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simplygojo · 2 months ago

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The Devil He Made Me ⸺ Ch. 13

author's note ⸺ life has been super busy I’m sorry for taking so long to update…but I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always welcomed!! I hope you’re all doing well!

pairing ⸺ Satoru Gojo x reader

chapter summary ⸺ After enjoying some downtime at the hotel, it is finally time for you to head to the ‘safe house’, aka the Gojo estate.

word count ⸺ 6.2k

warnings ⸺ gojo lowkey crashes out, some negative talk, some kissin, memory lapse, reader uses female pronouns

taglist ⸺ @mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; @cococola-cocaine; @sdv98o; @theendx888; @dvmb4ssbiatch; @sugxryratz; @kinny-away; @crankyarchives; @enfppuff; @reactwithjan; @blubearxy; @mystic-megumi; @nanamisrighthand

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The morning air carried a sharp chill, mingling with the muted hum of city traffic. Outside the hotel lobby, suitcases rolled across the pavement as the group trickled toward the two sleek black cars idling at the curb. Bellhops moved briskly, stacking bags with efficiency, their uniforms crisp and immaculate against the pale dawn light.

Gojo lingered near the driver’s side, one hand slipping casually into his pocket while the other tugged down his blindfold just enough to reveal his familiar, dazzling grin. His voice, warm and smooth, carried over the bustle.

“Thanks a lot. We’ll be out of your hair soon.” He handed the bellhop a small stack of bills with the ease of someone who didn’t think twice about generosity. The young man’s eyes widened briefly before he bowed so deeply it bordered on comical.

“You’re too kind, sir—thank you, sir!” he stammered, clutching the money like it might evaporate.

Leaning against one of the cars, you stood with arms crossed tightly over your chest. The brisk air bit at your skin, but it wasn’t enough to explain the tension winding through you.

Around you, voices rose and fell, fading into a haze as your gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sky softened into pale oranges and purples.

The past forty-eight hours hovered like a storm cloud. The name Geto Suguru lingered in every shadow, a phantom woven into everything that had happened—and everything that might come. A name heavy with reverence and dread.

Geto’s dead, Gojo had said, but the truth now felt as slippery as oil. His presence touched every question you had—your fractured memories, your cursed energy, and the strange, unshakable pull of something larger. Something unseen but undeniably there.

The polished surface of the car reflected the faint tremor in your jaw as your teeth clenched. Every detail seemed to echo with meaning, pieces of a puzzle you couldn’t yet fit together.

A chill slipped down your spine, though the morning air wasn’t entirely to blame.

The faint scrape of shoes on the pavement snapped your attention back. Warm, steady hands settled on your shoulders, firm enough to ground you. Gojo’s voice followed, low but tinged with its usual easy charm.

“Lost in thought, are we?”

The sound of Gojo’s voice startled you, and before you could respond, you felt the warm weight of his hands resting firmly on your shoulders. His touch was light, almost playful, but steady enough to pull you back to the present.

“You’re gonna wear yourself out before we even get there if you keep that up,” he said, leaning down slightly so his voice was low and closer to your ear.

You blinked, your gaze refocusing on the black sheen of the car door in front of you. Gojo’s hands gave your shoulders a gentle squeeze before he stepped around to face you, his grin faint but his gaze sharp, like he was reading you far too well for comfort.

“Worrying looks cute on you,” Gojo said with a grin, his head tilting slightly. “But you’ll end up with wrinkles if you keep it up.”

Before you could reply, Nobara’s voice broke through from the other car.

“Why does Gojo always get to ride with y/n? Are you two, like, bonding or something?” Her exaggerated suspicion carried easily over the hum of the cars.

Yuji’s laugh followed, loud and unfiltered, while Megumi’s sigh served as a counterweight of mild exasperation.

Gojo straightened, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Nobara, are you jealous? I could ride with you, but then who would keep y/n entertained?”

“Entertained?” Nobara scoffed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the door of her car. “Please. Y/n probably spends the whole ride regretting her life choices.”

“Actually, I don—” You started, but Gojo clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and final.

“Ah, no time for debate! Road trip awaits!” He swung the passenger-side door open with an exaggerated flourish. “Ladies first.”

With a small roll of your eyes, you ducked into the seat. Gojo’s shadow shifted as he leaned briefly against the roof of the car, his tone light and quick as he spoke to Megumi about the route.

From the edge of your vision, his easy gestures and casual posture drew a sharp contrast to the faint, deliberate weight in his earlier words.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Gojo shut the door with a confident slam. His fingers tapped on the steering wheel as the car came alive with a quiet rumble.

“All set?”

You nodded, lips curving into a slight smile that didn’t fully reach your eyes.

“Let’s go,” you said, and the car eased onto the road, the city shrinking in the rearview mirror as the group moved forward.

—

The cars pulled up to the estate just as the afternoon sun dipped low, painting the western hills in gold and amber.

The Gojo estate sprawled before you, a grand mansion of pale stone and dark wood, perched on the edge of the quiet countryside in Kyoto. Tall gates had parted to let you in, and a gravel driveway curved gracefully toward the entrance. The house loomed large yet elegant, framed by manicured gardens and a distant view of rolling hills.

Gojo was the first out of the car, stretching lazily as he glanced up at the building.

“Ah, home sweet home,” he said, his tone teasing as if mocking the sheer grandeur of the place.

Nobara stepped out of the second car, her jaw-dropping. “This is where you live?” She asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“I sometimes live here,” Gojo clarified, strolling toward the front door. “But most of the time, it’s just me and the echo of my awesomeness.”

The front doors opened with a gentle push, revealing a spacious foyer lined with polished wood floors, an intricate chandelier, and walls adorned with understated but expensive art.

The group stepped inside, your footsteps softened by plush rugs. Despite the luxury, the house carried a faint, hollow air, as if waiting for life to truly inhabit it.

A housekeeper emerged from a side hall, bowing politely before handing Gojo a set of keys. “The rooms have been prepared as requested,” she said before retreating.

Gojo handed out the keys to the four of you with a casual flick of his wrist. “Your rooms are set up, so feel free to snoop around after you drop your bags. Don’t worry; there’s no dungeon or secret passage. Well, probably not.”

—

After you dropped off your belongings to your room, you found yourself with Gojo and Megumi in the living room, a space as refined as the rest of the house.

A massive window stretched across one wall, offering an uninterrupted view of the distant mountains. The furniture—a mix of plush couches and armchairs—was arranged around a sleek, minimalist coffee table.

Muted colours and soft lighting gave the room a serene quality, the only sound coming from the faint hum of the central heating.

“Just as lavish as I remember,” Megumi commented as he sank onto a couch, his tone dry but his posture betraying a certain comfort.

Gojo flopped down next to you on the couch as your gaze returned to the window.

The mountains, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, looked almost unreal, their peaks sharp against the soft sky. Despite the quiet beauty outside, the weight of the last few days pressed against your chest, making it hard to fully relax.

Gojo nudged your shoulder lightly, breaking your focus. "You okay?" He asked, his voice low enough to escape Megumi's notice.

You gave a small nod, forcing a faint smile. "Yeah. Just... adjusting."

His grin softened, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he leaned back again, his usual playful mask sliding effortlessly into place.

"Well, get comfy. You’ll need your energy for the dinner I’m ordering. I’ve got some top-tier takeout on speed dial."

Megumi groaned. "You bring us to a mansion and still order takeout?"

"Welcome to the Gojo experience," Gojo said proudly, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. "You’re gonna love it."

—

The dining table was set, though sparsely compared to the grandeur of the estate, with simple plates and chopsticks laid out. Nobara and Yuji burst into the room, their laughter echoing down the halls.

"This place is huge!" Nobara announced, throwing her arms wide. "We found a hallway with at least six guest rooms. Six! Who even needs that many?"

"Not to mention the creepy portrait gallery," Yuji added, grinning. "There's one painting where the eyes definitely follow you."

"That's just Grandpa Gojo," Gojo called from the door as the doorbell rang. He made his way to the entrance with an exaggerated strut. "Bet he’s still watching, even now. Creepy old guy."

When he returned, the sight of five enormous trays of assorted sushi stole the group’s attention. He balanced them with ease, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Behold!" Gojo declared, setting the trays on the table one by one. "All-you-can-eat sushi—without leaving the house! It’s the pinnacle of fine dining and sheer laziness."

Nobara gasped, her eyes lighting up. "Finally, something about you that I respect."

As everyone settled around the table, chopsticks clicked, and appreciative murmurs filled the air.

