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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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the elitism in magic education

HELLO 🤡 I have come to you today with an analysis of Fellow Honest's motives and what they imply about the mages and non-mages in the world of Twisted Wonderland, as well as the state of magic education as it relates to one's social status. It's a doozy, so let's get right into it! ***WARNING: Spoilers for Stage in Playful Land!!***

Fellow's resentment of the elite harkens back to something I've always suspected but also something that Twisted Wonderland has seldom gone out of its way to shine a harsh spotlight on. That "something" is the discrepancy between the "haves" and the "have-nots" in terms of magic. With the main setting of TWST being a private magic school, of course the lens through which we view many events will be from this perspective as well... and that limits what we see and hear. Most of the NPCs we encounter (even the annoying ones, such as the Magicam Monsters from the first Halloween event) endlessly praise the NRC students just for attending a famous magic school. If we look closely though, we’ll start to see cracks in the shiny rose-colored lenses (which, coincidentally, is how Fellow’s UM name is written).

To begin with, we are told that only 10% of the human population (for the sake of argument, let's assume that most other races also have low magic rates) is even capable of magic to begin with. Of this 10%, the majority of people with the aptitude for magic only have enough to barely be able to lift a cup. In order to qualify for a prestigious magic school like Night Raven College or Royal Sword Academy, you'd literally have to be the cream of the crop and get lucky in terms of genetics. Magic cannot be learned by someone that was not born with the innate ability for it, and not everyone who is the child of a mage will be capable of magic themselves. This is already one HUGE barrier for entry. We now have more to consider.

Night Raven College is notably a private boarding school. This potentially means that students may need to pay a tuition fee for classes, room, and board. Perhaps this tuition doesn't exist, since NRC doesn't take applications but rather hand-selects its students. Additionally, NRC is based on a British school, and most European schools cost little to nothing to attend. However, it's hard to believe a school as fancy as NRC is a private institution that runs solely on the charity and goodwill of donors (though we do see Crowley happily accepting donations as well, specifically from the local town and from Kalim’s family). Realistically speaking, Stuff Costs Money, and if you Want Stuff, you also Need Money. NRC is not raising these mages of the future out of the goodness of their hearts, NRC is raising these mages because there is profit and prestige to be gained from the endeavor. What if there are students who are picked to go but end up having to leave because they can’t afford it?? This point is just speculative though; I won’t count it as actual evidence since there is no in-game lore which confirms tuition. We do know, however, that students do at least have to pay for their dorm uniforms, as Ruggie has mentioned he could not afford one—hence why he wears a hand-me-down from Leona. We also know students are on their own when it comes to paying for their food, as both Ruggie and Deuce mention being low on cash in reference to buying meals/snacks. Buuuuut even if we discount that money is a factor that gatekeeps some selected students from attending or having the cash to just get by on a daily basis, what we cannot ignore is that money inherently puts some people ahead of others before magic schools even recruit them.

Because the majority of those in Twisted Wonderland are incapable of using magic, magic is not typically included in general education. This means that if your kid manifests magic and you want them to be "ahead of the curve", you'd need to seek out resources for magic training and education. Now, this could mean reading materials, private tutoring, or reaching out to mages you know of. The problem with all of these things is that they tend to require money and/or connections, which are things not everyone has access to. Idia even says in book 6 that Riddle has an “artificially large” pool of magic due to how young Riddle started his magic training, meaning that the wealthy has the resources to just produce “better” mages. The rich also have more money to throw into items to help with magical training, such as bigger and better magestones (which must sell for substantial amount in the first place since Ruggie tries to save some to pawn off later in Vargas Camp) to keep mages healthier for longer (since magestones help absorb blot). This keeps power concentrated in an already elevated class. (Note: research has shown that money opens up and expands one's connections, which still puts the rich in an advantageous position compared to the less fortunate. There are also studies that show impoverished people who happen to have rich friends have a better chance of raising their own social standing just because of the doors and connections that rich friend can open for them.) Look at who in the main cast remarks on having formal magic training: literal royalty like Leona and the upper middle class like Riddle. Again, one could say that because schools like NRC appear to hand-pick students regardless of how much formal magic training they had prior to enrollment. However, the fact remains that it simply looks better to potential recruiters (using this blanket term because we don't know how magic schools besides NRC gets its students) and better prepares the child for magic school curriculum to get an early start on it.

Looking back at the 22 boys that make up the main cast, close to three-quarters or ~75% of them come from at least upper middle-class backgrounds and quite a few could classify as wealthy:

Riddle's parents are both doctors, with Riddle's mom in particular being well-known and well-regarded in their home community.

Cater's dad is a banker; his position is high enough up that he needs to relocate every so often (presumably to service their largest or most important firms).

Leona is a literal prince. Even if he isn't destined to be king, he still has access to the resources and wealth avaliable to a royal.

Azul's mom owns the most popular restaurant in the entire Coral Sea (have you seen how large the Coral Sea is on the world map???), and his stepdad is a lawyer.

The twins' family is said to be well-off; they are able to afford luxuries like fancy clothes and Mr. Leech stresses the importance of manners and presentation. He is implied to have business associates who are also well-off and would like to get in his good graces. (Popular fan speculation is that the Leeches are a crime family.)

Kalim is the heir to a massive family fortune and trading business. He also has relatives (by marriage, I believe) who are royals.

Jamil, as Kalim's attendant, is also from a reasonably well-off family; they receive benefits unique to being closely tied with the Asims, such as exposure to elite society and lessons to acquire various skills, albeit these benefits comes with being in the lower social position of a servant.

Vil's father is an A-list celebrity, and Vil is also one himself.

We don't know the specifics of what Rook's family does, but it must be well-paying, as we learn in book 5 that the Hunts have villas all over Twisted Wonderland, as well as permissions for international travel via warp pads.

Idia and Ortho's family run a secret organization that researches blot. S.T.Y.X. is so secretive that basically only those in super high positions like Crowley and Leona would know about them. Let's also not forget that the Shrouds have ties to the Jupiter Conglomerate and the Olympus Corp, which is a tech giant in the world of TWST.

Malleus is prince AND the heir to his kingdom’s throne. He is also one of the top 5 most powerful mages in the entire WORLD.

Lilia is a renown war general and a close friend of royalty. He raised a young Malleus as well.

Silver is Lilia's adopted son and is actually a prince himself.

Sebek's parents are dentists. They must make mad money. His grandfather is also a respected knight that served alongside Lilia.

Notice how all the dorm leaders are upper middle class or higher; the vice dorm leaders have ONE normal person (Trey); in Playful Land, Trey confesses to living a comfortable life so we know he must be at least middle class.

We can try to argue all we like that NRC doesn't discriminate based on social status for their selections, but if that's the case then why are so few of the main cast from impoverished or low-income families? Only Ace, Trey, and Jack count as squarely middle class. Ruggie is the only example we have of someone from a very low socioeconomic status rising up to be among "elites". The other example is Deuce, who comes from a single parent household and has implied they don't have a lot of money (for example: how the VDC/SDC earnings will help out his family). (Epel is kind of a ??? case because depending on where in the story you are, his family could be in financial trouble or not; in book 5, they imply his entire village is having difficulties selling product until Vil promotes Harveston apples on his Magicam.) Maybe it's unfair to say that 22 students out of 800ish is representative of the makeup of the entire NRC student population (or represents the composition of all magic schools), but Ruggie confirms in his Birthday Boy vignettes that a majority of the students at NRC are decently well-off. This single digit representation of low-income students is also true of real-life elite schools. They are private schools for a reason; it naturally gatekeeps who is and isn't "allowed" to attend, leading to the majority of its students being members of the elite.

Another thing to consider is legacy students. This term refers to the increased likelihood of people being accepted into a school if they had a relative that also attended that school. We know of two instances of this happening: Ace's brother and Sebek's brother also went to and graduated from Night Raven College. Ace even makes a remark during his sorting ceremony that he ended up in the same dorm as his older brother "as expected". If magic aptitude is genetic, then perhaps it makes sense to recruit from the same families--but again, this is inherently restrictive, as you would continuously be culling from the same pools generation after generation.

Back on the topic of bloodlines and family, what about Kalim, who has an extensive family? There will be no shortage of Asim mages going to NRC just because of legacy (Jamil even alludes to the fact that the previous Scarabia dorm leader was an Asim relative, and his recommendation is what got Kalim the dorm leader seat). And speaking of Kalim, consider instances where rich families are able to bribe faculty (lookin' at YOU, Crowley) or donate a large sum to get their kid ahead or to be given priority over others that may be more qualified than them (RIP Jamil). To continue off that point, NRC itself is structured as a "dog eat dog" world. Those with inherently more magical ability have the right to trump over others. You can duel and lose your dorm seat to a more powerful mage, even if you trump them in terms of merit or leadership qualities. Students feel a sense of duty to obey those who have bested them in battle (ie Epel's servitude to Vil). Everyone fears Malleus. Your magical power is respected above all else.

Attitudes surrounding magic have notably shifted from fear of it several hundreds of years ago (around the human-fae war, back when “witch” and “wizard” were used in a derogatory sense) to recognizing it for its strengths and actively seeking it or granting some favoritism to those who have it. There is, in fact, now class discrimination in based on whether or not you can use magic. We got an early instance of this as early as book 1 of the main story, when Riddle insults Yuu for their "pitiful" education and states that they were clearly "born to parents with no great magical capability". It’s something that clearly rubs Ace, who has a magicless father, the wrong way, and he stands up for Yuu. There are other subtle hints about this divide sprinkled throughout the lore. For example, Ruggie has a voice line which he indicates that the slums where he comes from doesn’t produce many magic users. Again, recall that magic runs in bloodlines. This could potentially allude to a past where those without magic were forced into lower income neighborhoods, which results in pockets like Ruggie’s hometown with a high population of magicless individuals living in poverty. This doesn’t appear to be a large scale issue (perhaps its only an isolated case?), but this is worth paying attention to.

This could all translate into the professional world too. Some jobs are entirely locked behind magic (ie you just cannot do them or pursue them if you don't have the magical ability for it). Some jobs DO require magic (ie medical mages like Riddle's parents, magic police force officers, technomantic inventors, etc) and probably additional training that goes with it. As a result, I'd imagine that these magic-intensive jobs pay quite a bit more. There may also be overall more job opportunities for those capable of magic, since magic is so much more efficient than doing things by hand. The magic police force in particular are described as “elite” and members are REQUIRED to be mages or else you don’t qualify. It means more retention of wealth and/or more upward mobility for the few impoverished that are able to enter magic schools. (This is, of course, not including the few and far between cases of regular people who get rich in select industries, such as Kalim’s father.) Recall too that NRC requires its students to take internships during their 4th years, many placements being with very prestigious groups and organizations such as pro-sports teams, labs, tech giants, etc. Being able to attend a prestigious school with connections grants those elite students even more opportunities than the average person.

Then think about what this means for people who fall short of these standards that these magic schools set. We actually have examples of them in book 5 of the main story: when Deuce and Epel are reconciling on the beach, a bunch of delinquents from another school come along and start checking out Deuce’s borrowed magical wheel. Through the NPCs’ exchange, we learn that one of them has enough magic to power a magical wheel, but not enough to do much else. This NPC also couldn’t keep up in class and dropped out of a magic school. He then becomes insulted when Deuce implies he is “a beginner”, so this is obviously a very sore spot for him. Riddle also has dialogue that implies students dropped out of NRC prior to his reign (and since then, no Heartslabyul students have left). Additionally, consider how magic can be used to oppress and lord power over others. Deuce himself is guilty for summoning cauldrons to crush rival delinquents in fights back in Clock Town—even if those delinquents lacked magic themselves. Similarly, Epel is implied to use magic to gain an upper hand against those that bullied him back home. This all implies a social divide between those with magic and those without, and begs of bigger questions.

