Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You slouched in your ergonomic office chair, staring at the ceiling of your office at Headquarters while contemplating the absolute shit show that was your career choice. Not that you regretted it – someone had to keep these idiots from completely losing their marbles – but holy fuck, did it test your patience on a daily basis.

The fundamental truth about making it in the jujutsu world when you had no cursed technique and no prestigious family name was that you had to be twice as smart and three times as stubborn as everyone else. It was a world built on power, pedigree, and the occasional divine intervention, none of which appeared on your resume.

And when your chosen specialty within this already treacherous ecosystem was therapist to the magically traumatized… Multiply that stubbornness requirement by ten, because these assholes would rather get eaten by a curse than admit they might benefit from talking about their feelings for an hour.

Which was fucking ridiculous, really. Show you a well-adjusted sorcerer, and you’d show them a pathological liar. Nobody completely sane signed up for this gig. You simply couldn’t stare down creatures composed entirely of gnashing teeth and weeping eyeballs five days a week without developing a few eccentricities. 

A light dusting of madness was a job requirement, maybe even a survival mechanism. The real question wasn’t whether a sorcerer needed therapy, it was how many different kinds they needed. CBT for the intrusive thoughts, EMDR for the near-death experiences, maybe some art therapy to process the existential horror… the list went on.

But try telling that to these prideful bastards. One would think that after years of Gojo fucking Satoru – the strongest sorcerer alive and current Head of the High Council – making psych evaluations mandatory, people would have gotten used to the idea. Apparently not. Old habits, like ancient curses, died screaming and clawing.

While the local Tokyo crews and those from nearby prefectures had learned to just suck it up and comply (even if they still bitched about it incessantly – complaining was a sorcerer’s primary love language, right after gratuitous violence and angsty brooding), you still got the occasional out-of-towner who thought they could challenge the system. 

You recognized the attitude instantly, had seen it a thousand times before: the defensively crossed arms, the posture radiating suspicion, the subtle way their eyes flicked toward the exits as if you were poised to leap across the desk with a straitjacket and a fistful of mood stabilizers.

Case in point: that crusty old fart from Nagano who’d rolled in last month, convinced his fifty-odd years of narrowly dodging death somehow made him an expert on everything. He’d attempted to argue that “in his day, sorcerers dealt with their problems the traditional way.” Yes, the grand tradition of drinking themselves into an early grave or dying spectacularly on missions that were way above their grade. Such a fantastic coping mechanism. You’d had to quite explicitly threaten to rip his beard clean off his chin before the old bastard finally sat his geriatric ass down for the evaluation.

And don’t even get you started on the young hotheads fresh out of training and drunk on the toxic combination of unchecked power and profound insecurity. They were somehow even worse than the old guard. They always put up a fight. The number of times you’d had to physically barricade your office door to prevent one of these hormone-fueled little shits from storming out mid-session… You suspected you were developing specific muscle groups just from holding the line against indignant teenagers.

You reached for your coffee mug, only to find it empty. Again. This was your third cup today, and the clock hadn’t even dared to strike noon yet. When your morning had started with a grade 1 sorcerer having a breakdown over their recent mission (while insisting through gritted teeth that they were “perfectly fine, thank you very much”), followed by an urgent consultation with an assistant manager regarding a new recruit showing signs of curse-induced anxiety, you figured you were entitled to all the caffeine you could get your hands on.

At least you’d managed to build enough of a reputation over the years that most sorcerers in the area knew better than to fuck with you. Amazing how quickly people’s attitudes changed when you demonstrated that being just an average sorcerer in terms of raw power didn’t mean you couldn’t fuck them up in a dozen different ways. 

Now, they might not like it, might grumble and glare and drag their feet, but they’d plant their asses on your couch and do the work. Because if there was one thing you’d learned about surviving in the jujutsu world without innate advantages, it was this: you didn’t need a cursed technique when you possessed enough wit and spite to bulldoze through any resistance, metaphorical or otherwise. 

And speaking of resistance... You glanced at your schedule for the afternoon. Oh joy. A first-time evaluation with some hotshot from Kyoto who’d told three different administrators that he’d “rather fight a special grade curse naked” than subject himself to a psych eval. You could already feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

Right on cue, as if summoned by your very thoughts of difficult patients, the door burst open without warning. In strode your afternoon appointment: 19-year-old Nakamura Satoshi.

He was all six-foot-something of imposing presence, built like a brick shithouse with shoulders that barely cleared your doorframe, looking as though he’d been genetically engineered to loom over people. His black hair was pulled back in a sleek topknot that screamed “I spend an hour on this to make it look effortlessly messy”, wearing what you’d come to think of as the standard traditional ensemble favored by the conservatives, and radiating the kind of entitled arrogance that seemed to be Kyoto Jujutsu High’s main export.

Satoshi swaggered across the room in three long strides and flopped onto your couch with all the grace of a falling tree. He immediately adopted a pose of aggressive relaxation, manspreading to take up as much psychological and physical space as possible. The poor furniture creaked audibly in protest, and you sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity oversaw office supplies that you’d invested in reinforced seating after The Incident involving that sumo-wrestler-turned-sorcerer that year.

“Let’s get this bullshit over with,” Satoshi announced to the room at large, already scanning his surroundings with a look of profound boredom. “Got curses to punch, y’know? Better things to do than sit here and talk about my feelings.” 

He punctuated this statement with a sneer that clearly broadcasted his opinion: Feelings are for the weak, and you are wasting my valuable punching time. Classic Kyoto peacocking.

You resisted the potent urge to launch him out the third-story window – not because you doubted your ability to do so, but because he definitely wouldn’t fit through it without property damage. The resulting paperwork would be dreadful. So, you simply moved into your armchair across from him and began the familiar tea-pouring ritual as you introduced yourself.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey from Kyoto, Nakamura-san. Would you like sugar with your tea?” you asked pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just burst in like an asshole. “I also have honey if you prefer.”

Satoshi ignored your pleasantries completely. His gaze continued its dismissive sweep over your admittedly cluttered office. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… lived in. Books overflowed from shelves, case files threatened to stage a hostile takeover of your desk, and various trinkets of questionable origin occupied every available surface. His eyes snagged on the far wall, where several framed pictures hung. 

They weren’t high art – mostly goofy animal photos Nobara and Yuji had gifted you when you first got the office, each emblazoned with aggressively cheerful slogans like “This Doctor Can and Will Throw Hands!” (featuring a muscular boxing kangaroo) or “Behave or Get Bonked” (illustrated by a surprisingly menacing kitten wielding a tiny hammer). They were ridiculous, unprofessional, and you loved them dearly.

A derisive snicker escaped Satoshi. Clearly, the boxing kangaroo failed to intimidate. Color you surprised.

You smiled, pretending not to notice his attitude as you set his teacup in front of him. “Shall we start with some basic questions about your current assignment?”

“Yeah, here’s a question,” he cut you off, leaning forward with what he probably thought was an intimidating sneer. “If you’re such a tough cookie, why’d I have to leave my cursed tool with that pencil-pusher downstairs?”

Ah, here we go. Phase two: The Provocation. It was almost comforting in its predictability. Big guys always tried this, like flexing their biceps was a valid substitute for an actual personality.

You took a sip of your tea, maintaining your pleasant smile. “Oh, I just hate cleaning blood out of the rug. It’s imported, you know.” You gestured at the plush carpet beneath your feet. “Such a pain to maintain.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll try not to splash your blood on your precious—”

His hand dove into his jacket, scrabbling for something near his chest. Confusion slowly replaced his smug expression as he came up empty. He patted his clothes with increasing desperation, like a man who’d lost his keys and refused to accept the humiliating reality.

You watched him fumble for another moment, allowing the panic to build just a little, then, casually, you flicked your wrist. A small tanto blade appeared, nestled comfortably between your index and middle fingers.

“Looking for this, perhaps?” you asked lightly.

Satoshi’s eyes widened. “How did you—?” His face cycled rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and finally settled on sputtering outrage. He launched himself forward, expecting to intimidate you with his considerable size advantage. 

Amateur.

You kicked the coffee table with precise force, sending it slamming into his midsection. The tea set slid precariously close to the edge, wobbled, but stayed put. You’d had lots of practice getting that move just right. You really did like the rug. 

Satoshi let out a very satisfying “oof” as he was forced back into the couch, the air knocked out of his lungs. He grunted, trying to push back against the table. Unfortunately for him, you had better leverage and, more importantly, this table wasn’t just any standard IKEA fare. One of your more thoughtful colleagues had enchanted it specifically for situations like this. To you, it was a normal coffee table. To any asshole on the other side? It might as well have weighed a metric ton.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” you advised calmly, applying just a bit more pressure with your leg for emphasis. He groaned, more wounded pride than actual pain.

The whole production was rather theatrical, but you’d found that a non-lethal dose of targeted humiliation was often the most effective icebreaker, especially when dealing with overgrown toddlers who operated under the delusion that might made right. 

You were pretty sure Satoshi hadn’t actually intended to use the knife on you – just flash it, scare you a bit, establish dominance. Which, fair enough. You conceded that you looked rather harmless and easy to intimidate when you weren’t actively trying not to. Maintaining a constant aura of peak menace all day was just too exhausting. Still, intentions aside, ground rules were ground rules.

You sipped your tea and waited patiently as Satoshi continued to struggle against the immovable table, muscles bulging and veins popping in his neck. A few minutes later, his initial fury gave way to frustrated grunts, then sputtered out as his dignity began to take more of a beating than his diaphragm. Defeated and red-faced, he slumped back against the cushions with a muttered, “Fine.”

“Wonderful,” you beamed at him as you released the pressure, hooking the table back to its original position with your foot. “Then, let’s try this from the beginning, shall we, Nakamura-san?” You opened your notebook again, pen clicking invitingly.

Any normal psychologist would have a stroke, possibly multiple strokes, if they witnessed your standard operating procedures. And you’d definitely lose your license if the board ever found out about your... unique approach to building rapport. Then again, nothing about the jujutsu world was normal. Sometimes, the best therapy started with a good ass-kicking. That’s what you planned to argue if anyone ever audited your files. You’d call it “Aggressive Recontextualization Therapy.” It sounded official enough.

“Let’s talk about your recent mission,” you prompted, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. “Grade 2 containment in Osaka, correct?”

“Yeah,” Satoshi grunted, still sullen yet noticeably less combative now that his knife had been confiscated and his ego slightly dented. “What’s there to talk about? It’s all in the fucking report.”

You hummed noncommittally, keeping your posture relaxed and your voice steady, projecting an air of calm professionalism you only occasionally felt. “Humor me. Standard containment protocols were initiated at…” you checked your notes, “...approximately 2100 hours?”

“2047,” he corrected automatically then scowled, angry at himself for engaging. “We got the call at 2030. Mobilized in seventeen minutes. Standard response time.”

You nodded. “That’s actually impressive for a night deployment. Most teams take twenty to twenty-five minutes to mobilize after hours.”

Satoshi blinked, thrown off balance by the unexpected praise. “Yeah, well, Ari-san – my partner – she’s really good with logistics. Was good. Is good.” He stumbled over the tense, and something in your chest ached.

“I read the preliminary report,” you said, steering away from his partner for now. “Started as a Grade 2 containment, ended with a Special Grade manifestation. That’s a major tactical shift. Walk me through the point where things went off-script from your perspective.”

He stared at his untouched tea as if the answers were swirling in the cooling liquid. “We had the Grade 2 contained,” he finally said. “Standard sealing technique, everything by the book. Then…” He clenched his fists. “It was like the curse just... evolved. Right there. Never seen anything like it.”

You nodded again, making a brief note. “That’s rare. What were your initial tactical observations when you realized the situation was escalating?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “The curse’s output doubled, then tripled within seconds. I tried to reinforce the seal, buy time to complete the civilian evacuation, but…” He trailed off, then added defensively, “I know I’m new, but I’m not an idiot. The curse’s behavior pattern didn’t match the intel. I could tell it was way above our grade.”

“You made the call to request backup,” you noted. “That was good tactical awareness. Risk assessment is complicated, especially early in your career. You’re balancing multiple factors – civilian safety, team resources, potential escalation…” You pulled out a pack of gummy bears from your drawer and offered them across the coffee table, which had returned to its normal weight now that he wasn’t trying to prove anything. “How long have you been field certified?”

He accepted the gummies with a grimace that might have been trying to be a smile. “Eight months,” he admitted, picking out a red one. “Everyone says that’s why I missed the signs.”

“Eight months isn’t much time to develop pattern recognition for Special Grade deception tactics,” you pointed out. “Hell, most senior operators might miss those signs. There’s a reason Special Grades have such a high casualty rate, and it isn’t because every sorcerer who encounters one is incompetent.”

The gummy bear paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s... not what the review board said.”

“The review board wasn’t there,” you said, throwing Gakuganji under the bus without hesitation. “They’re looking at after-action reports with perfect hindsight. I’m more interested in your real-time tactical analysis. How long between your call and the situation deteriorating?”

“Three minutes, maybe four?” His posture loosened almost imperceptibly as he focused on the technical aspects. “The seal was holding, barely. Ari-san was trying to get the last civilian away, but the curse… It was like it knew. Like it was waiting for us to split our attention.” 

You leaned forward slightly. “Did you notice any other indicators that might have suggested it was masking its true grade?”

Satoshi ran a hand through his hair, looking less like a peacock from earlier and more like an exhausted rookie. “Looking back? Yeah. The way it moved was too... coordinated. But who expects a fucking Special Grade from a routine containment? They don’t teach you that shit in training.” 

“No, they don’t,” you agreed.

The brittle tension had started to fade from Satoshi. Here was someone actually listening to his professional assessment, treating him like a full-fledged sorcerer rather than just a rookie who’d screwed up. Utahime had been right to send the boy to you. He needed this.

“So,” you said casually, clicking your pen. “How’s your cursed energy output been since the incident?”

Keep it clinical, keep it about performance metrics. Nothing personal here, just routine checks.

“Fine,” he grunted, destroying another red gummy bear. “Everything’s fine.”

“Sleep much?”

“Enough.”

“Meaning?”

He shifted, scowling at the floor. “Three, maybe four hours. It’s normal after a mission.”

“Uh-huh. And the shakes? Those normal, too?”

His head snapped up. “I don’t—” Then he noticed his own trembling hand and shoved it into his pocket. “Fuck.”

“Look,” you leaned back. “Your energy flow’s going haywire. I can feel it from here – all choppy and unstable. Seen it a hundred times after rough missions. System gets overloaded, needs a hard reset.”

“I can handle it,” he insisted, but there was less bite in it now.

“Sure, you can. But why burn yourself out when protocol gives you a perfect excuse to catch your breath?” You flipped through his file. “Two weeks administrative leave. Standard procedure after this kind of shit show. Non-negotiable.”

“Two weeks? That’s—”

“That’s the minimum cool-down period to prevent you from going completely to hell.” You cut him off. “Not about you being weak or whatever bullshit you’re thinking. Pure biology. Even Gojo takes mandatory leave, and god knows that’s a pain in everyone’s ass.”

That got a tiny snort out of Satoshi. Progress.

“What happens when I can’t…” he started, then clenched his jaw.

“Brain gets stuck on replay?” you offered. “Keeps running different scenarios, wondering if you could’ve done something different?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why we do tactical debriefs. Twice a week, we break down what happened. Analysis, strategy, the works. We get it all sorted out, filed away properly, so it doesn’t jump out and fuck with your performance when you’re back in the field.”

He eyed you suspiciously. “And that’s... mandatory too?”

“Part of the clearance process,” you confirmed. “Can’t have our field operators running at anything less than peak performance, right? Bad for morale. And insurance premiums.”

He chewed on that, literally and figuratively, as he finished off the gummies. The muscle in his jaw worked for a moment before he finally gave a stiff, reluctant nod. “Just two weeks? Then I’m cleared?”

“Two weeks of actual rest. And regular debriefs until I sign off.” You offered him back his knife. “Here. Try not to stab anyone with it this time.”

Satoshi actually looked embarrassed as he took it. “Yeah, uh... sorry about earlier. With the whole…” He waved vaguely at the coffee table, the picture of teenboy awkwardness. It was mumbled and constipated, but it was an apology. A definite win.

“Please, that wasn’t even in my top ten worst first sessions this month.” You tossed him a fresh bag of gummies. 

His face lit up for a second before he caught himself. Just a kid, really, under all that bravado and bluster.

“Same time next week?” you asked, keeping your tone casual as you made the appointment note.

“Yeah, whatever,” Satoshi grumbled, already digging into the new bag as he stood up. “For the tactical stuff.” 

“Of course. The tactical stuff.”

Satoshi headed for the door, paused with his hand on the knob, then seemed to reconsider. He took a half-step back into the room, still not quite looking at you. “I forgot… Um, thanks… Doctor.”

You offered a small smile. “You’re welcome, Nakamura-san.”

“Just Satoshi is fine.”

“Satoshi.”

Once he’d left, you jotted down more into your notebook. Sleep disruption (3-4 hrs/night), CE instability (observable fluctuation, tremors), intrusive trauma responses, likely survivor’s guilt re: partner (Ari – check status). Priority: stabilize sleep patterns, address guilt via tactical reframing. Responsive to structured, performance-focused approach. Maintain operational focus in sessions. You added a final, crucial bullet point: Order more gummy bears.

Being a therapist in the jujutsu world meant meeting your patients where they were, even if that meant pretending therapy was just another form of advanced combat training. Whatever works, right?

With Satoshi dispatched (and hopefully on the road to being less of a traumatized dick), you had a moment to breathe. Fishing out your phone, you winced as the screen flared to life, displaying approximately eight million notifications from your group chat with your three favorite disasters, the vast majority of them originating from one Kugisaki Nobara.

“SPICES YOU ABSOLUTE TRAITOR” Angry Nail Emoji x5

“TWO CANCELLATIONS IN ONE MONTH???” Angry Nail Emoji x6

“If you reschedule ONE MORE TIME I swear to god”

“I STG IF YOU’RE NOT DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE I’M GONNA PUT YOU IN ONE” Skull Emoji

“ANSWER YOUR PHONE YOU WORKAHOLIC GREMLIN”

“DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE AND DRAG YOU OUT BY YOUR HAIR”

“MEGUMI IS GETTING WEIRD AND ANTISOCIAL AGAIN (MORE THAN USUAL)”

“WE NEED ADULT SUPERVISION BEFORE SOMEONE DIES”

“YUJI MISSES YOU AND IS MAKING SAD PUPPY EYES AT HIS PHONE” Puppy Dog Eyes Emoji

“I MISS YOU” 

“bitch answer me” Knife Emoji

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Adulting was a scam. It consisted mostly of apologizing for being busy and trying not to die. You quickly tapped out a reply before Nobara mobilized a search party or declared you legally deceased.

“I solemnly swear that short of an actual apocalypse, I will be at your apartment this weekend. Even if any world-ending events occur, I’ll bring them with me and we can deal with them over pizza.”

You hit send, hoping the combination of food bribery and extreme commitment would appease her wrath. Her response was immediate:

“YOU BETTER BE. I have witnesses to this promise. Screenshots have been taken and notarized. Evidence will be presented in court if necessary.”

Followed by a flood of heart emojis from Yuji and a single “...” from Megumi that somehow managed to convey both judgment and anticipation in three simple dots.

Shaking your head fondly, you turned to your case files, carefully translating the day’s events into appropriately professional language rather than blunt truths like “had to physically restrain patient with enchanted IKEA furniture to establish baseline rapport.” The notes needed to be detailed enough to track progress but vague enough to maintain confidentiality, and encoded enough that if anyone ever broke into your office, they wouldn’t understand shit. The pile of paperwork never seemed to get smaller. At least, you’d gotten better at creative documentation over the years.

Around sunset, you switched to preparing tomorrow’s lecture materials for Tokyo Jujutsu High. The slides were already done. You’d been using the same presentation for years, only updating the casualty statistics to keep the fear fresh and motivating. You just needed to review the student profiles Yuji had sent over.

Yuji was a natural teacher. He’d slipped into the role seamlessly and was doing an amazing job mentoring the new generation. He possessed an uncanny knack for hammering home the fundamentals, building essential camaraderie among often prickly personalities, and inspiring them to punch curses really, really hard. Which was essential, obviously. His boundless enthusiasm and genuine care for the students could motivate even the most obnoxious teenagers to try their best.

Some things, however, required a different touch. Like getting them to understand the importance of precise cursed energy control beyond “hit thing harder.” Or making them appreciate the subtleties of barrier techniques beyond “big shield go brrr.”

And then there was the crucial task of ensuring the little darlings actually did their goddamn assigned reading. That responsibility, through a combination of seniority and sheer intimidation factor, had fallen squarely on your shoulders years ago, back when you were just an unhinged senpai bullying the first-years into compliance. 

Now, you were the legendary hellraiser who could supposedly smell unread textbooks from a mile away. The young folks still talked about that time when you’d caught someone using their phone to cheat during one of your infamous pop quizzes.

The story had grown wildly in the telling. According to current campus lore, you’d eaten the phone, cursed the offending student to only speak in Disney song lyrics for a week, and made them write a thousand-word apology in their own blood. In reality, you’d just made them stand in the corner holding a full water bottle on their head for two hours while reciting safety protocols. You weren’t about to correct the rumors, though. Fear was an excellent pedagogical tool.

Every generation of students respectfully (and fearfully) called you “Sensei,” even though you weren’t officially on the faculty roster. The best part was that this conditioned fear often followed them into their professional careers. Nothing quite compared to the satisfaction of watching a freshly graduated sorcerer drop whatever they were doing and snap rigidly to attention simply because they spotted the Sensei walking by and were suddenly consumed by war flashbacks to their school days.

And honestly, keeping these idiots alive and compliant required a multi-pronged approach. Yuji had the “cool older brother who believes in you” angle covered; you were the scary “don’t fuck this up or else” senpai-turned-sensei. It was a beautiful symbiosis.

Yuji’s notes highlighted a few promising students who needed extra attention to refine their cursed techniques and a couple of troublemakers who thought being born with a technique meant they could skip the basics. You made a mental note to call on them first tomorrow. Can’t let the reputation slip.

A knock at your door interrupted your lesson planning. A second later, Higuruma let himself in. “Still working, Doctor?”

Higuruma had started the whole “Doctor” thing for you a couple of years back, right after you’d wrestled your PhD in clinical psychology into submission and officially taken over the mess that was the Welfare Department. It was his way of backing you up, a subtle power move designed to lend you some much-needed institutional weight.

Being insultingly young, essentially orphaned, and hailing from a non-sorcerer background was a recipe for being treated like a glorified intern in a workplace dominated by ancient family names and even more ancient grudges. The fact that you’d graduated early, blazed through grad school in record time, and were widely known as Gojo Satoru’s “most spoiled student” (a label that came with its own baggage) hadn’t endeared you to the traditionalists who believed wisdom only came with power and arthritis. Yeah, you needed all the credibility boosts you could manufacture.

