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une-femme-de-lettres · 2 years

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Imagine

Sewing and mending your clothes after a mission

This is highly specific and detailed but I love the idea. Also domestic 141 is the best thing!!

Laying low after a mission is definitely not the best part of your job. You often times find yourself stuck in an old safe house with your teammates, sharing a small space with them, while not knowing when you’ll be able to go back on the field.

But there surely is one thing that these days can offer you, is some time to think, process the things you’ve seen and get some rest. And as you are forced to figuratively mend and repair your mind, you often take advantage of the peace and quiet to literally mend and repair your equipment; clothes, gear, tools or weapons… anything that could’ve been damaged during your latest intervention.

The whole habitation is quiet as you make your way to the living area. Your teammates are there. Price is watching some obscure documentary about the fishing industry in South America on the telly, the sound brought to a minimum. Soap is mindlessly doodling in his journal, not looking particularly satisfied with his work. Gaz is taking a nap slouched on the couch beside Price, he’s probably tried watching the documentary, didn’t work out too well…

And Ghost is quietly cleaning his pistol, methodically clearing every little piece of any gunk, grime and leftover powder. The clicking of the metal pieces give a rhythm to the silence. You hate to interrupt such a peaceful picture so you speak quietly.

“Hey,” you start, a few eyes moving over to look at you, “I’m gonna take some time to sew up a few things. Got anything that needs mending?” you ask them.

“I’m good, thanks for the thought, though,” Price responds with a gentle smile that warms your heart a little. You nod and turn to Soap.

“I don’t think so, Lass, but thanks.” He can’t think of anything off the top of his head for now, so you finally look at Ghost. His back is slightly turned to you, you can see him looking back slightly and responding with a shrug.

He’s been way quieter around you lately, you noticed. But Ghost is Ghost, right? So you don’t really pay him any mind and give one last nod before going back into your room. On your way there, you don’t notice Price’s slight head movement directed towards Ghost. And behind the door of your room, you don’t hear the husky sigh Ghost let out as he stands up from his seat.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, legs crossed as you silently pass your needle through the fabric of your torn tank top. It’s not major tear, nothing a quick stitching can’t fix. You’re focused in your task when a light knock on your door makes you look up.

Ghost is slowly entering your room, his gaze fleeing yours. As it often does lately. He speaks quietly, his voice still very composed, just like every time you’re working out there on the field, precise and efficient.

“Do you have a spare needle?” he asks. You notice the balaclava in his hand before he holds it out slightly in front of you. “I need to repair this,” he finishes. You look at him for a moment, trying to keep your thoughts at bay. He requesting your help with anything outside the field was not unheard of, but it was still pretty new… Why does he look so cute?

“Sure, there you go,” you respond, picking a small needle and some black thread in your tiny sewing kit. You hand the objects to him and he takes them with a grateful nod. He looks about to leave when he stops in his tracks, not sure if he should ask you.

“This is a knit fabric, I’m not sure how to…” he starts hesitantly, showing you the piece of clothing again, “go about it,” he concludes. You fight the small smile pulling at the corner of your lips and pat the empty space on the bed covers beside you.

“I’ll show you, if you want,” you say and he complies surprisingly quickly.

In your line of work, whether it be on skin or cloth, a man needs to learn out to sew. It’s a primordial skill when you’re in a survival situation, to keep your clothes functional. Ghost in an intelligent man, you realize he probably knows how to take care of his stuff beyond just keeping his guns working.

But even you find knit fabrics tricky to work with. One wrong stitch and the next time you use your item, it might very well run enough to render it unusable. And your heart flutters at the idea of him asking you for help, even for such a tiny little thing.

Ghost sits beside you, the mattress dipping ever so slightly, making you lean towards him just a little. He prepares his needle and thread while you put your own work aside. Once this is done, you locate the small hole in the balaclava he’s laid on his thigh to free his hands. You hand it back to him, pointing towards the repair area.

“First, you need to thread all the loops left open to stop it from running,” you indicate. The loops you’re mentioning are tiny, but precision is your job, so they’re all threaded very soon and you can begin the real work.

“Then you can thread through that and darn it just like a woven fabric,” you say, mimicking the technique moving your finger back and forth. He starts mending the piece, using your advice.

The needle looks comically small in his massive hand. The size of things makes his movements quite awkward. And it doesn’t help that he’s holding the needle with the very tip of his fingers, barely touching it, as if he were afraid to do something wrong.

You smile gently at the sight and decide to help him further. Your fingers brush against his as you move his hand so he can work pushing the needle towards himself instead of away. A technique you’d found way more efficient over the years.

“It’ll be easier if you hold it from this side,” you say, your voice quiet and thoughtful. The voice he loves to hear rolling off your tongue and lips when you are close to him. “Guide the needle with your index and thumb and push it with your middle finger,” you explain as he watches your hands working his fingers into position with a curious eye. “Like this.”