“This is incredible,” Yuji said around a mouthful of tuna. “Way better than the convenience store stuff I usually get.”

Megumi, nibbling on a piece of eel sushi, shrugged. “I’ve had this a few times. Gojo orders it whenever he’s too lazy to cook out here—which is always.”

“Ungrateful as ever,” Gojo shot back, dramatically flinging a piece of pickled ginger at Megumi, who dodged with practiced ease.

“You’ve been here a lot, huh?” You asked, glancing at Megumi.

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. After Gojo took me in, he brought me here sometimes. Mostly during breaks from Jujutsu High.”

"It’s a good place to recharge,” Gojo chimed in, plucking a slice of salmon for himself. “Nice and quiet. And the sushi helps.”

For a few minutes, the conversation stayed light, revolving around the food and tales of Megumi’s visits. But eventually, Gojo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hand. His playful tone softened slightly.

“Alright, y/n,” he began, his gaze steady, “you’ve had some time to settle in. Have you remembered anything else about your life before all this?”

The table fell quiet, the air growing heavier. Nobara and Yuji set their chopsticks down, their expressions softening. Even Megumi, though he kept his eyes on his plate, seemed to be listening intently.

You hesitated, glancing at the table before meeting their expectant gazes. “Actually… I have,” you admitted. “Pieces are starting to come back in fragments—especially about my sister.”

“Your sister?” Nobara prompted gently.

You nodded, your fingers brushing against the edge of your plate. “I… I remember her laugh. It was this bright, bubbly sound. She used to call me her ‘big hero,’ even though I wasn’t much older than her. I think… I think we were really close.”

Gojo’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, he asked, “What else do you remember about her?”

“She was brave. Braver than me, I think. She used to run ahead, pulling me by the hand, telling me there was nothing to be scared of.”

The table stayed quiet, the warmth of the sushi trays and the hum of the central heating the only sounds filling the space. Gojo leaned back slightly, his gaze stayed steady, quietly encouraging you to continue.

“I keep seeing flashes,” you said, your hands shifting to rest against the cool edge of the table.

“A park with cherry blossoms… a tiny apartment with stacks of books everywhere. I can almost feel the worn-down carpet under my feet. I think we lived in Tokyo, somewhere close enough to hear trains rattling by every night.”

Megumi’s brow furrowed slightly, his chopsticks hovering over his plate. “Do you remember anything about… anyone else? Your parents?”

You shook your head slowly, the motion feeling heavy. “Not really. Just… shadows, maybe voices. Certain things are so vivid, but the rest feels like it’s wrapped in fog.”

Yuji’s voice broke the tension, gentle but curious. “What about her? Your sister. What happened to her?”

The question lingered in the air like smoke. You shifted in your seat, fingers brushing over your arm as if to dispel the chill creeping up your skin.

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, the words feeling like they scraped your throat as they were said.

Gojo leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table as he picked up a piece of sushi with his chopsticks.

He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Well,” he began, gesturing with his free hand, “sounds like we might have a lead. A park with cherry blossoms, a tiny apartment near train tracks—that’s more than we had before.”

Nobara perked up, her brow lifting. “Are you saying we should go look for it? Like, try to find her old place?”

Yuji’s eyes widened in interest. “That would be pretty cool. Maybe it’d jog your memory even more.”

You hesitated, glancing between them. The idea stirred something in your chest—a mix of hope and apprehension. “It’s been so long,” you murmured. “I don’t even know if it’s still there. And what if it’s not? What if we find nothing?”

“Then at least we tried,” Gojo said, shrugging casually. He balanced his phone in one hand while reaching for another sushi roll with the other. His thumb flicked over the screen with practiced ease, typing a message. “A long shot’s better than no shot at all.”

You watched as he tapped out a message with his chopsticks still in hand, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m texting Ijichi now,” he explained, not looking up. “Gonna see if he can dig a little deeper with this new info. Train schedules, old property records, anything that might match your flashes.”

Megumi frowned slightly, his chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Do you really think it’ll lead to something?”

Gojo tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. “Who knows? But it’s worth checking out. Besides,” he said, setting his phone down, “we still need to figure out why y/n can see curses and why she picked up cursed energy so fast. If it’s in her blood, maybe her old life has some answers.”

The weight of his words settled over the table, thoughtful silence filling the space. Yuji broke out with a grin. “It’s like a detective mission. I’m in.”

Nobara smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Of course you are. You’d jump at any excuse to play investigator.”

Gojo straightened his spine a bit and spoke with a smile, “I think for now, we can let Ijichi handle the investigating. He loves the paperwork.” His smile widened, a playful spark flashing across his face, but his posture stayed slightly too still, his energy a beat quieter than usual.

A soft laugh escaped you, though it caught in your chest, tighter than you wanted it to be.

The liveliness at the table felt like a lifeline, one you clung to even as something unspoken pressed at the edges of the moment. The fog around your past felt thinner, but the uncertainty it left in its wake threatened to take up just as much space.

Across the table, Gojo’s gaze lingered, unguarded for once, his usual playfulness softened by something steadier. It wasn’t piercing or demanding, yet it pinned you in place all the same.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice quieter than before but no less certain. The easy smile on his lips didn’t quite match the weight in his tone. “Whatever’s buried, we’ll uncover it. Promise.”

His words didn’t leave much room for doubt. The way he said we settled into the room like a vow, pulling a small nod from you before you could stop it. Your fingers brushed the smooth edge of the plate in front of you, grounding you.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you murmured, your voice softer than you meant, but the gratitude behind it was clear.

For a moment, the room seemed to pause. Gojo’s hand stilled mid-motion, hovering above the tray of sushi as if the simple sound of his name had spoken by you disrupted the easy rhythm of his movements.

His lips parted slightly, and his eyes—usually bright with teasing or mischief—widened just enough to catch the shift, a glimmer of something deeper flashing through them.

The way you’d said it—soft, unguarded—carried more weight than the gratitude in your voice.

His fingers brushed the edge of the tray, almost absentmindedly, before he recovered, a slow, almost imperceptible exhale smoothing his expression back into its usual charm.

“Of course,” he replied, his tone light but edged with something warmer, softer, as if he’d tucked away the subtle surprise and let the moment settle without drawing attention to it.

His hand moved again, this time picking up a piece of sushi, but his gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer than it should have.

Across the table, Yuji’s laugh broke the moment, loud and carefree as he teased Nobara about her detective skills.

The noise brought ease back into the air, but Gojo’s focus remained steady, his faint smile not quite reaching his eyes as he leaned back, still holding the weight of your words in the quiet space between you.

Gojo’s smile lingered as the conversation shifted around the table, the atmosphere lightening again with Yuji’s laughter and Nobara’s quick rebuttals. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg casually over the other as he grabbed another piece of sushi.

“Well,” he said after a moment, his voice cutting through the chatter like the ring of a bell, “before we get too far into solving life’s mysteries, we’ve got one more guest joining us tonight.” He popped the sushi into his mouth, his tone nonchalant but tinged with mischief.

Yuji tilted his head, curious. “Guest? Who?”

Nobara narrowed her eyes. “If this is another one of your stupid surprises—”

“Relax, relax,” Gojo interrupted, waving a hand. “You’ll like this one. He’s never late, so I’d say he’ll be here in about…” He glanced at his wrist as if checking a watch that wasn’t there. “...sixty seconds.”

Megumi let out a small sigh, his shoulders shifting as if already bracing for what was to come.

Right on cue, the doorbell echoed through the expansive estate, cutting through the soft hum of conversation. Gojo’s grin widened, and instead of standing, he cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out in a loud, playful sing-song, “Come on in!!!”

The door creaked open slowly, and the click of polished shoes on the floor reached the dining room before their owner did.

Moments later, Nanami Kento stepped into view, his usual composed demeanour as pristine as his neatly pressed suit. He paused just inside the doorway, adjusting his tie with a faint frown aimed squarely at Gojo’s antics.

“Good evening,” Nanami greeted, his voice calm and measured. His gaze swept across the group, lingering briefly on you before returning to Gojo, who sat back with an almost childlike glee. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.”

“Not at all, Nanamin!” Gojo replied, the nickname rolling off his tongue with exaggerated cheer. “We’re just unravelling the secrets of the universe over sushi. Grab a seat before Yuji eats all the good stuff.”

Yuji waved enthusiastically, his cheeks already stuffed with food. “Hey, Nanami!”

