#gojotm

“Such a dangerous technique… think you can handle using it on something worth it? Like giving me a piece of that ass?” // leaves & never comes back.

      ❛ ... you took one look at me and assumed i would be the receiver ? i must say, you truly are as brave as you are delusional. ❞ can barely reach me, let alone my ass.

❝ Do you still hear it? ❞

The applause of Riko Amanai's death wasn't something Geto would forget. He'd hear it sometimes, during the quiet hours of the day when he was alone. Especially when he was alone.

It never arrived clearly, each beat folding into the next & the next & the next & the next in the back of his head, neither distant or close.

FINGERS BRUSHED AGAINST wet cheeks. Utahime doesn't remember the last time she genuinely cried due to terrible, gut wrenching pain that took over. Some bullshit mission gone wrong.

Misinformation involving the grade of a curse who couldn't be brought down as easily as she had hoped. It happened too fast. She could recall the repulsive crunch just behind her, the way bone had snapped, flesh had stretched in a way that was too... unnatural for a human being.

The smell of blood always made her nauseous, she nearly threw up the second she inhaled the scent of her own; metallic, sickly sweet. Her body was aching, the agony spread throughout her body like a wildfire.

Still, she was stubborn, always had been, always will be. So when Gojo decided to take care of her, she spent just as much time arguing against him than allowing him to work on the deep wound that exposed more than needed.

"You didn't have to help, I could've just—" the wince that escapes her lips is one that follows with her body tensing, a small hiss through her teeth as she tries to pull away and swat his hand akin to a cat that didn't want to be touched anymore.

"—I could've dealt with this myself..." Yeah. Okay.