He starts using your latest advice, religiously following your movements as you mimic the gesture in the air. He manages to work faster, his hand steadier. You smile. His needle work starts taking shape. “Nice work,” you say, turning your head to look at his face. His eyes are looking straight back at you. For once in quite some time now, his gaze doesn’t dart away from yours. It just gently moves to your slightly parted lips and stays there for a moment. A moment that doesn’t last nearly long enough for him.

#simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod mw22 #cod mwii #cod mw2 fanfic #ghost cod mw2 #call of duty mwii #ghost call of duty #ghost x you #ghost x reader #reader insert #imagine #soft ghost #fluff #task force 141 #domestic fluff

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devils-yui · 28 days

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Remade my TFP oc, QuartzStreak,

and finally gave her twin, Sundrive a reference too

(Click for better quality. Likes, reblogs, and replies are awesome too!! <33)

Here’s some other doodles I made, this is mainly Quartzstreak’s time after she was left alone on Earth and joined the Decepticons. Also the doodle in the corner is just me, as the creator, talking to Quartzstreak. I made her story to correlate with the canon as much as I could while also projecting all of what my 11-13 year old mind could cook up to craft her absolute hell scape of a backstory.

Bit of a lore blurb below:

Within the faction that was, “The Reformes”, QuartzStreak and Sundrive were the split-sparks of the leader of The Reformes at the time, Magnochrome, basically a group of Neutral “mercenaries” of sorts who were intent on encouraging one or the other side to win, eager to hasten the process in whichever way they could in order to get the war done with. Whether that resulted in the Autobots winning or the Decepticons, all that mattered was that peace would once again be established, even if both sides ended up scrapping each other in the end.

Quartzstreak and Sundrive’s weapons are both short swords but upon her split-spark’s passing in battle, QuartzStreak took to her twin sister’s blade and made a double-edged sword out of it instead to honor her.

Quartzstreak was a well-renowned sniper amongst her rank, along with the fact that she was an admirable warrior and soldier who indulged in a multitude of technological enhancements, often too many as she would occasionally test to herself when she wasn’t tinkering or repairing other works in her spare time, be it ship, weapon, or some other project. Quartzstreak claims that she had earned her sniping skills from her Sire, and her skills behind a blade from her leader, and Carrier, Magnochrome, rendering her to be a very lethal subject, best suited for stealth missions.

and Sundrive was more better suited as a prodigy in the medical/technical field, often tinkering away as well and learning how to utilize both machine and medicine. Sundrive had crafted up a tool of sorts that would work in similar fashion to “stitching” as it would slightly burn the surrounding metal of the wound and apply a steel resin of sorts that would carefully form around the area and fill it in. This steel resin substance would eventually settle and allow for the biological matter to adhere to it and the substance would end up copying the biological matter and synthesizing it in replication, eventually sealing and healing up the wound. (The tool’s inspired by stitching, 3D printing, and etc…). Both the twins would often feed into each other’s interests and they would come to learn a lot from each other, with Sundrive taking to her twin’s skills in combat, and Quartzstreak with her interest in the medicinal field

Much of Sundrive’s tools in her passing ended up being lent over to Quartzstreak to which she still uses even during, or after the war now.

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just-animaxiz · 3 months

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Repair

Spike silently stared the solder gun on his hand, hastily positioning it at the ripped casing of his arm. Broken wires stuck out, letting small waves of electric shocks pop out of its end.

If he were human, it would be nearly impossible to stitch back nerves and skin; however, he must do everything to move, to walk, to hold -

To stay alive.

Gripping his only functioning hand, Spike pressed the gun down and cried, feeling the heating sting on the tipping ends of his wires. It almost felt like the sun has held your nerves with both hands, burning them just to glue them together. After a couple of seconds, he pulled away, panting as he stared at the now bonded wires.

Taking a deep breath, the red Punk Bot looked at his numb fingers and began to focus, commanding them to move as he wanted to...

...

One finger managed to rise up, followed by the others and the thumb.

Relieved, Spike sighed, closing his worrying optics and brushing away the spiraling thoughts in his head. But even though he's satisfied at the process, he looked back at the other gaping wounds on his arm, surrounded by rust and filled broken pieces.

Then.. He looked at the metallic tables next to him, where the corpses of his two brothers lay there. Full of open wounds, covered in rusts.

Not Moving.

Hopefully, after fixing himself up, Spike can learn this experience and use it to repair his only companions... And see them alive once more.

---

Short fic but hope you enjoy! :D

#rc9gn #rc9gn punk bots #punk bots #rc9gn punk bot #spike #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja spike #randy cunningham spike #rc9gn spike #punk bots spike #randy cunningham #randy cunningham 9th grade Ninja

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beautyconsumer · 3 months

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Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

Two Stubborn Idiots sitting in a Bathtub-

Emergency First Aid: Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / “It's just a scratch, I've had worse.”

