vampirequsa

[vampirequsa]

"No Heaven, Just Us”

Post-defection Geto AU: Gojo never turns him in. They run. A soft, surreal piece set in the countryside where they’re no longer sorcerers—just ghosts trying to remember how to be people.

The countryside doesn’t ask questions.

That’s the first thing Satoru Gojo notices after they run.

They don’t run like fugitives. They don’t race through cities with blood on their sleeves. They just… vanish. Somewhere between a back road and a coastline no one talks about, they stop answering the world.

The house they find is small—faded blue, paint peeling, too many windows and not enough furniture. It creaks when you breathe. There's a porch that overlooks rice fields and a shrine tucked into the hills. A place forgotten, perfect for men trying to become ghosts.

Suguru chooses the room with the southeast window. The one with the view of the hydrangeas and the tiny garden they’ll pretend they know how to tend.

Gojo doesn’t choose. He just follows.

The days stretch.

Slow. Soft.

Gojo learns how to boil rice without burning it. Suguru learns how to grow tomatoes. They fight over how to hang the laundry and whether wasabi should be fresh or store-bought. The arguments are stupid. Familiar.

They don't talk about jujutsu.

Not for a long time.

Sometimes Gojo wakes up gasping.

Dreams of Riko’s blood on the steps. Of Suguru walking away with that look in his eyes—godhood or ruin, he couldn’t tell which.

He sits on the edge of the futon, hair a mess, the night pressing in from every window. No glowing eyes. No infinity. Just skin and silence.

Suguru appears in the doorway like he always does, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, face unreadable.

“You dreaming again?” he asks.

Gojo doesn’t answer.

Suguru crosses the room, kneels, and presses his forehead to Gojo’s shoulder. “We’re here,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Still here.”

Gojo leans into him like gravity was always pulling him in this direction.

The locals eventually stop flinching when they see them.

There’s an old woman who runs a shop down the hill. She sells pickled radish and handwoven baskets. She calls Gojo “the tall ghost” and Suguru “the quiet monk.” She gives them oranges in the winter and pretends not to notice the scars on their arms.

They help her sweep the path in exchange.

Sometimes, they forget they’re hiding.

One evening, rain hisses across the roof like an old lullaby. Gojo lies on the porch with his feet hanging off the edge, arms behind his head. The wood is wet, but he doesn’t care.

Suguru joins him, blanket over his shoulders, hair tied back. He smells like green tea and earth.

"Do you miss it?" Gojo asks.

Suguru doesn’t ask what he means. He knows.

“Sometimes,” he says. “When I remember why we fought. When I think maybe I could’ve done it better.”

Gojo turns his head. Rain runs in silver streaks down Suguru’s cheek, catching in the curve of his mouth. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“Would you go back?” Gojo asks.

Suguru closes his eyes. “No.”

Gojo nods. “Me neither.”

They don’t say anything else for a long time.

Just sit in the rain, side by side, letting the past roll off them like water.

One night, Gojo cooks too much soba and nearly sets the kitchen on fire. Suguru laughs so hard he drops his chopsticks. They eat on the floor, barefoot, slurping noodles and calling each other names that used to mean something.

Gojo looks at him under the glow of a cheap paper lamp.

Suguru is smiling.

Not the sharp, cynical grin he wore as a teenager.

Not the hollow smirk he wore as a villain.

A real smile.

And Gojo thinks—this is it.

Not heaven. Not salvation.

But this. Him. Here.

Years pass.

The hydrangeas bloom every June. The sea fog rolls in every morning. Gojo gets wrinkles he pretends not to notice. Suguru keeps bees in the spring. They get a cat that hates them both equally.

They become a myth in the village.

Two quiet men who keep to themselves.

Two ghosts who found peace before the afterlife.

And sometimes, when the sun is low and the wind is gentle, Gojo wonders if this is what they were always meant to be.

Not saviors.

Not monsters.

Just two boys who got tired of bleeding for the world.

And finally chose each other instead.

[vampirequsa]

''Quiet Hours.''

It’s Sunday. There’s coffee on the table, rain on the windows, and Nanami in your kitchen wearing his reading glasses. You never thought peace could look like this—but here it is, in the curve of his smile and the way he reaches for your hand like it’s instinct.

The rain had started sometime in the early morning, a soft pattering that turned the whole apartment into a lullaby. It was the kind of day that whispered stay in bed, and for once, you listened.

Nanami didn’t rush to get up either.

You’d woken to the weight of his arm around your waist, his face pressed gently into the back of your neck, his breath slow and even. You didn’t move at first—just laid there, eyes closed, feeling the steady warmth of him and the low, lazy thrum of contentment in your chest.

Eventually, though, the smell of coffee lured you both out from under the covers.

Now, he’s standing at the stove, hair still slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of thin-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he reads the instructions on a new brand of tea you’d brought home last week. His expression is as serious as if he were reviewing financial reports.

You smile to yourself, leaning against the counter, cradling your mug.

“You know,” you tease, “you look extra domestic like this.”

He glances up over the glasses. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

“A compliment. You’re dangerously attractive right now.”

Nanami lets out a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile that’s for you and you alone. “I’m flattered. But I think you’re just trying to distract me so I mess up your tea.”

You walk over and loop your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. “Maybe. But I’ll still drink it even if it’s terrible.”

He hums, settling a hand over yours without missing a beat. “I know.”

You stay like that for a while, swaying a little with the rhythm of the rain, the kettle whistling softly beside you. There’s nothing pressing to do. No curses to chase. No meetings, no alarms. Just him. You. The storm outside and the stillness inside.

Later, the two of you curl up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket. You’re reading, legs tangled with his, your head resting on his thigh. He’s stroking his fingers through your hair absently, like it soothes him as much as it does you. Occasionally, he’ll glance down and gently tap the edge of your page with a finger to keep you turning it.

“Happy?” you ask at some point, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami looks down at you, and there’s something unbearably tender in his eyes.

“I didn’t think I could be,” he says honestly. “Not like this. Not after everything.”

You reach up and touch his cheek. “But you are?”

He leans into your hand, eyes closing briefly. “Yes. With you… I am.”

The words settle between you like sunlight through clouds. Soft. Real.

And then he leans down and kisses you—not rushed, not desperate. Just steady and sure and warm. Like he’s thanking you without needing the words.

[vampirequsa]

“Sunbeam”

It’s a lazy Sunday, rare and quiet. No cursed spirits, no missions, no blood. Just Yuji, Megumi, and the sunlight streaming through the window. And somewhere between yawns and quiet laughs, they remember what it feels like to just… be.

The first thing Yuji feels when he wakes up isn’t the sun—it’s weight.

A warm, heavy kind of weight, curled around him like a sleepy cat. He blinks groggily, the corners of his vision bathed in gold. The early morning sun is spilling through the cracked curtains in hazy beams, painting the walls in soft amber. It’s the kind of light that makes everything feel slower. Softer.

And then he remembers: Megumi.

He’s curled up beside him, face tucked into Yuji’s chest, breath warm and slow against his skin. One arm is lazily draped across Yuji’s stomach, fingers twitching slightly like he’s still dreaming. His hair is an absolute mess, sticking out in odd directions, and Yuji has to bite back a laugh because he knows Megumi would grumble at him if he said anything.

Instead, he just watches.