Nobara gave a quick wave of her own, her smirk teasing. “Didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

Megumi inclined his head in a silent greeting, though his lips twitched faintly in amusement at the sight of his teacher’s patience being tested.

Nanami let out a soft sigh, the sound as resigned as it was familiar, and made his way to the table. He tilted his head toward each of you in turn, his formal greeting striking a sharp contrast against the casual warmth of the room. “Good to see you all.”

“Don’t be shy, Nanamin,” Gojo said, gesturing grandly toward the sushi trays. “Make yourself at home!”

Nanami’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he sat down without comment, reaching for a plate with the kind of precision that spoke to years of practice—both with etiquette and with enduring Gojo.

The subtle amusement flickering across his features betrayed just enough to remind you that this wasn’t new for him, but still oddly welcome.

As Nanami settled in, the lively conversation picked up again, the atmosphere growing even more animated with his steady presence grounding the group.

Gojo leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the shift in dynamic, while Yuji eagerly passed Nanami the nearest tray, his grin infectious.

The clinking of chopsticks and the hum of voices filled the room, warmth threading through the shared meal.

Whatever uncertainties lingered about the night’s earlier conversation seemed to fade, at least for now, beneath the easy camaraderie that made even Nanami’s faint smile feel like a small triumph.

—

After the group had finished the all-you-can-eat sushi, the house slipped into silence. The soft hum of the central heating was the only sound in the stillness of the newly settled night.

Everyone had retreated to their rooms, the exhaustion of the day settling into their bones like an inevitable tide. But sleep wouldn’t come—not for you, at least.

The weight of the evening’s conversation, the half-formed flashes of memories, the promises Gojo had made to you over the past forty-eight hours—all of it swirled relentlessly in your mind.

The rustle of the sheets beneath you was the only movement, the stillness of the room pressing in heavier with every passing minute.

Unable to bear it any longer, you slipped out of bed, the floor cold beneath your bare feet. The quiet hallway stretched before you, the dim light filtering in from a far-off lamp in the living room casting long shadows.

The murmur of voices drifted faintly from down the hall, low enough that you couldn’t make out the words but clear enough to draw you toward them.

Padding softly, you approached the living room. The voices grew clearer as you neared, just as you caught sight of them—Gojo and Nanami, seated across from each other, the faint golden light of a floor lamp illuminating the scene.

Nanami sat upright, his posture formal but not stiff, his forearms resting on his knees as he spoke.

Gojo, in contrast, lounged in his chair, his legs crossed and one arm draped over the backrest. The usual playful edge to his demeanour was absent, his head tilted slightly, his pale hair catching the light.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Nanami’s voice filled the space with an even tone, neither judgmental nor particularly warm, yet carrying the distinct cadence of someone who already anticipated the answer.

Gojo exhaled slowly through his nose, a faint whistle escaping as he leaned his head back. The tilt of his chin caught the lamplight, casting faint shadows across his sharp jawline. His fingers drummed once against the chair before stilling.

“I’m keeping her alive,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual but still edged with that unfailing certainty.

Nanami’s brow lifted, a single motion that conveyed as much as any words he might have chosen. He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting the crease of his trousers, but said nothing.

Gojo let his head roll to the side, his pale hair catching the dim light like silver threads.

“You think I’m being careless,” he said, not as a question but as a statement laid bare. His lips quirked, a ghost of his usual smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“No, I just don’t think you have a plan... Have you thought any of this through? Why did you bring them all here?” Nanami said, his voice as measured as ever, though the faintest edge of frustration seeped into the corners of his words.

Gojo leaned back in his chair, one hand coming to rest loosely on the armrest, his fingers drumming a slow, absent rhythm against the wood. “Because it’s where they’re safest, he was in her room, he had infiltrated Tengen’s barrier…” He replied evenly, his gaze fixed on some point across the room.

Nanami’s jaw tightened slightly, his silence stretching just long enough to let the weight of Gojo’s statement settle.

“You’re different around her,” Nanami said at last, his gaze steady and unyielding. The words weren’t an accusation, nor a question—just an observation planted in the space between them.

Gojo’s fingers stilled, the subtle shift in his posture betraying the tension he worked hard to mask.

He let out a low laugh—humourless and soft, his head dipping forward for just a moment. “Sharp as ever, Nanami.”

“It’s not a compliment,” Nanami replied without missing a beat. His eyes narrowed faintly, as if trying to pry something loose from Gojo’s carefully constructed demeanor.

Gojo finally met Nanami’s gaze, his usually vibrant eyes shadowed with something deeper, heavier.

The air between them felt thick, almost tangible, as if the weight of unspoken truths had settled in the space like a heavy fog.

“You’re not wrong,” Gojo said finally, his voice quieter now, devoid of the playful inflection that typically coloured his words. His gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers curling into a loose fist against the wood. “I’m terrified, Nanami.”

Nanami didn’t move, his expression unchanging, but there was something softer in the way he regarded Gojo—a faint shift in his sharp, analytical gaze. He waited, letting the silence stretch.

“But tell me how am I supposed to feel? Here I was thinking that y/n may have just been affected by some low-grade cursed spirit, but now, Geto’s involved—How? I still don’t know…But now she’s in real danger.”

Nanami’s brow furrowed slightly, but still, he said nothing. His patience was deliberate, practiced.

Gojo’s eyes flicked back up, meeting Nanami’s with an uncharacteristic openness.

“She’s the one thing I never saw coming,” he continued, his voice barely above a murmur. “And now I can’t stop thinking about her. Protecting her. Watching her… her smile. It’s like…” He trailed off again, running a hand through his pale hair as if searching for the right words.

Nanami leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “It’s like what?”

Gojo’s lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. “It’s like I finally found something worth being scared of.”

Gojo’s voice cracks again as he continues to open up, his usual bravado completely gone.

“I’ve never been this vulnerable, Nanami. And I hate it… But I can’t stop thinking about her. What she could mean to me. Every time I see her, I can’t ignore it anymore. She’s… everything I never knew I needed.”

Nanami leans forward, his gaze fixed on Gojo, but his expression remains unreadable, careful.

“And what are you going to do about it? Keep pretending it’s nothing? You’ve been acting like you don’t care, but it’s clear as day that you do.”

Gojo runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement sharp, frustrated. His usual cocky smirk is absent, replaced by something raw—something real.

“I don’t know what to do, Nanami. I keep telling myself it’s just a passing thing, that it’s all just a distraction. But every time I look at her, I—”

A shift in your weight caused the floors to creak beneath your feet and Gojo’s head snapped in your direction.

His icy blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Nanami glanced over his shoulder at you before rising from his seat without a word.

He loosened his tie, the sound of his heavy steps filling the tense silence as he brushed past you and left, the door to his room clicking shut behind him.

You stood there for a moment, glaring at Gojo as the tension in the room thickened. His mask of nonchalance faltered as you crossed your arms over your chest and took a few steps closer.

“You’ve got a lot to say when I’m not around,” you said, your voice steady but laced with anger.

Gojo opened his mouth to speak, but you raised a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t. I heard everything,” you said, your tone sharpening.

“You sit here pouring your heart out to Nanami like you’re some tortured soul, but where was all this before? Where was this ‘I care about you’ attitude when you told me our—our moment was ‘a lapse in judgment.’”

His jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t that simple, y/n.”

“Bullshit,” you snapped, stepping closer. “You told me you didn’t mean it, Satoru. You told me it was better that way. And then what? You just kept living your life like none of it mattered? Like I didn’t matter?”

“I thought I was protecting you!” He shot back, his voice rising as he finally met your glare head-on. “I thought if I stayed away, it would keep you safe!”

“Safe?” You scoffed, your voice trembling with emotion. “Do you even hear yourself? You didn’t care about keeping me safe—you cared about keeping yourself comfortable. You didn’t want to deal with how you felt, so you pushed me away and acted like it was for my own good!”

His face twisted, the usual playfulness in his expression nowhere to be found. Suddenly his forehead creased as his brows furrowed. “You think it was easy for me? You think I didn’t feel anything when I told you to walk away?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shot back. “You didn’t even flinch. You just moved on like nothing happened while I—”

“While you what?” He interrupted, walking closer until he was only inches away. “While you were the only thing I thought about? While I tried to convince myself every damn day that I didn’t need you, that I wasn’t in too deep?”

“You don’t get to say that now,” you hissed, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything—”

“I do care!” He shouted, his voice breaking. “God, don’t you get it? I’ve always cared!”

