#liawritesstuff

“You’re here early,” you murmur without looking up.

“You’re here alone,” he replies, and you hear the smile in his voice.

“What if I had been someone else?”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Then I’d have asked them not to step on my seedlings.”

His laugh is low, melodic—and far too close.

“You’d scold a prince over a few blades of grass, sweet healer?”

“I’d scold a god, if he crushed something I’ve grown.”

“I’ll tread carefully, then,” he says, voice softer now. His silence is brief, but heavy—something unreadable flickers behind that playful mask.

With a serious look in his eyes, he stares as though memorising every blemish and pore that he could undoubtedly see in your imperfect, mortal face.

You turn away, wishing you’d left all your hair down to hide behind, instead of letting Shoko braid half of it up in a hair crown that was customary of the elves in Rivendell. As your assistant healer and close friend, she’d done everything she could to make you feel like you fit in.

With hands clasped behind his back, Gojo turns on his heels, heading towards a bush a few steps away.

“These are new,” he bends over to touch the small blue petals that flutter in the wind. “What are they?”

Of course, he already knew. After having lived for over 2500 years, there was hardly anything he didn’t know. He just liked to hear your voice. He'd never admit it, though.

You take a break from tending to the soil and sit back on your heels.

“Blue chicory. Your father had it brought in per my request.”

His father, the King of Rivendell, was a responsible man, unlike his son, the heir to the throne. As the new healer in the palace, it was your responsibility to make sure that all necessary herbs were stocked up, in case any noble elf were to be harmed in battle.

“What does it do?” Gojo’s unsettling, blue eyes capture yours.

​“You already know,” you huff, raising a brow.

A grin plays on his plump lips, ”Humour me”

You roll your eyes despite how your heart flutters at his tone and resume tending to the roots.

Sunlight reflects off of Gojo’s regal, silver robes as he moves to kneel beside you, brushing his sleeve against your arm, eyes lowered to your hands instead of the flowers. He’s close enough for you to smell him. His clean scent of crushed crystal and white cedar cuts through the earthy atmosphere. He catches you staring at him through his long, snow-white lashes, and you feel heat creep up your neck in embarrassment.

The air hums, fragile and bright.

The attention you were getting from the Prince of the West confused you.

As one of the strongest elves to have ever walked Middle-earth, with impeccable light manipulation and spatial control, Gojo could have any soul beneath the stars, and the world would have called it an honour. And if the night air carried whispers true, he’d rarely spent one alone.

He had spent the past few weeks of your initiation as the head healer tailing you, cornering you when you were researching new healing techniques in the ancient royal library, or bothering you as you mixed potions and elixirs in the labs.

It seemed to you that he found your human mannerisms interesting and amusing.

Surely that's why he stuck around you.

You knew elves: they were arrogant and elitist, mostly opting to live in kingdoms far from any other species. Most of them had hardly interacted with a human.

It was a shock to them all when the King appointed you as the head healer. It was even more of a shock to them when they found out that it was due to your exceptional healing skills in a war that the elves had fought alongside mankind against the forces attempting to overthrow them. A human? As an elvish healer? It was unheard of.

You fight the urge to hide your hands in your sleeves under his scrutinising gaze. His slender fingers trail over your wrist and linger on the faint scars you procured at your many previous demanding healing jobs. Once again, you’re reminded of your imperfections. Defects that he could never have.

Your breath stills. The light obeys him—bends, softens, hides. He could raze mountains if he wished, but he’d rather spend his mornings in your gardens counting dew on the leaves. That had to mean something, right?

“You shouldn’t be out here alone. You're defenceless." He lifts one of your arms,” Look at you. You couldn’t hurt a fly.” A laugh, like the clear ringing of a windchime, tumbles from his lips. Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Come. I'll walk you to the breakfast hall.”

He stands up in one swift movement and stretches out a hand, which you take. He strides off gracefully, silver robes billowing out around him, long white hair cascading down his shoulders. “They say mortals tire easily. Shall I walk slower?” he calls out over his shoulder.

You follow him towards the warm aroma of honeyed bread and the soft chatter of waking elves.

​

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

​

Lanterns are dotted along the river like captured starlight. The soft lilt of harps and flutes drifts through the air.

You move quietly along the terraces, fingers brushing the silver leaves. Content with viewing the celebration from a distance, you scan the crowd of elves celebrating the Festival of Starlight for Shoko.

Then you see him.

Clothed in moonlight, Gojo, radiant even among elves, laughs at something one of the Ladies of the Court whispers to him.

He holds a crystal goblet, its contents, a pale gold liquid that casts shimmering rainbows across the sharp planes of his face.

The Lady of the Court’s hand touches his arm, and he leans in, smiling with that effortless charm that always makes your breath stutter.  Your stomach drops a little—and you remind yourself firmly: he’s a Lord, a creature of beauty and light, not someone who would ever consider you.

It infuriates you how, even now in the night, light still gravitates to him. He looks…breathtaking. Light weaves itself through the pale strands of his waist-length hair. It slips between his fingers as he brushes a few stray strands from his face. It glints off the silver circlet sitting across his forehead.

He turns to you and catches your gaze from across the room. The mischievous spark in his eyes makes your chest tighten.

He smiles, full of charm but small and knowing, and you quickly look away, suddenly finding the crystalline flute filled with elderflower wine in your hands very interesting. You decide that it’s probably best for you to retire for the night.

It’s nothing, you persuade yourself, he's just being polite, is all. After all, we are… what? Friends?

Was it too much to consider yourself friends with a prince? Does he consider you to be his friend? Surely not.

Maybe he thinks you are cordial acquaintances at most. That's probably it. 

And even as you repeat it, you can't help the small tug of curiosity, the slim glimmer of hope that lingers when the starlight hits his face just right.

You find Shoko and all but cling to her side in relief. She politely excuses herself from the conversation she was having with two male servant elves and hooks her arm through yours. After following your line of sight, she glances back down at you, her expression disapproving,” You’re staring again.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re sighing while you do it, though.”

You feign indifference, "I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure. And you just happen to observe only one man in the entire realm.”

“He’s …conspicuous.”

“He’s Gojo”, she responds dryly.

You roll your eyes, but your heart still hasn’t slowed since he looked your way.

You huff in frustration. “Whatever.”

Shoko’s lips twitch. “Mortals. Always observing, always sighing. You’d think you were carrying the weight of the Arda on your shoulders.”

“Maybe I am,” you mutter.

“Then at least do it with better posture,” she says, brushing a fire moth from your shoulder. “Honestly, you’ll give the healers work before the night is done.”

You can’t tell if she’s joking, but the corner of her mouth is betraying her. She starts to move.

​You nod, absentmindedly, falling into step beside her.

The night hums softly—harp strings, laughter, the scent of summer wine—and for a while, you let her easy stride carry you out of your thoughts. Shoko unwinds her arm from yours and pulls out a pipe, handing you a box of matches for you to light it for her.

“Really? Here?” you question. All around you, elves shoot you disapproving looks. She gives you an expectant look, and you light the pipe for her with a roll of your eyes.

She takes a deep inhale and closes her eyes, ignoring the looks of reproach she gets from the elves around her. She smokes as an act of quiet defiance.

“Elfdom is overrated. A little hobbit vice never killed anyone.”

“Don’t let them hear that,” you jut your chin towards the crowd, “they’ll use it as an excuse to finally have you kicked out. You know they’ve been wanting to for a while.”

The two of you share a laugh. It was no secret that Shoko was ostracised and shunned by her fellow elves. Her unconventional habit of picking up foreign customs from her travels made her unpopular within the elvish community.

Not wanting to draw any more attention, you steer the two of you to the outskirts of the celebration and lean on a pillar hewn from pure white marble. Breathing a quiet sigh, you allow your head to loll to the side and rest on the pillar.

Shoko’s eyes crinkle in amusement as she watches you. You click your tongue.

“You're laughing at me,” you mutter, deadpan.

A smile ghosts over her lips but slowly fades away as a thought crosses her mind. “You know he’ll outlive you, right?”

You stare deeply into her eyes for a few seconds too long before looking away. Looking at him. “I know.” There's a long, pensive pause, “I just—I don’t know why he looks at me that way.”

You don't have to explain what you mean by that. Shoko already knows.

Shoko rubs her neck thoughtfully, “Mortals are rare, and interesting ones as beautiful as you, rarer still. He’s in love, maybe. Or he’s…fascinated? Who knows?”

Fascinated. Something in you recoiled at the word. Fascinated. Like you were an ancient artefact or a newly-formed invention. A quiet ache, sharp and insistent, claims the space where hope had lingered. You knew that Shoko was right; you just refused to acknowledge it until now. Gojo didn’t like you. He liked that you were human. Distinct. Other.

A sigh rushed through your lips, “You’re right.”

“Hey,” Shoko nudges you, “Don’t look so down. There’s always better.”

A smile plays at your lips, “You know that’s not true.”

You laugh wistfully, and Shoko gives you a pointed look. Then her vision shifts to something—or rather, someone—behind you. Swiftly, you spin around, and you’re met with a glimmering, breathtaking smile. His glimmering, breathtaking smile. You can't help but wince as your heart squeezes at the sight, not being able to return his grin. You're so fixated on him that you don’t notice Shoko slipping away.

Gojo’s expression flickers when he looks at you—really looks—as though the crowded festival falls away.

He moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you, and you both observe the fire moths that float gently around you in perfect silence. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, which makes it hard to focus on anything but him.

As you turn away to admire one of the floating lanterns, Gojo watches you—openly, for once.

He’s just keeping an eye on you.

That’s what he tells himself.

But when the lantern light catches your face, something in his chest twists in a way he absolutely refuses to examine at that moment.

He tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable glimmer in his eyes.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” He asks like he actually cares.

“I am, my Lord.”

A moment passes.

“Good.”

He looks away from you.

“I’m off on a diplomatic mission to Mirkwood. I should be back in about a week.”

The news shocks you. You whip your head round to him.

“What?” you question.

Your blood runs cold. Relations between Mirkwood and Rivendell were a lot less than friendly, which puts Gojo, as the heir to the throne, in grave danger.

“I hope your worry for me won’t keep you up at night for too long.”, he quips with a playful grin.

You shake your head. Gojo can’t stay serious for longer than half a minute.

