#obligatory jjk manga spoilers

[angry-geese]

Okay I am both surprised and relived that Choso survived these past few chapters bc man it WAS NOT looking good for him kdhdkdg

[pleasepetsharks]

She’s so beautiful 😭😭😭

And I’m very sad to be moving on from maki plot but also !!!!!! itafushi tiiiiiimmmeeee!!!!!

And yuuji living it up in his plush bath robe with his glass of wine (?) I love him so much

*completely ignores the seeding of a yuuji must die in order to save tsumiki and for gojo to be deboxed plot*

[blueish-bird]

new jjk chapter is… uh…

[daily-yuuji]

Introducing.. Daily Yuuji!

Yuuji No. 1 - See read more!

Hello! I made this blog as a fun way to get myself to read the jjk manga. Panels will be uploaded in (somewhat) chronological order from here on out. If you have a specific panel you enjoy, feel free to submit it to the ask box.

I don't have a ton of image- describing- experience. If my descriptions are lacking, please let me know. Also, have an obligatory "this blog is not spoiler-free". Enjoy!

Image Description:

The image is a cropped page from the manga Jujutsu Kaisen, Volume 1, by Gege Akutami. In the top half, a cut-off panel shows a girl in a long-sleeved shirt with only her right arm visible, set against a simple dotted screen-tone. Centered to the left is the phrase "TA-DAH!" in uppercase, while to the right, also centered, stands Yuuji Itadori- a teenager wearing black pants and a hoodie. He has cropped, spiky hair and is posed on one knee. He is reaching towards the phrase "TA-DAH!" with a simplified smile (depicted by two vertical lines for eyes and an upside-down triangle for a mouth).

[sashisu]

*LOUD STRESSED SOBBING NOISES*

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Forty-Six: Lithopedion

soulmate au Choso x Reader

Warnings: minor character death. brief mentions of blood and violence. manga spoilers but thats kinda expected at this point lolol

Synopsis: with the new culling game rule added allowing soulmates to leave, the group devises a plan to take down kenjaku + some more about the soulmate sorcerers that existed prior to James

a/n: I intended to post this last night but i totally spaced it sorry lol

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masterlist

As long as humanity has existed, so has the string of fate. As long as the string of fate has existed, so has a sorcerer capable of manipulating it.

In the air is the smell of decay, and a damp cold that seems to sink directly to her bones. The woman—nearing fifty, face roadmapped with scars and wrinkles—fixes her pack higher upon her shoulders, and begins her march up the steep path. As each wooden gate passes, she draws closer to a temple.

It was beautiful. At least at one point in time. Over the course of a century, the temple has fallen into disrepair. Animal bones lay bleached and brittle from the sun, stone steps crumbling under the slightest touch. There's signs warning travelers to stay away—talismans littered about. Some hung on trees, others litter the ground. Some are so old that they turn to dust under foot.

That's when a man—he can't be older than forty, but time has not been kind to him—ducks out of the shrine, and greets the sorcerer. His kimono is in tatters. He radiates fear; from his glossy eyes, to the slight tremble in his hands. He stops upon seeing her.

“I’m here seeking Ryoumen Sukuna.” She says. “I’ve brought an offering.” The contents of the bottle slosh as she holds it up. Sake. From the thick, wax seal, to the label on the bottle—it all appears expensive.

His eyes linger on her hands for a moment longer than she should. An unnoticeable action to most, but she picks up on it. Without another word, he motions her through.

In stark contrast to the exterior, the inside of the temple is well kept. Incense is lit. So are candles, which illuminate the short path. The room holds a damp cold that seems to seep right into her bones.

She doesn't hear the man enter, but she senses another soul behind her. She refuses to turn her head to the disturbance. Maybe it’s out of fear. A fear so primal she doesn't recognize it at first. A fear left behind from before humans moved into villages, and then cities. But something is preventing her from turning to look at him.

Without a word, she uncorks the bottle of sake, and takes a swig. The alcohol does little to settle her nerves.

“You walk down the center of my temple’s path like you’re its mistress,” Sukuna says, circling around her, “you tamper with my offerings, and you disrespect me directly,

“Are you not afraid? I could kill you right here…” 

He runs a clawed finger along the underside of her chin. The sorcerer tilts her chin upwards, moving with his touch.

“Girls have the most tender cuts of meat.” Sukuna says. “Men? Their meat is too tough; women have an extra layer of fat that makes them cook down better.”

The sorcerer wants to scowl. Girl? she wants to spit, I haven't been around for fifty years to be referred to as a child.

“Maybe thirty years ago that would be the case,” she says, a tone of annoyance audible in her voice, “but I’m too old, and I’ve spent too many years smoking for my meat to be tender,

“Killing me would do you no good.” She says. “I’ll be reborn into another body. You would have maybe twenty years of peace before I come back,

“And I will be back,

“But you… you don't have that luck.” The tattoo on her chin twitches as she smirks. “When you’re gone, that’s it.”

A look resembling annoyance crosses his face. “I won't die.” He says. “Even in the golden age of sorcery, you humans couldn't defeat me.”

“You say that,” the sorcerer continues, “yet I don't believe you,

“But I didn't travel all this way to argue with you. I want your help. I would not bring such a request to you without something to offer in return.”

The look on his face turns from thinly veiled amusement, to something unreadable. When she offers the bottle to him, he takes it, holding it to his lips. It appears comically small in his hands, his palm able to wrap nearly twice around it.

“Speak, then.” He says.

“I wish to free humanity of this curse that my ancestors placed upon them.”

“And in return?”

…

Ryoumen Sukuna would meet the Soulmate Sorcerer once again that following winter. Just months prior, a war had raged in the region to the south. He never witnessed it personally, but he saw it in the way smoke lingered along the horizon. Occasionally, refugees would find themselves lost in these woods, unaware of how the locals avoid it. Much like those refugees, she would find herself injured atop the steps of his temple.

Sukuna isn't quite certain why he didn't leave her to bleed out. Perhaps it was their conversation from months prior. Perhaps, deep down, he has a shred of honor left. It's not a significant one. Ryoumen Sukuna is not a man of honor. And yet, the Soulmate Sorcerer would wake up hours later, with her wounds dressed.

She thinks, at first, that she must be dead. This temple—once abandoned—has a strange luster. The smoke in the air obscures the ceiling, the walls flickering with the light of a fire. If this is the afterlife—she thinks—then it’s a disappointing one. 

Slowly, enough feeling has returned to her hand for her to bring it to her side. The wound—product of a thrown spearhead—feels as if it’s been filled with hot wax. Scratchy, yellowed bandages have been secured around the wound. It's crude handiwork. Someone actually trained in healing could do better. Though the sorcerer doesn't find too much to complain about, seeing as she’s still alive.

In the low light of the room, she slowly gains her bearings. At her feet sits a shrine, ripe with offerings. To her left, a blanket, of which she’s kicked off herself while asleep. The pile of hay and furs she lays atop can hardly be considered a bed, but it’s warmer than the ground.

He sits, eyes fixed on her from within the darkness. Her heart beats faster—fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline. The feeling of being prey; one not entirely foreign to the human psyche. 

“What?” She asks, the slightest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not gonna eat me? I'm already halfway there. Just needs a little seasoning.”

“I did not give you permission to die.” He says.

…

Spring rears its head with a vengeance. Violent rains batter the temple, and surrounding woods. The ground is soft from all the water.

Sukuna would come to learn that the soulmate sorcerer is a child of winter, born on a bleak January day. He could have guessed that, he thinks. She seems to tolerate the bitter cold, the snow, and the distant warmth of summer. A child born under a black sun, regarded as unlucky by every caretaker and adult in her life. A sorcerer; a powerful one. The only sorcerer capable of challenging fate itself.

“What could make a human choose this life?” Sukuna asks, one day by the riverbank, “to live among cursed spirits as a human…”

The sorcerer shrugs, turning her attention back to her fishing rod. The morning has proved fruitless. All she has to show for her time is a broken line, and wet boots.

“I believe it’s a side effect of my cursed technique.” She says, following a brief moment of silence. “I am one of the few humans born without a string of fate.

“To you, that may not seem significant. What good is a soulmate to you? But to my people, that was a sign of bad luck,

“I was the scapegoat. The black sheep. They viewed me as a bad omen from the moment I was born,

“For a while, I was betrothed to a man from a neighboring village. He suffered from the same misfortune as me. Our families thought they could fix our ‘curse’ by marrying us, but…”

Sukuna seems to understand what she wishes to say before she does so. “How’d he die?” He asks.

“Pneumonia.” She says. “He fell sick one day and never recovered. And honestly? I felt relieved after he died,

“I spent so many nights awake wishing he would simply disappear and when that day came I finally felt free. Because I do not wish to be seen as a broken half! I wish to be seen as my own person! Why aren't humans allowed to exist free of soulmates?!”

Is love not the root of all curses, she thinks.

So this it is. She thinks that’s the way her ancestors were cursed to live: to wander aimlessly. It's not such a bad life, she thinks. There's plenty of tales to tell, plenty of drinks to be had, or warm fires to sit by. She exists—she thinks—to experience these things; and she finds comfort in that lack of direction.

“What about you?” She asks. “Weren't you human at one point?”

“I was,” he says, “at one point. And if you expect me to lament to you about how I miss it, you’re mistaken,

“There are things that were better while I was human. Alcohol. Sex. But if I were given the chance to go back—to do this all over again—I would not. I do not miss humanity.”