Because there’s something about seeing Megumi like this—unguarded, peaceful—that makes Yuji’s heart ache a little. In the best way.

It’s not often they get mornings like this. No curses. No training. No school. Just the apartment, the quiet, and each other.

Yuji raises a hand and gently brushes a strand of hair from Megumi’s face, letting his fingers linger along his temple. Megumi stirs slightly, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake. He shifts closer instead, pressing himself tighter to Yuji’s side with a tiny, sleepy sigh that makes Yuji’s heart melt on the spot.

“Jeez,” Yuji whispers to no one, “how’re you so cute?”

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Megumi mumbles, voice hoarse and barely awake.

Yuji jumps, laughing. “You were awake?”

Megumi peeks up at him, one eye half-open. “Was. Then you started narrating again.”

Yuji grins sheepishly. “I can’t help it. You’re distracting.”

“Mm.” Megumi closes his eye again and nuzzles back into his chest. “Sleep now. Talk later.”

“But—Megumi, c’mon, I’m not even tired anymore.”

“Too bad. I am.”

Yuji huffs a playful sigh and wraps his arms around Megumi fully, tucking them closer together. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know.” Megumi smirks sleepily into his shirt.

They lay like that for a while, limbs tangled, skin warm, breath synced. Outside, birds chirp lazily and a breeze rustles the trees. It’s quiet, but not the kind of quiet that’s empty. It’s the kind that’s full—with comfort, with soft affection, with the steady beat of Yuji’s heart under Megumi’s ear.

Eventually, Yuji starts drawing little shapes on Megumi’s back—stars, circles, maybe a cat. He hums a tune he can’t remember the words to, and Megumi doesn’t tell him to stop. Doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“You know,” Yuji says eventually, voice quieter now, “I like this.”

Megumi doesn’t open his eyes, but Yuji feels his lips curve into a smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

Yuji leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Let’s not fight any curses today. Let’s just stay in bed forever.”

Megumi hums. “That’s not how time works.”

“Okay, but what if we just pretend?”

“Then I guess I’ll stay. Just a little longer.”

And he does.

They do.

Wrapped in sheets and sunlight, with no world outside the room. Just warmth. Just them.

[vampirequsa]

''The Space Between Us.''

They’re not what they used to be. Maybe they never were. But under the silence of night, with heat simmering between glances and touches that linger a little too long, Gojo and Geto let themselves fall back into the only thing that’s ever made sense—each other.

TW: A bit spicy, making out etc.

It starts with silence.

Not the cold kind—the still kind. Heavy, slow. The kind that settles after blood and curses and bruised ribs. The kind that fills the room once the danger is gone and you’re left with the weight of adrenaline and memory.

They’re in a hotel room somewhere too far from Tokyo. Too far from the past, too close to it. One bed. One dim lamp humming in the corner. The air smells like antiseptic and aftershave and something warm and deep that’s always been Satoru.

Geto sits on the edge of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, bandages across his forearm. Gojo leans against the wall, sunglasses gone, white hair a mess. His uniform is unzipped just enough to tempt. His eyes are quiet for once.

They haven’t spoken since the mission ended.

Geto breaks first. “You gonna keep staring?”

Gojo shrugs, slow and lazy. “Can’t help it. You’re pretty when you’re bloody.”

“Flattering.”

“You like it.”

The look Geto gives him is sharp, but there’s heat in it. Familiar. Dangerous. The kind of heat that’s built on a decade of knowing every version of each other—before things broke, before everything changed.

“You still full of yourself,” Geto mutters, standing to wash his hands. “Even when you’re about to collapse.”

“I don’t collapse,” Gojo says behind him, voice lower now. “I unravel.”

The air shifts.

Geto turns, slowly, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes are darker than they were before. Less amused. More… interested. “You always talk like that when you’re aching for something?”

Gojo pushes off the wall, takes one step closer. “Only when I think the other person might actually give it to me.”

They meet halfway.

It’s not soft, not gentle. But it’s not cruel either. It’s heat and tension and something thick with history. Gojo’s hand finds the side of Geto’s neck, thumb brushing his jaw with a touch that contradicts the intensity in his eyes.

“Still smell like sandalwood,” Satoru whispers. “Still taste like control.”

“You wanna test that theory?” Geto murmurs, lips just brushing his.

Gojo’s mouth curves. “Hell yes.”

And then they collide.

It’s teeth and tongue and breath, years of almost and used-to-be’s crashing into the now. Gojo kisses like he owns it. Like he wants to burn it into his memory. Geto pulls him in by the belt loops, walking him backward until the backs of Gojo’s knees hit the bed and they fall into it—twisted limbs, low groans, soft curses between bites.

Hands wander. Shirts fall open. Skin presses to skin, hot and electric.

Gojo’s laugh is breathless against Geto’s mouth. “We’re terrible at staying away.”

“We were never meant to.”

Geto’s mouth drags down Gojo’s throat, slow and deliberate, and Gojo shudders beneath him. He grips Geto’s hips, anchoring himself, grounding his spiraling power with the solid weight of Suguru’s body. Their movements are fluid, desperate and languid all at once—like they’ve done this a thousand times, even if they haven’t.

Like they should have.

Clothes fall in pieces. Sheets twist. The room goes hot and quiet, broken only by gasps and low groans and the occasional whisper of a name like a prayer, like a curse.

And in the aftermath—in the quiet where sweat clings and their chests rise together—Gojo doesn’t speak.

He just touches Geto’s hair, smoothing it back from his face. Geto watches him with a look that isn’t quite soft, but it lingers.

“I hate how easy that was,” Geto murmurs.

“You didn’t stop it,” Gojo replies, smirking faintly.

“Didn’t want to.”

They don’t talk about what it means. Not yet.

But Gojo rolls onto his side, drapes an arm over Geto’s waist, and sighs into the crook of his shoulder like it’s the only place he wants to be.

And Geto lets him stay.

Just for tonight.

[vampirequsa]

''Where You Rest.''

find Yuta waiting in your room after a long day. He's tired too. You both need something soft, something quiet. So you let yourself fall into each other-slowly, deliberately, completely.

TW: Just a little bit of spice, nothing too much!!

The lights are low when you step into your room, the golden dimness catching on the curve of a familiar silhouette near your bed.

Yuta’s there, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, fingers toying with the edge of your blanket like he’s trying to keep himself grounded. His sword leans neatly against the wall—set aside for the night, for you. His eyes lift when he sees you. Gentle, dark, a little tired.

You say nothing. You just smile and shut the door behind you.

The silence isn’t awkward. It never is with Yuta. It’s the kind of silence that hums quietly in your bones, full of unsaid things that don’t need to be spoken to be felt.

You toe off your shoes, let your jacket fall to the floor, and make your way over. “You waited for me.”

He nods. “Wanted to see you before sleep.” His voice is soft, a little hoarse—like it’s only meant for you.

You crawl into bed beside him, your leg brushing his. He shivers slightly at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. “Rough day?” you ask.

He exhales slowly. “Long. Too many missions lately. Too many people to save.”

“And who’s saving you?” you murmur, nudging your nose against his cheek.

Yuta’s eyes flutter closed.

You don’t ask. You just pull him toward you. His arms wrap around your waist in a heartbeat, like his body’s been aching for this. Like it remembers what it’s like to be held, even when he’s too tired to ask for it.