Despite how your anxious heart thunders (which he can most definitely hear), you scoff, “You’re a big boy. You don’t need me worrying about you.”

He throws a couple of pale sugared grapes into his mouth and then offers you some, holding the vine to your lips. With your gaze fixed on his, you pluck one off with your teeth and chew it slowly.

“I’ll try not to start a war,” he jokes, softly, eyes still on you, “no promises, though.”

You purse your lips at this, “You'd better not, my Lord. That would be rather inconvenient.”

And with mirth in his eyes, he bows his head slowly, watching you until the very last second, in the customary way.

But it feels intimate. Intentional.

When he rises, his gaze drags over your face as though reacquainting himself with each small detail. This time, you don’t feel like hiding behind your hair and instead meet his gaze head-on. No words, no touching—just that lingering, deliberate moment before he turns away, silver robes catching the festival lights as he disappears into the crowd.

​

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

​

A week had passed since the festival—since the way his eyes lingered on you as though he were memorising something he had no right to. You hadn’t been to visit him since he arrived three days ago.

So when Shoko storms into your chambers as you ready yourself for bed, you know something bad has happened before she even speaks.  “Your prince is back,” she tells you.

“He’s not mine,” you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, whatever. He looks like absolute hell. And before you ask—no, he won’t let anyone touch him. Especially not me.” You frown at that. He'd been refusing treatment for three days?

Her eyes flash in amusement.

“So congratulations. You’re his one and only exception.”

Your stomach tightens.

Gojo never asks for anyone.

You follow her through the quiet upper walkways of the stronghold, the hum of elvish wards faint beneath your feet. The air grows cooler as you near his chambers—a subtle sign of the northern winds he had travelled through. Your heart thunders as you approach his doors, your nerves eating away at you.

You hate how he messes with your mind. Makes you feel special. How he invades our space, both physically and mentally. How he has you at his beck and call. How he gives you hope to cling to—that maybe, just maybe, you’d have a chance. A chance to be his, through and through. As absurd as it sounds.

Shoko stops at a carved door, hand hovering.

“He refused his healers,” she whispers.

Then, softer: “Be vigilant. Don’t let him manipulate you. You know what he’s like.”

Before you could ask anything, she slips away.

You push the door open.

Dim light spills across the room—not from lanterns, but from a cluster of faintly glowing stones set around a basin. The scent of crushed herbs hung thick in the air.

And Gojo—

Gojo sits on the edge of the low bed, tunic half undone, blood dried along his ribs in a pattern that makes your throat tighten.

He looks up the moment he senses you.

Relief flashes across his face first.

Then something warmer.

Almost… pleasure.

“Finally.” His voice is rougher than usual, low around the edges. “I was starting to think they’d send everyone else in the world before they’d let you in.”

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but the corner of his mouth curved, smug and soft all at once.

He shifts, the motion tight with pain.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

“I want your hands on me.”

A moment passes. You don’t dare move. It feels like a trap.

Then, after a faint, breathy laugh:

“For medical reasons, obviously.”

You cross the room slowly, refusing to be rushed by the way his eyes track your every step. When you reach him, he tilts his head in that lazy, knowing way—the one that tells you he’s doing better than he looks. When you reach for the basin, he stops you with a quiet:

“Not that one. The silver bowl.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. The silver bowl contains stronger medicine—the kind used for wounds touched by hostile magic. Surely his wounds can’t be that bad.

You bring it over and kneel in front of him. Only then do you notice the faint shimmer, the green tint, around the cut along his rib. Unnatural, like the afterglow of a spell.

Your eyes narrow as you touch the edge of the injury lightly with your fingertips.

He sucks in a breath, sharp through his teeth, though he tries to mask it with a smirk.

“Didn’t think you’d—ah—start there.”

You shoot him a warning glance.

He raises both hands in surrender.

“Sorry. Proceed, healer.”

Your fingertips press a little harder than necessary.

He hisses. You don’t apologise.

Without looking up at him, you dip your cloth into the bowl and ask, “What happened, Gojo?”

He exhales, gaze lifting to the ceiling as though choosing what version of the truth to give you. When he speaks, his tone is too light to be honest.

“Diplomacy,” he says, “can be… lively.” You give him a pointed look. He sighs—defeated, amused, and strangely unguarded.

“The envoys from the northern clan weren’t pleased. The humans in their borderlands have been pushing too far into their forests. There were accusations. Tension.”

There's a pause as you wait for more of an explanation and as he debates on what to say next.

“And someone mentioned you.”

Your hand stills.

“Me?”

He nods, jaw tight.

“Your name came up. And not kindly.” There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. Something older. Sharper.  

“They said a mortal walking freely among elves was an insult to us all,” he says quietly. “That it was… indulgent.” Another pause.

“That I was indulgent.”

Your breath stills. There would be rumours. Ruthless ones. This could destroy your career. You look at him, but he looks away, as though the memory irritates him.

“One of them spat your title at me. Your title. I couldn't believe it,” he grunts out, his passion causing him to jostle painfully, “as though the idea of having a human healer at my side was unimaginable.”

Your heart almost stops. There it is. You can feel it. That flicker of hope blooming warmly in your chest. You smother it quickly.

“That doesn’t explain the wound, Gojo.” His eyes return to yours, piercing and intense.

“I moved before I could think,” he admits. “The magic meant for him caught me instead.”

He shrugs, wincing at the movement.

“It wasn’t supposed to touch flesh. It was meant to brand. Mark. Warn.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, then dip the cloth again, gentler this time. He watches your hands as though they’re the only thing anchoring him to the present. When you press the heated herbs to his skin, he inhales sharply—but not from pain.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, “You’re a prince. One rash decision from you can kill thousands.”

He scoffs softly. “I couldn’t let them do that to you.”

Your pulse kicks hard at his tone, and you know he can hear every beat of it due to his amplified hearing. You look at the wound just to avoid looking at him. But Gojo leans forward, closing the distance until you can feel the brush of his breath against your cheek.

“I would do it again,” he murmurs. “Even knowing it would hurt. Even knowing you’d scold me for it.”

You swallow. Sorrow claws at your throat, stopping you from being able to respond. The words he uses, the way he speaks—it’s not fair. You're almost certain that your words don’t have the same effect on him as his have on you. He continues, voice almost a whisper:

“You think I’d let someone speak your name with mind harm? You think I’m that indifferent?”

Your hands shake as you fold a fresh cloth. Your nerves are getting to you. He catches your wrist to make you look at him. His voice lowers, softer than you’ve ever heard it:

“I asked for you because… I didn’t want anyone else touching this.”

His gaze drifts to the wound, then back to your face.

“Or me.”

There’s a long silence.

He laughs. It’s a faint, breathless sound.

“And besides,” he says, “the other healers would’ve nagged.”

He knows what he’s doing.

He knows the effect his words have on you.

He can hear how your breath stutters, how your pulse kicks. He can see how you avoid eye contact.

Knowing that you want him as much as he wants you, he looks down at you, still kneeling in front of him, and moves his hand towards you.

His fingers trace the back of your neck, sliding into your hair. “You smell of athelas and sunlight,” he whispers. “Do you know what that does to an elf?”

He tilts your head back and presses his sharp nose to your throat. He takes a deep inhale, and he lets out a low groan, unashamedly. Your heartbeat quickens at the sound, and you feel warmth start to pool at your core.

His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick a long stripe from the base of your neck to your jaw. Taking in a shaky breath, your hands come to rest on his shoulders, and you bite down a moan.  His nose nuzzles its way up your cheek until his lips hover over your own. He exhales, cool breath coaxing your lips apart. His lips linger over yours for an agonising minute. And then he kisses you.

​His lips move languidly, slow, as though relishing the taste of you. Gojo pulls you upwards with a firm hand on your hip onto his lap to straddle him. His hand in your hair yanks your head closer to his, making sure you're not breathing anything that isn’t him.

His lips taste so good that it hurts your heart. You want him so badly that your breathing becomes strained.

“Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this,” he mumbles against your lips.

Hope warms your heart. Maybe he's wanted you as long as you've wanted him?

Hungry lips devour you. Teeth nibble at your lips, your tongue. “You're loving this, aren’t you? I can tell,” he sighs into your open mouth.

You stifle a moan.

Gojo's tongue swirls around your mouth, nudging in every nook and cranny. You feel a tingle in your mouth—on your tongue and gums. Slowly, it spreads, and you start to feel it on your lips.

As a certified elf healer, you’d studied this phenomenon, but had inconveniently forgotten all about it until now. You've gotten yourself into deep shit.

Male elves release pheromones in their saliva during intercourse when they’re in love.

And Gojo’s most certainly releasing them now.

He pulls his head back and unlatches his lips from yours with a smack! His shining, blue eyes follow the glistening string of saliva that falls from his mouth and trails down your chin.

He locks eyes with you, and you both stare at each other for a moment, desperately trying to catch your breath.

Then his eyes start to trail down your body, slowly, taking in your attire as though he’s just realised that you’re almost naked.  

You’re in a translucent nightgown made of elvish gossamer silk with a matching robe in the same fabric—night wear befitting a noble elf. Gojo’s had more than his fair share of conquests, and so this is most definitely not his first time seeing a woman in their nightgown.

But it is the first time he’s ever felt to stop and stare.

It looks different on your human body.

He likes the way the fabric clings to your curvier body and softer flesh, as though it were wet. He likes the way he can see your breasts hanging heavy and your plush thighs pressing together.

His eyes fix on your nipples that pebble through the thin layer of fabric.

A breathy sigh makes its way out of your mouth as he moves his lips down your body. They’re hot and soft.

Not breaking eye contact with you, he wets your nipple with his tongue through the fabric and skims across it with his teeth. A sigh passes your lips as you arch your body forward, pushing his face into your chest.

You know you shouldn’t let this continue. You know that this is unlikely to develop into the relationship that you desperately want it to. You know that it is likely, however, that you could just be another name on Gojo’s long list of conquests.

Yet you can’t stop, because it just feels so right.

Getting impatient, you reach your hand from his shoulder and grab a fistful of his white hair close to his scalp, and tug painfully so that his head tips back to look at you. Gojo groans lustfully, basking in the pain, and your cunt clenches wetly at the sound.

Fuck. You can feel the effects of his pheromones settle in and cloud your mind. You can feel yourself slipping away. You shouldn’t let him use you like this.

But you can’t help it. It just feels so damn good.  