What happens to the ones that don’t make it? The ones that get left behind? The ones without the magic to make it “big”? This is the root of Fellow’s anger; he’s mad at a system that cast people like him (someone with very little magic) and Gidel (a non-mage) aside. They don’t get the opportunity to make better futures for themselves. They’re looked down on by high-up institutions that basically tell them they’re not good enough.

Knowing all of this, the deck appears to be stacked against the poor and non-mages. It’s no wonder why Fellow is so mad.

THIS ACTUALLY RELATES BACK TO WHAT ROLLO SAID IN 5-2 OF GLORIOUS MASQUERADE… "When you have too little [magic], you're resentful. And when you have plenty [of magic], you're arrogant. You can never content yourselves." The NRC boys are arrogant (this is the side of the story we’ve always known due to seeing the world mainly from their perspective). They are the “haves”, and we see them constantly misusing their power by fighting each other over very petty things (even if it’s against the rules to do so). But everyone else??? They’re scrounging for the scraps. Fellow falls into that former category; he IS the guy that’s resentful because of his lack of magic and how something he cannot control has already determined where he and Gidel will stand in life no matter how hard they work. They can never hope to rise out of poverty, and there’s nothing they can do about it. That must be soul-crushing.

When Fellow praises the NRC boys in that overly exaggerated way, he’s obviously being shady and facetious—however, there is also a kernel of truth behind this behavior. Most other NPCs we’ve met have spoken about the NRC boys favorably just because of their affiliation with a prestigious school. It’s the same way people might be impressed if you walked around in an Ivy League branded hoodie or something. People automatically associate you with the school’s shiny and exclusive reputation, and thus assume you are also intelligent, talented, etc. Then, in the same way being constantly put on a pedestal like this might result in the students getting swelled heads, this only further feeds into the NRC kids’ egos. They so privileged they don’t even recognize it. And that makes Fellow fucking FUME.

Look back at Fellow's dialogue. He is constantly mentioning the prestige of the school the boys go to, or adding on extra compliments about their status and skills. He's ass-kissing to his boss, who is also wealthy or part of the upper class, then insults the boss once he hangs up. Fellow is always in a position where he HAS to be subservient to the upper class in order to make his money and get by, and he finds that entirely unfair. Imagine having to simper and placate people you absolutely despise and blame for your problems every day, people who are gorging themselves on luxuries, coasting by in life, taking everything they have for granted while you get by on pennies—that has to get frustrating.

I want to briefly mention here that, in addition to praising the NRC students to high heaven, Fellow also talks down his own skills. He cheerfully calls himself a loser and says that no matter how much he trains, he could never reach their caliber of magic. Yes, Fellow is exaggerating to get the kids to think they’ve won, but I also have to wonder if he’s parroting the same phrases he was told long ago, from people who doubted him and never thought he’d make it. If that’s the case, then I get the sense that Fellow is in a way “reclaiming” his autonomy and power by adopting those same cruel words and using them as a strength. He admits to being “weak” but is also proud of the fact that he can utilize his magic along with his natural charisma to get a leg up over others. It further fuels his new belief that going to an elite school doesn’t matter, it’s practical skills that will serve you well.

Okay, back to talking about his shitty work situation! Fellow’s employer clearly doesn’t treat him with decency. They berate him, make unreasonable demands, act impatient, etc. They are a typical depiction of a toxic workplace and boss. This can also be read as shorthand for the relation between the rich and the poor, and how that may have shaped (or worsened) Fellow’s views on others of the privileged class. He makes many assumptions about the NRC students without really getting to know them, calling them entitled brats. Why? Because these descriptors likely apply to the higher-ups Fellow has always slaved away for. This, in combination with his own experiences in being rejected from magic academia, has created a person who feels trodden on by society and by the upper echelons who run it and benefit off the system.

Fellow himself is the perfect example of someone who was failed by said system. He has dialogue stating that he was never given the chance to learn because his magic was not considered strong enough. Still, he tried to make an effort to earn that chance among to elites and to study among them. Fellow was rejected, ridiculed, and told he had “forgotten his place”, what he had been born into. There were expectations he couldn’t meet, and so Fellow was thrown away like a broken toy. He has failed not because he didn’t try, but because he was denied the opportunity to begin with. This is where is rage stems from. Fellow despises the students of those same kinds of institutions who kicked him down, students who don’t realize how fortunate they are for their educations and will likely continue to perpetuate the system.

What, then, does that means for his signature spell, which is closely tied to one’s identity? Let’s take a magnifying glass to it. As previously mentioned, the name for Fellow’s spell is written as “Rose-Tinted Dream”, but it is said out loud as “Life is Fun”. The chant for it is, “Come on to the theater” (notably said in English rather than in Japanese). Both the spell and the incantation are references to the song Honest John sings in Pinocchio, Hi- Diddle-Dee-Dee. And… well, the whole UM in of itself is one big cruel joke given his circumstances now.

I think this spell is representative of a young Fellow still full of hopes and dreams, looking forward to studying at a magic school. But then those dreams are shattered and he has to commit terrible crimes to survive day-to-day, and he seems to have given up on his dreams. He even goes so far as to protect Gidel from having the same hopes he once did, telling Yuu to not put silly ideas in his head when Gidel expressed curiosity about school. At the same time, he delights in crushing the hopes of those he deems his enemies (stating that he wanted to betray Kalim to “teach him a lesson” about how cruel the world is). Fellow knows the truth: that life isn’t fun, that it will disappoint you and will put you down. His actions are very cowardly as well—he uses tricks and deception, he runs away from his problems instead of properly addressing them, the NRC students remark on his lack of pride. Fellow has had to throw away so much to scrape by. Yet his UM symbolizes someone brimming with hope—so perhaps it’s a UM he manifested when Fellow still thought he had a chance?? And then people made fun of him for it being so weak?? Alternatively, maybe he didn’t get his UM until after his dreams were crushed so he’s looking back on those nostalgic days of blissful ignorance with rose-colored lenses (which is, again, maybe why his UM magic name is written as “Rose Tinted Dream”). A UM that is a reflection of one’s true self, yet that same identity is one that has been forced to be discarded. That’s the reason why, despite all the swindling and scamming, I don’t think Fellow’s enthusiasm for fun is a lie. That’s the one “real” part of him, but even that’s been repurposed to help him live on scraps, something innocent twisted 😭 and that’s really sad to think about…

But also??? You could argue that Fellow still has a little bit of that lost inner child and hope left in him. He tries to defend Gidel’s understanding of the world and has goals of starting his own school despite how poorly he originally spoke about these institutions. (So Fellow does appear to care about children and their futures.) He also has a childish streak despite being an adult, demonstrated by his use of cowardly tactics, taunting kids, and abruptly quitting his job to then destroy his workplace. Fellow himself states that he “just tries to live a free and fun life”, thus his pursuit of money and pleasure. This could all play into being what defines Fellow and thus his UM. It embodies a spirit of playfulness even when he has been crushed under the weight of an unglamorous life.

I’ve heard people saying that while Rollo is Idia’s dark mirror and Fellow is Ruggie’s. They have similar backstories but ultimately their fates are different and left the former two down far more sinister paths. Just as Rollo is an Idia that turned his anger outward instead of inward, Fellow is Ruggie had he not been given a chance to receive an education to elevate his social status and job prospects. Fellow and Ruggie both cling to rich, powerful benefactors/bosses and do their dirty work to get on by—a big difference is that Leona, while he does also work Ruggie to the bone, also has some conscience. Something else to consider is that while Ruggie prioritizes making a life for himself by studying and securing a stable, well-paying job, Fellow is focused moreso on the accumulation of wealth itself (as he suggests to Kalim he’ll take a bribe to let him go free and quits when there is no longer money to be gained from his boss). Both don’t really care how they get their money (even if it is by dirty means), but ultimately Ruggie’s way of making cash is more sustainable in the long run. Yet Fellow ultimately realizes the importance of school deep down despite constantly denying it when the NRC students tell him of it. Fellow is in denial because that’s the only way he can cope and justify his lifestyle. He’s confused when finally confronted with students who are his ideal of “happy and free”, even when they’re in an educational system that he views as shackling people into strict roles. The way he laments about not being able to go to school is also very reminiscent of an adult mourning a lost or unfulfilling childhood, which is quite a depressing scenario…

Fellow is the one that got the short end of the stick in life. Ruggie met Leona, and Leona technically uplifted him in his endeavors, tutored him into getting decent grades and giving him hand-me-downs and money in exchange for his services. Fellow never had that kind of support system, he was just insulted and bullied into giving up and had to find an alternative way to keep himself going 😔

Personally, I think Fellow could also be a dark mirror to Kalim, no?? They exist on opposite ends of a social spectrum. Kalim has everything and Fellow had nothing. What’s more, Kalim is still wide-eyed and trusting. He is the only one willing to try words instead of fighting him and instantly labeling him as the enemy. Meanwhile, Fellow has become bitter because of how the world has betrayed him. He wants to take that trust Kalim has and show him how cruel everything truly is. Why is he fixated on that? Why even offer in the first place if he never intended on going through with it? Why does he want to rub it in Kalim’s face in particular? Maybe it’s because Kalim seems rich and dumb, as Fellow claims, but maybe it’s because there is envy there. Sure, Fellow is upset about Kalim being a sheltered brat that faces no challenges in life, but I also feel like he’s jealous that Kalim can still afford to think this way. That he can still afford to be cheerful, that he can still be a dreamer. Fellow was alluded to be like that once—but he can’t be like that anymore, not when he has to look out for himself and Gidel.

Side note, another comparison! Recall that Kalim’s Oasis Maker is also a UM that uses a little bit of magic. However, Kalim does not know of many creative ways to use his spell, as there is no real reason to since his home country has lots of canals and irrigation. He therefore deems his UM as pretty useless. Fellow meanwhile has what most consider a weak UM but he fully utilizes it to his advantage and pairs it well with his natural charm to maximize its effects. He had to develop these skills because he was in pressing circumstances in which they would benefit him. This contributes to the “mirror” theme between the two.

Fellow and Kalim have a notable similarity as well, and this is where I feel they can connect. They are both older brothers to a child or children who are magicless. Fellow only has one, and Kalim has many—but the number here isn’t what is important. What is important is that Fellow and Kalim think the world of their siblings and want to support them. To that end, Fellow is willing to be cruel and step on others, and Kalim is all sunshine to keep their spirits up. Fellow has suffered through great poverty and insults and Kalim has survived so many attempts on his life, yet they’ve developed distinctly different approaches to the worlds that have embraced them. Kalim’s wealth could afford him protection and luxuries, so he’s able to live carefree with others tending to his needs. The same isn’t true for Fellow, and so he came out far more spiteful and resentful.

Thinking about it, it’s ultimately Kalim’s words that convince Fellow to turn on his employer. (The other boys certainly wore Fellow down and planted the seeds of doubt, but it’s Kalim that I believe fully resonates with Fellow.) He can so happily talk about why he loves school, even though he doesn’t do well at it (something I presume is also true of Fellow, since he is lacking in tons of magic). It’s not said in a particularly articulate manner, but it’s so candid in its presentation. Kalim is relating to him based on similar skillset (or lack thereof) and sharing fond memories of his time at school, reviving the hopeful “lost child” in Fellow. Kalim is probably the first wealthy person in a long time that was friendly, kind, and supportive to him. And here he is, reassuring Fellow his dreams are still possible, to not give up. That’s the final nail that allows Fellow to be “honest” with himself and his inner child. It’s what leads to that slew of irresponsible actions at the end of the event (letting people free, blasting the amusement park, driving a sinking ship, etc.).

At the end of Stage in Playful Land, we see that Fellow never really let that childlike side of him fully die. (It seems to have been concealed under a desire for money and appeasing his boss.) He shares his dream of creating his own great school to give educational opportunities to non-mages and mages with low magical reserves like Gidel and himself, a school that teaches practical life lessons. He wants to promote his own ideals and to change the system he hates from the inside out. This was never communicated to us before most likely because Fellow had renounced those ideas in favor of blind hatred and a lack of faith in the world and those that dominate it.