You sink into the bed together, the weight of him molding into yours, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt to rest on the bare skin of your back. It’s not even suggestive—it’s comfort. Contact. Warmth. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

His breath fans against your neck as he buries his face in your shoulder. “You’re always warm,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

You lie there for a long time, tangled. One of your legs slots between his, and he curls around you instinctively. Every time you shift, he follows—like his body won’t let you go. His hand slides a little higher beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine slowly, mindlessly. It sends little sparks through you.

“You smell like lavender,” he murmurs. “It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

You laugh softly. “I didn’t know you noticed things like that.”

“I notice everything about you.”

The way he says it—it’s low and a little rough, like he’s holding something back. His lips brush your collarbone, not quite a kiss, not quite innocent either. Just close. Just wanting to be near.

You tilt your head slightly, and he takes the invitation. His lips ghost up your throat in slow, barely-there touches, like he’s memorizing the feel of you with his mouth. His hand presses firmer against your back now, pulling you even closer, like he needs every inch of you against him.

“Is this okay?” he breathes.

You nod, breath catching. “Yuta, I want this. I want you.”

He kisses you then—not rushed or hungry, but deep and sweet, like he’s pouring every unspoken word into it. You taste the way he’s missed you, the way he’s craved peace and found it here. With you. Wrapped in sheets and silence and the low rhythm of shared breathing.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads touch.

Neither of you says anything for a while. His hand keeps moving, soft along your spine, tracing lazy shapes. You feel his heartbeat slow against your chest, feel your own body finally unwind under his touch.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” he whispers.

You smile into his hair. “Then don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” he says, voice sure and quiet. “Not tonight.”

And with that, you let yourself sink. Into the quiet, into his warmth, into the promise of safety that only Yuta Okkotsu seems to carry with him.

Because in his arms, the world feels far away. And tonight, that’s all you need.

[vampirequsa]

''When The King Whispers''

You shouldn't be here. No one should be. But in your dream, you step into the domain of Ryomen Sukuna--and instead of being torn apart, you speak to him.

The first thing you feel is warmth. Not the soft kind that cradles you in sleep, but something oppressive. Heavy. Like the air itself is soaked in blood and heat.

You’re dreaming. That’s the only explanation. One moment, you were lying in your bed at the dorms, still buzzing from the aftermath of a mission, and the next—you’re here. Somewhere else.

The sky above you is deep crimson, rippling like silk. The ground beneath your feet is dark stone veined with black-gold cracks, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing. There are columns rising into nothingness, carved with symbols you can’t recognize but that make your chest ache when you look at them.

And at the center of it all is the throne.

A jagged, monstrous thing built of bone and obsidian, taller than any human should sit upon—and sitting on it is Sukuna.

His eyes are already on you.

You freeze. It’s instinct. Fear spikes in your veins, but your feet are rooted in place.

He looks the same as he does when he wears Yuji’s body—but there’s a difference now. He isn’t just a passenger. He’s whole. And that terrifying presence, the one that always feels like it’s watching from behind your friend’s smile, is fully awake.

He leans forward slowly, resting his cheek on one hand. “Well. This is a surprise.”

His voice is low and silken, like it’s been dragged across your skin. You expect him to mock you. Threaten you. Rip you apart for daring to stumble into his domain.

But he doesn’t.

He watches you in silence for a long moment. Then, to your utter disbelief, he smiles—wolfish and amused.

“You’re not screaming.”

You gather your breath. It feels like the air itself resists you. “Should I be?”

He chuckles. “Most do.”

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself. It feels like blasphemy—like walking toward a god you were warned never to look in the eye. But you can’t help it. Curiosity pulls at you stronger than fear.

“What is this place?” you ask softly.

“My domain. My throne. My sanctuary.” He spreads his arms lazily. “What remains of it, at least. A shadow carved into a dream.”

You stare around you—at the impossible sky, at the quiet stone steps leading to his feet. “It’s… beautiful."

That gets a reaction.

His head tilts slightly, one eyebrow raising. The amusement fades from his smile, replaced with something unreadable. His eyes narrow, not with malice—but with interest. The kind of sharp attention that makes your skin prickle.

“No one has ever called it that,” he says.

Silence stretches between you.

You should be scared. You should run, or wake yourself up, or pray to someone stronger than him. But instead… you sit.

Right there, on the lowest step of his throne.

A strange calm settles over you. “If I’m already dreaming,” you say, “then I may as well see it through.”

He laughs again—rich and full, echoing off the distant pillars. “You’re bold. I like that.”

Minutes pass like that. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t flow the same here. He speaks of ancient things with cryptic phrasing. Of old temples that once chanted his name. Of wars he started and lovers he devoured. But something about the way he talks—slow, deliberate, almost wistful—makes you think… he’s lonely.

And maybe, just maybe, this dream was no accident.

Eventually, you ask, “Why am I here?”

He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because you think of me. Even when you shouldn’t.”

You feel your breath catch.

His eyes gleam like a predator’s. “I hear it. When you wonder what I’m really like. When you see me behind that boy’s eyes and don’t look away.”

You open your mouth to deny it—but it would be a lie.

And somehow, you know he would see straight through it.

“I don’t fear you,” you whisper.

“You should.”

He stands, and the sheer force of his presence steals your breath. He descends the steps slowly, deliberately, each movement fluid and ancient. When he reaches you, you should flinch.

You don’t.

He reaches out and brushes a finger beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“You’re fascinating,” he murmurs. “A little moth with no sense of danger. Or maybe… just enough to like the fire anyway.”

Your skin tingles where he touched you.

“I’ll be seeing more of you,” he says, as the dream begins to unravel—your surroundings dissolving into smoke and blood-red petals.

You blink.

And then you wake.

In your dorm, heart pounding, lips parted in silence.

On your neck, just beneath your jaw, is a faint, burning warmth. Like a brand kissed into your skin.

And you swear you hear a voice—his voice—whispering from somewhere deep inside your mind.

“Next time, stay longer.”

[vampirequsa]

“The Curse Said What?!”

The mission was supposed to be simple. One cursed spirit, light suppression, zero drama. That was before the curse opened its mouth and started spilling everyone’s romantic secrets. TW: Mild violence

It starts off like any routine mission.

A little cursed energy flare in an abandoned shopping plaza downtown—easy enough for two second-years. Gojo-sensei, half asleep and wearing sunglasses at night, had tossed the file onto the table at breakfast and declared, “This one’s so weak I could probably exorcise it by breathing too hard.”

So now it’s just you and Nobara, walking side by side past empty food court chairs and flickering lights. The mall is dead quiet, save for the soft echo of your boots on tile. Nobara walks with a sort of practiced ease—hammer tucked into her belt, shoulders rolled back, her hair pulled up in her usual style that’s somehow battle-ready and stylish. She's already sighing in boredom.

“You know,” she says, “if this thing doesn’t show up soon, I’m demanding bubble tea as hazard pay.”

You snort. “That’s not how hazard pay works.”

“That’s how I work,” she replies, twirling a nail between her fingers. “Deal with it.”

You're about to make some smart comment in return when a cold breeze cuts through the hallway, setting the “50% OFF” banners swaying. A sharp, echoing giggle rings through the air.

You and Nobara both freeze.

Then the voice comes—high-pitched, mischievous, dripping with mockery.

“Ooooh… someone’s got a cruuuuuush.”