He watches as her lips press into a thin line. Perhaps she expected more from his answer. Maybe a shred of regret. Or the slightest semblance of humanity deep down. But Ryoumen Sukuna, King of Curses, holds few regrets.

The following morning, the Soulmate Sorcerer would leave on a hunting trip. She would not return that evening.

And when a week later, the King of Curses finds the head of his guest on a pike, captured by the local villagers, he would not regret razing it to the ground.

He did not give her permission to die.

…

James isn't quite sure how long he’s been asleep, but the dryness in his throat signals some time has passed. For the past few hours, the sorcerer has been drifting in and out of consciousness. He pretends to sleep through all of it, so as to avoid talking to new people. Such a ruse can only be held up for so long.

They haven't tried to kill him yet. James considers himself lucky in that regard.

Conversation takes on a low, sleepy nature. The voices—some familiar, and some not—sound low, and distant. Only the occasional word is discernible. It all sounds like nonsense to James anyway.

The ache in his hand turns from dull, to near unbearable in a matter of minutes. He flexes his remaining digits. It feels like his missing fingers are being compressed beneath the bandages, aching to be free. It feels as if his hand is in a painfully right fist. James knows logically that nothing is there. 

It takes James a moment to register the sight before him: a hotel room. An expensive one, if he had to guess. Were the circumstances any different, he couldn't imagine staying in such a place. 

“Did you sleep well?”

The question isn’t directed at him, but it’s what finally pulls him from sleep. It's a woman's voice. One he's heard before, but can't place where. James must lay there for several minutes, unable to shut his mind off, before he stirs. 

“You're awake,” Angel says. She wipes her palms on the front of her pants, before getting up from her seat.

Fatigue has set in—a byproduct of blood loss. He sits up, his gaze tiredly meeting hers. Something is strange about the sorcerer standing before him. Though her face is that of a human—a sorcerer—two sets of eyes stare back at him.

“You're an angel…” James slurs, almost sounding drunk. The moment he processes his own words, he sits up, quickly correcting himself. “You must be Angel—I can sense your second soul.”

A mouth appears from the flesh of the woman's cheek. “It's rude to interrogate a young lady, Matchmaker,” it says. 

Such an accent is difficult for the sorcerer to place. It sounds like a grandmother. Old. James has no recollection of ever meeting Angel, but his body betrays him. There's a strange feeling of familiarity as it speaks.

“You were going by Gloria the last time we met,” it—not ‘it’, she—says, “I take it that's changed.”

“A little,” James says.

His front pocket is bulky with something: a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches. He has the filter of one between his lips before he realizes what he's doing. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead seems to become more audible.

“You must be hungry,” Hana says, “here.” 

The grocery bag crinkles as she reaches into it, retrieving something, and tossing it to him. The package lands square in his lap. It's some kind of ice cream bar: melon flavored. He tears the top off, sinking his teeth into it. 

James knows he should eat—his body is signaling that he needs to—but he can barely stomach it. There should be a sense of fulfillment that follows the action, but he feels none. The food seems to turn to ash in his mouth. 

“If it's not too personal, I must ask: why enter the game?” Hana asks. “You're not a reincarnated sorcerer, you weren't forced to become a player. What reason do you have for being here?”

James shrugs. “Because I have an idea on how to take down Kenjaku.”

That seems to catch the other's attention. They pause their conversations, only to turn to him.

“By opening the prison realm?” Itadori asks.

“Sort of. In order to free Gojo, we need to get Kenjaku in here,” James says. “Geto's soul is still in there. When the two are present, the string of fate is complete, and they should be able to leave together.

“So we're going to use Gojo as bait,

“The problem lies in getting Kenjaku into the game in the first place—and even then, we risk him entering the wrong barrier. But I have a plan for that,

“I have reason to believe that once all the players in a barrier are dead, or have moved on, that barrier becomes inactive.” He says. “The final showdown—so to speak—will happen when all remaining players are confined to the same, final barrier,

“The game only ends when all participants are dead, or everyone refuses to participate, and dies… so by that logic, what happens to the final guy?

“I think that's when Kenjaku steps in to absorb all the residuals,

“And I have another theory: Kenjaku will be the one to deliver the final blow. Or at the very least, he'll be present for the deaths of the final few players,

“Granted, I don't have any proof for this, but I'm figuring the number nineteen has something to do with it. Once the number of remaining players drops to that, Kenjaku will enter the game.”

For whatever reason, a significance is placed on that number in this game. Of course, the sorcerer has no way of proving this until he tries it.

“Back in Shibuya, I briefly witnessed Geto take back his own body when in the presence of his soulmate.” James says. “If we can replicate that—for even just a minute—they can use the rule I put into place to escape.”

Megumi opens his mouth to speak. “But, if Kenjaku is still present within Geto's body-”

“The barrier will take care of that.” He says, sounding just certain enough to convince himself.

“Could that work for Itadori and Sukuna then?” Megumi asks.

“Maybe.” James says. “But Itadori’s and Geto’s situations are a bit… different. Sukuna has learned to coexist with Itadori—so to speak. Meanwhile, Geto and Kenjaku’s relationship is more like parasite and host. While one is considered a complete being, the other is viewed as an intruder.”

Trying to separate the two—especially now—could prove fatal.

A crease forms in the space between Megumi’s eyebrows. He runs his palms along the front of his pants. Through his plain expression, small cracks of emotion show through. It's only now that James notices how tired the student looks. 

Hana stands, hands smoothing out the front of her sweater. “I don't mean to interrupt,” she says, “but look at the number of people who just entered the colony.”

With the wave of her hand, her Kogane appears. The number on its scroll quickly turns from 23 to well over 800.

“I will help you,” Hana says, “if you help me defeat 'The Fallen.'”

[angry-geese]

Nanami's hands,,, live rent free in my head,,,

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Forty-three: Bound Until Death

Soulmate au Choso x Reader

Warnings: minor mentions of blood/injury. Swearing. overall sfw.

Synopsis: another update on the game has those outside the barrier scrambling to regroup

Word count: 4.1k

A/n: honestly I don't have a good excuse for being gone lol I got super into playing obey me! Shall we date and that's basically all I've been doing for the past two and a half weeks so sorry lol

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Masterlist

Today, it’s Choso’s turn to guard Tengen. 

As a child, you used to be able to sleep through just about anything. Your mother would boast about how she would be able to vacuum in the same room as you when you were younger, or bang around pots and pans in the kitchen without worrying about waking you up. Nowadays you don't sleep very heavily. The slightest provocation has you wide awake.

About ten minutes before Choso gets out of bed, you feel him stirring beside you. Movement from him has you awake and alert in an instant, though you keep your eyes closed, and body still. It only takes you a moment to realize that it’s just him.

In the dim hours of the morning—if you can even call them that, considering there's no natural light in here—he often spends his final few minutes in bed with an arm wrapped around your waist, or his body flush against yours. Then, when the time comes, he slips out of bed silently, getting dressed in the dark, before disappearing into the hall. You have his routine memorized: get up, get dressed, fix hair, leave. Only five minutes later will Yuki return in his place.

Yuki greets you, before falling into her cot. Soon, soft snores can be heard coming from her.

Sometimes, you envy her; if not for her strength, then for her ability to sleep the moment her head hits the pillow. Too much goes through your head to fall asleep so quickly. You sit at the edge of the bed, cigarette in hand, still in the same clothes you slept in. Without a lighter, and not wanting the smell of smoke to linger, you simply dig your teeth into the filter.

You slip out into the hall, shutting the door behind you. It doesn't take long for the perpetual fog in Tengen’s barrier to cloud over it. The wood floor is cold against your bare feet, which does little to help the perpetual stiffness that seems to plague your joints.

This time, when your phone rings, you’re expecting it. You answer on the first ring, holding it up to your ear.

“I need you to find Kirara,” he continues, “and I need you to update them about the situation inside the game; we have a rule into place allowing our people to leave. Once Itadori and I find Fushiguro, we’ll open the prison realm, and free Gojo.”

When he finishes speaking, you don't intend to take so long to respond. Your hesitation stems from a mix of grogginess, and overall confusion. He reminds you of your mother in that way: asking things of you before you’ve woken up.

“Why do I have the feeling it's not as easy as you’re putting it?” You ask.

James laughs dryly. “Because it's not. That's not to say it ever is, but, you’re right,

“I have a theory," he says, "about the game, and Kenjaku's involvement in it,

“The rules state that the game ends once all the players are dead, or once all the players have refused to participate, and die,

“Well what happens to a barrier once nobody is left to continue the game? Once there is only one player left in a barrier, unless there's a rule in place allowing them to travel, they're stuck there until the nineteen days are up and they're subjected to cursed technique removal.”

“You're forgetting about the people Kenjaku cursed,” you say. “There’s… what? Over 100 million people in Japan? Even if he only turned 10% of that into sorcerers—a percentage I find to be very small—that still leaves around a million players within the game.”

That amount of players, divided by eleven, still leaves a few thousand players to a barrier—each.

“I haven't,” he says. “By November 19th, all players that are going to enter the barrier will have. Anyone entering after that would have to be some random civilian, or one of you guys—neither of which I find to be likely,

“When this day rolls around, the country will experience a mass culling event. In a few days we’re going to witness an unimaginable loss of human life. But that's besides my point—

“I have reason to believe that barriers will become ‘out of use’ once there are no players left to continue fighting in them. Eventually, the remaining players will be forced into a single barrier, where the fight will reach its conclusion. That's when Kenjaku will swoop in, and ready himself for his mergence with Tengen.”