“Fucking kiss me again,” you pant. And he does just that.

You want more. Need more.

You can almost feel Gojo’s pheromones pumping away in your bloodstream, taking over each cell. Channelling all your thoughts, energy and attention onto one person. The delectable man right in front of you.

As he envelopes your lips with his, you desperately remove your nightrobe and hike up your nightdress—you need friction, and you need it now.

Chuckling at your desperation, he lifts you up into his arms and bucks his hips up into you, rabidly rocking it against your sloppy slit.

He’s hard. Massive and hard and throbbing and needy.

“You feel that?” he breathes into your mouth, “it's all for you.”

In response, you hungrily rock your hips back and forth, rubbing hard to get the right amount of pressure on your clit.  

“Go on. Just like that.” he breathes against your lips.

He quickly throws your dress over your shoulders to reveal your peaked nipples. You watch his eyes turn black, the sky blue rings of his irises growing thinner and thinner each second. He catches a nipple between his teeth, rolling a tongue over the tip of it through your dress.

“Mmmh! M-my Lord—”. You throw your head back and grab a fistful of his silky, milk-white strands. You'd dreamt more times than you could even count, of what it would feel like to touch his hair. Now that you know, you don't think you could ever let go.

“No. Say my name.”

“G-Gojo,” you manage to stutter out.

“That’s it.”

He sucks at your nipple and twists the other one with his fingers, eliciting moans from you that ring out through the still, night air. He hikes his thigh higher, causing your hips to stutter and stop their frantic bucking, and rips off your nightdress. Cold air blows across your already stiff nipples.

“Shit. I can smell you,” He licks his lips ravenously and shoots you a devilish grin, “ You taste as good as you smell?"

And before you can answer, he throws you onto his silk-covered bed. You desperately grasp onto the embroidered sheets under you in anticipation as you watch Gojo slip his arms out of his tunic.

Despite the wound on his rib, Gojo is still the epitome of strength and grace, his body looking like it was hewn from stone by the gods.

Your eyes greedily follow the white happy trail that leads down, down, down…

A grin plays across his swollen lips as he pushes your thighs apart, his perfect face lighting up at what he sees there.

“Heavens,” he murmurs, taking in your weeping slit and clenching hole, “You’re perfect.”

“Please…” you whisper hoarsely, not entirely sure what you’re pleading for.

At that, Gojo lowers himself to you and licks a long strip from your ass to your clit, slurping up your juices.

“My my, you’re nasty. So fucking wet for me,” he lets out an amused sound.

You can’t even make a noise as your eyes roll back and your hands find purchase on the white oak headboard behind you. And you almost choke on your own breath when you feel his long fingers push into you, two of them, then three, four, sloshing in and out of you, stretching open your ring of muscle.

“Oh,” you cry, your toes curling, “You’re fingers—they’re so—oh fuck—big.” You clench around him as he shoves deeper into you like a glove.

“Just my fingers have you crying like this, sweet healer?” He breathes from between your legs.

With that, he unplugs his finger and slides his breeches down. You gulp and take a glimpse at his hefty dick as it jumps up to hit the hard ridges of his abdomen.  Like the rest of him, it’s glorious—twitching and thick, with a bulging pink tip that leaks a thick, shimmering, pearlescent glob of cum.

He leans over you, tall and towering, lines himself with your entrance, and pushes in.

“Ah, f-fuck.” Gojo groans low, throwing his head back, giving you a view of his thick neck, as his Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his long hair frames his body beautifully. “You’re so fucking tight. Relax, healer. I can hardly move”

The stretch is already unreal, despite his thorough prep, and he’s only put the tip in. You already know you’re fucked.

He doesn’t wait for longer than a second before he slams in, balls deep, your labia flush against his snowy white base.

You both moan.

“Mnhh—Gojo!” Your hands fly to his firm biceps that grip your thighs as he pushes them impossibly wider and wider.

With your nails pressing little crescents into his skin, he pulls out and drives back in with one smooth thrust. He's in so deep that if you had no knowledge of human anatomy, you’d have been sure that he’d come out the other side.

He sets up a vigorous rhythm with ferocious pace.

In. Out.

“Ah, fuck, you’re practically choking me—mmh.”

Punishing strokes scrape at your walls, absolutely wrecking your cunt. Each roll of his hips coaxes more and more of your cream out of your dripping hole.

“Look at you,” he grunts out through gritted teeth, “those mortal men don’t give it to you good enough, do they?”

You can only reply with an unintelligible whimper, your eyes glazing over. Your pleasure is amplified by the pain of Gojo’s cock impaling you as you try to accommodate his sheer size.

The calm, silvery silence of the moonlit night is disrupted by the smacking of his balls on your sore ass and the squelching of your crying cunt. It sounds dirty. Disgusting. So, so pornographic.

“Oh—hah,” you let out a desperate, filthy noise,” I-I can’t. Fuck!”

Gojo repeatedly strikes that sensitive spot deep in your gushy walls, like he’s magnetically attracted to it, causing you to clench down hard around him.

A deep growl resonates from the vast expanse of his chest.

“Yes, you can. You can—hngh—take it. Make it worth my time,” he licks his lips, revealing a perfect set of pearly white teeth, glinting in the glowy moonlight.

He reaches down your body to flick at your swollen bud, circling it teasingly with the tips of his fingers.

“She’s so greedy. Look at how she’s slobbering all over me.” With heavy-lidded eyes, he looks down at your union, savouring the feel of your juices dripping down his heavy balls and your tight pussy suctioning him, before he leans down to press open-mouthed kisses all over your body.

The combination of his drilling thrusts, unforgiving fingers, and merciless mouth is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Hah-ngh. Fuck.” he exhales into your neck, right next to your ear. You're blinded by the blanket of hair that falls over your face as he nuzzles himself into you, and you inhale his deeply intoxicating scent.

You’re plastered together, sticky skin slipping against each other. Your chest heaves, and your nipples rub against Gojo.

Every thrust sends you further and further up the bed; your back rubbed raw by the friction.

And you're close. So close—

“I'm gonna cummmm! Gojo,” you whine.”Stop! I can’tttt.MMh-nghh!”

Your cunt relentlessly convulses and quivers as milky white cum rings coat his cock.

“Yesss, that’s it. Holy shit, you’re so fucking tight.” Gojo’s breaths grow heavier as he reaches his climax, carelessly using your body to reach it, “Fucking milk me. Just like that.”

He ruts into you, his rhythm sloppy. He feels like he’s losing his mind, buried deep in your pussy. He can’t even pull out in time before he spurts out thick ropes of iridescent cum directly into your womb.

Loud squelches fill the huge room as his seed overflows out of you. He cums for longer than you’ve ever experienced a man to. You feel it splotching and coating your walls, thoroughly filling you up.

And when he’s done, he slumps on top of you for a moment, his forehead touching yours as both of your breaths slow to a normal rate.

And then he speaks. Not playful. Not in his usual flirty, oh-so-Gojo tone.

He just says, “You should rest,” not distant or dismissive. Just honest. And careful.

The intensity fades first.

Not all at once—just bit by bit. Enough for the pheromones to wear off. Enough for you to be aware of yourself again. Of the quiet around you. Of where you are. Of the fact that Rivendell hasn’t stopped breathing just because something irreversible has happened between you and its prince.

Gojo just lies there.

You just lie there. Your head is on his chest.

You count each beat of his heart until you lose count.

Doubt starts to seep in like water creeping its way through cracks in a dam.

You don’t panic. Or feel regretful. You just think in silence. Start to catalogue the events clinically, as a healer would. What he said. And what he didn’t.

He was present. Attentive and engaging.

But he didn't promise anything.

You sigh as heartbreak starts to settle in, and your thoughts begin to spiral.

Was what happened desire… or distraction?

Does it mean anything to him?

You try to be realistic.

He's ancient. He flirts easily—you’ve seen it.

But then your mind drifts to how he looked at you, almost in awe at what he saw, and the ache comes back.

Your chest feels heavy as you breaths slow, tuning soft and heavy.

Gojo adjusts the spider silk covers over your sleeping form without waking you. He doesn’t move, even when the room goes quiet.

Every battle Gojo walks into is one where he might not return.

And even if he did, your life would still be measured in decades while his stretches on, merciless and unchanging.

For once, he fully lets his guard down—no shield, no reputation to maintain. He's not a prince anymore. In this moment, he just has you.

He commits this moment to memory—knowing fully that it cannot happen again.

a/n: thanks for reading! likes/reblogs appreciated ♡

Rain slicks your hair to your skin, seeps through your cardigan, cold and sharp—but the chill isn’t what makes your skin prickle. It’s the way the coast feels alert. Like it’s listening to something.

A dark shape near the shoreline catches your eye.

You squint through the torrential downpour, trying to make it out. 

At first, you think it's a bit of debris—maybe kelp, or a small bit of driftwood. But it doesn't move when the water pulls back. Instead, the fish lies there, half-buried in sand, black and slack, gills flared like it's struggling for breath.

Then the tide pulls back. Quick and sudden. Like something has called it back.

Another fish appears.

And another.

And another.

Hundreds of them wash ashore. Each one flails and flaps, their mouths opening and shutting, choking on air, desperate to hang on to their lives.

It's tragic.

And deeply unsettling.

The smell comes moments later.

Cloying, almost viscous air slithers into your lungs, thick with salt and something much fouler beneath it. Bitter. Sharp. It makes your eyes water— and the jade talisman around your neck warm. The smell is the scent of death. Decay.

Your breathing slows. Controlled, dangerous.

Static prickles at your fingertips, cursed energy spiking and readying itself for action. 

You flex your frozen fingers, expecting the sensation to fade.

 It doesn't. 

Warmth gathers in your palms, familiar and dangerous.

You force it down. Shove it deep into the murky recesses of your mind, and slam the lid shut. Acting without certainty has never ended well for you. So, you won't start now.

Steeling yourself against the freezing rain, you turn swiftly on your heels and move towards the village–towards your home. You’d rather not stay out here and watch the fish die.  And the smell is overwhelming.

Since you arrived in this village, you've felt more out of control than you have for a very long time. You feel like you’re spiraling. Like every time you reach for a handhold of rock to steady yourself as you climb, it crumbles into sand in your hands.

