ᜄᜈᜆ

┌⁠(⁠・⁠。⁠・⁠)⁠┘⁠♪

[cyllres]

𝓬𝔂𝓵𝓵𝓻𝓮𝓼

 To be honest gang, I just wanna yap.

just so you know, I block suspicious accounts •ᴗ•

❁્᭄͜͡ quotev , tumblr , X , wattpad , ao3

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕷𝖎𝖘𝖙:

⊹˚₊‧──────────────────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Devil | JJK x Makima! Reader

Control | JJK x Makima! Reader Alternate Universe

Promise | KNY x Reader

Sunset | Suguru Geto x Reader

Side Character | JJK x Reader

⊹˚₊‧──────────────────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Hey guys, Cyllres here! Your support would mean so much to me, I'm gonna be honest with y'all, I'm FUCKED financially and school takes up most of my time. So any help would go a long way. I really appreciate it, and thank you for considering! Wishing you all a great day/evening!

support me on Kofi : ko-fi.com/cyllres

stay tuned! (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

48

“So if we were in a MOBA game—”

“Oh my god. He’s starting again,” you muttered.

It hadn’t even been five minutes since the mission ended.

The three of you had barely gotten into the car when Satoru began talking again, like he’d been saving this conversation for the entire duration of the mission. The manager hadn’t even finished pulling into traffic. This time you had secured the window seat—a small victory you guarded carefully by leaning your shoulder against the glass.

It’s 2005, do MOBA games even exist?

Probably.

You wouldn't even be surprised if Satoru played them. The amount of video games crammed into his dorm room alone was evidence enough. You had seen it once while dropping something off. There is an entire television, a PC setup, shelves full of controllers, and more figurines than anyone should reasonably own.

Not to mention the Digimon collection.

What a fucking otaku.

The backseat was cramped. Suguru sat between you and Satoru, long legs slightly angled because there wasn’t nearly enough space for three teenagers who had just finished fighting curses for several hours.

Outside the window, late afternoon Tokyo slid by in long streaks of concrete and neon signs.

“Our team is fucked and imbalanced,” Satoru continued with absolute conviction.

Beside you, Suguru sat comfortably in the middle seat, shoulders relaxed despite being sandwiched between the two of you. He looked mildly entertained, like he’d already accepted that the ride back would include a lecture on imaginary game mechanics.

“Listen,” Satoru continued, leaning forward slightly as if presenting a serious strategy discussion. “Suguru and I are obviously mages.”

Suguru hummed thoughtfully, as though this was a reasonable classification.

“Two mages on one team is already risky,” Satoru said. “But it’s manageable if one of the mages rotates fast enough to farm instead of staying mid. So I’d do the honor and be the jungle.”

“You don’t think I can jungle?” Suguru asked sharpy—offended.

“Let me cook, pookie bear.”

You watched the city pass by and wondered how you had become part of this conversation.

“Shoko,” Satoru continued confidently, “is obviously the support.” That at least sounded correct.

“The problem,” he said dramatically, “is that we don’t have a marksman.”

Then he turned and pointed across Suguru directly at you. “You’re obviously the fighter.” He paused. Then his expression shifted to horror. “BUT WE DON’T HAVE A TANK.” His finger remained pointed at you, like you had personally caused the imbalance of this fictional team. “And I seriously doubt you’d be a tank-type character.”

The disappointment in his voice sounded genuine. How is that your fault?

You looked at him for a moment.

Then, because the ride was long and you were tired enough to feel pleasantly detached from reality, you decided to humor him. “I can be the marksman.” You lifted your hand slightly.

Green light flickered in the air. A shotgun manifested in your grip—solid, heavy.

Satoru’s eyes widened.

Before he could react, the weapon dissolved into drifting green orbs. A Glock appeared next. You held it for a second before dismissing it too.

Then a sniper rifle formed briefly in your hands. You dismissed that one as well.

Satoru gasped like you’d just performed a stage magic trick. Maybe he’d clap if you popped a few more. “I have never seen you manifest a firearm before!”

“Well,” you said calmly, resting your temple against the window glass again, “I prefer my naginata,” you paused. “and I’m not that good at aiming, but let’s say that in this hypothetical game of yours, I’m darn good at it.”

The admission came out flat and matter-of-fact.

Suguru chuckled quietly. “You’re really good at using your cursed technique.”

You shrugged. “I guess so.”

Across the seat, Satoru immediately pointed at himself. “Hey. I’m good at controlling my cursed technique too.” No one argued. “Sure,” he continued, sounding slightly less confident now, “I can’t use Red yet…” His voice trailed off.

For a moment the car settled into a quieter rhythm. The engine hummed steadily while traffic lights reflected faintly across the window beside your head. Suguru shifted slightly in the middle seat, adjusting his posture. You remembered the earlier part of the mission. The curses he absorbed, the way he always did it without hesitation, you spoke without looking away from the window. “How bad does it taste?”

Suguru blinked.

Satoru immediately turned. “What does?”

You clarified calmly. “When you absorb curses.”

Suguru went still for a moment.

It wasn’t a question people asked often, most sorcerers preferred not thinking about the details of each other’s techniques. He considered the answer, then gave the usual one first. “…Unpleasant.”

Satoru tilted his head. “That’s vague.”

Suguru exhaled quietly. There wasn’t much point pretending with the two of you. “…It tastes like rot,” he admitted. “Like swallowing something that should never exist in the first place.”

The words settled into the small space of the car.

You didn’t react dramatically, you didn’t grimace, or say it sounded awful. You just nodded once, as though confirming a detail. Then you spoke again in the same casual tone. “We should go to cafés after missions.”

Suguru blinked.

Satoru blinked.

“Sweets help with bad tastes.” You continued, still watching the city outside. “Or caffeine, or whatever…”

There was a brief pause. Satoru grinned slowly. “Oh?”

You added quickly, before Suguru could say anything. “I mean….we should hang out more.” You kept your voice neutral. “Since you made that condition before.”

Suguru glanced at you. You didn’t look back at him. “If we’re already out after missions,” you continued, “we might as well stop somewhere.”

Another quiet pause passed.

Then Satoru clapped his hands once. “That’s a great idea.” He leaned forward toward the driver immediately. “Manager! Change of plans.”

The man in the front seat glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. “Yes, Gojo-san?”

“Drop us off at the nearest café instead of Jujutsu Tech.”

The manager hesitated. “…Right now?”

“Yes.” Satoru was already digging his phone out of his pocket. “And I’m calling Shoko.”

Suguru sighed softly beside you, though there was amusement in it.

Satoru held the phone to his ear. “Shokooooo,” he sang into the receiver. “Emergency meeting.”

A pause, then he grinned wider. “Yeah. ASAP.”

You remained leaning against the window, watching the city blur past. Suguru sat quietly between you and Satoru. After a moment, he spoke, “…You don’t even like sweets.”

You glanced at him. “That’s fine.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say anything else.

“Hey, Y/n-chan, can you manifest a bazooka next?” Satoru asked with hopeful eyes.

-

“What’ya two doing?” Satoru’s voice drifted in before he actually stepped into the common room. A second later, his head appeared around the doorway, white hair catching the late afternoon light that slanted through the tall windows. You didn’t look up right away. Shoko was holding your hand steady, brush moving carefully over your nail. The polish was a deep, glossy purple that caught the light every time you shifted your fingers. “Nails,” you said simply.

The common area of the dorms was quiet today. The low table had been pushed aside to make space, and the two of you were sitting on the floor with pillow cushions scattered around. Someone had left a half-empty soda can on the table (probably Satoru), and the TV hummed faintly in standby mode across the room.

“Oooh.” Satoru wandered over immediately and dropped onto a cushion beside Shoko, leaning forward like he had discovered something fascinating. “Do mine next,” he said, shoving his hand into her line of sight. Shoko grunted without looking up, but she didn’t refuse. It was easier to comply than listen to him complain for the next hour.

Suguru came in a moment later, closing the door behind him. He took in the scene—the nail polish bottle, your outstretched hand, Satoru hovering like an impatient child—and quietly sat down beside you on one of the cushions.

“She was also sorta teaching me about reverse cursed technique,” you added.

Suguru’s attention sharpened slightly.

“And…?” Satoru prompted.

You lifted your hand a little so Shoko could reach the last nail. “Well,” you said, glancing toward him, “you understand how my technique works, right?”

Satoru stared at you, completely blank.

You stared back, then you groaned. “Amazing. Truly.”

Suguru’s shoulders shook slightly beside you.

“Basically,” you continued, “I can make anything with my cursed technique. Objects, tools, weapons. Anything.”

Satoru perked up slightly.

“But,” you added, tapping your temple with your free hand, “I have to know the structure of the thing I’m making. Completely. Materials, shape, how it fits together. If I don’t understand it, I can’t reconstruct it.”

Shoko blew lightly across your nails to help them dry.

“So technically,” you went on, “that also applies to bodies.”

Suguru tilted his head. “Healing.”

“Exactly.”

You flexed your fingers carefully so the polish wouldn’t smudge.

“If I understand the anatomy well enough, I can reconstruct damaged tissue.”

Satoru’s eyes widened a little. “That’s actually insane.”

“Well,” you said lightly, “I can heal myself pretty well.”—You sorta have to when your grandmother guts you alive to practice ‘healing.’ The words left your mouth casually, like it was a convenient trick you picked up somewhere. Your stomach tightened a little anyway.

Shoko’s brush paused for half a second before continuing with the last coat.

“But I can only do it on myself so far,” you added. “Healing other people is harder. Their bodies aren’t… mapped out in my head the same way.”

Satoru leaned back onto his cushion. “So practice?”

You shook your head. “I can’t just practice whenever I want,” you said. “My cursed technique burns through cursed energy every time I reconstruct something. Plus I can’t just purposely cut people to practice on them.”

“I might get completely drained,” you continued, keeping your tone steady. “And the process of getting cursed energy back…” You shuddered faintly. “Horrible.”

The word slipped out before you could soften it.

Satoru tilted his head, curious.

Suguru’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than the others.

“So maybe with RCT you can…” Suguru started.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding once. “If I combine reverse cursed technique with my cursed technique, it becomes precise reconstruction instead of brute force healing.” You leaned back slightly on your cushion. “I’m halfway there already, I think.”

Shoko finished the last nail and set the brush aside.

“Honestly,” you added dryly, examining the purple polish catching the light, “I might quit jujutsu and go profit off curing cancer or something.”

Satoru snorted.

Suguru laughed quietly under his breath.

You rolled your wrist slowly, watching the color shift. “I just wish I could practice healing other people,” you murmured.

For a moment, the thought drifted somewhere darker. If you were still back in Kyoto, that wouldn’t be a problem. The clan there would offer themselves without hesitation. Smiling, even, proud to be useful.

The idea made something cold crawl up your spine.

You rubbed your arm unconsciously and pushed the thought away. “Actually,” you muttered, “never mind.”

Shoko glanced up at you briefly.

Satoru, completely oblivious to the brief dip in mood, shoved his hand toward Shoko again. “My turn,” he announced brightly, fingers spread like he was presenting them for inspection. “Purple,” he added. “Make mine purple too.”

Shoko stared at him for two full seconds, the way a doctor might look at a patient who had just said something deeply stupid. Then she reached for the polish.

You turned your hand slightly under the light, examining the glossy coat Shoko had finished moments earlier. The purple was darker than it looked in the bottle—rich, almost velvety—and it caught the light whenever you moved your fingers.

You held your hand out toward Suguru, who was sitting beside you on the cushions. “Look,” you said, lifting your fingers a little closer so he could see. “It kinda looks like your eyes.”

Suguru paused. Just slightly. Then the tips of his ears turned faintly red. “…Huh.”

In front of you two, a sudden noise erupted. “HAAAH?” Satoru jerked his hand back so fast Shoko almost painted the table instead. “Then I DON’T want mine to be purple!” He looked personally offended by the idea now, like the polish had betrayed him. “Blue!” He declared, adjusting his dark glasses with dramatic urgency when they nearly slid off his nose. “I want it to be blue!”

Shoko let out a slow exhale that suggested deep regret about agreeing to this activity at all.

Satoru, meanwhile, had already turned his attention back to you. He pointed at you accusingly. “Why Suguru’s, huh?” His voice carried the tone of someone uncovering a conspiracy. “MY eyes are way more beautiful.”

You looked at him, expression completely flat.

For a moment you considered explaining that you hadn’t chosen the color because of Suguru at all. That Shoko had picked the polish out of a small plastic box and you had simply noticed the resemblance afterward—the same deep violet shade that appeared in Suguru’s eyes whenever the light hit them a certain way. It hadn’t been a grand statement, just an observation.

Instead, you rested your elbow against the cushion and looked at Satoru with quiet patience. “Yes,” you said calmly. “Your eyes are very beautiful.”

Suguru snorted beside you before he could stop himself.

Satoru squinted suspiciously. “…You’re mocking me.”

“No, not at all.”

Shoko grabbed his hand before he could pull away again. “Stop moving.”

“I said blue!”

“You said purple first.”

“I changed my mind!” The argument continued while she uncapped the bottle again.

You leaned back slightly against the cushion, letting the noise fade into background chatter as you examined your nails once more. The polish had dried smoothly, the purple catching the soft dorm lighting in small flashes of color.

Beside you, Suguru cleared his throat softly, the sound almost swallowed by the faint hum of the dorm’s common area. “…It does look similar,” he admitted after a pause, voice quiet enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

You glanced at him, just briefly. His ears were still faintly pink, a flush you noted without really processing it—like noticing a crack in a tile while walking past a bathroom. You gave a small, absent nod, the kind of nod that confirmed a fact without investing any emotion. Your focus drifted back to your nails, the polish catching the light in faint flashes of violet.

Across from you, Satoru’s dramatic protests continued unabated. “No! I said BLUE! BLUE, SHOKO!” He flailed his hands in exaggerated despair, nearly toppling the small tray of polish bottles. Shoko ignored him, calmly swirling the brush through the thick liquid, the faint, sweetly acrid scent of nail polish filling the room.

You watched your nails as the light bounced off them, glinting softly like shards of amethyst. Purple suited you. It didn’t matter that Satoru was having an existential crisis over it.

Eventually, compromise won by exhaustion. Satoru finally let Shoko finish, though not without forcing the rest of the group into color solidarity. Suguru and Shoko ended up painting their nails blue just to keep Satoru from whining, his satisfaction audible in a low, self-congratulatory hum as he admired his fingers like a toddler with a new toy.