His breathing has become labored. There’s shuffling from his end of the call.

“I need you to find Kirara,” he continues, “and Shoko, and Kento, and anyone still on our side. I need… I need you to keep them updated on the game.”

Your stomach twists at the sound of Nanami’s name. There's no hard feelings, but you don't find yourself eager to talk to him.

“So… what? You want me to tell them what we’ve known for the past week and a half: nothing?” You ask.

“Just… find them. Please.” He says. “It's unsafe for me to continue contacting you. I risk alerting other players of my location with the use of my cursed technique. I’ll call you again when we find Fushiguro.”

Click!

Your phone hums with the sound of dead air.

Fog settles low to the ground at the end of the hall. Up ahead in the distance, two figures are visible. Both are shrouded in fog, but recognizable.

By the time the figures come into view, the landscape has changed. No longer are you standing in a hall, but an empty room. It much resembles a classroom—minus the desks—with its tile floors, and blank walls. At the front of the room is a blank chalkboard.

“Tengen,” you say, “if you can merge with anyone now, why not do so?”

Your voice seems to echo within the resounding silence that you’re met with. It's hard to tell if Tengen is judging you, or thinking of a response. Either way, his face doesn't change.

“Outside of my barrier, it would be far easier for Kenjaku to use his Idle Transfiguration on me.” Tengen says after his moment of contemplation. “And in my current condition, I cannot leave this place, I would be too weak. If I were to merge with anyone other than the star plasma vessel, it would be incomplete as a whole.”

“But he knows where you are. And it's only a matter of time before he gets to us. You’re a sitting duck.” You say. “Why don't we have you merge with someone other than him? Then how is he supposed to find you if you're off hiding in the Himalayas, or some random city?”

What if you fled to the far edges of the world? What if you fled to the busiest city you could find? Could Kenjaku find you amongst the people of Mumbai, or New York, or Cairo? Could Kenjaku find you at the depths of the Marianas Trench?

“Ignoring that multiple people can merge with me in my current state,” he says, “who would you have me merge with?”

What if… what if he merged with someone who can change the very fabric of a soul…

“My brother has the ability to not only manipulate the soul's of other people, but his own soul itself.” You say. “If we had you two merge, he could use his cursed technique to camouflage you—maybe even prevent other humans from merging with you.”

Tengen hums. Reading his reaction is difficult enough as it is. His face is many things, but expressive is not part of that list.

“And you believe he would agree to such a thing?” He asks.

Only if there was something in it for him…

Tengen seems to know your answer before you say it, because he nods, solemnly.  “Truthfully, I think the only way this will end is with mine and Gojo's death.” He says. 

For a moment you have to pause, reassuring yourself that you heard him right. Even Choso glances at him as if to confirm what he’s said.

“That seems a little extreme,” you say. 

Tengen flicks his wrist, and a map of Japan springs up from the ground. Eleven colonies are marked spanning the length of the country. The map divides the island of Japan into three parts: Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu. 

“This began with us; star plasma and six eyes, and it will end with us.” He says. “My fate is closely linked with that of Gojo, and Geto—you must understand that.”

“Your own safety is the key to humanity’s survival!” Frustration is audible in your voice as you speak. “What’s to stop me from getting this over with quicker by killing you now?”

Tengen only seems slightly amused at your threat. He crosses one set of his arms over his chest, and his leathery lips twist into what must be a smile.

There’s a sudden shift in the cursed energy that lingers in the air as someone else enters the room. Although you don't turn around, you sense another set of eyes on your back.

“Master Tengen’s abilities are essential to the structure and organization to the Jujutsu world.” Yuki says. “And despite your ties to my fellow guard, if you were to harm Tengen, I would spare no hesitation in putting you down.”

In her hands, she holds a cup of coffee. Steam curls up from the surface of the liquid. She takes note of the sudden flare up in your cursed energy, and laughs. It’s not in a mocking way; her tone is that of entertainment.

“I'm fucking with you,” Yuki says, “I know you’re smarter than that,

“Don't mistake me for being as insane as Geto,” she continues, “I may desire for a world where we can break away from cursed energy, but I don't believe a genocide of all non-curse users is the way to go about things.”

Before you, a table materializes out of the fog. Yuki takes a seat, resting her chin on her hands. Your hand comes up to knead at your aching shoulder.

“I heard from my brother again.” You announce louder than intended. Expecting someone to respond, you pause, only to be met with silence.

The first person to break the silence is Tengen.

“I overheard,” Tengen says. “If what your brother said was true, then we have no way of knowing which barrier the fight will conclude in, but I have a theory,

“Of mainland Japan, the southernmost colony is in Okinawa. For that matter—all colonies appear to be placed over ground where massive loss of life occurred, aside from Hokkaido, who’s significance as neutral ground has been stated from the start of the game,

“With there being around a million contenders all divided between these barriers, this game will not conclude quickly. Once we free Gojo, and extract our players, we can allow the game to resolve itself. But doing so without defeating Kenjaku will prove to be a fatal mistake.”

Makes sense. If Kenjaku is still around once the game ends, who knows how strong he'll be. Stopping him after his mergence would be a suicide mission.

“So what do we do?” You ask. “The game isn't going to end just because he’s dead. But if we wait for him to merge with you, then he’s—” You gesture vaguely with your hands, sighing tiredly.

“Well,” he says, sighing, “it's ill-advised for you to go tracking Kenjaku down, so I suppose you should find Kirara.”

… 

It doesn't take you long to get ready. You’re dressed within five minutes, and have your things packed in under ten. 

Admittedly, you draw things out longer than necessary when bidding goodbye to Choso. He squeezes you tightly, head falling into the crook of your neck, and his arms tightening around you. It's the type of hug that, if you saw a child doing it to a small animal, you’d feel bad for the thing, or maybe even intervene.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say. Your words are meant more to spare your ribs, than they are to comfort him.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says.

Although it’s dark within the lower levels of Jujutsu Tech, retracing your steps isn't difficult. 

It’s night time when you reach the ground floor. From here, both of the Tokyo barriers are visible as black dots along the skyline. Lights from downtown are spotty, and sparse. Entire blocks of the city appear dark, possibly from power outages, or collateral damage. 

Aside from the hum of the fluorescent lights, and incessant screech of crickets, the halls are silent. Shoko is in the infirmary, sitting at her computer. The glow of the monitor is the only source of light in the room. Although she doesn't turn to look at you, she must hear you come in. From her desk, she makes a noise that can only be discerned as “what do you want?”

“You’re still here?” You ask. “I thought you would have gone home by now.”

“Downtown is in ruin, cursed spirits freely roam the streets, and there are no trains headed up North,” she says, “where else would I go?”

Irritation is tangible in her voice. She taps the filter of her cigarette against her desk repeatedly. Day-old mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, which are red, and puffy.

“How’s your shoulder doing?” She asks. “I heard you got hurt pretty bad back in Shibuya…”

As if on instinct, your hand moves to your shoulder. “Feels fine.” You say. It aches when it rains, and whenever Choso is nearby, but that’s to be expected.

“Good,” she says, placing the filter of her cigarette between her lips, “with injuries like that, there’s bound to be some lasting side effects. In the future, you’ll likely be dealing with complications. Because you’re young, your body has recovered quicker.”

Shoko’s lipstick leaves a pale pink ring around the filter of her cigarette. The flame from her lighter casts a soft orange glow across her face.

“You knew Geto?” You ask.

“In school, yeah,” she says. “He, Gojo and I were in the same year.”

You had never given the topic enough thought to realize that the two are roughly the same age. Shoko always seemed older than him. Or maybe, Gojo’s immature tendencies made him seem younger than he really is.

“Were you close?” You ask.

Not that it’s any of your business. “No,” she says, “no—I mean, we were about as close as you can expect. I'm sure you’ve noticed the social circle in Jujutsu Tech isn't a large one—but he and Gojo were a lot closer,

“Honestly, I always had my eyes on Utahime, over in Kyoto.” 

Her words leave you with the impression that she’s trying to lighten the situation, and failing. Rain pounds against the window quietly. Shoko notices this, an annoyed look flashing across her face. Pushing herself away from her desk, she shuts the blinds. They rattle as they fall, hitting the windowsill with a loud snap!

Shoko is not someone you’ve spoken with more than in passing conversation; she (albeit poorly) explains how a reversed cursed technique works, and you try to explain the various dumb injuries you come to her with. She keeps to herself, you do the same. The two of you were content with that.

It’s not that you outwardly dislike her; you simply have nothing to talk about.

“Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if things would have turned out different,” she says, “that if maybe we got through to him, this wouldn't have happened,

“I know the things he’s done, and I’m aware that this is an act of jujutsu terrorism on a level we’ve never seen before; nothing I say is in defense of his actions,

“I just… I have to tell you that he was human. At one point. He—like you and I—are products of our environment.”

Such a moment of vulnerability—especially from Shoko herself—is jarring. Uncertain of how to respond, you turn your gaze to the floor.

“Gojo told me that a lot of cursed spirits were human. At one point.” You say.

Your words aren't meant to mock her, but you worry they come off that way. Shoko’s attention turns back to her computer screen: an open word document. Nothing is typed out onto the page. Her cursor blinks back at her.

“I’m trying to find Kirara,” you say. “They wouldn't be here, by any chance?”