Fellow also acknowledges that life may be even more difficult for him and Gidel going forward, as now they lack the money for even food and no longer have jobs. Furthermore, they need to worry about their ex-employers coming after them for what they’ve done. Even so, Fellow faces it all with a smile and reassures everyone that they can transfer or visit to play… “on this shining stage called life”. He and Gidel are able to walk away with their whimsy preserved, and can still be that which they’ve always wanted to be: dreamers.

All of this is to say that Rollo was right all along about magic, he never misses—

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meanbossart · 6 months ago

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Hey, I was wondering if you had any starter tips for digital art? I'm a traditional artist and have been for years, but I was recently given a tablet and clip studio. I am having SUCH a hard time getting anything to look right: shaky lines, flat/too soft pieces, just an absolute childish mess every single time. I see all these gorgeous digital pieces and have NO IDEA how to get there.

Heya!

So, it's been a very very long time since I transitioned from traditional to digital art, but I DID do proper traditional for a few years; we're talking ink pens, color pencils, markers, watercolor, fancy papers, the works. I did some acrylic painting too but only monochrome (and before anyone asks, these works no longer exist so I can't share them) all that to say that I do have some experience with the former and definitely felt the learning curve when I changed to a tablet.

To get the unhelpful advice out of the way first: It's a different and unfamiliar medium, and there is probably nothing significant that you're "missing" about it except time and exploration. There are pillars to digital art just like there are in traditional art, but when it comes to personal process everyone has their quirks and habits - you gotta mess around and find what works for you. I suggest looking up tutorials and speedpaints on youtube even if you know all the basics or if the style you see doesn't appeal to you; just watching how others do their thing might help you figuring out how you would like to do yours!

Now, for the more practical advice:

-I don't know what kind of tablet you got, but assuming it's a non display, that's an extra hurdle you have to get over in developing the eye-hand coordination necessary to use it. This feels very alien at first but it shouldn't take longer than a few weeks to feel completely natural.

-On that note, if there is a significant size discrepancy between the tablet and the screen you are looking at, that might mess you up. Try adjusting the size of the CSP window so it fits the size of the actual drawing surface you are using more closely.

-Every drawing tablet's pen has pressure settings that can be tweaked to your liking, I for one always make it a little softer than the default.

-BRUSH STABILIZATION! That's a setting every individual brush (and almost every tool, I believe) on CSP has. It does as advertised: stabilizes your brush strokes. A lot of people like this set between 8-20 depending on the brush, and it can make a huge difference to the way you draw.

It is usually always visible in the tool properties, but if not, you can toggle it on through the "sub tool details" menu by clicking the little wrench symbol on the bottom right.

Hopefully this has been helpful at all. Good luck!

#ask #advice

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sweetflanfiction · 4 months ago

Text

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 21

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20

• ··········· • ············ •

The night was bright, the moon and the stars illuminating the room at the Academy you were now standing in. You were sitting on a wheely bench, swaying from side to side, your fancy attire contrasting with the uniformed man sitting beside you.

The blackboard in front of you was filled with a familiar chicken scratch. You grinned at it. Man is a genius, but gods forbid he wrote anything legible. There was a 3D schematic next to the list.

"What was that shape again?" You asked, smiling mischievously, and heard the Zaunite scientist chuckle low after sighing.

"It is a dodecahedron."

"Say it again."

He snorted, looked you dead in the eye, and said it again, accentuating every syllable.

"Do-de-ca-he-dron."

"Sounds much better when you say it." You winked and saw his face redden quickly. It was cute, and you had recently found you enjoyed his cuteness. You wanted to pull this side of him out more.

You’d met a while ago; you being one of Jayce’s old friends, he took no time to introduce you to his new lab partner. And you two took no time in becoming entangled. You didn’t believe in love at first sight, but the attraction was there.

Looking away from the man, you studied the blackboard. Your head tilted to the side, your perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowing in curiosity.

You’d been drawn to it as soon as you entered the dark Tallis Lab. The dinner at the mansion had become boring, and you'd decided to disrupt Viktor's evening with your presence. Not that he minded; at least it wasn't what his tired smile told you when he opened the door to the lab to find you there, staring with an overly innocent smile on your face.

He had invited you in and told you to wait for a couple of minutes until he was done with his work. That had been an hour and a half ago, and at some point, he stopped apologizing.

And now here you were, hypnotically staring into a badly erased blackboard, with something written on it and a schematic that did nothing but fill you with curiosity. So much so that you got up from your seat next to Viktor to stand in front of it.

“It is not a painting in a museum, you know.” His voice came from behind you, the telltale sounds of him getting up and walking toward you loud in the empty lab.

"I do have to find something to do while waiting for a certain Undercity scientist to find out I'm waiting on him." You bit back at him and heard him chuckle as he limped towards you. “Besides, exactly how many museums have you ever visited?”

His hand snaked around your waist and stayed there, pulling you gently into him. You felt the scent of oil, parchment, and coffee coming out of him along with a smile on his lips as he breathed you in and nuzzled up to your neck, the ghost of a kiss near your ear making you smile.

"Maybe you'd like to take me to some sometime."

"Sure, should I schedule that before or after your 24-hour shift in the lab?" You looked sideways at him, and he shook his head; a tired sigh was the only thing that came out of him, though.

“What is it anyway?” You felt him place his chin on your shoulders, and you grabbed his forearm, making soft circles on his skin. “Not the shape…the whole thing.”

“The core facets of the arcane.” He simply hummed, his fingers drawing lazily, stroking your waist as he swayed you both gently from side to side. “It is for a project I’m working on. But most of these we add to the hex gems for them to work.”

"And what is this project you are working on?" He shrugged.

"I cannot say. If it all goes well, it can change everything."

"Everything?" He nodded confidently. "Well, reaching for the stars, aren't we?"

"Well, funny enough, one of those symbols is for the moon." He traced a symbol in the air, and you realized that the bullets from the bullet list were, in fact, symbols.

“You need to get better at writing so that someone else can read it.” You squinted at the blackboard.

“Jayce can read it, and that's all that matters.” You felt him shrug nonchalantly.

If Viktor's words were a pain to read, the smaller scratches next to them were downright impossible to decipher.

“What are they? The facets I mean.”

He straightened up but didn’t move, only adjusting his crutch and his grip on you to find a good position. The back of your head rested against his chest, and you felt his slow breathing.

“The first are the natural facets: air, earth, fire, and water. Then the heavenly bodies: the moon and the sun. And then the forces of magic: chaos and order.”

“That’s eight of them. The dodecahedron has twelve sides. You finished the question with a kiss on his jaw.

“We are still trying to figure out the rest.”

“I guess you two have to do something inside this big room to warrant the absurd amount of money you are being given by the Academy.” You joked and looked at him as his eyes dropped to you disapprovingly. “I’m joking. Tell me more.”

“We have come to some conclusions.” He started, his voice becoming animated. “For example, magic in itself cannot kill or give life, because you cannot kill a rock or bring a rock to life. But if certain sediments find themselves in the right order, a rock can be created, the same way that if something chaotic happens in the process, the rock may not be a rock at all. It becomes corrupt.”

“Are we bribing a rock now?” You joked, and he moved his fingers on your waist, tickling you and making you shriek.

“Not that type of corruption. Think of it as any condition that can deteriorate something.”

“Why aren’t those two in there? Create and corrupt?”

“Chaos and order…”

“No…” you argued, lifting a finger to shush him. “Chaos and order are different things. Chaos doesn’t necessarily corrupt, and order doesn’t create. You can create through chaos and corrupt through order.”

Viktor stayed silent for a while, biting the inside of his cheek in contemplation. After a few minutes, he disentangled himself from you, and an impressed expression showed on his face, which you returned with a smug one. He walked over to the board and wrote what you assume were those two words with white chalk.

“If we add corruption as something that deteriorates…then we must add what deteriorates the most.” He pointed the chalk to you, and you raised your eyebrows. “Time.”

“If you add time, you might as well add space. Like... physical space... distances, dimensions, measurements, and whatnot.” You walked over to him, grabbed the chalk, and added your suggestion. "If you physically place a rock in a location with the right conditions, it can become a pebble."

“I’ll make a scientist out of you someday.” He grabbed your hand and placed the chalk on its little sill under the board.

“Yuck.” You grimaced dramatically. “And be stuck in this dark hole with y’all without getting the chance to leave whenever I want? Blah... thanks, I’ll pass.”

“I could make your time spent in this lab very much worth it." He took a small step towards you. "After hours, that is…”

You raised an eyebrow at his forwardness. This whole thing between you two was weeks long, and although Viktor's demeanor was a little cold and collected most of the time, he liked to throw these jabs just to see your reaction.

“Why spend that time at the lab when there's a perfectly good mansion?” You grinned, and he rolled his eyes jokingly.

Viktor’s cold hands came up to your face and held it, gently looking into your eyes with a loopy, tired smile, his thumbs caressing your cheekbones. He moved a piece of hair from your forehead, gently caressed the space between your brows, and placed a kiss there.

“What if it is just a little bedroom over at the Academy dorms?” He whispered into your ear, and you smiled, moving so you could look at him.

“It'll do, I guess...” You joked, and he laughed, grabbing your hand and moving you towards the workstation.

You saw him go around the lab turning machines off, placing schematics in drawers. He grabbed his satchel and placed a couple of those in there with his notebook and pencil.

Before walking out the door, you looked back at the board, still curious about that subject. Your neat handwriting in the middle of Viktor's.

'Space'

"Are you hearing me?" Viktor asked, snapping you out of your reverie.

"No... I never do really. I'm just here for the pretty face." He blushed and grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the lab, already rambling about the hexgate inauguration and how much he didn’t want to go.

• ··········· • ············ •

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#arcane #viktor #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #slow burn #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane x you #arcane reader

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kasha-formerlydrabbletastic · 1 year ago

Text

Single Blind Study

Eddie Munson x Reader x Steve Harrington

Word Count: 3k

Based on this prompt, originally by @stillgoingsteddie

Summary: After Steve and Eddie have discussed their fun times with the reader between themselves, they want to know who's the better lay.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Blindfolds. Fingering. Cunnilingus. P in V. Multiple partners.

"What is happening exactly?" you ask, your pulse picking up as Eddie's nimble fingers tie his bandana over your eyes. "You guys weren't really all that specific when you said you wanted to hang out."

"I suppose you could call it a trust experiment," answers Steve, sitting next to you as he pats your thigh.

Eddie snorts. "Experiment is a good word for it."

"But," Steve insists, "a good chunk of this is about trust, sweets. Eddie and I have been thinking, and talking."

You chuckle. "That's never a good thing."

Eddie gives your head a gentle shove when he finishes tying the bandana, muttering an amused "smartass" under his breath.

His weight shifts on the couch as he settles in, at the same time Steve is moving forward, seemingly kneeling before you.

"Do you trust us?" he asks, his hands on either of your knees.

Your hand lands on one of his, your fingers giving a gentle squeeze. "I'll trust you more when you actually tell me what's going on. Why am I not allowed to see?"

"Okay, here's the deal," Eddie says, scooting closer to your side; you feel his warmth through his jeans, his thigh pressed against yours as Steve's hands move from your knees up to your hips. Your body tingles in response to their touches, waiting in earnest for their explanation. "Though, full disclosure, we were kinda high when we started talking about this."

You snort. "When aren't you kinda high, Eds?"

"Get to the point," Steve says impatiently, thwacking Eddie on the knee. He offers a gentle apology to you as he caught your knee with the reproach, too.

"So, we were having a conversation the other day about how you and I have done the horizontal tango before and how you and Steve have also..."

"Fucked each other's brains out," Steve finishes, his fingertips gripping into your hips for a moment.

"Oh?" is all you say.