Nobara narrows her eyes. “What the hell?”

From behind a pile of overturned mannequins, the curse slithers out. It’s humanoid in shape, but its skin is pale and papery, like old parchment, and its mouth stretches too wide. Words spill from it like smoke.

“Someone here likes the way Nobara laughs,” the curse sing-songs. “Thinks about it when they can’t sleep~”

Your entire body stiffens.

What.

What.

What.

Nobara turns slowly, her stare zeroing in on you. “Excuse me?”

“OH MY GOD—” You backpedal. “I didn’t say anything—what the hell is that thing?!”

The curse giggles. “It doesn’t need you to say it. It reads emotions, silly! And yours are so loud.”

“Shut up,” you hiss.

“So loud,” it repeats in a teasing falsetto. “They think about her hands when she’s working. Think she’s beautiful when she’s angry—”

Nobara raises a hand, voice tight. “I am going to kill it.”

“Oh, and they’ve imagined kissing her—wait, no, a lot. Like, a lot a lot.”

You scream, “NOBARA DO SOMETHING—”

But she’s already leapt forward, her face tomato red, launching nails like lightning. The curse dodges with eerie speed, still giggling, still talking.

“And you, little hammer girl, what about you?”

Nobara flinches, her swing stuttering just a fraction.

The curse grins, voice syrup-slick and knowing. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Her hammer trembles in her grip.

Your heart feels like it’s trying to crawl out of your throat.

“I—I don’t—” she stammers.

And in that rare moment of hesitation, the curse gets too close.

You don’t think.

You throw yourself forward, knocking her aside just as the curse lunges. Its claws scrape your arm, tearing through fabric. You hiss in pain but manage to fling a blessed tag forward with your free hand—burning the creature’s shoulder in a flash of light.

It shrieks, furious, and disappears deeper into the mall.

You're left panting, crouched beside her behind a flipped table.

Silence.

Her hand is on your chest.

Yours is on her waist.

You're way too close.

Nobara’s face is a storm—flushed, wide-eyed, lips parted like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

Finally, she says, “You thought about kissing me?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Can we—can we fight it first and talk about my humiliation later?!”

She swallows. “You risked yourself for me.”

“I always do.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she grabs your wrist and pulls you up. Her hammer swings back into her hand like it never left. Her voice, when she speaks, is low and focused—but you can hear it, the crack beneath the surface.

“Let’s go end this thing.”

The rest of the fight is brutal, fast, and furious. The curse keeps trying to bait you both with more half-truths and vulnerable thoughts, but you’ve stopped hearing it. Nobara shuts it up permanently with a pin to the face and a final, echoing Resonance.

It crumples to ash.

Silence falls.

She turns to you, sweat on her brow, breathing hard.

“You really thought about kissing me?” she says again, softer now.

You can’t lie. Not when she’s staring at you like that. “...Yeah.”

She walks toward you.

Heart pounding.

Then, in one smooth, stunning move, she grabs your collar and pulls you down, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s short, fierce, and just a little trembling.

When she pulls away, she’s smirking—but her cheeks are pink.

“For the record,” she murmurs, “I’ve thought about it too.”

And then she turns and walks away like nothing happened.

You stand there, stunned.

Somewhere far off, a shop display collapses behind you.

You’re definitely getting her that bubble tea.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

THIS IS SO ADORABLE!!!

toji had a very specific definition of “babysitting.”

it involved putting on a random kids’ show at maximum volume, feeding the child an illegal amount of goldfish crackers, and then sitting back like some kind of smug, muscled babysitting guru who had mastered the art of minimal effort.

you, meanwhile, were reconsidering every life choice that led you here.

“toji,” you said carefully, standing in the doorway to the living room, “he’s drawing on the walls.”

toji didn’t even look up. he was sprawled across your couch like a greek god who had been cursed with too many snack crumbs. his sweatpants were yours, oversized(not on him) and super comfortable, which he had stolen and refused to return. his hair was a mess, one sock was missing, and he had a spider-man sticker dead center on his forehead.

“he’s expressing himself,” he replied coolly.

you blinked. “he’s expressing himself with sharpie.”

“it’ll wash off.”

“it’s permanent marker.”

“…so will the wall.”

you stared at him in disbelief. “do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

“not really. i try to tune me out,” he said, stretching one arm behind his head. “too handsome. too distracting.”

before you could respond with something scathing (or worse—fond), megumi, age five and already full of the world’s oldest soul, walked into the room holding a banana to his ear.

“hello?” he said into the banana, deadly serious. “yeah. dad’s being lazy again.”

toji turned his head slowly and glared at his son. “you little snitch.”

megumi blinked at him. “you said snitches get sandwiches.”

“…i meant stitches.”

“but i got a sandwich last time.”

you covered your face with both hands.

“see?” you said, muffled behind your fingers. “your own child is calling you out.”

“he gets it from your side,” toji grumbled.

“he’s not even my kid!”

“minor detail.”

megumi had moved on from banana-phone business and was now in the kitchen. you heard the fridge open. something clatter. the unmistakable rustle of a cheese slice being stolen. you glanced toward the hallway, briefly considered intervening, and then looked at toji.

“you’re gonna go check on that, right?”

“nope.”

“…what if he sets something on fire?”

“then he learns consequences.”

you sighed deeply, like you were aging ten years per minute, and sat on the arm of the couch. toji reached out lazily and tugged you down into his lap.

“you are the worst co-parent,” you mumbled, not actually trying to get away.

“you say that,” he said, chin on your shoulder now, “but you secretly like it.”

“do not.”

“do too.”

you hated how smug he sounded. you hated it more because he was kinda right.

it was stupidly domestic—the mess, the chaos, the ridiculousness of it all. megumi humming in the background, your cat looking personally offended by the toddler’s presence, and toji, somehow managing to be a menace and a softie at the same time.

but then he kissed your cheek, just a light brush, and mumbled, “thanks for letting me bring him here. he likes you.”

you blinked. looked at him. he wasn’t even looking at you now—he was watching the tv, pretending to be cool, pretending that didn’t mean a lot coming from him.

you smiled, just a little.

“yeah,” you said. “i like him too.”

megumi ran in with cheese stuck to his face, holding a crayon like a weapon.

“dad,” he said urgently. “the cat won’t high-five me.”

toji sat up and pointed. “respect his boundaries, gumi.”

“but i said please.”

“still counts as harassment.”

you burst out laughing. toji gave you a smug look like told you i’m a good parent.

and despite the sharpie on the wall, the sweatpants theft, and your now half-empty cheese drawer, you realized something:

this might be chaos.

but it’s your chaos now.

this

[vampirequsa]

"Silent Fireworks"

Some things don’t need words to be said. Some feelings speak just fine in the hush between explosions.

TW: None, it's pure fluff!!

────୨ৎ────

The summer festival lights cast a soft glow over the streets of Kyoto—strings of lanterns swaying gently in the night breeze, laughter bubbling through the stalls, the scent of grilled mochi and candied apples thick in the air.

It’s the kind of night that wraps around you, warm and nostalgic, like a favorite childhood memory you don’t remember making.

You came with the rest of the Jujutsu Tech crowd—Yuuji already screaming about goldfish scooping, Nobara dragging Megumi toward the mask stalls by his sleeve, Panda arguing with Gojo about yakisoba portion sizes.

And Inumaki?