At first, when Higuruma and your other allies started calling you Doctor, the predictable pushback came swift and petty. “Not a real doctor!” someone would snipe, usually loud enough for you to overhear in the hallways.

Then Higuruma, Nanami, Kusakabe, or sometimes Shoko herself, if she was feeling particularly charitable (or bored), would remind the complainers that while you might not have an MD, you could perform quite a few tasks reserved for medical personnel. 

During your years as Shoko’s perpetually exhausted (and entirely unofficial) assistant, you’d patched up damn near everyone currently employed at HQ, usually when their injuries hadn’t been life-threateningly enough for Shoko to bother with her fancy healing. Plenty of the veterans walking these halls still sported the crooked scars from your stitch jobs. 

Eventually, the grumbling died down. They could call you Doctor, or they could call you brat and bleed out the next time they got injured and Shoko was drunk off her ass. Their choice.

The sight of Higuruma made you perk up. After a day wrestling with stubborn sorcerers and existential dread, Higuruma was a delightful reprieve.

“Ah, Hiromi-san! I’m just wrapping up now!”

Higuruma strolled in like he owned the place and collapsed onto your couch with the effortless entitlement of someone who knew where the spare key to your apartment was hidden.

“Bullshit,” he stated flatly, tugging off his tie and loosening the top button of his crisp shirt. “You’re done now because we have a sparring session scheduled, and I’m not letting you weasel out of it again.”

You were perpetually behind on your social obligations, a fact your friends never let you forget. Sparring with Higuruma conveniently occupied the murky gray area between work (staying sharp, mandatory physical upkeep) and social activity (hanging out with a friend who occasionally tried to punch you). It was a minor miracle you still had friends at all.

“The paperwork—” you began, gesturing weakly at the leaning tower of files mocking you from your desk.

“Will still be there tomorrow,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Okay, okay!” you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. “Just let me finish this one thing—”

“You always say ‘one thing’ and then it turns into twenty things,” he drawled, somehow managing to sprawl even more dramatically across your couch.

Watching Higuruma stretch lazily, completely at ease in your cluttered space, you felt a flicker of memory. Your first real encounter after the Shibuya Incident, over six years ago now, had been a spectacularly rocky start, fueled by catastrophic misunderstandings, political schemes, and his antihero homicidal court aesthetic.

Hard to believe this was the same man who’d tried to murder you multiple times during the aftermath of Shibuya. After somehow getting through that initial hurdle of mutual attempted homicide, Higuruma had become one of your closest friends. He was your rock, your sounding board, your personal trainer who nagged you relentlessly about your shitty schedule, and one of the vanishingly few people on this cursed earth you trusted implicitly. Funny how things worked out.

“Remember when you used to try to kill me?” you mused aloud as you gathered your things.

He snorted, cracking an eye open to look at you. “Remember when you deserved it?”

“Rude! I never deserved it. I was a joy to be around.”

“You were a manipulative, evil asshole,” he corrected fondly. “Still are, just a more experienced one now.”

You stuck your tongue out at him very professionally. “This evil asshole signs your mission clearances, you know.”

“And this lawyer can contest them on procedural grounds,” he shot back as he swung his legs off the couch and stood up, his tie completely abandoned now, draped over the armrest. “Now stop stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, just busy!”

“You’re always busy. Come on, Doctor. The training room is calling our names.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, but if you bruise any more of my ribs, you’re explaining it to Ieiri-san this time. She gets scary when her research time is interrupted for preventable injuries.”

“Deal. Now move it before I carry you down there.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

The look he gave you suggested he absolutely would dare, had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Some things never changed, like his complete disregard for your dignity when he thought you were being too stubborn for your own good.

Argument was futile. You shouldered your backpack and followed Higuruma out the door.

“I’m telling Yuji you’re bullying me, Hiromi.”

“Good. Then, he’ll stop going easy on you in training, too.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You trust me with your life.”

“Worst decision I ever made.”

His laugh echoed down the hallway as he dragged you down the depths of HQ toward the scent of sweat, ozone, and impending bruises that permeated the training rooms.

You promptly changed into your training gear – loose pants and a fitted top that had seen better days. Higuruma did the same. Even in sweats, he managed to look annoyingly composed, as though he’d just stepped out of a minimalist sportswear catalogue. You envied his ability to look put-together when preparing to inflict pain. The mats squeaked under your feet as you circled each other. 

Higuruma had adopted that lazy predator look that always meant trouble. “Ready?” he asked.

“No, but when has that ever stopped you?”

He started slow, as always – light jabs and basic combinations that you could easily dodge or block. A warmup. Gradually, his movements became sharper, faster, forcing you to stay focused.

“Your left guard is dropping again,” he commented, demonstrating his point with a quick tap to your ribs.

“My left guard is fine,” you protested, only to eat another tap to the same spot. “Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be dropping if someone hadn’t bruised these ribs last week.”

He smirked and picked up the pace. You managed to hold your own for a while, even landing a few hits, though you suspected he let you have those small victories just to keep you engaged. Inevitably, as always, the tide turned.

He slipped inside your guard, his forearm pressing against your throat for just a fraction of a second before you twisted away, gasping. He didn’t follow up immediately, but the message was clear: I could have ended you there.

Frustrated, you went for broke, throwing a wild combination you hoped might catch him off guard through sheer unpredictability. He weathered the storm effortlessly, blocking and weaving, then saw his opening. A sweep took your legs out. You rolled, narrowly avoiding an axe kick that would’ve cracked ribs. Scrambling, you deflected his next strike, but he simply flowed around your defense. 

“Too slow,” he taunted, grabbing your wrist and flipping you onto your back.

You hit the mat hard but managed to trap his leg with yours, trying to drag him down with you. He just laughed and turned it into a pin, his considerable weight settling across your back as he twisted your arm into a submission hold. Damn lawyer.

“Yield?” he asked.

“Never,” you wheezed, squirming indignantly beneath him, trying to dislodge his grip, maybe land a sneaky bite on his forearm if you could just contort yourself enough.

Higuruma adjusted his weight, neutralizing your struggles with minimal movement. Being pinned by someone who could bench press a small car was deeply unfair. Just as you were contemplating the strategic merits of playing dead, your stomach decided to weigh in on the proceedings with a loud, embarrassingly long growl.

You froze. Higuruma froze.

A beat of silence passed, then he threw his head back and burst out laughing at your expense. “Alright, Doctor,” he managed between chuckles, “I’ll make you a deal. Yield now, and dinner’s on me.”

“...this feels like coercion.”

“It is.” He twisted your arm a little further, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point crystal clear. “Going once…”

“Okay, okay! I yield! Feed me, damn it!”

He released you, still chuckling as he hauled you up. “You’re too easy to bribe.”

“Free food is free food,” you shrugged, rolling your shoulders to work out the kinks and glaring at him half-heartedly. “Even if it comes from my tormentor.”

An hour later, showered and changed back into your work clothes, you were demolishing a bowl of steaming miso ramen at a quiet noodle shop nearby. Higuruma watched from across the small table, sipping his green tea with an expression of fond exasperation.

“When was the last time you ate today?” he asked, observing the speed at which you inhaled noodles.

“Uh…” you paused, trying to remember. “There might have been a protein bar at some point? Around lunchtime? Ish?”

He sighed. “This is why Yuji made me swear to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m a grown adult,” you protested around a mouthful of noodles. “I can take care of myself.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise. Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get shanked in a dark alley on your way home.”

“That was one time—”

“Three assassination attempts last year alone.”

“Only two of those were serious.”

He gave you a look that suggested your definition of “serious” was concerning, and you weren’t helping your case. “Finish your food. I’m driving you home.”

Later, settled into the passenger seat of his car, you watched the city lights blur past. This used to be Miwa’s job. For years, she’d been the one making sure you made it back to your apartment without getting murdered by any of the numerous powerful and unpleasant people you’d pissed off during your ongoing campaign to clean up the cesspool of corruption that plagued the jujutsu world. The only reason you were still breathing was probably because the truly dangerous people you’d comprehensively fucked over hadn’t quite figured out exactly who was responsible for their sudden misfortunes. You were good at covering your tracks.

Since you’d finally managed to oust the corrupt Head of Finance – a truly odious man who’d been skimming funds for decades – and get Ijichi installed, things had shifted. Someone needed to take over Ijichi’s former operational duties. Who better than your badass guardian angel and the fiercest advocate of Gojo’s administration? Naturally, Miwa had snagged a well-deserved promotion to Acting Head of Operations. Fantastic for her career, but left a gap in your personal security detail. She didn’t have time for daily bodyguard duty anymore between running half of HQ. 

Higuruma had quietly taken it upon himself to fill in the vacant position. These days, he was your primary babysitter. Feeding you when you forgot to eat, dragging you to training, making sure you actually left the office at the end of the day, driving you home almost every night. You often wondered how he even found the time, given his own demanding responsibilities. Maybe you were the reason the poor man was still tragically single at 42. You mentally filed that away under “things to feel vaguely guilty about later.”

The warm glow spilling from under your apartment door should have set off alarm bells for someone living alone. Anyone else might have reached for their phone, maybe a concealed weapon, but you already knew who was inside. Just as he undoubtedly knew the precise moment your key slid into the lock, sensing you even before the tumblers clicked.

Sure enough, as you pushed the door open, a shock of gravity-defying silver hair appeared around the corner, followed by that impossibly perfect face lighting up with pure joy. His blue eyes, usually hidden behind dark glasses or a blindfold when he was out and about, were uncovered now, bright and focused entirely on you. Your stupid heart did a little acrobatic flip it really had no business doing after the day you’d had. Some reflexes, it seemed, never faded, even after all these years.

“You’re home!” Gojo chirped, like this was the most magnificent event of the century.

Not giving you the time to process, he bounded over and scooped you clean off your feet. One moment you were tiredly trying to shoulder your backpack off, the next you were airborne, enveloped in his warmth and the scent of his cologne. It didn’t matter that you’d literally seen him this morning before work; his greetings always operated on the scale of a soldier returning from a decade-long war to find their beloved waiting patiently on the shore.

“Sensei!” you yelped, clinging to his neck as the world whirled around you. “Put me down! I’m getting dizzy!” 

“Don’t care,” he sang, squeezing you tighter. “Missed you.”

“You saw me this morning!”

“That was forever ago!”

The whole living arrangement was a bit unconventional. You had your apartment, Gojo had his penthouse monstrosity across town, but you also each had dedicated rooms in the other’s place. Considering he spent roughly ninety percent of his off-duty hours here, it was safe to say your home was his, too. Not that you minded. He paid the bills, kept the fridge perpetually stocked with fancy snacks, and did the dishes without being asked. You couldn’t ask for a better semi-permanent, overly affectionate housemate.

After another enthusiastic squeeze that threatened the structural integrity of your spine, Gojo lowered you back to solid ground. You steadied yourself with a hand on his broad shoulder while fumbling with your shoelaces, feeling slightly breathless.

“I was gonna take you out to dinner,” Gojo announced, snatching your backpack before you could toss it carelessly onto the floor. “But someone is always eating with Higuruma these days.“

There was a faint edge to his tone that made you glance up. Was he… upset? Nah. He was grinning down at you, all devastating charm and sparkling mischief. Just Gojo being Gojo, then.

“So!” he continued brightly, slinging your backpack over his shoulder and ushering you away. “I bought dessert instead! Go wash up and change! No work clothes allowed for dessert time!”

“Stop pushing me, I’m going! What kind of dessert did you get?”

“It’s a surprise! And don’t take too long changing, or I might eat it all myself!” he called after you.

“If you touch it before I get back, I’ll strangle you in your sleep!” you yelled back over your shoulder.

You huffed on principle, but complied readily because this was the precise comfort you craved after the endless grind. A hot shower, comfy clothes, expensive dessert you didn’t pay for, and… Gojo Satoru. The magic of coming home to him. No matter how brutal life had been to you, he somehow always knew how to make it better, to offer you solace in ways both grand and mundane.

It’d always been that way, hadn’t it? Ever since that fateful day nearly a decade ago when the strongest sorcerer alive had barged into your unassuming existence and decided, for reasons still largely mysterious, that you were his problem to solve, his responsibility to protect, his person to cherish above all else.

Chapter Text

And so began just another night, if you could call anything involving Gojo Satoru “just another” anything. After a quick shower (and an even quicker internal debate about whether or not to put on actual pajamas or just embrace the seductive allure of oversized t-shirt and some worn-soft shorts – comfort won, as it often did), you padded back into the living room. 

Gojo had already queued up that trashy rom-com. It was a cinematic trainwreck of epic proportions, full of nonsensical plot twists, questionable acting, and enough clichés to fill a textbook on bad writing. You both adored it.

He glanced up as you entered, those impossibly blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that always made your heart do a weird, fluttery thing it really shouldn’t. Honestly, after all these years, you’d think you’d be immune. Apparently not. 

“There you are,” he said. “The show’s about to start, and you know how much I hate missing the product placement opportunities.”

He patted the cushion beside him invitingly – an invitation you were powerless to resist, even if you’d wanted to. And honestly, you really didn’t. 

A plate of castella sat waiting on the coffee table. Not just any castella, but the absurdly expensive kind from that fancy bakery across town. Each slice was a perfect golden rectangle, glistening with honey and practically vibrating with sugary goodness. You snagged it immediately as you settled in beside him, tucking your legs beneath you.

“I can’t believe you’re actually excited about product placement,” you said as you took a bite of the castella. It melted on your tongue. Fluffy, sweet, with just the right amount of honey. Gojo knew your weaknesses and wasn’t above exploiting them.

“Excuse you,” he protested, his arm sliding along the back of the couch in that not-quite-touching way that still managed to radiate warmth. “Product placement is an underappreciated art form. Name another medium where you can watch someone have an emotional breakdown while conspicuously holding a specific brand of energy drink.”

You snorted. “Oh god, or that one where the lead suddenly developed an intense passion for a specific brand of instant ramen right before confessing his love?”

“A masterpiece! Tonight’s episode supposedly has a dramatic confrontation in a convenience store. I’m betting at least three branded drinks get knocked over during the fight.”

“Please. They’re obviously going to reconcile over some specific brand of ice cream. It’s always ice cream in these things.”

Gojo perked up. “Want to make it interesting?”

“Absolutely not. Last time we made a bet, I ended up having to wear cat ears to a lecture.”

“And you looked adorable! Even your students thought so!”

“My students had panic attacks when I called on them. They thought I’d snapped. The only person who enjoyed it was Yuji, and he only stopped laughing when I made him wear matching ears. We traumatized a whole generation of first-years that day.”

You shivered at the memory of their wide, terrified eyes.

“Still one of my favorite lectures,” Gojo said dreamily, finally letting his arm drop properly around your shoulders. “Come on, Spices. Just a tiny bet?”

You took a pointed bite of castella. “First, you weren’t even there to witness my humiliation. I had to suffer alone. Second, no bet, no costume. Shut up and watch this garbage with me, or I’m going to bed. Choose wisely, sensei.”

“That again?” he groaned. “We talked about this. I haven’t been your teacher in years.”

“Sorry, sen— uh, I mean…” 

Gojo was right, of course. The “sensei” thing had persisted long past its expiration date, but old habits had a way of digging in their heels. You couldn’t even remember what you’d called him before he became your teacher, mostly because you hadn’t called him anything at all during that first year.

It’d started in a psych ward where your parents had dumped you before fleeing to Hokkaido, washing their hands of their “troubled” child. The events leading to that still gnawed at the edges of your soul, a festering wound that refused to fully heal. You’d awakened your jujutsu ability in the worst possible way, a tragic backstory so cliché it deserved its own angsty rock opera.

Your classmates – the bullies who’d cornered you, forced you into that abandoned, crumbling building on the outskirts of town – hadn’t survived their encounter with the cursed spirit that had made its lair there. You had. Though in the darkest hours, when the nightmares clawed their way back, you still sometimes wondered if survival had been a mercy or just a more elaborate form of punishment.

The scene the police found had been straight out of a horror movie: you, blood-soaked and shell-shocked, surrounded by mangled corpses whose hearts had literally been ripped out and crushed to paste. The official story, sensationalized and twisted, had been plastered across every newspaper in Japan: the little psychopath who’d lured four “innocent” friends into an abandoned building and... well.

The media had loved it. The “Heartbreaker,” they’d called you, which was both technically accurate and deeply fucked up considering you were fourteen and had no idea what was happening. No one believed in monsters. Not the police who’d hauled you away, not the grieving parents demanding justice, and certainly not the judge who’d been ready to try you as an adult until your spectacular mental breakdown had earned you a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward instead.

Gojo found you, eventually. Between saving the world, teaching the next generation of curse-fodder, and generally being the strongest sorcerer alive, it had taken him a year to get to you. A year, you’d later learn, he’d spent all his precious, infinitesimally small slivers of downtime fighting tooth and nail against bureaucracy, calling in favors, and arranging everything perfectly so that once he got you out, no one could ever take you away again.

He’d had Ijichi keeping tabs on you from a distance, making sure the overworked and underpaid hospital staff didn’t “accidentally” lose you somewhere between medication rounds and group therapy sessions. It’d been a valid concern, given the chaos you’d been unwittingly wreaking on a regular basis. There had been a series of escalating incidents that had culminated in the infamous prank war amongst your fellow mental patients, an event that nearly burned down the hospital itself. You’d been grounded for a month after that escapade. Good times.

When Gojo finally appeared, he’d brought you home. He’d even taken actual time off work, something he’d never done before, sending Headquarters into a collective meltdown, just to take care of you.

And yes, those early days were filled with his endearingly awkward attempts at caregiving. He’d bought you new clothes – mountains of them – all in the wrong sizes and horrible color combinations (neon pink and puke-green stripes and similar monstrosity). His cooking attempts had been legendary disasters, often ending with the smoke alarm shrieking and both of you smelling faintly of burnt offerings. 

You still remembered vividly the first meal he’d tried to cook for you. The suspiciously pink chicken had resulted in you spending half the night intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl. He’d hovered anxiously outside your door the entire time, a six-foot-three pillar of guilt, repeating “I’m so sorry” over and over again in a miserable voice, refusing to leave until he was absolutely certain you wouldn’t die of salmonella poisoning under his watch. You’d felt bad for him, in between bouts of violent regurgitation.

Most importantly, he’d waited. He’d let you hide in shadowy corners, watching him with suspicious eyes during your episodes. He’d never pushed, never prodded, never demanded you speak or explain the horrors rattling around in your head. He’d just been there, making himself smaller, less overwhelming, patient and steady, until you were ready to reach back.

That first month, you hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t made a sound, and it had nearly driven Gojo out of his mind with worry. He’d dragged you to every medical specialist in Tokyo, demanding tests, second opinions, third opinions, only to be told repeatedly that you were undernourished, traumatized, but otherwise physically healthy. One particularly brave doctor had gently suggested, maybe you just didn’t want to talk to him. Gojo had not taken that suggestion well, and the poor doctor had likely required therapy of his own afterward.

The breakthrough, when it came, was comically mundane. It happened on an unremarkable afternoon, after yet another fruitless doctor’s appointment. You were trailing behind Gojo on the walk home, your small hand loosely held in his much larger one – a recent development he’d treated with the reverence of a religious miracle. That’s when a small box of mint chocolate flavored milk in the vending machine became too alluring to resist. You’d been eyeing it for days.

“I want that,” you’d said, tugging his hand.

Three whole words. After a month of silence. The look on Gojo’s face had been priceless. 

“What?” he’d asked softly, as if afraid speaking too loudly might spook you back into silence.

You pointed again at the vending machine. “The milk. The mint chocolate one.”

For a moment, he just stood there, dumbstruck. Then, a slow smile spread across his features, and he practically lunged at the vending machine, fumbling with his wallet like a man who’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness was dispensed for 120 yen.

“How many do you want? Let’s get them all. Do you want them all? I’m getting them all.” He was rambling, giddy with excitement.

“Just... one,” you mumbled, a little bewildered by his sudden manic energy, but he was already feeding bills into the machine.

“One? No, no, what if you want more later? What if they run out? What if you decide this is your favorite thing ever, and we can’t find it again? We need a strategic reserve!”

You watched in confusion as Gojo systematically emptied the entire vending machine of its mint chocolate milk supply, stacking the small cartons in his arms like a caffeinated squirrel preparing for winter. An elderly woman walking by with her tiny dog gave him a wide berth and a deeply concerned look. He just beamed at her.

By evening, his kitchen looked like the dairy aisle of a major supermarket. Every brand, every variation, every possible permutation of mint chocolate milk that existed in Tokyo had made its way into his fridge, overflowing onto counters and threatening to annex the dining table. What else was he supposed to do? You’d finally asked for something. He was going to make damn sure you had it in abundance.

Funny how habits form, how comfort gets woven into the fabric of your life through the strangest of feedback loops. 

That mint chocolate milk had started out so randomly. A childish whim, nothing more. But then Gojo, being Gojo, had turned it into an avalanche of dairy-based affection, and somehow you’d both gotten caught in this absurd cycle of mutual misunderstanding that ended up defining your relationship.

You’d kept drinking the milk because he’d bought so much of it, because his eyes lit up every time you reached for a carton, because rejecting it felt like rejecting him. And Gojo had interpreted your consistent consumption as genuine love for the drink rather than the Stockholm Syndrome of beverages it actually was. So, naturally, he’d kept buying more. And more. And then, just to be safe, a little bit more.

Neither of you had realized at the time that you were caught in this ridiculous cycle – you dutifully drinking milk to make him happy, him joyfully buying more milk because he thought it made you happy. By the time either of you figured it out, the damage was done: mint chocolate milk had become your comfort drink, your stress reliever, your little piece of nostalgia in a carton.

The taste itself had become synonymous with comfort, with safety, with being seen and cared for in that overwhelming, excessive way that only Gojo Satoru could manage. It wasn’t even about the drink anymore. It was the moment when you’d found your voice again, when you’d reached out and been met with such enthusiastic, ridiculous acceptance that it had literally filled a kitchen.

These days, while you kept a steady supply in your fridge, Gojo still showed up periodically with new and exotic varieties he’d discovered on his travels, presenting them with the same boyish excitement as that first day. Your friends thought it was weird. Your colleagues occasionally made jokes about your “milk addiction.” You’d once overheard Shoko referring to it as your “emotional support dairy.”

How could you explain that it wasn’t about the milk at all? It was about trust built on dairy products and healing measured in milk cartons. It was about the man who had seen you at your most broken and decided that you were worth saving, worth loving, worth an entire city’s supply of flavored milk. Some addictions, you’d learned, had nothing to do with the substance itself and everything to do with the memories it carried, the person who gave it to you, and the quiet language of care.