You didn’t comment. You didn’t have to. The chaos washed over you like background noise—the scent of polish, the faint buzz of conversation, the shifting light from the overhead fixtures. It was all mundane, normal, safe.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

47

You felt someone poke you.

“…Ngh.” You groaned, pulling your hand weakly over your eyes.

The poking didn’t stop. It pressed harder, sharper, like a particularly insistent headache manifesting in your flesh. You opened one eye, then the other, to see the white-haired idiot grinning down at you.

“Wow,” he said, eyes widening theatrically. “You do look like shit.”

“Go kill yourself, Gojo,” you muttered, voice hoarse, your ribs reminding you they still existed.

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest as if you’d just insulted his very soul. “You’re saying that after I came all the way here in worry?” His grin didn’t waver.

He revealed a tray carrying two bowls of curry and rice. Steam rose from it in thin, lazy spirals, carrying the warm, comforting scent of home-cooked food. Shoko had made it—he said. You could feel your stomach tighten, torn between relief and pure exhaustion.

You pushed yourself up slightly, ignoring the sharp protest from your side. Sleep was tempting. Actually, it was more than tempting—it was a godsend—but Satoru was already waving the curry like a weapon. He mentioned he'd pour the contents of your bowl on you. You knew the consequences if you tried to collapse back down.

“Where’s Geto, anyways?” you asked, voice dry. Between Satoru and Suguru, your choice was painfully obvious.

“Taking care of those snotty brats with Shoko,” he replied, dropping onto the edge of your bed. His tone softened, just a fraction. “Yaga-sensei’s busy contacting police stations and their parents.” He paused, tilting his head. “So… uh… you’re alive, huh.”

“Should I be dead?” The words slipped out before your brain fully processed them.

He shrugged, flipping his hair back with one hand. “I mean… usually, when the higher-ups scheme, the victim ends up dead.” He leaned back, smirking, but there was a faint shadow behind the gesture, like he was trying to measure how much you’d survived. “Seriously annoying when they pull that. And you? You’re an idiot for falling for it.”

Before you could respond, he flicked your forehead. Hard enough to sting.

“Can’t you, I dunno… text us?” He leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hey, my most handsome and strongest classmate—Satoru-sama—a weirdo is asking me to go on a solo mission. Should I take it?” He dropped his voice into an absurdly high-pitched imitation of your own, waving his free hand like he was casting some tragic spell.

You wanted to roll your eyes. Hard. But your body felt like someone had replaced it with lead and glass. Every movement carried pain, and every breath reminded you that surviving wasn’t exactly fun.

“…You’re insufferable,” you muttered instead, letting your hand fall back to your stomach. Your side throbbed, but at least you were alive.

“Insufferable?” he repeated, mock offense lighting his features. “Finally, a word I can respect.”

You closed your eyes again, only half tempted to punch him. Pain made your humor sharper, crueler, like you were testing the edges of being awake, being alive, and not being dead. Somewhere, deep down, it was good to have someone who didn’t pretend everything was fine. Who could be annoying, while still reminding you that surviving didn’t mean surrender.

“…Eat your curry, idiot,” your tone softened just a little.

Satoru snorted, but picked up his bowl anyway.

You grabbed your own bowl and adjusted slightly on the infirmary bed, trying not to make the movement obvious. Pain still pulsed along your side in steady waves.

Then you spoke again.

You shifted slightly on the infirmary bed, trying not to wince too obviously. “Hey, don't tell anyone about this.” You said softly, turning your head toward him. “Not the others. If Geto-san or Ieiri-san get wind that someone tried to… you know… end me,” you returned your gaze to your bowl, “I don’t want them hovering over me every second, like I’m some fragile porcelain doll. Keep it between us.”

Satoru paused mid-chew, curry halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raised. “Between us?”

You nodded, not bothering to explain further. The thought of spilling all the ugly details was exhausting. You didn’t need him—or anyone—knowing the full scope of what you went through.

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head.

You didn’t answer.

His grin didn’t falter, though it softened slightly. Like he had already accepted that sometimes, you weren’t going to explain yourself. “You’re so full of secrets, you know that?” he said, shaking his head, amusement mixed with genuine curiosity.

You dug into your pocket and fished out a few strawberry candies, haphazardly tossing them toward him.

He blinked, offended. “You seriously think you can buy me with cheap candies?”

You shrugged, letting your fingers brush against the bed sheets. “I can’t?”

Before he could respond further, he unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he smirked, “Huh, fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

You exhaled quietly, letting the tension ease out of your shoulders. “Don’t get used to this,” you muttered.

He leaned back slightly, still savoring the candy, though his expression flickered with a trace of skepticism. “Though… I doubt Suguru doesn’t already know. Honestly, anyone with half a brain knows how corrupt the higher-ups in Jujutsu Society are.”

You didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch.

“Alright,” he said finally, eyes glinting as he leaned closer. “I’ll agree on one condition.”

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering despite the exhaustion. “And that is?”

“You start hanging out with us more.” He smirked, playful but sharp. “Suguru acts like a sad, kicked puppy every time you leave. Like—seriously—like a wife yearning for her husband who’s off at war.” Satoru grimaced, “It’s… it’s annoying. Drives me nuts.”

Your lips twitched faintly, almost a smirk. “Noted,” you said, voice quiet but teasing.

“Good. Then I’ll zip it about the whole near-death adventure,” he said, leaning back, finishing the last of the candy. “For now.”

-

“Wagyu steak, two banana puddings…” Shoko continued listing items with the same calm tone she used when announcing medical supplies in the infirmary.

You watched the waiter’s pen slow down halfway through her order.

It had been a few days since that incident. A few days since you had accidentally used your domain inside another one like an idiot. Yaga-sensei had forced you to take time off until you “fully recovered,” which was ridiculous. You had been fine the moment Shoko patched you up with RCT. Your ribs didn’t stab you when you breathed anymore. Your cursed energy has stabilized. Functionally speaking, you were operational.

But apparently that didn’t matter.

So now you are here. Kidnapped (that was the only correct word for it).

Gojo Satoru showed up at your apartment in Yokohama, unannounced, dragged you out the door before you finished putting your shoes on, and somehow transported you to one of the most expensive looking restaurants you had ever seen in your life. How he knew your address was a mystery you suspected you didn’t want the answer to.

Crystal lights hung from the ceiling like frozen rain. The air smelled faintly of butter, wine, and grilled meat. Soft music played somewhere you couldn’t quite locate. Everything looked expensive enough that you were afraid to even touch it.

Meanwhile, Satoru was leaning back in his chair like he owned the building. He lazily spun a black credit card between his fingers. “My treat,” he had declared earlier, waving it around like a flag of conquest. Which was apparently permission for your classmates to lose all restraint.

Geto Suguru had simply pointed at the menu and said he’d take the entire sashimi and sushi selection. Calm, efficient, zero hesitation. Shoko had followed with a list long enough to make the waiter question his career. “What’cha want, L/n-san?” Shoko asked, finally turning toward you.

You looked down at the menu. The amount of words was overwhelming. Everything had adjectives attached to it. Imported. Dry-aged. Hand-prepared. Seasonal. You didn’t know what half of it meant. You settled on the safest option. “Just the steak,” you said quietly. “Medium rare.”

The waiter nodded with visible relief and wrote it down.

Satoru stared at you. “…That’s it?”

You didn’t look up. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, like he’d just discovered something fascinating. “That’s adorable.”

You paused.

Suguru already looked like he knew exactly where this was going.

“You’re being shy,” Satoru continued cheerfully. “Or what—have you never been somewhere like this before?”

You ignored him. The menu suddenly became very interesting.

“Aw, come on,” he continued. “You can order more than that.” He grinned, “Don’t worry, just because you can’t afford it doesn't mean I can’t.”

Still nothing from you.

…He was very good at this.

You knew that.

Satoru had a special talent for poking people exactly where it would irritate them the most. “Or maybe,” he added lightly, “you just don’t know what to order, because you’ve never been in a place like this before.”

The table went quiet.

You slowly looked up from the menu. Your expression was calm—almost blank. The waiter was still standing there, pen ready.

You closed the menu.

“Actually,” you said politely, “I’ll have–” You leaned slightly forward– “55 burgers, 55 fries, 55 tacos, 55 pies, 55 cokes, 100 pizzas, 100 tenders, 100 meatballs, 100 coffees, 55 wings, 55 shakes, 55 pancakes, 55 pastas, 55 peppers, and 155 tater tots.”

Silence fell over the table.

The waiter froze.

Shoko blinked. Suguru, very slowly, turned his head toward you.

Satoru stared, “…You can’t just say that.”

You met his gaze calmly, “But you said you were paying.”

The waiter looked like he was reconsidering every life decision that had led him to this moment.

Satoru pointed at you accusingly, “You’re only doing this because I teased you!”

You shrugged. “Yes, I am.”

Suguru lowered his face into his hand, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter. Shoko leaned back in her chair, watching the scene with the detached interest of someone witnessing a rare environmental phenomenon.

Satoru looked at the waiter. The waiter looked back. “…You’re serious?” The waiter asked carefully.

Satoru sighed dramatically and waved his card again. “Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab.” Then he leaned toward you, squinting suspiciously. “You know you actually have to eat them, right?”

You rested your chin in your hand and looked at him with the calm, mildly dissociated expression of someone who had fought a cursed spirit in a morgue, and carried four unconscious kindergarteners through a forest. “I didn’t say it was all for me.”

Across the table, Suguru laughed out loud.

The waiter returned forty minutes later looking like a man who had survived a small war. Not a dramatic war. Something quieter. Exhausting. The kind that involved trays.

Lots of trays.

Plates began arriving in waves. Burgers stacked like small towers. Baskets of fries. Platters of tacos. Plates of pasta, glossy with sauce. Meatballs in bowls big enough to wash your hands in. Pizza, after pizza, after pizza.

The table filled. Then it overflowed. The surrounding tables started watching.

You sat there quietly while the landscape of food expanded outward like a slowly growing city. Across from you, Satoru rested his chin on his hand and watched the spectacle with open delight. “This,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied with his life, “is the best financial decision I’ve ever made.” Suguru rubbed his temple, trying very hard not to laugh again. Beside him, Shoko calmly continued eating like none of this was strange.

The waiter placed the final tray down. “Your taters… Ma’am,” he said weakly.

You looked at the table, then at the waiter, then back at the table. There was absolutely no universe where you could eat even a fraction of this. Which was fine, since you hadn’t planned to. You reached for one burger, peeled the wrapper open, and took a bite. The meat was still hot, grease soaking into the bun.

Satoru leaned closer across the table, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So,” he said, “how’s your plan going?”

You chewed slowly.

Swallowed.

“Good.”

He gestured broadly at the mountain of food. “You hadn’t even eaten one percent.”

“Efficiency.”

Suguru snorted quietly.

You took another bite, wiped your hands with a napkin, before calmly looking around the table again. “…Can we get boxes for these?” You asked the waiter.

The poor man looked like he might cry. “Of course.”

Soon the table transformed again, this time into a packaging station. Boxes stacked upon boxes, paper bags filling the empty space where plates had been. The staff moved quickly now, scooping fries, sliding burgers into containers, sealing lids. You helped when you could, sliding food into the boxes with careful hands.

Satoru watched you the entire time, clearly entertained. “So what’s the master plan here?” he asked.

You tied one of the bags closed and leaned back in your chair. “I’m gonna freeze all of these. Now I won’t have to worry about food for a week.”

He glanced at the bags. Then at you. “…For a week?”

You shrugged, “Maybe.” Your father sent you an allowance every week. It was more than enough for basic necessities—food, utilities, small expenses—but you preferred spending most of it elsewhere. Clothes, makeup, things that didn’t remind you of survival. If this food lasted you a few days—maybe a week if you portioned it well enough—that meant less money spent on groceries.

Which meant more freedom with the rest of it.

Plus….you’re used to eating food that has gone bad. If you get food poisoned you could always use your cursed technique to keep you healthy.

You stacked another bag. “The rest,” you added after a moment, “I’ll give away.”

Suguru looked up, “To who?”

“Anyone who wants it.” There were always people around the city who needed food more than you did. Convenience stores, train stations, underpasses, the world had no shortage of hungry people.

Satoru leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, “You ordered an entire restaurant menu just to start a charity program.”

You shrugged lightly, “You said it was your treat.”

For a moment, he stared at you. Then he burst out laughing. Not horrified, not even mildly upset about the bill that was probably equivalent to that of a small car. Just completely amused. “That’s incredible,” he said, wiping the corner of his eye. “You weaponized my wallet.”

Shoko smirked, “Honestly, Satoru, that’s on you.”

Suguru nodded solemnly, “You provoked her.”

You slid the last box into one of the plastic bags and tied it shut.

Across the table, Satoru leaned forward again, studying you like you were some kind of interesting puzzle. “…You know,” he said thoughtfully, “most people would’ve just ordered dessert out of spite.”

You met his gaze calmly. “That’s inefficient.”

He grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting to notice.”

[cyllres]

hru hun??? hope u’re doing well <3333

miss u luvvvvvv❤️

I'm fineee, uni has me on a choke hold rn that's why I forgot to update, would update sidecharacter now tho! ilysm

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

46

Using a Domain Expansion here was a terrible idea.

You knew that.

Domains layered over other domains was a stupid move even for experienced sorcerers. Even attempting it was something teachers warned students about—two territories colliding, barrier structures grinding against each other until one collapsed.

And you?

You had been at Jujutsu Tech for two months.

Two.

The higher-ups listed you as semi–special grade, which you were fairly sure was a clerical mistake that no one had bothered correcting yet. You weren’t stupid enough to believe you were actually operating on the same level as the monsters that title usually applied to.

Trying to contest a curse’s domain with your own was the kind of move that usually ended with the sorcerer dead—with the sole exception of Satoru Gojo (or any main character Gege Akutami doesn’t have a personal hatred for).

Plus the fact that you never tried actually using your domain because the cursed energy it needs is too much.

Unfortunately, the cursed spirit was closing in.

And the four children clinging to you were crying hard enough that their shoulders shook.

You couldn’t run forever so might as well die trying.

Your cursed energy surged anyway. “Domain Expansion.” You whispered. “Yūgen Rakuen.”

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the hospital corridor ruptured.

The flickering emergency lights dimmed and dissolved into darkness as the walls of the building peeled away like old paint flaking from wood. Rusted metal cabinets, broken tiles, cracked doors—everything blurred at the edges before quietly fading out of existence.

The air changed first.

Cooler.

Still.

The smell of antiseptic and rot vanished, replaced by damp soil and the faint sweetness of night flowers.

When the space finished unfolding, the hospital was gone.