@whumperless-whump-event A little late but first one is done! Also cross posted on AO3

Relationship: Jason Todd/Grant Wilson

Fandom: Batman, Batfam, Deathstroke (comics)

Content and TW: self-suturing a wound, needles, non-graphic violence, alcohol used as sanitizer, description of pain, implied sexual content, injury, medical inaccuracies, hurt/comfort, comic book logic, Lazarus pit side effects (only healing ones)

“It's just a scratch, I've had worse,” Grant says, “You're the one who's bleeding out,” he points out, eyeing the oozing wound from Jason’s side.

Jason huffs, presses harder on his side with his hand, the scent of metallic blood pungent on Grant's nose, it doesn't bring him the thrill of victory over someone else as it usually does. The absence of the feeling doesn't sit right with him, not enough to do something about it. Not then.

“Just bring me something to clean the wound,” Jason says, voice strangled among heavy pants. It sounds dangerously close to other occasions Grant has heard him making the same vulnerable, pitiful sounds. He ignores the automatic heat creeping up his spine to retrieve what's asked. Wrong time.

The safe house is pretty neglected, there's little equipment let alone medical supplies. Jason and he had been using the space and shitty bed in it for everything but sleeping.

Grant kicks himself a little for not worrying more about keeping the place stacked with vital things someone without a regenerative metagene would need. His tendency to look only after himself nagged him rarely.

Yet Jason had him experiencing emotions too intense and too fast for him to process.

When he looks at the medicine cabinet he realizes they don't have any disinfectant.

But they did have a half bottle of vodka they had drunk the day before.

Grant purses his lips but goes to the kitchen for the bottle.

Jason’s gaze looks hazy when Grant comes back to the bathroom. Jason prefers to bleed out in the bathtub despite the fact the place has been stained with blood beyond repair.

Grant hurries to him and palms his cheek lightly, Jason’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes are fluttering weakly. Grant curses before opening the bottle and pouring the content rapidly into his wound.

Jason startles into awareness, he yelps and trashes in the porcelain pool, Grant places his palm firmly on his chest to keep him from moving too much, else he worsens his injury and wastes the liquid he had halfway poured on him. Grant hushes him, in an attempt to calm him or ground him.

Jason’s pupils are shrinked into pinpricks. Bright teal rings staring back at him. Jason stills when he registers Grant, relaxes into the hold and limits himself into a hiss.

Grant hikes up his shirt to look closely at the wound, Jason is too weak to protest.

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Grant says.

Jason snorts, “Look who’s talking.”

Grant feels dark tendrils of annoyance reach at him mercilessly. Jason is the one who's the most vulnerable of the two. If Grant is vulnerable at all as Jason keeps implying.

There’s always a bigger fish, Grant knows that, a lesson sank deep into his very core; he just doesn't see what that has to do with who needs more medical attention than the other, Jason does, most of the time, despite Lazarus Pit liquid roaming in his blood; Bat arrogance and skill can do so much, but it’s like that never drills into his thick skull. Grant might have a deep slash from a sword on his chest, but his body had worked on swiftly joining his flesh closed the moment the blade had been separated from his skin.

Jason stubbornly meets his scowl, he is one stubborn bastard but so is Grant.

“You’re getting stitches first,” Grant says.

His first mistake was the way he said it. He is gonna face Jason’s defiance at his tone, but he can't help it, he hates when Jason gets like that, such a martyr when it was very much not needed.

‘Let me just fucking help you.�� Grant thinks.

“You first,” Jason says.

It's stupid, almost childish if it weren't for the fact that Grant knew he was dead serious. An option is holding Jason down while stitching his wound closed against his wishes, and while Grant had the deep need to have Jason just fucking listen to him for once and do as Grant asked, because he was doing this for his own damn good —he also knew his obstinacy didn't come from a bad place— the action would only worsen Jason’s wound.

Because despite the situation Jason would still fucking struggle.

“Fine,” Grant snaps, taking to leave toward the medical kit.

Grant hated stitches, it hurt, they ended up looking ugly, he hated to touch the result or even look at it.

“Let me do it,” Jason says, voice slurred, which only aggravated Grant more. He’s losing blood too quickly.

“Shut the fuck up, could you even hold the needle?”

Jason frowns but doesn't say or do much else, Grant doesn't think he exactly can.

Grant gets to work quickly, in his eyes this was useless and stupid and yet—

He takes the needle and inserts the thread quickly.

Then for the first time of the night Grant looks at his own wound; he was partially right, it had closed significantly, far from the deep slash he had felt white hot piercing in his flesh. From it still emerged thin rivulets of scarlet blood, dampening his suit from his torso to the front of his legs.

The annoyance flared to righteous anger, he could just look away and let the thing close itself while he took care of Jason but nooo, Jason had to be an asshole.

The first bite into his skin didn’t do much to calm his choler, but he did hiss at the incision, if he had ignored the wound he wouldn't feel it this intensely, Grant couldn't help but bitterly think. He kept going, quickly stitching the wound together firmly with rough pulls at the needle, irritation fueling his vicious rhythm.