The rain worsens with every step, water collecting faster than the ground can drink it in. You don’t hurry, but you don’t linger either. By the time you reach the narrow trail that leads home, the stream beside it has already begun to spill over its banks, flooding the trail and blocking your way. There's no way for you to get home.

Your cardigan, now heavy with the weight of water, hangs off your limp frame. Makeup streams down your face in rivulets. Your talisman warms again on your chest as you sit on a tree stump in the long grass, a few feet from the trail.

Heaving a burdened sigh, you allow your head to fall back, and you look at the sky, now gloomy and dark.

It’s been a long, long day, you think.

It never occurred to you that your night could be even longer.

​

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

​

When the rain started, Toji was still at the docks. 

He looked at the sky with a huff, zipped up his large waterproof jacket, and set off on his journey home. He needed to get to the path before the flooding set in. With his bag in tow, filled with fish caught hours ago and spare clothes, he hurriedly made his way down the dark, twisted path that led from the docks to the village centre.

He had noticed the abrupt way the rain had started—no warning or build-up. How quickly it had come out of nowhere. Heavy rain usually gives you time to prepare.

Toji’s muscles tighten and coil under the nylon fabric of his jacket. His pace slows ever so slightly. His breath steadied automatically, like his body was ready for something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.

The path winds through knee-high grass, reeds slapping at his shins and rushes slithering up his ankles. Tall, golden-yellow ginkgo trees stretch their limbs out towards him, snagging at his clothes.  As he sidesteps one particularly protruding branch, he makes a note to trim the branches. He wouldn’t want it to hurt any of the villagers.

Annoyingly, his thoughts circle you, the girl from earlier: the way you stood there, at the shrine, instead of running. Like you were waiting for something to make the first move, despite being in a trance.

And as he turns a sharp corner on the path, like his thoughts summoned you, you appear, in all your ragged, soggy glory. He approaches, purposefully shuffling loudly to catch your attention, so as not to startle you.

With your arms tightly wrapped around your shivering body, you look up, your eyes shining with hope in the dying light. Your eyes stay glued to him, like he’s a shoreline after miles of open water, as he walks closer to you.

 Relief floods every cell in your body. You grimace at the overdramatic mental image you had crafted of your grandmother finding your dead body when the floods died down, after you had passed away from hypothermia from being out in the cold for too long.

You’ve never been more thankful to see anyone in your life. 

But, of course, you’d rather die than show him how pleased you are to see him.

“The path’s flooded,” you say, raising your voice so that it can be heard over the rain. You wipe rainwater from your eyes and look up at him.

He looks past you, eyes tracking the waterline, watching the way it creeps higher each second.

“Yeah,” he grunts, "I can see that.”

“I tried to cross,” you say, unnecessary explanation tumbling out before you can stop it. “It wasn’t like this a few minutes ago.”

With his eyes still on the water, “It always is after rain like this.”

Then his eyes finally land on you. Even in the dim light, you can see them–a jade green that mirrors the colour of your talisman amulet. 

His gaze settles with silent calculation, steady and layered. Deep, dark, and piercing. You hold his gaze for a moment, as though daring him to look away. He doesn’t.

“You’ve been sitting here for a while,” his deep voice rumbles from his chest. He doesn’t say it like a question. It's more of an observation.

“Yes, I have.”

A few more seconds of studying your face. Then, “You’re not getting home tonight.”

You move your wet hair, which is plastered against the side of your face.

“What—are you planning to kill me now?”, you joke, deadpan, through chattering teeth. The cold is getting to you now.

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

He turns away, his bag swinging from his shoulder, and starts to walk away.

“Come,” he throws over his shoulder, “before it gets even worse.”

Hesitantly, you stand. Your joints groan from your muscles tightening due to the cold. You follow him, tentatively.

“Where are we going?”

No answer.

“Hey,” you grab his forearm to get his attention, "I asked you a question.”

Toji stops moving and slightly shifts so half his body faces you. His gaze drops to your hand wrapped around his forearm.

“Let go of me.” There's a sharp finality in his voice.

You pause, and your arm falls away as he turns his body and resumes walking.

As you trail him, a frown works its way onto your face at his reaction to your touch. He seemed almost insulted by it. You don’t think you overstepped. He didn’t seem to have a problem with touching you yesterday when he caught you at the shrine. What changed?

“This way,” he says as you catch up to him.

“—Right.”

You tuck your hands in your armpits for some warmth.

The rest of the walk is spent in rigid silence, the loud drumming of rain and the sloshing of your footsteps filling the quiet between you.

As you walk, you realise the unfamiliar terrain around you. The path you're taking leads upwards into the mountains. Here, the undergrowth is wild: gnarled shrubs and branches packed into dense walls of greenery that frame the foreign path. You look down, behind you, and recognise the lights from houses in the village.

You’re not moving towards the village. You’re moving away from it.

One, two, three…

Forcing yourself to relax your tense shoulders, you count your steps to give you something to focus on. A dark, man-made shape looms in the distance ahead. You swallow down a lump forming in your throat.

Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six…

You readjust your cardigan, which is sticking to your skin and match your steps to Toji’s a touch too precisely.

Large eroded stone figures emerge from the cloak of rain, causing you to squint to make them out. Your eyes follow the most-softened carvings on the base of the figures. Protective boundaries, you observe. You’re near sacred land.

One hundred and eight. One hundred and nine…

A chill sets in, creeping along your skin and settling deep within your bones. Every move you make feels mechanical, like you’re operating on autopilot.

The dark shape turns out to be some sort of storehouse built of stone and dark wood. You’re close enough to the village to taste the salt in the air but far away enough to avoid any casual strollers coming your way.

If Toji really did decide to kill you, as you joked earlier on, then this would be the perfect place to do so.

You roll your eyes at the thought. You’ve let your imagination run too wild.

A jingle of keys and the click of a rusty lock drag your attention from your thoughts.

Toji pushes the heavy door of the storehouse with one arm and steps in without a glance back at you. The creak of the door’s unused hinges rings out across the countryside. He pauses inside just long enough for you to know that he expects you to follow him.

For a fraction of a second, you hesitate. Your focus sharpens. Involuntarily, your thoughts quieten entirely, allowing you to feel any disruptions in your curated atmosphere of mental silence.

You feel nothing. No cursed energy signatures. No warmth or disturbance. The quiet holds.

Your focus falters.

“You done?”

Toji’s watching you from inside the building.

“If you’re waiting for something, it’s not coming,” he assesses your soggy, shaking form for a second, then pushes further into the storehouse.

He busies himself by checking the space. For what? You’re not sure. You only go inside when he gestures for you to follow once he's satisfied with his evaluation of the place.

It's a sparse, utilitarian space. The floor is dark stone, and both of your footsteps echo off it. Wooden beams arch above your head, providing support to the structure. The air inside is musty, filled with the smell of salt, damp wood and old rope. With stacks of nets and fishing supplies in the corners of the room, it's obvious that this place is meant for storage and occasional shelter. It's not the most comfortable, but with you being on the brink of freezing, it will most certainly do.

You flex your fingers in an attempt to work the stiffness out of them, a deep ache starting to set in. You stand awkwardly, to the side of the room, trying to fight off wave after wave of uncontrollable shivering. Your neck muscles throb, your legs cramp from exertion, and you're suddenly very aware of just how tired you are. But you try not to show it.

Needing to shift your focus from your exhaustion, your eyes land on Toji. His large frame fills the small building as he shrugs off his waterproof jacket and drops his heavy bag on the floor. Now in a dark green Aran jumper and some waterproof overalls, he rifles through his bag to find a key which he uses to unlock a small cupboard next to the door. He swiftly pulls out a kerosene lamp and a grey futon mattress.

He works deftly, moving with certainty, each action purposeful. Not a single word passes between you. He gives you no acknowledgement as he creates a comfortable space for both of you to spend the night. It's as if you’re not even there.

And as he moves, he keeps space between the two of you, like there's an invisible line he doesn't dare cross. His body is always slightly turned to you, never exposing his back, like he's wary of you.

You match this to his odd behaviour earlier, when you touched him.

What's his problem? You muse to yourself.

And just as you are about to be swept up in your thoughts again, a pile of fabric lands at your feet, unceremoniously thrown by the large brute of a man who’s on his knees, still rifling through his bag.

Again, no acknowledgement.

With a frown growing on your face, you bend and pick up the pile, weighing it in your hands with a confused expression on your face. You warily unfold each layer and realise that it's a bundle of clothes. Dry clothes.

At this, your mood brightens ever so slightly. You might have to deal with this man’s foul mood, but at least you won’t have to do it wet and cold.

You look down at your own attire, and your cheeks warm slightly in embarrassment. He was obviously prepared for such weather, and you were not. You quickly fish into your back pocket for your phone, hurriedly pressing the power button, hoping that it turns on. It doesn't, likely water-damaged. You chuck the useless thing on the floor.

The clothes in your hands are clearly his—heavy, slightly worn and frayed, and absolutely massive.

You hold the heap in your hands, rubbing your fingers over the soft, fluffy fabric, not knowing quite what to do next.

He'd given them to you, but you’re half expecting him to snatch them right back due to his unpredictable mood swings.

You quickly glance as he moves to the other side of the room to make sure that you can safely change without him seeing you naked, before peeling your cardigan and jeans off, towelling yourself down and replacing them with Toji’s jumper and trousers.

The fit of his clothes is awkward, both the sleeves and the trouser legs needing to be rolled several times for your hands and feet to show through. The neckline of the jumper hangs loosely off your shoulders, and the trousers constantly slip down. They're comfortable, though. And much warmer than your previous clothes.

And they smell of him—of salt and rain and musk.

He still hasn't looked your way.

It's obvious he's avoiding any sort of outright interaction between the two of you.

You shrug it off. Fine by me.

You're still awkwardly standing on the same side of the room when he holds up the oil lantern, its flickering light dancing over the handsome planes of his face, and tips his chin to the spot opposite him. He gives you a brief assessing glance before looking away.

That look he keeps giving you puzzles you. It's as though he's not only looking at you, but through you. As though he's reading you fully, taking note of your experiences and weaknesses, trying to figure you out. It's a calculating look. One of suspicion. Maybe he doesn’t trust you. But that doesn't matter.

It's not like you need him to trust you.

It's as you sit yourself down that you realise he's just offered the only futon there is, opting to settle on some layered cloth instead. That he'd rather rest in discomfort than get close to you.