You stood in a garden.

A large one.

Twilight hung over everything in soft shades of violet and deep blue, like the moment just after sunset when the sky hadn’t fully decided whether it wanted to become night yet. Old trees grew in loose clusters, their branches arching overhead like natural canopies.

Stone lanterns lined narrow winding paths.

Inside them burned dim green flames.

The same color as the countless small lights drifting lazily through the air.

Green orbs floated between the trees like slow-moving fireflies.

Fragments.

Records.

Shōga Kiroku’s archive of lived experience, given shape within your domain.

The Serene Origin Garden.

The children clinging to you fell quiet almost immediately.

You felt the shift the moment it happened.

Your domain didn’t crush its occupants with overwhelming pressure the way most did. It didn’t suffocate them or freeze them in place with absolute authority.

Instead, the space settled over everything like still water.

Calm.

Quiet.

The garden carried the accumulated impressions of countless lives—memories, sensations, emotions stored within the drifting green lights. Anyone inside it inevitably felt that influence brushing against them.

The children’s sobbing slowed.

Their tight grips on your uniform loosened slightly.

One of them hiccupped softly.

Then another.

Even the cursed spirit stopped shrieking.

It had stumbled into the garden a few steps behind you, long limbs hunched and claws digging into the moss-covered ground.

But now it had gone still.

Its head tilted slightly as it looked around the twilight garden.

The violent tension in its body eased in a way that felt… unnatural for something like that.

The calming effect didn’t discriminate.

Curse.

Human.

Anyone inside the garden felt it.

You exhaled slowly.

Good.

That made things easier.

The spirit’s hunger dulled just enough for it to hesitate.

That hesitation was all you needed.

You carefully shifted the children in your arms until their weight rested more securely against your shoulder. One of them had already fallen asleep, their small head pressed against your collarbone.

The other three weren’t far behind.

The garden had a way of encouraging that.

Your naginata formed in your free hand with a soft pulse of cursed energy.

The cursed spirit noticed the movement.

It twitched slightly, as if remembering something important.

Like violence.

Like hunger.

But its reactions were slower now.

Muted.

You stepped forward.

The moss beneath your feet barely made a sound.

The spirit raised one arm.

Long black claws extended toward you.

You cut through them in a single motion.

The blade of your naginata slid cleanly through the creature’s limb before continuing into its torso. The strike was simple, direct, and precise—no wasted movement.

The cursed spirit jerked once.

Then its body collapsed inward.

The moment it died, the garden responded immediately.

The creature’s form broke apart into a burst of green light, scattering into the air like a handful of glowing dust.

The new orbs drifted upward and joined the others.

Silence settled over the garden again.

You stared at the place where the spirit had been for a moment.

Then you sighed quietly. “…That was stupid.” Your domain flickered faintly around the edges.

Maintaining it had cost far more cursed energy than the fight itself.

You hadn’t actually needed to deploy it to kill the spirit.

If anything, contesting the domain like that had been inefficient.

Risky.

A gamble.

You were lucky it worked at all.

Still.

The cursed spirit was dead.

The children were alive.

That counted as a successful mission.

Probably.

You glanced down at the small bodies in your arms.

All four of them were asleep now.

Completely unconscious.

Your domain’s calming effect had knocked them out faster than you expected.

Which meant they were now four small, completely limp weights hanging off you.

Dead (but thankfully alive!) weight.

Your injured side throbbed immediately in protest. “Fantastic,” you muttered under your breath.

The garden flickered again.

Your cursed energy was running low enough that maintaining the space any longer would be irresponsible.

You released it.

The twilight garden dissolved instantly.

The trees faded first, their silhouettes dissolving into darkness as the drifting green lights winked out one by one. The stone paths and lanterns followed, melting back into empty air.

When reality snapped back into place, the world looked completely different.

You were no longer inside a hospital.

You stood in the middle of a forest.

Tall trees surrounded you in every direction, their branches blocking most of the sky above. The ground beneath your feet was uneven with roots and damp leaves.

The abandoned hospital was nowhere in sight.

Apparently the curse’s domain had been overlapping the surrounding forest this entire time.

You adjusted your grip on the sleeping children with a quiet sigh.

Your side hurt.

Your cursed energy reserves felt uncomfortably low.

And you still had to carry four unconscious kindergarteners out of a forest.

You looked up at the dark canopy above. “…Next time,” you muttered quietly, “I’m killing Kamo.”

-

By the time you reached the road, the sky had already shifted into late afternoon.

The forest thinned just enough to reveal the narrow dirt path where the car had been parked earlier. The same black sedan sat where it had been left, engine off, one door slightly open.

You adjusted the weight of the sleeping children again.

Carrying four unconscious kindergarteners through uneven forest terrain was not something your injured side appreciated. Your ribs felt like someone had replaced them with cracked glass. The healing had sealed the worst of the damage, but the deeper tissue still pulled painfully with every step.

Progress, though.

You were alive.

The children were alive.

The cursed spirit was dead.

Technically a successful mission.

As you stepped out of the tree line, you heard a voice.

The envoy. He stood beside the car with his back partially turned, phone pressed to his ear. His tone was quiet, respectful. “…Yes,” he was saying. “It appears the matter has been resolved.”

You stopped a few meters away.

“…Yes, my lord. The arrangement worked exactly as planned. The girl entered the building alone. Considering the domain that manifested there, survival would have been—”

You tilted your head slightly.

Ah.

So that’s what they were doing.

The envoy continued speaking. “—highly unlikely. Yes. It should be safe to assume the problem has been eliminated.”

You shifted the sleeping weight in your arms and walked the remaining distance toward the car.

Dry leaves crunched softly under your shoes.

The envoy turned.

His eyes landed on you.

In his perspective—barely an hour had passed.

For a moment his entire face froze.

The color drained from it so fast it almost looked impressive.

You stopped a few steps away from him.

The four children slept soundly against you, completely unaware of the sudden tension in the air.

You blinked once. Then tilted your head slightly. “What was successful?” The envoy stared at you like he had just seen a corpse climb out of its own grave.

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Then, remarkably, he recovered.

Fast.

“…You’re alive,” he said, forcing a strained smile onto his face. “That’s—ah—wonderful news.”

You watched him quietly.

He moved quickly then, stepping forward to open the back door of the car. “Let me help you with the survivors.” he said, his voice now carrying an appropriate amount of concern.

You allowed it.

One by one, you carefully lowered the sleeping children into the back seat. The envoy helped guide them into place, arranging their small bodies so they wouldn’t roll off the seats when the car moved.

They didn’t wake.

Your domain had knocked them out completely.

Once the last child was settled, you closed the door.

The envoy stood beside the car, wringing his hands slightly. “…You’re all injured,” he said, his tone concerned now. “should we contact Ieri—”

“You realized something,” you interrupted calmly.

He stopped talking.

Your gaze met his. “You realized you can’t kill me.”

The envoy’s forced expression flickered.

“You’re pretending not to understand what happened,” you continued, your voice flat. “Which is smart.” Your hand shifted slightly.

Your naginata manifested in your grip with a quiet pulse of cursed energy.

The envoy didn’t even have time to react.

One second he was standing beside the car.

The next he was on the ground.

The blade of your naginata pressed cleanly against the side of his neck, pinning him flat against the dirt road. Your foot rested lightly on his chest to keep him from moving.

He froze.

Your injured side screamed in protest from the sudden movement. You ignored it. “You would have escaped this fate if you just,” you said quietly. “dropped me off and leave.”

The envoy didn’t answer.

Your grip on the weapon remained steady.

“But you didn’t leave,” you continued. “You stayed.” Your eyes shifted briefly toward the phone lying a few feet away where it had fallen during the scuffle. “You had to make sure I died.”

The envoy’s throat moved slightly against the blade.

Before he could say anything—

A voice came from the phone.

Cold.

Calm.

“You should reconsider that course of action.”

You clicked your tongue softly. “…Of course.” You glanced down at the phone still lying on the dirt.

The voice continued. “Killing a member of the Kamo clan’s official envoy would constitute a serious violation of jujutsu law. It would classify you as a traitor to Jujutsu Society.”

You sighed quietly. “Traitor, huh.”

The envoy remained perfectly still under your weapon.

Smart man.

Your gaze lingered on him for another moment.

Then you slowly lifted the blade away from his throat.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

You tilted your head slightly. “…Listen carefully.”

Your naginata dissolved into cursed energy.

A moment later something else appeared in your hand.

A Glock.

You casually aimed it at his face. “If you try something funny,” you said calmly, “I can just manifest this again and shoot you.”

The envoy stared at the gun.

His face had gone completely pale. “You understand that, right?”

Silence stretched between you.

Then the envoy nodded.

Very carefully.

-

“You look like shit.”

Shoko finally returned to the infirmary, her eyes scanning the room quickly before settling on you. She had finished attending to the kids—checking for lingering effects from your domain (she was half surprised when you told her about your domain, but that’s what you get when your grandmother is obsessed with your training), making sure they were truly stable—and now she was here, focused entirely on you.

“Cool. The kids are fine?” you asked, voice low and rough. Shifting slightly on the bed, your ribs reminded you that surviving didn’t come without consequences.

“They’re asleep. Safe. Thanks to your… domain,” she said, kneeling beside the bed. Her hands rested lightly on your chest, and the reversed cursed energy she directed in felt warm, controlled, seeping into the muscles and easing the tension in your ribs.

“Well hello there, beautiful,” you said, letting your head tilt back against the pillow. The words were dry, clipped, but deliberately said. Pain made everything sharper—your senses, your humor, your edges.

Shoko blinked, clearly caught off guard, but she didn’t move. Her hands stayed in place, methodically working. The pressure from her cursed energy was precise, almost clinical, unraveling the knots and soreness in your body. “You don’t really use RCT, do you?” she asked, her tone cautious, watching you carefully.

“Yeah,” you admitted, letting out a short, humorless laugh. “I’ve been trying, but for now… I just reconstruct myself. Imagine how precise healing would be if I could pair it with RCT.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. The steady flow of her energy made the sharp edges of your pain dull into something manageable. “Are you alright?” she asked finally, softer now, as though the words themselves were an attempt to anchor you.

“A little light-headed,” you said honestly, letting your shoulders slump slightly. “I sure as hell don’t feel like myself right now. Pain makes everything… blurry.” You exhaled, the faint tension in your body easing. “But having you here helps.”

Shoko didn’t answer. Her hands stayed where they were, focused, drawing your body back from the edge of what it had endured. The throbbing in your ribs didn’t vanish, but it became background noise, less insistent. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the stillness and her presence fill the space between the sharp, raw edges of pain and exhaustion.

It wasn’t relief, exactly. Not yet. But it was enough to make surviving feel like something less miserable.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

45

If someone had told you five chapters ago that you’d be sent on a solo mission, you would’ve laughed in their face.

The higher-ups were cruel cowards, yes, but not cruel enough to send a fifteen-year-old girl (one who had been at Jujutsu Tech for barely two months) into a mission alone.

Apparently—like every single time with no fail—you had given them too much credit.

You should have been suspicious the moment the person briefing you wasn’t your teacher.

It wasn’t even the usual manager who handled missions for you and your classmates.

Instead, a wrinkled old man bowed stiffly and introduced himself as an envoy of Hideo Kamo. The man had the kind of polite smile that never reached his eyes.

He said Lord Kamo had personally requested this little favor.

Right.

In hindsight, threatening a powerful clan head with his grandson might not have been the wisest long-term strategy.

Who could’ve predicted consequences?

Certainly not you.

Now here you were. With the consequences of your actions biting your ass hard.

Alone.

Inside an abandoned hospital that smelled like mildew, rust, and something faintly sweet rotting somewhere in the walls.

Your sense of time had completely fallen apart.

Three hours?

Four?

Six-seven?

Maybe longer.

Your muscles ached like you’d been here for days.

You leaned one shoulder against a cracked hallway wall and exhaled slowly through your nose.

God, you hated curses that hid.

You hated the ones that turned a straightforward exorcism into a prolonged game of hide-and-seek. The ones that crawled through walls and ceilings instead of showing themselves.

And you especially hated the kind that dragged you straight into their teritorry without warning.

That had been a lovely surprise.

The mission itself had sounded simple enough.

A semi–special grade curse.

An abandoned hospital on the outskirts of town.

A few missing children who had apparently wandered into the area.

According to the envoy, Kamo had heard you adored children and loved rescuing people.

You stared at the cracked tiles beneath your feet for a long moment after hearing that.

Fucking fantastic.

You pushed away from the wall and resumed walking down the dark hallway.

Each step sent a dull ache through your left side.

You ignored it.

Mostly.

The real problem had started the moment you entered the building.

You had barely taken three steps past the entrance when the floor beneath you gave out.

A trap.

A very deliberate one.

The rotten tiles collapsed and your body dropped straight down into a pit lined with rusted spikes.

Your reflexes had saved you.

Barely.

Training drilled into you by your clan made your body move before your brain caught up. You twisted mid-fall, forcing your weight away from the worst angles. Guess you should thank your grandmother for that.

Even so, one of the spikes had punched straight through your side.

In one end.

Out the other.

Like someone skewering meat over a fire.

You stared down at the blood-soaked tear in your uniform now, pressing a hand lightly against the spot.

The wound had closed.

Mostly.

Your cursed technique had already begun repairing the damage the moment you dragged yourself out of the pit. Flesh knitting slowly together under layers of carefully controlled cursed energy.

But healing wasn’t simple for you.

Shōga Kiroku required understanding.

To rebuild something, you had to know its structure—muscle layers, blood vessels, nerves. Every tiny detail had to be recalled and reconstructed correctly. A mistake meant rebuilding something wrong.

Healing yourself was manageable.

Healing others was… significantly harder.

Even then, it wasn’t instant.

The hole through your side had sealed, but the tissue still felt tight and raw, like skin stretched over a bruise that hadn’t fully formed yet. Your ribs protested every time you breathed too deeply.

Progress, though.

You weren’t dead—you didn’t die after that injury. Which felt like a reasonable metric for success.

You wiped your hand absently on the side of your skirt, smearing drying blood into the fabric.

The more you thought about the trap, the more annoyed you became.

It had been too precise.

Too clean.

Cursed spirits didn’t set traps like that.

No, that pit had been prepared by someone who understood exactly how a sorcerer would move through the space.

Which meant the cursed spirit inside this hospital wasn’t the only thing trying to kill you.

Your lips twitched faintly.

“Hideo Kamo.” you muttered under your breath.

What an idiot.

Did he really think a spike pit would be enough?

Did he forget that you could heal yourself?

Not perfectly.