It’s a long shot. You figure that, if they were here, you would have run into them by now.

Shoko’s brows knit in concentration. “That's the one with all the piercings, right?” She asks, gesturing to her own face. Her nail polish is noticeably chipped.

You nod.

“Haven't seen them,” she says. “You're certain they haven't entered one of the culling game barriers?”

“Doubt it.” You say. “The two of us were ordered to keep an eye on things outside of the barriers. I don't think they have any reason to go marching on in there.”

Unless someone has their own reason to enter the game—whether that be by force or not—you don't see the point in entering of your own volition. The only way the game ends is with the death of all its players; that’s not a very enticing reward. Some simply want a fight—you can respect that. But the average sorcerer isn't going to enter unless they have good reason to.

“So that's why you're not a player…” she says. “I’ve been wondering about that—why you haven’t entered yet. If Gojo were here, he’d make a bet to see how long until you go in after your brother.”

Her words make heat flood your cheeks. Gojo talks about you. Of course he would; you’re one of his students, after all. The concept of being noticed—by one of the strongest sorcerers in existence at that—being more than a passing face in a crowd to him strikes you as odd. People like him typically don't give people like you the time of day. Not in the jujutsu world.

Gojo must have a lot of faith in his students. 

Of course he does; they’re his only hope right now.

“I'm afraid I can't be much help to you right now,” Shoko says, “but I suggest checking around either of the Tokyo colonies. Or—find that underground fighting ring that Hakari was running. If they’ve gone anywhere, it's likely somewhere they’re already familiar with. Kids are predictable in that regard.”

“And how am I supposed to find it?” You ask.

Shoko’s lips press into a thin line. Eyeliner smudges beneath her eyes as she rubs them. “I'd advise against being in the city after nightfall,” she says, “but look for lights—they’ll be easier to spot after dark.”

Traveling from Jujutsu Tech to downtown Tokyo on foot isn't inconvenient at best. On top of walking, you’re occupied by looking over your shoulder for cursed spirits. While you appear to be alone, you’re still on edge. Traveling downtown, on your own, isn't what you would consider to be a relaxing activity.

Without the help of google maps, or someone who knows the city better than you, finding the warehouse proves to be a challenge. It's not lit up like expected. By the time you finally spot the building, you have to do a double take. From all appearances, this place is abandoned. Cars are stopped dead in the center of the street, abandoned by their owners. Trash piles up along the sidewalk.

It's always the silence that hits you first. If there are people in this part of town, they’re hiding. Not that you blame them. Anyone who’s out in the street like this has a death wish.Less than a half hour into your trek, you come across a street that has been blocked off. Orange detour signs sit at either end. Considerable damage has been done to a shop front, as if something the size of a car was thrown into it. You’re not certain what this building used to be; perhaps it was a market at one point in time, or maybe even a restaurant.

Something in the back of your brain registers cursed energy, before the rest of you does: acrux. Written in scratchy letters on the side of a trash can. Up ahead in the distance, a car is also marked. Then a door, and the side of a building.

Love Rendezvous. They were here. 

That’s when something lands on the pavement in front of you.

It’s plasticky, and gelatinous, and hits the asphalt with a comical sounding flap! A blood bag. You have enough time to shield your face with your arms before it bursts, spraying out in all directions.

Not wanting to wait around to find the source of this attack, you make a break for a nearby building. The door is unlocked, allowing you to throw it open, and squeeze inside. From there, you scale two flights of stairs, before coming to a stop in front of a roof access door. In an instant, you have it open, slipping through it, letting it go before realizing that it’s locked on your side.

Internally, you curse yourself. What kind of stupid roof access door is locked from the outside only?! It would make infinitely more sense to have it locked from the inside!

The only way out is down. 

Defeated, and breathing heavily, you slump against the door. Rain water collects on the rooftop in shallow pools. A telephone pole has come down onto the side of this building, caving in part of the roof. Loose wires crackle and burn into the concrete.

That blood bag… has to be a Kamo. 

Your husband’s family isn't exactly known for teaching their technique to outsiders. It's safe to assume that someone using blood manipulation is a Kamo.

Shouldn't they be on your side? Or, at least, not actively trying to kill you.

From across the street, light reflects into your eye. Grimacing at the sudden assault on your vision, your arms move up to cover your face. Panic flares up within your chest. Letting your guard down could get you killed.

You become acutely aware of the ringing in your ears.

Slowly, your vision turns to the source of the light: a building directly across from you on the street. Kirara stands on the roof, reflecting the light from a billboard at you with a palm-sized mirror, stopping upon making eye contact with you. They hold a finger up to their lips in a “hush” motion.

That's when you notice them gesturing towards something behind you.

Your eyes fall upon the puddle, then to the wires that have fallen into it.

And it finally registers what Kirara is trying to sign to you: don't touch the water.

It doesn't take much electricity to stop the human heart. Even small voltage shocks can send someone into cardiac arrest.

This roof isn't level by any means, and as such, several spots are dry. A few feet in front of you is one of these dry patches. The jump would be easy enough to land if you could get a running start.

When the door flies open, a man steps out. His hands are clasped in front of him, as if he’s holding something. The cursed energy that radiates off of him smells faintly metallic.

Upon spotting you, he opens his hands, allowing what was in them to flow freely: blood. The blood resembles a rope, more than it does an arrow. It holds still in the air for a moment, as if he’s hesitating, before hurling towards you at full speed. Bringing your blade up, your own cursed energy coursing through it, you slice straight through the rope.

Definitely a Kamo.

If you squint, you can make out some resemblance to Choso. Both have the same stringy black hair, and dark eyes, but the similarities stop there. This man is on the shorter side, with a scrawnier build: lithe, like a runner. If they are related—which is likely—then they aren't related closely.

He says your name loudly. Fear prickles at the back of your neck. It's finally setting in that you’re who he’s looking for. This isn't some random attack.

“You’re under investigation for aiding the curse users in Shibuya.” He says. “The head of the Kamo clan has requested you as an audience. You can either come willingly, or we will take you by force.”

“Seems like you're already using force, asshole!” You call back.

[angry-geese]

i would literally commit murder for choso you dont understand

[angry-geese]

i am once again sobbing over satosugu

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Thirty-Two: Memento Mori

soulmate au Choso x Reader

Warnings: canon typical violence. Blood and injury (broken bones mention). On-screen murder lol

Synopsis: a pretty plot heavy chapter + more about the culling game. obligatory jjk manga spoilers

Word Count: 2.8k

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Landing in a dumpster should have been his first sign as to how this was going to go.

The world seems to come into view all at once, spinning, before he takes a sudden turn to face the ground, and everything goes black. There's a comically loud bang! as his forehead whacks against the side of the dumpster. The bags of trash do little help to cushion his fall. A sour smell fills his nose, akin to spoiled milk, and a strange, gritty substance seems to cover him. He assumes it's coffee grounds. His ears ring, and his vision spins like a grenade has gone off while he was holding it. James isn't sure what he expected to happen the moment he stepped foot into the barrier, but this wasn't it.

In his disoriented state, it takes him several minutes to steady himself enough to stand. And a few more to gain his bearings. No sign of the students. Or of anyone for that matter. And the landscape isn't one he recognizes, aside from being an average street in Tokyo. He has the feeling that this may prove to be a blessing in disguise. If another player were around, it wouldn't take all that much effort to shove him over and kill him with his own knife.

He stands in the alley between a butcher shop, and a restaurant. The sky itself takes on a strange black color, as if it's night, but the street is bright as it would be during the day. The barrier itself is far off in the distance—he's certain he'd reach it if he kept walking for a while, but that may be a bad idea given the various people that may be lurking about.

Without much else to go on, he figures it's best to start gathering supplies. Food and weapons take priority. So does shelter. Without any way to figure out when the sun sets, such a thing may creep up on him before he knows it. Getting stranded outside—not to mention, after dark—with curses, and plenty of other things all waiting to kill him, doesn't seem like a smart idea.

The butcher's shop has been picked clean. Not a scrap of meat or knife to spare. The restaurant is less picked over. The front window has been shattered, and glass crunches underfoot as he enters the building. The cash register is open, with the contents of the drawer splayed across the ground. There's chunks out of the wall behind the counter. Splinters of wood litter the floor.

Like it's been hit with buckshot.

He has a feeling the mysterious rust-colored stain is probably blood.

It's the most prominent against the wall, but there's some on the floor too, as if whoever was hit got up and dragged themself to a back room. There's no smell of blood, but he’s not going to lean down and check either.

The door is unlocked, and free of any barricades. It's canned and dry food galore. Stacked from floor to ceiling are shelves full of canned foods, and dry goods like rice and beans. But he has no way to carry it. Or cook it. Though, the power is on in this part of the city, and breaking into an apartment to use it's stove wouldn't be impossible.

Half hidden by a bloated, stiffened hand, is a revolver. There's four shots left. The other two are empty shell casings. .44 rounds. There's a half-full box in the corpse's front pocket. He's not sure how good it's gonna do against a curse, but it'll work pretty good against people. Sorcerer or not, humans generally won't last well against lead thrown at them at a high enough velocity.

He begins loading what he can into a duffel bag sat on the corpse's lap. What he needs is a spot to camp out for the night, and a place to dump off all his supplies. This building isn't the most defensible. But if he were to barricade himself in the upstairs apartment, or a back room, it would be a place to settle for the night. Or he could keep walking. See how long it takes to reach the other side of the barrier. Get a better look at the land. As far as he knows, he has plenty of supplies, and daylight. A pretty decent start.