His metagene didn't mitigate the pain any less.

Grant bites his lip to push through the pain, tastes the tiniest drop of blood and stops immediately, he didn’t like having uneven puffy lips.

Grant is panting slightly when he’s done and cuts the strand off.

He quickly looks at Jason then, the scowl on Grant’s expression vanishes when he looks at him. His skin too pale, his head lolled to the side, the rest of his body slack.

Grant feels shocked into motion, he gathers Jason in his arms to hold him close, he feels as lax as a doll, a terrible and bright contrast to the normal Jason who’s firm and strong and restless.

Grant hears his heart beat, focuses his hearing into it, his favorite sound in the world is diminished into a soft, weak thump. Grant massages Jason's chest without giving it much thought. His mind punishing with repeated thoughts on what he should have done to make this anything but this awful outcome. But that doesn't fucking matter, he needs that wound closed, he needs to stop overthinking this.

He deatatches himself from Jason to gather the supplies again, his hands are shaking unlike the time he did the stitches on himself; he finds out with trepidation.

He pulls the skin closed with far more precision and care than he did himself, each time he sinks the curved needle into Jason's swollen flesh he tries to keep himself together, telling himself that it is for his own good.

When the wound is finally closed, thin flashes of bright green thrum underneath the skin, Grant feels he can breathe normally.

He shudders out the deep intake of air full of tension he was holding.

Grant sets his forehead against Jason’s, he is thankfully not burning with fever as he feared.

Grant lets himself go lax against him then.

When Jason wakes up next Grant is gonna give him an earful for scaring him like this.

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aluminiumrepair · 19 days

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Mastering Cast Aluminium Repair: Techniques and Insights

Cast aluminium is a versatile and durable material used in a wide range of applications, from automotive parts and industrial components to architectural elements and everyday household items. Its lightweight yet robust nature makes it a popular choice, but like any material, it can suffer from wear and damage over time. Whether it’s due to impacts, corrosion, or manufacturing defects, the need for cast aluminium repair is not uncommon. Understanding the best practices and techniques for repairing cast aluminium can not only restore its functionality but also prolong its lifespan. This article explores the nuances of cast aluminium repair, including methods, benefits, and considerations for achieving the best results.

The Importance of Cast Aluminium Repair

Aluminium casting involves pouring molten aluminium into a mold to create a solid object, which then cools and hardens. This process results in a material with excellent strength-to-weight ratio, making it ideal for applications where both lightness and strength are critical. However, cast aluminium repair components are not immune to damage. Common issues include cracks, fractures, and surface wear, often caused by mechanical stress, temperature fluctuations, or exposure to harsh environments.

Considerations for Effective Repair

Successful cast aluminium repair involves several key considerations to ensure the repaired component performs effectively and maintains its integrity.

1. Proper Assessment

Before undertaking any repair, it is essential to assess the extent of the damage. This includes identifying the type and location of the damage, as well as any underlying issues that may affect the repair process. Accurate assessment helps in selecting the most appropriate repair method and ensures that all necessary steps are taken to address the damage effectively.

2. Surface Preparation

Surface preparation is a critical step in any cast aluminium repair. This may involve sanding, grinding, or chemical cleaning to ensure a strong bond between the repair material and the cast aluminium.

3. Selecting the Right Repair Method

Choosing the appropriate repair method depends on the type of damage and the application of the cast aluminium component. For structural repairs, welding or metal stitching may be required, while surface damage can often be effectively addressed with epoxy or adhesive.

4. Post-Repair Treatment

After the repair is completed, additional treatments may be necessary to restore the component’s appearance and functionality. This may include painting, coating, or heat treatment to match the original finish and protect against future damage. Proper post-repair treatment helps ensure the longevity and performance of the repaired cast aluminium part.

Cast aluminium repair is a vital process for maintaining the functionality and longevity of components made from this versatile material. Whether through welding, metal stitching, epoxy applications, or commercial repair kits, understanding the various repair methods and considerations can lead to successful outcomes.

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metalstitchinglocking · 7 months

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For more information on metal locking a crack engine block, cracked engine block repair, repair of damaged engine block, metal stitching technique, cracked and damaged engine block contact us at [email protected] or [email protected] or call us at 9582647131 or 9810012383.

#damage engine block repair #cracked engine block repair #metal locking a crack engine block #cracked and damaged engine block #metal stitching technique #METAL LOCK PROCESS #metal stitching #metal lock #repair of engine blocks

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apollogeticx · 22 days

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✧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ BIRDS OF A FEATHER ♡·˚

— [♡] ; as satoru awakens, his shattered body held together by fragile stitches. ｡°. gojo satoru

tags: amnesia, fem!reader, angst, gore description, trauma, character injury, emotional pain, grief, hurt/comfort, hopeful ending.

wc. 4K

↳ part 2

Shoko had called for your help.