“Then why didn’t you—”

Whatever you were going to say next was lost as Gojo surged forward, his hands cupping your face as his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle or careful—it was desperate, almost punishing. Your hands fisted in his shirt as you kissed him back with equal intensity, all the anger and hurt spilling over into raw, unrestrained passion.

He backed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours as the kiss deepened.

His fingers tangled in your hair, holding you like he was afraid to let go. You pulled him closer, pouring every ounce of frustration and longing into the way your lips moved against his.

Gojo’s breath stuttered as his lips dragged over yours, the fervent rhythm unravelling into something raw and uncontained. Every inch of him pressed against you, a living, burning wall that swallowed you whole.

His fingers traced upward, finding the curve of your jaw and tilting your face toward his.

The motion was deliberate, his thumb brushing along your cheek as he angled you just right, giving him unfettered access to your mouth.

His lips moved with a bruising intensity, every kiss a collision that left a molten ache in its wake. The taste of him, warm and intoxicating, lingered on your tongue as his mouth claimed yours again and again.

The press of his body anchored you, the heat radiating from him seeping into your skin, igniting every nerve in its path.

His tongue swept against yours, the sensation dizzying and electric, sparking a deep, unrelenting ache that spread through your core.

Each tilt of his head deepened the connection, his lips moulding to yours like they were made to fit, their rhythm frantic yet precise.

The cooling sensation of the wall steadied you amidst the heat of the moment, but it wasn’t enough to tether you. His hand moved lower, skimming along your waist and slipping just beneath your shirt.

The feathered feeling of his touch against your bare skin sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His movements were relentless, all sharp edges and frayed control, like a storm too fierce to contain.

The tension in his body was palpable, every muscle coiled tight, as though holding back the force of everything he couldn’t say.

Every movement, every touch, was laden with unspoken emotion. It was a silent language, raw and primal, the need for closeness outweighing everything else.

There was no hesitation, no room for restraint—just the sheer, unrelenting pull of two souls colliding, breaking, and finding completion in each other.

As though the weight of the moment caught up to him, Gojo stilled. His lips lingered on yours for a fraction of a second longer before he pulled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

His forehead pressed against yours, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared cadence of your uneven breathing.

You opened your eyes, meeting his, and the vulnerability in his gaze was a stark contrast to the usual confidence that he wore like armour. His hands remained on your waist, not necessarily pulling you closer—but not letting go either.

“Y’know, I really do hate you sometimes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

A wry smile ghosted over his lips, the faintest shadow of his usual bravado flickering to life.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I have that effect on people.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself, the lingering frustration mingling with something softer.

“So, should I be expecting another cold, dramatic rejection tomorrow morning?” You asked, your tone light but laced with a hint of challenge.

Gojo’s smile widened, the vulnerability in his expression easing into something more familiar—still warm, still raw, but distinctly him. “Not this time,” he replied, his voice steady and sure, the faintest hint of playfulness returning. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the casual sincerity catching you off guard. For once, there was no mask, no armour—just him, standing there, completely exposed.

“Good,” you muttered, unable to hold back the small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned back slightly, the tension between you diffusing but not dissipating entirely.

“Good,” he echoed, his hands giving the faintest squeeze at your waist before reluctantly letting go, leaving your skin buzzing where he had touched you.

Gojo leaned back just enough to put a sliver of space between you, his gaze flickering over your face as if committing every detail to memory. The corners of his mouth curled upward, his smile soft but tinged with that ever-present mischief.

“Rest up,” he said, his voice dropping into something low and velvety, “we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head slightly as you crossed your arms. “You say that every day.”

His grin widened, the teasing glint in his eyes making your pulse quicken. “That’s because every day is a big day when you’re with me. Never a dull moment, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed you. “Maybe I’ll start sleeping in just to test that theory.”

“Please,” he scoffed, leaning in close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You wouldn’t want to miss a single second of this.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, fighting to keep your voice steady as you stepped back, your smirk matching his. “But fine, I’ll rest—on one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you do the same,”

Gojo tilted his head, a glimmer of amusement sparking in his eyes. “You’re making deals now? Alright, I’ll bite. Why do you care if I get my beauty sleep?”

You tilted your head, crossing your arms as you took a deliberate step closer. “Because, for all your ‘Infinity’ nonsense, even you can’t run on fumes forever. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Satoru.”

He raised a brow, the grin tugging at his lips faltering just slightly. “Noticed what?”

“You’ve been keeping your technique on high alert,” you said, your voice softening but not losing its edge. “No sunglasses, no blindfolds. You’ve been watching everything—everyone—for days. You’re burning yourself out.”

His smile vanished entirely, replaced by something far more serious. He didn’t deny it, and the silence that followed was enough to confirm your suspicion.

“Someone has to,” he said finally, his tone quieter, almost resigned.

Your chest tightened at the weight behind his words. “You’re not invincible, Satoru,” you said gently. “Even you need a break. You can’t protect everyone if you destroy yourself in the process.”

His gaze flickered to yours, the vulnerability from earlier creeping back into his expression. For once—he didn’t have a quip or a teasing remark to throw back at you. Instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re really something, y’know that?” He muttered, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.

With a playful smile on your lips, you shook your head and began walking back towards your room. “Goodnight, Satoru.”

“Goodnight,” he called after you, his voice carrying a tenderness that lingered in the air long after you’d gone.

#gojou satoru x reader #jujustu kaisen #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #gojo smut #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo

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hannahssimblr · 19 days ago

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The air is burning rubber and grill smoke. Hot, like a damp blanket wrapped around us. Wet, if not from the rains, then the air itself. We bike along the black veins of Bangkok. Loud and fragrant, bright with lanterns glowing through the night. An entire world, a million lives under the awnings, darting across the street in random leaps of courage. Tuk Tuks and cars and bicycles weaving in anarchic sequences. As it rains, wet umbrellas catch the lights. Red, yellow, purple, green.

The bike is hot, purring beneath me, slick tarmac and the splash of dirty water over my shoes, as Jonas, behind, curses in English. He is diligent about using my language around me, including when getting hit by a van. His bike slides and crashes to the ground underneath him. I pull my brakes and wait until he’s up again while the traffic weaves around me. He’s fine, as always, only for another scratch on his leg, bleeding, but hardly. His blood is washed thin, then yellow, then away. We say something to each other about how he should have seen it coming, moved quicker. There are no rules here but one: the biggest will go first. We, and our dinged up hired motorbikes, are far from the biggest, and so, as they say, we must get the fuck out of the way.

It’s Brandon, the American from the hostel we arrange to meet at a tiny bar at Khao San Road, a circus of neon I wish I could paint. “Mathematics at Oberlin,” he said when he introduced himself, as though defined by the supposed prestige of his degree. He was visibly disappointed, then, when neither of us had heard of Oberlin, and pivoted to defining himself by his Adderall habit. It isn’t a genuine medical need. He just likes it.

“I’m going to out-drink the Irishman tonight,” he announces to the crowd we’ve gathered amongst. Twelve or more of us, with varying English abilities, huddled under an awning and dodging sheets of rain that spill over the edge.

“Best of luck,” I say, though he will out-drink me, no doubt. My half-Irishness has done nothing to aid my ability to drink without being violently ill. Like the time I tried a pint of Guinness in the smoking area and promptly regurgitated foam down the front of my sweatshirt. I try anyway, drinking things put in front of me with abandon, like a man who doesn’t fear death.

A few hours of this, then several of us do shots of something mysterious served from an old three litre water bottle that is so incredibly strong it instantly activates my gag reflex.

“Deep breaths,” Jonas tells me, his hand on my shoulder out the front of the bar as I fist the back of my hair and suck in lungfuls of air that is too humid to be satisfying.

“I think I’ll probably get sick every single day we’re in Thailand,” I say, quivering with despair over a puddle with my own distorted reflection.

“Maybe you should take a night off, then.”

“I don’t want to.”

He pushes his fringe away from his forehead. It is milk white against his tanned face. “Just because everyone else is doing something doesn’t mean you have to. You’re no less of a man because-”

“I’m not the kind of person that gets peer pressured. I can say no.”

A pause. “Well, yes, I can see that.”

“We’re here to have fun, not to be tucked up in the hostel bunks by ten every night. We’re just-” I fight back a wave of nausea. “-making the most of it.”

“I see. You are enjoying vomiting on the streets every night.”

“Please don’t say that word to me.”

“Okay. You should take a break. Maybe no more drinking tonight.”

I shrug him away, irritated. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Sorry,” he says, and leaves me to gag on my own, though I’m lonely without him there.