Not quickly.

But enough to keep moving.

The real insult, honestly, was the lack of effort.

If Kamo was so determined to lead you to your death, he should have escorted you personally.

At least then you could’ve stabbed him on the way down.

Instead he sent an envoy and a half-hearted trap.

You sighed quietly.

Coward.

The deeper parts of the hospital looked like the building had already accepted its own death.

The lights had long since stopped working. The hallways were swallowed by a dull gray darkness broken only by the weak emergency lights that flickered every few seconds. Their pale glow made everything look sickly—walls stained with old water damage, doors hanging crooked on their hinges, medical carts overturned and rusting where they had been abandoned years ago.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the tile.

You didn’t bother trying to find the exit anymore.

There wasn’t one.

The moment you stepped into this place, you already felt it—that subtle distortion in the air, the pressure pressing against the edges of your cursed energy.

A domain.

Not a full one.

More like a malformed territory that swallowed sections of the building and folded them inward.

Which meant the rule was simple.

You couldn’t leave.

Not until the cursed spirit was dead.

You exhaled slowly, adjusting your grip on your naginata as you moved deeper down the hallway. Your side throbbed again where the spike had skewered you earlier. The wound had sealed, but the tissue beneath still burned whenever you twisted too quickly.

Annoying.

At least you weren’t bleeding anymore.

Small victories.

You pushed open another rusted door and stepped into a wide chamber.

Cold air rolled over your skin immediately.

The smell hit next.

Metal.

Preservatives.

Decay.

Your eyes scanned the room.

Metal drawers lined the walls in long rows.

Autopsy tables.

White sheets.

Your shoulders stiffened slightly.

A morgue.

You had a very complicated relationship with corpses.

You were prepared to quietly leave. Then you heard the sound.

Wet chewing.

Your gaze shifted. At the far end of the room, hunched over one of the steel tables, something moved. You had found it. The cursed spirit slowly turned its head toward you. For a moment you wished it hadn’t.

Its body looked like something that had crawled out of a nightmare made from hospital waste. Its limbs were too long, joints bending at wrong angles as if they had been assembled incorrectly. Its skin was stretched tight and gray over a frame that looked starved and swollen at the same time.

But the worst part were its hands.

Long, skeletal fingers ending in nails that had grown into black curved hooks. Each one easily as long as your own fingers.

Those claws were currently buried inside the open chest cavity of a corpse lying on the autopsy table.

The spirit pulled something free and stuffed it into its mouth.

You looked away for half a second.

You really did not need to see that. “Great,” you muttered under your breath.

The cursed spirit screeched when it saw you move.

Its body unfolded in a disturbing way, limbs stretching outward like a spider climbing out of a hole. The claws scraped against metal as it dropped from the table and rushed toward you.

You moved first.

Your naginata flashed forward, blade cutting through the air in a clean horizontal arc.

The spirit shrieked as the blade carved across its torso. Blackened flesh split open and leaked cursed energy that evaporated into the air.

It retaliated instantly.

Those long claws slashed toward your face.

You leaned back just enough for them to miss your throat, the tips grazing your collar instead. The force of the strike carved deep gouges into the metal cabinet behind you.

Your weapon spun back into position.

Another strike.

The naginata pierced through one of its shoulders, pinning it briefly to the tile floor.

You twisted the blade, ready to finish it.

The cursed spirit suddenly jerked backward.

Instead of attacking again, it scrambled away across the floor with disturbing speed, dragging its long limbs behind it.

It ran straight toward the corner of the morgue.

Then it stopped.

Its body curled low against the wall.

Its mouth opened.

Wide.

Too wide.

You instinctively moved forward to finish it.

Then you looked past it.

And froze.

People.

An adult and four children.

Small bodies huddled together against the wall behind the cursed spirit.

Kindergarten uniforms and bright yellow hats.

Their faces were tear-streaked and pale as they clung desperately to the figure lying on the floor beside them.

For a moment your brain struggled to process what you were seeing.

You had assumed the envoy was exaggerating.

Who lets children wander into an abandoned hospital?

Apparently someone.

Your hesitation lasted only a second. Do you finish the cursed spirit with the risk of it injuring the children? Do you prioritize their safety and grab them all and run-away?

One second was enough.

The cursed spirit’s arm shot backward.

Its claws hooked into the body the children were clinging to and yanked it violently across the floor.

The children screamed.

You finally recognized the body.

A woman.

Their teacher.

She was still alive.

Barely.

Blood soaked the front of her uniform as she struggled weakly against the spirit dragging her toward its waiting mouth. Her eyes met yours for a split second. “…Please run.” she rasped.

The word barely left her throat before the spirit sank its teeth into her shoulder.

Your grip tightened around your weapon. Your instincts screamed at you to kill the curse immediately.

That was the correct decision.

Eliminate the threat.

Then deal with the survivors.

But before you could move—“Sensei!” The children’s cries cut through the room.

They clung to the woman’s arms as the spirit tore her away.

Your body moved before your mind finished deciding. The cursed spirit was already retreating with its prey. Kamo’s envoy had mentioned something during the briefing.

The curse replenished itself by eating humans.

If it finished consuming her—

You lunged forward.

But not toward the curse.

Toward the children.

They were still frozen in shock when you reached them. You grabbed two under one arm and pulled the other two against your side, hauling all four small bodies against you at once. They were lighter than expected (or maybe it was adrenaline to thank for at this moment).

And shaking.

You didn’t look back.

You ran.

The morgue door slammed open as you kicked through it into the hallway, your boots pounding against the tile floor, Behind you, the cursed spirit shrieked.

Loud.

Hungry.

The children buried their faces into your uniform as you ran deeper into the corridor. You could hear it behind you now.

Scraping claws.

Fast.

Very fast.

The target wasn’t you.

You could feel it clearly.

The children.

Four small bodies.

Easy prey.

Quick snacks.

Your injured side screamed in protest as you ran, each step sending a spike of pain through your ribs. Your breathing grew uneven but you didn’t slow down.

You couldn’t.

These kids had already seen enough. They didn’t ask to be here. They didn’t deserve to watch their teacher die in front of them.

Did you do this because you think you aren’t fast enough to kill the cursed spirit before it finishes consuming the corpse or is it because you can't....you can't let them see anymore of these any longer? That your heart aches for the children that experienced such horror, your instincts told you to grab them and run?

The cursed spirit rounded the hallway corner behind you.

Closer.

Too close.

Your options ran through your head rapidly.

You couldn’t fight properly while holding them.

You couldn’t outrun the spirit forever.

And you couldn’t put them down.

Not even for a second. Because you’re scared they’d get snatched.

Your cursed energy surged violently.

Fine.

If the situation refused to be reasonable—then neither would you.

Your footsteps stopped. The air around you thickened.

Cursed energy spread outward from your body like ink dissolving into water.

You tightened your hold on the trembling children.

“…Domain Expansion.” You whispered. “Yūgen Rakuen.”

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

44

The bamboo bridge creaked under every step.

Not a reassuring creak, either—the thin, complaining kind that made you very aware of the river rushing beneath it. The current below wasn’t gentle. It churned over rocks with a constant, hollow roar that drifted up through the gaps in the bamboo slats.

You walked stiffly across the unsteady bridge.

Ahead of you, Suguru and Satoru moved like they were strolling through a park instead of crossing what felt like a poorly maintained death trap. Their steps were easy, balanced. Not even a hint of hesitation.

Meanwhile, your hand was gripping the back of Suguru’s uniform like it was the last stable thing in existence.

If this cursed spirit didn’t kill you, the bridge probably would.

You hated missions like this.

It’s not a dangerous one, in fact it’s a semi grade one curse and EVEN if it’s dangerous—you could deal with those. You preferred things that showed themselves clearly. A curse appeared, you exorcised it. Clean and efficient. But the ones that hid? The ones that turned the entire mission into some twisted game of hide-and-seek? Those deserved to be strangled.

“You okay there, L/n-san?” Suguru asked without turning around.

You realized you were clutching the back of his uniform with more desperation than dignity.

Right. That.

Another problem with this bridge: beneath it was a river. A deep one. You considered, briefly, asking Suguru if he had a flying curse you could hitch a ride. He had plenty of them. Surely one could carry a person across a stupid bridge. But the idea of saying that out loud felt worse than death. You have far too much pride to show that you’re scared.

“Yes,” you said instead. Your tone was completely calm and professional. Nothing like the quiet terror currently gnawing at your spine. The bamboo shifted slightly beneath your foot. Your grip on Suguru’s uniform tightened.

Wouldn’t it be funny if you fell?

You wouldn’t even be surprised. The author of your life seemed to enjoy that sort of thing—throwing you into situations that were just a little too inconvenient to be coincidence.

If it happened, you’d at least like to complain about the lazy writing.

“Uh… guys.” Satoru stopped walking.

That alone made your stomach drop.

He turned slightly, scratching the back of his head like he’d just realized something mildly embarrassing. “Blame me for being stupid and not noticing earlier all you want,” he said casually. “But don’t you think this bridge is a little too long?”

Before stepping onto the bridge, you had already noticed how long it was from a distance. That part hadn’t bothered you.

Now it did.

“Huh?” Suguru said.

“I mean,” Satoru continued, glancing around, “yeah it’s long. But we’ve been walking for like five minutes.”

Your eyes shifted forward. The other end of the bridge was still far away.

Not a little far. Not “a few more steps” far.

Far.

Slowly, like idiots collectively realizing the same terrible thing, the three of you turned to look behind.

The starting side of the bridge was also far away.

Suguru exhaled. “Did we—” He stopped, rubbing his forehead. “Ah, shit. Satoru, aren’t you supposed to sense things like this way better than we could?”

Satoru shrugged. “I didn’t know I was leading our little field trip straight into the curse’s stomach.” His tone suggested this was merely an amusing development.

Suguru sighed, already summoning a curse. Dark energy gathered behind him before forming into the shape of a large dragon-like spirit.

You had exactly one second to feel relief.

Then the bridge lurched violently.

The dragon’s sudden appearance seemed to disturb something within the space. The bamboo beneath your feet swayed hard, ropes groaning as the entire structure tilted. Your stomach dropped.

HOLY SHIT.

HOLY SHIT.

HOLY SHIT.

FUCK YOU, AUTHOR.

Before anyone could properly react, the bridge jerked again.

Satoru lost his footing first.

Suguru grabbed for balance—

—and the next second both of them disappeared over the side.

A heavy splash echoed from the river below.

Before that even happened, you reacted on instinct.

Your hand released Suguru’s uniform instantly as your cursed energy surged through your arm. The naginata manifested in your grip and you drove the blade straight through the bamboo slats. The weapon lodged deep, the shaft vibrating as your weight slammed against it. Your body swung over the edge of the bridge for half a second before you managed to pull yourself back onto the unstable surface.

Your heart hammered violently. “FUCK!” you snapped. Your voice echoed over the rushing water. “Gojo?! Geto?!”

No answer.

Just the river. The current churned below like it had swallowed them whole. Your pulse spiked.

“Ah—fuck. Please tell me you idiots know how to swim.” You muttered. Panic crept in despite your best effort to push it down. Because there was a problem. A very specific problem.

You couldn’t swim. Not poorly. Not “kind of bad.” You were catastrophically bad in water. Dying by drowning in a previous life had a way of ruining your relationship with it.

The river roared beneath you.

Your grip tightened around the shaft of your naginata, the blade still buried deep in the bamboo slats to keep you balanced. The bridge swayed violently now, the ropes groaning as if they were seconds away from snapping entirely.

You forced yourself to breathe.

Slow.

Controlled.

Your eyes scanned the river. “Gojo?” you called again, louder this time. “Geto?” The current churned below, dark water smashing against stone.

No response.

Did they fucking drowned?

Your stomach twisted.

Then the river moved.

Not the natural movement of current over rocks. This was different—deliberate. The surface bulged, water rising upward like something enormous was breathing beneath it.

You straightened slightly. “…Of course,” you muttered under your breath.

Because missions were never simple.

The river split open.

Water surged upward in a spiraling column before collapsing inward to form something vaguely humanoid. Its body wasn’t solid—more like flowing liquid forced into a shape that shouldn’t exist. Long limbs dragged behind it like currents. Its face… if it even had one… shifted constantly in the rippling surface.

And its eyes.

Two hollow depressions where the water churned darker than the rest.

It resembles a river spirit from every horror movie.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

Great.

The bridge swayed again beneath your feet.

Right.

That was also happening.

The spirit rose higher from the river, the current around it responding like a living extension of its body. The water surged toward the bridge, slamming against the bamboo supports with violent force.

You adjusted your footing immediately.

Your stance lowered.

The naginata slid free from the bamboo with a sharp crack.

Balance first.

Then the fight.

The spirit moved.

A whip of water lashed upward toward the bridge.

You pivoted sideways, feet shifting across the narrow slats with careful precision. The bamboo dipped under your weight but you adjusted instinctively, letting the movement carry through your center of gravity.

The strike missed you by inches.

You retaliated instantly.

The naginata sliced forward in a clean arc, the blade cutting through the spirit’s torso. For a moment it looked like you’d split it clean in half—

Then the water simply folded back together.

Right.

Not that easy.

The river beneath surged again.

You stepped back quickly as another strike slammed against the bridge. The entire structure lurched sideways and you dropped your weight lower, one hand briefly touching the bamboo to stabilize yourself.

You hated this.

Fighting was easy.

Fighting on a narrow, unsteady bridge above a river was not.

The spirit rose higher now, its body stretching upward until it was almost level with the bridge. The water forming its limbs twisted violently as it lunged.

You moved.

A sharp pivot on the ball of your foot.

The naginata spun with you, the blade carving a precise circle through the air. Your body flowed with the weapon—shoulders, hips, and feet moving together in one continuous motion.

The blade struck again.

This time not the center.

The core.

A concentrated point where the cursed energy pulsed within the watery form.

The spirit shrieked.

A sound like rushing water forced through broken stone.

You didn’t stop.

Your grip shifted along the shaft and the naginata snapped forward again in a thrust so clean it barely disturbed the air.

The blade pierced the core.

For a split second the entire spirit froze.

Then its body collapsed inward.

The river calmed instantly.

The monstrous shape dissolved into glowing green orbs of cursed energy that scattered across the air like fireflies.

You exhaled. “…Finally.”

The bridge creaked.

Loudly.

You frowned slightly.

Then the bamboo beneath your feet vanished.

Just—

Gone.

The illusion maintaining the structure collapsed along with the curse.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh—” The scream tore out of your throat before you could stop it as gravity yanked you straight down into the river.

The water swallowed you whole.