Then came the separation anxiety phase, though that clinical term couldn’t quite capture the primal fear that gripped you whenever Gojo so much as stepped out of view. The concept of object permanence, a developmental milestone most toddlers achieve with relative ease, had apparently taken a vacation from your brain. As far as you were concerned, Gojo existed in a quantum state – the moment he left your sight, he could simultaneously be anywhere and nowhere, like Schrödinger’s overpowered sorcerer. And that was simply unacceptable.

So, you’d followed him. Everywhere. 

Gojo had started with simple explanations:

“Listen, I just need to grab the takeout from downstairs. Five minutes, tops. See this watch? When the big hand reaches the twelve, I’ll be right back. Promise.”

You’d nod sagely, appearing to absorb every word while secretly calculating the quickest route to tail him through the apartment building, then materialize behind him in the elevator, just as the doors were closing, causing him to jump and nearly drop the bag of katsudon. 

Gojo had attempted more detailed reasoning, complete with visual aids for added persuasion: 

“Okay, so my job involves extremely dangerous curses that could literally eat you. See? Big teeth. Very bad. So you need to stay in my perfectly safe apartment with snacks and absolutely no cursed spirits trying to devour you. Look, this is my workplace. All these red X’s? Areas too dangerous for civilians, especially delicious-looking ones. A.k.a. You.” He’d tapped your nose emphatically.

You’d examined the map carefully, memorized the address of Headquarters printed neatly at the bottom, then somehow beat him to his destination. Despite Gojo taking a taxi, you’d been waiting for him at the main gate when he arrived. He’d just stared at you, then at the baffled security guard, then back at you, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Next, Gojo had enlisted Ijichi, who quickly became collateral damage in this escalating war of attrition. Poor Ijichi. He’d tried everything – triple-locked doors, motion sensors, reinforced windows, even one of those child leashes disguised as a cute animal backpack that Gojo had bought in a moment of sheer desperation. You escaped them all. 

Ijichi would turn around to get snacks or answer a phone call, and poof -- empty apartment and all his security measures still perfectly intact. He once swore he only blinked – literally blinked – and you’d vanished like a ghost through solid walls. The man actually fainted from stress. You’d felt a little bad about that one, but not bad enough to stop.

Ijichi became convinced you had some secret teleportation technique, especially after you managed to escape his supervision seven times in one day, each escape more improbable and psychologically taxing than the last. The truth, discovered much later, was far simpler: you were just exceptionally sneaky, preternaturally quiet, and possessed infinite determination when it came to following Gojo. Also, you were very, very good at picking locks.

The best part, the part that drove Gojo to the brink of madness, was that it was impossible to reason with you because you never argued, never complained, never threw tantrums, or made demands. You just... appeared wherever Gojo went. He’d drop you off at Ijichi’s house, watch Ijichi locked the door, breathe a sigh of profound relief, then drive halfway across town, adjust his rearview mirror, and nearly jump out of his skin to find you sitting calmly in the backseat, small hands folded neatly in your lap, staring back at him with an expression that clearly said, “Nice try, but no.”

“Damn it,” he’d groan, clutching his chest dramatically, “you’re going to give me a heart attack before I’m thirty. How do you even do that?!”

You’d just blink at him through the mirror, offering no explanation.

He tried reverse psychology, hoping to bore you into submission:

“You know what? Fine. Follow me. See how boring my job is. Watch me do paperwork all day. You’ll be begging for Ijichi’s stamp collection in an hour.”

You’d sit quietly beside Gojo in his office at Headquarters for hours, perfectly content, while he waded through mountains of bureaucratic nonsense.

He even resorted to bribery, a tactic he was usually quite successful with:

“If you stay with Ijichi today, just for today, I’ll buy you mochi. The best mochi in the city!”

You accepted the mochi AND still followed him. You’d been an unstoppable force of nature since day one. He just hadn’t realized the full extent of it yet.

Eventually, Gojo couldn’t delay his missions any further, and those weren’t the kind that could be delegated to anyone. If you were going to follow him into dangerous situations anyway, he might as well keep you where he could see you. It was, he reasoned, the lesser of two evils. The greater evil being the heart attack he was surely courting every time you materialized out of thin air.

“You can’t take an untrained, civilian teenager to exorcise special grade cursed spirits!” Ijichi had protested. 

“Watch me,” Gojo had replied.

“This violates at least fifteen workplace safety regulations! Not to mention child endangerment laws!”

“Bold of you to assume laws and regulations apply to me.”

“The High Council will—”

“The High Council can fight me.”

Despite Ijichi’s desperate protests (which carried significantly less weight given his consistent failure to actually keep you contained for more than fifteen minutes at a time), Gojo made the executive decision to just bring you along.

And that’s how you became Gojo’s mission companion, nestled inside his Infinity, clinging to him for dear life and watching with fascination as he casually warped reality and reduced powerful monsters to ash. In your young mind, you’d found your own personal god, and you weren’t about to let him go.

You’d made yourself useful in your own way. Your contributions involved carrying snacks, providing moral support (mostly in the form of wide-eyed stares of adoration), and staying out of the way when he deemed it absolutely necessary. Gojo had also entrusted you with the most crucial duty: Keeper of the Sacred Sunglasses.

“These are very important sunglasses,” he'd say solemnly, placing them on the bridge of your nose. “They’ve seen many battles. Protected these Six Eyes many times. Looked extremely cool in various situations. Guard them well, young Padawan.”

You’d nod with equal gravity, adjusting the glasses as they slipped down your nose, while he pretended not to smile at how ridiculous you looked in them.

Looking back, it was probably his craftiest move – a clever tactic to create a tangible link between you. Every time he placed those stupid glasses on your nose, telling you to “keep them safe,” he was really saying: I’ll always come back for these, which means I’ll always come back for you.

Throughout that year, you barely spoke and never addressed him directly. No name, no honorifics, nothing. Gojo had assumed you were simply shy, an assumption that would later prove hilariously incorrect when you enrolled at Tokyo Jujutsu High (despite Principal Yaga’s strenuous objections) and revealed yourself to be anything but timid.

That was when “sensei” entered your vocabulary, and somehow never left despite years of effort on Gojo’s part to dislodge it. Even as Gojo whined relentlessly, demanding you to call him anything else – Satoru, Gojo, “Supreme Being of Infinite Glory and Unparalleled Handsomeness” (his actual suggestion, which earned him a deadpan stare and a week of you calling him “Supreme Being” in public with no inflection) – “sensei” stuck.

At work, you managed just fine – “Gojo” in casual settings among colleagues to establish a semblance of professional distance, “Gojo-sama” when formality and the assembled audience of crusty Council Elders demanded it. 

Alone with him, your brain defaulted back to “sensei.” Maybe it was because that title marked the first time you’d felt truly secure in your place in his life. No longer just a broken little thing he’d picked up from the loony bin who followed him like a shadow, but his actual student, with a legitimate reason to be by his side. A reason beyond just needing him to survive.

In the present, Gojo was pouting with the dramatic flair of a man who’d perfected the art of petulant sulking over decades of practice. The “sensei” topic always triggered this response, though he’d learned to temper his protests after The Great Name Strike of several years back. 

That battle of wills had revealed your impressive talent for linguistic gymnastics. You’d managed entire conversations without using any form of address, simply resorting to elaborate hand gestures and strategic pokes when you needed his attention specifically. Your monumental capacity for malicious compliance had forced Gojo to admit defeat or risk permanent relegation to nameless entity status within your interactions. He’d lasted three days before cracking.

“One day,” he now sighed dramatically, flopping back against the cushions like the tragic hero of a poorly written play. “I’ll get you to use my actual name. You know, that thing my parents gave me? Starts with an ‘S’, ends with a ‘u’?”

You raised an eyebrow, shoving another piece of castella into your mouth. “Why are you so weirdly obsessed with this anyway? What’s wrong with ‘sensei’? The other guys still call you sensei, and I’ve never heard you give them shit about it.” 

“You don’t understand,” he huffed, managing to sound both mysterious and wounded, which was a special Gojo skill.

“What exactly don’t I understand?”

“Nothing.”

“What kind of nothing?”

“Oh look!” He snatched your empty plate away with suspicious timing. “You’re about to miss the thrilling product placement sequence. I think they’re going to dramatically spill at least two different brands of sports drinks.”

Before you could press further, Gojo pulled you against his side in what was clearly a tactical maneuver to hide his face and effectively shut down the conversation. Whenever he was trying to conceal something, be it embarrassment or vulnerability, he’d use physical affection as a smokescreen. You turned to call him out on his evasiveness, only to get distracted by his perpetually perfect scent.

That was another mystery you’d yet to solve. How did Gojo always smell so good? It wasn’t fair, really. You’d conducted extensive research into the matter – borrowed his cologne (for science), tested his body wash (purely academic interest), even tried his laundry detergent (rigorous scientific methodology demanded it). The results were always disappointing.

On him, it was this intoxicating blend of expensive and comforting at the same time. On you, it just smelled like you’d raided an upscale department store’s fragrance counter then lost a fight with a bottle of fabric softener. It was probably another application of Limitless he wasn’t telling you about, some sort of passive olfactory perfection field that amplified all the good smells and repelled all the lesser scents of mere mortals. Or, he secretly bathed in unicorn tears. Both theories were equally plausible.

Fine. You filed both mysteries – the name issue and the scent situation – away for future investigation. For now, you allowed yourself to be distracted as you settled against him with a contented sigh. He adjusted immediately, wrapping one arm around you while his other hand found your knee, fingers tapping out a soothing rhythm on the skin just below your shorts.

The terrible rom-com droned on. Gojo’s running commentary had devolved into elaborate conspiracy theories about how the lead actress’s handbag was actually the true villain of the series.

“The handbag, Spices. Look at it lurking there, all innocent and designer-branded. It’s been in every major scene. That’s not coincidence, that’s premeditation.”

“The handbag,” you repeated drowsily, your head growing heavier on his shoulder. The castella-induced sugar coma was setting in, amplified by the sheer exhaustion of your day.

“Exactly! First, it mysteriously appears in the coffee shop scene where our leads ‘accidentally’ bump into each other while carrying matching sports drinks, I might add. Then it shows up at the dramatic breakup, perfectly positioned to catch the light during her tearful monologue. And now? Look where it is! Sitting there menacingly next to the convenience store ice cream freezer!”

You managed a vague sound of agreement, something between a hum and a sigh. The combination of his warmth, his scent, and his voice was proving lethal to your attempts to stay awake. His rambling, no matter how absurd, was an effective lullaby.

“You’re not appreciating my genius deductions,” Gojo complained, but his hand had started that gentle motion through your hair that he knew damn well was guaranteed to knock you out. It was a deliberate, affectionate act of sabotage.

“Am listening,” you protested around a yawn. “Evil bag. Very... suspicious…”

Really, though, you were already halfway to dreamland. Gojo noticed. Of course, he did. He noticed everything about you. His animated commentary gradually tapered off into soft murmurs, then silence. He shifted slightly to let your head rest more comfortably against him, and pressed his cheek against your hair. Time seemed to stretch and distort. You were adrift in a sea of warmth and quiet comfort. 

A moment later, his arms slipped under you, one supporting your back, the other beneath your knees. The movement should have roused you, but there was something so inherently safe about being in his arms that your body remained relaxed, trusting. How many times had he carried you like this over the years? From mission sites, from training grounds, from this very couch when you’d dozed off during other terrible shows? Too many to count.

The journey to your bedroom passed in a hazy sequence of half-formed impressions: the base notes of his cologne mingling with the scent of his skin, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, the way he managed to open doors without jostling you at all. He tucked you into your bed the same way he’d done years ago when you were small and scared and plagued with anxiety that only his presence could chase away. 

You registered the soft give of your mattress, the whisper of sheets being drawn up, the tender press of his lips against your forehead. And words, spoken too softly for your sleep-addled brain to capture. Something about them felt important, but consciousness was already slipping away from you.

In that liminal space between waking and sleeping, you found yourself wishing impossible things. Wished he’d stay, slip under the covers and pull you close, let you wake up surrounded by his warmth and that inexplicable scent that had somehow become embedded in your very sense of home. It was a dangerous thought, one your awake self would never acknowledge, let alone indulge. 

Because you knew that it could never be. He was Gojo Satoru. The strongest. And you were… just you.

Gojo seemed to agree with that assessment. You heard the soft click of your bedroom door closing, followed by the sound of his footsteps retreating. The impossible wish dissolved into dreams, leaving behind only a lingering sense of something just out of reach.

Chapter Text

There were many strange things about you – so many, in fact, that listing the normal bits would’ve been more efficient. It’d be a short list fitting on one sticky note. But where’s the fun in that? After all, normal was boring, and you’d built your entire brand on being distinctly not-boring.

Let’s start with perhaps the most baffling item on your long list of personal oddities: Despite your prickly hedgehog personality, your certified insanity, your unsettling fascination with things that would make normal people run screaming, and your concerning workaholic streak, you’d somehow managed to collect and maintain a roster of friends since high school that defied all logic and several laws of social dynamics. 

Then again, these weren’t what you’d call normal people. They weren’t just weird; they were your kind of weird, which meant they were the right flavor of fucked up to not only tolerate your chaos but actively enjoy it.

Exhibit A: Choso.

Your friendship with this former villain turned ride-or-die bestie was definitive proof that the universe had a dark sense of humor, or at least a fondness for irony. The Shibuya Incident had been a turning point for him, though “turning point” was putting it mildly. That very night, he’d casually ditched Kenjaku’s evil schemes to join forces with his newly-discovered brother, Yuji. What followed was a series of events so ridiculous they’d sound made up if you tried to explain them to anyone who wasn’t there to witness the madness firsthand.

Somehow, through a combination of near-death experiences, lousy jokes (mostly from you, your primary coping mechanism), and what you could only assume was cosmic intervention, Choso had appointed himself as your eternal babysitter and saved your ass more times than you could count. His assistance during the final Kenjaku showdown and the subsequent political circus of the High Council takeover had earned him more than just a full pardon from Gojo. He’d gotten the complete jujutsu society membership package. This included a laminated ID card, an official ranking (special grade, no less), and all the bureaucratic trappings that came with legitimate employment in the world of sorcery.

To truly appreciate the bonkers nature of your relationship with Choso, we must turn back the clock approximately six years, to a specific week in the chaotic months following the Council takeover. You still remembered that week with crystal clarity, the kind of indelible memory usually reserved for embarrassing moments from middle school or that one time you accidentally called your teacher “mom.”

The whole affair had started with Choso appearing in your room, which by that point was functionally his room too, given the sheer amount of time he’d spent loitering there. He’d looked uncharacteristically uncertain as he handed you an opulent-looking letter, sealed with the Kamo clan’s crest in blood-red wax. The invitation had arrived with suspicious speed after Choso’s pardon went through.

“They want me to visit,” he’d said, his voice flat but unable to hide the unease in his eyes. He held the expensive paper between two fingers as if it might spontaneously combust. Which, given the jujutsu society’s flair for the dramatic, wasn’t entirely impossible.

Unsurprisingly, those opportunists had salivated at the chance to claim Choso as their own. “Come home. Connect with your roots,” they’d urged in pretentious handwriting, as though Choso had ever known their home and conveniently glossed over the fact that said roots involved their ancestor basically being an evil monster. 

The real bait, the venomous cherry on this poisoned cake, was the promise to help resurrect Choso’s brothers. The math was insultingly simple: add Choso and his resurrected siblings to their roster, and they’d have the firepower to potentially level the playing field against the Gojos and the Zenins.

Choso himself wanted nothing to do with the Kamos, and honestly, who could blame him?  Having Kenjaku, who’d been wearing the original Kamo Noritoshi’s face, for a “father” had somewhat soured him on the whole family experience. That’s like finding out your dad was actually three cursed raccoons in a trenchcoat, except worse because at least raccoons wouldn’t perform forbidden curse experiments on your mother. The only thing that had given him pause was that tantalizing promised “reincarnation ritual” for his brothers.

You’d taken one look at Choso’s face and immediately cleared your schedule. Because that’s what friends did. They dropped everything to make sure their semi-immortal, ancient half-curse bestie didn’t get emotionally manipulated and scammed by an opportunistic old-money family. You’d been intrigued, too. The Kamos were traditional onmyoji. Who knew what dusty rituals they had squirreled away in their archives? And then there was the small matter of their private chef. You’d heard rumors about their kaiseki skills that bordered on the divine, and your stomach rumbled at the mere thought.

That’s how you’d ended up taking a week off to play chaperone on Choso’s family reunion tour to the Kamo compound in Kyoto. Despite being older than several national monuments, Choso had the real-world experience of a newborn deer when it came to modern society and its various pitfalls. As his best friend and bullshit detector, you’d made it your mission to ensure the Kamos didn’t try any funny business with their long-lost “relative.” The promise of luxury accommodations and high-end traditional cuisine hadn’t hurt either.

The Kamo compound was precisely what you’d expect from one of the Major Three – all perfectly maintained traditional architecture and meticulously groomed gardens. The whole place reeked of old money and older jujutsu. The servant who greeted you at the gate was wearing historical court clothing, which was both impressive and slightly ridiculous.

“Welcome home, Choso-sama,” he’d bowed deeply to Choso, and then completely ignored your existence as he led the two of you inside. Standard elitist bullshit.

A cluster of attendants, also in traditional clothing, appeared out of nowhere – two flanking Choso, three behind you both – all moving with synchronized precision. Ostensibly an honor guard, but you’d been in this game long enough to recognize a subtle containment formation when you saw one. Choso caught your eye and raised an eyebrow. You gave him a tiny shake of your head. 

As you went through winding corridors that seemed designed specifically to disorient visitors, you mentally reviewed what you knew about the current Kamo clan head (intel obtained through Ijichi’s extensive and borderline-illegal files): Kamo Hideyoshi, mid-fifties, first grade sorcerer specializing in Blood Manipulation (obviously), and known for being ruthlessly practical despite his conservative posturing. Basically, imagine a feudal lord with a corporate MBA.

The room they led you to was clearly meant to impress: a grand reception hall filled with ancient scrolls and priceless artifacts carefully positioned to demonstrate the clan’s long heritage. Silk paintings depicting ancient battles hung alongside cursed weapons. And ceremonial armor that had probably witnessed more historical events than your history textbooks stood guard in lacquered alcoves, while delicate porcelain worth a small fortune caught the light just so. It was an exquisitely curated display of power, a museum of intimidation. 

You had to admire the psychological warfare of it all. A shame it was entirely wasted on you. You’d spent too many years mooching off Gojo Satoru to be impressed by mere displays of wealth and power. He’d let you use vases more expensive than those to prop open a window before.

“Greetings,” came a measured voice as Kamo Hideyoshi emerged from an inner door with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested he’d been waiting there, posed and ready, specifically for this moment. 

He was exactly as his files described – distinguished in that way that only generational wealth could buy. He wore a full onmyoji outfit, his gray-streaked hair immaculate, carrying the weight of centuries of tradition in his bearing as if he’d been born with a silver spoon and several ancient scrolls already lodged in his mouth.

“We are honored to host our long-lost kinsman,” he went on, his gaze flickering briefly to you, his tone chilling several degrees. “And the esteemed student of Gojo-sama. What an… unexpected pleasure.”

Ah, so the Kamos were still nursing a grudge over the Council Takeover stunt, being the only one of the Major Three taken by surprise. That political humiliation must have really stung their fragile pride. Choso remained silent, only staring blankly at Hideyoshi, who had positioned himself on an elevated section of the floor, forcing you to look up at him. Classic dominance play. Predictable, but still annoying. Since Choso showed no signs of breaking the tense silence, and you suspected he was perfectly willing to engage in a staring contest that might last until the next century, you decided to intervene.

“The honor is ours, Kamo-sama,” you replied smoothly. “We’re looking forward to discussing this fascinating proposition of yours.”

“Very well, then,” Hideyoshi continued, though you hadn’t missed the way his eyes had narrowed or the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. He was clearly displeased that you, a nameless commoner, had dared to speak directly to him without first presenting your genealogy and three letters of recommendation from appropriate noble houses. Tough shit.

The offer, when it came, was as predictably transactional as you’d expected. The primary condition, of course, was that Choso had to officially take their family name, effectively branding himself as Kamo property before they’d lift a finger to help with anything. This honor extended posthumously to Eso and Kechizu – memorial tablets bearing their names would be proudly displayed in the clan’s family shrine alongside generations of illustrious priests and sorcerers.

The promise of ancestral reverence was laid out in lavish detail: Daily prayers would be chanted, fresh food offerings respectfully arranged, incense smoke curling toward the heavens carrying burning paper money and written prayers for their souls. Even their mother whose tragic story still made Choso’s eyes go distant with old pain would have her own tablet, her spirit finally receiving the dignity she’d been denied in life, though you noticed Hideyoshi carefully avoided specifying how their family records would describe her relationship to the clan on that tablet. Mistress? Experimental Subject? “Mother of our Esteemed Kinsman,” probably. Vague and sanitized.

To you, these promises held no weight. Being a sorcerer meant dealing with cursed spirits and supernatural phenomena on the regular, sure, but that hadn’t made you any more spiritually inclined. If anything, seeing the mechanics behind the curtain of those supernatural phenomena had stripped away all the mystery and made you even more skeptical of traditional religious practices. Souls were just jujutsu constructs to you; once they dissipated, that was it.

However, to Choso, who’d been formed in an era when these beliefs were as solid as scientific fact, the offer struck deep chords. The idea that his family wouldn’t be condemned to wander as hungry ghosts, that their souls would find a proper ancestral home with regular offerings – it was the kind of thing that kept him up at night, staring at the ceiling with those dark eyes.

Speaking of ceiling-staring, Choso had his own method for tackling important decisions. While most people might pace, make pro-con lists, or stress-eat their way through difficult choices, Choso employed what you’d come to think of as his “statue mode” – a state of perfect stillness. He’d lie flat on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, and fix his gaze on some invisible point overhead. You’d seen him maintain this position for hours on end, barely even blinking, processing thoughts at a pace imperceptible to mortal minds.

You’d been relegated to your own guest room initially. A perfectly pleasant space, if you were into the whole “modest luxury” aesthetic and didn’t mind being treated like a plus-one they’d rather have left at home. Choso, however, was having none of it. He’d simply insisted you stay with him.

This cohabitation was a habit born from a single request Yuji had made months prior, asking Choso to look after his senpai while he was away. Choso, being Choso, had interpreted this casual favor as a sacred blood oath, a binding contract to guard you with his life until the end of time. You’d tried so many things to fix the situation. None had worked. The vow had been sealed.

The Kamos had been rather scandalized by his insistence. Nevertheless, arguing with Choso about anything related to you was impossible. He developed a very specific set to his jaw that meant moving him would require a full-on brawl, heavy machinery, and possibly an act of God. Rather than risk the inevitable confrontation, they’d upgraded you to his palatial suite, much to the visible distress of several disapproving Kamo elders. It was basically a small apartment, decorated in traditional style but with modern luxuries subtly integrated, you know, the kind of space that screamed “we have money and taste and want you to know it.”