You had heard the news—Gojo had fallen. Cut down in a final, devastating blow by Sukuna. The world-slicing technique had severed him in half. The words hadn’t felt real at first, your mind unable to process the gravity of it. But the moment you stepped into the room where Shoko was working, the reality hit you like a tidal wave.

There, on the table, was Gojo. His body, broken, his skin pale, blood staining the sheets beneath him.

Your heart stopped.

Shoko had been quick and efficient, barely sparing you a glance as you stepped into the room. She was in the middle of a frantic process—using her cursed techniques to stabilize his body. But it wasn’t enough. She needed help with the physical repairs, and as much as you wanted to scream, to run, you couldn’t leave.

Shoko had given you gloves. You had forgotten to put them on.

The stitching was brutal—blood soaked your hands, his blood, as you helped sew his body back together. The torn flesh, the broken bones—it was too much. Each stitch felt like you were tying yourself to the reality of his fragility. You wanted to cry, to scream, to beg for this nightmare to end. But all you could do was push through, follow Shoko’s methodical instructions, and hope that this wasn’t the end.

“Hold the skin there—tighter,” Shoko’s voice cut through your haze, steady and sure. She was the only one who could handle this, but even she couldn’t hide the gravity of what had happened.

Your hands trembled as you followed her orders, your vision blurring with unshed tears as you watched his chest—still, unmoving.

Gojo Satoru, the invincible, the strongest… reduced to this. A lifeless body in front of you, cold and pale. The man you had loved in silence, the one who had always seemed untouchable, was on the verge of slipping away forever.

“Please…” you whispered under your breath, a silent prayer that Shoko’s efforts would be enough. That all the pain and blood wouldn’t be for nothing. “Please…”

Shoko continued her work, her brow furrowed in concentration, but you could see the strain in her eyes. She was exhausted, the toll of trying to bring Gojo back was immense, but she wasn’t giving up. Neither could you.

The minutes dragged on like hours. Every second felt like an eternity as you stitched, your hands growing numb from the constant effort. The room was suffocating, filled with the metallic scent of blood, the beeping of the equipment Shoko had set up, and the terrible, deafening silence from Satoru.

It hadn’t always been this way.

You remembered the first time you had met him. It was years ago, when you were just a new student at Jujutsu High, awkward and shy, feeling out of place among the powerful sorcerers. He had walked into the room like a whirlwind, bright and carefree, exuding confidence that made him seem untouchable.

"Hey, kid," he had greeted you with that signature smirk, his blindfold obscuring those piercing eyes. "You gonna stand there all day or you gonna learn something?"

Your heart had raced, embarrassment blooming in your chest as you stammered out a response. You were nothing compared to him—he was the strongest, the shining star everyone gravitated toward. You? You were just another student, lost in the background.

But Gojo had never treated you like that.

For all his arrogance, for all his swagger, he had always made time for you. His teasing was endless, and yet... it felt like attention. Every sarcastic comment, every mock fight, every casual gesture like flicking your forehead when you got an answer wrong or tousling your hair when you nailed a technique—it made your heart flutter, even though you knew it was just him being Gojo. He was like that with everyone. Playful. Reckless. Charming.

And you were just a part of the crowd, an afterthought in the sea of his admirers.

But you had fallen for him anyway. Hard.

Because all that mattered to you was him.

As you stood beside Shoko, your hands trembling, your mind struggling to process the scene in front of you. The cursed energy flowed from her in desperate waves as she worked, her hands moving with a surgeon’s precision, but her usual calm was gone. There was no confidence, no assurance. Just panic.

“It’s not working,” Shoko’s voice cracked, her words barely a whisper, yet they hit you like a sledgehammer. "His body... it’s rejecting the healing. The cursed energy inside him is too unstable, too fractured."

Your heart clenched painfully. You could see it—the gashes on his body were deep, visceral, tearing through muscle and bone as if he were made of paper. He was falling apart, unraveling in front of you. His blood was on your hands, literally and figuratively. You had helped Shoko stitch his wounds, but even with your combined efforts, it wasn’t enough.

It was never going to be enough.

And there was only one option left.

Your cursed technique — Eternal Rebirth.

The very thought of it made your chest tighten, made your breath hitch in your throat. You had used it before—countless times, saving people from the death at the cost of erasing yourself from their memories. It was a trade-off, one you had grown painfully accustomed to. But this... this was different.

This was Gojo.

He wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t just another fleeting life passing through your hands. He was... everything.

The weight of that truth crushed you, bearing down on your chest like a heavy stone. All those moments—the laughter, the teasing, the way he’d casually ruffle your hair, his voice light and playful as he called you ‘kid’—they surged to the forefront of your mind. You had kept it hidden, buried beneath layers of propriety and caution. He had never known. To him, you were just another student.

But to you, he was the world.

Shoko’s eyes met yours, and you could see the silent question in them. She didn’t say it, but she knew. She always knew. The room felt colder, the silence heavier as you stood there, staring down at the man who had never truly seen you.