All he sees is a streak of red. Then the glint of a blade.

He’s throwing himself behind the counter before his brain registers what’s going on. There's a loud crash—as if glass is being broken. Then shouting. There's three distinguishable voices. A man, and two women. Their accents vary widely between the three of them. Two are recognizable, the other is not.

James pokes his head out from behind the counter.

One of the women has come tumbling through the broken window. The other two remain out on the street. There’s blood on her hands from where they’ve been cut by shards of glass. The shock of red hair is the most noticeable thing about her. That is until she turns to look at him.

"Mallory?!"

“Listen I don't know who these guys are or why they have it out for me in particular but they've got me pinned!!” she says, scrambling behind the counter. "I could use a little help over here."

He stuffs the revolver in his belt, reaching for his knife instead. Best to conserve ammo. He wasn't exactly given a lot of it.

Not a moment later, the man bursts through the door.

James reaches for a coffee mug that's fallen to the ground in the ensuing chaos, swinging it directly into the back of the man’s head. It shatters on impact. Ceramic shards spray out in all different directions. The scream that leaves him sounds like something straight out of Looney Toons. But he's only stunned for a moment. James didn't hit him hard enough to do any lasting damage.

The soul says what the body won't. Lucky for James, this guy seems to be pretty bad at lying. He's no special grade sorcerer. In terms of power, he's objectively weaker than James. It's a lot harder to read a person's soul when they’re trying to kill you. Too many things going on at once. At least in all the outcomes he can see, he gets out of this fight alive.

He's going to lunge for Mal.

There's a crunch as he drives his knife into the man's back, finishing him off with a blow of cursed energy.

The woman’s cursed technique must be ranged. That's why she’s not coming into the building.

Smart. It would be easier to draw them out and pick them off out in the street. Or, trap them in the building, then set it on fire. If they try to escape, pick them off as they exit the building.

“Stay away from the windows,” he says, pressing his back up against the wall.

“Well there goes my plans,” she says with a scoff. “Are you going to tell me not to look straight down the barrel of your gun either? I'm not stupid Jimmy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, in the middle of the street, he spies movement. It's big enough to be a human. But he doesn't dare move from his cover. If this is to not go terribly, he needs to wait for her to come to him.

Now she's much tougher, he thinks. Stronger sorcerers must be employing weaker ones, either under threats, or the guise of protection.

In the first week, alliances would have been made. In that same time, territory would have been taken. Buildings would be looted for supplies. Survivors—if there are any—would hole up in abandoned buildings. By the second week, the weaker sorcerers would have all been killed. All that remains is those who are strong enough—and smart enough—to survive the initial killings. Leaving them at a standstill.

Until someone comes along and tampers with the fine balance of things. Sending what was once balancing on a thin wire completely over the side. Beyond the point of no return.

He has the sinking feeling she won’t leave him alone if he runs. Killing her may be the only option he’s given.

“I’m going to lure her out.” He says. “Wait here.”

“Good luck with that,” she says, following this with a sigh.

If the noise from their earlier fight didn't draw any attention, then this one certainly will. The last thing they need is for more players to come running in. She’s likely hiding the same as them.

Whoever this other sorcerer is, she’s not doing a great job at concealing her soul. It doesn't take long for him to figure out which alley she’s camped out in. And though the source of her cursed energy isn't massive, it's steady.

She must be waiting for him to make the first move.

She's got about eighteen points. So she’s also been hunting civilians. In the past two weeks, she’s killed at least three sorcerers.

James has no clue whether or not this woman is a reincarnated sorcerer, or a modern one. Either way, he’s not certain he’ll get the chance to ask.

A further glance reveals no one else on this street. That's not to say there isn't another player skulking about a block or two over—that's a given. But for the time being, it's just the three of them.

He leaves his cover slowly. Stealth really isn't possible when you can hear his steps in the crunch crunch crunch of the glass. He’s not sure when he draws his knife. But it must be the moment her head pokes out of cover.

She holds something in her hand—a piece of metal, in a shape that makes him think if he picked it up, he’d be deafened by someone saying “a new hand touches the beacon!” It’s attached to a length of rope, and a scrap of fabric. He has the sinking feeling it's not as useless as it first looks.

He ducks just in time to avoid getting his skull cracked with that piece of metal.

If he stays in close enough, she can't gain enough momentum to do much damage. The same goes for him, though. Being out in the open like this gives her room to swing. He needs to lead her into an enclosed space.

So he turns and starts running.

What she lacks in cursed energy, she makes up for in speed. If it weren't for his head start, she would have caught up with him by now. He makes it about half a block before she finally does. That chunk of metal strikes him square in the spine, and he's certain that if he weren't reinforcing his body with cursed energy, he'd be paralyzed.

He makes it another two steps before collapsing. Each breath sends a new shock of agony through his chest. She must have broken a rib or two.

Much to his surprise, she doesn't kill him then and there. Instead, she speaks.

“You’re pretty strong,” she says, “are you from this era, or a past one?”

“Depends,” he says, “which one will make you kill me fastest?”

She swings again, though this time he senses it coming, and rolls to the side. Such sudden movement momentarily makes his vision go white. A wave of nausea rolls over him. The metal—he can only compare it to the head of a hammer—hits the pavement beside his head so hard that it cracks, and is momentarily stuck.

He loops the rope around his arm, pulling hard. Though it doesn't come loose from her grip, she’s not expecting it. His knife should meet the fleshy part right under her ribs, but she’s able to brace for it in time, and knock his weapon away. The blade goes clattering to the ground a few feet behind him.

Garnering enough cursed energy to do anything—let alone manipulate a human soul—is difficult. Not while he’s injured, nor while his heart is racing like this. The breaths he takes in are ragged, and contained by broken ribs. Each inhale is followed by a new wave of agony.

The closest parts of his body to hers are his hands. He reaches out, grabbing onto her forearm. The effort it takes to manipulate her soul into something fatal is immense, but it only takes that brief bit of contact to do it.

Her body seizes up all at once. He senses the cursed energy in her stutter, before flickering out entirely. Like a candle that’s been snubbed out. Her heart seems to work hard against it, but it's no use. With one final blow of cursed energy, he finishes her off.

Another moment passes before anything happens. There's no noise to indicate anything has happened. No monotone voice announcing he’s won points. It's silent. Directly in front of James appears a Kogane, it's mouth opening to reveal a scroll with a list of names—players.

Ten points have been added to: James Whitford

There's the soft click click click of her heels on the concrete as she approaches him.

“Jimmy Whitford,” she says. Mal holds out her hand, helping him stand.

"I'll give you every dollar to my name so you don't call me that again." He says.

She falls against him in a hug, squeezing his ribs so tightly that he fears she may actually be trying to kill him. Unsure of what else to do, James hugs her back. She smells faintly of smoke. There's a black patch over her injured eye. Her sword is clean. Almost too clean considering the circumstances. It glimmers much like a mirage—much like a cursed object would. There's bandages on her right bicep, which appear soaked in fresh blood.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He asks, pulling away.

“I moved to Japan to teach elementary students English.” She says. “Why are you here?”

“My answer depends on how much you know about what’s going on,” he says.

“Well, two weeks ago I went to bed in my apartment,” she says, “and then some weird guy with stitches across his forehead woke me up and told me that I’m a shaman, and now people from a thousand years ago are coming to kill me. That I have to participate in this culling game, or die.”

“Did you get his name by any chance?”

“Yeah,” she says, “said he went by a few different names, but to call him Kamo. Why? You know this guy?”

Definitely Kenjaku.

“Kind of.” He says. “Let's just say he and I aren't great friends right now.”

She casts him a look that seems to say ‘whatever’. "I'm trying to get to the top of that apartment complex," Mal continues, "get the lay of the land. Or, at the very least, set up camp for the night. Wanna team up?"

"That depends," he says, "are you going to try to kill me?"

"Depends on how much you piss me off."

“I don't like those odds,” James says.

“Then get out of the street,” she says. “We’ll talk more when we get into some cover.”

The two duck into a nearby shop. It must have been a bakery at one point, but it's long since been looted. Still, the glass display case remains. There's a sign out front advertising a sale. The tables inside still have dishes on them, like someone was in the middle of a meal when they left.

They get to work barricading the door, pushing any heavy furniture they can find up against it. There's still a back exit, plus plenty of windows to climb through. There's only so much they can do to defend the place without trapping themselves inside entirely.

Mal groans as she stands, using the counter for leverage. "I only know of one shaman with a base nearby. If we take that back alley, we should be able to avoid him.” She says. “The locals have taken to fighting too. They're proving to be a bit of an inconvenience. Generally they won't bother you unless provoked, but you never know. Otherwise it's a straight shot to that high-rise." She motions to a building off on the horizon.

“Who says I’m going to help you?” He asks, irritated.

“Well then you’d be an idiot to come in here with me." She says.

He would. Assuming their history would be enough to warrant an alliance may have been a bad idea. If anything goes wrong, he can ditch her somewhere. If there's one thing James Whitford is good at, it's running.

“Even if I didn't know you—the way you just barged in and took on those sorcerers was enough to show that it’d be a bad idea to mess with you.” She says. “Don't you think that if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now?”

“Fine.” He says. “I’ll help you.”

“Pinky promise?” She asks.

“What?”