It's no secret between the three of you that you've opened yourself up physically for them both. It all started on a boring summer day last year while you and Eddie were waiting for Steve to get home from work. The two of you started talking about past experiences, and one thing led to another. Shortly after, Steve was lamenting another failed dating attempt, and you found yourself on his lap in his car after you dropped the kids off at the arcade. Since then, whenever the fancy struck you, or Eddie, or Steve, it was a given that you'd roll around in the sack together.

The images of either one naked and writhing under you, above you, behind you, moaning your name, hands all over your body stream through your mind, tingling through your bloodstream and straight to your core.

"We started comparing notes," Eddie continues, his tone getting softer as he moves closer to you; you feel his hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently.

"What notes are we talking about here?" you ask.

"Things you like, things you don't like," Steve begins. "What you sound like, what you look like."

"And weirdly enough, there's a few discrepancies we noticed," Eddie says.

"Yeah, like we both know you like to fuck in public," Steve says, "but for whatever reason you and I only fuck in the car in public, but with Eddie..."

"Dressing room at JC Penney's, movie theater, in the middle of a show at the Hideout, I could go on..."

You can hear Eddie's grin as your body heats up, remembering especially the night at the Hideout where he took you up against the wall with a full crowd around you.

"Steve, do you wanna fuck in more places?" you giggle, pressing your thighs together for just a little bit of friction.

"No," he says before he grumbles. "I mean yes, but that's not the point of this conversation."

"The point is, Steve and I compared notes about you," Eddie says, "but we don't know how we compare. I would say that some of our experiences match up, but there's not enough information to tell which of us fucks you better."

"Ooohhh," you reply. "So, you want me to just tell you about it? I can do that. Don't see what the point of the blindfold is."

"Nah, sweetheart," Eddie says. "This is more of a live comparison."

It takes a second, but as soon as the idea clicks, your body floods with arousal. Your tongue slips over your lips as you imagine what's to come, and you feel your cunt squeeze in anticipation.

"Right," you say after a steadying breath, "but why the blindfold?"

You can practically hear their smiles as they each take one of your hands into theirs.

"It's a proper single blind study," Steve said. "We're taking away some factors that might influence your decision making."

“We’re gonna watch in real time,” Eddie adds. “We’re gonna watch which one of us makes you feel better.”

Heat floods your body, the pulsing between your legs ticking up exponentially. Your heart pounds at the thought; you’ve never had both of them at the same time. Not that you’d never thought about it before, you just figured that it wasn’t necessarily something that they’d go for. But now, the opportunity of Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson fucking you simultaneously has arisen, and you have never been more up for anything in your life.

“One thousand percent yes,” you say, nearly stumbling over your words in your enthusiasm. “I would love to participate. Please, yes.”

“Told you she would, Harrington,” Eddie chuckles, and you hear another thump that could be Steve punching him on the shoulder.

“Alright, then,” Steve says. “Stand up, sweetheart.”

You follow the direction, getting to your feet as they hold onto your hands for support. With your other senses on alert as your vision is obscured, you finally notice that neither of them is wearing cologne, but they’re both possibly wearing the same deodorant. With their intentions bared, it makes sense; knowing their scents like you do would be a dead giveaway. Now that you think about it, both had also been cleanly shaven, no stubble on their cheeks to give either away. Even now, you're realizing Eddie wasn't even wearing his rings.

“Strip,” Eddie commands gently.

Your shirt comes off first and you drop it to the couch, the boys humming in appreciation.

“I might need some help with this bra,” you say, feigning helplessness. “Would one of you gentleman want to give me a hand?”

At once, there’s a pair of hands at your back that unhook the clasp as another pair slips the straps from your shoulders. The boys are just as needy as you are it seems, wanting to touch you in anyway they can. If only you had been there for their conversation about you, to hear their comparisons, and how you turn each of them on. With your tits on display, you feel your nipples pebble at the thought of each one being suckled by a different mouth, a different tongue swirling over the sensitive buds.

“God, these tits,” you hear Eddie groan, and you smile.

“The shorts next?” you say with the same faux helplessness.

Someone’s fingers tug at the button and zipper of your shorts before yanking them down your legs.

“Wait,” Eddie says, “didn’t I rip those panties off of you at the carnival that one time?”

“I bought her a new pair,” Steve answers. “Those are her favorite. Also… at the carnival?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies, “we fucked on the Ferris wheel. That little mini skirt she was wearing drove me insane.”

You feel Steve pull you close, getting a gentle grip on your jaw as he directs your face to his. “We are fucking in more places, you hear me? I want to fuck you on a Ferris wheel.”

“Anywhere you want, Stevie,” you giggle, rolling onto your toes to press your mouth to his, but he doesn’t let you.

“Not yet,” he directs, pressing on your shoulders to get you onto solid footing.

You feel Eddie’s fingers grip the lacy panties you wear, pulling them down your legs and helping you step out of them. You hear him inhale deeply and you know for damn sure that Eddie just sniffed those panties.

“I’m tucking these away,” you hear him say.

“Don’t ruin those, too,” Steve replies quickly.

“Before you sit back down though,” Eddie says, changing the subject; you can hear his belt unbuckle, sliding through the loops on his jeans as he tugs it free. “We gotta make sure your hands are tucked away nice and safe so they don’t touch anything.”

“Why can’t I touch anything?” you counter, almost whiny in your inquiry.

“Well,” Eddie says, turning you around, looping his belt around your wrists, “it’s safe to say that there are definitive differences to the way me and Steve feel. Our hair feels different, our bodies feel different. You gotta remember this is a blind study and you’re not entirely blind if you can still use your hands.”

He guides you gently to the couch, making sure your hands are tucked carefully behind you. You get comfortable, listening to the rustle of their clothes as they strip, too.

“How are you that hard already?” you hear Steve gripe.

Eddie chuckles. “Like you’re one to talk. I’m surprised you haven’t cum yet.”

“If it helps,” you giggle, “I’m probably wetter than I’ve ever been right now.”

“Don’t make it worse, babe,” Steve replies. “Can’t wait to get into that pussy.”

“You’re telling me,” Eddie agrees.

“Now, one of us is gonna start,” Steve explains. “All you need to do is sit back, relax, and enjoy it.”

“How are you gonna figure out who goes first?” you say, but they’ve already gone into a game of Rock, Paper, Scissor, and you laugh. Best two out of three and they’re mum as to who won. You listen for any clues at all, anything that might give away the identity of who is about to please you, but it seems they’ve covered all their bases.

Neither of the boys speak, but you feel a hand on your knee as someone kneels before you, spreading your legs wide. The mystery man exhales before running a finger between your dewy lips, stopping to rub your clit gently.

“Oh, fuck,” you sigh, relief at finally being touched warming your core.

Two fingers slide into you, slowly pumping to get you started. Your restrained hands clench behind your back, eager to touch the one touching you, but instead, you simply moan, widening your legs to give him better access.

He continues, not making a single sound but the one his fingers make pumping in and out of your soaking wet cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” you keen as he begins to curl his finger against your G-spot, pressing harder on your clitoris as you squirm beneath his touch; he quickens his speed, listening to your body as it nears climax. “I’m so close… oh, fuck me…”

Your cunt squeezes his fingers before releasing with an orgasm, your body twitching as ride out the high.

You haven’t even begun to come down from that one before he hitches your legs over his shoulders and leans in, his tongue lapping up the mess he made with his hands. While this may be a classic Eddie move, you’re confused by the fact that you don’t feel his hair on your thighs. He must have pulled it all back for the experiment, but there are other ways to tell that it’s him.

He always grips your thighs with his callused guitarist’s fingers, pulling them apart to fit his head between your legs. His tongue lingers in your hole, dancing with the nectar that drips from you. When he’s satisfied, he glides along to your clit, lapping with the whole tongue before teasing it with the tip. He winds you up and you writhe beneath him, whimpering as the grip of another orgasm threatens to take over.

“Fuck, yes!” you nearly shout as he doubles down, coaxing that climax from you; your body shudders, ecstasy coursing through every vein. Your thighs clench around his head, your feet scrabbling to pull him closer to you.

The mystery man - presumably Eddie - pulls away shortly after, though, taking with him a whimper from your lips as he leaves.

It's not long, though, until you feel a pair of hips bumping against your thighs, spreading them apart once again. The hard tip of a cock tickles your heat, gliding up and down before notching into your entrance. Slowly, he enters, spearing through you until he's fully seated and your chest heaves with a satisfied sigh. He stays there, stretching your pussy as his thumb presses against your clit.

"Move!" you demand, hardly able to take the anticipation of waiting. "Please, fuck me!"

At once, he rears back, almost exiting you before he slams back in again. A moan dances from your lips as he enters a rhythm, steadily splitting you wide open with every thrust. His thumb still plays with your clit, tightening the coil in your belly as he circles it. You moan again, your body bouncing as his hips slam your ass.

You wrap your legs around Eddie's waist - you'd know that slutty little waist anywhere, especially between your legs - and he responds; keeping his thumb on your clit, the rest of his hands splay out over your hips, gripping you as his rhythm quickens. You grin, knowing damn well he's close to finishing.

Your cunt throbs, so close to a climax that you can practically taste it. With just the right stroke, you burst, ecstasy spilling down to the very tips of your limbs and back before you're suddenly empty.

He strokes himself above you, trying so hard not to make a sound as he spurts onto your belly.

You lay back on the couch, your chest rising and falling with hurried breaths before he pulls away.

"Oh!" you say, surprised when the next body takes his place and bends over you, running his tongue along the mess on your skin.

Bold of Steve to do so, you wouldn't have expected it of him.

Before you can say anything, however, he presses his fingers into your pulsing heat, drawing a moan from you as he massages your g-spot. He meets your lonely clit with his finger tips, not circling like Eddie would, but keeping a steady back and forth rhythm. It isn't long before he pulls the orgasm from your writhing body, overstimulated but basking in every minute of too much ecstasy.

Steve doesn't stop, though, leaning forward and lapping at your clit. He's hungrier than usual, seemingly rushing through his usually thorough routine of getting you off. His free hand grips your thigh open, his fingertips pressing into your flesh.

"Fuck," you sigh, making to move your arms and forgetting they're tied by Eddie's belt.

Your hips press up the closer your climax comes, wriggling against Steve as he brings you to a swift orgasm.

"Give me your cock," you moan after a spell and, on command, you feel him slip inside your soaking cunt, stretching you just as much as Eddie did.

Steve is definitely impatient, not teasing you like Eddie had, but getting straight to the point; his hips slam against your ass like he'll never be able to fuck you again as his hands grip your hips, holding you steady. You wrap your legs around him too, his body a little thicker than Eddie's.

"Yes," you gasp, growing closer to your next orgasm.

Like he's conditioned at this point, Steve's fingers find your clit again, pressing on it until you squeeze around him, moans dancing through the air from your mouth. He must think you can't hear him with all the noise you make, but he whimpers almost imperceptibly as he pulls out of you, his spend joining Eddie's on your tummy.

It's almost dream-like, the way your head swirls; you couldn't see a thing but your boys had you going like they've never done before.

"Okay, babes," you hear Eddie say, close to you. You feel his hands wrap around your head to relieve you of your blindfold. "There are those pretty eyes."

You blink against the light of the room, opening your eyes to see your boys head-to-toe naked, both with their hair pulled back. Eddie is standing close to Steve now, his cock hard once more. Steve's cock, on the other hand, is taking a well-deserved rest.

"Well, if I didn't know already, I definitely know now," you say with a giggle.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, glancing at Eddie.

You point to Eddie's member. "If Eddie would've just finished he wouldn't be hard like he is right now."

Both their gazes aim for Eddie's dick.

"Okay," Eddie says, "but who was better?"

"What do you mean if you didn't know before?" Steve asks at the same time.

You sit up, allowing Eddie to remove his belt from your wrists. Steve picks up the discarded bandanna and cleans your tummy of the come.

"Eddie's a guitarist," you state simply. "His calluses gave him away almost instantly."