The day crawled by at a glacial pace. You’d spent it sprawled across various pieces of expensive furniture, rotating your lounging position every hour just to make sure your limbs hadn’t atrophied from boredom. Your fingers itched with the urge to go snooping (for entirely altruistic purposes, of course). The Kamo estate was practically begging to be investigated, and you could think of at least seventeen places where interesting secrets might be hidden.

Being a good friend, you’d resisted all nosy temptations and resigned yourself to playing the role of visible companion, staying within Choso’s line of sight so he could focus on his existential contemplation without having to worry about you getting murdered in some dramatic off-screen fashion.

As night fell and the servants lit the paper lanterns outside, casting soft shadows through the shoji screens, you found yourself lying beside Choso on a futon that could have comfortably slept four people and was so plush it felt like floating on a cloud made of money. The silence that had stretched throughout the day finally broke when he rolled onto his side to face you.

“What do you think?” he asked.

You had to suppress a snort at the familiarity of the question. This had become something of a running joke in your circle – the “What Would Spices Do?” approach to problem-solving. WWSD, as Megumi had once sarcastically abbreviated it in the group chat. It was a methodology that had yielded wildly different results depending on the user.

Some, like sweet, disaster-prone Yuuta, took your hypothetical actions as gospel and followed them to the letter (usually with spectacularly chaotic results). Others, blessed with more common sense, typically did the exact opposite of whatever they imagined you’d do and generally ended up better for it. Still, the fact that people consistently used you as their strategic north star, even if only to sail due south, was oddly flattering.

You took your time considering the offer, tumbling it over in your head and poking at it from different angles. “If they’re not bullshitting about the reincarnation ritual,” you said at last, trying to keep your natural cynicism in check. “It might be worth playing their game. We’ve already committed to this field trip, might as well see it through. And hey, having your family honored in the shrine isn’t nothing. Though if you want, we could set up your own altar when you get a place. Something more personal. I’d help you.”

Choso nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you. I would like that. But… if I become a Kamo, it would benefit you as well, wouldn’t it?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Even with Gojo leading the High Council,” Choso explained with unexpected political savvy, “you still need backing from the three major clans. As a Kamo, I could help secure that support. I could protect you better.”

You hadn’t expected this level of political chess from Choso. He’d been growing sharper by the day, like a sword being repeatedly folded and tempered by the heat of this strange new world. The strategic part of your brain immediately started mapping out possibilities. Young Noritoshi, the current Kamo heir, had always been one of the good ones – more progressive than his crusty elders and genuinely helpful to boot. Though ultimately, his loyalty was with his family. Having a true ally deep inside the clan, someone who would back you and, by extension, Gojo unconditionally… The advantages were immense.

You mentally bitch-slapped yourself. 

This was Choso. Your friend. The one who’d literally jump in front of danger for you, who had done so repeatedly, who counted you as his only real friend in this century. You were supposed to be protecting him from manipulation, not calculating how to use him as a political asset, you absolute garbage fire of a human being.

“Hey, no,” you said, shaking your head firmly as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on what’s best for you and your brothers. That’s what matters here.”

Choso’s response came without hesitation, stark and simple in its conviction: “Why wouldn’t I worry about you? I must think about what’s best for you. You’re family, too.”

The simple declaration hit you hard. Your chest constricted painfully, and you felt the treacherous sting of tears threatening to make an appearance.

“Thanks, Cho,” you managed to croak out, your voice wavering with all the feelings you were trying desperately not to spill all over the expensive futon.

After several more hours of intense contemplation of the ceiling’s grain patterns, Choso agreed to take the Kamo name. The family wasted no time, immediately launching into preparations for an elaborate ceremony to “properly reconnect him to his bloodline” – their words, not yours. This, naturally, required everyone to dress the part.

Choso was treated less like a person and more like a priceless artifact being prepared for display. He was draped in the family’s traditional onmyoji ensemble: layers of heavy silk in deep indigo and crimson, intricately embroidered with the Kamo clan’s crest and signature water patterns. His hair was washed, oiled, and styled in the classical manner, bound up with ornate pins and a ceremonial headdress that looked both regal and incredibly uncomfortable. The overall effect was striking. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a historical drama, though his perpetually constipated expression somewhat ruined the austere image.

You, as the honored guest, couldn’t escape the dress-up party either. The formal wear you’d packed just in case – your best shirt and pressed trousers – was deemed an affront to tradition and promptly confiscated. Instead, you were being manhandled by a formidable attendant with hands like steel claws who seemed personally offended by your existence. She stuffed you into an expensive kimono, muttering under her breath about “modern barbarians” while yanking your obi tight enough to make breathing optional. Your hair, which you’d thought was perfectly fine, was apparently a blatant insult to their ancestors and required immediate intervention.

You endured it all with gritted teeth and a level of cursing kept strictly to your internal monologue, repeating “For Cho” like a mantra. Starting a diplomatic incident over aggressive hair-combing would probably put a damper on his big day, though you were sorely tempted to find out just how far you could punt the old woman in formal sandals.

Young Noritoshi had been recalled from school for the ceremony, as was proper for the Kamo heir. That morning, you watched with growing amusement as he performed an impressive display of elder-dodging, weaving through what seemed like an endless parade of ancient, scowling relatives to reach you. You wondered if they kept some of them in a temperature-controlled storage room between major clan events.

“Spices,” he gasped out, slightly winded from his social parkour routine.

“Hey Nori,” you replied cheerfully, giving him a helpful thump on the back that might have been a tad too enthusiastic.

He winced, either from the impact or the nickname itself. The “Nori” thing had started after the whole Kenjaku revelation when everyone learned his namesake was actually history’s most evil sorcerer in disguise. The Kyoto students had coined it, and while Noritoshi wasn’t thrilled about sharing a name with seaweed, you figured fair was fair. He’d been calling you Spices without permission since forever. 

After catching his breath, Noritoshi glanced around furtively before dragging you behind a heavy curtain. The conspiratorial move immediately set off your internal alarm bells.

“There’s something you need to know,” he whispered. “About my family’s offer regarding Choso’s brothers... They asked for the remains, yes?”

You patted the oversized bag slung across your shoulder – your personal mobile armory of a collapsible bow, arrows, various odds and ends, and most importantly, six glass tubes containing the remains of his brothers that Choso had entrusted to you when the attendants whisked him away for the preparation. “Got them right here. What’s wrong? Are they planning to welch on the deal?”

“No, no,” Noritoshi rushed to assure you. “They’ll follow through. It’s just... you’re not going to like it.”

“Gonna need more specifics there, Nori. I already don’t like anything about this place. No offense.”

“None taken. Just... promise me you’ll stay calm? Please?”

“Fine, I promise not to shoot anyone or commit arson.”

Noritoshi’s relief was palpable. “It’s about the ‘reincarnation ritual’...” he began, then seemed to struggle for the right words. “There isn’t one.”

“What exactly are you saying?” you pressed, growing impatient with all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. These clan people never could just spit things out.

“Exactly that. There is no ritual. They’re going to do it the simple way – feed the remains to living hosts. The elders have selected six men from our branch families to serve as vessels.”

You stared at Noritoshi. “They’ll die. Slowly and painfully, as their bodies are horrifically warped and reconstructed. Do they know what they’re signing up for?”

His tight nod and grimmer expression told you more than his words. “They know. Their families have been... handsomely compensated.” He flinched at your expression. “Don’t look at me like that, Spices. I hate this, too, but this is how my family operates. I just... thought you should know what’s going to happen.”

The bag suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. Your fingers found their way to the platinum bracelet on your wrist, tracing the arrowhead pattern – a nervous habit you’d developed whenever you needed grounding or were contemplating potential disasters.

Six lives for six brothers. A perfectly balanced equation. You’d kill for Choso without hesitation if needed. Hell, you’d do it for any of your friends. For Gojo, you’d stack bodies to the moon if that’s what it took to keep him safe. Your moral compass had always pointed somewhere between “highly questionable” and “what compass?” to be honest. But this wasn’t your call to make. It was Choso’s.

“I need to talk to Choso,” you said, shoving aside the curtain and nearly bowling over a passing servant who looked utterly scandalized at seeing you emerge from a dark corner with their precious heir. Noritoshi’s professionally withering glare sent her scurrying away before she could raise the alarm about whatever impropriety she was imagining.

By the time you and Noritoshi reached the ceremonial hall, the pieces were already in motion. An elderly attendant swooped in to shepherd Noritoshi to his proper place at the front of the assembled family members, while you were expertly corralled to the back by a group of attendants whose polite smiles couldn’t quite hide their readiness to tackle you if you tried to start shit. Of course, they placed you with the lesser relatives and staff.

Choso, resplendent in his ceremonial robes, turned to check on you from his kneeling position at the front, his gaze sweeping the room until it found yours. You managed what you hoped was a reassuring smile, though your fingers kept worrying at your bracelet. You’d promised Noritoshi to behave, after all.

The ceremony itself was an ostentatious affair. Ranks of priests in immaculate Shinto garb arranged themselves in precise formations. You watched attentively as they performed the various rites. There was the purification with sacred sake and salt, the presentation of offerings to the ancestors, and the formal reading of lineage. Blood was drawn from Choso and Hideyoshi using the family’s inherited technique and mixed with ink to write declarations of kinship. 

The priests waved ceremonial wands decorated with paper streamers, blessing Choso with each motion. Meanwhile, traditional musicians played court music on ancient instruments. The eerie melodies added an otherworldly atmosphere to the proceedings. You kept your ears primed for any sneaky binding vows hidden in the archaic language, but the Kamos seemed to be playing this part straight at least. The “adoption” officially established Choso as part of the main bloodline, specifically Hideyoshi’s “cousin” – a polite fiction that ignored the inconvenient fact that Choso was technically old enough to be everyone’s great-great-grandfather.

When the main ceremony concluded, Hideyoshi transitioned seamlessly into the next phase of his little production: the so-called “reincarnation ritual.” He’d also promised to welcome Choso’s brothers into the family as soon as they were restored. You didn’t miss the calculating gleam in his eyes. This wasn’t about family; it was about asset acquisition. They wanted to assess the brothers’ potential value and lock them down before any other clan could swoop in with a competing offer for the new merchandise.

The heavy doors at the side of the hall slid open, and the six chosen vessels were led out. They wore matching white robes, their heads shaved, their faces scrubbed clean of emotion, looking solemn and resigned to their fate. They knelt in a line before the altar. Choso frowned, his gaze shifting from the six men to Hideyoshi, a line of confusion creasing his brow.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This is the way, Choso-san.” Hideyoshi’s smile was that of a predator closing a trap. “These men have been chosen with great care – young, strong, and honored to serve the family. They will make perfect vessels for your brothers’ rebirth.”

“No,” Choso replied immediately. “This is wrong. My brothers will not return through bloodshed.”

Hideyoshi’s mask of the benevolent patriarch slipped, revealing the cold steel beneath. “A noble sentiment,” he sneered, “but a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Need I remind you that you yourself, along with Kechizu and Eso, came to this world through similar means? This is how your kind are created.”

The barb struck home. The pain that flashed across Choso’s face was so sharp and raw it made your fingers itch for your bow. One arrow. Just one, right through Hideyoshi’s smug, condescending face. With the element of surprise, you could probably take out at least a dozen of those wizened elders before they could stop you. That would certainly solve the immediate problem. Also, undoubtedly create a hundred more. Ijichi’s poor heart wouldn’t be able to take the paperwork. And resulting clan war. You forced your hand to relax.

Choso didn’t rise to the bait. His voice was unnervingly calm. “Do not speak of Eso and Kechizu. That was a mistake I cannot undo, but I will not allow it to be repeated. I did not understand many things then, and I have made many mistakes. As their elder brother, it is my duty to show them a better path. I will not have them return to this world suffering for my errors.”

“You are a Kamo now,” Hideyoshi snapped, his patience gone. “You must respect our ways!”

“Then take your name back. I have no need for it.”

Without another word, Choso turned on his heel, his robes sweeping behind him like dark wings. He strode across the hall, grabbed your hand, and suddenly you were being pulled through the stunned silence, past the shocked faces of the Kamo clan. Choso didn’t look back, but once you cleared the entrance, you couldn’t resist throwing a little wave at the dumbfounded clan members. From the crowd, Noritoshi discreetly waved back.

The Kamo estate grew smaller behind you, the ancient buildings shrinking until they disappeared around a bend in the road. Only then did Choso’s grip on your hand relax. Despite his flat expression, you could read the devastation in the set of his shoulders, in the way he stared ahead at nothing. For months, he’d been desperately searching for a way to resurrect his brothers without anyone else getting hurt. It had been an endless parade of disappointments, each failed attempt weighing heavier than the last. 

Everyone had tried to help. You’d practically moved into the library with Megumi, both of you buried in ancient texts until your eyes crossed, searching for any obscure ritual that might work. Even Nobara had swallowed her pride and called her grandmother – a woman she’d sworn never to speak to again after The Incident With The Pickle Jar (a story that still made Nobara turn interesting shades of red when mentioned). Dead end after dead end. The Kamos must have caught wind of this somehow and swooped in with their “solution,” probably assuming they just needed to provide the men for slaughter and all would be well.

The train back to Tokyo rattled through the countryside. The formal attire you both still wore drew attention from the other passengers. Several phones were pointed in Choso’s direction. #MysteriousHotGuyInTraditionalRobes, #TimeTravelingPrince, or #HistoricalHottie would be trending by dinner time, but Choso remained oblivious to his impending social media fame. 

It’s one thing to live without hope. It’s another level of cruel to have that hope dangled just within reach, only to have it brutally yanked away at the last possible second. He sat slumped in his seat, radiating defeat in a way that made you seriously reconsider your decision not to murder Hideyoshi. 

The old bastard was practically begging for a convenient, untraceable “accident.” No one would even miss him. They already had an heir. Noritoshi would make a much better clan head anyway... though the timing wasn’t right. Too many opportunistic elders were circling him like sharks, ready to seize power if Hideyoshi suddenly keeled over. Better to wait until Noritoshi had built a stronger support base. Maybe in three years... You filed that thought away for future consideration under “Project: Kamo Cleanup.” Vengeance was a dish best served cold and with meticulous planning.

“I’m a terrible big brother,” Choso muttered, finally breaking his silence. He ripped at the elaborate headdress, sending ornamental pins clattering to the train floor. His hair, released from its confinement, exploded in a staticky mess that stuck out at bizarre angles.

You dug through your bag of tricks (as you liked to call it) and produced a wooden comb and a handful of rubber bands. Choso automatically turned and ducked his head – a familiar routine that started back when you’d first introduced him to the concept of basic hygiene after his defection. Your fingers worked carefully through the tangles, smoothing his hair into the twin high ponytails he preferred. They ended up uneven, but Choso never seemed to mind your amateur styling attempts. A gentle tap on his arm let him know you were finished.

“First off, that’s bullshit,” you declared as he slumped back into his seat. “You’re literally the best big brother in existence.”

Choso opened his mouth to argue, but you bulldozed right over him: “And second, I think I might have something.”

The idea had been simmering in your mind for weeks, a potential solution you’d hesitated to voice because you weren’t sure how Choso would take it: Yaga’s cursed corpses as vessels.

Despite the scary name, they were essentially stuffed animals. Choso’s brothers wouldn’t be able to restore their original appearances like Choso had managed with his human vessel. What kind of life was that, trapped in plush and fabric? But that was the only option where no one would have to die.

To your surprise, Choso agreed instantly once he heard the idea. “I don’t care what they look like,” he said firmly. “We never wanted to look human anyway. I love them exactly as they are.”

Something clicked in your mind then. You’d finally understood why Choso had initially joined Kenjaku. He’d wanted to create a world where his brothers would be accepted as they were, no human disguise needed. That dream of a world where they belonged might still be far off, but every journey started with a single step, right? And this felt like one.

The moment you returned to campus, you marched Choso straight to Yaga’s office. Luckily, the principal agreed to teach Choso after hearing the full story. His only condition was that once incarnated, the brothers would have to enroll at Tokyo Jujutsu High, become proper sorcerers, and follow the rules.

Yuji had eagerly joined in, and for months, both he and Choso spent countless hours under Yaga’s tutelage to learn the intricate art of cursed corpse creation. Rather than following Yaga’s traditional stuffed animal approach, they leveraged their newfound crocheting expertise, a skill born from the memorable Great Scarf Obsession of 2018 when they’d somehow managed to produce enough scarves to clothe the entire student body and most of the staff. You still had the scratchy pastel blue scarf from that era tucked away in a drawer somewhere.

The first successful resurrection was Noranso – a lopsided teddy bear with uneven ears, one leg slightly longer than the other, and the most soulful button eyes. When those eyes had first blinked and a tiny voice had called out “Big brother!”, Choso completely lost it. He’d made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, collapsing to his knees and gathering the crocheted bear into his arms. You’d never seen someone cry so hard while smiling ear to ear. Yuji had cried too. Even you had to discreetly wipe a tear from your eye.

Creating cursed corpses strong enough to host Death Painting souls proved far more challenging than Yaga made it look. Each brother required countless attempts and literal mountains of yarn. Between Choso’s devotion and Yuji’s determination (and truly astronomical yarn bills, all funded by Gojo naturally), all six brothers eventually found their way to life through hooks, loops, and an absolutely ridiculous amount of brotherly love.

Fast forward to the present day, and your favorite part of visiting campus wasn’t just the nostalgia trip down memory lane or even the now-excellent cafeteria food (a vast improvement you took at least partial credit for). No, the highlight was the instant mob of sentient crocheted plushies that descended upon you the moment you crossed the school’s main gate.

Today was no exception. The brothers had been camping out since dawn, tipped off by Yuji about your guest lecture. While only Shoso, the baby of the family, was still officially a student, the others had made campus their permanent home. After all, the city apartments weren’t set up to accommodate a gang of cursed plushies trying to live their best lives, and Yaga had a soft spot for them.

Shoso, an enormous white rabbit plushie nearly your height, bounced alongside you up the steps, ears flopping with each hop as he excitedly detailed his latest mission. The others orbited around you, each waiting their turn to update you on their adventures.

“Where’s Cho?” you asked, trying to keep track of the colorful parade of yarn-based life forms surrounding you.

“He’s got the second years in Fukuoka! Some kind of field training thing!” Tanso announced. He was a green frog with wonky eyes and an inexplicable bow tie that no one remembered crocheting into his design.

“Big brother promised souvenirs!” Shoso added, his deep baritone still startling coming from such an adorable bunny face. Even after all these years, you still hadn’t gotten used to the cognitive dissonance of their plushy appearances and their distinctly mature, masculine voices.

The training field was alive with activity. Yuji held court among a cluster of first-years, gesturing dramatically as he explained something that probably involved punching a problem until it stopped being a problem. You spotted Satoshi among them, looking less moody than the day before. The young guy had been camping out in the dorms while he suffered through his mandatory “tactical debriefs” with you. Helping Yuji with the first-years was likely his way of avoiding feeling like a freeloader on leave.

“Doctor,” Satoshi acknowledged you with a respectful nod as you approached. Coming from him, that was a warm embrace and a tearful declaration of lifelong friendship.

Yuji perked up when he spotted you. “Hey guys, look who’s here! Your favorite sensei!” he announced to his students. 

A ripple of apprehension went through the assembled teenagers. Shoulders straightened, chatter died. They all instantly scrambled to their feet to greet you. Several visibly paled at the sight of your sweet smile. You grinned wider. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. Nothing quite like terrorizing – sorry, educating – the next generation of sorcerers.

Chapter Text

Your teaching sessions proceeded smoothly: no one tried to challenge your authority, no one attempted to cheat on the pop quiz, and no one got accidentally set on fire. You attributed this success to the fact that the current students had developed both familiarity with your methods and enough self-preservation instinct to behave themselves. It was in the afternoon when you finished up, feeling the pleasant drain of a day well spent terrorizing – er, educating – the youth.

That’s when Yuji pounced. 

“Spices!” He appeared with that earnest expression that always meant trouble. “You haven’t forgotten about Sunday, right? The thing you promised?”

You paused in the act of shoving things into your backpack. “Sunday?” you asked, feigning strategic amnesia.

“The monthly hangout at Nobara’s place. The one you’ve rescheduled twice this month already.”

Ah yes. Nobara’s mandatory ‘we’re best friends and we’re going to have FUN or so help me god’ gathering. You’d been hoping they’d forgotten about your repeated cancellations.

“Yuji, I—”

“Nope!” He held up both hands, taking a precautionary step back. “Before you even start with the excuses, Nobara specifically told me to tell you that if you don’t show up this time, she’ll make sure nobody ever finds your body.”

“She said that?”

“Word for word. She also practiced several different ways to hide a body. It was... educational. Did you know how many ways there are to dissolve—”

“Fine, fine! I get the picture.”

“Great! I’ll come pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Actually, it is. That’s also an order from Nobara. She said, and I quote, ‘If our workaholic bitch tries to weasel out of this again, drag that ass over here yourself’.”

You snorted. “Charming. She’s got such a way with words.” 

“She cares about you,” Yuji said with a sheepish grin. “We all do.”

“Right. Well, tell our beloved Bara that this workaholic bitch will be there by ten. No ass-dragging required.”

“Will do!”

Mission accomplished. Yuji beamed and bounced away, off to terrorize his next target with excessive cheer and good intentions.

Usually, Choso would be the one to escort you back after your guest lectures, but since he was away today, Satoshi had volunteered for the honor. He’d presented it as a noble sacrifice, supposedly so Yuji wouldn’t have to interrupt his teaching duties. You suspected his motives were less chivalrous and more rooted in a combination of boredom and simple curiosity.

As the two of you settled into seats on the bus back to Headquarters, you immediately regretted not splurging on a taxi. Satoshi’s massive frame made the already cramped public transport feel like a sardine can designed for much smaller fish. You were unceremoniously wedged between his wall of muscle and the rattling window. The bus lurched forward with typical Tokyo traffic aggression, and you had to brace yourself against the seat in front of you to avoid being bounced around like a pinball, while Satoshi barely registered the movement.

He also, surprisingly, turned out to be more talkative/nosy than you’d expected. “So,” he began, breaking the silence about ten minutes into the ride, “why does a shrink need a bodyguard to go around the city?”

You glanced at him sideways. “Excuse me?”

“Itadori was ready to abandon his students to drive you back himself. What do you do that’s got everyone so worried about you traveling alone?”

You shrugged. “I make people talk about their feelings. Many of them ain’t too happy about it.”

Satoshi considered this for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Finally, he nodded. “Makes sense. You must have pissed off plenty of people with that personality of yours.”

Without hesitation, you elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. The resulting impact felt like hitting a brick wall.

“Ow! What the hell—” he yelped, more from surprise than actual pain, though he did rub the spot reflexively. His eyes widened as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually done it.