"Are you going to use it?" Her voice was soft, filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

Your throat felt tight, the words lodged somewhere deep inside you, suffocating you. Instead of answering, you looked down at Gojo. Without blindfolds, revealing his eyes—those brilliant blue orbs, now dull, half-lidded and unfocused. Blood splattered his face, his lips slightly parted, chest not moving at all. He looked so peaceful in that moment.

And your heart shattered.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand. The cold of his skin sent a jolt through you, a cruel reminder of what was slipping away.

"I have to," you whispered, more to yourself than to Shoko. "I can’t... I can’t let him die."

Your voice broke, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. But you blinked them away. You couldn’t cry. Not now. Not when everything was on the line. You bit down on your lip until you tasted blood, grounding yourself in the pain, forcing yourself to stay focused.

Shoko stepped back, giving you the space you needed. Her eyes were full of sorrow, of helplessness. She knew what this would cost you. She knew that no matter what you did, you would lose something tonight.

Slowly, you knelt beside Gojo, placing your trembling hands over his chest. His blood soaked through your fingers, warm and sticky, a sickening contrast to the cold, hollow ache inside you.

And you realized, with a devastating certainty, that saving him would destroy you.

Taking a shaky breath, you called on your cursed technique. It surged through you, powerful and all-consuming. Your hands glowed with a soft, ethereal light as the cursed energy began to wrap around Gojo’s body like a cocoon. You could feel it—the pull. It started slow, then intensified, like a thread being unraveled, piece by piece.

Gojo’s body twitched beneath your hands as your energy poured into him, mending what had been shattered, stitching him back together. His chest rose and fell more steadily, the bleeding stopped, and slowly—agonizingly slowly—his wounds began to close.

But with every piece of him you saved, a piece of you was lost.

You could feel it, the emptiness spreading inside you, consuming you. You were unraveling, coming apart at the seams, and you knew—oh god, you knew—that when it was over, he wouldn’t remember you. He wouldn’t remember your face, your voice, the way he’d teased you, or the way you’d loved him in silence.

He wouldn’t even remember your name.

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you fought to keep going, as the energy drained from you faster and faster, until you were gasping, barely able to hold on. But you had to finish. You couldn’t stop now. You had to save him.

You had to.

And then... it was over.

The cursed energy faded, leaving you empty, hollow. Your hands slipped from his chest, falling limp at your sides. His breathing had steadied, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic, strong.

He was alive.

But you... you were nothing.

Gojo’s eyes fluttered open, those familiar blue eyes focusing, still dazed but unmistakably alive. He blinked, looking around, his gaze settling on Shoko. His expression was confused, but there was no recognition in his eyes. No flicker of acknowledgment.

He didn’t know you.

You stumbled back, the pain in your chest unbearable, your heart splintering with every second that passed. Shoko glanced at you, sympathy in her eyes, but you couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t look at him.

“Gojo,” Shoko’s voice was soft, careful, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Gojo sat up slowly, wincing, his hand going to his head. "What happened?" His voice was hoarse, but familiar. Too familiar.

You turned, your legs barely carrying you as you stumbled toward the door. You couldn’t stay here. You couldn’t bear to see him look right through you, as if you were a ghost.

Gojo Satoru had never known fear.

Not real fear, anyway. The kind that settled deep in your bones, making every breath heavy and labored. The kind that came from knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that death was upon you.

But as Sukuna’s slash tore through the fabric of reality itself—through his body—Gojo felt something he hadn’t felt in years. Panic.

The world slowed, everything blurring as his torso split cleanly in two. He’d always prided himself on his limitless potential, his unparalleled strength. He was the strongest, after all. Untouchable. Invincible.

But now, Gojo was falling. In slow motion, he saw the spray of his own blood, the sound of it rushing in his ears as his body came apart. The pain was distant, almost abstract, but the reality of what had happened hit him with brutal clarity.

This was it.

The strongest had fallen.

As his vision darkened, there was a fleeting thought of regret. Not for the battle lost, not even for the way Sukuna had outplayed him. But for the people he was leaving behind. His students—his kids—who had fought so hard to bring him back from the Prison Realm. And you. The thought of you, waiting at Jujutsu High, hit him harder than Sukuna’s attack ever could.

Then, nothing.

Gojo also didn’t expect to wake up.

But he did.

The first thing he felt was cold, seeping into his skin. His body was heavy, his limbs unresponsive. He blinked slowly, disoriented, his vision blurred. The ceiling above him was sterile, white, unfamiliar.

He was alive.

His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The fight with Sukuna, the slash that had torn him in two—it all came rushing back in jagged fragments.

His gaze shifted to the side, and he saw Shoko, her face pale and drawn. She looked exhausted, her hands still gloved in blood—his blood.

