#DARK (X-file) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 7 days ago

Text

kill switch — target!gojo x assassin!reader

2.2k wc, dark humor, self neglect as form of grieving, nobody dies i swear

you’ve killed men for less.

and yet, something about this one already irritates you before you've even scoped him out. the client was anonymous, the job listed in the familiar red-font message board you frequent, tucked beneath a refreshingly high bounty. no attached reasons, no requests for theatrics, just the face of a pretty man with white hair and an offer large enough to retire your gear for a year—maybe even two.

your first thought when you read the numbers is that this man is either an international war criminal, an ex-boyfriend who slept with someone’s sister, or a cheating piece of shit whose dick broke a heart so bad it now wants revenge and closure via sniper rifle. all fine reasons to die. you accept it out of habit, maybe greed.

you regret it by day three.

day one.

you stake out his apartment the way you always do. quiet, efficient, professional.

the blonde wig itches against your neck, but you’ve worn worse disguises. the oversized sunglasses and loose blouse make you blend in with the other young professionals in this upscale neighborhood. you look like any other woman waiting for a rideshare, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—except your phone is transmitting thermal readings from his apartment and the binoculars disguised as a compact mirror in your hand are military-grade.

and then he stumbles into frame through your binoculars in a stained hoodie and mismatched socks, trying to unlock his front door with a banana. not a burner phone, not even keys. a banana.

your lips part slightly in disbelief.

it takes him five minutes to realize it, and another two to drop his bag and just sit on the hallway floor, staring at the wall like it just told him bad news. his shoulders droop forward, his expression blank. he eventually eats the banana, chewing mechanically, gaze fixed on nothing.

you lower your binoculars and blink.

“the fuck?” you whisper to yourself, the words escaping between barely parted lips.

day two.

you follow him to work. he’s a high school teacher, apparently.

your outfit today is casual—light summer dress, different wig (auburn this time), sensible shoes. you’ve prepared a story about being a substitute at the neighboring elementary school if anyone asks. no one does. you trail him discreetly, prepared for a twist—maybe a shady meeting, some dark past, some slip.

instead, he offers a student his umbrella when the sky cracks open unexpectedly, rain pouring down in sheets. you duck under a shop awning, watching him through the downpour.

“take it,” he says to the wide-eyed student, voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “i’m already soaked anyway.”

he walks in the rain with a box of graded papers under his arm, making a half-hearted attempt to shield them with his body. you note the detail, even as you wince watching him step into a deep puddle with sneakers and just sigh, like he expected it. water soaks his pants up to mid-calf. he doesn't even attempt to avoid the next puddle.

his students like him, and worse, he’s good at what he does. you observe his class from the courtyard, pretending to read. through the window, you watch him explain complex concepts with surprising clarity, his hands gesturing expressively, occasionally running through that shock of white hair when students ask good questions.

“he’s a teacher,” you mutter to yourself, perched on the rooftop across his school during lunch break, scanning through the lens. your fingers tap an agitated rhythm against the concrete ledge. “he’s a good teacher. the hell did you do, gojo satoru?”

day three.

you almost blow your cover today.

he’s at a convenience store, standing in front of the refrigerated section. you’re pretending to browse magazines, peeking over the top of some celebrity gossip rag. he stares at the drinks for seventeen minutes—you counted—before selecting what appears to be the most sugary, caffeinated option available.

then he walks to the counter, places his energy drink down, and adds three packages of aspirin.

your stomach drops.

the cashier doesn't even look up, just scans everything with bored efficiency.

you abandon your post, slipping out the door and around the corner, heart hammering uncomfortably against your ribs. you’ve seen enough suicides to recognize the signs. but when he emerges five minutes later, he's downing the energy drink and the aspirin is nowhere to be seen.

it’s only when you follow him to his next stop—a pharmacy—that you realize he's delivering medication to an elderly neighbor. she greets him with a trembling smile, patting his cheek with paper-thin hands. he stays for twenty minutes, fixing a loose cabinet door before leaving.

you lean against the building across the street, exhaling slowly through your nose, suddenly aware of how tightly you've been gripping your fake shopping bag.