“At least, I’ve never tried to stab anyone unprovoked during a first meeting,” you shot back.

Satoshi grunted, still rubbing his side. “I wasn’t going to stab you,” he protested, discreetly crossing his arms in a way that would protect his ribs from future attacks.

Drama queen. Like you could actually do any real damage to someone sporting that absurd amount of muscle. Those abs were harder than your elbow anyway.

Resigned to spending the next forty-five minutes wedged between the window and Mt. Satoshi, you decided to embrace the chatty mood he seemed to be in. The view outside was nothing but urban sprawl anyway, the same endless parade of convenience stores, office buildings, and apartment blocks that made up Tokyo’s relentless march toward the horizon. You’d already memorized every advertisement plastered on the bus ceiling during previous commutes, including the one for discount ramen that had been haunting your peripheral vision for weeks.

Leaning back against the window, you studied his face. “You graduated last year, right?”

Satoshi’s guard shot back up instantly. His eyes narrowed, and he got that cornered-animal look of ‘oh god, is this therapy?’ It was honestly impressive how many sorcerers had developed that specific expression around you.

“Yeah,” he answered cautiously, as if the wrong response might result in an impromptu psychoanalysis right there. “What about it?”

“Miss school?”

His eyes narrowed further. “What’s this? Does this count toward my tactical debriefs?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t fall out of your head and roll down the bus aisle. “What’s tactical about making small talk on public transportation? I’m just curious about how things are at the Kyoto campus.” You shifted in your seat, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t involve your shoulder being permanently imprinted on his bicep. “I studied here in Tokyo, you know. Only went to Kyoto a few times for school events and official business. Never really had the chance to poke around properly.”

The tension in Satoshi’s shoulders eased, his posture relaxing as he realized you weren’t about to start dissecting his childhood or his relationship with his mother.

“The school itself? Not really. But man, that cafeteria…” A hint of something almost wistful crossed his features. “And the garden. I think you’d actually like it there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”

“It’s…” He paused, searching for the right words, then shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Zen, I guess? Peaceful. You’re a shrink. Aren’t you supposed to be into that kind of thing? Gardens and meditation and all that shit?”

You snickered. “I like gardens well enough, but they sure as hell don’t like me back. The first and last time I visited that famous garden of yours, every single prissy flower in the place just shriveled up and died.”

Satoshi blinked, his expression shifting through several fascinating transformations, landing somewhere between dawning recognition and unholy glee. “Wait a damn minute. That was like... seven years ago, wasn’t it?”

You tilted your head, mentally rifling through old memories. “It was my second year, I think. Went to Kyoto for the Goodwill Event. Yeah, around that time frame. How did you know that?”

“Utahime-sensei mentioned it once during a lecture,” Satoshi said, barely containing his snicker. “Something about a ‘walking disaster from Tokyo’ who somehow managed to instant-kill the entire garden in one go. Gakuganji-sama was convinced it was sabotage, revenge for something. Was he right?”

You let out a long-suffering groan. “Revenge? For what? Tokyo won that year. I can’t believe that cranky old bastard is still holding a grudge over that. It’s been years! And he chased me off campus with a goddamn broom! Like I was some rogue raccoon pillaging his precious garden. I had to run for my life. The emotional trauma alone should make us even.” 

You slumped dramatically against the window. The memory brought back a flood of indignation that hadn’t dimmed in the slightest with time.

You could still remember the horrified gasps from the Kyoto students and the way Gakuganji had stormed toward you, purple with rage, screaming something about “disrespectful Tokyo brats” and the sanctity of his ancient moss. The man had moved with surprising speed for someone his age, swinging what appeared to be a push broom he’d grabbed from the maintenance shed. 

You’d been too shocked to do anything but run as he gave chase across the courtyard, students scattering like startled birds in your wake. The whole thing had been so surreal—being pursued by a venerable Council Elder brandishing cleaning equipment—that you’d started laughing, which had only made him angrier.

Yuuta had eventually found you hiding behind the equipment shed, crouched among rakes and fertilizer bags, still giggling uncontrollably. He’d looked absolutely mortified, bowing and apologizing profusely to everyone within earshot while he half-carried you to the bus stop because you’d been laughing too hard to walk straight.

That incident had been the unofficial start of a years-long feud between you and the old coot. Even now, every time you crossed paths at official meetings, Gakuganji still gave you this venomous look, as if you’d personally murdered his firstborn child. Which, technically, you’d done worse. But that’s another story for another time, one that involved considerably less running and far more political backstabbing.

Satoshi actually laughed at the anecdote. The mental image of the dignified Principal Gakuganji wielding cleaning supplies against a fleeing student had tickled something in that muscle-bound brain of his. 

“But seriously,” he managed between chuckles, “how’d you pull it off? Some specialized technique? Utahime-sensei said they investigated for weeks and never figured out what actually happened.”

“That’s because nothing happened,” you said with a huff. “I didn’t do jack shit. Didn’t even touch the damn plants. Just took a peaceful stroll around the garden, minding my own business. Those green fuckers apparently just don’t like me.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Satoshi said dryly.

You jabbed him in the ribs again, but this time he caught your elbow with an infuriating grin. 

“Maybe,” you suggested, wrinkling your nose at the memory of wilting flowers and Gakuganji’s purpling face, “the plants were just as fed up with Gakuganji as everyone else and I happened to be there at the wrong time.”

“Gakuganji-sama is...” Satoshi started, probably feeling some misplaced obligation to defend his elder.

“If you’re about to tell me he’s a sweet old man who you absolutely adore,” you cut him off, “I will extend your administrative leave for blatantly lying to your therapist.”

Satoshi held up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to say that! Jesus. Look, honestly? He can be... difficult. And all those ceremonial rituals he makes everyone study are completely ridiculous, but...”

“But they’re important and necessary,” you replied. 

Satoshi’s mouth fell open in shock. He’d expected you to take the opportunity to tear into the old traditionalist, and now he looked completely bewildered that you’d actually agreed with Gakuganji’s methods.

You attempted to wave your hand dismissively – a challenging endeavor given the cramped space and Satoshi’s massive frame taking up what felt like three-quarters of the available real estate. Seriously, anyone this huge should be required to buy multiple tickets on public transport and claim their own personal throne instead of squeezing into regular seats with much less impressively built people like yourself.

“I don’t like Gakuganji. That’s for damn sure. But even a broken clock is right twice a day, and I can acknowledge when the geezer does something right. Most sorcerers disagree on this, but Gakuganji is correct that ceremonial rituals have genuine value. It’s not about the rituals themselves, but what you gain by knowing and practicing them.”

Satoshi was staring at you now, not expecting a mini-lecture on educational philosophy during your commute.

“Think about it,” you continued. “Learning those ceremonies teaches you precision, attention to detail, the mechanisms behind sorcery. You learn about associations between elements, how to be exact and thorough in your approach. It might seem like useless busy work when you’re a student, memorizing hand positions and chanting what might as well be nursery rhymes, but that foundation becomes invaluable later for optimizing your cursed technique, crafting effective binding vows, constructing barriers…” You gestured as much as the space would allow. “All of it builds on those same principles of precision and understanding. It’s like… learning basic kata before trying to punch someone in the face.”

Satoshi continued staring, rendered speechless by your impromptu academic discourse. The bus hit a pothole, jostling you both, but his attention never wavered.

“Wow,” he muttered at last. “I... never thought about it that way. If someone had explained it like that back in school, I probably would’ve paid a hell of a lot more attention.”

“I’ll mention that to Utahime next time we talk,” you said, pulling out your phone to make a note. “She’s a fantastic teacher, but sometimes she gets so caught up in the ‘proper’ way of teaching that it’s hard for her to see things from a student’s perspective.”

Your fingers flew across the screen: Talk to Utahime about contextualizing ceremonial ritual instruction for practical application. Consider workshop on educational psychology for instructors?

“You’re actually a really good teacher,” Satoshi said, and there was genuine wonder in his voice.

You side-eyed him over your phone. “Was there supposed to be doubt about that?”

He wisely amended his statement. “Of course not.”

For the rest of the ride, Satoshi opened up like a chatty floodgate that had been waiting years for someone to turn the valve. He rambled about everything from the current state of affairs at Kyoto – classes, training regimens, teaching methods – to work-related topics like mission assignments, ranking protocols, and his various grievances with the higher-ups. The young man had opinions about everything, and once he got started, stopping him would have required either divine intervention or a well-aimed tranquilizer dart.

You’d mastered the art of strategic listening years ago, a skill that had served you well in both professional and personal contexts. It was a kind of conversational jujutsu. You knew exactly when to nod with just the right amount of interest, when to hum thoughtfully and make sympathetic noises that suggested you were deeply invested in whatever drama he was recounting, and when to drop a well-timed “oh really?” to keep him talking. You asked subtle questions to prompt him toward the information you were actually interested in, gently steering him back on track whenever he got too meandering, and contributed just enough of your own gossip to keep him engaged and talking freely.

Sure, you could read about most of this stuff in official reports, but there was nothing quite like getting an honest, firsthand account from a field agent who hadn’t been compromised by financial incentives or political agendas. Raw intel was always more valuable than the sanitized versions that made it into paperwork. It was gold. And all it cost you was a bruised elbow.

True to his promise to Yuji, Satoshi walked you to the main gate of Headquarters with all the vigilant determination of a mother hen guarding her last chick. He even prowled the perimeter, scanning rooftops and shadows for theoretical assassins. Only when he was absolutely, positively, would-bet-his-favorite-knife certain that you’d made it safely inside did he deem his sacred duty complete.

You were heading for Gojo’s office when your phone pinged with an incoming message. You pulled it out to find a text from Higuruma.

Higs: Left my tie in your office yesterday. Grab it for me?

You stared at the message for a beat, then thumbed back a response.

You: bruh you gotta stop leaving your shit in my office

His response came almost immediately, suggesting that he indeed had nothing better to do than sit around waiting for your replies.

Higs: 🙄

You stared at the passive-aggressive emoji for a moment, marveling at the unmitigated gall of this man. A single eye roll emoji. Not even the courtesy of words.

You: did you actually send me an eye roll emoji??? what are you 12

Higs: Says the person who uses ‘ain’t’ in professional emails.

You: thats completely different and you know it

Higs: 👔?

Higs: Blue striped tie, on the left arm of your couch.

You: ofc you remember exactly where you left it 💀 youre the worst

Higs: ❤️

You shook your head at your phone screen, wondering if there was some sort of cosmic law that dictated all millennials must communicate exclusively through single-emoji responses once they reached a certain level of smugness. At least he’d included a heart at the end, the manipulative bastard. You could almost hear his smug chuckle through the text. He knew it would work.

With a long-suffering sigh, you veered down the hallway and doubled back to your office to fetch Higuruma’s forgotten neckwear. The other offices on this floor were mostly empty at this hour, their occupants either out on missions, at home with their families, or just generally avoiding the oppressive atmosphere of Headquarters after dark. The emergency lights cast long shadows across the floor, making the place feel more like a horror movie set than a professional workplace. 

Your office door stood at the end of the hall, distinguished from the others by its decidedly analog security and the small nameplate that had been crooked for months. Somehow it had become part of the office’s charm, like a crooked smile that made everything else a little more endearing. A perfect reflection of its occupant: slightly off-kilter, but unapologetically so.

The locks at Headquarters had been upgraded to digital systems years ago – card readers, biometric fingerprint scanners, the whole nine yards of modern convenience. The security company that landed the lucrative contract just happened to be very good ‘friends’ with the Zen’in clan. Surprise, surprise, the deal had been approved without even a pretense of a bidding process. The Zen’ins had played a major role in backing Gojo as the new Head Councilman, and as things stood, keeping them happy was still a political necessity, even if it meant dealing with their obvious corruption and pretending not to notice the stench of quid pro quo. Politics made for some truly strange and malodorous bedfellows.

When you’d been assigned this office, you’d had that digital bullshit ripped out and replaced with a good old-fashioned mechanical lock. Not just any lock, either. You’d specifically ordered a Mul-T-Lock MT5+, the kind that locksmiths called ‘the nightmare.’ Or at least, that was what the overly enthusiastic salesperson had told you while trying to justify the frankly obscene price tag.

The lock supposedly used a telescoping pin system with inner and outer drivers, false gates, and magnetic elements that made traditional picking techniques completely useless. The key itself looked like something from a sci-fi movie, with cuts on multiple levels and magnetic coding that had to align perfectly for the mechanism to turn.

Technically, calling it ‘impossible to pick’ was an exaggeration. You should know. You’d ordered a second one to mess around with at home and spent an entire week systematically taking apart every component of the practice lock, laying out each tiny spring, pin, and driver on your kitchen table. The magnetic elements alone had fascinated you for hours. 

You’d lost track of time more than once, hunched over your makeshift workstation with a magnifying glass and a set of precision tools, completely absorbed in the mechanical poetry of it all. There was something almost meditative about understanding how each piece fit together, how the whole system relied on every tiny component doing its job perfectly.

Gojo, meanwhile, had been absolutely insufferable about the whole thing. He’d fluttered around your apartment like an oversized, attention-starved butterfly, desperate for you to look at him instead of the pile of metal bits.

“Spices,” he’d whined on day three, draping himself theatrically across your couch. “You’ve been staring at that thing for three hours. I’m starting to think you love that lock more than me.”

“Don’t be silly,” you’d replied without looking up. “I’ve known this lock for three days. I’ve known you for years. Obviously, I love it more. It’s still new and interesting.”

He’d gasped at that. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’m wounded. Devastated. My heart is broken into a thousand tiny pieces.”

“Your heart will survive. Hand me that tiny screwdriver.”

Instead of the screwdriver, he’d slid off the couch and wandered over to peer over your shoulder, his chin resting on your head. “What’s so fascinating about this thing anyway? It’s just a bunch of metal bits.”

“It’s not just metal bits,” you’d explained, holding up one of the telescoping pins. “See this? This little bastard has three different cutting levels. It’s designed to create false feedback during picking attempts. When someone tries to set it, it feels like it’s in the right position, but it’s actually—”

“Boring,” he’d declared, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “Very, very boring. Unlike me, who is extremely interesting and currently being severely neglected.”

“Sensei, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” He’d nuzzled against your head, clearly trying to distract you with the kind of affection that was part genuine and part ulterior motives. “Come on, take a break. The lock will still be there in an hour.”

“I’m almost done figuring out how the magnetic elements interact with the sidebar mechanism.”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean, and I don’t care. I want attention.”

You’d turned around in your chair to face him, and he’d immediately perked up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being deprived of affection,” he’d corrected, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. “It’s been three whole days of watching you make love to that lock with your eyes.”

“I do not make love to locks with my eyes.”

“You absolutely do. You get this little crease right here—” He’d touched the spot between your eyebrows with a fingertip. “—and you bite your lip when you’re really focused, and you make these tiny weird humming sounds when you figure something out.”

“I never make weird sounds—”

He’d already teleported away, only to reappear on your other side with a cup of coffee. “I brought you caffeine. Doesn’t that earn me at least five minutes of eye contact?”

You’d accepted the coffee gratefully, but the moment you’d turned back to the lock, he’d started up again. Poking your shoulder. Rearranging the components you’d carefully organized. Making increasingly ridiculous observations about the lock’s ‘aesthetic qualities.’ At one point, he’d picked up one of the tiny springs and declared it looked lonely, wondering aloud if it needed a friend.

“Are you actually jealous of a lock?” you’d asked him on day five, when he’d resorted to lying on the floor and sighing every thirty seconds.

“Maybe,” he’d admitted, peeking at you from behind his blindfold. “You haven’t looked at me like that in days.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to solve the mysteries of the universe.”

You’d paused in your work then, really looking at him – all six feet of ridiculous man-child sprawled across your hardwood floor. “The mysteries of the universe are significantly less complicated than you are.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes.”

While you had zero interest in a professional career in thievery – despite what certain people might suggest about your moral flexibility – you loved a good puzzle, and locks were exactly that: mechanical riddles waiting to be solved. Any lock could be beaten if you understood its internal logic. If you could disassemble and reassemble it, you could pick it. It was that simple and that complicated.

You hadn’t installed the fancy mechanical lock because you expected it to actually guard your deepest, darkest secrets from determined intruders. If you could pick it, someone else could too. Or they could simply remove the hinges or kick the damn door in. The real point of using a mechanical lock was detection. Digital locks could be compromised without leaving a trace, but try to pick this beauty and she’d tell you all about it. Every scratch, every slightly misaligned component, every tool mark would be a story written in metal about what someone had tried to do to your door.

The key slid home with a satisfying series of clicks as multiple sidebars engaged. You could feel each pin aligning perfectly through the metal in your hand – a mechanical symphony that no electronic beep could match. There was something deeply satisfying about the tactile feedback of quality engineering.

Once inside, you flicked on the lights and spent the next thirty minutes conducting an archaeological dig through your office. You searched every drawer, every shelf, behind every piece of furniture, and under every cushion.  

What you did find was an impressive collection of random shit that other people had decided your office was the perfect storage facility for: 

Three of Gojo’s sunglasses were scattered across various surfaces, including the expensive limited edition pair he’d been frantically searching for last week. Two of his jackets hung on furniture, and half his candy stash had taken up permanent residence in your desk drawer.

Shoko’s lighter sat on your bookshelf next to her spare lab coat, which was sporting fresh cigarette burns and mysterious stains you didn’t want to analyze too closely. Nobara had left behind a makeup compact and some nail polish on your windowsill. Yuji had abandoned a few manga volumes and his spare gym clothes that thankfully hadn’t yet achieved biological weapon status. Megumi’s contribution was a hardcover novel with about fifty bookmarks and his phone charger wound up in that specific way that suggested mild OCD tendencies. Even Miwa had left a promotional pen from some tech conference and a small notebook filled with her own design sketches.

The more you searched, the more ridiculous items emerged from the depths of your office. But Higuruma’s blue striped tie? Nowhere to be fucking found. You pulled out your phone and texted him.

You: searched everywhere cant find it. maybe u already picked it up and forgot??

Higs: No. I specifically left it on your couch. 

You: well its not there now bro

Higs: Did you check under the cushions? All of them?

You: yes??? i literally tore my damn couch apart looking for it

Higs: Strange. I’m certain I left it there.

You: look if i cant find it ill just buy u a new one

Higs: No. I want that specific tie back. It has sentimental value.

You stared at his text, your eye twitching with the sort of repressed rage that had once toppled the entire jujutsu system.

You: sentimental value??? its literally identical to the other two you bought in that 3-for-2 deal last month

Higs: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

You: HIROMI YOU LYING LIAR WHO LIES

Higs: That tie is special to me. It was a gift.

You: from WHO? yourself??? when you bought it at the department store???

Higs: 🤔

 

You wanted to throw your phone at the wall. He was absolutely fucking with you at this point, and you both knew it. The man probably had a spreadsheet somewhere documenting precisely how to push your buttons for maximum psychological impact. 

Maybe he didn’t even leave his damn tie here in the first place. Maybe this whole tie saga was just his elaborate way of getting back at you for attempting to strangle him with his tie that one time during the early phase of your relationship when you were still actively trying to kill each other on a regular basis. Which wasn’t even fair, by the way. He’d tried to kill you first. And you’d only yanked on his tie after he’d tried to bonk you over the head with his magical gavel.

You: I HATE YOU

Higs: No you don’t. Keep looking for my tie, dear.

You: IT’S THE SAME AS YOUR OTHER TWO TIES YOU DRAMATIC BOOMER

Higs: I’m a millennial.

You: THAT’S WORSE

Higs: ❤️

 

You glared at your phone screen. Damn millennial uncle and his passive-aggressive emoji warfare. The little heart at the end was particularly insulting. 

Oh, Higuruma was going to pay for this. You were going to murder him with his own stupid tie, and this time, you were going to succeed. You’d even make it look like an accident. “Chief of the Internal Affairs & Ethics Department Strangled by Own Neckwear in Tragic Fashion Emergency” had a nice ring to it.

While you were contemplating various forms of revenge against Higuruma, your office door burst open with the dramatic force of a SWAT team raid. The sudden intrusion made you jump, your heart rate spiking as if you’d been caught in the middle of actual murder rather than just fantasizing about it.

Zen’in Mai strode in like she owned the building, which she partially did in terms of bureaucratic control. She was hauling a fruit basket this side of the equator. The kind where each piece of fruit had its own passport and frequent flyer miles, harvested by monks on mountaintops and blessed by agricultural deities. Without preamble, she dropped it onto your coffee table with a loud thud, making your papers flutter and your coffee mug rattle against its saucer.

“Gift from Mei Mei,” she announced, brushing her hands together as if ridding them of peasant dust and the contamination of manual labor.

“Oh, thanks! I was just about to—”

“Save it,” she snapped. “You’ve been leaving it at the reception counter for days. It’s taking up space meant for important deliveries.” She made it sound like your fruit basket’s extended vacation at reception was personally responsible for the decline of modern civilization, the fall of empires, and probably climate change, too.

“My apologies. It won’t happen again,” you said quickly. In the universal language of bribes and half-assed placations, you plucked a massive bunch of grapes from the basket and offered it to her. “Here, have some of these. They’re probably good for your skin or something. Imported from some magical grape dimension, I bet.”

Mai’s glare intensified to laser-beam levels, but she snatched up the grapes anyway, because even righteous indignation couldn’t compete with premium fruit. Then, she proceeded to circle the room like a highly judgmental shark who’d caught the scent of disorganizational blood in the water.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels struck the floor, each step a personal insult. She popped grapes into her mouth one by one, chewing slowly, as her hawk-like gaze scanned your office with mounting horror. It was admittedly rather messy after your frantic search for Higuruma’s tie – couch cushions askew, drawers pulled out, various personal belongings had been relocated to random surfaces in your archaeological dig for non-existent neckwear.

“This is unacceptable,” Mai declared, gesturing at the general chaos. “How do you expect to find anything in this disaster? And these papers… They’re not even filed properly. Look at this mess!” She picked up a stack of reports that had been reasonably organized before your search. “These should be sorted by date, then by priority level, then by department. This is basic office management. A trained monkey could do a better job.”

Click. Click. Click.

She moved to your bookshelf, where Shoko’s lab coat hung like a flag of surrender. “And what is this doing here? This belongs in the medical wing, not your office. The smell alone—” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Do you have any idea what kind of bacteria could be growing on this thing?”

Click. Click. Click.

“And why is everyone using your space as a storage unit? This is supposed to be a therapeutic space, not a damn lost and found.” She held up one of Gojo’s sunglasses. “These cost more than most people’s monthly salary. How can you just leave them lying around like this?”

Click. Click. Click.

“Is this tape residue on your window?”

Click. Click. Click.

“What the hell is that smell? Is something rotting?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure yourself. It might’ve been Gojo’s candy stash melting into a sugary biohazard in the drawer. Or maybe Yuji’s gym clothes weren’t as inoffensive as you’d thought, and they were developing their own ecosystem in the corner where you’d tossed them.