“I'm not teaming up with you without it,” she says, “so if you’re not going to do it, you better start packing.”

Reluctantly, he sticks his pinky finger out. The expression on her face is unreadable as she loops her finger around his, and shakes.

“Alright,” she says, “it's a deal. But If I get killed, I’m coming back to haunt your ass.”

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Thirty-seven: Infinity

soulmate au Choso x Reader

warnings: light angst. obligatory jjk manga spoilers. overal sfw

Synopsis: a pretty plot heavy chapter. focuses pretty heavily on what's going on in Tengen's barrier

a/n: at this point im half tempted to write my own ending for jjk dgkjdf

word count: 2.6k

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You're not certain what wakes you up, but it only takes you a moment to do so. Your eyes snap open, but you struggle to keep your head up. The tablecloth you lay your head on is lacy, and an ugly cream color. There's a vase of lillies as the centerpiece. The walls are an ugly shade of yellow, like faded mustard. In the corners, the wallpaper is peeling, revealing pale, cracked plaster. There's no decorations on the walls. Neither are there windows. Despite the lack of any light source—natural or artificial—it's plenty bright enough, as there’s a strange hazy glow that hovers over everything. Everything about this room screams old. 

Geto is seated at the head of the table. Alongside him are two girls. Neither can be older than a high schooler, and neither of them you recognize. To the left is Gojo. Then Yuji and Megumi. Then James. You're all dressed like you're going to a wedding—or perhaps a funeral is more fitting. You have the misfortune of being dressed in a black suit, with a white dress shirt, and shoes that your mother would not-so affectionately dub church shoes.

Shadows weave in and out of the figures of the crowd. Some human, some animal, some are completely shapeless. Some stick to the walls. Others sit, and interact with the decorations on the table, as if they’re guests too. The worst of them leer over you. So you keep your head down, because paying attention to them means they won't leave you alone.

This must be a funeral, you think. The strong scent of lillies gives you a headache. Why else would you all be dressed in such a way?

Geto stands, tapping the mic. In response, it lets out a horrible screeching noise. He’s discarded his suit jacket, leaving it over the back of his chair. A shadow leers behind him, but he turns, and greets it as if he sees a proper person. You know logically this should be Kenjaku. But he has no stitches across his forehead. Something tells you that this is the real Suguru Geto.

So you do what you normally do when faced with a social situation you don't want to be in: you begin looking for Nanami.

He’s nowhere to be found in the crowd. And though you see no exits, you figure he must be outside. Patting around your pockets, you find a pack of cigarettes, and a matchbox. Camel blues this time. When you try to stand, you’re unable to do so. It feels like trying to move your limbs through hardening cement. You make eye contact with James from across the table. His gaze lingers on you, and he shakes his head.

Geto drones on and on about something—you're not really paying attention. The mic squeaks, and several people in the crowd cringe. The lights dim. That hazy glow fades, and with it, the little warmth this room held fades. 

He clears his throat, and apologizes for the noise. “We gather here today, to celebrate the life of a sorcerer, and a…”

A cold feeling slithers around your heart, squeezing it. You loop the string of fate around your fingers. 

“...and none of us made it here without regrets. Whether it was something you did, or didn't do; that is the single bond that ties us together…” Gojo laughs, and nudges your arm. “...we are as we were in life: human…”

You stand suddenly, slamming your palms down on the table. 

"But I'm not dead!" You say. "I did everything right!"

Did you? Their gazes seem to ask.

"If I knew any better, I'd say you have regrets," Geto says, "that's why you're stuck behind with us."

… 

A thin sheen of sweat coats your body. You crack an eye open, and are met with the sight of a dark room. The dryness in your throat prevents you from falling back asleep. Your face feels warm. Almost feverish. There's a stark change in temperature between being under the covers, and out of them. As such, you chose to stay under them.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits. And though you're facing the wall, you soon recognize this figure as Choso. 

He smooths a hand across your back. His cool touch is welcome against your feverish skin. You pull the blankets a little tighter around your shoulders. Not as a way to shut him out, if anything, you want him to lean in closer. And he does, laying on his side beside you. His fingers trace down the curve of your spine. Soft. Lovingly.

“How long was I out?” You ask.

“I'm not sure.” Choso says. “It was a while. Yuki was getting worried."

You blink a few times. Pinch the flesh of your arm. You're awake this time.

That doesn't narrow it down any. But Choso isn't one to exaggerate. How long was it? Hours? Days?

Something cold seems to tighten around your heart. You soon recognize it as terror. 

You are so tired. Fatigue leaves your limbs heavy, and your head light. It's occurred to you that it wouldn't take all that much effort to stick a knife in your back right now. You wouldn't do anything to stop it.

It almost feels as if that would make your day easier.

This must be the first time your body has come out of fight or flight in weeks. And you’re not certain how to deal with that.

"How are you feeling?” He asks. Choso presses the back of his hand to your forehead. He must not feel anything out of the ordinary, as he pulls away rather quickly.

“Fine.” You say. “Thirsty.” Sore. Tired. Nothing new. You're alive. That's about the best you can ask for anymore.

He offers you a bottle of water. You take it, unscrew the cap, before gulping it down greedily. It does little to help the dryness in your throat. But you don't wish to burden him by asking for more. Your hand moves to knead at your aching shoulder.

Perhaps this is karma. Perhaps you will finally know what it’s like to lose someone close to you. Perhaps your death will be a quiet one. An undignified one. You can’t help but think this is all some kind of cosmic punishment.

Choso crawls in bed beside you. You scoot back to give him room under the blankets. He widens his arms a bit, and on instinct, you go into them. 

You lay on your side. Your shoulder is making it difficult to lay on your back. You suppose that’s something you’re going to have to get used to; becoming a side sleeper after sleeping on your back for most of your life. Though your eyes are closed, you’re wide awake. The body beside you prevents you from getting any sleep.

Choso’s large hand moves to cup your face. This time, when he kisses you, there's some force behind it. A hungry nature. No longer does he seem to fear touching you. 

Your lips must be chapped. There’s no mirror in this room, yet instinctively you try to fix your appearance. Logically you know Choso has seen you in a worse state; bleeding out, half dead on the floor of Shibuya’s subway station. Or even worse, the time you threw up on him. Things could be worse. They could be a lot better. But they could be worse.

You will grow old. And your skin will wrinkle. And your hair will have grey strands in it. And Choso will still look at you the same; as if you were the one who put the very stars in the sky.

Your fingers comb through his hair. It feels softer than you remember, though it’s probably overdue for a wash.

“I’ll fix your hair when we get up,” you say, tucking a lock behind his ears.

A set of dark eyes meet yours. When he kisses you, again, there's a deep sorrow that accompanies it.

“What happens when you die?” He asks.

"You rot." You say.

"I mean, where do you go?"

A graveyard, you want to answer.

“I dunno,” you say. “I think what happens comes down to what you believed when you were alive. If you believed in heaven or hell, you’d go there. Or if you believed in reincarnation, you’d be reborn into a new life. Or if you didn't believe in anything at all, then that's it. The lights shut off, the curtains fall, that's it. Metaphorically speaking, I mean.”

Who knows. Maybe there is some screen that says “the end” when you’re dying. Maybe some higher being shows you highlights of your life.

Of course, with sorcerers, and curses, reincarnation is a whole lot more plausible now. That's about as much proof as a person can get.

“What do you believe in?” He asks.

“I'm beginning to wonder that myself,” you say.

But really, you hope this is it. You’re not certain you want to come out on the other side of this. The concept of simply not existing doesn't sound all that bad.

Choso props himself up on his elbows. His hair falls loose in his face.

“How do you stand it?” He asks. “Not knowing what happens after death?”

“I don't.” You say. “It's just something I don't think about. But if you ask me, I don't think there's anything on the other side. This is it."

There's a knock at the door, and a blonde head peeks through. Yuki.

“Tengen needs to see you.” She says, slapping a hand over her eyes. “Please put some clothes on.”

Yuki leaves as quickly as she first appeared. Her footsteps don't fade out, so much as they simply stop.

Your hips ache. Getting dressed takes you longer than usual.

Stepping out into the hall, you find yourself in a white room. The door behind you fades after a moment. You’re much reminded of Janet’s void in The Good Place, with the way things just appear and disappear here.

“Ryoumen Sukuna was not killed by the means of any human sorcerer,” Tengen says. “He killed himself.”

His voice comes from somewhere behind you. Right where Choso’s door once was.

“Isn't that a bit counterproductive?” You ask. “Considering he's like a god and all?”

Tengen sighs. “I can not say I understand his reasoning. But Sukuna managed to preserve himself through the means of self mummification—a practice called sokushinbutsu.”

“That's where monks would mummify themselves while alive?” You ask.

He nods. “Through consuming a strict diet, called mokujiki, the person completing this process would slowly eliminate all body fat. Slowly they would reduce all liquid intake, inducing dehydration, and shrinking all organs. They would die during a state of meditation, and their body would become naturally preserved, without the need of any artificial factors.”

Sukuna has something bigger planned. That was clear from the start, but there was never a full picture. He’s not an evil mustache-twirling villain in the typical sense. Everything he’s done is seemingly at random. Nobody truly knows what he has planned. But for a man (god?) who’s been waiting for centuries to play it out, you’re certain there's a bigger picture.

If he could wait centuries to be reincarnated in the body of Yuji Itadori, he can certainly wait a few more weeks.

