#nvictive

ginza, ginza, she was in ginza!  nobara had heard great things about ginza, mainly from magazines acquired from her local konbini back home, and what's more is that now? now she's experiencing first-hand what people find so great about ginza since her move to the city from the boonies of tōhoku.

that doe-eyed, amazed child-to-tween reading through said magazines was now reflected in her eyes as she took in the sights,  reflected in her nose as she took in the smells,  reflected in her ears as she took in the hustle and bustle of the famed shopping district with a penchant for attracting tourists and those native alike, joined only together in the allure that has enchanted them to come in the first place. 

put simply: nobara has found herself in shopping paradise. 

quite frankly, though?  she should be enjoying herself, enjoying the chillness that's seeping into the day as it gradually turns to night, since she's off-duty, after all. she should be decked out for the weather, dressed to the nines, and enjoying herself as teenage girls do! 

she's off-duty, technically, but technically? she's never off-duty.  

so sure, it was an off-day technically, but what's that to a student-sorcerer whose enemies are spawned around the clock: birthed by the negativity found in humanity? where her hands would be holding any number of shopping bags on a night like tonight, they're empty on a saturday night. she can't be too put off, though, it comes with the job. she isn't alone, anyway: her sensei, as eccentric and jovial as he is, is accompanying her on what is a stake-out in the deeper part of the district.

her targets for tonight? a gaggle of upper grade 2s in a residential area: they boast the kind of intellect that makes it easy for them to pick off unsuspecting targets, and what's more is that they'd been in the area for quite some time, coming out of dormancy every now and again to terrorize. it was no wonder why they weren't exorcised sooner, but nobara supposes they'd had been kept alive just for this.

part of her should be annoyed that she isn't shopping, but there's a flounce in her step that's a touch too giddy. she's been practicing on optimizing the maximum damage of hairpin once triggered, the usage of the one binding vow she can't be bothered to properly place the name of right now: she just knows that she's elated to try it out, showcase her ever-budding strength to her sensei —-

because she had been practicing: because that's the point of attending tōkyō jujutsu tech in the first place, you hone your cursed technique against curses, you fight curses with curses. it's a battle of cursing, but it isn't something trivial, in hindsight it isn't something inherently moralistic. it just is, and that's how it's been for a long while: probably how it'll always be.

a job's a job, a cycle's a cycle, a machine's a machine until it's not. until it inevitably breaks down due to rusted old parts that interfere with its functioning, until it has no choice but to replace those old parts with new parts or until it's replaced with something new entirely.

“ since this is cutting into my me time, sensei, you wouldn't mind making sure a couple extra yen gets deposited into my student bank account, right? ”

one pm, shibuya station. by a quarter past the hour they should have been back on the school grounds, awaiting meetngs for discussions that were ultimately bound to bore them to sleep. instead, they had decided to take a well needed, earned diversion into the arcades, organised through messages during their respective assignments within the city. dazai had been sent to tōkyō's technical college to avoid this specific sort of disappearing act, too comfortable slipping past supposed figures of authority for a few moments of blissful escape in his own solitude. in the outlook of dazai preferring his own company, they maybe thought that he lacked the knowledge of how to forge friendships, figured the isolation would do him well and force him to perform better in his studies, take more of an interest in the path laid out before him. though, in partial thanks to natural gravitation and a general likeness, he'd instead found himself in close ranks with those in his year. a fortunate falling into place for dazai, unfortunate for those higher and the plan they had concocted to try and keep him in check.

The Devil in Me Prompts | Accepting

… Huh? Why? Why was Satoru looking at her strangely like that? Silence rolled over them, figurative crickets chirping quietly in the background as the younger girl took a moment to process it — his words, the inflection in his tone accompanied by a gaze that seemed to emanate a certain kind of expectancy from her.

Five long seconds it took the first-year student before it finally dawned on her what her senior suggested they do. Then, her eyes widened with realisation. “Me?!” Chiyori nearly cried out in protest, but managed to, last second, lower her voice enough to keep their hiding. They were crouched down behind an arbitrary bush, undetected by the group of Kyoto students searching for them.

With a silent but steadfast jolt of her body, Chiyori turned to face him. She was prepared to stand her ground in case he were to try coax her into it. Was Satoru really expecting her to willingly volunteer as bait? N-no way would she do that! Not with her current position in this goodwill event! That would simply be too risky, and Chiyori wasn’t going to put the few points she’d managed to scrape together all on the line just for that, especially not in the hands of her brash senior!

Sure, they needed someone to distract the Kyoto students, but… Chiyori turned away, jaw clenching… but if Satoru could manage to seize their flag and dash back to their own territory with it, then they would be declared as winners of this game. He was, after all, stronger and faster than her. Plus, she’d be able to secure her current spot on the scoreboard with some extra points to her name. Well, given that she could manage to survive long enough to not get caught and eliminated.

/ nonverbal prompts @nvictive

𝐡𝐞  𝐡𝐚𝐬  𝐭𝐨  𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫  if  his  eyes  are  deceiving  him  or  if  there  truly  is  one,  supremely  insolent  sorcerer  waving  his  way.  a  novel  experience  in  this  era  and  the  better  part  of  his  centuries  old  existence.  he's  become  accustomed  to  the  way  he's  perceived-  seen  its  many  different  faces  and  the  way  they  become  nothing,  same  after  death.

this  one,  though.

gojo  satoru.

none  of  the  sameness,  everything  he  doesn't  anticipate.  he's  nothing  like  the  lineage  from  his  memories.  half  as  severe,  thrice  as  impudent.  is  this  the  face  strength  wears  in  this  era?  it  should  rankle,  but  he  feels  little  else  but  the  intrigue  of  his  appetite.

sukuna  cants  his  head,  the  corded  muscles  in  his  neck  raising  against  skin.  all  four  pupils,  ringed  in  ruby,  fall  over  his  face  in  slow,  deliberate  slides.  " 𝐡𝐦. "  a  roil  of  consideration,  an  abbreviated  hum  living  in  the  low  of  his  throat.