“what the hell am i missing?” you whisper to yourself.

day four.

by day four, he has become your most infuriating subject to date.

he lives like a man who lost a bet with life and is now doing his best to make death easier.

your perch today is a cafe across from his apartment. you've rotated through three different outfits already, your current disguise featuring dark hair cropped short, glasses, and a conservative button-up. you look like an accountant on lunch break, nibbling at a sandwich that tastes like cardboard in your mouth as you watch his apartment through the window.

through your high-powered lens, you witness him eat an entire strawberry shortcake for dinner and wash it down with a can of expired soda—you can see the bloated sides of the can from here, for god's sake. your fork pauses halfway to your mouth, appetite suddenly gone.

“that can’t be your dinner,” you murmur, annoyed, brow furrowing. “where's the protein? vegetables? anything?”

later, you trail him to the grocery store, hoping—praying—he’ll buy something resembling actual nutrition. instead, he fills his basket with instant ramen, more energy drinks, and another cake. you find yourself in the produce section, hand tightening around an innocent apple as you watch him bypass every single vegetable without a glance.

on his walk home, he crosses the street disassociating, eyes unfocused, headphones in, not even looking both ways. your heart leaps into your throat as a car swerves toward him, horn blaring. he barely dodges, the vehicle missing him by inches.

you almost scream when the car swerves and he barely dodges. instead of panic, he just offers the driver a lazy two–fingered salute and keeps walking, shoulders relaxed as if he hadn't nearly become roadkill.

“what the fuck is wrong with you,” you hiss into your sleeve, nails digging half–moons into your palms. “do you have a death wish or are you just naturally stupid?”

your fingers are trembling slightly when you lower your hand. professionals don’t get emotional about targets. professionals don’t care if their target eats cake for dinner. professionals don’t feel this strange, twisting sensation in their gut when they watch someone court death so casually.

you are a professional. you remind yourself of this fact three times before continuing your surveillance.

day five.

by day five, you realize you are stalking a man trying to die before you can kill him.

he has no sense of self-preservation. none.

you’re positioned in the building opposite his apartment again, this time with a camera set up to look like you're a photographer working on a project. your hair is tucked under a cap, face partially obscured by the equipment.

through your lens, you watch him microwave aluminum foil and then eat the food anyway when it doesn't immediately burst into flames. sparks fly inside the microwave; he doesn't even flinch, just waits for it to finish with dead eyes.

“are you kidding me right now?” you whisper, fingers tightening on your camera. “that could have electrocuted you or started a fire!”

he leaves his door unlocked when he goes for a run. he clicks on pop-up ads on his laptop without hesitation. he buys sushi from a gas station—the one with the flickering lights and questionable health rating that you'd never even walk into—and winces mid-bite but finishes it anyway.

you almost cry when you see him with it again the next day.

“that’s food poisoning waiting to happen,” you mutter with a grimace, stomach churning in sympathetic nausea as you watch him poke at the discolored fish. “please, please don't eat that.”

he eats it.

you’ve planned this assassination like a professional—timed his routes, noted his blind spots, patterned his movements—and he’s just... walking into open traffic without looking. staying up until 3 AM watching what appears to be Digimon marathon reruns, blue light washing over his exhausted face. drinking straight from a milk carton that expired last week.

you start tailing him less like a killer and more like a babysitter. every time he trips over nothing, you flinch, body instinctively moving forward before you catch yourself. every time he shrugs off something dangerous, you scribble angrily in your notes, pressing so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.