“So, why are you telling me this?” You ask.

Tengen looks as if he’s going to shrug.

“I will be the first to admit, it is nice to have a new face to speak to.” He says. “Yuki is too preoccupied with other things to care much for this, and Choso is not much for words at all. I talk, and he listens, but I feel his mind is on other things…”

Tengen must have spent a lot of time in this place by himself. You can only imagine what that solitude does to a human mind. If he even is human anymore. The line of what’s human and what’s not is blurred when it comes to sorcerers. To you, it seems the more of a sorcerer one is, the less humanity they have.

“My brother seems to think that Geto can retake his body.” You say. “But to do so, he needs to be in the presence of Gojo. Supposedly the presence of his soulmate will awaken him. At least slightly.”

“And your brother’s cursed technique has something to do with this?”

“I don't know.” You say. “I have no clue what he has planned. But, from what he’s told me, if he were to cut the string of fate, he’d kill all three of them.” You make a snipping motion with your fingers.

That would be one solution. It's not a good one. But it's a solution.

Tengen folds his hands in front of him. “You were not born as a sorcerer,” he says. “You awoke something in your bloodline, unlike your brother, who was predispositioned to his fate.”

Fate. Every human on earth is joined by a series of red wires. Whether from the hearts of one, to the hand of another. These bonds don't need to be platonic, or romantic. Their sole existence is to tie people together.

"Your brother contains a power that has not seen its full potential since the dawn of humanity," he says. "And these are the perfect conditions for it. Right now, for the versatility and rareness of his cursed technique, he is rated as a special grade sorcerer,

“I feel as if very few of us understand the true power he holds. If he were to realize it, we could be looking at a sorcerer among the likes of Gojo—perhaps even capable of defeating him,

"He and Sukuna are similar in the sense they are both walking calamities. Where they go, disaster follows."

Something tightens in your chest. It's not anxiety. Nor fear. This is something almost foreign to you. 

It's jealousy.

“My brother is an idiot,” you say. “I wouldn't count on him causing any world-ending disasters. He can barely do the dishes.”

Tengen turns to face you, suddenly. "You care about him, do you not?" He asks.

"Of course I do." You say. 

He's your brother. Even when you hate him, you still care about him. That's just what brothers do.

Where he goes, disaster follows.

Funny. It's almost as if you are the disaster in this situation.

"This worry, and fear-" Tengen says, "I am concerned that if it is left long enough, it will culminate into a curse."

You laugh. He's not joking, but he might as well be. "I don't think you need to worry about me cursing myself," you say. "I know most Jujutsu sorcerers die with regrets, but I intend to be one that doesn't."

“To die without regrets, is to die without humanity,” Tengen says. “Humanity and regret walk hand in hand. It has been this way since the dawn of time,

“Sometimes that is what I think makes you sorcerers human: the ability to look back and regret.” Again, he sighs. "Do you wish for your death to curse your brother?"

Is that a rhetorical question?

"I won't curse him." You say. "He's plenty capable of doing that to himself."

Tengen waves his hands, and a table with tea appears. He sets out two cups. One for him, one for you. This tea has a heavy citrus scent to it, mixed with something floral. It’s sweet, and fruity, and floral without tasting like perfume.

"It must feel like the end of the world to you," he asks, "doesn't it,

“I truly do not know what to say to comfort you. For that, I apologize. It is not often that I face such… strange circumstances,

"Humanity will persist." Tengen says. "Like the cockroach that weathers out nuclear armageddon: humans will survive. And Jujutsu users will be among them."

And it is slowly setting in. The idea that the only happy ending for you and Choso, is the grave you will be buried together in.

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Thirty-One: It's

soulmate au Choso x Reader

Warnings: death mention. obligatory jjk manga spoilers (mostly about the culling game) but overall sfw

Synopsis: a pretty plot heavy chapter. mostly dialogue + another flashback + another phone call

word count: 3.2k (just under 3.3k)

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masterlist

You head into downtown Tokyo with the intent of picking a fight.

It's raining again.

Clouds gather overhead, blotting out the last sliver of sunlight. You duck into a bus stop to catch a break from the rain. Water leaks in through cracks in the roof. Though it's not particularly cold out, you find yourself shivering.

If there is anything out at this hour, it’s avoiding you like the plague. The streets are empty of both people and curses. Only one cursed spirit has the misfortune of running into you. It's quickly exorcized. It's almost comical how quickly you manage to take it out.

The sun quickly dips below the horizon, the last bit of daylight is muddled by clouds. Sunset already? You’re not certain how many hours you’ve wasted wandering around, but it must be a few, as your phone is dead, and you’re rather hungry.

Only one shop on this street has its lights on, albeit the open sign is dark. Looks like there's still power in this part of the city. Reliably, the power is on for most hours of the day. Sometimes it flickers. Some neighborhoods are completely dark. It really depends. You're not sure who’s still around to keep it on. But generally, wherever you go, you can count on the lights still being on.

A head pops out from within the doorway, but instead of readying your sword, you freeze. There's a little voice in the back of your mind telling you not to move. It's not fear. Fear is far different from this.

She stares at you for a moment, before stepping out onto the street, her black umbrella unfurling like a set of wings behind her. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You reach into your coat to sheathe your sword, pulling it close around your body.

“Come inside,” she says, “you’ll catch a cold out there. I'll bring you some soup.”

What.

Another moment goes by before you collect yourself. You stuff your hands in your pockets. “Sorry lady,” you say, “I don't have any money.”

“It's on me,” she says, “if you’ll take some pity on an old woman and have tea with her?”

You're not about to turn down tea with someone’s old granny, but you have a bad feeling about this. There's not many people who are on your side anymore. What seems like some innocent grandmother, may be another sorcerer ready to bury a knife in your back.

Yet no sixth sense is telling you to run. The hairs on the back of your neck don't stand on end. Fear doesn't prickle in your fingertips. From all appearances, supernatural or earthly, this woman is no threat.

Then again, that may be the point.

She moves to join you on the street, holding her umbrella over your head. "Or at the very least, get out of this infernal rain." She says. “It's not good for my arthritis.”

A bell chimes as you enter the shop. The building smells heavily of something floral—jazmines maybe—and tea. Soft music plays, barely audible over the small fountain out front. Coins glitter in the water. You and your brother would step into fountains to steal coins out of them as a kid. You have plenty of memories of your mother yelling at you for doing such a thing. Supposedly it's bad luck. You’re not particularly superstitious, so who knows.

"How long have you been living in Tokyo?" She asks.

"Not long." You answer. "A few months."

She hums, saying "I thought you looked new around here."

She disappears into the back for a moment, before returning with several dishes. Ramen in some sort of broth, with a fried egg on top. There's sliced scallions as a garnish. She serves it with tea, and a plate of gyoza that are cooked crisp, served with some kind of dipping sauce. As if on cue, your stomach growls loud enough for her to hear. She laughs softly, and sets the dishes down in front of you. You wait for her to take a seat, and pour herself a cup of tea.

And though you’re not a particularly religious person, you’re nearly convinced this woman is an angel.

“You really don't need to bring me so much food,” you say, “don't get me wrong—I appreciate it—but like I said, I don't have anything to pay you with.”

“These will only go bad sitting around in the back,” she says, “and what kind of person would I be to turn down hungry visitors?”

A smart one, you think.

It's as if you're possessed by some starving spirit, and no amount of food will fill the hole in your stomach. It's not until your second bowl of ramen, and halfway through the plate of gyoza, that you slow down.

"What brought you to Japan?" She asks.

Her question nearly makes you choke.

You shrug. You doubt you have it in you to explain the situation involving your brother. Plus, speaking about Jujutsu society with a non-sorcerer has to be some sort of crime, at least to the higher ups. But there aren't many higher ups around to care anymore, so, there's not a whole lot of people left to enforce their laws.

So you say what makes the most sense: "work."

"Oh really? What kind of work do you do?" She asks.

Shit. What kind of work do you do? Teaching? Extermination?!

You rest your head on your hand, planting your elbow on the table. "I work as a surveyor—so technically I'm employed under the local electric company." You say. "Really I don't have a whole lot to do with the power, I just survey pipelines and make sure nothing's getting pumped with enough electricity to make it explode. You wouldn't believe how old some of this infrastructure is."

That's a convincing enough lie, right? It's general enough, but not so vague that it doesn't make sense. You do a lot of trudging around abandoned buildings, and that can quickly be written off if you say you’re working with the power company.

She laughs, saying "sounds like you're very passionate about your work."

"Well, the money is good, and it's not like I hate the work." You say. "That's about the best I can ask for."

"There's more to life than paychecks." She says.

"Yeah," you say, "there's death and taxes for me too."

She glances up from her tea long enough for her eyes to scan across your face. She’s not the first person to tell you that. If it were anyone else saying it, you’d laugh in their face.

“You’re the first customer to come by in a while.” She notes.

Hasn't she heard? It's the end of the world as we know it.

"I'm not surprised." You say. "Didn't you hear about what happened Shibuya? It's been all over the news."

“I don't pay much attention to that anymore,” she says, “it's too depressing. I figure if it's important enough, I'll hear about it through someone else."

“There was a terrorist attack,” you say, “a bombing—that’s what they’re calling it. You can't watch any channel without hearing about it.”

Her response is only a simple "hm" and a nod. “I have a batch of sesame balls that are hardly a day old, if you’d like those.” She says.

You can't nod fast enough.