“There are three pens on this desk and not a single one of them has ink.”

Click. Click. Click.

“By the way, your nameplate is still crooked. How do you even walk in here every day without fixing it? Don’t you have any self-respect?”

Click. Click. Click.

Mai’s commentary continued for a solid ten minutes, a scathing audit of your professional and personal failings as represented by the state of your office. You weathered her critique storm patiently – minimal retorts, occasional nods – having long since accepted your role as Mai’s favorite target for improvement, a position that came with regular visits and detailed lists of everything you were doing wrong with your life. 

Mai had high standards for everything, which made her excellent at her job in the Department of Administration & Resources, where her ability to spot a misplaced comma from fifty paces was considered something approaching supernatural talent. She could detect filing errors through walls, sense inefficiency like a bloodhound, and had once reorganized an entire department’s worth of paperwork in a single day while simultaneously implementing a new digital filing system that had reduced processing time by thirty percent.

After Gojo’s rise to Head Councilman, Headquarters had gone through a major restructuring: new departments with clearly defined responsibilities, new workflows that actually made sense, new furniture with ergonomic back supports that didn’t make you feel like you were being slowly tortured by office equipment. All of it required competent hands at the helm.

Mai, having decided that fieldwork involved far too much actual field and not enough climate control, had returned to Tokyo post-graduation to take up the mantle of office efficiency goddess. She’d made this decision after exactly one mission that had involved crawling through a swamp at three in the morning, emerging covered in mud and righteous indignation about the complete lack of proper facilities in the wilderness. She never looked back. Somewhere along the way, she became indispensable to the daily functioning of the entire building.

Despite her eternally hostile disposition (aimed mostly at you, for reasons that could be traced back to your school days), her meticulous attention to detail and tireless work ethic had immediately turned her into a beloved protégé of the Department Chief, Fukui Mizuki. Thanks to Mai’s organizational prowess and ability to anticipate problems before they became disasters, sweet old chronically overworked Mizuki could now take days off to go on vacation with her daughter instead of being chained to her desk by a mountain of paperwork.

Once Mai had finished both the grapes and her comprehensive critique, you seized the brief window of opportunity when she paused to breathe.

“While you’re at it, can you pick out a nice bouquet for Mei Mei, too? I’ll wire you the money.”

“I’m not ‘at it,’ Spices,” she sneered disdainfully. “I’m never at it. I’m Human Resources and Facility Management. Not your personal assistant. Why the hell do I always have to run your errands?”

“I know, I know,” you grinned shamelessly. “It’s just that you have actual taste, unlike us peasants. You know how Mei Mei is. You’re probably the only person in this building who can pick something she won’t immediately throw into a compost bin. Please? I’ll transfer the money right now.”

Mai responded with a hand gesture that definitely violated several HR policies she herself had written, but mercifully didn’t berate you further. She returned to the fruit basket, and plucked out a couple of exotic things that looked vaguely like mangoes and starfruits on steroids.

“Payment up front, and I’m adding a handling fee,” she called back as she walked out, her heels now clicking even more aggressively, as though they were trying to Morse code their disapproval directly into the floor.

“Done and done!”

You had the transfer completed before Mai reached the door. The last thing you needed was to forget and incur her wrath later on. You’d find all your office furniture mysteriously replaced with cacti if you did.

Deeming Higuruma’s tie a lost cause – probably consumed by the same office gremlin that ate all the good pens and periodically reset the coffee machine settings – you grabbed a couple of tangerines for the road and marched toward Gojo’s office. When you arrived, he was hunched over his laptop at his giant mahogany desk, looking adorably frazzled. His blindfold was pushed up onto his forehead, and he was leaning so close to the screen it was a wonder he hadn’t left a nose print on it.

Gojo brightened up instantly at the sight of you as if you’d brought a personal sunbeam into his drab, paperwork-filled existence.

“Still working?” you asked, dropping your backpack on his couch and sauntering over.

You didn’t need to look closely. One glance at the screen, at the cramped text and the impossibly tiny scroll bar, told you what he was agonizing over: Yuki’s proposal. All 300+ pages of her argument for standardized civilian jujutsu training.

“There’s no way we can convince the Elders to go along with this,” Gojo muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick up at even more impossible angles. “They’ll have collective heart attacks just hearing the title. I can already see their blood pressure monitors exploding in unison.”

“The case study results from her pilot program actually look promising,” you offered, trying to inject some much-needed optimism into his doom spiral before it achieved critical mass and took out half the building. “Maybe we could get Gakuganji to greenlight a larger trial at his school first? He’s been quite reasonable about new initiatives lately.”

You mentally cringed at yourself for speaking positively about Gakuganji twice in one day, a development that surely signaled either personal growth or the onset of some sort of neurological condition. The old man was probably having an unexplained sneezing fit over in Kyoto, wondering why his ears were burning and if someone was speaking his name in vain. 

Gojo, clearly too exhausted to notice your unexpected defense of your eternal archenemy, just blinked at you. “You got to the results section already? How? I’ve been staring at this thing for hours and I think I’ve barely made it past the theoretical framework. My eyes are starting to cross.”

“Text-to-speech,” you shrugged. “I just let my phone read it to me while I do other things. Nothing like learning about experimental jujutsu applications while folding laundry

You migrated to your spot – the custom-built windowsill behind his desk. Gojo scooted back in his chair so he could sit close to you, the distance between desk and window calibrated for this exact arrangement. His laptop balanced precariously on his crossed knees as he slouched closer to your position, his face scrunched in concentration, squinting at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable if he just glared at them hard enough.

Originally a scout and ambush specialist, you were naturally drawn to high places with good sight lines, positions that let you watch people come and go while remaining relatively invisible yourself. You needed to see exits, entrances, potential threats. You’d never quite shaken that instinct, even though you rarely went on missions these days and your current job involved more talking than lurking. 

Gojo knew you liked perching there, understood your need for elevated vantage points where you could keep an eye on everything without feeling trapped or vulnerable. So when he’d renovated his office a few years back, he’d made this windowsill larger and deeper, specifically so you could sit more comfortably without worrying about falling or cramping up during longer visits. 

There were even cushions in your favorite colors, plus a cashmere blanket folded neatly in the corner for when the air conditioning got too aggressive. The whole setup looked ridiculous, like the kind of elaborate nest people constructed for their spoiled cats at windows, complete with all the amenities a discerning feline might require for optimal lounging and judgment of passersby. You loved every inch of it.

Settling into your nest, you started working on the tangerines. The orange skin came away in satisfying spirals first. Then you carefully picked away every single thin white thread – the pith that would make the fruit bitter and stringy. It was a tedious process that most people skipped, but you’d always been particular about these things. Each segment had to be perfect, clean, with no trace of the bitter white remnants that could ruin the entire experience. 

“You’re incredibly obsessive about fruit,” Gojo observed. 

Because I want only the best for you, you thought.

Out loud, you just said, “Shut up and keep reading. Or you won’t get any.”

When you had the first tangerine completely clean, you broke it into segments, turning each piece over to inspect for any missed threads. Satisfied with your work, you held one up to Gojo’s lips. He opened his mouth automatically, still focused on the screen, and you dropped the piece onto his tongue. He chewed thoughtfully, the sweet juice clearly hitting the spot because he made a small sound of appreciation, the stress lines around his eyes temporarily smoothing away.

“Good?” you asked.

“Mmm,” he hummed in response, which you took as approval and a request for more.

You continued the process – peel, clean, segment, feed. Whenever Gojo finished chewing, he’d open his mouth expectantly like a baby bird waiting for its next meal, and you’d dutifully deposit another piece of fruit. Sometimes, he’d catch your fingers briefly with his lips, a fleeting contact that sent tingles up your arm. Occasionally, juice would run down your wrist, and you’d have to pause to lick it away. Gojo would glance up during these moments, his eyes tracking the movement. Then he’d blink, shake his head slightly, and return to his reading with renewed determination, leaving you to wonder if you’d imagined the weight in his gaze.

Contrary to Mai’s firmly held convictions about your character (which painted you as some sort of semi-feral creature who’d been raised by particularly uncivilized wolves), you weren’t a complete barbarian who wiped sticky fingers on clothes or furniture. Once you were done with the tangerines, you cleaned your hands with wet wipes from the small pack you always kept in your pocket. Then you draped one arm over Gojo’s shoulder, and he leaned back in his chair, pressing even closer to you so that you could settle more comfortably on the windowsill while maintaining contact.

While Gojo waged war with the proposal, you plugged in your earbuds and started an audiobook, occasionally playing with his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, or running gentle fingers along the side of his neck.

As you sat there, your mind began to drift down paths you usually tried to avoid. This was nice. Too nice, perhaps. The thought crept in uninvited, the way uncomfortable truths always did when you were feeling most at peace.

This wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.

Gojo would have to get married eventually. Maybe soon, if the increasingly pointed comments from his family were any indication. The Gojo clan had been growing more insistent about the matter. Their whispers had grown to murmurs, then to outright demands. You’d spied on enough hushed conversations to know that the pressure was mounting with each passing month. 

Most clan folks married early, often in their twenties, cementing alliances and securing bloodlines while they were still in their prime. And here was Gojo at thirty-five, practically geriatric by those ruthless standards, without so much as an engagement to show for it. Hell, without even bothering to date anyone. His continued single status was becoming something of a scandal, an unprecedented offense to those who viewed his genetic potential as a resource to be managed. The strongest sorcerer alive, and he couldn’t even fulfill this basic duty to his bloodline? The indignity of it all was a constant source of mockery among the other clans.

The expectations were crystal clear, even if unspoken. He’d need to marry a woman from a prominent family, someone who could match his status and strengthen his political position. Someone who could consolidate power, produce strong offspring, and navigate the complex web of clan politics with the grace and cunning that the role demanded. Someone who understood the weight of the Gojo name and could carry it appropriately. 

All the things you decidedly were not. All the things you could never be.

And when that inevitable day came, you wouldn’t be able to be with him like this anymore. The whispers about your relationship already slithered through Headquarters, manifesting in sly glances, conversations that died the moment you entered a room, kept in check only by the potent antibiotic of Gojo’s displeasure. Everyone knew better than to let that gossip reach his ears.

A married Gojo would change everything. No more feeding him fruit while he worked, no more casual touches that lingered just this side of plausible deniability. No more having him all to yourself. There would be no justification for these quiet moments, this closeness that everyone politely pretended not to see.

It wouldn’t be fair to monopolize so much of his time and attention that should rightfully belong to his wife, his children, the family that would become his real priority, his actual responsibility, the people who would matter in ways you never could. 

You could already picture it: the gradual distance, the growing boundaries, the way these moments would become first rare, then nonexistent, replaced by family obligations and the demands of a life that had no room for whatever this undefined thing was between you. You’d become a footnote in the story of his life, a brief chapter that people would skip over to get to the important parts: the marriage, the children, the legacy.

You knew Gojo had never been close to his parents or anyone in his family, knew that he’d grown up surrounded by people who saw him as a weapon first, heir second, and person last, if anyone bothered to see the person at all. You genuinely, fiercely wanted him to have his own family, to experience the kind of unconditional love and belonging that had been denied to him in childhood. 

You wanted him to have what he deserved, which was everything good the world had to offer and then some extra for interest.

You wanted him to have someone who would choose him not for his power or his political value, not for the way his name looked on invitations or how his presence could shift the balance of a room, but for the man he was behind all those expectations and responsibilities. Someone who would see him first thing in the morning with messy hair and creased pajamas and think he was perfect exactly as he was. Someone who would love his terrible jokes and his sweet tooth and the way he hummed off-key in the shower, all the small human details that made him more than just a collection of impressive abilities and inherited obligations.

You wanted him to have children who would run to him with scraped knees and homework questions, who would see him as just ‘Dad’ rather than ‘The Strongest,’ the terrifying figure everyone either feared or wanted to use. Children who would argue with him about bedtime and steal his dessert and love him with the kind of uncomplicated devotion that didn’t come with terms and conditions attached.

You wanted him to experience the simple, profound joy of being loved for no reason other than that he existed, that he was theirs and they were his, the kind of love that asked for nothing but presence and gave everything in return, that didn’t require him to be the strongest or the smartest or the most useful, just himself, flawed and tired and perfectly imperfect.

And at the same time, the selfish, wounded part of you was terrified of what it would mean for you. Where would you fit in his life when it was properly ordered, when he had someone whose claim to his affection was legally and socially sanctioned? What place would there be for a person who existed in the ambiguous spaces between definitions?

Your melancholy thoughts stuttered to a halt when Gojo suddenly took your hand, lifting it from where it had been absently patting his chest with the mindless comfort of a cat kneading a favorite blanket. Not looking away from his screen, he pressed a soft kiss to your palm, a casual and unconscious gesture that detonated a fresh, bittersweet ache right in the center of your chest. The touch was somehow both comforting and heartbreaking.

You thought about his request that you stop calling him sensei and examined your own resistance to such a seemingly simple change. Maybe your reluctance ran deeper than simple habit, roots that had grown too deep to transplant without killing the entire plant. 

Maybe you just weren’t sure what would happen if he stopped being your sensei. The title was safe, defined, socially acceptable. A reason to be close to him that no one could question or challenge, like a diplomatic immunity that protected you from the whispers and speculation that followed your every interaction. Without it, what framework existed to explain your relationship? 

If Gojo wasn’t your sensei anymore, then what would you be to him? A friend, maybe. A trusted colleague. A crafty strategist he consulted whenever the need arose, yet no longer had any personal reason to seek out in the quiet hours of the evening.

Someone who cared too much about a man who would always belong to something bigger than himself.

Someone who would have to learn to love from a distance, to watch him build the life he deserved with someone else, from a quiet seat on a windowsill that would no longer feel like home but a viewing gallery for the memory of tangerine juice on fingers and the ghost of a kiss pressed to an open palm.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t been lying to Satoshi about having a knack for pissing off powerful people. In fact, that was the understatement of the century. The jujutsu world’s upper echelons were a seething nest of vipers, many of whom would love to see your head separated from your body and mounted on their walls. 

Thankfully, only a select few knew who to blame for their various misfortunes. At the very top of this illustrious shit-list – scrawled in angry red ink and decorated with little voodoo doll doodles – sat Gakuganji Yoshinobu: Council Elder, Head of the Education and Sorcerer Development Department, and your personal nemesis.

Gakuganji was a walking, talking monument to everything wrong with jujutsu society’s old guard, a relic wrapped up in traditional robes and topped with an expression of perpetual disapproval that seemed to have been permanently chiseled onto his face at birth. At the ripe old age of eighty-two, the fact that this fossil wasn’t fertilizing daisies and was still kicking – more specifically, still kicking in your direction at every possible opportunity – was nothing short of miraculous. Or cursed. Definitely cursed.

Making Gakuganji a Department Head after the High Council’s restructuring had not been a pleasant decision. It had been a gut-wrenching sacrifice that made you want to projectile vomit all over the official appointment papers. Your entire crew had fought you on it tooth and nail. Gojo had threatened to resign on principle, and Shoko had just looked at you over her cigarette with an expression that said, ‘You can’t possibly be this masochistic.’ Hell, even you had wanted to punch yourself in the face for suggesting it, but it had been strategically necessary.

You and the geezer had been locked in a state of mortal combat since you were eighteen. What began as a petty squabble over school events and his precious zen garden (seriously, who gets that incensed over plants?) had since metastasized into a blood feud worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy. The political intrigue and personal vendetta ran so deep you could have powered Tokyo’s electrical grid with the sheer force of your mutual loathing.

Some days, you fantasized about strapping Gakuganji to a rocket and launching him into the vast emptiness of space, where he could be smug and self-righteous to his heart’s content without inflicting his misery on the rest of humanity. You’d even done the math once during a boring budget meeting. The cost-benefit analysis had been tempting. Unfortunately, rocket fuel wasn’t in the Council’s annual budget. Yet.

As much as Gakuganji made you want to commit elder abuse, he was an essential piece on your chessboard. A bishop, maybe – diagonal movement, stuck in his ways. Or perhaps he was more like a rook – rigid, predictable, and terrible at handling any situation that required nuance but effective when aimed in a straight line. While the metaphor needed work, the point remained.

Staging that coup had felt a lot like speedrunning a video game – difficult but straightforward, with clear objectives and a linear path to victory. You had your boss battles (literal and metaphorical), your power-ups (again, both literal and metaphorical), and your final showdown. The real challenge came after the credits rolled, in the mundane day-to-day grind of keeping the broken machine running while trying to replace its corroded parts without causing the whole thing to explode in your face. 

You’d seized the throne. Now what? 

As a certain wise old man had once relentlessly drilled into your head: You couldn’t fix a corrupt system by just lopping off its head and sticking a new one on top. That wasn’t reform; it was just rebranding the same old bullshit with a shinier logo. Revolution was easy. Evolution was the tricky part.

It was the difference between winning the war and governing a country, between pulling off a dazzling heist and managing a bank’s tedious ledgers, between the biological act of making a baby and the slog of raising a functional adult who didn’t vote for morons. One required grand gestures and explosive moments; the other demanded endless patience, a thousand bitter compromises, and the ability to smile sweetly through gritted teeth while plotting fifteen moves ahead.

Keeping Gakuganji around had been one such necessary evil. The geezer was basically jujutsu society royalty, one of the most senior Council Elders, with a lineage so ancient it probably included actual dragons. By not only keeping him in power but actively promoting him, you were sending a clear message to the traditionalist faction: the new regime understood ‘respect’ – provided they played nice and stayed in their designated lane. Fall in line or fall behind.

Because Gakuganji had backed Gojo’s ascension, however unwillingly and under extreme duress, he had to be publicly rewarded for his ‘loyalty.’ Politics was ninety-nine percent theater, after all, and this play needed its crotchety, conservative straight man to balance out Gojo’s… well, everything.

The other prominent families, watching this pillar of tradition bend the knee (metaphorically, you were pretty sure his actual knees had fossilized sometime during the Taisho era), had either learned from his humbling example or at the very least, learned to keep their heads down. For now, anyway. You weren’t naive enough to believe it would last forever. 

The added benefit of giving Gakuganji this shiny new title was that it had effectively alienated him from his old cronies. His fellow fossils now saw him as a traitor to their decrepit cause, a turncoat who had sold out for a seat at the new kids’ table. Cast out by his former allies and trapped by his public endorsement of Gojo, he had no choice but to continue cooperating. He was isolated, neutered, and perfectly positioned as your watchdog over the very system he once ruled.

Divide and conquer. Checks and balances. Politics 101.

Of course, being a cunning old coot who’d been at this game since your parents were still in diapers, Gakuganji understood all the machinations. Your fingerprints were all over the gilded cage he now occupied. Naturally, this only made him despise you more.

In Gakuganji’s mind, you were basically Lucifer in business casual: the bane of his existence, the corruption of all things holy, the disruption of his precious order, pure evil incarnated. You were an affront to centuries of established tradition, and he saw it as his sacred duty to expunge you from the earth. To be fair, his assessment wasn’t entirely wrong, but still annoying as hell when his righteous indignation manifested as regular attempts on your life.

Over the years, Gakuganji had tried to get rid of you through an impressive array of creative methods. There had been the classic assassination attempts involving humorless men in dark suits lurking in darker alleyways, the elaborately orchestrated ‘accidents’ (that near-miss with the crystal chandelier during the New Year’s gala had been your favorite), and his true magnum opus: the masterful manipulation of others into targeting you. 

That last one had been the reason behind those wild months of mutual homicide attempts between you and Higuruma. In a delicious twist of fate that probably gave the old man a stress-induced ulcer, his plot had backfired spectacularly. Not only did you survive, but you’d gained a fiercely loyal friend/pseudo big brother out of the whole ordeal. So, no complaints there.

Thank whatever deity watched over chaos gremlins such as yourself that Gakuganji’s success rate was abysmal. Despite being a decidedly average sorcerer with decidedly average jujutsu abilities, you’d proven surprisingly difficult to murder. You’d overheard him once compare you to wild weeds – disorderly, audacious, destructive, and impossible to eliminate. Coming from a man whose entire life revolved around meticulously pruned bonsai trees, it felt like the highest form of praise.

And yet, the repeated failures never deterred him. His annual attempts to ruin your life had become such a reliable tradition that you’d feel somewhat neglected if a year passed without at least one attempt to fuck with you. Like clockwork, this year’s offense came right on schedule, the moment Gakuganji arrived in Tokyo for Council business.

Council Elders were conveniently exempt from mandatory psychological evaluations – a perk of their lofty status. The official justification was that they never saw fieldwork. The real reason, of course, was that they were typically the ones inflicting trauma, not receiving it, and nobody particularly wanted to document that in triplicate.

This exemption was a mercy to the world at large. The thought of you and the average Elder alone in an enclosed space was the kind of scenario that would end in collateral damage, lengthy insurance claims, and possibly a small crater where the building used to be. The jujutsu world, already held together by bureaucratic duct tape and willful ignorance, might not survive the fallout.

However, the chain of command dictated that if an Elder wanted to ‘talk’ to you, they could drag you from whatever you were doing at will. You had to comply, smile pleasantly, and pretend this was all perfectly reasonable. It was a loophole in the system that Gakuganji enthusiastically and repeatedly exploited.

So it came as no surprise when, the moment his crusty ass touched Headquarters ground, you were summoned. He’d chosen one of those absurdly large conference rooms, a cavernous space of dark wood and echoing silence designed specifically to make people feel small and insignificant. Intimidation by interior design was a classic Gakuganji move.

After a customary sweep of the doorframe for any last-minute surprises, you pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The hinges creaked with the sort of ominous authority that suggested they’d been oiled with the tears of junior sorcerers. And there he was, already installed at the far end of the sprawling table like a gargoyle perched atop his favorite cathedral.

“Good afternoon, Elder Gakuganji,” you chirped sweetly. “How’s life been treating you?”

The wrinkles around Gakuganji’s eyes deepened as he dissected the cheerful greeting for its hidden malice. “Well,” came his eventual response.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation that would never come, you eased yourself into a leather chair. You made sure to leave three empty seats between you – close enough to antagonize, far enough to give you a precious half-second of reaction time should he finally snap and decide to demonstrate why strangling was considered a traditional art form among his generation. Survival was a game of inches and forethought.

Gakuganji’s face soured. Your casual posture, the deliberate lack of a deferential bow – it was a calculated performance of disrespect, and it was clearly giving him acid reflux.

“So, what can I do for you today?” you asked, maintaining your professional therapist voice. “This must be urgent, summoning me here right away instead of going through the proper scheduling channels.”

Gakuganji let out a disdainful huff. “Some matters are too important to be delegated to your digital calendars and automated reminders.” 

With a grunt of effort, he heaved a massive binder onto the desk. It landed with a solid WHUMP, the force of its impact making you flinch. The thing was a behemoth of black leather and metal rings, thick enough to stop a bullet, and looked like one of those crazy weights Yuji and Maki used to hurl around the gym while showing off their superhuman strength to anyone unfortunate enough to be watching.