Cold.

Violent.

The current slammed into your body like a wall, dragging you under instantly. Your lungs seized as the water closed over your head, the roar of the river filling your ears.

Your mind went blank.

Not again.

Not again not again—

Your arms thrashed uselessly against the current, panic tearing through your chest as water rushed around you.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t—

A hand grabbed your collar.

Hard.

Your body was yanked upward through the water before you even had time to process it.

Air.

You broke the surface violently, coughing as someone hauled you toward the riverbank.

A moment later you were dragged onto the rocky edge beside the water.

You collapsed onto the ground, coughing hard, lungs burning as your body tried to remember how breathing worked.

Everything felt wrong.

Your hands shook slightly where they pressed against the wet stone.

Beside you, Satoru pushed himself upright, equally soaked but looking far less traumatized by the experience. His white hair clung to his face in damp strands. “Well,” he said, shaking water from his sleeve. “That was dramatic.”

You didn’t respond.

You were still trying to regulate your breathing.

A few seconds later Suguru climbed up from the river as well, water dripping from his uniform as he stepped onto the bank. “…Annoying,” he muttered, wringing out his sleeve. “The entire river was its domain. Anyone weaker would’ve drowned immediately.” He glanced back at the water with mild irritation. “That’s why it was classified as a semi–grade one despite its physical form being weak.” His expression shifted slightly. “…What a waste. I could’ve absorbed it.”

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

You were still sitting where Satoru had pulled you out, shoulders tense, breathing uneven as your fingers dug slightly into the dirt.

Suguru’s expression softened instantly. He stepped closer and crouched down beside you. “Hey,” he said quietly. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. “It’s over.”

Your body was still rigid, muscles locked in the aftermath of panic.

Suguru knew.

Of course he knew.

He’d known you long enough to recognize exactly what that reaction meant.

Across from you, Satoru tilted his head.

Then his mouth slowly curled into a grin. “…Wait.” His eyes lit up with immediate mischief a shit eating grin forming in his mouth. “You’re scared of water?”

Suguru’s head snapped toward him. The glare he gave Satoru could’ve cut steel. “Not. Now.”

-

By the time the three of you made it back to the manager, the sun was still hanging bright in the afternoon sky.

Which made the situation worse somehow.

The light showed everything—the way your clothes were dripping, the mud on the hems, the water running down your legs and pooling onto the dirt.

The manager froze the moment she saw you. “…Oh dear.” Her eyes moved from Suguru, to you, to Satoru. “All of you are soaked!” She hurried to the trunk of the car and started digging through a storage box. “I brought spare uniforms just in case,” she said quickly, pulling out two neatly folded sets. “But I only prepared ones for Gojo and Geto.”

Satoru immediately leaned over her shoulder. “Oh, nice.”

Suguru accepted the clothes with a small nod of thanks, unfolding one of the sets. The standard Jujutsu Tech uniform—dark pants, the inner shirt, and the high-collared jacket.

Two sets. For two students. You were not one of those two.

You stood there quietly, water dripping from the ends of your hair and sleeves.

Your own uniform was still the one from the all-girls school back in Yokohama—white blouse, blazer, and pleated skirt. The blouse clung unpleasantly to your skin, the blazer heavy with river water.

Suguru glanced at you, then at the uniforms in his hands. He sighed quietly. “You can wear my uniform.” he said.

You shrugged slightly. You weren’t about to refuse dry clothes. “Works.” The jacket went on easily enough. It was dry, and that was already a massive improvement. But the rest of his uniform was designed for someone much larger than you.

Suguru held up the pants once.

You both looked at them.

Then at each other.

“…yeah that won’t fit me” you said. They would fall straight off you.

Suguru nodded in agreement. “Right.”

So the compromise was simple.

Suguru’s uniform jacket went over your damp blouse. The sleeves were a bit long, the shoulders slightly too wide, but it was warm and dry.

Good enough.

The ride back started a few minutes later.

You were sitting in the middle of the back seat.

Suguru on your left.

Satoru on your right.

The car smelled faintly like river water now.

Your shoes and socks had been abandoned because the moment you tried putting them back on, the sensation of wet fabric clinging to your feet made your skin crawl. So they were sitting near the floor while you stayed barefoot in the seat.

The upholstery beneath you was damp.

Satoru noticed immediately.

“This is unbelievable,” he complained, lifting himself slightly from the seat like he had just discovered something deeply offensive. “Why am I wet again?”

You turned your head slowly. “You fell in the river.”

“Yes, but I got out of the river and changed my uniform.” he shot back instantly. “And now I’m getting soaked again because someone is leaking.” His finger pointed vaguely at you.

You looked down at yourself.

Your skirt was still damp.

Your hair too.

“…You’re also wet,” you said calmly.

“That’s not the point.”

Suguru leaned his head lightly against the window, clearly deciding he wanted no part in the conversation.

Satoru continued inspecting the seat. “And now the entire backseat is soaked.”

The passenger seat in front was completely empty. He could easily move there. He didn’t. Instead he stayed exactly where he was, squeezed next to you, complaining like it was someone else’s fault. “Next mission,” he declared dramatically, crossing his arms, “someone else is leading.”

Suguru didn’t even look at him. “You were the one who walked us into the domain.”

Satoru paused. “…That’s unrelated.”

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

43

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the ride back to Jujutsu Tech.

But if you had to blame something, it would be the chronic sleeplessness that had been gnawing at you for a year now. That the moment you slid in the car and your body finally relaxed somewhere safe, the exhaustion hit like a switch being flipped.

Lights out.

When you finally stirred, it felt like surfacing from deep water. Your body was heavy, limbs slow to respond.

“…gh.” You pushed yourself upright with a quiet groan, blinking against the dimness of the room. For a moment, your brain lagged behind reality, trying to figure out where exactly you were.

Not your apartment. Definitely not the car.

You were sitting on someone’s bed.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight, sheets a little wrinkled where you’d apparently passed out. You ran a hand through your hair, trying to wake up fully while your eyes adjusted to the low lighting.

The room was unfamiliar.

Posters covered most of the walls—video games, mostly. Bright colors and characters you vaguely recognized from arcade cabinets and magazines. Some were slightly crooked, as if they’d been stuck up quickly without much care for neatness.

A desk sat against the far wall, cluttered but organized in a strange way. Stacks of notebooks, loose papers, pens scattered around, and a couple of textbooks left open like whoever owned them had been studying and then abruptly abandoned the task.

Underneath the desk, tucked near one of the legs, sat a large glass jar. You couldn’t make out what was inside it in the dim light, only the faint shape of wrapped objects stacked almost to the top.

Your eyes drifted toward the bedside table.

A digital clock glowed faintly in the dark.

9:45 PM.

You frowned slightly. You hadn’t meant to sleep that long.

Your shoulder cracked softly as you stretched your left arm, the stiffness from sleeping wrong making you wince a little. Your body still felt sluggish, that strange heaviness that came after a deep, accidental sleep.

With a quiet exhale, you swung your legs off the bed and stood.

The floor was cool under your feet as you crossed the room, taking one last absent glance at the cluttered desk before reaching the door.

You twisted the handle and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the unfamiliar room behind without a second thought.

The hallway outside the room was dark.

Not completely black—thin strips of moonlight filtered through the tall corridor windows—but dim enough that the corners dissolved into shadow. The dorm building was quiet, the kind of late-night stillness where every small sound carried farther than it should.

You stepped out and paused.

For a moment you just stood there, letting your eyes adjust.

…Where the hell are you?

You didn’t remember coming here.

The last clear memory you had was the ride back to Jujutsu Tech. You’d leaned your head back for what was supposed to be a moment of rest—just long enough to ease the pressure behind your eyes—and apparently your body had decided that was the perfect time to completely shut down.

“Fantastic.” You sighed under your breath.

The corridor stretched both directions with identical doors lining the walls. Dorm rooms, probably.

You had no idea which building you’d ended up in.

Your steps were slow as you started walking, the faint sound of your shoes against the floor echoing softly through the quiet hall. One turn, then another. The layout felt unfamiliar, or maybe you were just too groggy to recognize anything properly.

Either way, you were wandering.

Then you noticed something.

A thin line of light cutting across the floor farther down the hallway.

You followed it.

The glow grew stronger as you approached, leading you to a wider doorway that opened into a shared lounge area.

The common room lights were mostly off, but a small lamp in the corner cast a warm circle of light across the couches and low table.

Someone was sitting by the open window.

Shoko.

She was perched on the windowsill, one leg bent, shoulder resting against the frame as the night air drifted in. The curtains moved slightly in the breeze.

A cigarette rested between her fingers.

The ember glowed faintly when she inhaled, then dimmed again as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke out into the dark.

She looked over when she heard your footsteps.

Her gaze landed on you, lingering for a second like she was confirming you were actually there. “…Oh,” she said, voice calm as always. She flicked some ash out the window. “You’re awake.”

Shoko watched you for a moment, eyes half-lidded as the smoke drifted past her shoulder and out the window. “You look like hell,” she said flatly.

You ignored that.

Your gaze drifted around the common room instead—empty couches, a low table with a few magazines scattered across it, the dim lamp in the corner doing most of the work lighting the place.

Then Shoko spoke again. “You hungry?”

You looked back at her. “Maybe.”

She nodded toward the hallway behind you. “Suguru wrapped some yakisoba for you. It’s in the fridge.”

That got your attention.

You leaned slightly against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely. “Geto?”

“Mm.”

You frowned a little. “Where is he?”

Shoko took another drag before answering, exhaling slowly into the night air. “He crashed in Satoru’s room.”

Your brow furrowed deeper. “…Why?”

She glanced at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Because you’re in his.”

You blinked. “…I was?”

“Yup.” Shoko tapped the cigarette lightly against the window frame, ash falling outside. With her other hand, she flipped open her phone without looking at it much—a small silver flip phone. Her thumbs started moving lazily over the keypad while she talked. “You passed out in the car,” she said. “Suguru carried you up.”

You stared at her. “There aren’t a lot of students in Jujutsu Tech, I’m sure there are empty rooms,” you pointed out. Your tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory—just practical.

Shoko didn’t even look up from her phone. “Yeah.” Her thumbs kept tapping. “But those haven’t been used in ages. They’re probably dusty.”

You waited.

Finally she glanced up again, cigarette hanging loosely between her fingers. “And Suguru wasn’t gonna dump you in some dusty room like that.”

Your gaze shifted slightly, thinking that over.

Behind the casual explanation, the implication was pretty obvious.

He’d put you in his room instead.

Shoko’s phone snapped shut for a second as she finished typing, then opened again immediately when it buzzed.

You noticed the small name on the screen for half a second.

Suguru.

She leaned her shoulder back against the window frame again, reading whatever he’d sent.

“…He’s awake,” she murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “Geto?”

Shoko hummed in confirmation, typing something back without much interest.

From the hallway fridge, the faint hum of the motor kicked on.

Your stomach reminded you that the yakisoba she mentioned was suddenly a very good idea.

-

You sat at the dining table in the common room with the bowl of yakisoba Shoko had pointed you to.

The noodles were cold, just like you expected, but they were still very yummy. Suguru had wrapped the container properly before putting it in the fridge, and the portion was big enough that it felt like an actual meal rather than leftovers.

You didn’t complain.

The room was quiet except for the soft night wind drifting through the open window and the occasional flick of Shoko’s lighter. She still sat on the windowsill, one leg drawn up, cigarette between her fingers while she lazily scrolled through her flip phone.

You were halfway through the bowl when you heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

They slowed at the doorway.

Suguru stepped into the room.

His hair was loosely tied back, like he’d thrown it together quickly after getting up. A few strands had slipped loose near his temples. He paused when he saw you sitting at the table, chopsticks in hand.

For a second he didn’t say anything.

Then he walked in.

Shoko didn’t even look up.

Suguru pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, a little stiffly, hands resting on his knees. “…Is it good?” he asked.

Shoko immediately snorted.

You glanced down at the bowl, then back at him. “It’s cold.”

Suguru blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh—I can heat it up if you want.

Instead of replying, you lifted the bowl slightly.

Only a few bites of noodles remained.

Suguru stared at it for a second before exhaling quietly through his nose. “…Right.”

Across the room, Shoko’s shoulders shook once with silent laughter.

You finished the last few bites without comment and set the chopsticks down on the table.

Suguru leaned back slightly in his chair. “There are probably still trains running,” he said after a moment. “Until midnight.”

You looked at him.

“But…” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “there aren’t any managers awake right now who could drive you to the station.” He paused briefly before finishing the thought. “So you might want to just stay here tonight.”

You considered it for about half a second. “That’s reasonable.”

It was, objectively. Even if you personally wouldn’t have minded walking to the station alone in the dark, staying in the dorms wasn’t exactly an inconvenience.

Suguru seemed faintly relieved that you didn’t argue. After a moment, he spoke again. “…Do you want to change out of your uniform?”

Your eyes dropped briefly to your clothes.

You were still wearing the same uniform you’d had on all day.

Your first instinct was to say no.

But at the same time, the thought of a bath was…appealing. A long waaarm bath.

You hesitated. “…I’ll think about it,” you said instead.

-

You sank further into the soft mattress of Suguru’s bed, the warmth from the bath still lingering pleasantly in your muscles. Your body felt loose in that rare way it only did after hot water—heavy, relaxed, and slow.

Your damp hair hung down your back while Shoko knelt behind you on the bed, brushing through the strands with patient, unhurried strokes. Every so often the brush snagged lightly and she worked it free with surprising gentleness.

The faint scent of shampoo and steam still clung to your skin.

Somehow, you had ended up wearing Shoko’s loose cotton pajama pants and one of Suguru’s oversized long-sleevd shirts. The sleeves swallowed most of your hands, and the collar slipped slightly off one shoulder whenever you shifted. The fabric smelled faintly like laundry detergent and something subtler beneath it—Suguru, probably.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

A lollipop balanced between your lips while your thumbs tapped steadily at the buttons of the Game Boy in your hands.

You weren’t entirely sure if it belonged to Suguru or Satoru. You’d found it sitting on Suguru’s desk along with a stack of study materials and decided that was enough justification.

The tiny pixelated character on the screen hopped across a platform.

Click. Click.

Suguru crouched near his closet, one knee on the floor as he rummaged through a lower drawer. Hangers shifted softly while he searched. “…I know I had a spare pair somewhere,” he muttered to himself, pushing aside a folded stack of clothes.

His voice was calm, almost domestic, like this strange late-night arrangement wasn’t unusual at all.

Behind you, Shoko switched the hair dryer off with a soft click.