I am actually fine after a few minutes, and hours later as the night continues, I find myself with Brandon as he is going on about something, talking at me in a way that is not exactly annoying, yet persistent and unending. I let his words wash over me, that familiar manic cocaine cadence.

We do bumps with him, Jonas and I, every twenty minutes, trips to the bathroom, and then eventually when the bar is so full, and we are squeezed into our corner by dozens of bodies, we do bumps off the hostel key cards and the tips of our fingers. Then I’m talking at Jonas, and Jonas is talking at me, and Brandon at us both while we all pretend to listen, and enjoy so much the feeling of it, the fleeting flames in our blood, the world better and brighter for the few minutes before it fades, and we start all over again.

“What’s better, coke or sex?” Says Brandon, and I get what he’s going for, but this is a stupid question.

“You have an addiction if you’re asking me that.” I remember it is time to call Astrid. I need to tell her something. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I go to outside the bar among the percussive hammer of the rain.

“Hello?” Her voice is sharp and sober.

“Astrid. I’m just calling because I was thinking of you, and I need to let you know how much I love you. Like, seriously love you and I’m so lucky that your my girlfriend, and that you’ve decided to be with me. I miss you so much when I’m here and I can’t wait to come home and be with you again, and I just-”

“Jude, you phoned me an hour ago to say this.”

I rear back, offended. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did. We had this exact conversation.”

I don’t think Astrid really understands the weight of what I’m trying to tell her. I love her. She’s so special to me, and has to know the way I feel about her right now, or I think I might explode.

“I miss you.”

“I know you do, but it’s seven in the evening in Germany, okay? This is not a conversation I want to have with you now. I’m on the way to have dinner with Elias. We discussed this earlier, remember? You called me as I was getting dressed and ready to go out.”

I chuckle and lean my weight against the wall. “Oh. So, what are you wearing?”

“A dress and some sandals.”

“Which dress?”

“It’s green.”

“Hm. Do I know that one?”

“I doubt. It’s from my summer wardrobe, and I just unpacked it.”

“You think I’d like it? Can you describe it?”

A sigh then. “I’m about to go into the station, so I can’t really talk like this with you with so many people around.”

“Astrid,” I whine. “I just feel-”

“You feel the way you always do when you are on drugs. You’ll call me tomorrow and we’ll have this conversation again, I’m sure, but now is not the right time.”

“No, I need to tell you now-”

“That you love me. I know. I love you too.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Let me hang up now.”

“Okay, have fun with Elias.”

“I will. Be good.”

“I promise,” I say, but she’s already gone. I rest my head against the wall, then, and think about Astrid and the way she is, and the sort of complex torture it is to be with her. Her, someone so completely unromantic and sharp and blunt and then me, her polar opposite, and how we still actually love each other despite our differences, and even though it was hard at various times at the start of our relationship — a car drives by beeping its horn very loudly which is quite obnoxious, actually, and I wonder was he beeping at me, like, for a joke, or if there was some traffic situation I am not aware of — we overcame it together and actually learned how to make things work, which is probably the most adult thing I have ever done, if I really think about it.

I think I’ve left a pretty grotesque path of destruction in my wake in the past, in terms of girls and relationships especially, but being with Astrid now proves that I’m able to grow and learn and be a better person, and actually a proper man who acts in ways he could genuinely be proud of, and these are things I would be saying into Jonas’ face right now if he was unlucky enough to be standing here. He wouldn’t like it but he’d probably take it, waiting for his turn to say something long and rambling into my face, too, like, about hiking trails or the deep fried scorpions he saw at that market that we didn’t try because I insisted they were too disgusting for humans to ingest, but he regrets not tasting so he’ll probably go back and get one if they’re still there, even though he can’t remember exactly where the market was anymore because Bangkok is so big and everything is unfamiliar and completely at odds with what we are used to.

Someone rolls down the window of a taxi and takes a picture of me on a phone, which is one of the regular happenings I meant to tell Astrid about before I was overcome with my love for her and went off on that deranged tangent about her dress, and as I watch the taxi tearing away, I wonder if I already told her about all the people who take pictures of me during the blank spot that is our phone call an hour ago, and that today this random woman got me to hold her baby at a temple and took a picture of us together, like I was its dad, or uncle or something, and it was so weird that she trusted me to just hold him and, I don’t know, not run away revealing myself to be a kidnapper of babies, not that I would do that, but anyway, once I agreed to take that one shot like a dozen others came up to me and Jonas and forming a queue and asking for pictures, and it was this weird feeling that I was a celebrity against my will, like I got a taste of what that would feel like, and honestly it was torturous and I hated it so much and I genuinely think if I was famous I’d be one of those that killed themselves or went mad and bought a big castle to live in on my own, like Enya.

Jonas and I eventually fled the gathering crowds, and they took pictures of us doing that too, which was pretty hilarious, to be honest. I wonder if they will put them up on Facebook like, “and lastly, here are the tall men running from us!” Jonas has come out of the bar now, ready, I’m sure to share more regrets and lament about the deep fried scorpions, but his face is stricken, like, in such a way that I understand the topic is more important, and not about scorpions at all, but I’m so busy thinking that I don’t hear his first sentence when he says it to m-

“What? Sorry.”

“A girl. She wants me to go home with her.”

“Oh. Well, you should go if you like her.”

He lets out a shuddering exhalation, standing there in the middle of the dry patch beneath the awning, the knee length khaki shorts, the scabs on his legs. “I’ve never done that kind of thing before.”

“Had sex?”

“No, of course I have. I mean go home with a girl on a one-night stand kind of thing. None have ever asked me to do that.”

“Well, they usually don’t. She obviously fancies you. What are you out here talking to me for?”

“I thought you might have advice.”

“About one-night stands?”

He nods, and I feel a surge of sympathy toward him, this protective emotion that is likely a chemical affliction. The image of him running away from that poor woman without saying a word to come outside and strategise with me is adorable. The urge comes to hug him, but I resist it.

“I’m flattered you think I know a lot about one-night stands, but it’s not like I’ve really done that kind of thing either. I’m a long-term relationship kind of person as a general rule.”

“I sense you know what you are doing more than I do. Even if it is many times with the same woman, you know? At least you know in some way how to–” he breaks off, and I nod, because yes, I know how to– but stand there deliberating over how I can explain to him that nothing about the sex I have with Astrid is normal or replicable in ordinary environments. Not the kind you have with a girl you just met in the bar. Imagine that, like, “yeah, nice gaff. Here, just wondering, when we get into it d’you mind if I spit in your mouth?”

“Ask her what she likes, and do that,” I tell him. “Worst thing you can do is guess.”

Nodding, he says. “Okay.”

“And just be nice. You’re a nice person. Try to, um, project that. Which one is she?”

He directs my attention through the window to the lively scene around the bar, and points out a short brunette in a pair of denim shorts. A non-intimidating presence, a pleasant face. I would probably sleep with her too, not that it indicates something exceedingly wonderful or unique about her, because I would sleep with most women under the right circumstances.

I miss Astrid. I hope she takes a photograph of her green dress and sends it to me, as she sometimes does. “OOTD” she’ll type. As in, “outfit of the day”, and attach a picture of her in a mirror, or the reflection of the U-Bahn door, standing with her knees turned inward in such a way that makes the gap between her thighs appear large. Allegedly a desirable feature.

Maybe later, when I’m alone in the hostel and Jonas is off gently making love to this brunette somewhere, I will succumb to my worst and most desperate version and send Astrid about four messages one after another begging for more pictures, minus clothes this time, and she’ll say no, because it’s still too civilised an hour in Berlin to send nudes to her boyfriend, coked up and wired sleepless for the fourth night in a row in a Thai hostel bed.

Jonas enters the window scene. Under the warm lights, he speaks to her. There is nodding, smiling, shy laughter. She puts her drink onto a table and slings her bag over her shoulder. And I feel like I am watching someone collect a person they barely know at the airport.

The door swings open and noise from within spills onto the streets as they emerge together. Jonas’ hand hovering near her, unsure of whether he should touch her, and then for one moment we meet eyes, and nod, and then he huddles under her umbrella, disappearing into the night.

It only strikes me afterwards that I should have asked him where they were going, in case the girl, whose name I didn’t even ask for, turns out to be some sort of deranged killer. Jen would be aghast at my carelessness, but anyway. He’ll come back in some shape or form. Good for him, really.