You slowly lower yourself down and tuck your legs underneath you, refusing to look anywhere even remotely near his direction. If there's one thing about you, it's that you can hold a mean grudge, and Toji’s behaviour was definitely grudge-worthy, even despite his random acts of kindness.

The rustling of paper and the pungent, but comforting scent of dried fish catches the attention of your very empty stomach, which starts to grumble in protest at being left empty the whole day. You futilely cross your arms over your abdomen in an attempt to mask the sound. Toji hears it anyway.

He sets down the dried fish, some misshapen rice balls and a canteen of water in the space between you, and you eye it like a starved animal.

Then he starts to eat.

His large, veined hand reaches for a rice ball and a bit of dried fish, and places them between his plush lips. You catch yourself before your eyes can follow the movement.

You probably shouldn’t eat his food. You’ve already relied on him enough. You're sitting in a storehouse that he's stocked up, for goodness’ sake. Already, you feel like an unnecessary burden on this very begrudging, unfriendly man. The less you owe him, the better.

Yet, your stomach continues to groan, alerting you that it wants to be fed, and it wants to be fed now.

Not being able to watch him a moment longer, you move to eat. The fish is tough, chewy and intensely salty, requiring effort to eat. The rice balls are plain, cold and slightly firm from the cold. But to you, they taste like the best meal you’ve had in some time.

You only notice your hands shaking as you move to pick up the canteen of water. The bottle clinks softly against the floor before you realise that you’ve lost your grip on it.

You steady your wrist with your other hand, your brow furrowing with irritation at its betrayal. You take a moment to rest before trying again. Still, your palms buzz faintly with cursed energy.

Still, you’re suppressing it.

You’ve been holding yourself together for too long.

Toji doesn't say anything.

After a sip of water, you stop eating and rest your hands in your lap. Only the sound of rain pounding on stone fills the quiet. Then he speaks.

“Told your grandmother you're staying here tonight.”

You hum in response, tension leaving your shoulders. It was stupid of you to have forgotten to keep your grandmother updated. She must be worried sick about you, the poor woman.

“Thanks,” you say, your eyes glued to the kerosene lamp, “for everything.”

Toji grunts in reply.

After briefly warming your fingers with the lamp, you lie down on the futon, bundling yourself up in some blankets, waiting for sleep to come.

The shivering fades first.

Then comes the ache — deep, insistent, as warmth returns too quickly to your hands.

Toji occupies the space like someone used to waiting through long nights without wasting them. He sits with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up, the other stretched out—his posture easy without ever going slack. His hands are occupied with knotting some line onto his fishing hooks.

The warmth of the futon seeps into your bones, and some time, between one breath and the next, your thoughts finally loosen their grip. You try to keep your eyes open, but eventually they force themselves shut.

​

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

​

Your neck aches when you shift, a dull reminder that you fell asleep somewhere you weren’t meant to.

The sheets smell unfamiliar—clean, but not yours. The blanket wrapped around you reaches up to just under your eyes, to preserve as much heat as possible.

You feel his presence before you notice him. It's large, noticeable and demanding; like a gaping hole in a shield or armour.

Toji sits close to the lantern, leaning against the wall, scraping away at a small piece of wood. He's carving something. Smooth and skilful, Toji chisels away, intricate designs forming under the point of his whittling knife. In this moment, he looks relaxed. Almost content. The most at peace you've ever seen him.

“What are you doing here?” It takes you a few moments to realise that Toji’s speaking to you. He pauses his carving and directs his attention towards you. He knows you’re awake.

“Sorry?”, you reply, puzzled.

“You're visiting your grandma, I get that. But why are you actually here?”

You peel your covers off you and sit up on your elbows, the futon cushioning your weight. Your eyes narrow slightly at the question.

“The main reason is for my grandmother. I thought she wasn’t doing too well. But it's not her, it's this place,” you answer in a clipped tone, “And I'm not entirely sure that it's much of your business, but if you must know, I'm a postgraduate researcher and folklore specialist at Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.”

“Researcher?” he scoffs, his thin brows arching and a smirk playing on his lips, “sounds like an excuse to do absolutely nothin’. Fuckin’ institutes.”

Silence stretches out thin and taut between you.

You don’t rise to his icy remark. Instead, you brush your hair from your face and pin him with a stony look.

He's hostile to you due to some odd aversion he has towards sorcerers, that much you know. You see his interactions with the villagers. It would be a lie to say he looked joyful, but he certainly liked them. And if the way he looks out for your grandmother is anything to go by, he does enjoy other people’s company. Just not yours.

You’re certain he can't stand you. And that's fine by you.

Toji resumes carving into the piece of wood in his hands. Light glints off the sharp blade of the whittling knife as he craftfully moves it.

“You’re not from here.” It's not a question. His mannerisms and his knowledge have already confirmed your suspicions. But you still have questions.

He doesn’t say anything. He just shrugs, a heavy, lazy movement of his broad shoulders.

You answered his question. It's only fair that he answers yours.

“That level of familiarity,” you speak up this time, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “doesn’t come from hearsay. So I’ll ask again—what are you?”

He waits a moment, as though deciding whether you’re worthy of the truth or not.

Then he smiles—slow and satisfied.

“You academics,” he says, amused. “Always desperate to put a name on things so they stop keeping you up at night.”

He leans back, legs sprawled wide, utterly at ease. He watches you through tired, lidded eyes.

You freeze as you watch him back. Once again, you're taken aback by how attractive he is. Heat rises up your neck from the way he looks at you, staring through the dark strands of hair that flop over his forehead.

“I’m whatever people needed me to be when they were afraid enough of something—or someone,” a pause, “If I give you the word, you’ll think you understand me.”

His grin sharpens. “And I'd hate to disappoint you that way.”

“It's a bit cocky to assume you’re too complex to understand, no?” you ask, dryly.

He exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh.

“No, I think you could understand me just fine,” he says, “Knowing me isn’t the problem. Being near me is.”

You mull those two last sentences over in your head. You can tell that he's being intentionally cryptic, and it's starting to irritate you.

You wonder what he means by ‘near’. Is he implying proximity alone is dangerous, or does he mean the people he holds close?

As a researcher, knowledge is paramount. And from what you can deduce, he's saying that no amount of study, analysis, or contextualising can help you. That understanding him will not give you leverage over him. 

His confidence in himself astounds you.

“I see.”

You really don’t.

You lean away from him and move to lie on the futon on your back, studying the dark, arched wooden beams on the ceiling. You’re becoming tired of trying to coax answers from him.

“Being near you is a problem? That sounds like a warning,” you mutter to no one in particular.

“It is.”

“You should work on how you deliver those.”

He hums in response.

“And you speak in abstractions too much. It’s confusing.”

Toji scratches at his jaw, “Use normal words.”

You roll your eyes, “You speak in riddles and concepts, not about real, tangible things.”

“Hm,” he hums again, “ Got any other suggestions on how I should speak?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p.

“Didn’t think so,” his gaze flicks away from you, already disengaging, “Don't like it? Stop askin’ questions you don't want answers to.”

You bristle.

“Go to sleep,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought. “You’re done thinkin’ for tonight.”

Your jaw tightens at that.

“Fine,” you grit out through clenched teeth.

Silence stretches, thick and deliberate, and you hate that it feels like his silence, not yours. Turning away first tastes like failure. You tell yourself it’s strategy instead—there’s nothing to be gained from a man who refuses to define his terms.

Knowing him isn’t the problem, he’d said.

Being near him is.

You close your eyes, irritated not by the mystery—but by the realisation that there isn’t a single question you could ask that he hasn’t already stepped around. 

You are not in control.

a/n: sorry it took forever, i've been so busy lately and i really struggle writing anything over 3k words lol. i hope you enjoyed it. i really want the growth of both reader and toji to feel realistic and durable, so things may feel slow between them for now. but as things progress, we'll be seeing them warming to each other. and yes, there will eventually be smut. anyways, thank you for your support!

​Breathing a tired sigh, you unlock your phone and check the time. You’d been sitting on the bus for five hours now, and you were dying to stretch your legs. You were sure a massive hump had formed on your back, which had become a gigantic hump due to how long you’d spent hunched over your research papers during the journey.

​You were happy to finally have a change of scenery from your usual lonely city apartment and the grey, dreary walls of your job. As the folklore specialist at Jujutsu High’s affiliated university division, you had decided to do some fieldwork for a thesis on coastal superstitions. Luckily, as your grandmother lives in a coastal village, you could use it as an excuse to check in on her. Recently, her health had started to decline, and her letters to you had taken a strange turn.

​It was her latest one, however, that let you know that something wasn’t quite right.

​I saw your mother last night. At the docks. I waved her over, but she didn’t stop to say hello. She’s always been strange, that one. Silly girl.

I hope you are in good health. The nights have been strange recently. Several of us have fallen ill. I hope I’m not next. I lit extra incense for protection. I will elaborate when you next visit.

​She said she’d seen your mother, which was odd, because she’d passed 15 years ago. And the letter had been wrinkled, stained with water, and dusted with sand. You were concerned when you first read it.

​You knew you had to visit her immediately. Her words no longer sounded like her—too polite, too measured. She sounded brittle in a way that made you uneasy.

​The bus rolled to a stop. You unbuckled yourself and stretched out your limbs, finally feeling relief. Rolling out the kinks in your neck, you made your way off the bus.

With your feet planted firmly on the cobblestone floor and your many bags in your arms, you sweep across the scene before you, in search of your grandma. Wind whistles through the bamboo blinds in the windows of the shops around you, and salty air scratches the back of your throat.

​You hear a warm voice call out to you excitedly, and you whip your head around. You’re met with your grandma, quickly approaching you with her arms wide open, ready to envelop you in a welcoming embrace. You drop your luggage and let her sweep you into her arms. She's significantly shorter than you, due to old age, but still manages to almost topple you over.

“How are you, my love?” Sachiko croaks, “It's been too long. You’re looking well.”

​You couldn’t say the same for her. Dark circles had formed around her eyes, and her wrinkled skin appeared paler and more leathery.

​“I’ve been fine, Grandma. Your letters worried me. You sounded…scared. Are you alright?”

​Something clouds your grandmother’s expression for the slightest moment before her face breaks out into a warm smile. “Scared? Oh, no!” she laughs softly, "I'm just old. Old people get dramatic, that’s all.”