He’s just there, a silent figure among the chaos, his pale yukata patterned with little onigiri, hands tucked behind his back as he walks beside you.

He hasn’t said much—not that he can. But the way he glances at you, subtle and quick, the way he slows his pace to match yours, lets you know everything you need.

You stop at a stall with little paper charms—foxes, bells, lucky cats—and reach for one shaped like a tiny rice ball.

You turn to show him, beaming. “Hey, look! It’s you.”

He gives you a flat stare and taps the corner of the charm.

You read the tiny print aloud. “For unspoken wishes.”

You pause.

Look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

Expression unreadable.

Face pink at the ears.

The festival crowd shifts, and without a word, Inumaki gently takes your sleeve between his fingers—barely a touch, barely pressure at all—but enough to steer you toward the shrine path that leads to the hill behind the venue.

Away from the noise.

Away from everyone else.

The path is quiet except for cicadas and the soft crunch of gravel underfoot.

The two of you find a spot at the top of the hill, overlooking the town and the sky. Below, lanterns flicker like stars fallen to earth.

Inumaki sits beside you, close but not touching. You can feel the warmth of him—just there, just enough to pull your attention in like gravity.

He pulls something from his sleeve.

A small paper bag.

You peek inside and laugh softly. Dango—your favorite kind.

He tilts his head like it’s no big deal.

But his shoulders are a little too straight.

Like he’s hoping it is.

The first firework goes off with a low thump and a burst of gold.

You both look up.

It blooms like a flower in the night, trails of light curling down toward the trees.

Another follows. Blue this time. Then red. Then white.

You sigh, soft and full of wonder. And when you glance over— Inumaki isn’t watching the sky. He’s watching you.

You blink. “You’re missing the fireworks.”

He tilts his head again, slow and deliberate.

Am I?

You don’t need him to say it. You feel it.

Something stutters in your chest.

And then he reaches into the folds of his yukata again, pulling out a tiny charm wrapped in thin silk paper.

He holds it out to you.

No words.

No need for them.

You open it slowly.

It’s another rice ball charm—but this one’s hand-painted, the white carefully shaded, the seaweed a soft green.

But that’s not what makes your breath hitch.

It’s the inscription in tiny, brush-painted strokes:

“For the one I wish beside me."

Your hand curls tight around the charm.

And for a second, neither of you move.

The sky lights up with another explosion of color.

Red washes over his pale hair, gold dances across his cheeks, and you realize he’s holding his breath.

Waiting.

Hoping.

You reach out, slow and certain, and slide your fingers into his.

Not tightly. Just enough.

He flinches like he’s been struck by lightning—then relaxes.

Lets out the softest, smallest breath you’ve ever heard.

His hand tightens around yours.

Fireworks bloom.

And somewhere below, the world keeps moving.

But up here?

It’s just you and him.

Silent, warm, and full of everything that never needed to be said.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

"Beneath The Iron Sky"

In a world where Satoru Gojo never came, Megumi Fushiguro was sold to the Zenin Clan at age six. This is what became of him.

TW!! : Mentions of child abuse, blood, neglect, murder.

────୨ৎ────

The walls of the Zenin estate are tall and cold and impassable. Stone on stone. Shadow on shadow. They do not feel like home.

They feel like a cage.

Megumi doesn’t understand everything at first. He remembers the quiet argument in the hallway of their crumbling apartment—the low, slurred voice of his father, and the rustle of paper. Then hands on his shoulders. A rough voice: “You’re going to a better place. Powerful people. Real jujutsu sorcerers.”

Then the sound of the door slamming.

Then silence.

The next morning, he was standing before a massive gate, staring up at a name that meant nothing to him.

Zenin.

The clan did not welcome him with open arms.

To them, he was a mutt with potential. A child born of a nobody with a cursed technique that didn’t belong to the bloodline. An inconvenience—until he proved himself useful.

They did not feed him well.

They did not speak to him kindly.

But they trained him.

They threw him into the dirt with older boys and told him to fight. When he lost, they left him to bleed. When he won, they made him fight again. Over and over, until his knuckles ached and his legs trembled and the ground looked the same whether he was standing or lying down.

And still—he stood.

Because no one would catch him if he fell.

The first time he summoned Divine Dogs, he was nine. Too small. Too thin. Face smeared with blood from a busted lip.

But he stood there, hand clenched, jaw tight, as black shadows burst from the earth around him.

The elders watched with sharp eyes. Whispered.

“The Ten Shadows. Like Toji said.”

“Useful after all.”

“We’ll mold him right.”

And from that day forward, they did not speak to him as a child.

They spoke to him as a tool.

He learned to keep quiet.

He learned to stay low, to listen, to survive.

In the dead of night, he whispered to the shikigami curled around him—not for commands, but for comfort. Nui once curled around his shoulders while he sat in the courtyard, cold and stiff, watching the moon through the branches of a dead tree.

He once asked one of the servants, a tired woman with sad eyes, what happened to that tree.

She said, “It used to bloom. A long time ago.”

He didn’t ask again.

By twelve, he could kill without flinching.

By thirteen, he was being paraded in front of higher-ups like a prize.

They dressed him in robes too large and called him their heir, their little miracle. They whispered about marriage prospects. About what techniques he could bring into the bloodline.

He did not smile.

He never smiled.

But he bowed when they told him to.

And fought when they commanded it.

One day, after a particularly brutal match against an older Zenin, Megumi sat alone in the courtyard, wrist swollen and skin bruised deep purple.

The same servant from years ago brought him tea.

He stared at the cup and asked, “Why are you kind to me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “Because you remind me of someone. Someone who deserved better.”

Megumi stared at her.

And for the first time in years, his voice cracked when he asked, “Do I deserve better?”

She looked like she might cry.

But she nodded.

“Yes.”

He never saw her again.

Rumors said she ran away.

Others whispered darker things.

Megumi never asked. But he started hiding food in the garden for the fox spirits. He started patching the wounds of the younger boys who lost their first fights. He started helping the blind old gardener pick herbs in silence.

Little things.

Small rebellions.

Bits of kindness tucked between the cracks of his iron mask.

And then one day, when he was fifteen, the Zenin estate was rocked by an arrival.

A man in all white.

A blindfold.

A grin like the sun crashing through the roof.

“Megumi Fushiguro,” he said, stepping into the courtyard, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. “I’m here to collect what’s mine.”

The clan protested.

Yelled.

Threatened.

Gojo didn’t flinch. Just held up a single document, signed years ago by a ghost of a man long dead.

“His father sold him to me first.”

The words hit the ground like a bell.

And Megumi, who hadn’t cried in nine years, felt something loosen behind his ribs.

He stood, silent, staring across the space at the man who could’ve come sooner.

But Gojo only smiled.

And said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Megumi left the Zenin estate without looking back.

But sometimes, in the quiet between missions, when he’s sitting in the shade of a blooming tree at Jujutsu High, Divine Dogs curled at his side, he thinks of that little boy with bloody knuckles and silent eyes.

And wonders how he survived.

How he survived.

And then Gojo appears, bright and loud and alive, dropping a popsicle on his head and saying something ridiculous like, “Want to ditch class and get ramen?”

And Megumi sighs.

Rolls his eyes.

But nods.

Because kindness doesn’t need to be loud. Doesn’t need to be flashy.

Sometimes, it just needs to show up.