“Here,” he hissed. “The papers you requested.”

“You brought hard copies?” you asked incredulously. “All the way from Kyoto? You could have just emailed me the files or used a flash drive.”

Gakuganji’s face contorted into an expression of such profound contempt that it probably took years of practice to perfect. 

“These are not trivialities to be zapped through the ether,” he sneered. “As far as the world is concerned, these documents do not exist.”

“Right,” you muttered under your breath, “because hauling around the equivalent of a small library is definitely more secure than a tiny encrypted drive that I could swallow if I had to.” 

The comment earned you another withering look. You’d already grabbed the binder before he could change his mind and take his non-existent documents elsewhere. The moment your hands made contact with the thing, you realized you’d underestimated its weight by several orders of magnitude. You had to brace your core just to drag it across the desk. God, the whole contraption felt like it weighed roughly half as much as you did. What the hell was this thing bound with? Lead? The fossilized bones of his ancestors?

You managed to wrangle the colossal binder open with only minimal grunting. You refused to give Gakuganji the satisfaction of watching you strain like some helpless office worker confronted with outdated technology. As you began scanning through the contents, you could feel his gaze on you, watching like a hawk for any sign of... whatever he was hoping to see. After a moment of this creepy surveillance, he let out a theatrical sigh.

“You made Gojo a king,” he mused, gesturing at your general existence. “And for what? Is this truly what you want to do for the rest of your life? All this thankless work in the dark? No one will ever know the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“That’s rather the point,” you snickered, glancing up to flash him your best shit-eating grin. “Since when did you start caring about my happiness? Feeling paternal all of a sudden? Planning to adopt me next?”

The condescending smile that slashed across his wrinkled face belonged to predators in nature documentaries, the moment just before they pounced on something small and furry. 

“Oh no,” he purred. “I merely pity you. No matter how many kingdoms you build for him, how many impossible problems you solve, a king needs his queen. Not… a shadow. You will never truly stand beside him in the light. There will never be a real place for you in his life.”

Okay, the old bastard hadn’t lost his touch with age. If anything, he just got more vicious. That was a direct hit, a poisoned needle sliding straight between your ribs, lodging into that one soft spot.

Your fingers froze over the page. “What are you getting at, Gakuganji?” you asked, your eyes went cold as you abandoned all pretense of polite discourse.

“Gojo is to be married,” Gakuganji announced. “By the end of this year.”

For a split second, you felt the world tilt, your lungs seizing in your chest. It was the sensation of stepping off a curb that was higher than expected, that moment of free fall before your foot found solid ground again. On the outside, not a single muscle on your face moved. Your expression remained as unchanged as Gakuganji’s outdated views on proper etiquette.

Slowly, you straightened in your chair, tilting your head in a flawless imitation of detached curiosity. “And I assume we have a shortlist? Do share with the class.”

Gakuganji studied your face, visibly disappointed by the glaring lack of tears or hysterics. “The Zen’in and Kamo clans both presented their most eligible daughters, of course,” he began, testing the waters. “As did several other prominent families of suitable lineage and impeccable breeding.”

“Skip the suspense, grandpa. You wouldn’t be telling me this if a decision hadn’t already been made. Spill it.”

His smile widened, revealing teeth that had seen better decades. “The daughter of the main Inumaki line.”

“Ah,” you nodded as if he’d just confirmed the weather forecast. “Kazuko, then. An interesting choice. I hadn’t considered her in the running.”

“You are acquainted with her?” Gakuganji asked, genuinely surprised this time.

You waved a hand in his direction, turning a page in the binder for effect. “I know everyone worth knowing in this business. It’s part of my charm.”

“And you are truly unbothered by this news?”

“Should I be?”

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches as you locked eyes across the polished expanse of mahogany. Your fingers itched to touch your bracelet, but you kept them still. Any sign of nervousness would be blood in the water, and Gakuganji was the species of shark that could smell weakness from three districts away.

Gakuganji’s weathered face creased into deeper lines as he studied you, hoping to catch some microscopic twitch that would betray your true feelings.

“So it was never about Gojo at all, was it?” he asked slowly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you scoffed. “Please don’t tell me you’ve spent six years thinking I raided an entire ancient political system just because I wanted to get into a man’s pants. That’s just sad, even for you.”

The leather of his chair creaked as Gakuganji leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach in that particular way that always preceded his most condescending sermons – fingers steepled, thumbs pressed together, the very picture of a man who believed himself to be the greatest person in any room he entered. 

“What you’ve been doing all these years… Perhaps the Head Council position is what you’re really after? And Gojo…” His lips curled around the name like it tasted bad. “He’s merely a convenient placeholder. A battering ram to clear out your enemies until you have consolidated sufficient power and are old enough to take the throne for yourself.”

The words slithered across the space between you like venomous snakes seeking warm flesh to sink their fangs into. You could practically hear the subtle click as the trap was set, could see the cold satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he prepared to spring it.

“That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?” Gakuganji spat. “For all your grand speeches about progress and reform, you’re cut from the same blighted cloth as the rest of us. All these supposed changes, and that boy is still nothing but a weapon. The only thing that’s changed is the hand on the leash. Now, instead of serving the Council, both he and the Council serve you.”

Something snapped inside you. The rage that bubbled up was familiar. Years of education, meditation, therapy training, and general adulting hadn’t actually made you any more serene. They’d just taught you better ways to hide the fact that deep down, beneath the tailored blazer and the therapist’s practiced smile, you were still very much that feral creature who would love nothing more than to lunge forward and claw Gakuganji’s eyes out of his skull.

You channeled that murderous energy into a single motion. Your hand slammed down on the binder, snapping it shut with the deafening crack of a gunshot. The force sent a plume of aged paper dust billowing into the air, drifting directly into his face. He flinched, his eyes squeezing shut instinctively before he caught himself and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Let me make something crystal fucking clear,” you said as you rose from your chair. “This isn’t about me, or sensei, or your sad little power fantasies. This is about making sure kids aren’t treated like disposable ammunition for your archaic wars. It’s about building a world where ‘sorcerer’ isn’t a synonym for ‘early grave’ and ‘acceptable collateral damage.’ A system that will keep working long after you and I are both rotting in the ground.”

Not giving Gakuganji so much as a breath to formulate a retort, you planted your hands on the desk, leaning forward until you loomed over him with your full height. The angle let you look down your nose at him in the precise way you knew made his blood boil.

“I have zero interest in that moldy throne you all seem to be drooling over. But if you’re so determined to cling to your narrative, allow me to correct your shoddy analysis: Gojo Satoru has never been a weapon to me. I thought you, of all people, would have figured this out by now – I am the weapon. He is my shield, and I am his sword. We chose those roles ourselves. We’re in this together. Though I understand that concept might be a bit advanced for your generation.”

“This will not end well for you, you naive child,” Gakuganji snarled. A vein pulsed angrily in his temple.

You merely chuckled. “Funny, that’s what you said six years ago. Yet here I am, still ruining your day. Now, thank you for the delivery service. But I have actual work to do. So unless you plan on coming up with some fresh material, don’t waste my time with your dusty theatrics again.”

Hoisting up the heavy binding, you headed for the doors. “By the way,” you added with a casual glance back over your shoulder. “You’re not as indispensable as you like to imagine, grandpa. Might want to write that down somewhere and act accordingly.”

With that parting shot, you strolled out of the room as Gakuganji sputtered in impotent outrage behind you.

You threw the doors shut only to collide with a familiar broad chest. Your heart performed a series of frantic backflips as you looked up into Gojo’s unreadable expression. Those damn sunglasses were doing their usual job of hiding whatever thoughts might be lurking behind them, leaving you to navigate by the subtle geography of his face: the set of his jaw, the imperceptible tilt of his head, the way his mouth wasn’t quite smiling but wasn’t quite not smiling either.

The standard wards on the conference room, designed to block cursed techniques, had masked his presence from your senses. You’d been so focused on Gakuganji’s theatrical performance that you hadn’t even thought to check for eavesdroppers.

So that had been Gakuganji’s true play all along.

The old bastard had gotten bored with simple murder attempts and decided to try his hand at relationship drama. Rather than going for your head this time, he’d aimed for your heart. That marriage bomb had been bait dangled to provoke you, meant to make you say something hurtful, something unforgivable, something that would drive a wedge between you and the one person who made this whole insane enterprise worthwhile – all while said person was conveniently positioned to overhear every word.

Not bad, for an old fossil. You had to give Gakuganji a solid 7/10 for creative sabotage, points deducted only for the theatrical overreach and his continued failure to account for the fact that you and Gojo had been through worse storms.

Gojo offered no comment on the verbal sparring match he’d just overheard, no indication of whether he’d caught the whole performance or just the grand finale. The corner of his lips quirked into a soft smile that instantly began to dissolve the sharp shard of ice Gakuganji’s words had lodged in your heart.

“Let me get that for you,” he murmured, plucking the giant binder from your arms. 

The thing that had nearly given you a hernia looked like a paperback novel in his hands as he balanced it effortlessly in the crook of one arm. His other hand found yours, fingers lacing through your own. With a gentle tug, he started leading you down the hallway, unbothered by the curious glances and hastily averted eyes of passing staff members.

The walk to your office passed in comfortable quiet. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he dropped the binder onto your couch, where it sank into the cushions with a weary sigh. 

He turned to face you, raking a hand through his silver hair. “I was going to tell you,” he said, his voice unusually subdued.

You hopped up to perch on the edge of your desk. You’d always liked high places. Plus, it provided a slight height advantage when conversing with terminally tall men who refused to slouch.

“Kazuko’s a good match,” you offered, swinging your legs to burn off some of the leftover restlessness.

The statement was objectively true, which somehow made it both easier and harder to say. Inumaki Kazuko was perfect: a first-grade sorcerer in her late 20s – beautiful, accomplished, and most importantly, politically valuable. 

Unlike her younger brother Toge, whose inherited technique made normal conversation impossible, her version manifested as something the family diplomatically called ‘Siren’ – a variant of Cursed Speech that only activated through singing.

This meant she could communicate normally, hold conversations at dinner parties, and generally function in society without accidentally cursing people into the next dimension. It was a rare trait among the Inumaki bloodline. As Gojo’s wife, she’d be able to handle all the tedious clan politics, hold her ground against the various vipers that populated high society, and look absolutely stunning in formal photos.

The only reason you hadn’t considered her as a potential candidate was because the Inumaki clan had historically stayed out of politics. They were old money, old power, probably older than dirt itself, but they’d always floated above the succession crises and power struggles that periodically convulsed the jujutsu world.

Their sudden willingness to throw Kazuko into the ring meant they were finally picking a team in this ongoing political reshuffling. A long-term alliance with the Inumakis would boost Gojo’s position both in prestige and raw power. It might even help patch things up between Toge and his family, which would be nice, considering how much the guy missed them, even if he’d never admit it. 

The whole arrangement was so perfectly advantageous it had likely given the Gojo clan elders collective orgasms when they stamped their approval on it.

Gojo, however, didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm. “It’s my parents’ idea,” he said flatly. “I don’t want a political marriage.”

“Then it won’t happen,” you replied without a sliver of hesitation.

He blinked, thrown by your easy agreement. “Seriously? You’re not going to give me the whole lecture about duty and sacrifice? No PowerPoint presentation on the long-term strategic benefits?”

You grinned. “We established this from day one, didn’t we? No doing shit you don’t want to do.”

Well, except for his mountain of paperwork and mandatory vacation days, but that was different.

Gojo moved to stand in front of you, stepping into the space between your knees. Even with your elevated perch, he still managed to loom. “So what’s the plan?” he asked, taking your hand in his. “Are you gonna terrorize my parents into submission?”

“I’ll think of something,” you promised. 

Over the years, you’d nudged the Gojo clan into plenty of decisions they thought were brilliant ideas they’d come up with all by themselves. How hard could it be to delay one marriage? Only until Gojo found someone he actually wanted to wake up next to every morning for the rest of his life.

“Just kidding,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle this myself. I’m a big boy, you know.” His gaze dropped to your hand, thumb brushing over your ring finger, tracing an invisible line almost wistfully before his trademark grin snapped back into place. “Though I have to admit, watching you putting Gakuganji in his place never gets old.”

“God, I’m so tired of his bullshit. He just won’t quit!”

“Hey, you’re the one who insisted on keeping him around. We all tried to talk you out of it, remember? I’m pretty sure Nanami offered to make it look like an unfortunate, entirely accidental tragedy at least three separate times.”

You groaned dramatically and slumped forward, letting your forehead thunk against his chest in defeat. His arms came up around you automatically. The gesture was both comforting and made it hard to maintain your righteous indignation about spiteful old men who refused to die of natural causes.

“Wait a minute,” you muttered into his shirt, taking a deep inhale. “You smell like me. Are you wearing my fragrance again?”

It was definitely yours, except somehow it smelled better on him. Mixed with his natural scent, the notes became richer, warmer, as though they had been custom-blended for his skin chemistry. Such a Gojo thing to do – steal your stuff and then make it work better than it did on you in the first place.

“I like how it smells,” he said, not even pretending to be sorry about his blatant theft.

“Buy your own bottle. I’m almost out because someone keeps using it without asking.”

“I’ll buy you a new one if you share. It smells better when it’s yours anyway.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Does it have to?”

After a few more minutes of bickering about fragrance theft and his general audacity, Gojo shifted topics. “My family’s hosting a thing next week,” he said, his fingers idly twisting a lock of your hair. “Come with me?”

You snorted. “Have you forgotten what happened at the last clan gathering I attended? I’m pretty sure some of your aunts still require sedation at the mention of my name after that ikebana incident.”

“To be fair,” Gojo shrugged. “That ikebana was hideous. You did everyone a favor by accidentally destroying it. Besides, this is just an informal get-together. Nothing serious. No ikebana in sight, I promise.”

“And what, precisely, happens at these ‘informal gatherings’ of yours?”

“Oh, you know. Talk to boring people. Drink overpriced champagne. Dance a little.”

“So, three things I’m terrible at,” you said, ticking off fingers. “None of those stuffy people want to talk to me. I literally can’t drink. And I don’t even know how to dance.”

“I’ll do all the talking,” Gojo countered smoothly as though he’d already thought this through. “You can just stand there and look murderous. We’ll skip the drinks and hoard all the fancy desserts for ourselves. And as for the dancing… I can teach you.”

Before you could come up with more excuses, he stepped back just enough to pull out his phone. “Actually, why wait?” His fingers flew across the screen. “Let’s have our first lesson right now.”

“What? Here? In my office?”

“Why not?”

His face lit up as he found whatever track he was looking for. The opening notes of a waltz drifted through the air – something soft and sweet. The kind of music that made you think of those swooning period movies where women wore restrictive dresses and stared meaningfully out rain-streaked windows while contemplating the symbolic nature of candlelight.

“Come on,” Gojo coaxed, extending his hand with an exaggerated, princely flourish. “It’ll be fun.”

When he looked at you like that, eyes bright with mischief and that boyish charm that had gotten him out of trouble since he was five, resistance was futile. You still had an hour before your next appointment anyway. What was the worst that could happen? Slipping off the desk, you took his offered hand.

“Okay,” he started. “First, posture. Stand up straight. No, straighter than that.”

You straightened your spine until you felt like a soldier at attention, earning a low chuckle from him.

“Not that straight. Just… confident. Like this.” He demonstrated with the kind of natural grace that was frankly insulting to the rest of humanity. “Right hand goes here—” He placed your hand on his shoulder, then took your left hand in his right. “And I put my hand… here.” His left hand settled on your waist with a touch so light you barely felt it.

“The basic step is really simple,” he continued. “It’s just a box. Forward, side, together. Back, side, together. Think of it like you’re drawing a square with your feet.”

“A square. With my feet. While moving backward. And not falling on my ass.”

“Trust me, it’s easier than it sounds. We’ll start slow. Ready? And one, two, three…”

The first step went surprisingly well. You managed to step back without falling over. The second step involved moving sideways, and you only wobbled a little. You were starting to think maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster, that you might actually have some hidden reservoir of grace you’d never discovered, that—

WHAM.

A sharp pain shot through your side as your hip bone made violent acquaintance with the hard corner of your desk.

“Ow,” you yelped.

“You okay?” Gojo asked, instantly steadying you as you stumbled, his other hand hovering uncertainly over the impact zone.

“Yeah, just…” You rubbed the sore spot and looked around your office with new eyes. “Maybe we need a bit more space?”

What had seemed like a perfectly adequate workspace five minutes ago was revealed to be a booby-trapped obstacle course. Every piece of furniture seemed strategically positioned to cause maximum bodily harm. Alright, Mai definitely had a point. You needed to declutter.

“Here,” Gojo suggested, gently steering you toward the small area near the window that was marginally less cluttered with potential hazards. 

You repositioned yourselves in the slightly larger space, ignoring the filing cabinet lurking ominously in your peripheral vision. Gojo walked you through the steps again. You made it through a full turn, and even a second, before you misjudged the distance and brought your heel down squarely on his foot.

“Shit! I’m sorry—” You tried to lift your foot quickly to minimize the damage, only to stumble and step on his other foot.

“It’s fine,” he laughed, keeping you upright. “They’re just feet.”

“This is a total disaster,” you muttered. “Maybe we should just accept that I’m rhythmically challenged.”

“No way,” Gojo disagreed. “Your coordination is fine. You move perfectly when you’re fighting. Complex footwork, timing, balance – you’ve got all of that down.”

“That’s completely different. When I’m fighting, I’m not trying to match someone else’s rhythm.”

“But you do it with Higuruma, twice a week,” Gojo pointed out. “Seems like you sync up with him just fine.”

You frowned. “Are you seriously comparing dancing to combat training right now?”

“I’m just saying you trust Higuruma enough to follow his lead. Can you try trusting me for five more minutes? Please?”

That plea made you pause. When you looked up, his expression had changed. The easy grin was still there, and yet it seemed different now. Suddenly, this felt like it was about a lot more than just learning to waltz in your cluttered office.

“Okay,” you nodded grimly, squaring your shoulders, and got back into position. 

If this mattered to Gojo – and for reasons you couldn’t quite decipher, it clearly did – then it mattered to you, too. Even if it meant sacrificing his feet, your dignity, and several pieces of office furniture in the process.

You tried again, jaw set with determination. This time, you were going to nail it.

Back, side, together. Forward, side, together. Holy shit, you were actually doing it! You were dancing! You were graceful! You were floating across the—

CRASH.

Your elbow caught the lamp on your side table, sending it teetering on the brink of annihilation. Gojo released your hand to lunge and snatch it mid-air, a breath away from shattering on the floor. The lurch, however, threw off both your balance and the pitiful scraps of rhythm you’d managed to find.

“Sensei, stop!” you groaned. “This is just not working.” 

A hot flush crept up your neck. You moved to pull away, ready to wave the white flag and suggest relocating this torture session to the training rooms. At least there, you could tackle him to the ground as you did with Higuruma and call it even.

Gojo didn’t let you escape. His arms came around you, drawing you firmly against his chest. “We can make it work,” he whispered. “We can make anything work. Just… stay with me.”

The failed waltz stance dissolved into an embrace. The shift in position brought your ear right against his chest, close enough to hear the steady thump of his heartbeat under the melody. His chest rose and fell steadily under your cheek. Your arms found their way around his waist without any conscious decision on your part. 

“There,” he murmured, his chin coming to rest on the crown of your head. “Much better.”

And it really was. 

Instead of fumbling through proper steps, you simply swayed together. The music gently wrapped around you, creating a little bubble where the outside world couldn’t intrude. No politics, no clan drama, no marriage arrangements or Council schemes or any of the thousand other things that usually occupied the real estate of your mind. 

Your eyes drifted shut as you let yourself melt into him. The act felt dangerous for all sorts of reasons you couldn’t quite remember right now and honestly didn’t want to think about.

One of his hands spread warm and solid across your lower back. The other hand wandered up to settle between your shoulder blades, his fingers drawing abstract patterns that might have been secrets written across your skin or might have been nothing at all. Either way, it was making your brain go all fuzzy and delightfully useless.

The gentle back-and-forth motion was barely movement at all – more like being rocked by invisible waves, breathing together, finding the same rhythm. The hand on your back pressed you incrementally closer, until there wasn’t even a whisper of space between you.

“See?” he murmured into your hair. “Not so difficult after all.”

You made a noncommittal humming noise that could have meant anything from ‘you’re right’ to ‘shut up and keep holding me like this forever.’ Honestly, forming actual words felt like entirely too much effort when his fingers were doing that drowsy, hypnotic thing at the nape of your neck. 

The waltz flowed into something even softer as the piano notes fell like gentle rain, each one carrying the weight of love and loss and everything in between. His thumb brushed against the spot just behind your ear, and you had to bite down on the inside of your cheek to swallow a sound that would have been too much of a confession.

This wasn’t dancing in any technical sense of the word. But it was definitely better. No complicated steps to memorize, no audience to impress, no chance of demolishing another piece of office decor. No one was leading and no one was following; you were simply moving as one. Just you and him and the music and the gradual realization that you never wanted this moment to end.

Gakuganji had been right about one thing: you would always be the shadow, the architect who worked in the dark so your King could stand in the light. That was the role you’d chosen, the sacrifice you’d made peace with. 

The thing was, sometimes, despite all your precautions, the light found you anyway.

The music had stopped at some point, fading so quietly into silence that you hadn’t even noticed when. Neither of you moved to break apart. The world rushed back in, but it was muted, held at bay by the circle of his arms. In that silent space, you clung to him just a little tighter, and he answered with a mirrored pressure, holding you right back.

Oh, you were so, so very screwed.

Chapter Text

If there was a single person on this earth who could be considered your bestest friend – yes, you were fully aware that “bestest” wasn’t a real word, but fuck proper grammar when it came to matters of the heart – it was Itadori Yuji. 

If there was also a single person on this earth who had come closest to successfully murdering you by a staggering statistical margin, it was also Itadori Yuji.

The man had a special talent. Professional assassins had tried and failed. Ancient sorcerers had plotted your demise and been foiled at every turn. Council Elder Gakuganji had dedicated what you conservatively estimated to be sixty percent of his geriatric rage to seeing you six feet under, mobilizing resources that could have funded a small war, all to no avail. 

Yet somehow, Yuji had nearly punched your ticket to the afterlife multiple times without even trying.

This wasn’t a reflection of any malicious intent on his part, of course. Yuji was and always had been humanity’s golden retriever in a six-foot package of muscle and sunshine. His heart was pure, his intentions golden, and his capacity for accidentally creating life-threatening situations bordered on the supernatural.

Over the years, you’d developed a working theory that he had some sort of secret cursed technique involving a passive field of destruction that warped the laws of probability around him. Under his influence, mundane activities turned into extreme sports and extreme sports into near-death experiences.