Gojo tried to move, but his body refused to respond. Pain shot through his torso, a deep, visceral ache that made him gasp. He looked down and saw it—the ugly, jagged line of stitches that ran across his abdomen, holding his body together like some grotesque patchwork.

The strongest had been reduced to this. Broken. Weak.

“Wha… what…?” His voice came out a rasp, barely audible.

Shoko moved quickly, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from sitting up. “Gojo,” Shoko’s voice was soft, careful, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Gojo’s head spun. He had been cut in half, and yet here he was, alive. But barely. His hand instinctively moved to the stitches, fingers trembling as they traced the line of destruction that had torn him apart.

This was real. This was his body, broken and sewn back together like a ragdoll. The weight of it crashed down on him, the reality of what had happened. He wasn’t invincible. He had been so close to death.

But as he looked down at the stitches, at the blood that coated her hands and his own, the weight of the situation finally hit him.

He had died.

Sukuna had killed him. He had been cut in half, and the fact that he was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. But what kind of life was this? What kind of man was he now, stitched together like some broken doll?

He remembered everything—the fight with Sukuna, the agonizing moment when the world seemed to split apart, and the sudden, searing pain as his body was torn in half.

Yet now, here he was. Alive. Whole.

Shoko sat beside him, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "You were lucky, you know. We almost lost you."

He smirked weakly, the cocky glint that usually colored his tone absent. "You know me, Shoko. I don’t go down that easily."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t respond, her gaze heavy with something that made him uncomfortable. There was more to this than the simple act of saving him. The air between them was charged with unsaid things, but before he could probe further, he felt it—a gnawing sense of something.

It was subtle at first. An absence he couldn’t quite place, like the feeling of a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to come out. He frowned, searching his memory for an answer. His battle with Sukuna had been devastating, but his mind remained sharp, recalling every detail—the searing pain, the world going dark.

But there was something else.

Shoko looked at him carefully, as if debating how much to say. “You know me. I did what I could with the healing, but...” she hesitated, something rare for her. "It wasn’t enough. You were... beyond saving, almost."

Gojo’s brow furrowed further. “But I’m still here.”

Shoko’s gaze softened, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah. You are. Someone else helped. They made the difference.”

He raised an eyebrow, the beginnings of a grin pulling at his lips. “Ah, so we’ve got another hero on our hands, huh? Where are they? I’d like to say thanks.”

Shoko’s face tightened, her expression a mix of guilt and something unreadable. “You can’t.”

Gojo straightened, his usual casual demeanor slipping. “What do you mean? I’m still alive, Shoko. If someone helped bring me back, the least I can do is—"

“You don’t remember them.” Shoko’s words cut through his rambling, sharp and final.

For a brief moment, Gojo felt a strange weight in his chest, the kind that made it hard to breathe. Don’t remember them? How could he forget someone so important, someone who saved his life? His mind raced, trying to piece together the gap in his memory, but it was like hitting a wall, a blank space where someone should have been.

"Who?" Gojo’s voice was softer now, tinged with frustration. "Who was it?"

Shoko looked away, not meeting his gaze. “A student.”

He blinked, startled. “A student?” He tried to think, running through the faces of the students he taught and interacted with, but there was nothing. No face came to mind. No name. No technique. Just that feeling—that something was missing.

“Shoko.” His voice was steady but firm, the casual tone gone now. “What did they do to me?”

Her shoulders slumped, the weight of the truth settling heavily between them. “They used a cursed technique. One that could heal you—bring you back from the edge. But it came with a cost. For them.”

“What cost?”

“They erased themselves from your memory, Satoru.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words hit him like a punch to the gut. “You don’t know them anymore. It’s like they never existed.”

The days had blurred into one another since the battle with Sukuna. Jujutsu High was slowly returning to its routine, though the echoes of that night still lingered. The academy’s halls were quieter than usual, with students and staff working tirelessly to rebuild and recover.

Gojo Satoru sat in a wheelchair, his body still healing from the near-fatal wound Sukuna had dealt him. Despite Shoko’s best efforts and the cursed techniques used to bring him back, his body hadn’t fully recovered. His legs still trembled with weakness, and walking—once so effortless—had become impossible for now. He hated it. Hated feeling vulnerable. But more than that, he hated the nagging sense of emptiness that followed him everywhere. It wasn’t just his body that felt broken.

It was his mind.

He spent most of his time by the window, watching the world outside with a mixture of restlessness and contemplation. The view from his room was a small comfort—a chance to observe the daily rhythm of the academy, even if he couldn’t actively participate.

It was a chilly afternoon when he first saw you again. You were in the courtyard, engaged in a seemingly mundane task—something simple, like helping one of the younger students with their gear or offering a comforting word. He was about to turn away when a sudden commotion caught his eye.

A surge of cursed energy erupted from the corner of the courtyard, sending a shockwave that knocked several students to the ground. Gojo’s heart skipped a beat, his instinct to jump into action kicking in despite his incapacitation. He saw a curse—a grotesque, twisted figure—emerging from the shadows, its eyes glowing with malicious intent.