Even if it’s late.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

"Coffee Break Confessions"

Nanami finds peace in a quiet café. What he doesn't expect is the warm, slow comfort of a routine that includes you.

TW: None!!

────୨ৎ────

There’s a small café tucked between an old bookshop and a florist—easy to miss, unless you’re looking for it. No flashy signs. Just soft yellow lights behind misted windows, and the faint smell of coffee and fresh bread.

It’s the kind of place you only find by accident.

Which is exactly how Nanami Kento discovers it, one rainy Thursday, after a cursed spirit destroyed a vending machine he was aiming for.

Soaked and disgruntled, with fifteen minutes left of his break and no intention of dealing with people, he steps inside the café—and is greeted by warmth.

Not just from the heat, or the smell of brewing espresso, but from you.

“Rough day?” you ask, smiling as he approaches the counter.

He stares at you for a beat too long, the lenses of his glasses fogging slightly.

“…You could say that,” he mutters.

That first visit is supposed to be a one-time thing.

But the next day, he’s there again. And again the day after.

Always around the same time—fifteen minutes past noon. Always in a neatly pressed shirt, tie loosened just slightly. Always quiet. Observing.

And always sitting at the same table by the window.

You learn his drink order before he ever tells you.

“Flat white, extra hot,” you say one day as he approaches.

He pauses. Blinks. “Yes.”

You don’t charge him for the biscotti that day. He notices. Doesn’t say anything. But the next time, he tips generously—and avoids eye contact.

He starts to notice things about you, too.

The way your hair always escapes your apron tie. The ink smudge on your wrist from scribbling in the little notebook by the register. How you hum when you think no one’s listening.

He tells himself it’s observation. Pattern recognition.

But the truth is, it’s comfort.

You only really talk on Thursdays.

It becomes your accidental ritual. The café is quieter then—no lunch rush, just the soft jazz on the speakers and the steam from the espresso machine curling like breath.

You lean on the counter while he nurses his drink, and you talk about everything except work.

You once mentioned you like horror novels. He’s been reading one ever since.

Not that he’ll admit it.

Not yet.

One day, you bring him his drink with a little heart drawn in the foam. It’s nothing. Just a small flourish. You do it for regulars sometimes.But he stares at it a moment too long.

“…Cute,” he says, finally. His voice comes out hoarser than usual.

You smile. “Thought you could use a little joy.”

He doesn’t drink it right away.

Like he wants to keep it intact.

A week later, he’s late.

You try not to let it bother you—but the clock ticks past twelve thirty, and the seat by the window stays empty. You still make his drink. It cools on the counter.

Then, just as you’re about to toss it—

The bell chimes. He steps in, hair slightly mussed, coat soaked through, and a rare, weary look in his eyes.

You don’t say anything.

You just hand him the still-warm cup and a towel. He sits down with a sigh like the weight of the world’s finally cracked him.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“For being human?” you ask, gently.

He looks up at you. Something flickers there—like the walls of his quiet little world are starting to lower.

It’s a month later when he finally says your name.

Softly, like he practiced it first.

You blink, surprised.

“Yes?”

Nanami exhales, steady but slow.

“I appreciate you,” he says. “More than you realize.”

You open your mouth to joke—to tease, or say something light. But you see the look in his eyes. The sincerity. The quiet, aching weight behind it.

So you just say:

“I know. I appreciate you, too.”

And he smiles.

Not the small, polite kind.

But a real one. Subtle. Warm. Entirely rare.

The café stays open a little longer that day.

He walks you home, umbrella in one hand, the other brushing yours the whole way—but never quite holding.

Not yet.

But you both know it’s coming.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

“How to Raise a Zenin”

A one-shot where Gojo navigates being a guardian to baby Megumi. Diapers, curses, grocery store meltdowns—he’s strong enough to stop time but not to keep a toddler from putting a rice ball in a cursed object.

TW: None, pure fluff!!

────୨ৎ────

The first time Satoru Gojo holds Megumi Fushiguro, he thinks, he’s too small to belong to Toji.

Too quiet. Too serious. Those dark blue eyes blink up at him, furrowed like he's already questioning Gojo’s existence. Like a tiny salaryman with a grudge.

“Okay,” Gojo mutters, squinting at him. “You’ve got the frown down. That’s a start.”

The baby sneezes. Then punches him in the eye.

── .✦

Gojo’s apartment is not baby-proofed. Or adult-proofed. It’s barely even Gojo-proofed.

There’s one chair that isn’t broken. A coffee table that doubles as a cursed tool storage box. A microwave from 2001 with a suspicious stain on the handle. Now there’s a high chair shoved into the corner like a guest no one invited.

The place smells like laundry detergent and instant ramen. Megumi sits on the floor surrounded by cursed talismans Gojo forgot to put away.

“Don’t eat that,” Gojo warns, plucking a paper tag from the kid’s mouth. “That one’s bound to a demon from the 17th century.”

Megumi scowls at him.

“You’re five months old. How are you already judging me?”

── .✦

Feeding time is something.

Gojo’s holding a tiny spoonful of mashed sweet potato like it’s a loaded weapon. Megumi watches him, eyes narrowed, lips shut tight like Fort Knox.

“Come on,” Gojo tries, wiggling the spoon. “Airplane. Curseplane. Whatever.”

He even makes a little noise: vwoooooosh. The spoon approaches. Megumi slaps it out of his hand with the precision of a trained assassin.

Sweet potato splatters on Gojo’s face.

Silence.

Gojo wipes it off. “I see,” he says, eyes glowing behind his sunglasses. “We’re enemies now.”

── .✦

But not every moment is chaos.

Sometimes, Megumi falls asleep on his chest—small, warm, and snoring like a purring cat. Gojo sits completely still, holding him with one arm and sipping cold coffee with the other, pretending the weight doesn’t make his chest feel weird and full.

Sometimes Megumi laughs.

Once.

Gojo spent the next twenty minutes trying to recreate it—funny faces, jujutsu tricks, even putting his shirt on backward.

Didn’t work.

He writes it down in his phone anyway: “MEGUMI LAUGHED — 3:24 PM”

Adds a heart emoji. Pretends it was a joke.

── .✦

At night, when the kid is finally asleep in the little futon Gojo picked out (which he swears is a normal adult thing to do and not him getting attached), Gojo sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the ceiling.

“What the hell am I doing?”

No one answers.

He’s The Strongest. He can obliterate nations. He can bend time and space.

But he doesn’t know how to be enough for this small, angry boy.

Still.

He pulls the blanket up over Megumi’s shoulder.

Brushes his hair back gently.

And says, softly:

“I’ll figure it out, kid. I swear.”

-── .✦

And he will.

Even if it means fighting curses, changing diapers, and eating cold noodles at 2 a.m. for the next ten years—

Satoru Gojo is raising a Zenin.

And he’s not going to let anyone take him away.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

“The Black Flash Files”

Nanami once kept a secret notebook of every time he used Black Flash—what he felt, what he thought. Yuji finds it after Shibuya.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Pure fucking angst.

────୨ৎ────

The box was plain.

No curse seals, no warnings. Just old paper and a slightly bent label that read "K. Nanami—Personal." Yuji found it while helping Shoko sort the remains of the old faculty dorm. She said, “Keep what matters. Burn the rest.”

Yuji didn’t mean to open it. But something about the name—Nanami’s name—made his fingers still.