Eddie looks at his hands like they've betrayed him, then wraps one around his erection.

"Honestly," he says, "watching Harrington go at you was probably one of the hottest things I've ever seen. Not to mention, he licked my jizz off your stomach, babes."

"I was trying to throw her off," Steve says defensively. "I thought maybe she would think it was you licking my jizz."

"You want me to lick your jizz, Stevie?" Eddie teases, wiggling his tongue at him.

Steve seems to consider it for a moment before you pop in.

"The next person to say 'jizz' gets a beating. And not the fun kind."

"Seriously, though," Steve says, lowering to the couch next to you. "Who was better?"

The two look at you expectantly, each one eager to hear their name, but you can't let them have that satisfaction. A wicked grin pulls your lips toward your ears.

"Well," you say. "I can't decide."

"What?" they say together.

"We're just gonna have to keep studying, I guess."

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things

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assortedvillainvault · 6 months ago

Note

Hello. Can I ask Lord Shen, NOS-4-A2, Horned King and Dr. Facilier with very smart but shy S/O?

Greetings Tumblr citizen, you most certainly can!! Love the variety here! Lowkey this was one of my favourites to write so I hope you like it!

Villains x SmartbutShy!S/O

Lord Shen

Oh? So you do talk.

You pointed out a discrepancy in the cannon’s design vs the quantity of gunpowder needed to shoot the given ammunition without careening backwards and killing the gunwolves – and all he could do was blink at you.

You spend all day hiding from the court, only to sneak in and tell him - to his face - that his weaponry was unfit for purpose, then propose a solution before he has time to open his beak??

...Are you engaged to anyone? Because if not he’s happy to remedy that-

As soon as your genius becomes apparent you go from barely present in Shen’s mind to a pillar of focus. He’s never met anyone so easily able to cut through the mess of mechanical and logistical issues of such vast quantities of metalwork – besides himself of course.

That you fall apart under any form of social pressure is...worrying however. China’s social hierarchy is a vicious thing, and such shyness is a weakness in even the most prosperous of courts – never mind his own.

He’s getting you a tutor. He cannot allow you to make an enemy within his walls when you are so closely intertwined. His word means much now that he’s killed most who would go against it, but he cannot protect you from everyone.

NOS4A2

Oh scrap and damn it all-!

It’s all he can do not to smash the unresponsive controls, and instead whizzes off into the rafters for a sulk to brood.

This ship was fried. It was charged enough to get somewhere, but if he couldn’t pinpoint a heading then he might as well be stranded on a stray asteroid instead of a merchant class vessel, for all the good it would do him.

He rolls his optics and pouts as a crewmember comes rushing in, unaware as he idly sizes them up from his vantage point. Not a droid. Stuck and he can’t even snack. Heinous.

He recognises you. The little one who didn’t talk much. It was a wonder the bigger crew members hadn’t accidentally sat on you for all you seemed able to disappear in to the background.

He all but jolts as you give the console a WHAM and everything comes online again – and gawps delightedly as your little fingers fly over the display, resetting coordinates and triangulating their position in 3D space, manually.

He wasn’t expecting such a solid grasp of intergalactic maps & positioning to come from someone who can barely string a sentence together! What a lovely surprise!!

You turn with an aborted shriek as he swoops down and clamps a hand over your mouth, grinning. The doors short circuit and slam shut with a bang, leaving him to loom over you as he idly tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Hello dear~” he purrs, chuckling as your eyes go wide. “Fancy being helpful?”

Horned King

A kindred spirit?? Finally.

He abhors unnecessary social interaction, so to find someone else who operates on the same principle is a breath of fresh air in his long, stale existence.

He's spent so long with only beasts, thickwitted huntsmen and Creeper for company that to see someone so clearly intelligent was almost a shock. The quiet, assesing draw in your eyes was what made him stop and consider you as someone of interest.

...Y’know, once he actually managed to speak to you. Crippling shyness on your end, a lack of patience for the living on his…

He perceives everybody in his lands as something to be used, and you are, unfortunately, no different no matter how many soft feelings you insist on wringing out of his dessicated black heart. Such a spark as yours cannot be wasted. But you are not suited for the battlefield.

It seems you might have a knack for statecraft, if the frankly boggling rate at which you read is any indication. You have an ability to catch loopholes and find solutions that actually help him run his ramshackle forces, and keep the castle running smoothly.

It turns out you are invaluable - and prone to making little nooks of book towers and blankets in his library. Which is adorable.

But only when reading. Spoken word renders you so anxious you can miss important details and become a doormat. A pity. But not an insurmountable issue.

Until they rot, his ears and mouth work perfectly well. You can be his sweet little shadow, and he the face of things.

He'd have it no other way, honestly.

Dr. Facilier

Now darlin, why so shy?

He’s watched you scurry away from his table more times than he can count. He gets the feeling that you’d cross over three streets and the river if you could, to avoid catching his eye on the way to work.

And yet… you always pass by. Watching as he shuffles his cards.

He’s mid scam on some hapless tourist, fingers deftly spinning though tricks as he pulls them into a tidy little scheme, when he catches you watching intently from the side.

Your eyes twitch down to his left sleeve. If he’d have been less of a showman he’d have frozen.

You sneaky little card counter – he tries a couple different tricks, catching where your eyes narrow as he slips cards under the table, into pockets and swaps coins out with dazzle enough to bamboozle even the slickest citygoer.

Your eyes track every single one.

Damn. He has GOT to get you on side. Can’t have such a cute clever thing like you out where he can’t see you…

He ignores the fact that his shadow has been leering at you for weeks and already knows where you live. Give a man some leeway if he likes to hear a cute little thing squeak when they trip over ‘nothing’ once in a while.

And it’s even cuter when he steps from the shadows and smoothly slips you under his arm.

After all! He couldn’t help but notice you don’t seem to have many friends, cher. And he can absolutely help you with that…

#thalassa responds #thank you so much for this ask!!#I had a BLAST writing this!!#smart but shy is a favourite self insert theme of mine #x reader #dr facilier #disney villains #disney villains x reader #dr facilier x reader #the horned king #the horned king x reader #nos4a2 #blosc #nos4a2 x reader #lord shen #kfp #kfp lord shen #lord shen x reader #shyness is going to be taken advantage of ruthlessly by any villain and I'm more than happy for them to take it from there

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hoodoo12 · 10 months ago

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Bad Date (2/2)

The conclusion. Beetlejuice takes his reward.

NSFW. Beetlejuice x f!reader

You’d walked home arm in arm with Beetlejuice, but he didn’t follow you inside once you were through your door.

“Gotta get rid of this thing,” he explained, holding up the baby sandworm he’d carried back from the restaurant.

He hadn’t crushed it under his heel, like he wanted to, because of your gasp of horror--“It’s just a baby!”--but he also refused to let you keep it even though you thought it was sort of cute in a look-but-don’t-touch-it kind of way.

“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable, baby,” he continued, “and I’ll be back in a wink.”

You didn’t know how long a trip to Saturn actually took, but you agreed eagerly. You were so glad he’d come to your rescue!

Beetlejuice was gone between one blink and the next, and you locked your door behind you.

⁂

Something more comfortable, huh? You knew what he had in mind. You kicked off your heels and shed your dress. Your bra and panty set was lacy but plain pink. Digging through your drawers, you found a matching set that was black and silk, which would be more to his fancy. You debated a garter belt and stockings; most guys seemed to like them but Beetlejuice wasn’t most guys, and lots of time they were more in the way than worth it.

In the end you decided against them. Maybe you'd wear them in the future for him.

You sat, then stood, then sat again. You were full of nervous energy and just wanted him to get back from dumping that sandworm. Then, just when you thought maybe you should get a robe because you were getting chilly, he reappeared.

He looked just as put out as he did when you summoned him in the restaurant’s restroom, and he was covered in a fine layer of yellow dust.

“You’re back!” you said happily, redundantly.

Beetlejuice didn’t seem as elated as you were. “Gods, it’s been a solid day and a half since I sat down,” he groaned.

That didn’t make any sense to you; less than forty minutes ago he’d been sitting at your table at the restaurant, threatening your date. The hard expression on his face didn’t give you any room to mention that discrepancy, however.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you said instead.

He nodded, and looked over at you as if seeing you standing there for the first time. His eyes skipped down your mostly naked body, and a smirk slid oily across his face. It wasn’t the most pleasant expression.

“Oh. Right. This,” he said, and that wasn’t reassuring, either.

You opened your mouth to ask what the hell was going on; from what he’d said and how he’d looked you over you thought he’d wanted some action, but he continued before you could say anything.

“You said you owed me. Back at the restaurant, for saving you from that d-bag. Right?”

You had to agree.

The smirk on his lips lifted to a leer that showcased some of his sharper teeth. “And remember? I told you not to go on that date.”

That made you frown a little; it toed the line of possessiveness.

“You refuse to put a name to what we have, Beej, so there’s no reason for me not to think about dating other people!” you retorted, a little sharply.

Your response made him drop his chin and examine you from under his brows. It made you feel like you were under a microscope; it made him look a little dangerous. You didn’t cow away under his intense gaze, however; although you could feel one hand start to tremble, you stood your ground.

Finally he said, “Well then, baby, I think a little punishment is in order, don’t you?”

You wanted to snap something sharp back at him again, but a bolt of cold, then hot, fell and rose in your gut. Some of your sexual encounters with Beetlejuice were hard, simple fucking with few niceties or gentle romantic gestures, but nothing had ever stepped over the line into “punishment” territory. Did he mean spanking? Did he mean he expected you to suck his dick hard and exactly how he wanted it, with lots of spit and gasping for air like in a porno?

Or was it something even more?

You couldn’t deny that although a bit of worry wormed through you, it excited you too.

Beetlejuice didn’t seem to care you hadn’t answered him. In your silence he boldly looked you over again and said,

“That’s not bad, but--”

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, and your bra and panties went from solid black to black and white striped. You should have known. He snapped his fingers and between one breath and the next you were suddenly on your bed, flat on your back. The blankets and top sheet had disappeared, and so had your pillows. Beetlejuice stood at the end of the bed, fully clothed, and staring down at you.

You moved to sit up.

“No. Nope!” he corrected you immediately, and an invisible hand forced you back down.

“I won’t make these too tight, babydoll,” he assured you, and before you could protest or ask what, exactly, he meant by that, your arms were stretched above your head and your wrists were held firmly by skeletal hands that appeared out of your headboard.

“Hey! Beej!” you exclaimed, slightly alarmed. You twisted against the restraint, a little.

In a flash, he was beside you on the mattress instead of standing at your feet. He leaned in close enough that you could smell the dirt on his breath, but not close enough to kiss you. He grabbed one of your wrists lightly, stilling your movement.

“Trust me,” he said in a low voice. It was almost, almost, a question.

You searched his face, especially his eyes, but despite the unexpected restraint and his announcement of “punishment” earlier, you didn’t find anything malicious hiding there. You couldn’t deny you were a little concerned, but you did trust him. So you nodded.

A quick, pleased smile flitted across his face, and he let your wrist go. The hands kept you in place.

“Now. I think one more thing would be a good idea--”

The last thing you saw was him lifting one eyebrow in your direction again before a blindfold covered your eyes.

Although surprised, you stopped yourself from crying out this time. From the weight and feel of the fabric on your face, you guessed it was his tie.

The mattress shifted as Beetlejuice got off the bed. Blinded and restrained, you didn’t know where he was in the room. He could still be beside you, at the foot of the bed again, or floating right above you! The unknown made you shiver a little, and it was hard to tell if it was in worry or anticipation.

You waited.

And waited.

There was no sound of movement; no creak of a floorboard or subtle rustling of his clothing. There was nothing touching you. You felt suspended, with no stimulus but the mattress under you, the bony fingers holding your wrists, and the slightly moldy smelling cloth draped over your eyes. It was hard to relax when you didn’t know what to expect.

You waited some more.

Suddenly a horrible thought ambushed you.