If your enemies had any real strategic sense, they’d stop sending overpriced assassins and just hire Yuji to bake you a cake or invite you out for a casual afternoon of... well, literally anything. Your odds of survival would plummet exponentially, and they’d save a fortune on hitman fees.

The morning of the long-dreaded, twice-rescheduled, and contractually obligated monthly hangout with your friends, you were jolted from a perfectly good sleep. Not by the civilized beeping of an alarm clock like a reasonable human being, but by the guttural rumble of an engine that vibrated through your floorboards, rattled your teeth, and made your neighbors’ baby three apartments over start crying. 

You didn’t need to look. You knew that sound. It was the mating call of the Itadori Yuji in his natural habitat, and it meant your peaceful morning was about to become significantly less peaceful.

Still, masochist that you were, you dragged yourself to the window to confirm your deepest fears. There he was, astride that chrome-plated instrument of torture (otherwise known as a Kawasaki Ninja H2 SX SE). 

At twenty-two, Yuji was now an instructor at Tokyo Jujutsu High, widely regarded as the kindest, most inspiring, and most beloved teacher the school had seen in decades.  He’d grown into his frame, shedding the last vestiges of teenage awkwardness for the sculpted build of a man who frequently punched his way through concrete walls. 

Dressed in scuffed combat boots, black jeans that seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of his thighs, and a leather jacket that strained heroically across his broad back, he looked like the protagonist of a very different, much spicier kind of story. He pulled off his helmet, shaking loose his perpetually messy pink hair, and shot a grin up at your window.

Objectively, he was hot. Subjectively, he was a menace to your personal safety. The sight of him – so bright and handsome and oblivious of the trail of destruction he left in his wake – made your stomach clench with a fresh wave of PTSD. All you could think was: That beautiful bastard is going to kill me someday.

The first time he’d almost killed you was a freebie. You couldn’t hold it against him, not when it technically wasn’t even him doing the almost killing. That near-death experience occurred about six years ago during the Shibuya Incident, back when you were still young enough to think you were invincible and stupid enough to believe that your cunning made you untouchable. 

Yuji hadn’t been in the driver’s seat for that one, what with Sukuna hijacking his body for a homicidal joyride through the city, but you’d still been there. You still remembered the feeling of being an insignificant insect in the path of a walking apocalypse, saved only by the barest thread of luck and a little bit of strategic backstabbing. That one had been a close call. A city-leveling, mass-casualty event kind of close call.

The second time, however, was entirely his fault. It had been an act of such thoughtless, well-intentioned violence that it was a perfect encapsulation of his entire being. He’d shown up at your office after a mission, bubbling with excitement over some new street food stall he’d discovered, brandishing a skewer of something fried, battered, and vaguely seafood-esque.

“You have to try this!” he’d insisted, shoving the questionable meat-on-a-stick directly under your nose. “It’s life-changing!”

He hadn’t been wrong about the life-changing part. It had almost changed your life from a state of “being” to “not being.” You’d taken one bite, declared it delicious, and promptly gone into anaphylactic shock. Turns out, you possessed a hyper-specific allergy to a type of Okinawan sea snail that was otherwise perfectly edible for everyone else. You hadn’t even known it even existed, let alone that it was a key ingredient in Yuji’s new favorite snack. You’d spent the next five minutes clawing at your neck on the imported rug while a panic-stricken Yuji tried to administer the Heimlich maneuver for a problem that was decidedly not Heimlich-related. 

The only reason you were still alive to tell the tale was that Shoko had chosen that exact moment to stroll into your office looking for printer paper. She’d taken one look at your purple face, Yuji’s tears, and the offending skewer, rolled her eyes like this was just another Tuesday, and calmly jabbed an EpiPen into your thigh. 

“Update your fucking medical files,” she’d said, lighting a cigarette over your gasping, gradually-less-purple body. “Also, Itadori, stop crying. Your senpai is fine.”

Close call number two. Strike two. Whatever you wanted to call it.

The third time… the third time was the motorcycle.

About a year ago, Yuji had gotten really into the underground street racing scene, because apparently being a jujutsu sorcerer who regularly fought nightmare creatures wasn’t providing his daily recommended dose of adrenaline anymore. It wasn’t a fair competition – normal humans couldn’t match his reflexes or his ability to reinforce his body with cursed energy – but Yuji didn’t care about winning. He never did. He just loved the speed, the thrill, the feeling of pushing a machine to its absolute limit. 

Of course, you’d been vehemently, vocally, violently opposed to the whole thing. You hated motorcycles. They were loud, obnoxious, environmentally irresponsible, and offered precisely zero protection from the unforgiving asphalt. In your professional opinion, motorcycles were just elaborate suicide machines with better marketing.

Then, he’d shown up at your door that one night, fizzing with a pre-race high, his eyes bright with reckless joy. And your stupid, overprotective instincts kicked in. You couldn’t stop him, but maybe you could mitigate the disaster.

The logic had seemed simple at the time: if you were sitting on the back of his bike, screaming bloody murder directly into his eardrum, he might be inclined to be slightly more careful. You’d be like a human seatbelt. A very loud conscience strapped to his back. Surely, with his easily-squishable senpai on the line, he wouldn’t push the limits quite so aggressively. He would, at the very least, make some token effort not to kill you in the process.

That assumption had been your first mistake. Your second mistake had been getting on the fucking bike.

The moment the race started, Yuji had become a different person – a focused, adrenaline-fueled demon of speed. Your blood-curdling screams of terror were lost to the wind and the thunderous roar of the engine. You had fundamentally misunderstood Yuji’s capacity to develop hyper-focus. When he leaned into the first corner, you realized you were not a deterrent. You were simply baggage.

The crash, when it inevitably came, had been cinematic in its terror. There had been that corner he took just a hair too fast, another rider clipped his rear wheel, and suddenly, you were no longer bound by the tedious laws of gravity that had governed your entire life up to that point. 

You were launched. Catapulted. Yeeted into the great unknown.

The world dissolved into a nauseating blur of asphalt, the acrid smell of burning rubber, seizure-inducing flashes of neon and streetlights, and a primal scream you belatedly realized was your own. One moment you were clinging to Yuji for dear life. The next, you were tumbling through the night air toward what you were certain would be a very messy and very permanent end to your brief but eventful life.

Except it wasn’t.

In a feat of cosmic slapstick, your involuntary flight path was intercepted by the open back of a passing laundry truck that was, miraculously, filled with a fresh delivery of fluffy, five-star hotel futons. The impact was like landing on a cloud. Before you could even process your good fortune, the truck hit a massive pothole, bouncing you out of the futon pile and back into the open air. 

Your second flight was mercifully shorter. It concluded when you landed squarely on a twenty-foot-tall inflatable promotional mascot for “Jolly Jellybeans,” a candy brand whose marketing department had decided that their ideal spokesperson was a purple blob with cold, dead eyes. There was a long, mournful wheeeze as Jolly Jellybean sustained a critical blow from a flailing human, and it slowly, tragically, deflated beneath you, depositing you gently onto the pavement below.

You hadn’t suffered so much as a single scratch. Physically, anyway. Your soul had several new stress fractures, and you’d developed a new phobia of both motorcycles and inflatable advertising materials.

When Yuji – who’d skillfully slid with the bike and escaped with only minor road rash – found you trembling on the curb, his face had gone a shade of white you didn’t think was available in the human spectrum. He’d spent the next month waiting on you hand and foot, catering to your every whim, cooking your meals (carefully avoiding anything that might contain exotic marine life), apologizing roughly every fifteen minutes. He’d sworn off racing forever.

He’d lasted exactly thirty-seven days. The moment your glares softened from “I will end your bloodline and salt the earth where your ancestors are buried” to a more manageable “I am mildly displeased with your existence,” he was back on that death trap. The thrill, the speed, the pure adrenaline rush of flirting with mortality – it was a drug he couldn’t quit.

A buzz from your phone broke your reverie. It was Yuji.

Yuji: yo bestie if ur not down here in 5 im coming up! bara says ur door is fair game lol

You threw on the first clothes your hands touched, grabbed your backpack, and stomped downstairs to meet your doom. Or as the rest of the world called him, your best friend.

“Absolutely fucking not,” was the first thing out of your mouth as you burst through the building’s entrance, your finger pointed at the motorcycle. “I’m calling a taxi.”

Yuji’s grin didn’t waver. If anything, it widened like he fed on your terror. “Aw c’mon, Spices. Don’t be like that. Sunday traffic’s gonna be brutal. We’ll be sitting in a taxi for hours. You know how Bara gets when we’re late.”

“Better late than a human smoothie on the pavement,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I’m not getting on that death trap.”

Yuji had the audacity to look wounded by your perfectly reasonable stance on not wanting to die horribly. “It’s not a death trap!” he protested. “And I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll go super slow. Like, grandma-on-her-way-to-the-grocery-store slow.” He held up a second helmet. “Look! I’ve got safety equipment. Barely used.”

“Probably because your last passenger was launched into low orbit and never seen again,” you muttered darkly.

“That was ONE time, and I still feel terrible about it! But real talk – What’s scarier, this bike, or an angry Nobara who’s been waiting with a hammer and a color-coded list of every time you’ve ditched her in the last six months?”

Fuck. He had you there, and the smug bastard knew it. The mental image of Nobara – probably already three drinks in, definitely holding that cursed hammer she carried everywhere, absolutely keeping a spreadsheet of your social failures – was somehow more terrifying than potential vehicular manslaughter.

Yuji pushed the helmet at you again. You ignored it. Instead, you reached into your bottomless backpack and whipped out your own helmet. It was a top-of-the-line Arai Corsair-X, reinforced with every conceivable safety feature known to mankind. It was also the most offensive shade of canary yellow ever inflicted upon the human retina. Attached to the top were two springy, plush bee antennae, each tipped with a fuzzy yellow pom-pom.

Gojo had bought it for you after the Jolly Jellybean incident, claiming it matched your “prickly but secretly sweet” personality and would “make you more visible to other drivers.” You loathed the thing, yet you wore it every single time Yuji coerced you onto this two-wheeled death trap. Despite its offensive appearance, you knew it was the best money could buy. Everything Gojo bought for you was.

Yuji took one look at it and burst out laughing. “The Bumble-sensei helmet! You still have it!”

“It has a five-star safety rating,” you grumbled, shoving the ridiculous thing onto your head and buckling the chin strap. The antennae waggled in cheery defiance of your mood. “And if you call it that stupid name again, I will walk.”

“Whatever you say, Bumble-sensei,” he grinned and started the engine, patting the passenger seat he’d modified specifically for you. “Hop on!”

Every cell in your body screamed in protest. This was stupid. This was reckless. This was how you ended up as a cautionary tale told to first-year students during their “Why You Should Always Think Twice Before Getting On Motorcycles With Itadori-sensei” safety lectures.

But then you looked at Yuji’s back, at the broad set of his shoulders, at the friend who had faced down death with and for you. He was sunshine and recklessness and a loyalty so pure it was a force of nature. And despite the near-death experiences, or maybe because of them, you trusted him. Not to be safe, never that. But to be there.

With a long-suffering sigh that was ninety percent performance and ten percent genuine terror, you swung your leg over and settled onto the seat behind him. Your hands found their place on his waist.

“You gotta hold on tighter than that,” he said over his shoulder.

“I know the drill,” you gritted out, wrapping your arms fully around him, pressing your chest against his broad back and locking your fingers together over his stomach. 

“All set?” he asked.

“Just try not to kill me,” you mumbled into his back, squeezing your eyes shut.

His only answer was another bright laugh – everything wonderful and terrifying about him captured in a single sound. Then the bike lurched forward, and you were off.

For the first two blocks, Yuji was a model of vehicular civility. He cruised at a speed that could be reasonably described as “legal,” stopped fully at stop signs, and even used his turn signal in a manner that suggested he knew what it was for. The bee antennae on your helmet bobbed gently in the breeze, their yellow pom-poms dancing like tiny cheerleaders celebrating your continued survival. 

You were beginning to relax. Your death grip on his waist loosened to a friendly hug. Your shoulders unclenched from their position somewhere near your ears. Perhaps, you dared to think, Yuji had matured. Perhaps age and responsibility had tempered his destructive impulses. Perhaps… You should have known better.

The promise he’d sworn on his very honor evaporated into a cloud of exhaust fumes once he spotted a sliver of an opening between a delivery van and a city bus. The engine, which had been purring contentedly, let out a hungry roar as Yuji dropped a gear and twisted the throttle. Your arms tightened back into a death grip around his middle. The ridiculous bee antennae flattened against the back of your head as they battled the violent onslaught of aerodynamic drag that threatened to rip them – and possibly your head – clean off.

“YOU SAID GRANDMA SPEED YOU PSYCHO!” you shrieked.

“NAH, THIS GRANDMA IS COOL!” he yelled back with infuriating cheer. “SHE DOES DRAG RACING AND CROCHETS LUCKY CHARMS FOR HER TURBO!”

You considered various forms of retaliation, most of which were impractical at this velocity and would likely result in both of you becoming a permanent part of the road’s surface. Resigning yourself to your fate, you focused on the one thing that could distract you from your impending demise: interrogating your best friend about the well-being of his students, who were presumably also in constant peril.

“SO,” you shouted, trying to time your words with the momentary lulls between engine roars, “How’s the new class doing?”

Yuji’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Oh man, you’re gonna love this! You know that curse containment basics unit?”

“I do. Because I wrote the damn curriculum!”

“So get this – They managed to flip the containment field inside out! Trapped themselves in there with this Grade 3 slug thing!”

As he spoke, he got more animated, a terrible development when one is operating heavy machinery through dense urban traffic. He lifted his right hand off the handlebar to gesture emphatically, presumably to illustrate the concept of a reverse-prison or perhaps the approximate size and disposition of the angry slug creature. 

Suddenly deprived of half its steering input, the bike wobbled alarmingly, drifting into the next lane and directly into the path of an oncoming cement mixer whose driver laid on the horn with the righteous fury of a man on a tight schedule and did not have time for this bullshit.

Your life flashed before your eyes for what was, by your count, the fourth time that morning. You squeezed him so tightly you were surprised you hadn’t cracked one of his ribs. Yuji, unbothered, simply corrected his course with a flick of his wrist. Then, in a display of politeness that would have been cute if it weren’t completely insane, he lifted his left hand from the handlebar – his left fucking hand, the one that was supposed to be controlling the clutch – to wave an apologetic gesture at the enraged truck driver, whose continued honking suggested he had several opinions about young motorcyclists and their cavalier attitude toward traffic safety.

“It was actually pretty funny,” Yuji continued conversationally. “You should’ve seen them trying to play it cool, like ‘yeah, we meant to do that!’ Meanwhile, this curse is just... oozing everywhere.  It wasn’t dangerous, just… super gross.” He shuddered dramatically.

“So you just left them there?” you asked through gritted teeth, prying one eye open to watch a row of parked cars zip past in a solid line.

“Me? Oh, I didn’t have to do anything! Satoshi just walked up and one-punched the barrier! Poof! Problem solved.”

“He’s settling in okay, then?”

“He’s awesome! The kids are a little scared of him, so they actually listen. I haven’t had to break up a single fight all week. It’s amazing. Hey, Spices?”

“WHAT?”

“Can I keep him?”

Your brain, already under siege from sensory overload and mortal terror, short-circuited. For a solid three seconds, you forgot that you were rocketing toward your doom and were consumed by the sheer absurdity of the question.

“YUJI,” you yelled, enunciating as clearly as you could, “Nakamura Satoshi is a grown-ass man with a job and a family in Kyoto who would like him back. He is not a stray cat you found under a dumpster. You cannot ‘keep’ him!”

You could picture it: Yuji leaving out bowls of protein powder and energy drinks around the faculty lounge, making soft clicking noises to coax Satoshi into staying permanently.

“But he likes it here,” Yuji whined, conveniently ignoring your point about Satoshi’s existing life and commitments. “I don’t think he has any friends in Kyoto! He’s lonely!”

“Then hang out with him! Invite him for drinks! Take him to karaoke! Don’t try to adopt him! Also, slow down or I swear I’ll tell Bara about that time you—”

“How’s your week been?” he interrupted hastily, actually slowing down enough for you to notice the little reduction in wind resistance.

“Now that you ask,” you groaned, seizing the topic change, “Hiromi has been an ass again!”

“What’d he do this time?” Yuji asked, his interest piqued. Any story that involved you complaining about Higuruma Hiromi was prime entertainment for him.

“He keeps dragging me to practice, saying my left side’s weak. Yeah, no shit it’s weak. He keeps hitting it. I swear he’s a sadist who gets off on my suffering!”

“He’s just looking out for you!” Yuji said reasonably, though his attempt at being the voice of sanity was somewhat undermined by the way he chose that exact moment to weave between a taxi and a scooter in a maneuver that made a flock of crows scatter in alarm. One of them made direct eye contact with you. You could swear it shook its head in pity.

“Looking out for me, my ass! He sat on me for five minutes last week! It’s not training. It’s just bullying with extra steps! And don’t even get me started on the mind games!”

“Mind games?”

“He texted me the other day, swearing he’d left his favorite blue striped tie in my office. Made me search for a full half hour. I tore the place apart. Never found the damn thing. You know why?”

“Why?” Yuji asked impatiently, now deeply invested in this saga of workplace harassment and missing neckwear. He was hanging on every word, which meant his attention was definitely not where it should be – namely, on the road.

“Because he was fucking with me! He has two other ties that look exactly the same. I know because I was there when he bought them during a three-for-two sale. But no, he insisted that specific tie had ‘sentimental value.’ Sentimental value! It was a gift, he said. From who? The discount rack at Takashimaya?”

Yuji barked out a laugh so loud it was audible even over the engine. “Classic Higs! God, you two are so weird together.”

“He’s the weird one,” you fumed, your indignation reaching new heights. “I’m perfectly normal. I just happen to be surrounded by lunatics.”

“Maybe he just wants to talk to you more?” Yuji offered, completely missing the point of your complaint. “Like, maybe the tie thing was just—”

“So he beats me up and gaslights me? What is he, twelve? What’s next, is he going to pull my hair and put gum in my— WAS THAT A RED LIGHT? YUJI WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT TURN—”

“Shortcut!” he announced cheerfully, banking hard and zooming down an alley that was definitely not meant for vehicles. “Don’t worry, I do this all the time! It cuts like five minutes off the trip!”

That was it. That was the final straw. Your self-preservation instincts, which had been steadily frayed and systematically abused over the course of this nightmarish journey, finally reached their breaking point and snapped.

Without thinking too much about it, you gathered a chunk of the muscle and flesh at his side, right above his hip, where the leather jacket didn’t offer as much protection, and you pinched. Not a playful nip. It was a vicious act of war, executed with all the finger strength you’d developed from years of stress-ball squeezing during budget meetings and department disputes. You summoned the power of a vengeful crab and unleashed it upon his unsuspecting flank.

The sound that ripped out of Itadori Yuji’s throat was not the sound a twenty-two-year-old, six-foot-tall, notoriously powerful first-grade sorcerer should ever make under any circumstances. 

“YEEOWCH!” he shrieked. It was high-pitched, undignified, and suggested that despite all his supernatural strength and combat training, he was still vulnerable to the ancient and terrible power of a really good pinch.

The sudden pain made him jerk involuntarily. The handlebars twisted in his grip, and the Kawasaki fishtailed violently across the road. The rear tire screeched in protest, leaving a dark slash of rubber on the asphalt. For a terrifying second, you were sideways. You saw a lamppost, a fire hydrant, and the crow from earlier, who was now perched on the fire hydrant, looking both horrified and morbidly curious about how this disaster was going to conclude.

A car horn blared. A cyclist screamed. You saw your entire life flash before your eyes. Again. It was mostly paperwork and Mai’s criticism.

This is it, you thought. This is how the story ends. Killed not by an ancient curse or an overpriced assassin, but by a ticklish idiot on a sport bike in a back alley.

And then, just as quickly, Yuji’s elite sorcerer instincts kicked in. With a grunt, he threw his entire weight against the slide, wrestling the bike back under control. The machine groaned and bucked, but ultimately bent to his will. The horrifying sideways slide corrected itself into a smooth stop, perfectly parallel to the curb, directly in front of an apartment building, which your brain dimly recognized as Nobara’s place despite the fact that most of your cognitive functions were still busy processing the trauma of the last thirty seconds.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world was blessedly still. Yuji was panting, his shoulders heaving. Your own heart was trying to batter its way out of your ribcage. Then, the sounds of the city rushed back in – the distant traffic, the chatter of pedestrians, the accusatory cawing of the traumatized crow.

Slowly, Yuji twisted his head to glare at you over his shoulder. “What was that for?!” he demanded. “You could’ve gotten us killed! That was super dangerous! I can’t believe you would—”

You lifted your head, flipping up your visor to glare back at him, the bee antennae on your helmet quivering with your righteous fury. “Oh?” you hissed. “Now you care about danger? Did that thought occur to you at any point during the last twenty minutes of illegal street racing?”

Yuji had the grace to look chastened. “Uh… Well… We’re here!” he deflected brilliantly, gesturing vaguely to Nobara’s apartment building, as if announcing a great victory.

You didn’t answer. You were concentrating very, very hard on not throwing up inside your fancy bee-themed helmet. Carefully, you unpeeled yourself from his back, swinging a leg that felt like a wet noodle over the seat. Your feet hit solid ground, and your knees immediately decided to retire from their load-bearing responsibilities. You stumbled and had to grab onto the still-vibrating bike to keep from collapsing in a heap on the sidewalk. Pulling off the helmet, you took a deep breath of air that didn’t taste of adrenaline and terror.

Yuji was already off the bike. “See?” he said, beaming again. “Told you I’d get you here in one piece. And we’re five minutes early!”

You stared at him. At his bright, innocent, impossibly punchable face. At the friend you loved more than almost any other. At the beautiful bastard who was, without a shadow of a doubt, going to be the death of you, literally and probably before you turned thirty.

With great effort, you raised one trembling hand and jabbed a finger at his chest.

“One day,” you said shakily. “I’m going to kill you. And they’re never going to find all the pieces.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed, slinging one arm over your shoulder and pulling you against his side. “I love you, too.” Then, not waiting for you to formulate an appropriately scathing response, he leaned down and dropped a smacking kiss on your forehead. “Come on, Bumble-sensei. Let’s get moving before Bara actually comes down here swinging.”

And that was the paradox of Itadori Yuji: he was sunshine weaponized, hope given human form, the kind of person who made you believe that maybe the world wasn’t completely fucked after all. He’d die for you without hesitation, and more than that, he’d live for you, too. No force on earth could stop him from showing up at your door with that stupid grin and dragging you into even more stupid adventures.

You supposed there were worse ways to live. Safer ways, certainly. Saner ways, absolutely. But none of them would have been half as interesting. And none of them would have been with your best friend.