​Your brows furrow in confusion, “Grandma, you said you saw Mom.”

​She swats your arm playfully, “I didn’t get much sleep the day I wrote that. Everything’s fine. Forget what I said in those letters.”

​Though unsure, you allow yourself to feel relief. Your grandma seems okay. Right?

​Your grandmother hooks her arm through yours, “Leave your luggage here. Toji will get it for us. He’s a strong lad.”

​“Strong lad? Grandma, my suitcases have wheels.”

​“And? Let the boy show off a little.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Who is he?”

“Ah, you’ll know him when you see him. He’s buff. Handsome,” she wiggles her grey brows at you.

​“Oh, quit your antics, Grandma.” You scoff.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

​The gulls always awake before the village does. Their shrill cries pierce through the murky morning fog as Toji coaxes his rusted boat from the wooden dock. Water laps against the hull. Salt clings to his skin, his hair, his lips, and stings his eyes. He allows himself to bask in the illusion of peace. It’s quiet today. Too quiet.

​His thoughts untangle from their usual snarled mess, and his breathing relaxes. He can finally feel—well, nothing. Out here, no one asks unnecessary questions, pries for answers they don't need. Out here, his thoughts quieten. Out here, it’s just him and the sea. The sea and him.

​A tug at the net in his hand catches his attention. His body reacts before his thoughts can register: a flick of his wrist, a pull, a twist. Each move follows swiftly after the other in an efficient, practised manner: They had become a series of reflex reactions. He hauls his catch in and slaps it on the deck. Yet another successful catch. He smiles to himself and readjusts his fishing overalls. He’d be making a killing today.

​As Toji manoeuvres his boat back towards the village, he gazes across the undulating blue-grey waves and inhales. Behind the smell of salt is something piercing, metallic, but Toji can’t quite figure out what it is. He brushes it off. It's probably nothing.

​The steady ebb and flow of the waves lulls him into a trance. After having retired from being a sorcerer killer about 3 years ago, this is what many mornings look like for Toji. Dreary, gloomy, cold, but fulfilling. No targets to kill, no nagging girlfriend, no responsibilities. Other than Megumi and Tsumiki, of course. But they’re hardly his responsibility—they are much better off without him.

​Toji is self-aware: he knows he’s lazy, negligent and emotionally unavailable, and he knows his gambling addiction makes him an unsuitable father, and it isn’t like they’re totally fending for themselves. Toji makes sure he sends enough money for their upkeep on the 3rd of each month. It’s the best he can do for them in his eyes.​

He can feel the fishy water leak out of the crate under his arm and trickle down the left leg of his overalls. He suppresses a sigh. The late-morning mist clings to the docks ahead of him, softening the edges of crooked boats tied against their ports.

The chatter of old voices cut through the persistent gull cries, half-arguments, half-laughter, as the fishermen gather in their usual huddle. Toji strides down the walkway and readjusts the monstrous fish on his right shoulder. Water drips from its slack jaw, and light dances off its pearlescent scales.

​“Whoa! What the fuck is that?” old man Washijo barked, pipe nearly falling from his lips.

Toji drops the crate and the beast onto the wooden planks of the table with a wet thud. “Dinner,” he says flatly, brushing his hands on his trousers.

The trio of old ladies gasp, clutching at their shawls.

“That’s not a fish, that’s a demon.”

“Dinner for who? The emperor?!”

“You trying to kill us, boy?”

​Toji smirks. “So, how’re we cooking this, ladies?”​

That sets them off. Arguments fly: salt grill, miso stew, fried cutlets. They shout over each other like sparrows squabbling for crumbs. As amusing as it is to him, Toji opens his mouth to break up the argument. One elderly woman, Hiyori, jabs a finger at him. “You hush, Toji, we’ll handle it!”

“Handle it? You can barely handle your dentures!” cackles Fumiko, setting the group into fits of laughter.

​Toji shakes his head, biting back a laugh of his own.

​Washijo stomps over, wagging his pipe like a weapon. “Listen here, brat, you keep showing off catches like this, you’ll put the rest of us out of business!”

“Sounds like a you problem”, Toji says, grin sharp.

“Cocky bastard,” the old man bellows with his voice cracking with laughter. He claps Toji on the back, “Drinks tonight with the boys. No excuses.”

“Nah. I don't want to. Booze’s wasted on me. Don’t do a damn thing. Just a waste of time,” Toji shrugs. Drinking had become second nature to him, so much so that it was nearly impossible for him to get drunk.

“Then all the more reason for you to join us! You can finish the alcohol that we can’t.”

​The old ladies circle him again, poking and prodding.

“Try these ginseng tonics, they'll keep your bones from rotting.”

“Oh, don’t listen to her, she’s been rotting for years!”

“Have you eaten today, Toji? These muscles need constant upkeep.” Hiyori hands him a basket, ”Here. Take these rice balls.”

Fumiko rolls her eyes. “Give it a rest, Hiyori. He’s fine. Stop fussing.”

Hiyori gasps. “Fine? Fine? He’s more than fine! Look at those arms. Your grandson couldn’t lift a fish like that if his life depended on it,” she wraps both her hands over Toji’s bicep longingly.

Sana snorts from the corner at Hiyori’s remark, her cane tapping on the concrete floor. “Her grandson couldn’t lift anything heavier than a teacup.”

​A little boy edges out from behind Hiyori’s skirts. “Toji, how’d you pull that in?”

Toji shrugged, “Same as I always do.”

He lifts the fish again, casually, as if it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. The boy gasps.

Hiyori gazes fondly up at him. “You’re just like one of my grandsons, only taller and less trouble.”

Fumiko snorts. “Less trouble? Don’t let him fool you. He’s trouble enough to start a war.”

Sana barks a laugh, waving her cane. “And I’d follow him into hell just to see that face during it. If I were 30 years younger…”

“If you were as pretty as you are now, 30 years ago, I’d have been in trouble.” Toji smirks. He raises his arms over his head in a stretch, knowing that the bottom of his t-shirt will ride up to reveal a sliver of skin.

That'll set ‘em off, he muses to himself, might as well give ‘em a show. The air erupts into giddy hoots of laughter as Sana’s paper-thin skin blooms into a deep red as she fans herself and mutters something about Toji being a shameless flirt.

He tells himself he stays for the fishing. The truth is, the old bats make the quiet less suffocating.

​“Where’s old Kenji?” Toji asks.

“He probably drank too much last night.” Fumiko replies, “You know him. You'll never catch him without a bottle glued to his lips, that old drunkard.”

“Yeah, I heard from his wife this morning that he’s a bit under the weather,” Sana chimes in.

Toji’s brow quirks ever so slightly. It was true that Kenji would regularly indulge in a drink, but he’d never miss the early morning fish-cleaning get-togethers.

He shrugs it off. He’s probably fine.​

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟​

Your grandma stops outside her gates, blinking at the pair of overturned wooden bowls on her veranda. Bowls filled with…salt? You supposed that she put those there to scare the spirits away. You shake your head. Sachiko and her superstitions.

“How odd…” she murmurs to herself, "I put those out this morning.”

Before you can ask why, someone speaks from behind you. “I’ve got the stuff.”

​You turn.

A tall man stands at the base of the steps, all gathered into one hand like it’s nothing more than a lunchbox. He's dressed simply in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows,  loose fishing trousers and boots—nothing substantial enough to fend off the frigid air. There’s an intimidating ease in the way he fills the space, despite being outdoors. Broad shoulders, scar at his lip, messy, windswept hair.

He looks at you with bored, heavy-lidded green eyes.

Your grandmother brightens.

“Oh, Toji! I was wondering where you’d wandered off to. Thank you, dear.”

He grunts in acknowledgement and lifts your luggage one-handed. “This yours?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You offer him a smile that he doesn’t return.

He starts to move up the stairs silently, despite his sheer size. “You’re the granddaughter.” He grunts gruffly. You nod because your brain decides words are no longer part of your skillset.

He steps past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of cigarette smoke and pine from his shirt. He grips your bags like they weigh nothing. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following him.

You follow him up the narrow hill path. The midday light catches in his spiky hair, momentarily blinding you. The sounds around you remind you of how calm and peaceful the environment is: cicadas chirp, laundry flaps in the wind, the distant shrine bell tolls.

You try to make small talk, but Toji doesn’t seem to be the type to talk much:

“So how long have you lived here?”

“Couple o’ years.”

And “ Is it odd? Not having anyone your age to talk to around here?”

“Nah.”

You think back to the weird conversation you had with your grandma about her cryptic letters. “This village feels… different.”

Toji pauses for a moment, but still doesn’t look back. “It’s ‘cause you’re not used to it.”

And after what felt like an eternity but was actually a minute, you reach the front door. Paper prayer strips decorating the porch flit in the wind.

​“Isn’t he so reliable?” your grandma beams, “He’s been helping me for the past couple of years. He’s been helping us all, really.” She fumbles for the keys in her fanny pack and hands them over to him.

He takes the keys in his free hand and unlocks the paper sliding door, nudging it open with his foot. “Wasn’t doin’ much.”

“Don’t be so modest,” your grandma bumps him with her hip as she walks through the door he’s holding. He stares at you expectantly for a second, waiting for you to walk through the door before motioning to you with his head. Murmuring a thanks, you scurry through.

He drops your bags at the door, shoots you one last wary look and then walks away without waiting for thanks.

You watch his bulky figure recede into the greenery with a frown on your face. What a miserable man, you think to yourself. You notice a sudden change in atmosphere—cicadas cut out mid-song, and the air feels denser, heavier, like it's about to rain. You look up. The sky’s clear.

“Oh, my love,” your grandmother starts, as though she can read your thoughts,” Don’t mind him. He’s  a bit…standoffish until you really get to know him.”

“I’m sure.” You reply sarcastically.

Your grandmother’s house hadn’t changed one bit since you had last visited. It was a traditional countryside cottage with slightly worn tatami mats on the floor and a low clay ceiling with exposed wooden beams. At the centre of the room is a low wooden table surrounded by floor cushions.

You take your shoes off, place them in the shoe cabinet next to the entrance, and head over to the table.

Directly in front of you is a large parchment scroll, covered in a landscape painting and calligraphy. Nostalgia hits you like a freight train: the scroll was painted by your mother two years before her death. You’d sat next to her for hours, mixing pigments with binder and ink for her, and watching in awe and wonder as the world she was creating came to life.