She disappears into the back before returning with another plate, and a fancy bottle, the contents of which appear to be a thin, clear liquid. The sesame balls are still warm, and filled with red bean paste. And though you’re nearly full, you’re certain you could polish off the plate.

She takes two of the leftover tea cups, filling each with a bit of liquor. Before sliding it across the table to you, she pauses, and asks “You are twenty-one, right?” Though you feel no matter what your answer is, she’ll give you the drink anyway.

“At least,” you say.

The tea mug is small, and filled only half way. Much to her horror, you down the entire thing like it's a shot. Warmth begins spreading from your stomach out into your limbs. The liquor isn't too strong. It's not so bad that your eyes water, and your throat stings.

“Why would you- you're meant to drink this like wine,” she says. “Not down it like it's cheap liquor!”

“Ah, sorry,” you say, “I’m not big on drinking.”

She gives you a look that seems to say “I can tell.”

She reaches out and takes your hand, turning your hand over so your palm faces up. "This line on your finger only appears if you have a soulmate," she says, pointing to your ring finger, "and this one only appears after you've met them."

Is this lady a sorcerer?

No way. Her cursed energy is that of a human. If she were a sorcerer, she would have tried to kill you by now.

"Yeah, I've met him," you say, solely because you don't know how else to respond to that. "How can you tell?"

"I worked with one of the agencies when I was younger," she says, "people pay a lot of money to find the person on the end of the red string. They'll either go to professionals, or find someone doing freelance. Now I can't see the string of fate myself, but I've picked up a few tricks from those who can."

And you're caught up in a mess of red wires.

“What else can you tell from my hands?” You ask.

“It's not palm reading,” she says, “so don't expect your fortune. But from these callouses, I can tell you do manual labor. And these scars- do you do a lot of cooking? They look like they're from knives.” She sets your hand back down on the table. “Forgive me if this is too forward of a question, but this soulmate of yours—what's he like?”

“Well he's…” what is he? Handsome? Kind? What do you have to say that's not something she’s heard a hundred times over? “He’s a bit dumb, but in a sweet way, and he cares for those he considers family. Really he’s a bit odd. But we both are, and I think we’re good together in that way.”

You’re leaving out the part where you murdered two of his brothers.

A strong moral compass, a talented sorcerer, and you have the feeling that no matter how this ends, it's not going to do so well.

She turns your hand over to examine your knuckles.

“Your heart beats to a cadence of anger,” she says. "Has something happened to him?"

"No," you say, "it's… family stuff. My brother has gotten himself into trouble again, and I don't think I'm going to be able to get him out of this one."

That's a bit of an understatement, but it's general enough that she’ll understand.

"You are not responsible for the actions of others," she says, "only they are. It may be hard to leave those close to you to their own devices, but sometimes that's what’s best.”

"I won’t abandon him!"

"You're not abandoning him," she says, "there's no helping someone who doesn't want to help themself."

“That's just shit people say when they don't want to help someone! Only cowards leave their family like that! He’s not beyond saving!” You don't mean to raise your voice, but you can't stop yourself from shouting.

If only you could explain to her. If only she could understand. If only you didn't silently agree with her.

Some higher power—a god or whatnot—must be laughing their ass off at you right now. Should they want to make your life all the more miserable, it wouldn't be hard. How pathetic. Your friends are off fighting for a noble cause, and you’re just fighting. Existing takes too much energy. Surviving takes even more. And when you’re faced with a real challenge, you’re burnt out, and left with nothing to give.

And you feel as if you could nap for a thousand years. Crawl into your sheets, and sleep so heavy that neither hell nor high water could wake you. It could be judgement day right outside your door and you’d sleep right through it.

"I've seen plenty of people like you- good men and women working themselves to the bone for people who won't return the same effort." She says. Her grip on your hand tightens. “It is not your responsibility to save everyone. Especially when you can hardly save yourself.”

…

Summer 2006

Winter came with a vengeance. Spring came and went. Summer arrived late. The ground thawed, and Louis went into it. And that was the last they spoke of the Rau family.

James found it strange how quickly things were brushed under the rug. A murder like that—specially at a school as small as his—would have stuck out.

But they never really called it a murder. Nobody knew what to call it. A boy had died. It wasn't a suicide. Neither was it a murder. Nobody—no living thing at least—killed him. These seemingly supernatural circumstances lead to it being dropped. The subject wasn't brought up, and everyone involved agreed to never mention it.

The following July was uneventful. The end of summer break was soon approaching. Students were enjoying their last month and a half of freedom before returning to their studies.

As the sun soon reaches its highest point in the sky, people begin filing out of the park. The heat makes staying outside for any amount of time uncomfortable. Those who can, take up shelter in any place that provides air conditioning. James finds a spot of shade under some trees, though it provides little cover from the beating sun.

“Whitford,”

There's only one person the voice could be. “Mal-” James says, “Mallory- sorry. Didn't see you there.”

Mallory moves to join him on his spot on the grass, groaning as she sits. There's a white patch over her injured eye. She looks as if she hasn't slept a day since he last saw her. He offers her the pack of cigarettes, and she takes one, holding it between her fingers but never lighting it.

“Some guys came by my house asking about you.” She says. “They were pretty old. Dressed weird too.”

“Did you get their names?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah. Got their names, their home addresses, and where their diary keys are hidden.”

Her glare tells him he’s about to lose the hand he’s holding up.

“I assumed it was more people wanting to ask questions about him,” she says. “They asked for your address, so I lied and gave them the one for the sex shop across from the 7/11.”

“Did they say what they want?”

“No,” says Mallory, shaking her head. “Just that they needed to speak with you. I tried to press but all they did was stress the fact that they needed to talk to you. Guess they couldn't find your house on a map.”

Must not have been police. Definitely couldn't have been reporters.

“There's something dark in this town,” she says, “and I don't know if I want to be here anymore.”

“You're moving?” He asks.

"I mean, yeah," she says with a shrug, "my dad got a job a few towns over, and my mom's been a mess since this whole thing started. It got worse after Cal…"

Nobody said it to him outright. But he heard it in passing. In hushed conversations.

“Didn't you hear? Cal killed himself. She was the one to find him.”

“He did it in the second floor bathrooms. You could hear her screaming from across the school.”

“He left a note. It was nonsense though. Said this place was cursed.”

School officials tried to cover it up. People claimed it was to prevent others from doing the same.

Everyone avoided him after that. Her too. It was like they carried the plague. That single moment in time seemed to leave a black mark on their souls. More and more he skipped class. It was out of pity his teachers passed him. He never would have graduated had they not.

Perhaps Louis did curse them in the end.

“I'm sorry about your brother.” James says.

“Me too.” She says.

…

Phone call III

Three missed calls, a text from Nanami asking where you are, and a text from an unknown number.

Nanami can wait. Though, knowing him, he’s not going to. He may follow you out here if you continue to ignore him. Swallowing your dignity, you shoot him a quick text: “not feeling well. Trying to nap rn” Hopefully it's enough to deter him from any further questions. It's 50/50 with him. Sometimes he’ll leave you be, others he becomes nothing short of overbearing.

Choso answers on the first ring. He sucks in a breath, as if he’s going to speak, but you don't give him the time to do so.

"I've got them," you say.

The sound of your voice makes him sigh. You can't tell if it's irritation, or relief.

"I-" you hear shuffling in the background. Presumably he's trying to collect himself. "When you didn't answer, I assumed something bad happened-"

“He's been freaking out all day.” Yuki says. “You're on speaker by the way. Tengen's here too. So, hey.”

"Yukiiiii," you say, "heyyyy. Can you take me off speaker please?"

She mutters a quiet “no”.

"What does the situation look like outside the Tokyo barriers?" This time it's a man’s voice that speaks. Tengen.

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to be keeping an eye on that," you say flatly.

"Well I'm assuming Itadori and Fushiguro have entered the barrier by now, have they not?" Tengen asks. "And they've left you behind? So by that logic, you're responsible for keeping an eye on things outside."

That's being generous…

“How is downtown Tokyo?” Yuki asks.

“Pretty calm, all things considered.” You say. “It's quiet for the most part. Haven't seen many people—sorcerers or not,

“Kenjaku has scouts placed outside the barriers forcing new players into them. All it's doing is sending civilians into the barrier. Any sorcerer in their right mind would stay the hell away from those things."

“The game has been going on for how long? Two weeks now?” Yuki asks. “Those other players have had plenty of time to gather points. What's likely left are players so strong they can’t fight one another. Or won't.”

“So they're at a standstill.” You say. “If I had to guess, there's not enough juice for Kenny’s mergence with gourdhead, so he must need more sacrifices.”

“I am right here.” Tengen says.

“Well, that buys us time,” Yuki says, muttering ‘hopefully’ under her breath.

“A lot of it comes down to adding more rules to the game,” you say. “One to establish communication between players, one to exchange points, one to grant travel between barriers, and one to get unwilling players out of the game,

“Four hundred points and it's settled. Divide this between three barriers, and six people—I know it's easier said than done, but between them, it's not out of the realm of possibility,

“All we need is to buy enough time for them to free Gojo,” you say. “He’ll know how to settle this mess.”

Never in your life would you have imagined saying those words. You hate asking for his help. Anyone’s help for that matter. But this is the hand of cards you’ve been dealt.

"Look, I'm on my way back to Jujutsu Tech right now. I'll meet you guys there."

"So be it," says Tengen, "make sure you're not followed."