What if Beetlejuice put you in this position, making you feel exposed and vulnerable, and then he just left you here?!

There was still no sound of anyone else in the room. He didn’t breathe and could be as quiet . . . well, as quiet as the dead when he wanted to be.

The same dread thought rushed through your mind again. Did he leave you here alone? Was this the punishment he meant?!

You pulled against the skeletal restraints but they held you fast. You tossed your head back and forth to try and loosen the blindfold. Gulping and tasting the beginnings of panic, you weren’t too proud or embarrassed to call for him. You opened your mouth to ask where he was, yell, demand to know what was going on--

Before the words came, a finger slipped between your lips.

You were so surprised you let your mouth hang open for a moment. The finger moved past your teeth and nudged your tongue. It had a mild flavor that you imagined dust might taste like, and you didn’t let yourself think about it any further than that. A second finger dipped into your slack jaw, and with two of them pressing your tongue you closed your mouth on them and sucked.

A short chuckle came from somewhere to your left. At least you knew where he was now.

Parting his fingers with your tongue, you gave them both attention. When he must have felt they were sufficiently wet, he dislodged them. You nipped the tips of them as they retreated back past your teeth, and Beetlejuice made a slightly deeper noise.

For a second you were disconnected again, then his fingers moved down the side of your neck, to the hollow between your collar bones, to between your breasts, leaving a drying trail of spit in their wake.

He lifted them, and you found them against your lips again. You opened your mouth with no reluctance for him.

His fingers rooted in your mouth once more, and again you sucked and licked them. This time when he pulled away a thin moan escaped you, following after them. He repeated the trail he’d made the first time on the opposite side of your neck and down, ending at the fabric holding your bra together in the front.

There was a beat of a pause, and finally the mattress shifted as he joined you, crawling up between your legs.

You thought he was on your left?

Never mind. You automatically hooked your legs around him and earned a “tsk” in displeasure in return. The next thing you knew, thin bony hands grabbed your ankles and your legs were straightened and spread to accommodate him without your needy demand.

Spread-eagled before him made you feel even more exposed, but at least you knew where he was now.

Beetlejuice must have settled on his knees because you could feel only feel the outer fabric of his trousers between your legs. Then his hands were on you: stroking your sides from armpit to hips, pinching occasionally. It both tickled and made your skin warm, and you wiggled a little under the caress. It didn’t feel like he was sitting back on his heels. You couldn’t quite picture the posture he was in; he must be straining over you, holding himself at an awkward angle so no other part of his body touched you--

When his hands left your sides and cupped your breasts, giving you a sharper pinch through the fabric of your bra, you gave up trying to figure out what position he was in.

He stroked your chest in long movements too. You were frustrated by the lack of skin on skin contact before he was, and had to endure him playing with your tits but not actually stimulating them exactly how you liked for much longer than you wanted. By the time he was bored with it too, your nipples were hard and the fabric brushing against them hurt a little.

Luckily, Beetlejuice wasn’t known for never-ending patience. Just as you were going to tell him to hurry up, already--and damn the consequences--you heard the faintest snapping of his fingers and suddenly, your tits were free and exposed.

The sudden brush of cooler air made you nipples tighten even more, and once again you heard a chuckle from him.

His fingers closed around them. After the muted stimulation, that touch was like an electrical shock and you arched towards him with a gasp. He rolled and pulled them gently, continuing to make you gasp, and when the mattress shifted again and his mouth closed over one of them, you bucked and moaned.

Beetlejuice’s tongue and mouth weren’t room temperature, but not warm either. The shock of him taking a nipple into his wet mouth made you involuntarily try to reach down and grab his head, but you were held in place by the restraints. This time you felt him laugh at your aborted effort, and he sucked at you until you writhed and cried out. He continued to play with the other one, then switched to give them both the same attention.

Each suck and nibble sent pleasure down your body, where it settled deep in your gut and groin. You couldn’t help but want friction between your legs, but Beetlejuice wasn’t touching you there and your thighs were held apart. That built a different frustration in you.

Finally, he released you from the torment he’d given your now-tender nipples. Before you could say anything, his mouth found a patch of skin lower on your rib cage that it liked, and he sucked there too.

He kissed and licked and sucked his way over your torso, once darting up to your neck to latch on there. You felt the pressure of his teeth indent the thin skin and turned your head, not to displace him, but to give him freer access to the spot. As you did, he stilled completely and you froze too. Arousal tempered with a drop of fear swirled through you; you wondered what was going through his mind?

Beetlejuice didn’t break your skin. The intent was there, you could tell. Instead, after that long moment of anticipation, he released you.

You were panting as you turned your head back upright again. You could feel he hadn’t moved away, and a slight breath on your face clued you in that he panted as well. Some of his breather habits came to the surface in situations like this. You couldn’t see him, of course, but thought that if you lifted your head up off the mattress you’d find his mouth.

He obviously didn’t want you to move; if you dared try to kiss him, what would he do next? Would another skeletal hand come from nowhere to cross your forehead and pin your head to the mattress?

You decided not to risk it.

Beetlejuice’s hands roamed down your body again, and just as you felt him shift to move away again, his tongue licked a vertical stripe up over your lips. It startled you and you gasped; the tip of it darted inside for a split second but before you could open your mouth more for a proper kiss, it was gone again. The next noise you made was a sigh of disappointment as he continued to work his way back down your body.

He gave you the same attention as before. Sucking. Licking. Nipping. There wasn’t a spot on your front that he hadn’t lavished some attention on. A faint odor of stale saliva drifted to you from the amount of spit he’d coated you with, but you didn’t care. You wiggled under him, gasped and moaned, and tried to nudge him further down. You wanted him and his mouth between your legs.

Even though he hadn’t done anything--not even cupped you, not even dragged a solitary finger along the fabric of your panties, not even come close enough that you could feel his clothing brush you there--your pussy felt hot. You were wet. You just wanted this teasing to stop and for him to pay some attention there--

As if reading your mind, Beetlejuice shifted and plopped himself down between your legs. He was no longer on his knees but on his stomach; you could feel his--unclothed? When did that happen?--shoulders pushing your thighs further apart. His fingernails dug under the top edge of your panties.

When you lifted your hips so he could pull them off you--gods how you wanted him to pull them off you, or make them disappear like your bra, or something--he let the elastic snap back into place.

You groaned.

You didn’t care any more. You were going to beg him--

Beetlejuice’s mouth covered your pussy.

His hands kept you grounded by holding your hips. He didn’t strip you naked; he mouthed and licked and sucked you through your panties. The silk became heavy and soaked completely through with the combination your wetness and his spit, and the smooth feel of the fabric between your clit and his tongue made you writhe.

You cried out. You pulled against the restraints, all of them, you wanted to grab his head, you wanted to squeeze him with your thighs to hold him in place, you wanted him to suck your clit so hard, you wanted him to push aside your panties and shove those fingers that had been in your mouth into your pussy--you wanted not just that but his tongue and his cock inside you--

Your cries turned to sobs as he teased you. Bliss ratcheted higher and higher in your gut. Even with sodden fabric preventing direct contact between the two of you, you were going to come. Your throat tightened, your limbs shook with the force of the tension you used straining against the hands holding you back. Your hips canted instinctually to provide him better access and that first spark of an orgasm rippled through you--

Beetlejuice stopped.

All touching ceased. His mouth was no longer against the wet mess your panties had become. You hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping your hips until his hands were off you too.

The abrupt lack of contact made you cry out in a different voice, filled with distress and bafflement. For a moment your body arched towards him, still seeking stimulation. You couldn’t hold the position for long, pulling against the restraints, however, and you flopped back to the mattress with another sob.

Your body shifted as Beetlejuice moved over one of your legs to be beside you. The movement made air current drift over your body and you shivered due to the sweat that had broken out over you.

This was not what you expected when he said “punishment”. You could have accepted and even gotten into a spanking. You would have been okay with him using you like a slut. But a tormenting tease with no finale? It was almost too cruel.

A finger hooked under your blindfold and pushed it away. You felt too weak and disappointed to thank him for removing it. You just wanted the bony hands on your wrists and ankles to be spirited away as well, so you could curl into a fetal position and try to will your body to forget all the pleasure it’d just been subjected to and then denied. You imagined that Beetlejuice was going to tell you that he was leaving and that you weren’t allowed to touch yourself; he’d be watching and if you brought yourself to orgasm he’d probably be devious enough to repeat what he did tonight the next time you got together with him too.

When you opened your eyes, however, the sight that greeted you wasn’t what you expected.

Beetlejuice was naked, as you’d surmised, coated in a thin layer of sweat, like you. The yellow dust that had been on his clothing had left a thin coating on his neck. His hair was wilder than normal, and his lips were shiny as he mimicked breathing through his mouth. His pupils were blown in deep arousal. His erection pressed heavily into your side.

Once again, he interrupted you as you opened your mouth to say something to him. With his lips near your ear, he groaned in a guttural voice,

“This was supposed to be punishment. A punishment! For you and me. Neither of us was going to get off, neither of us deserve it--”

He choked his own words off with another wordless groan as he involuntarily rutted against you.

You tried to wrap your head around what he just said. You weren’t quite able to.

“Beej, just . . . what?” you panted.

His lips found your neck and ear and he dragged his tongue along your skin. He continued to caress you sloppily between words.

“It was supposed to be punishment for both of us, baby,” he groaned. “You for going out on a goddamn date and me for not telling you I want you for my-goddamned-self. I want you, baby, I don’t want you seeing anyone else. I wanted to get you so hot and bothered and then stop, just for a tease, just to show you there's no one but me who can make you feel so good, but the sounds you made and the taste of you--fuck--I’m so fucking turned on I just want to fuck you so much right now--”

His voice rose to a desperate, needy whine at the last word. You were so wet between your legs you didn’t know it was possible to get even wetter, but heat surged through you again.

“Beej, Beej--” you croaked to get his attention. When he lifted his face to yours you said in the same desperate tone, “I learned my lesson. Did you learn yours?”

“Fuck, baby. Shit. Yeah!”

You looked him dead in the eyes. “Then get these hands off me and fuck me.”

At your demand, a surprised then lecherous smile broke over his face. He kissed you properly then, his tongue diving into your mouth and stealing your breath. The next second your arms and legs were released and you dragged him bodily on top of you. With his weight pressing you down you tried to shimmy out of your dripping panties; with a flicking motion of his finger Beetlejuice assisted and made them disappear as well.

With one hand grabbing the back of his head and the other gripping his waist, you didn’t release him or his mouth as he reached between the two of you, adjusted himself and pushed forward, filling you in a single, delicious thrust with his cock. You cried out; he did too with a deeper noise, and he set a frantic, blistering pace that would have not worked if you hadn’t been so thoroughly aroused from all the provocation he’d graced you with.

Your pussy felt hot, slick, and tight. The friction was glorious and you didn’t check yourself as your fingernails dug into him. Usually this rough and swift thrusting was enough to undo him first, but this was exactly what you needed to make your nerve-endings explode again.

You came with a sustained cry, locking your legs around him to keep him deep inside you.

Beetlejuice rocked his hips a little, instinctually, but held mostly still as you were lost in waves of pleasure. Just as you were coming back to the surface and opened your eyes to focus on him again, his brow furrowed and he pushed forward, harder into you, moaning with an open mouth as he came too.

You were shaking. He was shaking. It took several moments for you to catch your breath and will your hands and legs to open enough to let him go. It took him an extra moment to unglue himself from your belly and torso. You noticed the palm that had held the back of his neck was coated with that yellow grime, but you couldn’t make yourself care. Carefully he sat back, and you groaned in a combination of pleasure and disappointment as his cock slipped out of you.

Beetlejuice crawled over your leg and collapsed on the mattress beside you.

The two of you lay panting in euphoric exhaustion. You may have made a mistake going out with some random guy, but the evening couldn’t have ended any better. You turned to face Beetlejuice, to thank him for coming to your rescue and for the best punishment you’d ever received.