So he sat on the floor, among dust and glass, and opened it.

Inside, on top of a few stiff button-downs and a pair of wire-framed glasses, was a notebook.

Black leather. Worn edges. Thick pages.

He flipped it open.

Entry #1 — August 12

Black Flash. 0.000001 second of clarity. That’s the theory. The breath between thought and instinct.

I used it today. My first time.

My hand shook afterward. Not from fear. From recognition. The way you recognize yourself in the mirror after too long in the dark.

It was... ugly. Beautiful. A heartbeat sharper than living.

Yuji read the entry twice.

Then kept going.

Entry #3 — September 9

It’s like catching a god by the wrist. Like slamming your soul against time and watching it blink.

When I used it on that cursed womb, it felt like justice. Not revenge. Not anger. Just alignment.

Like—for one second—I belonged in the world.

Yuji swallowed.

The handwriting was neat. Tidy. Each sentence measured like Nanami’s voice had been. But something under it trembled.

Yuji kept reading.

There were twenty-three entries in total.

Some were short—technical breakdowns of cursed energy flow, how to align the body’s instinct to the soul’s will. Others were brutal. Descriptions of what he felt. What it cost.

Entry #11 — November 2

After each flash, I feel something crack open. Not a wound. Not quite.

A silence. A stillness I can’t carry with me once it’s gone.

No one talks about that part.

Entry #15 — March 3

Gojo asked me how many I’d hit in one battle. I lied. I said two.

It was five.

But the fifth one was on a human. A sorcerer turned curse.

I didn’t want to see his face afterward.

Entry #19 — April 17

I haven’t used Black Flash in weeks.

I’ve tried. I’ve wanted to.

But it’s like the world doesn’t want me to see it clearly anymore.

Yuji stopped at that one.

Set the notebook on his knees. Looked at his hands.

He’d hit Black Flash before. Four times in one fight. He remembered the sound it made—like lightning chewing through the air. He remembered how everything felt slow, right, real.

And afterward, how empty he felt.

He had never told anyone that part.

The last entry was dated a week before Shibuya.

Entry #23 — October 24

Yuji Itadori will surpass me.

He’s already halfway there. I see it in his strikes. Not just the power. The purpose.

He doesn’t know it yet, but Black Flash loves him. Craves him.

I hope he learns to forgive himself for that.

If I don’t make it—

No. That’s not how I want to end this.

If I don’t make it, and you find this:

Use it to remember that you were never alone in this fight.

Not for a second.

—Kento

Yuji didn’t move for a long time.

The sky outside had turned bruised orange. Somewhere, a cicada buzzed in defiance of autumn.

He closed the notebook carefully. Set it in his lap. His throat felt tight. His heart heavier.

Then he reached into his hoodie, pulled out a pen, flipped to the very last blank page…

…and began to write.

Entry #24 — November 3

I miss you, Nanami.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

“Three Days as Strangers” (Modern AU)

Gojo and Geto meet again by chance in a world where sorcerers don’t exist. Just two men with ghosts in their eyes. They spend three days together—coffee shops, late-night walks, a bookstore—pretending they don’t know each other. But they do.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10

So like...I kinda shed a tear over here

────୨ৎ────

It starts with a rainstorm.

The kind that slicks the pavement into silver, that paints the city in soft blurs and half-light. Gojo ducks into the bookstore only because his umbrella snapped in the wind. He could’ve kept walking—would’ve, normally—but something about the smell of wet paper and warmth draws him in.

It’s quiet inside. Golden light spills through rows of shelves, and jazz hums low from a dusty speaker. The floor creaks. A fan spins lazily overhead.

And behind the register, tucked into a threadbare cardigan, is him.

Geto Suguru.

His hair’s tied low. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear, and he’s thumbing through a worn copy of Kafka on the Shore. He doesn’t look up when Gojo enters.

And Gojo—world-class at pretending, elite at avoiding—does the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.

He stays.

── .✦

Day One.

He doesn't say anything at first.

He drifts between shelves, fingers brushing spines like they might catch fire. Geto doesn’t acknowledge him, but Gojo knows he’s aware. There’s a tension in the air that hums too close to memory.

He picks a book at random—something dumb, a self-help thing with a pastel cover—and brings it to the counter.

Geto rings it up without blinking. “Cash or card?”

Gojo’s voice is too light. “Card. But only because I don’t carry cash. Cash is for mysterious people.”

A pause.

Geto slides the book into a paper bag. “Then it suits you.”

Their hands brush.

Gojo freezes.

Geto doesn’t flinch—but he doesn’t smile, either.

“Have a nice night,” he says.

Gojo stands in the rain five minutes longer than necessary, staring at the receipt.

There’s no name on it. Just the store’s.

Uzumaki Books.

── .✦

Day Two.

He tells himself he’s just passing by.

A lie so obvious it almost makes him laugh.

He pushes open the door and finds Geto restocking the philosophy shelf. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. He looks up this time.

“Back already?” he says, without heat.

“Your store’s cozy.” Gojo leans against a shelf. “Like you could fall asleep and dream in it.”

Geto arches a brow. “That a line?”

“Would it work if it was?”

“…No.”

A silence.

Then—unexpectedly—Geto softens. Just a little. “I made coffee. Want some?”

Gojo blinks. “Is it poison?”

“Maybe. You’ll have to drink it to find out.”

── .✦

They sit at the back table, chipped mugs steaming between them. Geto reads. Gojo watches the rain crawl down the window.

No one says anything.

But something settles between them.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But familiarity.

Like an old coat rediscovered in a closet you swore you’d emptied.

── .✦

Day Three.

He doesn’t make excuses anymore.

He just walks in.

Geto’s behind the counter, rearranging bookmarks. He doesn’t look up when he says, “You’re early.”

Gojo grins. “You missed me.”

“No. I missed the noise. You fill the silence too well.”

“Poetic,” Gojo says. “Maybe I am a line.”

Geto looks up then.

And something flickers in his eyes—quiet, aching recognition.

They don’t talk about who they used to be. Or how they used to stand back to back in another life, laughing like gods. They don’t mention temples or curses or the night everything broke.

But when Geto reaches out to hand him a book, Gojo catches his wrist.

And holds it.

Their fingers curl, cautious. Like a secret being remembered instead of told.

Geto says nothing. But he doesn’t pull away.

Gojo’s voice is barely there. “Do you remember?”

Geto meets his gaze.

The air goes still.

“…Every time it rains.”

── .✦

That night, they stay long after closing.

The lights stay low. The rain never lets up. Jazz hums in the background like it’s always been playing.

Gojo reads aloud from something Geto picked. His voice is softer than it should be. Measured.

At some point, their shoulders touch.

And they don’t move away.

── .✦

The next day, Gojo doesn’t come.

Geto waits.

Until dusk.

Until closing.

He locks the door, turns the sign.

Then, when no one’s looking, he pulls out a napkin left tucked into the back counter.

There’s handwriting scrawled across it, chaotic and familiar.

> “You always liked bookstores.

I just liked you.

—Satoru.”

Geto closes his eyes.

And for the first time in years, lets himself smile.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

"Flicker."

Gojo wakes up after almost dying on a mission. For a few hours, his Six Eyes don’t work. Everything feels quieter. Softer. He spends the day with the students, a little more human, and starts to wonder what it’d be like to live with less—just for a moment.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

────୨ৎ────

For the first time in years, the world looks... normal.