Pummelled by rain, the walk home is a slog. My hair, far too long now, shaggy well past the collar of my shirt, sticks to my face and sends rivulets down my cheeks. There is so much water I am constantly blinking it away. Somewhere, in the seedy part of town with the boarded up businesses, red light pours from a doorway. A woman calls to me, knowing by the look of me I speak English.

“Hello, baby, you’re all wet,” she says. “Come inside. I can make you happy.”

I’m happy already, actually. A deeply, sincerely happy man. I round a corner and get sick onto a pile of loose rubbish, watching the semi-digested remnants of my noodle dinner rinse away in a stream of rainwater.

I am soaked to the skin, my socks wet inside my shoes, my t-shirt stuck to my body and heavy with the bulk of the rain. This is rain, I think madly. Real rain. Back in Ireland, it was never like this. It pissed rain, or you’d get that little misty spit, pretending to be rain but refusing to commit. No, this is catharsis. It’s what the Irish weather wishes it had the stones to be.

As I check my phone, no messages. The clock has turned over to tomorrow. June the twenty-first. Midsummer’s day. God, I think, sloshing indiscriminately through a wide, ankle deep puddle. This day last year it rained, too. That day on the beach, when the heavens opened and unleashed a mighty torrent over the coast. Pock marks in the sand. It drove in sideways and washed the beach house windows with salty water that left residue for the entire summer. That boy, the Jude lazing on the sofa watching it, in dry socks and those tracksuit shorts his mother loathed, barely feels like me anymore. I wonder what he’d think if he could see the future, exactly one year from then. Here, man. I’m in Asia. I turned out mostly fine. Life is a journey of discovery and I am… discovering myself.

And I think of her, then, too. That inevitable thought. It’s been nearly a year now since we’ve seen each other, and eight months since I stopped emailing. I forget her sometimes, but then alone on nights like this, she floats into my mind, drifting by on the surface of the sea. The blue of the sky, and her light brown hair floating hypnotically beneath the waves as she laughs, silvery and joyful with the seagulls' caw. A yearning grips me, a sort of gasping desperation to return to that place again, to the simplicity of CDs whirring in the stereo, murmuring together in the sunlight, the crunch of gravel beneath bicycle tyres and sand in the lines of our hands.

That was it. The most romantic time of my life. Nothing complex, only the things I made that way in my head. It was the electricity of my leg touching hers, the intense, whole body sensation of just looking at her, turning to jelly when she looked back. The soft curves of her face in my hands, how just kissing her lit my blood on fire. Then, when kissing meant something to me. In Berlin, I did it just to do it. A thing I did with my lips, a preamble, but it was never a preamble with her. It was the apex. I would have died kissing her.

I shoulder through the hostel door and leave a puddle on the tiles. There is nobody to apologise to, and nothing dry to clean it with, so I leave it there and trudge upwards to the room, where the Nepalese backpackers are snoring in their bunks. They do it so loudly that sleep would be impossible even if I were capable. Luckily, it is not my priority. I strip my clothes off and lie in my bunk. I find my phone and type a message to Astrid.

Outfit pics?

A fruitless endeavour. She’s probably cracking into a crème brûlée with Elias and talking about something intelligent. I go back to my messages and scroll, scroll mindlessly, doing at least a decent job of pretending I am. I go back through the months, dozens of chats, friends, arrangements, happy birthday messages. Back to territory I have never revisited for dread of what I might encounter. Stop.

Evie.

One tap, and my thumb trembles.

17th August 2010 Yeah, so basically you just get the bus to Clontarf. I live on Vernon Ave so you can either get off near the shops or Seafield road. Okay, sounds fine. I’ll probably leave soon. Text me if you have any problems. See you in a few hours.

Weird. I thought we might have said something else, showcased more personality, or given more away about our feelings, but I have discovered an uninspiring chat, revealing nothing about us and who we were. Another tap then, on the text box, like adding a chapter to an unfinished novel.

Hey, do you still think about last summer?

Paragraph.

Because I do, to be honest. Been thinking about it tonight. How are you?

Tap. I send it, and my nose runs. I wipe it with my finger and it comes away dark, thick. The back of my throat tastes like iron now. I curse under my breath and sit up. Blood drips on the sheets and I quickly block my nostril with my thumb. It’s fine. This happens sometimes. I go to the bathroom and stuff a wad of toilet paper up my nose, pinching the bridge for a while until it slows. My face in the mirror is insane, my hair curly and half-dry, blood crusted around my nostril. I wet the toilet paper and clean it away, then flush it down the toilet, brilliant red, circling, circling, then gone.

Back in the bunk, my phone glows. A red exclamation mark beside my last text.

! Not Delivered

I stare at it. I hit the power button. Fuck it. For the best, I think, then roll over and try to sleep.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2011 #happy new year friends I have returned #this one was a big one and i was putting it off #but i think it turned out so good!#visually and also in terms of the content #he's finally thought about her out loud are you happy #prob not #drugs tw #blood tw #vomit tw

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chaoticace2005 · 11 months ago

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Why Hazbin characters are the animal they are:

(Because of that conversation I just had with @xxqueenofdragonsxx )

Angel (spider)

1. His family’s “web of crime”

2. A spider was the last thing he was before he died.

3. He had a weirdly heartfelt moment with a spider as a child that stayed with him to adulthood.

4. He was terrified of spiders and this was his first punishment in hell.

5. He insulted spiders by calling them “creepy fuckers”— the spider community was insulted and sought punishment.

6. He and his family’s last name was “Ragno” which literally means “spider” in Italian.

7. He’s Spider-Man. Or Spider-Gwen at least— look at his colors.

Husk (cat)

1. Fucking hated cats when he was alive

2. Hates flying when he was alive.

3. Flew in a plane in the military at some point so has flight-related trauma.

4. Cause he does that cat thing where they can’t deal with people’s bullshit.

5. Ex had a cat, their relationship was complicated.

6. Husk really hates messes. Having both feathers and fur is the ultimate torture.

7. He died tripping on a cat and then being impaled by the beak of a dead bird.

8. Died falling. Period. Cats land on their feet and birds can fly so it’s some kind of irony.

Alastor (deer)

1. He was killed because someone thought he was a deer in the forest.

2. The deer in headlights look he always makes when someone propositions him sexually

3. He was the predator chasing the prey, now his creature is the prey.

4. First thing he ever killed was a buck.

5. He really likes venison and is a cannibal. Now he has a steady supply of food. He just needs to wait to regenerate.

6. His favorite thing to say was “oh dear” so the universe made it into a pun.

7. He wasn’t shot by a person. He was shot by a serial killer deer.

Sir Pentious (snake)

1. He was a slippery little fella.

2. Was obsessed and had a ton of pet snakes.

3. Alternatively he was terrified of snakes.

4. The last person he called a “friend” called him a snake before leaving him forever.

5. Snakes are supposed to be symbols of healing, which was ironic because he couldn’t save the one person he loved most.

6. He had a lisp and was frequently harassed for sounding “snake-like” (yay ableism)

7. His name really was Sir Pentious when alive and the universe couldn’t not let the opportunity go to waste.

Valentino (moth)

1. He used to zap and kill moths for fun, putting them in peoples beds because nobody likes a moth in your bed.

2. He publicly ran a campaign saying butterflies > moths, the moths didn’t like that.

3. He was killed when a stage light “accidentally” fell on him.

4. Like a moth, he is easily distracted by bright things.

5. Choked on mothballs and died.

6. Sold powder of crushed up moths under the guise that it was cocaine. Someone found out a killed him in anger.

7. Was killed running into traffic as he was being chased by a moth.

Vox (TV)

1. Was a TV host

2. Sold crappy, overpriced TVs

3. Killed someone by smashing their head in with a TV.

4. HE was killed by his head getting smashed in by a TV.

5. His form isn’t really a TV, but he was decapitated and needed a replacement head and this was the first thing he could find.

6. Stared at screens way too long as a child.

7. Was epileptic so the universe thought it would be funny if he could use his face to induce seizures in others (the universe has a messed up sense of humor man. How about we don’t cause people to have seizures?)

#some more dumb ways to die #tw: lots of death #hazbin hotel #I had a little too much fun with this #hazbin hotel memes #stupid hazbin hotel lists #angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor #husk #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #sir pentious #hazbin valentino #valentino hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel crack

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ape-apocalypse · 4 months ago

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I've already joked that Better Man is an alternate universe where Caesar became of music legend but it turns out, the same WETA FX that works on the reboot movies made the ape graphics for this Robbie Williams biopic. And they will feature the same motion capture technology that the POTA films used, with actor Jonno Davies as the starring ape.

