked. with a shy smile playing on your lips, still breathless and flushed, you ask, “and if i ask you to stay the night, is that too much?”

rin smiled, teal-eyes reflecting a glassy glint, “no,” he whispered, “i think i’ll love that, too.”

and rin also thinks he wouldn't mind being clingy and admitting he's needy if it's you— only when it's you.

because with you, he's not reminded that he was less, nor plagued that he might be too much.

to you, all of him was just the right amount of love.

note. i don’t know what this is but i miss him so i hope it’s something. if you’re new here, i am crazy about itoshi rin.

another note. new!bf rin here !

Batboys as your sugar daddy

What’s the point of all this money if you don’t have someone to spend it on?

Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake x fem!reader

Contains: Sugar daddies. Possessive, controlling men. Power imbalances. They’re all a little toxic. These relationships are not aspirational babes. Oral sex (f!receiving) in Dick’s.

Notes: 18+ or you’ll be blocked.

BRUCE WAYNE 💋

“Wear the diamonds,” Bruce rumbles from behind you, lips right next to the shell of your ear. Before you can answer, his warm hands are already on your throat, and cool platinum touches your skin. A hundred diamonds arranged in three dainty layers sparkle in the low light of Bruce’s bedroom, clinging tightly to your neck.

With the choker clasped in place, one of Bruce’s hands traces up and down your neck while the other rests heavily on your hip, holding you flush against his chest. His touch is hypnotic, pulling you in like a planet pulls a moon into orbit. Your whole world revolves around him—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

But like the moon, the subtle gravitational pull you have on him keeps him in place, keeps him stable, calms his most wicked of storms.

He bows his head. The way he looks at you through his eyelashes is almost reverent while he kisses your bare shoulder, skin interrupted only by your dress’s hair-thin silk strap.

“Beautiful,” he says, and you know he’s not talking about the necklace, the dress, or any of the other jewels and silks he’s drowned you in over the last year.

When your eyes meet in the mirror, one corner of his lips quirks up into a smirk, which he buries under a kiss to your jaw. 

There, with a quick, sharp nip of his teeth, he lays his claim. “And all mine.”

DICK GRAYSON 💋

Dick’s on his knees, head buried between your legs when you hear—feel—him say, “I need you to take a week off work.”

Well. What he really needs is for you to just quit your job already, but you got upset the last time he suggested it. Baby steps. For now.

“Why?” you gasp, blinking hard as you try to focus on the fact that he’s starting a conversation now when his tongue is making you smart and shake with pleasure.

“I want to go to the Maldives,” he says as if it’s the most inconsequential thing in the world, as if he’s saying he wants to go across town, not across the world.

His tongue flattens out and dips into your weeping hole, and your thighs tighten around his head in response. He groans, and you choke out, “A week for the Maldives?”

You feel his lips twist and curve around you, paired with a little graze of teeth; he’s smiling, and the sensation makes you dizzy. There it is, he wants to say. You want more. Finally, your expectations are starting to match his bank account.

But he decides to play the dumb, pretty boyfriend he likes to make people think he is. “You don’t think it’s enough time? Wanna take two weeks?”

“I don’t have the—” He kisses up to your clit and gives it a tentative little suck, which makes you fist his hair. “—vacation days.”

“Why don’t you just take them without pay?” he proposes as his tongue laves up your swollen sex. “It’ll be okay, just this once. You’ll feel so much better after some time off; I promise.”

JASON TODD 💋

Jason is currently scrutinizing the contents of your pantry, a box of macaroni and cheese in his hand. After seeing the scowl on his face, you’re not surprised when he starts to lecture you. “You eat this crap?”

You raise a brow because he’s one to judge. “I’ve seen you eat an entire party box of tacos.”

“I’m not you,” he fires back. His voice is still low, still calm, but you can sense an edge in his tone; this conversation is about a lot more than boxed macaroni and cheese.

In the beat of silence that follows, his heated gaze dulls to a smolder. “You don’t know how precious you are.”

You open your mouth to reply, but whatever retort you were going to argue back with is silenced when Jason’s big hands cup your face, tilting your head up so he can kiss your forehead. He lingers there, and you feel him tremble. His breath is ragged, rough—as if he’s afraid.

“I’m not you,” he repeats in a whisper. It’s like he’s talking to a child, like he knows you don’t know any better. Poor little you—you need him. “Just let me take care of you like always, okay? How about I sign you up for one of those meal prep kits? No more processed food; it’s not good for you.”

When he pulls you against his chest and strokes your hair, you feel yourself nod, unable to disagree. You know he’s right, after all; and isn’t it sweet that he treats you like a delicate angel even though he’s seen the worst of the world? That nothing without his stamp of approval is good enough for you?

TIM DRAKE 💋

“Oh, you’re all set,” your manicurist smiles at you as soon as you take out your wallet, nails freshly done. 

Caught off guard, all you can reply with is, “Huh?”

She just smiles a little brighter, and there’s a sparkle of something in her eyes. It looks a little wistful, but also a little vapid—is that jealousy? “Your boyfriend paid already,” she explains as her eyes not-so-subtly look around, trying to catch a glimpse of said boyfriend, but you’re just as surprised as she is.

“For the next year,” she adds in a dry tone. Slowly, you drop your wallet back into your purse. There’s only one man alive who could figure out where you get your nails done, what day and time you like your appointments, and call ahead to pay off your manicures for the next year without you ever finding out about it.

So when you get back to your car, you call him.

“Do anything fun today?” he asks over the phone, pretending to be way more innocent than he actually is.

“Tim—”

“Actually,” he cuts in, and you hear a bashful tremor in his voice. That tremor makes your stomach do flips, which beckons you to give in to whatever he wants. “I was just thinking about you. You’ve got the prettiest hands.”

“Tim—”

“Let’s go shopping later,” he rambles on, completely ignoring you. “I think you need some new jewelry. You’d like a new set of rings, wouldn’t you?”

🔖: @mrs-kurooo; @lovely-loren05