“Dearest. Let me brew some tea. Genmaicha’s still your favourite, yes?”

You nod with a smile growing on your face.

“Lucky for you, I roasted some yesterday.”

“Thanks, Grandma”, you move to pick up your luggage.

“No, leave it there for now. You must rest—I’m sure the journey was exhausting," your grandmother exclaims, fussing about, filling a porcelain teapot with water and turning on the stove.

When the tea’s finished brewing, your grandmother hobbles over with the pot in hand and takes a seat on the floor cushion across from you. You observe her as she pours. Her hands shake slightly, and she glances towards the windows once, twice, too many times to count. You can sense something’s wrong.

“Grandma,” you say softly, “Is everything okay?”

She lets out a sigh and places the pot down, “ It’s my friend Kenji. He’s been unwell all day. I should check on him. He said someone kept tapping on the window… but there was nothing.” She laughs it off, but you notice her trembling hands.

Your chest gently seizes at the mention of that name. Kenji. It wasn't one you particularly recognised, but it filled you with a sense of dread. Taking a sip of your genmaicha tea and savouring its taste, you shake off the peculiar feeling. It’s probably just travel fatigue.

“We can visit him tomorrow, if that’d make you feel better?” you suggest.

“Yes, it would. Thank you.” Your grandma’s warm smile returns.

A faint breeze blows in through an open window beside you, and you bask in the quiet of the mid-afternoon. Grandma’s house smells of burning incense from her mini shrine in the corner of the room and soft rush grass from the mats beneath you. Looking out the window, you hear distant waves crash against distant rocks, and faint village chatter filters in through the thoughtful silence.

You feel a prickle at the back of your neck. Like something’s watching. You turn away from the window.

How strange.

a/n: thanks so much for reading! I can't wait for this fic to progress. I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter :)

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It’s a calm day.

Too calm.

No wind, which is odd for a seaside village. No gulls—only silence. No smoke coming from chimneys. No one on a quiet afternoon walk.

It's…still.

You remember that there was once a woman who would feed the birds whatever she could spare from her stall. You look around to see that she’s nowhere to be found.

This place used to feel like it was bursting with life.

Vibrant. Energetic.

Now it feels like it’s barely breathing.

Fog winds its way between the stalls and shops, curling around your legs, dulling your senses. Noises feel faint or delayed. Visibility is low. You feel a tingling down your spine. Like something’s watching you.

Breathing down your neck.

You grip the basket in your hand as you make your way to a vegetable stall. The vendor, a wizened, weather-beaten old man, glances at you before quickly looking away. As though not wanting to be caught watching.

You recognise him as one of your Grandmother’s friends.

“Could I have some lotus root, please?” you ask after a warm greeting.

“Ah, yes”, he smiles kindly, but something clouds his eyes, “What’s your Grandma making today?”

He moves to pick the lotus root up from the table in front of him, as two elderly ladies in a hushed conversation join you at the stall. You smile at them, but they shoot nervous glances at you in return.

Your brows pull together. You’d been getting looks like that all day.

“Pork and lotus root soup,” you reply, “for Kenji.”

You notice the man’s hands tremble. The ladies’ conversation stops. One of them gasps quietly.

All of their eyes are on you.

“How is he?” you ask, trying to ignore their odd reaction.

All three answer at the same time.

“He’s resting.”

“He won’t be out today.”

“He was ill.”

Was?

A weighty silence follows.

One of the old women was the last to speak. You watch her through slightly narrowed eyes, confused. She watches you back. Her grey hair curls down into her face, which is mostly covered by a tartan scarf. Her stare is unnerving. She knows you’re not buying their excuses.

“Right,” you answer, your brows furrowed. You turn your attention to the rest, but they all avoid eye contact. The other old lady wrings her hands in discomfort.

What is going on?

Pulling your cardigan against your body, you thank the vendor and bid everyone goodbye, eyeing each of them cautiously.  As you turn to leave, one of the ladies, the one with the piercing stare, bursts out, as though she had been holding back for a long time.

“Just…be careful,” she pauses, fumbling over her words,” There’s something—”

The shrill shriek of a lone gull pierces through the eerie silence, drowning out the rest of her words. Something tells you that it isn't coincidental.

She quickly whips around, dragging her friend along with her and disappearing into the fog. Whatever she said to you stays a mystery.

Like the day before, you feel that uncomfortable tug of dread in your chest. It's stronger now.

A shiver runs down your spine as you make your way home.

One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Step.

You count each one.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You tuck your chin into your jumper. It's getting chilly now. The wind’s finally picking up.

Dusk settles. Cobblestone paths give way to dirt tracks. Long grass and reeds smack at your shins. The village feels off.

Doors are closed. Shutters are drawn.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The path you’re taking leads past the Shrine.

The torii gate emerges from the fog, red dulled by salt and age. You slow despite yourself.

The air’s colder, heavier. Pressing on your ears.

You hadn’t planned to stop. Yet, your feet are still at the threshold of the shrine, and your gaze snags on the entry before you, as if something inside has called your name.

The muddy ground hums under your feet. Like something alive and breathing.

It's quiet. Sounds are muffled, delayed, like you’re drowning underwater. Fog slithers around the shrine, its fingers grasping, wrenching at its walls. Incense sticks burn in their holders. Prayer slips, damp and torn, stick together and flutter. But there’s no wind. The air is still.

You turn to leave because of the Shrine's suffocating atmosphere. But you can’t. Something makes you stay. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

It tells you that you belong here. That you need to stay in this Shrine hidden away in the countryside. That it will never let you go.

Your fingers loosen around the basket, and it falls on the floor, your lotus roots rolling in all directions.

Your shoulders slacken.

Your pulse slows to an unnatural pace.

What is going on?

You feel a tightness in your ears—a sharp ringing, like there's been an increase in pressure around you.

A whisper. Low and rhythmic. Like chanting just out of range.

It calls to you. Beckons you forward. Towards it.

Slowly, with your body still, your eyes are pulled towards the offering area of the shrine, to something on the ground, partially obscured. Your eyes strain to make it out.

The source of the noise.

As though you have no control over your own body, your foot moves to take a step towards it.

What is it—?

“Hey,” a voice grunts out sharply.

Someone grabs your shoulder. Your body jerks at the sudden contact. Ambient sound rushes back in, and the pressure in your head releases.

You double over, cold sweat beading at your temples. With your hands braced on your knees, you pull in jagged, uneven breaths. Each one claws into your lungs like you’ve been hauled from deep water, chest burning as if it still remembers being held under.

A shadow falls over you, blocking out what remains of the dying, dull, gloomy light.

Then you feel a hand—warm and grounding—wrap around your wrist, tugging just enough to pull you upright. You desperately grasp at the strong arm, hoping that it will anchor you to reality.

“Look at me,” Toji murmurs, low and even.

He counts under his breath until your breathing begins to match his without you realising. He bows his head to give a quick sweep of your face, taking note of the panic etched into every groove there. His green eyes are the same deep shade as the foliage around you, stabilising you.

“Easy.”

The ground still feels wrong—alert.

“I felt something. You did, too.”, you rasp.

Toji’s jaw tightens. That's enough to answer.

“You don’t go near places like this alone,” he says. “Ever.”

“Why?” The more sensible part of you knows it's a stupid question.

“You seriously have to ask? Look what just happened to you.”

His thumb presses into your pulse, hard enough to hurt.

He looks past you, his dark hair falling into his face, his green eyes blank and cold.

“It already knows what you are.”

The hair at the back of your neck rises as you cautiously turn to follow his line of sight.

Now, you can clearly see what it was that was calling out to you.

A body lies on a bamboo stretcher. It's wrapped entirely in cotton, with only one hand exposed, its fingers stiff and curled inward. Its skin waxy, grey.

The corpse must be fresh, as there are no signs of anyone mourning in the village. And for a fresh corpse, the condition of its skin is alarming. Putrefaction doesn’t set in until the third day. And the way it's wrapped hints at a hasty burial preparation. Like it's something to hide. A hand left visible? Unusual.  

You don’t have to be told that it's Kenji.

Dead.

A handful of villagers surround the body, but their eyes are on you, filled with concern and regret. When they notice your gaze, they avoid eye contact, busying themselves by lighting incense in suffocating silence.

Once you register the body, really register it, you force your gaze away. Staring won’t help. It won’t give you answers.

You file the observation away instead. No visible trauma. No obvious cursed residue. Nothing loud enough to justify action.

That’s the problem.

Something’s not right.

Toji’s hand drops away from you.

Not gently. No, he recoils like you have the plague.

Your arms abruptly fall to your side. For a moment, neither of you moves. The shrine looms behind him, its torii dark against the fog, and without thinking, he shifts so that he no longer fully faces you.

Heat crawls up your neck as you realise how you basically threw yourself at him during your panicked haze. You feel…rejected? Toji seems less than overjoyed to have had you grasping at him as you did. It's not like you really know this man.

You look up at him, waiting for him to say something. To elaborate on his cryptic statement. He doesn’t. He just swallows, the muscles of his neck tightening as his Adam's apple bobs. You pick up your lotus roots from the floor and place them into your basket.

Blowing air into your cupped hands for some warmth, you turn away on your own, without a parting glance. The villager’s eyes follow you—not accusatory or hostile—but weighed down with…guilt? You can’t tell. When your gaze flicks to them, they look away hurriedly, suddenly preoccupied with their rituals. They move mechanically. Hands fold. Incense is adjusted. Prayer slips are straightened despite the lack of wind.

Your footsteps sound too loud on the path; the sound echoes in your ears.

Toji doesn't follow.

He stands there, navy jumper stretched over his wide chest, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It puzzles him how calm you look. It's unsettling. One minute you’re clutching on him for support like your life depends on it, and the next you're pinning him down with that cool, assured stare. With his large hands shoved in his poskcets, and his eyes narrowed, he watches you walk away until the fog swallows you whole.

The carved edges of your jade talisman cut into your fingers as you grip it so tightly that your knuckles turn white. Your steps are measured and controlled—maybe a touch too precise. Your gaze is fixed straight ahead of you as you return to to your grandmother's house with questions buzzing in your mind.

You draw in slow breaths through your nose, steadying yourself the way you were taught.

The air tastes wrong—metallic, stale—but you keep your expression neutral. Being consistently calm only comes through practice. It’s something that has been drilled into you since you were young.