The sudden silence rang faintly in your ears.

She ran the brush through your hair one last time before letting it fall down your back. “Good enough.” she said casually, giving the ends a final pat.

The quiet lasted about three seconds.

Then the door creaked open.

Satoru leaned against the frame like he’d just discovered a crime scene.

His arms crossed slowly as he took in the entire room.

The bed.

You sitting comfortably in it.

Shoko behind you like a personal stylist.

Suguru digging through his closet.

His face twisted into an exaggerated scowl. “Oi,” he said loudly. “Seriously? What is all this noise?” The hair dryer must’ve been what woke him. “Shoko,” he continued accusingly, pointing at her, “how come you never dry my hair. But does so for someone like her?” Then his eyes slid toward you. “And you—” He squinted like he was trying to process the audacity of what he was seeing. “You’re just going to sit there like it’s normal that my classmates are acting like your personal staff?”

You didn’t look up from the Game Boy. Your thumb pressed another button. “I didn’t ask them to do all that.” you replied flatly, the lollipop making your words slightly muffled.

Satoru’s eyes flicked to Shoko immediately. “People let you do whatever you want,” he complained. “this is outrageous.”

Then his gaze dropped.

Right to the Game Boy in your hands.

His expression changed instantly. “…And that’s mine.” He pointed at the console like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “You’re playing it without permission.” His eyes lowered further. “And—” he added slowly, “you are eating my candies.”

You didn’t even pause.

The Game Boy clicked under your fingers while the character on screen ducked under a moving obstacle.

“I’m helping myself responsibly,” you said calmly, raising one eyebrow slightly. “i found it in the in Geto’s desk and Ieri said it’s a shared resource, technically.” You shifted the lollipop slightly. “And the candy… I just tried one.”

Satoru threw both hands into the air. “One?!” he repeated loudly. “One?!” He took two dramatic steps into the room. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t be allowed near my things!”

Suguru glanced up from the closet, one hand still holding a pair of indoor slippers he’d just found.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Relax, Satoru,” he said mildly. “It’s just a Game Boy.”

Satoru ignored him completely. “No, no, no,” he said, pacing once across the room like an outraged teacher. “This is a lesson, Y/n.” He pointed at you again. “You don’t use other people’s property without permission.”

As if he wouldn't do that himself.

You pressed another button.

Your character jumped cleanly over a pixelated pit.

“You do not treat people like your personal servants—even if they technically are your classmates!” he continued. “It’s basic etiquette!”

You hummed softly in acknowledgment.

Which somehow made it worse.

“And your attitude!” Satoru groaned dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

Shoko leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms with a small smirk. “Honestly,” she said lazily, “he’s just mad because he can't do that himself.”

Satoru whipped around toward her instantly. “Excuse me—”

But his attention snapped right back to you again when you continued playing like none of this mattered.

Your fingers moved easily over the buttons.

The lollipop stayed balanced between your lips.

Your gaze never left the screen.

He exhaled through his nose, half frustrated, half exasperated. “…I give up.” Then he pointed one last time for emphasis. “But remember this.” He tapped the air with each word. “Respect. My. Things.”

You clicked another button, letting your character dodge a moving enemy. “Noted.” you replied in the same neutral tone.

Satoru muttered something under his breath about chaos, injustice, and “raising uncivilized people” before dramatically flopping onto the edge of the bed beside you.

Apparently abandoning any attempt at authority.

Suguru chuckled quietly from near the closet. He walked over and tossed the spare slippers onto the floor near your feet. “Here.”

Shoko pushed herself off the wall, satisfied with the state of your hair.

And you simply continued playing, lollipop in place, completely unbothered by the small storm that was Satoru Gojo.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

42

“Yo, Y/n-chan.” Satoru’s voice rang through the abandoned school hallway, echoing faintly against cracked walls and dusty lockers.

You didn’t bother answering.

At this point, his insistence on first-name basis had become something you only half resisted. According to him, there were barely any students in your class anyway, so formalities were a waste of time. Apparently that meant he could do whatever he wanted… for now.

Though that doesn’t mean you can’t ignore him.

Suguru walked a few steps behind, his gaze drifting between the shadows and Satoru with the quiet attentiveness he always carried. The three of you had been combing through this school for hours, tracking a cursed spirit that clearly had no intention of being found.

The building smelled stale—old dust, mold, and something metallic lingering beneath it all. Every creak of warped floorboards and distant echo bounced unnaturally through the empty halls.

Satoru stopped abruptly.

In front of him, something shimmered in the air.

A portal.

Its surface flickered faintly, rippling like disturbed water. The light inside shifted in slow, unnatural currents.

Without hesitation, Satoru shoved his arm straight into it.

The reaction was immediate—a sharp inhale, shoulders tensing slightly as cold seeped through his sleeve.

Not fear.

Curiosity.

“Ever play those multiplayer games,” he said casually, glancing down at you, “where one player has to stay behind so the rest can move on?”

You raised an eyebrow.

Something about that grin didn’t sit right.

Your instincts screamed.

Don’t trust him.

Unfortunately, realization came a second too late.

Satoru grabbed your arm with infuriating confidence and shoved you forward.

The cold hit instantly—sharp and biting, like ice water pouring through your bones—and the ground vanished beneath your feet.

-

Outside the portal, everything shifted.

The hallway behind it warped subtly, air thickening as if the space itself had hardened. The portal’s surface froze over in an instant, turning opaque and metallic.

Suguru lunged.

Too late.

His hand passed through empty air as the portal sealed completely. “Satoru.” Suguru’s voice dropped, low and sharp. “What the hell did you just do?”

Satoru leaned back against the wall like he hadn’t just thrown someone into an unknown dimension. “Relax,” he said, lazy grin returning. “It’s fine.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed.

“Trust me,” Satoru continued lightly. “Nothing in there can harm her” A pause. “At least, not yet.”

“Not yet?” Suguru repeated the words slowly, tension still coiled in his shoulders. But Satoru wasn’t panicking.

And Satoru never pretended not to panic.

If he was calm, it meant he understood something Suguru didn’t.

Suguru exhaled through his nose. “…You’re going to be the death of me.” He leaned back beside him, arms crossing. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if anything happens—”

“Nothing will,” Satoru said smoothly, eyes flicking back toward the sealed portal. “But we gotta exorcise the cursed spirit if we want your lover girl back~”

-

Inside the portal, the air pressed against your skin like static electricity.

Cold.

Heavy.

Alive.

The ground beneath your feet shifted subtly, the entire space humming with a low vibration that crawled up through your bones.

You tried to speak. “What—Gojo—what the hell—”

The world snapped.

Walls twisted outward at impossible angles. Hallways folded into themselves like broken mirrors. The architecture of the school warped into something unfamiliar—sharp geometry bending into strange, resonant shapes.

Your irritation detonated instantly.

You slammed your hands against the solid portal behind you.

“HOY PUTANG INA MO, GOJO SATORU!” (Fuck you, Gojo Satoru!)

Your voice echoed violently across the warped structure.

“BABARANGIN KITANG PUTANGINA KA!” (I am going to fucking curse you!)

You kicked the wall.

“PUTANGINA MO TALAGA! KAYA KA SIGURO DI MINAHAL NG NANAY AT TATAY MO—ANG KUPAL MO KASI!” (You motherfucker! No wonder your mom and dad didn’t love you—you’re such an asshole!)

Your shouting ricocheted through the space.

“TANGINA MO! MAY SALTIK KA BA SA UTAK?!” (You motherfucker! Do you have a screw loose?)

You stomped once more, venting the last of your fury.

“AKALA MO KUNG SINONG DIYOS—EH NO? ANG ASIM-ASIM MO NAMAN! ANAK KA NG—” (You think you’re some kind of god, huh? You’re actually so gross! You son of a—)

Something shuffled nearby. Your heartbeat skipped.

Your rage died quickly.

Not cursed.

Not hostile.

Small.

Fragile.

Alive.

Maybe, maybe you shouldn't have let rage consume you and let you yell curses at….hah.

Your naginata materialized instantly in your hands, cursed energy humming along the shaft as your body dropped into a ready stance. You're half convinced that the cursed spirit is so good at finding you can't feel it at all!

You followed the sound slowly.

Weapon raised.

Muscles coiled.

The blade swept around the corner—

And stopped.

A small child crouched in the corner, trembling.

Wide eyes.

Tear-streaked face.

Your grip loosened immediately.

The weapon dissolved into green particles.

“…Ah.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “…Fuck.” Your voice dropped into a tired mutter. “Of course.” Your eyes scanned the space again.

No cursed energy spikes.

No hostile presence.

Just fear.

The kid shrank further into the shadows, staring at you like you might be worse than whatever chased him here.

In his point of view, you were probably some weirdo that yelled curses in another language. You were very angry—it didn’t even help you were wielding a weapon.

You sighed. “…Focus, Y/n.” You rubbed your forehead. “Not here to babysit.”

The child kept sobbing.

You stared at him for a moment. “…Hey kid.” You said awkwardly but he was too scared to even react.

Keep in mind, the last time you interacted with a kid was to threaten a higher up to cooperate with you.

You lifted a hand. He froze instantly.

“I can do magic.” Your fingers rotated slowly. “Watch my hand.”

His eyes followed.

Good.

Green light shimmered faintly around your fingers as your cursed technique formed.

A cat plushie appeared in your palm.

Lopsided.

Crooked.

Frankly ugly.

But harmless.

You held it out.

In this kid’s perspective—if he's a non-sorcerer, the ugly plushie appeared out of nowhere. Though you also think it would still look like “magic” if he could see the way your cursed technique worked.

The kid grabbed it cautiously.

Clutched it to his chest.

“Good enough,” you muttered. “How did you get here?”

“I… heard noises,” he sniffed. “I got lost. I didn't mean to get lost.”

You checked him over. No injuries. Lucky. “Can you walk?”

He shook his head.

You sighed again. “Too scared?”

A nod.

“…Fine.” You crouched. “Then, can I carry you? We have to find an exit and I can't just leave you here.” You crouched down, opening your arms at him.

He climbed into your arms immediately. Small arms wrapped around your shoulders. You adjusted his weight against your hip.

Why was he heavier than he looked? What the hell were they feeding kids these days?

You didn’t comment.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t tell him to stop crying.

Your job was simple.

Kill the cursed spirit.

Step by step you moved through the warped structure. The child clung tighter with every movement, face pressed into your chest.

You scanned every angle carefully. No cursed presence. Yet.

“Don’t be scared,” you murmured flatly. “I’m pretty strong you know.”

The kid nodded silently.

Good enough.

One arm held him securely.

The other remained free, fingers ready to manifest whatever you needed.

The ugly plushie dangled between you.

Step by step you advanced through the humming space.

Eyes sharp.

Senses alert.

Waiting for the real threat to show itself.

-

Forty minutes.

That was how long you had been walking.

Every hallway in this place looked the same—long, narrow, dimly lit by weak bulbs that flickered like they were on their last breath. The wallpaper peeled in damp curls, and the air carried that same sick smell that had been clinging to the building since you entered.

Rot.

Old, stagnant rot that made the back of your throat itch.

The kid in your arms had long since stopped crying. His face was buried into your shoulder, small hands gripping the fabric of your blazer like if he let go you’d disappear too.

You shifted him slightly, adjusting his weight.

Your arms were starting to get tired.

More than that, your left side had begun to throb again.

It started as a dull ache earlier, something familiar you could ignore. But walking this long while carrying someone made it sharper. The pain pulsed faintly under your ribs, spreading down your side.

You kept walking anyway.

Complaining wouldn’t fix anything. “Where the hell is the exit…” you muttered quietly. “This place is so annoying.”

Another corner.

Another identical hallway.

You sighed under your breath and kept moving.

Then—

A hand suddenly shot out of the wall and grabbed the back of your blazer.

Your entire body reacted instantly.

“SHIT—!”You twisted, pulling the kid closer against you while your free arm moved on instinct, ready to strike—

Before you could react further, you were suddenly pulled forward.

Into a hug.

You froze. “…Geto?”

His arms tightened around you for a second like he was making sure you were actually there.

“You’re fine,” he exhaled, more to himself than to you. “We couldn’t find you.”

You blinked, still a little stiff in his hold.

“Uhhh, you alright bud?” you said awkwardly.

Behind him—

Satoru gagged.

Loudly.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “She was only gone for an hour and this is how you react?”

“You pushed her in god knows where.” Suguru slowly turned his head. “And when we defeated the Cursed Spirit half an hour ago and she didn't show up. Of course I would get worried!”

“Wow. Accusations already?” Satoru pointed at himself. “I only nudged her.”

“I’m going to kill you.” Suguru’s expression went flat.

“Yeah, yeah. Later.” Satoru waved a hand dismissively.

Suguru ignored him after that, his attention dropping to the kid still clinging to you. “…You found someone.”

“Oh,” you said simply. “Yeah.” You adjusted the child slightly so Suguru could see him better. “He was inside one of the rooms.”

Suguru looked at the boy for a moment before holding his arms out. “I’ll carry him.”

The kid reacted immediately.

His grip around your neck tightened.

His head shook against your shoulder. “…No.”

Suguru paused.

You sighed faintly. “He’s been like that since earlier.”

Satoru leaned a little to the side to look at the kid. “Oof,” he said. “Rejected.”

Suguru didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, his gaze shifted back to you. Your arms. The way you were still holding the kid even though your shoulders had started to tense slightly from the weight. “…You’ve been carrying him the whole time?”

“It’s fine,” you replied without thinking.

Suguru looked like he wanted to argue.

But before he could—

Satoru stretched his arms behind his head.

“Well,” he said lazily, “since everyone’s alive and reunited, can we leave this creepy dump already?”

You honestly couldn’t agree more.

-

The moment you stepped out of the school building, the night air felt noticeably lighter.

The suffocating pressure inside the building vanished the second you crossed the threshold. What waited outside wasn’t a crowd—just a small group of people near the gate.

A few school staff members.

One anxious-looking manager.

And a single woman pacing back and forth with her phone clutched tightly in her hand.

The manager noticed you first. “Oh—!” he hurried over, relief flooding his face. “You found him?”

“Who?” You shifted the kid slightly in your arms. “Him?”

The woman froze the moment she heard that. “…Kenji?”

The boy in your arms lifted his head slowly. “Okaa-chan.”

The woman rushed forward immediately. “Oh my god—!”

You crouched down slightly so the kid could climb down and go to her.

Except he didn’t move.

Instead, his arms tightened around your neck.

You paused. “…You’re going to your mom,” you told him quietly.

He shook his head against your shoulder.

You sighed.