"You will see a monkey bleach its hair. You will see a monkey party with Oasis. You will see a monkey do unreasonable amounts of cocaine, stick a heroin needle in between the fur of its arm, and drive headlong into opposing traffic while shouting a pop song at the top of its monkey lungs."

This will be a far different ape than we've seen from POTA or even King Kong. The film seems to be a very straight-forward telling of this musician's life - just that he's a chimp. So no ape mannerisms - no knuckle walking, no hooting, no swinging through the trees - just an super star ape singing and doing drugs.

#better man #robbie williams #better man film #better man movie #planet of the apes #not pota #other apes media #dawn of the planet of the apes #rise of the planet of the apes #war for the planet of the apes #war of the planet of the apes #kingdom of the planet of the apes #reboot pota #pota #mine #chimpanzee #chimp

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swifty-fox · 7 months ago

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“New boys rolled into town today. Well, old boys. New-old boys.” Curt wobbles his head from side to side in thought, “Old as in been in the club a while, New as in y’aint met them yet. They been out in Cheyenne the last few years, long before you started hanging off me like the rest of my girlfriends,” He gestures around to Ken, who smirks knowingly, and Ev, who rudely salutes him.

“Good riders,” Ev agrees.

“Great bikes, real old school choppers.” Ken adds

“Yeah, you like a good ride dontcha Kenny,” Curt leers. John feels their legs hook more tightly under the table, “Now, if these animals would let me finish-”

Curt pauses to wait, only to be met with silence, and nods pleasedly before continuing.

“- was gonna say I, you might wanna go meet ‘em. Get some more photos for your little mod-podge photo collage.”

John grins at him, because Curt never said anything seriously when he could be flippantly rude but was no less sincere for it, and tweaks his ear, “See, this is why I hang out with you skuzzes.”

“Thought it was ‘cos we don’t stink half as bad as half the dropouts in this bar and are prettier than the other half?”

“Curt,” John says, stealing his drink to have a sip of the same lukewarm beer that was in his own glass, “Whoever told you that you didn’t stink was lying to you.”

“Hey, Ken took me out back last week and bathed me!”

“They nice guys? Or will I get my teeth knocked in for shoving a camera in their faces?”

“Nice enough,” Ev says, hand stroking up and down Helen’s hip. The motion left grease stains behind on her pale jeans, but she either didn’t notice or was well-used to it by now,

Ken picks up where he leaves off, all their voices rising over the crowd; John snaps a picture, “Benny’s real quiet, but DeMarco already thinks he’s a movie star. Shocked he hasn’t hunted you down for his debut photoshoot by now.”

“DeMarco’ll pop you one good if he hears you callin' him Benny.”

“Not, Ben- Benny. Gale-Benny.”

“Since when do we call Cleve, Benny?”

“Jesus, Ev, forgot you were busy with your little rugrat back then. Chick used to call him that. Said he looked just like this kid Benny he used to ride with back in the forties, ‘fore he showed up with those scars.”

“Scars?” John asks, calling to mind all the ways a human body could be broken apart.

“Yeah,” Curt answers, leaning forward and tracing a ringed finger against both hollows of his cheeks, “Just showed up one summer with big slashes in both cheeks, almost down to the bone, I remember. He’d rescued some old lady from being mugged, got slashed by some kids knife.”

“I heard it was from pushing drugs,” Ken said, his Arkans drawl sweet as honey

“Fuck no, man doesn’t even smoke and you think he’s out there running cocaine for Castro? I was there, I know what happened” Curt shakes his head, “Man’s straight as they come, save for the whole,” he waves his hand, “outlaw biker deal.”

“Yeah,” Ev agrees, “What is the deal with that?”

“Dunno, Everett, think maybe he likes bikes and traffic tickets,” Curt answers ponderously.

“Oh, look at him,” Ev nudges Ken and nods at John, “He’s eating this up.”

John puts his camera down, “If you three stooges didn’t make such good subjects I wouldn’t need to take the photos. Helen, you’re the exclusion of course, I’ll photograph you however or whenever you want, Doll.” Helen laughs over Ev’s sharp whistle of warning to back off, cheeks flushing bright red because she was one of the few truly good girls that hung about the club.

curt in this whole scene:

#swiftywrites #tfd #two fingers down

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teatreeoilll · 1 year ago

Text

Pot Luck (Toji Fushiguro X Reader)

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w/c - 0.6k content warnings - MDNI (for language and mentions of drugs and alcohol). f!reader. A Toji drabble of what I feel the average Toji interaction is like.

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2006

“Blow on it,” the traffic officer holds a breathalyzer an inch from Toji’s face. Your mouth grows dry as you smell the painstakingly obvious tang of Sake circling the car's interior.

"I'll just come out and say it, officer," he hums, flicking his cigarette butt onto the road, "You're not my type." You jab your elbow into his side, hoping that inflicting some pain might instill a bit of sound judgment into him.

"Blow on it son, I don't have all night." The cop taps his leg on the concrete, shoving the breathalyzer further under Toji's self-satisfied smirk.

As he continues to hold the policemen's gaze, the dark haired man puckers his lips and exhales into the device, which in turn promptly squeaks and buzzes.

"Why don't you get out of the car, boy?"

Toji drives like a maniac; one of his hands barely clinging to the steering wheel while the other clutches a lit cigarette that suffocates the car with a cloud of smoke. He throws quick glances at the rearview mirror, and each time he does so the car swerves, causing the white markings separating the dark highway ahead to seem like mere suggestions.

"I'm gonna need you to hold on to this for me," he leans close to you, his Sake reeking breath caressing the side of your face. His foot's still pushing the gas pedal as he shoves a large hand up your bra, sticking a tiny crumpled bag of white powder to the padding inside.

"Hey - " you struggle to push his drunken hand aside, an aggressive red hue growing on your face at the warmth of his hand pressing up against your breast, "Focus on the road, asshole."

Red and blue lights emerge on the road behind you, accompanied by ear-splitting sirens and a streak of cusses coming from the driver's seat. "Just for a minute, yeah baby?" He jerks the wheel, causing the car to wobble as it grazes the shoulders, "We'll lose him on the next exit."

This is a collect call from Akasaka Police Station; if you would like to accept the call, please say yes. If you would like to -

"Fucking asshole," you breathe.

The system did not recognize your decision; if you would like to accept the call, please say -

"Yes." You huff into the phone as the line plays its connecting melody.

The moment you catch a faint sound of a breath on the other end, the facade of cool composure you've been clinging to shatters; "I'm not bailing you out again, Fushiguro. You can rot in there for all I care."

"Don't worry about that baby; Shiu's got it covered."

A scolding tone creeps into your voice, "You better pay him back this time."

Toji ignores your reproach, letting the words linger before continuing, "Anyway, they revoked my license, so why don't you pick me up and we can - "

"You had a license?"

"Funny, why don't you tell me s'more jokes when you get here, huh?"

"Can't Shiu take you? Or better yet, leave you there?"

"He'll probably leave before he sees me bouncing out of the cell, so fat chance of that happening. You're the only one left, baby."

You weren't sure what kind of supernatural force was steering the wheel while you drove in a daze through the busy streets toward the police station, leaving your mind consumed with organizing the accusations you were itching to hurl at him.

The car dips lightly under his weight as he thumps into the passenger seat, "D'you still have that bag I gave you?"

"Hey to you too, asshole." You sigh, "And no, I didn't keep the cocaine you shoved up my bra."

"Ah, never mind," he lifted an arm to swipe the hair sticking to his forehead, "At least I got to cop a feel."

#toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x you #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji zenin #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk X reader #jujutsu kaisen X reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustu kaisen #toji x y/n #fushiguro x reader #jjk toji x reader

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serpentface · 7 months ago

Note

Do psychotropic drugs and/or ritual play a role in any of the blightseed cultures? A pretty broad question, lol

Yeah that’s a very broad question, the answer is about as much as it tends to play roles in real history. Alcohol is pretty ubiquitous (outside of cultures that abstain from intoxicants) and used for a variety of purposes, opioids are commonly used in some parts for pain relief or recreational purposes, stimulants (usually in mild, natural forms) are used to provide extra energy, and hallucinogens are most commonly used as part of a larger religious framework (rather than for recreational purposes). Any more elaborate answer kinda has to be case by case in a certain culture or part of the setting.