Panic spread quickly among the students, but you moved with a determined calmness, your focus solely on the curse. Your presence, though initially unnoticed, became the eye of the storm. You approached the curse with a steady stride, your hands glowing with a familiar cursed energy.

Gojo’s breath caught in his throat. The way you moved, the way you channeled your cursed energy—it was unmistakable. Even from a distance, he could see it clearly. The technique you used, the precision and control, were too familiar to ignore.

It hit him like a freight train. You were the student who saved him.

His eyes widened as he watched you act swiftly and decisively, saving the young student who had been caught in the curse's attack. You moved with a grace and authority that belied your usual demeanor. With a powerful surge of cursed energy, you dispatched the curse in a blaze of light, your movements fluid and controlled. The air seemed to hum with your energy, a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it.

As the last remnants of the curse vanished, you turned to the injured student, your hands hovering over them with a soft, healing glow. Gojo’s heart pounded as he took in the sight. The way you worked so effortlessly, the way you seemed to be in your element—it was clear now. You were the one who had sacrificed so much to save him.

Once the threat was neutralized and the injured student was safely taken care of, you made your way back towards the infirmary, unaware of the eyes watching you from the window above. You were lost in your thoughts, the familiar weight of your burden heavy on your shoulders.

Gojo couldn’t stay in his wheelchair any longer. With great effort, he pushed himself up and made his way to the door, determined to confront you. His legs still wobbled, and every step was painful, but his resolve was unwavering.

Shoko, who had been monitoring his condition, saw him struggle and hurried over. “Satoru, what are you doing? You’re supposed to rest.”

“I need to see her,” Gojo said firmly, his voice strained but resolute. “I need to talk to her.”

Shoko hesitated, her eyes flickering with concern. But she saw the determination in his eyes and relented, guiding him carefully out of the infirmary.

You were just passing by, heading towards the staff room to report the incident, when you heard the sound of the infirmary door creaking open. You looked up to see Shoko pushing Gojo’s wheelchair, his expression a mix of pain and determination. Your heart skipped a beat, the reality of your situation crashing over you once more.

Gojo’s eyes locked onto you, and there was something intense, almost searching, in his gaze. He called out, his voice carrying a weight that made you stop in your tracks.

You turned slowly, your expression a mixture of apprehension and resignation. “Gojo-sensei.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving you. “You’re the one who saved me. Aren’t you?”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I am.”

There was a long silence as Gojo studied you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to reconcile the pieces of a puzzle. “I’ve been trying to remember. There was something missing—something important. And I think I finally understand.”

You felt your heart ache at his words, the weight of your sacrifice pressing down on you. “Gojo-sensei...”

“I remember your presence,” he said slowly, his voice filled with a mix of frustration and relief. “I remember the energy you used. It was... different. It felt like a part of me was... reconnected.”

Shoko watched from the side, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern. She knew how painful this revelation would be for both of you.

Gojo continued, his gaze softening. “I don’t know everything. I don’t remember your face, your name, but I can’t forget the feeling you left behind. It’s like a shadow in my mind that won’t go away.”

You took a shaky breath, tears welling in your eyes. “It was my choice, Gojo-sensei.”

His eyes widened, understanding dawning on him. “You did that for me?”

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “It was the only way. I couldn’t let you carry the burden of knowing who I was, of what I did. It was too much.”

Gojo’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you did it, but I want to thank you. For everything.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, your voice trembling. “You don’t need to thank me. I did what I had to do.”

There was another long silence, filled with unspoken emotions. Gojo’s gaze remained steady, a silent acknowledgment of the pain and sacrifice you had endured.

Shoko cleared her throat gently. “Maybe now is not the time for more discussion. Gojo, you should rest, and you, you need to take care of yourself, too.”

Gojo nodded reluctantly, though his eyes never left you. “We’ll talk more later. When you’re ready.”

You managed a small, sad smile, nodding in return. “Yes, Gojo-sensei. Whenever we're ready.”

As Shoko wheeled Gojo back towards the infirmary, you watched them go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that your sacrifice maybe had not been in vain. Gojo may not remember everything, but he remembered enough.

And for now, that was enough.

#— [♡] by gigi #jjk #gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk oneshot #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo oneshot #jujutsu kaisen

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rebabbitting · 1 year

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murthysewingmachines1 · 2 months

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Discover the Brother GS3710 Electric Home Sewing Machine at Murthy Sewing Machines in Chennai

When it comes to purchasing a reliable, user-friendly, and feature-rich sewing machine in Chennai, the Brother GS3710 Electric Home Sewing Machine stands out as a top choice. At Murthy Sewing Machines, we are proud to offer this exceptional model to our customers, ensuring they receive the best quality and service in the industry. Our location in Chennai has been serving sewing enthusiasts for over 35 years, and the Brother GS3710 is one of our flagship products, embodying the blend of traditional craftsmanship and modern technology.

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