So you ended up walking the rest of the way over with him still clinging to you.

The woman stopped a step away, her hands hovering uncertainly like she was afraid to grab him too quickly.

“Kenji… are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.

The boy finally let go of you and reached for her.

She immediately pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh thank god,” she whispered, over and over as she held him. “Thank god…”

You stepped back a little, giving them space.

The manager let out a relieved breath nearby. “That’s the only child reported missing.” he said. “I forgot to mention that earlier…”

The woman eventually looked up at you, eyes slightly red. “You were the one who found him?”

Well duh

You nodded once. “He was inside.”

Her expression softened immediately with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Thank you so much for bringing him out.”

You shifted awkwardly under the attention. “It’s fine.”

She gave a small bow anyway. “I really appreciate it.”

Behind you, Satoru quietly leaned toward Suguru. “She looks like she wants to disappear.”

Suguru nudged him sharply in the ribs.

You pretended not to hear them.

The kid peeked over his mother’s shoulder and gave you a small wave.

You lifted your hand in a brief wave back before turning slightly toward the others.

Honestly, you were ready to leave this place behind.

“He has a pretty ugly plushie by the way.” Satoru murmured.

-

The drive back to Jujutsu Tech was quiet.

The kind of quiet that came after a mission was over and there was nothing left to do but go back.

The car hummed steadily along the road, the faint glow of streetlights sliding across the windows as the city slowly gave way to darker, emptier roads.

You sat in the backseat between Satoru and Suguru.

For a while, no one said anything.

You leaned your head back against the seat.

Now that everything was over, the exhaustion started creeping in.

You hadn’t fought the curse itself, but carrying a kid who clung to you like his life depended on it for nearly an hour was tiring. Your shoulders still ached faintly, and your arms felt heavier than they should.

Your left side throbbed a little too.

You ignored it.

Your eyelids started getting heavier.

You blinked once.

Then again.

Satoru noticed you first.

He glanced sideways, watching the way your head dipped slightly before jerking back up. “Don’t fall asleep,” he said casually. “You’ll start drooling.”

You didn’t answer.

Another minute passed.

The car rolled over a small bump in the road.

Your head tipped to the side—

And landed directly on Satoru’s shoulder.

You were already asleep.

Satoru blinked slowly. “…Wow.” He said, offended.

Besides you, Suguru’s expression darkened almost immediately. “Move.”

Satoru glanced at him. “Why?”

Suguru’s tone was flat. “Because she’s not your pillow.”

Satoru leaned back slightly into the seat like he had just been given a great honor. “Well,” he said lightly, “she seems to think otherwise.”

Suguru stared at him. “Push her off then” He said. “.…gently.”

Satoru was about to make another comment when he looked down again.

Your breathing was slow and even, completely knocked out. Your shoulders had finally relaxed in sleep, the tension you’d been carrying all evening gone.

You didn’t even stir.

Satoru clicked his tongue quietly. “…She’s actually dead asleep.”

Suguru already knew that.

He’d been watching you since you got in the car—the way you sat a little more carefully than usual, the quiet exhaustion in your posture.

You were tired.

Suguru leaned back in his seat with a quiet exhale. “…Fine.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

Suguru looked out the window instead. “Just don’t wake her.”

Satoru smirked faintly. “Look at you being considerate.”

Suguru didn’t answer.

But the irritation was still there.

Because if Satoru moved even slightly wrong and your head slid further to him—

Suguru was going to start a fight right there in the backseat.

-

A/n: I tried translating as best as I could, but most of them are slangs and doesn’t hit the same when said in english

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

41

“You tricked me,” you said flatly, pointing an accusing finger across the desk.

Across from you, Yaga didn’t even blink.

It was routine by now that you only showed up at Jujutsu Tech when there were missions. Anything that smelled like school activities usually resulted in you mysteriously disappearing from campus until the problem resolved itself.

Which was exactly why you were currently sitting in Yaga’s office, realizing you had been baited.

“It is my job as your teacher to assess you,” Yaga said calmly, hands folded on his desk. “I simply asked if you would join us for hand-to-hand combat training today. And since you’re already here, I assume that’s a yes.”

You stared at him. “…Yeah, because you tricked me.”

“That is a matter of perspective.”

“That is not very morally right of you, Mr. Yaga.” you grumbled.

“It’s Yaga-sensei.”

“Whatever.” You leaned back in the chair with deliberate laziness, tilting it onto two legs like you had all the time in the world. Your foot nudged lightly against his desk as if you were considering settling in for a long, comfortable sit. “You’d never, ever drag me out of your office, Yaga-sensei,” you said, stressing the title with exaggerated politeness. “after you leave, I'll just stand up and walk out and go home.”

There was a pause.

Yaga pushed his chair back. “Be my guest,” he said as he stood.

You frowned slightly.

“I suppose you’d be comfortable letting Gojo call you a coward when he hears you stayed here instead of joining training.”

…Ah.

There it was.

You slowly lowered the front legs of the chair back to the floor.

Yaga said nothing more as he walked past you toward the door. The man knew exactly what he was doing, and the worst part was that he didn’t even need to look back to know you were thinking about it.

Because unfortunately—

He was fully aware of the dynamic between you and his students.

You shouldn’t let it get to you, honestly. You were confident in your abilities. The missions you’d gone on with Suguru and Satoru proved that much.

And over time you were even getting better at tuning out the white street lamp’s constant commentary.

Still.

Still.

You clicked your tongue under your breath and stood up.

A few seconds later, you followed Yaga out of the office.

The walk across campus was quiet except for the distant sounds of training—wood striking wood, the thud of someone hitting the mat, the occasional shout.

By the time you reached the training field, the afternoon sun had already warmed the grass into that soft, dry smell that always hung around the practice grounds.

And, of course—the loudest person there noticed you and Yaga immediately. “Took you long enough Yaga-sensei!”

You looked up to see Satoru sprawled on the grass like he had been personally offended by the concept of sitting properly. A crumpled paper bag of sweets rested on his lap, several colorful wrappers scattered around him like evidence of poor life choices.

He tossed another candy into his mouth.

Then he squinted in your direction. “Oh?” he said, lifting his head slightly. “You actually brought her here?” He sat up, clearly amused now. “For real?” His grin widened. “Thought she was too good for any of your teaching, Yaga-sensei.” he added casually, gesturing lazily in your direction with a half-empty candy wrapper.

Nearby, Suguru glanced over from where he had been stretching, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he took in the scene.

And just like that you were already regretting leaving the office.

-

You ended up paired with Suguru for hand-to-hand combat. No cursed techniques. No cursed energy. Nothing fancy. Just fists, elbows, knees, and the kind of awkward flailing you vaguely remembered from a single boxing lesson back in your clan’s ‘training’ sessions. You didn’t like it. You preferred weapons, preferred distance, preferred literally anything that didn’t involve getting hit.

Suguru crouched in front of you, calm, balanced, arms relaxed but ready. Half of him was testing you, half teasing you—but even the teasing was measured. You could feel the weight of someone holding back, just enough that every attempt you made landed awkwardly, ineffectively.

Satoru was lounging nearby, eating sweets, grinning like he was watching a sitcom. “Come on, L/n,” he called. “Or should I say…coward? Scared of a little sparring, huh?”

You ignored him, focusing on Suguru. He mirrored your stance, tilting lightly on the balls of his feet, patient, waiting.

The first exchange was tentative. You jabbed, just barely, and Suguru caught your wrist, shifting your momentum so easily it almost felt like he was guiding you. “Relax,” he said lightly. Half teasing. Half encouraging.

You scowled, muttering under your breath. “Whatever.” The word tasted bitter in your mouth. You tried again, forcing the jab, but he sidestepped, tapped your shoulder, and circled behind you before you could recover.

You were painfully aware he was holding back. And yet, somehow, you still lost.

A few moments later, after an attempt to block and counter that went entirely wrong, you ended up on your knees, breathing sharp, chest tight. Satoru laughed in the background. “Ahh, there it is! The mighty Y/n, all talk!”

You ignored him, brushing dirt off your uniform with exaggerated care. You looked up at Suguru, who offered a hand with that faint smirk that somehow made your teeth grind harder.

“Don’t think you got away just because I was taking it easy,” he said quietly, voice calm but carrying the weight of someone observing carefully.

You let him pull you up, straightening your shoulders, muttering bitterly, “It’s fine. You won, right?”

Suguru tilted his head, studied you for a moment, then nodded faintly. No teasing. No extra commentary. Just acknowledgment.

You exhaled, brushing off your uniform again, turning away. Victory or lesson, it didn’t matter. You’d survived. That was enough.

-

You settled onto the grass beside Shoko, the afternoon sun warming the back of your neck. For some reason, it didn’t feel like a training field at all—more like a small patch of quiet in the middle of chaos. You hadn’t even noticed her earlier, though she’d apparently been sitting beside Satoru the entire time, quietly holding the half-empty bags of his sweets.

“You’re…new here, right?” she asked, voice low and careful, she knows that of course, she just doesn't know how to start a conversation with you. Plus she wasn’t sure how much you tolerated strangers  

You tilted your head, studying her for half a second. Short, composed, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but made it unavoidable. “Depends on your definition of ‘new.’” You kept your voice flat, dry, letting her fill the silence.

She smirked faintly, seemingly satisfied. “I’m Shoko. I guess you’re…Y/n?”

You nodded once. “Correct.” Short. Efficient. Not rude, not welcoming either. She tilted her head slightly, as if debating whether to push further. “Though I very much prefer being called by my last name.”

“I’ve been holding Satoru’s candies for him,” she said finally, glancing at the crumpled wrappers beside her. “He eats too many, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that for future torture methods.”

A faint chuckle escaped her. Small. Quick. Then she leaned a little closer, curiosity tipping her tone. “It’s true, isn’t it? That you can heal?”

You glanced toward Suguru and Satoru, who were now circling each other across the field. Their movements were fluid, almost hypnotic in their precision—fists, elbows, knees, and feints flowing seamlessly, the air snapping with the intensity of two experts testing each other’s limits. Satoru’s blue energy seemed to flicker faintly as he moved, not fully unleashed, while Suguru’s calm control of timing and body made every strike deliberate and potentially lethal. Watching them was like observing the tides collide—beautiful, terrifying, and exhausting all at once.

The no cursed technique rule is so easy to forget when you're Satoru or Suguru fighting against one another.

“Technically,” you said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “I can only heal myself right now.” You paused, shrugging. “My cursed technique lets me manifest anything, as long as I know its structure. I’ve been practicing on others… slowly.”

Shoko’s eyes widened slightly. “Satoru said he saw you resurrect yourself.”

Something in your chest skipped a beat. Your fingers tightened on the grass beneath you for a fraction of a second. Satoru shouldn’t know that. Not unless he was watching when you were trapped in the vault by your grandmother, fighting off hundreds of curses.

You forced yourself to shrug casually, eyes drifting toward the sparring pair. “It’s nothing special.”

Suguru and Satoru were a storm now. Suguru’s strikes came fast, precise, his body low and coiled like a predator ready to pounce. Satoru danced around him with effortless grace, dodging and countering, the sharp snap of impact echoing faintly across the field. Their fight wasn’t just skill—it was controlled chaos, each trying to find a single flaw in the other’s defense.

You watched, half in fascination, half in detached calculation. Even without cursed energy, they moved with the power of two sorcerers who had already surpassed most of their peers, who had been training together long enough to anticipate the subtlest shift in weight, the tiniest twitch in a shoulder.

Shoko leaned slightly toward you, quieter this time. “Do… you think you’ll be able to fight like them someday?”

You blinked at her, hands resting lightly on your knees. “Maybe. Not today,” you said, voice neutral, almost bored. “But if I have to… I will.”

The grass beneath your palms vibrated slightly as a heavy kick landed a few feet away, Satoru grinning despite the hit, Suguru adjusting instantly for a follow-up.

You let your gaze linger on the field a moment longer before turning back to Shoko. “It’s… not about being the strongest. That’s a headache you don’t need.”

Shoko considered that quietly, her eyes flicking back to Suguru and Satoru. “They make it look… fun, though.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you watched the two of them move, calculating, precise, deadly—grace under pressure. And somewhere under the dry observation, a flicker of something sharp and tense settled in your chest. The thought that one day you might have to be that effortless, that lethal, sat heavy and unfamiliar.

But for now… you had other priorities.

-

“Gojo.” Finding him hadn’t been difficult.

There were only four students on campus. It wasn’t exactly a bustling academic institution. The school grounds stretched wide and quiet around the old buildings, more like a temple complex than a place teenagers attended classes.

Satoru stood outside near the wooden walkway connecting the training hall to the dorms, lazily leaning against one of the pillars. The late afternoon air carried the faint scent of pine and damp earth from the surrounding forest.

He looked entirely unbothered by the world. “What do you want, lady?” he said the moment he noticed you. “Finally here to apologize for being a little bit antagonistic?”

You ignored the bait. “How much do you know about me?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Haaah? What do you mean?”

“Ieiri-san mentioned that you saw me get resurrected,” you said evenly. “I just want to know how much you know about me.”

Satoru studied you for a moment, tilting his head like you had suddenly become mildly interesting. “And why,” he asked, pushing himself off the pillar, “should I tell you that?” He stepped closer. Too close, really. Satoru had an irritating habit of invading people’s space when he was curious. His face leaned in toward yours, bright blue eyes searching for a reaction like he was poking a strange animal to see if it would bite. “I am not—”

You grabbed his hand.

He stopped mid-sentence.

The reaction was immediate. For once, Satoru looked genuinely confused.

You reached into your pocket with your other hand and pulled out a small handful of strawberry hard candies. The wrappers crinkled faintly between your fingers. Then you dropped them into his palm.

Satoru blinked. He straightened slowly, staring down at the small pink candies now sitting in his hand. “…What….Do you think you can buy me with cheap candies?!” He asked, offended.

“Tell me,” you said. A brief pause. “Please.” The word felt uncomfortable in your mouth, but you forced it out anyway.

Satoru glanced between you and the candy like he was trying to decide which part of this interaction was stranger. Then he popped one of the candies into his mouth, crunching through the wrapper with zero hesitation. “Your grandmother invited a bunch of higher-ups and sorcerer clans,” he said casually. “to watch what she proudly called the ‘Rebirth of Tsumikage.’” He lifted one hand, making exaggerated air quotes. “I was there because…” he shrugged. “Why not?”

You went still.

For a moment the quiet grounds around you seemed to fade, replaced by the sterile brightness of memory.

White walls.

White lights.

Your left side pulsed sharply.