I'll just take this as an opportunity to talk about the one established sect that pretty much REVOLVES around psychoactive use. This is the Scholarly Order of the Root, which is a sort of mystery religion + elite community of scholars who currently occupy the Ur-Tree and its forest in the far southern Lowlands (southeast of Imperial Wardin, on the same land mass).

The Ur-Tree is the obligatory Huge Fucking Fantasy Tree (and its surrounding forest). It’s a mass of vegetation about a mile tall and almost as old as Plant Life Itself, its upper branches are primeval plants, which become more modern the nearer they get to the ground (and each 'level' holds tiny ecosystems, some containing descendants of LONG-extinct arthropods/other small animals). Its lowest branches and the surrounding forest are contemporary plant life, and all is connected and protected by an incomparably MASSIVE fungal mycelium network (which is itself a living god).

A lot of the Scholars' more secretive practices revolve around experimentation with substance use with the goal of expanding the Mind and transcending the body to fully connect to the Dreamlands, and they have a supply chain of traders and mercenaries called Rootrunners who traffic substances into the Lowlands. Most of their psychoactive use is in a very intentional capacity and not just like, for fun, but a LOT of them are just straight up addicted to cocaine (in the form of alchemically refined bruljenum, which is used for practical purposes of its stimulant effect during long hours of work).

All known psychoactives are desirable for experimentation (particularly hallucinogens), with each having properties that either allow expansion of the Mind, transcendence of the body, or outright divine communion. Their effects are logged in great detail and interpreted to form the basis of the Scholars' understanding of the natural world and reality itself.

The most important substance is Ur-Root, which is root matter from subterranean levels of the Ur-Tree that have both their own intrinsic psychoactive substances and a very, very high concentration of living god mycelium. The tree root contains DMT and the mycelium has its own wholly unique effects (being an actual living god). They alchemically refine it into a purer, more potent form, and use it to expand beyond the body and directly commune with the Giants, a group of entities they have identified as the only true gods.

An Ur-Root trip starts off with minor visual distortion, which turns into shifting fractals that slowly obscure the vision. Eventually the senses are entirely taken over by a 'tunnel' of rapidly shifting fractals and geometries. In a complete trip, the experiencer gets a sense that they have been pushed through a membrane and entered another realm, finding themselves in a distinct experiential Space.

At this point they may encounter entities which communicate to them in a language impossible to describe but wholly understood. These beings are understood to be the Giants, or at least aspects of the Giants that mortals are capable of comprehending (they often take familiar tutelary forms of the Mantis or the Snake, or appear resembling the same type of sophont that the experiencer is, all composed of ever-shifting geometries). The experiencer often feels a sense of unconditional and endless love from these beings, though the Giants may be more hostile and may appear in the form of the Trickster (usually a cultural figure regarded as malicious, be it an animal or otherwise) in a bad trip.

(^Up until this point, this has mostly just been a DMT 'breakthrough' experience ft. 'machine elves' and the like).

They are then removed from this space and returned to something that feels like the real world, but is nearly unrecognizable. They have a sense of rapidly moving through time, and will usually see 'the spires' towards the beginning, which just so happen to look like this:

(source + some context via Implication- the spires are exactly what this art is depicting)

The experiencer continues to move across an unfathomable amount of time, occasionally 'seeing' other such flashes of unfamiliar landscapes and creatures, and yet also being devoid of all their senses, the 'seeing' is pure, unfiltered experience. There is a sense of interconnectedness with all life, and that one has become the forest (or even Life) itself. The sense of time is wildly distorted, the trip lasts only about 5 minutes but feels like an eternity and is understood as literal hundreds of millions of years.

The experiencer has usually lost any remaining sense of Self and individual consciousness during this phase (in which case this time distortion is usually a neutral or even peaceful experience), but some retain a fraction of their identity, and find themselves trapped and conscious while experiencing what feels like eternity (which can be LIFE-CHANGINGLY distressing, even after the fact).

(^This latter part of the trip is the effects of the Ur-Tree fungus).

The trip ends with a sense of rushing through the ground and back up into one's body, at which point they will abruptly return to their senses and consciousness. The details are then immediately retrieved via interview and recorded in immense detail. The whole experience is understood as having been full comprehension of the Dreamlands, communion with the Giants, and then a tour through the act of creation.

This is done as part of the initiatory practice into the inner mystery-religion of the scholars, and as needed for study by high scholar-priests. It is not taken lightly, both as it is absolute communion with the gods and reality, and in that it can be a very, very difficult experience. People who have gone through this often walk away with a permanently shifted perspective, often in a positive and/or comforting way- a sense of interconnectedness with all life, a peace with the concept of death, seeing less of a point in individual ego and the concept of Self, and comfort in the sense of divine love they (may have) experienced. This heavily influences the philosophy of the Scholars and has had effects by proxy in the religious worldviews of the region.

Details of this experience are closely guarded, and initiates are given absolutely no prior knowledge and expectations for their trip. This is seen as a necessity- their naivety will allow for a true, unfiltered experience, and can be used to gauge whether they should or should not be accepted. Those that have a distinctly bad trip upon initiation may be assumed to have been 'rejected' by the giants and thus denied full priesthood, though this largely depends on How they interpret their distressing trip- those who identify this as a test and harsh lesson in a journey to enlightenment may be accepted (as this is how fully initiated scholar-priests interpret and handle their bad trips).

This inner priesthood is only a small fraction of the Scholarly Order, and its greater function is as a hub of education and repository of knowledge, and Scholar-trained doctors can provide some of the best medical care available in the setting ('best medical care in this setting' only means so much but it's pretty solid, relatively speaking). Only a chosen few Scholars ever get to commune with the Ur-Root, and most of the divine secrets revealed in the process are kept hidden (though they indirectly influence the politics and worldview of the entire order).

#I'm kind of fascinated by the quasi-religious beliefs that have developed around recreational hallucinogen use (ESPECIALLY DMT)#In contrast to like. Uses of DMT-containing substances like ayahuasca for long-established religious purposes #So this concept is basically 'what if a religion was FORMED from pretty much the ground up out of DMT usage'#Like the common 'entities' people encounter in recreational use being identified as the Real Gods and producing a religious worldview #that is mostly rooted in this experience (while still influenced by other cultural factors)#Also the like. Meta going on here is that the fungus is a 'living god' and the oldest one on the planet #It is a VERY rare type of living god that is 'created' by non-sophont (non-sentient even) beings and exists as a mycelial network #that perfectly supports and protects an entire forest. Basically a god for plants. It is so deeply interconnected with its forest that the #usual power sophont belief would have over it has basically zero influence. This is absolutely the closest thing to A God in canon.#(While still not being a Creator/sapient/or even supernatural within the framework of this reality. Just VERY unique.)#The Ur-Tree has always been above water and grows very very slowly over the course of millenia by kind of 'pulling up' plant life from #the ground (so you see ancient long extinct plants in its higher branches and contemporary plants close to/on the ground)#The mycelium helps shield and feed extinct plant life that could not otherwise survive in the contemporary environment #And the forest is big enough to produce its own weather (it is a rainforest and has been ever since the capacity for rainforests Existed)#It's not really a tree at all in any normal sense but an amalgam of thousands of types of plants-#Some growing on top of others and some interwoven beyond any distinction. It does form a superficially treelike structure #(mostly in order to physically support its own mass) with a very wide 'trunk' and massive 'roots' (which end in actual roots).#It feeds on its own perpetually shedding and decaying 'body' and any animal life that dies in the forest is VERY rapidly #decayed and absorbed by the mycelial network (to the point that many large scavengers cannot survive in this forest)#(If you kill a cow and leave it on the ground for just 1/2 hour you'll see little strands of mycelium already growing up around it)#The fungus fruits and spores on a very infrequent basis (scale of ten-thousands of years) which causes the forest to very slowly spread #Fortunately this isn't really an existential threat because the spread is VERY slow (even on a geological scale) and the fungus #itself is rather mundane in nature and cannot usually compete against established fungal networks in other places.#Though there are little Ur-Tree mycelium groves and woodlands in other parts of the world that may (over untold millennia)#generate their own Ur-Trees (there's already a few but they are all MUCH smaller and not readily recognized as the same thing)#WRT THE TRIP:#Most of what I'm describing is a DMT trip but consumption of high doses of Ur-Tree mycelium has both mundane psychoactive effects #and IS kind of the person experiencing the fungus' entire lifetime and seeing flashes of the world's actual evolutionary history.#The amount of material knowledge that can be accurately gleaned from this this is VERY limited though.

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