Kenji was old. And sick. A recipe for a quiet, expected death. On paper, the story works.

But something has happened here in this quaint village.

And something is still happening.

Whatever it is, the village is complacent.

​

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

​

The next morning, you spot him at the docks.

Toji’s hauling a net from his boat, sleeves shoved up, muscles coiled with effortless strength. His t-shirt clings to every curve and dip of his upper body muscles, stuck with his sweat due to exertion. His face gleams in the rare bit of sunlight that peeks through a sliver in the grey clouds, as though the heavens are selecting him as their chosen one. You take a minute to admire, arms crossed over your chest, leaning on a wooden post behind you. Your eyes narrow in suspicion. He’s good-looking. Really good-looking. That, more than anything else, sets your teeth on edge.

Men like that don’t wash up in places like this. What is he doing out here in such a remote village?

You brush your hair behind your shoulders, irritated by your attraction to him.

“You.” Your voice cuts through the harsh calls of the gulls. “Kenji wasn’t the first to die, was he? How long has it been since the first death?”

Toji turns his head slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Unstartled, like he knew you were there all along. He narrows his eyes against the sun, “Mornin’ to you, too.”

You step closer, and your shoes crunch on damp wood, “I’m asking you a damn question.”

He leans his weight against the boat he was attending to, that fucking scar twitching up in a smirk. As though he has all the time in the world, he lazily crosses his arms. Your eyes track this movement, staying glued to his biceps as they flex and contract. “I know. And I'm wonderin’ why some random girl is demandin’ answers from me.”

Your jaw tightens at his patronising remark. “He didn’t die naturally. It was a curse.”

“Curse, huh?” Toji drags the word out like it's a joke. A smile plays on his lips. He reaches for a cigarette that he doesn’t light,  but just rolls between his fingers. “Old people die. That’s what they do. They're old.”

Your gaze sharpens. You don’t like how he dismisses you so easily, it’s insulting. “That thing feeds on fear and pain. If it's left alone, it will fester, and no one will be left alive. I know you saw what I saw yesterday.” And you wonder why. Why doesn’t he care? Or why is he pretending not to?

For a moment, the air feels heavy. Toji lets the silence stretch long enough for you to realise that he’s been studying you since you arrived— your posture, your breathing, the way your fingers cling to the talisman around your neck, the way your hand twitches at your hip like you’re ready to draw a weapon. Your body stills to make sure you don’t reveal too much. To make sure you don’t show how much this is affecting you.

Then he chuckles, low and humourless. “If what you’re sayin’ is true, I don't see you doin’ nothin’ about it.”

“I will.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right.”

Your brows furrow. “When it kills again, you’ll wish you listened.”

“Or maybe I'll just let you deal with it. Sorcerers love cleanin’ up messes, don’t they?”

Sorcerer? Your jaw sets.  He knew. And you’d never told him.

“Who are you?” you grit out, ”What are you?”

But his back’s to you. He's ended the conversation.

You can’t help your sneer as you turn on your heels and make your way back to the market square. Why is he letting this continue if he knows?

While watching your form recede into the fog, Toji lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. The rigid set of your shoulders, your voice sharpened like a blade—it feels all too familiar. Cursed energy rolls off you in waves: you reek of it. It hums under your skin and weaves itself through your hair—ancient, but restrained.

He feels uneasy, like he’s returning to the world he had been so desperate to flee from. The world, which had already taken so much from him. And deep down, he already knows: his old life is catching up to him, about to disrupt his cold, murky paradise.

You were right.

It was a curse.

𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟

​

Toji’s words repeat like a mantra in your head.

Old people die.

Sorcerers love cleanin’ up messes.

They scrape at something sore inside you.

Gosh, your mind feels numb. You know what you saw. You felt it. It was a curse.

But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m only seeing what I want to see?

Doubt digs its claws into you, scratching away at your insides.

“Never act unless you’re sure,” the Clan Elders would say, “A Gojo mistake is never just a mistake. It’s a disgrace.”

Hesitation is better than being wrong, right?

Right?

You let out a sigh and pull the sleeves of your knitted cardigan over your hands to keep them warm, as you pace along the shoreline.

Satoru would never doubt this.

He never had to. The world bent to your cousin’s perception—his will. If he said it was a curse, it was law.

You could never be like that.

That’s why you were never trusted. You’re not weak. Just unsure. Unsteady.

Foamy waves crash against the cliffs.

Your mind flicks back to Toji—how easily he dismissed you. Just like the elders used to.

He made you feel stupid. Like a child imagining a monster under their bed.

You pick at a loose thread from your jumper.

You were usually cool. Collected. Stoic. Yet somehow, within minutes, he had managed to weasel his way through your shell.

You hate how easy it was for him to figure out how to get to you.

And you hate that you let him.

The sound of a foghorn booms from the lighthouse perched on the cliffs and echoes over the waves.

Kenji was old. People say it was a natural death. There was no overt curse manifestation.

What you felt at the shrine could have been nothing. Fear makes patterns out of nothing.

Your shoulders relax.

It's getting dark now. You should head back home.

It's colder now. Your breath clouds up in front of you.

Dogs bark furiously in the distance, much louder than usual.

You pause your pacing.

The bitter coastal air whips your hair into your eyes, temporarily blinding you.

Energy thrums from the ground beneath you. It's persistent. Rhythmic.

This time, you can’t ignore it. You know it’s there. And you know why it’s there.

The curse has noticed you. You can feel it in your bones.

And it’s noticed him too.

Amidst your raging doubt, you know two things for certain: someone else will die, and neither you nor Toji will be able to pretend otherwise.

a/n: thanks for reading! this chapter is a slow one—heavy on atmosphere. things will escalate from here :) Comment to be added to the taglist (status :: open)

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Mr Sukuna,

This email serves as a reminder that:

Threatening coworkers is not considered as appropriate workplace conduct.

“Testing” your coworker’s “resolve” is not a recognised performance metric.

Domain expansions within the work premises is strictly prohibited.

Please review the attached Code of Conduct. This can also be found in your contract in Appendix 8, Sections 1–18.

Repeated violations may result in disciplinary action.

Regards,

Human Resources

Jujutsu Ltd (HQ)

𝐄𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 2: 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 (𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲)

From: Ryomen Sukuna > [email protected]

To: HR > [email protected]

CC: You (Executive Operations), HR Compliance, Yaga Masamichi (CEO)

Subject RE: Conduct on Company Premises

You are mistaken.

I have not killed anyone. Therefore, I do not see a problem.

This should be noted as compliance.

Also, your building's structural integrity it poor.

I can fix that.

Sukuna.

𝐄𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 3: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐈𝐧

From: You > [email protected]

To: Ryomen Sukuna > [email protected]

CC: HR Compliance, Yaga Masamichi (CEO)

Subject RE: Conduct on Company Premises

Sukuna,

Thank you for your feedback.

You are not authorised to "fix" the building.

You are, however, scheduled for a risk assessment at 14:00.

Attendance is mandatory.

Casualties are not.

Your name

Executive Operations

𝐄𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 4: 𝐂𝐄𝐎 𝐘𝐚𝐠𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

From: Yaga Masamichi > [email protected]

To: Ryomen Sukuna > [email protected]

Subject Final Warning

If you wish to remain under contract, you will follow company policy.

This is not up for negotiation.

Yaga

Chief Executive Officer

“Sukuna, you can’t just come in here and renovate my office because the photo of my nephew’s ‘hideous’ face offends you.” You rub the bridge of your nose. You’re tired of him already.

“Do you know who you’re talking to? I can do what I like.” His crimson eyes flash, “Who even are you?”

"I'm the Executive Operations Coordinator. I’m assigned to assist you with…assimilation.” You introduce yourself.

He barks out a humourless laugh, which causes you to look up from the report you’re studying.

“They gave me a nursemaid,” he says, “How thoughtful.”

“I’m not a nursemaid,” you roll your eyes at the old-fashioned word, “I manage scheduling, incident documentation and interdepartmental coordination. You’ve been classified as a… special faculty asset.”

“Asset,” he repeats, unimpressed, “I prefer ‘king’.”

“Right, well, I'm not sure what sort of king ends up in a school.”You gesture towards the chair on the opposite side of the table from you before pushing your glasses up your nose. Sukuna reluctantly slumps in the chair with all the grace of an electrocuted hippo, while mumbling grumpily under his breath. The chair creaks like it's crying for help.

“If you’re going to be operating on campus, there are procedures. And meetings. And restrictions.” You give him a pointed look.

He scoffs at the word, “What restrictions could stop me, the King of Curses?”

He leans forward onto your desk with his chin in one of his hands.

You meet his gaze head-on.

“None, probably,” you resist the urge to roll your eyes again, ”But it's easier if you adhere to them. Means less paperwork for me.”

Sukuna grins, wide and sharp.

You push a small stack of forms towards him. “Please sign here, here, and here. You’ll be operating under a provisional contract. Make sure you read all of it. Every single line.”

“You think paper binds me?” He smirks.

Sukuna reads it. Slowly

“...You cannot be serious.”

Readjusting your glasses, you reach out to the form on the top of the stack and take a quick sweep of it. “Ah. Appendix 1, Section 4B. Yep. that’s an important one,” you set the paper back down, “No killing any member of staff without prior approval.”

His red eyes pin you to your chair.

“I make no promises.”

You take a quick glance at him before picking up his report and jotting something down in the notes section.

Subject exhibits resistance to bureaucracy. Further exposure recommended.

Outside, a curse screams somewhere distant.

Inside, you arrange some folders on your desk.

You hand him an orientation pamphlet with a map of the various floors of the skyscraper on it. He looks at it as if it’s personally offended him.

“These floors,” you say, pointing, “are off-limits unless accompanied.”

He flicks his middle and index finger once. The pamphlet is reduced to ash.

You calmly slide him a replacement, “Lucky for you, I have backups.”

“…You prepared for me,” he notes, frowning.

“I prepare for Gojo,” you reply. “You’ve actually been less disruptive so far.”

That earns you a long, thoughtful stare.

“Dangerous comparison,” Sukuna says.

“Page three,” you say. “Dress code.”

a/n: hope you enjoyed the intro microfic to this series. i'm not used to writing in this form so i wouldn't mind feedback.

likes and blogs are much appreciated!