“at this rate,” you mutter through gritted teeth, crouched behind a newspaper stand, watching him nearly walk into a construction pit while texting, “i won’t get paid because he’s going to accidentally electrocute himself trying to toast frozen pizza.”

your hand tightens around your pen until your knuckles turn white.

day six.

you break protocol on day six.

it’s raining again, a miserable drizzle that seeps into bones. you’re in a dark peacoat, hair hidden under a fashionable hat, makeup subtle but effective in changing the structure of your face. anyone looking would see just another commuter hurrying through the weather.

he’s at the park, sitting on a bench, getting soaked. just... sitting there. not reading, not on his phone. sitting and staring at nothing, letting the rain plaster his white hair to his forehead, droplets running down his face like tears—or hiding them.

thirty minutes pass. he doesn't move.

forty–five minutes.

an hour.

your fingers are numb around your umbrella handle. you shouldn’t care. you should be calculating the perfect moment to complete your job, not wondering if he’s going to catch pneumonia.

when his shoulders start to shake—from cold or something else, you can’t tell—something in you snaps. you approach from behind, making your footsteps deliberately loud on the wet pavement.

you hold your umbrella over his head, not saying a word.

he looks up at you, startled, blue eyes wide and rimmed with red. for a split second, his expression is so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

“you’re getting soaked,” you say, voice carefully neutral, face deliberately unremarkable. forgettable. “take it.”

you place the umbrella in his unresisting hand and walk away before he can respond, rain immediately soaking through your coat. you don't look back, even when you feel his eyes following you.

that night, in your temporary apartment, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, water dripping from your real hair after a hot shower that couldn't seem to warm you.

“what the hell are you doing?” you ask yourself angrily, voice echoing against the tile. “this isn’t the job. this isn’t who you are.”

but even as you say it, you’re already planning tomorrow's surveillance route, already wondering if he'll eat a proper breakfast.

day seven.

day seven is a monday. it starts, as many do, with him almost getting hit by a bus.

you’re across the street, dark sunglasses shielding your eyes despite the overcast sky, a fitted blazer and pencil skirt making you look like any other office worker heading to their cubicle. your hair is your natural color today, styled differently than you’d normally wear it—a calculated risk to blend in better with the morning crowd.

he doesn’t even flinch as the bus screeches to a halt inches from him. just raises a hand in apology, earbuds in, music blasting, hoodie hoodied. he smells like gas station teriyaki sticks and failure, you can tell from the crumpled wrapper sticking out of his pocket. your nose wrinkles involuntarily.

you’re watching from the shadows again, jaw clenched, heart tight for reasons you refuse to name. one hand grips the strap of your messenger bag so tightly the leather creaks. it’s the bento in your bag that does it. you made it without thinking last night, slapping it together like some fevered instinct. rice, miso, actual vegetables. protein. things humans need to survive.

he's digging into his hoodie pocket for change when you stomp across the street, dodging morning traffic with the precision you usually reserve for more lethal tasks.

“what the—” he starts, blue eyes widening behind those ridiculous glasses he sometimes wears.

you shove the warm box into his chest, the heat of it burning through your gloves. your expression is murderous, brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line.

“eat it.” you snap, each syllable sharp and distinct.

he stares at you. your face is neutral except for the slight flush of exertion climbing your neck. he doesn’t recognize you. of course he doesn't. you’re a professional. the wind rustles his hair, the corner of his lips twitch like he’s about to laugh, revealing a dimple you hadn't noticed before.

you turn on your heel and storm away, shoulders stiff, steps measured despite the urge to run.

he watches you go. the box in his hands is still warm.

he blinks once. twice. looks down at it. looks back at your retreating form.

“huh,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, voice rough from too many sleepless nights. “figures. i fall in love at first sight with a pretty girl the same week i hire someone to kill me.”

he looks down at the warm bento like it personally insulted him.

“timing really is a bitch.”

a/n : premise inspired by midas by mitsuboo!! this story is going a whole different route though LMAO, would be updated occasionally i guess, im too lazy to make it an actual series. part 2 is somewhere in the trenches of my brain juice

#gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo x female reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #reader insert #jjk x reader #tw dark humor #౨ৎ — filed reports

326 notes · View notes