Just as you opened your mouth, your stomach growled. He looked at you with a smirk, so you slapped him lightly on the chest.

“I didn’t actually get to eat dinner, remember?” you informed him, instead of telling him the things you meant to. You sat up, swung your feet over the side of the bed, and stood up. As you made your way to the door, you asked, “You want anything from the kitchen?”

“Nope. I don’t like seeing you leave, but I love watching you go.”

You threw an eye roll over your shoulder at him but didn’t hide your grin. You could thank him later, and you were sure he knew how you felt anyway.

fin!

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice x reader #writing #fanfiction

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nevadancitizen · 3 months ago

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-> CH. 3: THE WEALTHY WOMAN’S BURDEN

synopsis: jayce takes you to meet a councilor friend of his. she's loaded and you're not, but despite the glaring discrepancies, you do your best to strike a deal.

word count: 4.7k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: i woke up this morning and my index finger was FUCKED UP it's like BENT a good five to seven degrees to the right (painful) so writing may be like a little slower while i figure out what this is ┐(´•_•`)┌

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

It’s been about a week since you came through the hexportal. (Jayce decided that it had a nice ring to it, despite both you and Viktor’s protests that it most certainly did not.) You’re settling in nicely; you’ve organized your dorm sufficiently, you’ve gotten on well enough with Viktor and Jayce, and you’ve met a wonderful young lady named Miss Sky Young, who happens to be their lab assistant.

Viktor was very kind to arrange a blackboard to be delivered to your place. You’ve wanted to work out a cipher between English and Piltovan, but just haven’t had the time yet. The book he left on your kitchen peninsula still taunts you each time you pass by it. You don’t even know its title, or who it’s written by. It frustrates you, like it’s an itch you can’t scratch – yet.

You’ll learn Piltovan. You’re illiterate now, but you just need to learn. And you’re a hell of a learner! Well, at least that’s what you tell yourself when the book almost seems to stare at you when you’re fixing a meal. It’s almost like it’s saying, ‘Look! Look at me, with your uneducated eyes. You live in Piltover now, you’ve gotta speak Piltovan!’

But that’s not important right now. What is important is how the collar on this fancy outfit is supposed to look… Is it supposed to be tall, or are you supposed to fold it down? You’re not too sure. This entire outfit is a bit alien to you, and your university has a fashion program. You’re used to seeing fancy outfits that look a little (or a lot) ‘out there,’ but you’re not used to wearing them.

“Jayce,” you call through the bathroom door. “I – I appreciate the thought, I really do, but… do I really need to wear this to meet her?”

“I’m sure you look nice,” Jayce says, his voice muffled. “Besides, we’ll be wearing matching colors. We need to present as a united front.”

“United front,” you mumble under your breath. You lean over the sink, closer to the mirror, and adjust the oxblood ascot-tie-thing that’s around your neck. “What are we, married?”

A few minutes later, you step out of the bathroom. A smile spreads over Jayce’s face as he takes you in.

Your outfit does, in fact, match his. You’re wearing a mirror of his outfit, almost: a white button-down with a muted red vest, along with freshly-pressed grey slacks and the oxblood ascot-tie-thing (you’re not sure how else to describe it). You insisted on just cleaning up your boots and wearing those because you didn’t want Jayce spending any more money on you. (It makes you feel weird, being indebted to him like this, but he said that since his and Viktor’s technology brought you into Piltover, he and Viktor are responsible for meeting your needs.)

“See?” He says. “You look nice.”

You wrinkle your nose up and force a smile. “Uh-huh. Sure don’t feel nice to be dressed in it.”

Jayce rolls his eyes, still smiling, and leads you out of your dorm. You barely have time to pick up your bag before he damn near drags you out.

The Academy is big and winding, with many halls that lead in loops, hidden shortcuts, and passages that seem to lead to nowhere. You’re glad to have him as a guide – you’re sure that if you got lost, it’d be worse than Christ’s fast of forty days and forty nights.

Finally, the sunlight of early day meets your skin as you step outside. You smile and bring your hand up to block the sun from your eyes. It’s nice and warm without the oppressive humidity you’re used to.

“You gonna show me ‘round your rich city?” You ask Jayce.

He touches your shoulder lightly to keep you walking alongside him. “Maybe we can do that another time. I made an appointment with the Councilor, and I don’t want to miss it.”

You quicken your pace to catch up with him, then slow your walk to match his. Your eyes are stuck on the tall structures that surround you – never before have you been so close to such wonderful, artistic architecture. It almost looks Victorian or Edwardian, in a way. The people sure dress fancy enough to be from those eras. Maybe some of them are?

But the giant boom of a hexgate firing negates that thought. You’re not quite used to it yet, but Jayce explained that the sound was not, in fact, a gunshot, but just the sound of modern transportation. It’s like Piltover is some steampunk’s wet dream come to life: a near-perfect display of retrofuturism. New, freshly-pioneered technology mixed with old-world cogs and steam.

A thought comes to mind. “How old is Piltover, exactly?”

“We just celebrated the two-hundredth anniversary of its founding a few years ago,” Jayce says. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, that’s all,” you say. “The buildin’s look old. I’m not sayin’ they look unimpressive, just that they got a little age on ‘em.”

“You think these are impressive?” He laughs breathily. “Just wait ‘til you see her estate.”

“Estate?” You echo. “She’s dead?”

“What? No,” he says. “I meant her house. In fact…”

Jayce leads you around a corner and holds up a hand, palm-up and outstretched towards a huge mansion behind a tall, wrought-iron gate. This is the Kiramman estate.

“Woah,” you breathe out. “That ain’t a house – Jayce, that’s a little more’n just a house.”

It’s honestly bigger than any other mansion you’ve seen in person. Sure, you’ve seen (and made fun of) a lot of ‘McMansions’ in Texas and California, where too-big houses are built on too-small plots of land. But this one has the proper land and space to be an actual, beautiful, well-thought-out mansion. Even in a semi-crowded city like this, it demands the space it needs and openly exudes wealth and power.

“Well, yeah,” Jayce says. “That’s why I called it an estate.”

You follow Jayce towards the gate, your eyes still stuck upwards at the geometric metalwork that adorns the roof. Two tall spires at the front of the mansion cut into the sky, both surely imprisoning two delicate, fragile Kiramman princesses. You can almost hear them crying out for you from their open windows – ‘Oh, come save us from our wealth! Marry one of us so you can spend our money building the workshop of your dreams. It can be a jeweler’s workshop, or a metalwork studio, or anything else – just spend our exorbitant amount of generational wealth so we don’t have to!’

Jayce talks to the man standing guard at the gate about the appointment he made. The man opens the gate, and as you pass by, you eye the rifle he has. From what you can tell, it’s bolt-action. He’s holding the butt of the gun in his palm and resting the sling stud against his shoulder. He doesn’t look like he appreciates your once-over of him.

You follow Jayce into the foyer. Even the front door handles are fancy and inlaid with gold.

Inside is even grander. You don’t know what else you expected. Nearly everything has gold incorporated in some part of it – the coffee table, the loveseat and the chair across from it, even the railing leading up to the second floor near the back of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the second floor’s back wall, letting sunlight spill into the room. The gold catches the natural light and makes the room almost glow.

There’s a huge painting in the center of the back wall of, what you presume to be, an outdoor shot of the Kiramman family. A man sits in a chair with a young girl (no more than ten) next to him, and a woman stands behind them, a hand on both their shoulders. A dog, a doberman-looking breed, stands next to the man, its ears tilted forward and facing the girl. The young girl is holding a rifle that’s almost as tall as her. An exotic-looking animal lays in front of the family, dead. A successful hunt.

There is one god-honest truth to be observed here: that the Kirammans are fucking loaded.

You don’t know how it makes you feel. On one hand, it’s amazing. You’ve never been in the presence of this… grandeur. This is only the foyer – you can’t even begin to imagine what a bedroom or bathroom looks like. You’d love to have a quick look around one of their kitchens.

But on the other hand? It disgusts you. The Kirammans could drop a million bucks on a stair railing and it’d mean nothing to them. They probably already did, from the looks of the one leading up to the second floor. It’s an appaling display of wealth and selfishness, a siren playing a soundbite of ‘Me, me, me! Look at me and how rich I am, then look at yourself and how poor you are!’ on an endless loop.

You swallow both sentiments and sit next to Jayce on the loveseat, setting your bag in your lap. On top of being beautiful, the seat is comfortable. You could sleep on it and your back would thank you for it. It kind of pisses you off, but then you realize how stupid it would be to be mad at a couch just because it was made well.

“Are you nervous?” Jayce asks, his voice kind of quiet.

“Am I?” You scoff. “Nothin’ to be nervous ‘bout. Them Kirammans must be… moneyed people, and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. I can handle moneyed.”

You busy yourself with looking around the room again. At second glance, nothing new is revealed – everything is, in fact, as fancy as you thought it was at first. Whoever the Kirammans commissioned to decorate must’ve been given a blank check.

“Jayce!” A voice calls, high-pitched and thrilled and… British? Yeah, her voice is British. How the hell did Britain manage to invade and colonize another universe? (Well, actually… if anyone could manage it, it’d be Britain.)

You turn your head and look towards the stairs. Standing in front of the Kiramman family portrait is the woman from the painting, albeit a bit older. She must be Councilor Kiramman. She certainly looks rich enough to be.

Jayce stands, and you quickly follow suit, holding your bag against you and making sure it doesn’t fall and spill. You watch Jayce, seeing if he bows or curtsies or does anything regal-like that you should copy.

“Councilor Kiramman!” He greets. “How’re you?”

Councilor Kiramman talks as she descends the stairs. “Oh, I’m doing fine. And before you ask, Caitlyn is doing well.”

“I’m glad to hear,” Jayce says. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

A smile crosses her face as she looks your way. Her shoe meets the floor with a click, then her steps are muffled as she moves across the rug.

You set your bag down on the loveseat and hold your hand out for a handshake, introducing yourself and giving your school’s name. She looks at you oddly before placing her hand limply in yours. It’s far from a good handshake, and frankly, kind of uncomfortable.

“They’re from a different part of the world,” Jayce says, effectively rescuing you. “Where they’re from, handshakes are greetings.”

A look of revelation crosses Councilor Kiramman’s face, and she gives you a firm, respectful handshake. You feel the tension in your shoulders melt a little – you haven’t committed an unknown Piltover faux pas (yet, at least).

“I apologize sincerely, ma’am,” you say. “It was foolish of me to think that our social customs were comparable.”

“Oh, your accent!” She cradles your hand in both of her warm ones. “Tell me, where are you from?”

“A…America,” you say. “From the Southern region.”

“I’ve never heard of America,” she says. “It must be a small country.”

“Somewhat,” you lie. “How ‘bout we sit? I can tell you more.”

She nods and you return to the loveseat, resting your bag in your lap again. Jayce settles next to you, and Councilor Kiramman sits in the lone seat across the coffee table.

She crosses one leg over the other at the knee. “So, what brought you to Piltover?”

“I, um… I didn’t have much of a choice, ma’am,” you say. You bring your hands together to better sell the act of the poor, ignorant Southerner, and lie the best you can.

“Was bad people that displaced me. I was up in the North for schooling, but they didn’t want my kinda people ‘round, no ma’am.” You shake your head and look away to the side. “I couldn’t get back down South quick enough, so I hopped on a boat at Nautilus Pier and was a stowaway. I ended up here, and Jayce and Viktor, god bless ‘em both wholly, took me in.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Councilor Kiramman says. “Would you like some tea?”

“Um – yes,” you say, a little startled at the sudden change in topic. “Yes, please.”

“Jayce.” She leans back in her chair and her eyes shift to Jayce. “Would you be so kind?”

Jayce spares you a glance, then stands and excuses himself. You grip your bag in a small fit of panic, then let go. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Councilor Kiramman’s voice is quieter than before when she speaks next. “Jayce thinks you’re a beneficiary worthy of backing from the Kirammans. Do you?”