No glowing outlines. No layers of cursed energy woven like veins through reality. No hypersharp detail or searing light.

Just sunlight filtering through clouds.

Soft and quiet.

Satoru Gojo blinks up at the sky, lying flat on the grass behind the school. His head aches like hell and his entire body feels like it got drop-kicked by a small god, but he’s alive.

Alive, and blind—in the way a regular person is.

He lifts a hand in front of his face, squinting. Just fingers. Not threads of energy. Not molecular breakdowns. Just... his hand.

"Well, shit," he murmurs, voice hoarse.

── .✦

Shoko checks him over in the infirmary, poking a finger into his ribs with zero sympathy.

"You're lucky it wasn't worse. That curse messed with your nervous system. The Six Eyes will come back, but you’ve probably got a day. Maybe two."

Gojo whistles. “So I’m... just hot now. Not hot and omniscient.”

“You're annoying either way,” she replies, tossing him a blanket and walking out.

── .✦

The day is strange.

He walks the hallways with no blindfold, just sunglasses to keep the light from making his headache worse. Students stare. Some wave. Some whisper. He doesn’t crack a joke like he usually would.

Everything is muted.

The world isn't buzzing. It’s... breathing.

He finds Megumi in the training yard, flipping through a jujutsu manual with the same frown he always wears when he’s pretending he doesn’t care that Gojo’s watching.

"You look like a civilian," Megumi says flatly.

"Tragic, right? What will the fangirls do?"

Megumi shrugs. “Maybe they’ll like you better if you’re not glowing.”

Gojo sits beside him on the bench, shoulder to shoulder.

For a moment, he watches the sky. The clouds roll lazily across it, casting shadows that don’t give off cursed energy. Just shadows. Just weather.

“It's kind of nice,” he admits, “not seeing everything.”

Megumi glances at him. “Scary?”

Gojo thinks about it.

“Yeah,” he says. “But... peaceful, too.”

They sit like that for a while.

── .✦

That night, he finds himself staring at the mirror. No blindfold. No glow behind the irises. Just a man. Pale and tired. Laugh lines that feel more like scars.

He doesn’t recognize himself at first.

He smiles.

Not the wide, cocky one.

A small one. A real one.

And when he wakes the next morning to the returning flood of color, data, and cursed noise—

—he misses the quiet.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

"Like firefly's in a jar"

Young Geto & Gojo pre-fall: A one-shot set during their school years. Geto helps Gojo sneak out of the dorms and they end up talking under the stars, joking about the future. It's soft, funny, and tragically naive, knowing what’s coming.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

stabs you 24 times in the chest with this one

────୨ৎ────

The clock on the wall ticks past midnight.

Suguru Geto lies on his back, one leg hanging off the edge of the dorm bed, a book open on his chest. He’s read the same sentence four times. The summer air is thick, buzzing faintly with cursed energy that flits around the school like restless spirits. He tunes it out.

A soft knock taps on the window.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t have to.

“Come in,” he mutters.

The window slides open with a quiet shhhk, and Satoru Gojo climbs in like a raccoon. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, white locks wild from wind or bad decisions. Probably both.

“You know there’s a door, right?” Suguru asks.

“Doors are for people with shame,” Gojo replies, grinning as he flops onto the bed beside him, knocking the book to the floor. “You looked bored."

“I was trying to sleep.”

“No you weren’t. You never sleep before missions. You just pretend.”

Suguru doesn’t argue. Instead, he glances sideways at him. “What do you want, Satoru?”

Gojo shrugs. “I dunno. Just felt like getting out.”

There’s a long pause. Then:

“You wanna see something cool?”

Suguru raises a brow. “That question has never once ended in anything safe.”

“That’s the point.”

Still, he follows.

── .✦

They end up on the roof of Jujutsu High, sitting shoulder to shoulder with their legs dangling over the edge. The city below hums with distant lights. Fireflies flicker lazily in the grass far beneath them, tiny golden stars trying to lift off.

Satoru tosses something small and glowing into the air. A tiny cursed orb, flickering like a captured spark. It hovers, harmless. Controlled.

“Fireflies,” he says, proud. “But, you know, jujutsu-style.”

Suguru watches it float. “You’re gonna get lectured again.”

“They can’t catch me.”

“They don’t need to. I’ll rat you out.”

“Traitor.”

Another orb joins the first, then another. Soon there’s a small constellation spinning lazily above them, like a galaxy trapped in a jar. Suguru tilts his head back, watching them in silence.

“You ever think about the future?” Gojo asks suddenly, voice softer now.

Suguru doesn’t answer right away. “What part of it?”

“All of it. Where we’ll be. Who we’ll be.”

Suguru hums. “I don’t know. Probably still doing this. Fighting curses. Babysitting you.”

Gojo nudges his shoulder. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

Suguru looks at him then, really looks—at the way his eyes reflect the light, at the grin that hides all the pressure under it, at the boy who doesn’t know he’s already breaking.

“It’s not,” Suguru says.

For a moment, the rooftop is still. The fireflies spin.

And Suguru allows himself to believe—just for tonight—that maybe they’ll both make it.

Maybe they’ll grow old and bitter together, laughing at dumb kids and still sneaking out past curfew.

Maybe, in another world, this version of them is enough.

────୨ৎ────

[vampirequsa]

"The Boy He Never Met."

Canon divergence AU: Toji secretly watches Megumi from afar as he grows up under Gojo’s care. A mix of regret, pride, and conflict plays out as he decides whether or not to intervene when Megumi is in danger.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

────୨ৎ────

The kid's grown taller.

Toji notices it from across the street, the collar of his worn jacket pulled high against the breeze. Megumi’s hair is still a mess, sticking out like it doesn’t care who sees it, like he’s never once used a mirror in his life. Some things don’t change.

He’s walking home from school, bag slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. There’s a bruise darkening on his cheekbone. Not new. Not the first. Probably not the last.

Toji lights a cigarette and keeps to the shadows. He shouldn't be here. Not really. He doesn’t know what he expected when he sold his kid to the Jujutsu higher-ups. A better life? Training? A cage with a shinier lock? He didn’t ask questions—didn’t want to—but he still watches. Every once in a while.

Just to make sure.

Megumi’s heading toward the temple. That bastard Gojo probably lives nearby. Toji’s lip twitches. He hates that his son is being raised by that smug white-haired freak, but the truth is, he wouldn’t have done better. Couldn’t. Not with everything crawling in his veins like rot.

And still, he watches.

Megumi pauses outside the gate. Turns, slowly. Looks straight in Toji’s direction.

Toji doesn’t move.

He knows the kid can’t see him—not really. He’s good at disappearing. Always has been. But the moment lingers too long. Megumi narrows his eyes, like he knows someone’s there. Like he feels it in his bones.

"Go inside," Toji mutters under his breath, even though there’s no way the kid can hear.

Megumi finally does, slamming the gate behind him.

Toji exhales smoke into the wind and presses a hand to his chest. There's no pain—there never is—but sometimes the space where something used to be aches all the same.

Maybe one day, the kid will find out who he really is. Maybe he’ll hate him for it.

He probably should.

But tonight, Toji will walk the opposite way. Hands in pockets. Silence in his steps. No one will ever know he was here.

Not even the boy who looks just like him.

────୨ৎ────