You take a moment to go over your pre-prepared speech in your head, then look into her pale-blue eyes. “Yes ma’am, I do. I’m one hell of an artist – it’s just that my education was cut short. If you take a chance on me, which I sincerely hope you do, I’ll do my damnedest to fulfill any request you make of me. I ain’t got no job, I ain’t got no money, and those egghead boys are nice, but I sure as hell can’t freeload forever.”

Before you can talk yourself down from it, you open your bag and flip your sketchbook open. It was greuling, getting these designs down, but you have something to show to Councilor Kiramman. You turn the sketchbook, then set it down on the coffee table and push it towards her. She leans forward and looks at the page.

“I don’t got no physical proof to show you my talents, due to my quick departure and whatnot, but I hope this suffices,” you say. “I drew ‘em up over the last week or so. Was inspired by hextech – as I’m sure most are. I thought that, as an investor, maybe you’d like to have a set of earrings and a necklace at the next exposition.”

“And what materials would that require?” She asks, her eyes not leaving the page.

“I was thinkin’ a medium-dark blue gemstone. Not exactly dark as iolite, but would still compliment your palette,” you say. “Maybe a nice blue topaz? And it’d be better ‘cause it’s cheap, too. I was plannin’ on makin’ chandelier earrings, and those can get expensive quick, dependin’ on the design.”

Councilor Kiramman brings a hand up and touches her earring, almost like she’s imagining herself with a pair of chandelier earrings rather than the simple drop ones she has on. You can’t tell exactly with the distance between the both of you, but they look like lapis lazuli.

“And what about the designs that aren’t meant to impress me?” Her eyes flick up and meet yours. “The ones you make for yourself?”

You feel your heart almost stop. You take a moment, breathe in, and compose yourself.

“I – I enjoy celestial designs,” you say, like it’s an admission. “My favorite piece I made was a pair of twin gemini earrings. They were so goddamn intricate, I spent two weeks on ‘em… I’m… it’s a shame I wasn’t able to get ‘em when I left. I’m honestly real tore up ‘bout it.”

Councilor Kiramman puts your sketchbook on the coffee table and pushes it towards you. “Show me.”

You look up from the page full of designs meant to impress her and meet her eyes. She’s dead serious. She wants you to draw the twin gemini earrings, and, you assume, recreate them – if she likes them well enough, that is.

You dig around in your bag and thank god you threw a pencil in there just in case. You turn the page and put graphite to paper.

Slowly, a design forms from rudimentary shapes. It’s a silhouette of two almost-naked sisters, both wearing fig leaves, dancing together. Gems represent the stars of the constellation, embedded in each woman’s body, forever joining them.

You push the sketchbook back towards her. “The sisters are made of silver, and the stars – the little circles – are moonstone in a brilliant cut.”

“Not something with more scintillation?” She suggests. “They’re meant to be stars, after all.”

You perk up at that. She knows what scintillation is? Well, she’s rich, so maybe it isn’t that surprising. Or maybe it is, because she could just hire a jeweler to examine and know everything about the jewels she wears.

“Yes ma’am,” you say. “But brilliant cuts are cheaper, and also have a lot less labor goin’ into ‘em. Forgive me if I’m speakin’ outta line, but I do believe you’re richer than most my entire country. I couldn’t exactly afford something with more scintillation, ‘less I cut it myself.”

“And what if I get it cut for you?” Councilor Kiramman looks up from the page. “Would you be able to recreate these earrings if I gave you the proper materials and workspace?”

Despite you considering the possibility of her asking this, you’re still shocked when those words leave her mouth. She’s offering to cover something that cost you almost five hundred bucks to make – maybe it’s pocket change for her, but for you, it is most definitely not.

“What happens after?” You ask. “You gonna take me on as a beneficiary if they’re up to snuff?”

She leans back in her chair and makes a noncommittal gesture with one hand. “I need to see your talents actualized before I take the risk of investment. I’ll decide when you show me the final product. I’m sure you understand.”

You nod. “Yes, ma’am. I know you got artists knockin’ down your door…”

You trail off as you hear the faint sound of a kettle whistle cutting through the air. You check over your shoulder over the back of the loveseat, where the source of the sound is coming from.

“It’s just the kettle,” Councilor Kiramman says. “Surely you had tea with your family when you were living at home?”

You slump in the seat, pressing your back into the cushion a bit. “Um, no, ma’am. I made my parents coffee in the mornings ‘fore they went off to work, though.”

“I find coffee too bitter for my taste,” she says. “Where do your parents work?”

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t know why. Are you embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about? (Maybe being poor in front of an overly rich person, for one, but that’s besides the point.)

“My daddy works in the oil fields. He does all the manual labor you’d expect in that job,” you say. “And my momma works at a local school – Meadowbrook Elementary. Teaches young children, age seven to eight, I’d say.”

“So you come from a family of laborers,” she says. “And yet you’re an artisan. How peculiar.”

You bristle a little at that statement. She didn’t exactly say it, but with the way she said ‘laborers…’ Okay, she didn’t say it with a sneer or an undertone of contempt, but how else are you supposed to respond to something like that?

“My parents encouraged me,” you say, keeping your voice even as you can manage to. “Sure, I got debt from my schooling, but I’m workin’ to pay it off.”

“You have to go into debt to go to school?” Councilor Kiramman says. She looks to the side and heaves a breath. “Is America really that backwards?”

You grit your teeth and give a smile you know is unconvincing. “Yes ma’am, but it’s still my home. You can love something despite its flaws.”

You watch as Councilor Kiramman looks over at the huge painting of her family. Her shoulders seem to relax a little.

“I find it odd,” she says. “If you don’t share an enthusiasm for labor, what do you share with your family?”

You look over at the painting – at the corpse of the exotic animal. It’s feathered, with some type of organic keratin mask over its face. You can only imagine its blood dripping from the bullet wound, pooling and inching towards the girl’s and the man’s hand-cobbled shoes.

“We went on huntin’ trips, just like that one,” you say. “We had one scoped rifle between all of us – was a pristine Mauser ‘98. I killed my first whitetail deer when I was twelve with that gun.”

Looking at the portrait makes you feel something in the pit of your stomach now. It’s a twisted mirror of what could’ve been. If your family was rich, if your family had only one child, if your family had its own property to hunt on.

You couldn’t imagine the Kirammans in the polaroid picture your momma took when you killed that buck. In that picture, you were smiling, proud, the rifle slung over your shoulder and your hands holding the deer’s head up by his eight-point antlers. Your kid-sized earmuffs were resting around your neck and your sneakers were covered in dry, flaky mud. You were dirty and shaking from adrenaline, but you couldn’t have been happier.

But the Kirammans don’t smile. They sure as hell don’t get dirty. They don’t put their hunt up on a gambrel and pulley to gut it – they hire someone to do that for them. Daddy Kiramman didn’t teach Daughter Kiramman how to skin an animal and how to cut out the backstrap. He taught her that her problems can be solved if she pays someone to solve them for her.

“My daughter was nine,” Councilor Kiramman says, her voice fond. “Caitlyn always wanted to go out on a hunting expedition since she was young. We said she could go once she could hold a rifle on her own. I’m sure you were similar when you were a child.”

You push down your thoughts and glance over at her. She’s still looking at the painting, probably remembering the day Caitlyn shot… whatever that is.

You clench your jaw and instead trace your eyes over the exquisite, golden frame the painting is held in. She’s insinuating your families are similar – that her plush, comfortable life is comparable to yours when it’s not.

You were a rough and tumble kid. You have scars from falling off your bike and playing with hunting knives, pretending to be pirates with your brother. Councilor Kiramman’s skin is flawless, and any scars that may have accrued have been washed away by a correcting gel or cream. You lapped at too-hot water from a hose during the summertime. She had chilled bottles of water when she was done doing her rich-girl extracurricular activities, like badminton and curling.

You start to feel sick. Maybe rich people just make you feel sick. Or the disparity between you two and the power she holds over you is making you sick.

She could put you in the gutter and no one would bat an eye – just another starving artist, well… starving. Everyone would excuse it with ‘Well, people compromise on their dreams all the time. Nothing was stopping them from getting a day job. It’s their fault for being poor, their fault for being naive enough to think that they were a true artist, their fault for not having rich parents and a safety net.’

The outfit Jayce put you in starts to feel too tight, too starchy and itchy. Your shoulders are confined by the almost-taut fabric and the ascot-tie-thing (you hate it, hate it) is creating an uncomfortable pressure along your sternum from being stuffed in your vest. You feel like you can’t pull in a full breath. You can’t pull in a full breath.

You hear footsteps behind you. You check over your shoulder and see Jayce walking back into the foyer, holding a tray with a teapot, three teacups, and a few other little containers with spoon handles sticking out of them.

“Jayce!” You say. The tension is broken. “You’re back.”

“I couldn’t decide which tea to brew,” Jayce says as he walks, carefully balancing the tray. “I ended up with conschberry tea. I hope that’s okay.”

You take your sketchbook and put it back in your bag to make room on the coffee table. He sets down the tray and sets the teacups out – one for him, one for you, and one for Councilor Kiramman.

The tea he pours from the teapot is a pinkish-orange color, and lets off a sweet, floral smell. The little containers are filled with sugars of different colors, and what you deduce is cream and milk. There’s a plate filled with sandwiches cut into neat squares, fruit still on a vine, and assorted pastries.

Jayce puts the teapot back on the tray, then sits next to you. Councilor Kiramman takes the spoon from a ramekin of light orange sugar and pours some into her tea. It fizzes, then settles as she stirs.

“That ain’t sugar?” You ask.

“Sugar?” She echoes. “It’s ainglë. Don’t tell me you don’t have ainglë in America?”

You shake your head, then reach out and take the container. You lift it to your nose and smell. It’s sharp and sinus-clearing, but reminds you of the saffron you’d sniff when you went into the big city’s grocery shop.

“Hm,” you hum. You sprinkle a little into your tea, and it fizzes, just like Councilor Kiramman’s did. That’s… somewhat reassuring, you guess.

You bring the cup to your lips and take a tentative sip. It’s sweet without being overwhelming and goes down with a mildly bitter aftertaste. It’s decadent, but definitely something you could get used to.

You take a deep breath and can feel the air hit the bottom of your lungs. The outfit is still constraining and uncomfortable, but it’s not as bad now. You feel less like a hog trussed for slaughter and more like a person that’s just in an awkward situation.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” Councilor Kiramman tells Jayce. “I’m not a sponsor yet, but they show promise.”

He sends you a brief smile and nods at her words. “Hopefully they make something to your liking.”

“Oh, I have no doubt they will,” she says. “We’ve worked out an arrangement. I provide the materials and workspace, and they provide the finished product. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

You feel like a kid at a gathering for dinner, with the adults talking about you over your head. You sip at your tea, then tilt your head back to drain the cup. You gather your bag, set your teacup down on the tray, and stand.

“Well, I oughta get goin’,” you say.

“Why so soon?” Councilor Kiramman says. “You’re welcome to stay and have more tea.”

You hold up a hand and make up a lie. “In my family, you serve hot tea when you want someone to go. I – I’d just feel unwelcome. Like I’m takin’ advantage of your gracious invitation.”

“If you must…” She stands and extends her hand over the coffee table. You take it, and she gives a firm handshake. You smile a little when you realize that she took care to remember American customs.

“Was nice meetin’ you,” you say.

“You as well,” she says, and lets go of your hand. “I’ll have someone arrange a studio and the materials you’ll need. It should be ready by the day after tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow?” You repeat, a little shocked. (Money does make the world go around, but you didn’t expect her money to accelerate the process that fast.) “I – yes, that works for me.”

Councilor Kiramman nods, and you take it as a sign that you’re now allowed to leave. You give Jayce a little reassurance that you won’t get lost, then make your way to the front doors and slip out.

84 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 2 years ago

Text

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?

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