The ache had never fully gone away since that day. You’d assumed it was because the injury had been too severe. Your entire left side had been torn open and devoured by curses, muscle and bone shredded. You had rebuilt it quickly—too quickly.

Precision hadn’t exactly been your priority.

Your fingers pressed lightly against your side through the fabric of your uniform before you realized what you were doing.

Satoru noticed.

Of course he did.

“Just wanna say,” he continued, rolling the candy around in his mouth, “you were kinda hardcore.” You blinked once. “Though,” he added, grinning again, “piece of advice, Y/n-chan.”

“It’s L/n.”

“Whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The Jujutsu Society already treats us like weapons. With the way you’re acting right now?” He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping into something amused. “You’re making it really easy for them.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “You don’t know my reasons, Gojo-san.”

He repeated the sentence immediately in a mocking tone. “You don’t know my reasons.” Then he snorted. “Point is, you are a functional weapon right now! Maybe lay back a little. Defy everyone a little. Don't give anyone an opportunity to control you.” The breeze stirred the trees around the school grounds, leaves rustling softly overhead. “Anyone who truly understand’s the Jujutsu Tech’s power structure knows who sorcerers are actually protecting at the end of the day.” His expression sharpened slightly, though the smile never left his face. “The higher-ups themselves.” He reached forward and lightly jabbed your forehead with one finger. “They’re cowards,” he said. “And they need obedient weapons.”

Another light tap.

“You’re doing a great job fitting the role.”

The touch was almost playful.

Your left side throbbed again, dull and persistent.

You weren’t sure if it was the memory of that white room… or the quiet possibility that Satoru might not be entirely wrong.

-

The dorm common area at Tokyo Jujutsu High was quiet in the way places built for too few people always were.

The lights were on, the vending machine hummed faintly in the corner, and outside the tall windows the forest around the campus moved softly with the night wind. Most schools would have had laughter, footsteps, doors slamming, someone yelling across the hall.

There were only three people there currently.

Suguru sat cross-legged on the couch with a textbook open on his lap. He had been reading for the last twenty minutes, though the same page had remained open the entire time. Across from him, Satoru had claimed the entire opposite couch like a territorial animal, sprawled sideways with his feet hooked over the armrest.

Shoko leaned against the window, lazily flipping a lighter open and shut without lighting anything.

The quiet lasted exactly three seconds.

Crunch.

Suguru’s eyes slowly lifted from his book.

Satoru was chewing something.

Crunch.

Then the soft crinkle of plastic.

Suguru stared.

Satoru stared back with the innocent expression of someone who had never committed a crime in his life.

Suguru closed the book. “…Where did you get that?”

Satoru tilted his head. “Hm?”

“The candy.”

“Oh.” Satoru popped another piece into his mouth with zero shame. “These?”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed.

They were strawberry hard candies. Bright pink wrappers. The exact brand he kept in a very specific, very large glass jar in his dorm room. “…Did you steal from my stash?”

Satoru scoffed immediately, offended by the accusation. “Why would I steal from you when you hoard them like a dragon guarding treasure?”

“Because you do that.” Suguru replied flatly.

Shoko snorted quietly from the window.

Satoru waved the candy dismissively. “Relax. I didn’t steal your precious candies.”

“Then where did you get them?”

Satoru shrugged. “Y/n gave them to me.”

The room went quiet.

Suguru blinked once. “…She did?”

“Yeah.”

Another crunch.

Suguru stared at him for a long moment, processing the information with the same calm expression he usually reserved for analyzing cursed spirits.

Except something small and unpleasant twisted somewhere in his chest. “…Why?”

Satoru shrugged again. “I told her something. She paid me.”

“You got bribed with candy?”

“Works every time.”

Shoko made a thoughtful noise. “That’s actually pretty on brand.”

Suguru ignored her.

His gaze drifted to the candy again.

Strawberry.

The same kind.

The exact same kind.

A memory surfaced without permission.

A younger you standing in front of him years ago, holding an absurdly large glass jar filled to the brim with pink wrappers.

The jar had been ridiculously heavy for you at the time.

He had kept the jar ever since.

Suguru’s eyes flicked back to Satoru, who was now happily unwrapping another candy like a raccoon discovering snacks. “…You’re sure you didn’t take those from my room.”

 “Why are you so suspicious?” Satoru looked offended again.

“Because those are the exact candies I keep.”

“So?” Satoru said. “Maybe she also wanna share these candies with me. Why? Is there a rule where you’re the only one allowed to be given such candies? By her?””

Suguru leaned back slowly against the couch. “…She gave you candy.”

“Yep.”

“For telling her something.”

“Yep.”

“And you took it.”

“Obviously.”

Suguru looked away, resting his chin in his hand.

Something about that bothered him more than it should have.

It wasn’t logical.

He knew that.

Still…

You had always brought those candies for him—only him. His classmates (back in elementary) didn’t even had that luxury.

Not as some grand gesture. Just quietly. Casually. Like it was an established fact of the universe that he should have them.

The jar in his room was proof of that.

And now Satoru was chewing through them like a thief who had accidentally received permission.

“…You shouldn’t accept things so easily from people you don’t know that much.” Suguru said after a moment.

Satoru blinked at him. “Huh?”

“It’s suspicious.”

Satoru stared then burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

Shoko pushed herself off the window. “Wow,” she said mildly. “Suguru’s jealous.”

Suguru immediately looked offended. “I’m not jealous.”

“You are,” Shoko said calmly.

“I’m not.”

Satoru leaned forward, grinning now. “Oh my god,” he said. “You are.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“This isn’t about jealousy.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Shoko muttered.

Satoru tossed another candy in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Relax,” he said lazily. “If it makes you feel better, she looked like she regretted giving them to me.”

Suguru shot him a look. “…Why?”

Satoru smirked. “Because I told her the truth.” He crunched through the candy with a loud snap. “And people usually don’t like that.”

Suguru didn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifted briefly to the dark window beside Shoko.

Somewhere out there, far beyond the forest and train lines, you were in your apartment in Yokohama.

Not here.

Not in the dorms.

Not within the small, quiet world the three of them occupied at night.

He looked back at Satoru, who was still shamelessly eating the candy. Suguru exhaled softly. “…If those are actually from her,” he said, “don’t finish them all.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Suguru leaned back again, reopening his book. “Because you’re gonna give it to me.”

“Don’t wanna, Y/n gave it to me, it’s mine~” Satoru grinned and unwrapped another one anyway.

-

Meanwhile you back in your apartment : *sneezes*

A/n: Hala kayooo, nag tatampo na si suguru. Canonically toyoin pa naman yan.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

40

Like every normal fangirl/simp/unfortunate idiot who got isekai’d into Jujutsu Kaisen—there is a certain appeal to seeing the strongest duo in action.

That is, assuming you can first swallow the small, inconvenient detail that you might actually die here.

A minor drawback. Truly.

By the time you reached the graveyard, that fleeting ‘excitement’ had already begun to rot in your stomach.

You paused near the rusted gate, taking a moment to look around. The place was exactly what you’d expect from a cursed graveyard—except worse, because expectation didn’t quite capture the feeling of wrongness pressing against your skin.

The air was damp and heavy, thick with the smell of wet soil and old stone. Fog clung low to the ground like it had nowhere else to go. The crooked headstones leaned at awkward angles, half-swallowed by weeds and moss. Somewhere deeper in the cemetery, something creaked—slow and hollow, like wood straining against a weight that shouldn’t be there.

And the cursed energy.

God.

Even with your limited awareness (limited by you mean—lesser compared to Satoru’s), you could feel it—like static crawling across your skin, buzzing faintly at the base of your skull. Every instinct you had screamed that this place was very, very, very obviously fucking cursed.

Which was exactly why you stopped walking.

Unfortunately, the other two did not share your extremely reasonable survival instincts.

By the time you finished your quick environmental assessment—also known as standing there and contemplating your life choices—both Suguru and Satoru had already moved ahead without hesitation.

Of course they did.

Suguru in particular didn’t waste a second. His pace was brisk, purposeful, the kind of urgency that made it obvious he wasn’t treating this like some routine cleanup. As mentioned earlier there were five idiotic people who went ghost hunting here and went missing near the graveyard, and apparently the cursed spirit responsible was still active.

Possibly alive.

Possibly not.

Suguru glanced back briefly when he noticed you hadn’t followed yet, his expression calm but firm in a way that left very little room for argument. “We should move,” he said. “If the spirit’s still hunting, there might still be people we can reach.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Saving lives.

A very noble objective.

You would absolutely love to participate—preferably from a safe observational distance.

But before you could even pretend to catch up, Satoru noticed your lagging behind.

Which, apparently, was the greatest mistake of your day.

He slowed just enough to fall slightly behind Suguru, turning his head toward you with that infuriating grin that always meant trouble. “What’s wrong?” he called lazily. “Don’t tell me you’re scared already.”

You stared at him.

Not even bothering to hide the flat look.

The audacity.

Because the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that Satoru said it like he hadn’t been the one instigating half the chaos earlier. Like he wasn’t the type of person who would absolutely provoke something on purpose just to see what happened.

Intentional. Always intentional.

And yet here he was, acting like you were the unreasonable one for hesitating in what was clearly the most haunted-looking graveyard to ever exist.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

You were not going to give him the satisfaction.

Unfortunately, silence had never once stopped Satoru from continuing. “C’mon,” he added, voice lilting with obvious amusement. “If you’re gonna tag along, at least try to keep up.”

There it was.

Ragebait.

Pure, shameless ragebait.

You could practically feel the trap sitting there, wide open and waiting.

And the worst part was that Satoru looked pleased with himself, like this was the highlight of his evening.

Which—considering the circumstances—was honestly concerning.

For a brief moment you considered several possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Unfortunately, none of them were realistic given the overwhelming power imbalance currently present.

So instead you settled for the only strategy left available to you.

Quiet resistance.

With all the emotional enthusiasm of someone walking toward their own funeral, you finally stepped forward and started following them into the graveyard.

Not because Satoru told you to.

Obviously.

Just because standing alone at the gate of a cursed cemetery felt significantly worse.

You barely made it five steps past the gate before the air changed.

It wasn’t dramatic at first.

Just a shift in pressure—like the atmosphere had thickened, pressing faintly against your ears. The buzzing at the base of your skull sharpened into something closer to a warning siren.

Ahead of you, Suguru slowed.

Beside him, Satoru tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something the rest of the world hadn’t noticed yet.

The joking tone from earlier evaporated.

Then the ground moved.

Not around you.

Underneath.

A deep crack echoed through the cemetery as one of the graves caved in. The soil collapsed inward with a heavy, wet sound. Another followed a few meters away. Then another.

The earth began to sink in uneven patches, gravestones tilting as the ground beneath them shifted.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. Great.

The soil bulged upward like something massive was forcing its way through it. Wooden coffin fragments splintered through the dirt as the grave finally burst open.

And then the cursed spirit crawled out.

It was enormous.

Even hunched, the creature stood nearly three meters tall, its body an uneven mass of swollen limbs and rotting flesh. Gray-green skin hung from its frame in loose, decaying sheets, peeling back in places to reveal exposed bone and dark muscle slick with blackened cursed energy.

The smell hit a second later.

Rot.

Not just old rot—wet, suffocating decay that filled your lungs and clung to the back of your throat.

Your eyes watered instantly.

The creature’s head hung forward beneath a warped spine, its jaw stretched so wide it looked dislocated. Something dangled from its mouth.

At first your brain tried very hard to pretend it wasn’t what it looked like.

Then it moved.

A human arm swayed weakly from between the creature’s teeth.

The corpse attached to it hung halfway inside its throat, ribs crushed inward where the creature had bitten through the torso. Another body was wedged behind it, already decomposing to the point where the skin had darkened and split.

More remains were tangled deeper in its mouth—bones, scraps of clothing, something that might have once been a skull.

Your gaze flicked toward the surrounding graves.

Several were open.

Coffins shattered.

Earth overturned.

The implication settled slowly and horribly into place.

It dug those corpses up.

The cursed spirit dragged itself fully from the grave with a heavy, grinding movement. Dirt sloughed from its body as it rose, massive hands digging into the soil for leverage.

Cursed energy rolled off it in suffocating waves.

It didn’t feel refined—there was no clear technique shaping it. Just raw, violent density coating its body like armor.

Enough that you instinctively knew one thing:

If it landed a hit, it wouldn’t need a technique.

The cursed energy alone would make it fatal.

The creature’s head snapped upward.

Its hollow eye sockets locked onto your group.

Then it roared.

The sound came out wrong—wet, layered, like several voices screaming through the same ruined throat. One of the corpses lodged in its mouth slipped free and hit the ground with a dull thud.

And then it moved.

The ground exploded beneath its feet as the creature lunged.

But before it could reach you—

Space warped violently.

Blue flashed.

Satoru vanished from beside you, reappearing midair as the pull of Limitless: Blue distorted the space around the cursed spirit. The technique dragged the creature off course, its massive body yanked sideways as if the air itself had grabbed hold of it.

It slammed through a row of headstones instead of barreling straight into you.

Stone shattered.

Dirt exploded outward.

At the same time, several shapes spilled from the swirl of cursed energy behind Suguru Geto.

Curses.

Three of them shot forward instantly—one wrapping around the creature’s leg, another leaping for its throat, a third clinging to its torso like a living chain.

Suguru didn’t stay behind them.

He moved straight in.

You had a brief, detached moment to process the fact that he was about to throw hands with a semi–special grade cursed spirit.

Which, apparently, was just a normal Tuesday for him.

The cursed spirit tore one of the controlled curses apart with a violent swing of its arm. The impact cracked the ground where it landed, cursed energy splintering outward.

Suguru slipped inside the attack smoothly.

His fist drove into the creature’s ribcage.

The impact detonated with a burst of cursed energy that ripped open the rotting flesh where his knuckles landed.

The creature staggered.

And through all of this—

You were still standing there.

Watching.

Which would’ve been fine.

Except you were very much on this mission.

With them.

Meaning—

Your turn.

Your gaze drifted back to the cursed spirit just as it opened its mouth again.

The corpses hanging from its teeth swayed slightly.

The smell of decay rolled across the graveyard like a physical wave.

Your stomach lurched.

God.

Up close, it was worse.

Much worse.

The rot was thick enough to taste. Something dark dripped from the creature’s jaw—fluids from the bodies stuffed inside its mouth, pooling into the dirt below.

You really, really did not want to get within stabbing distance of that thing.

Unfortunately, the universe had never shown much interest in your personal comfort.

You inhaled slowly through your mouth, trying not to breathe through your nose.

It didn’t help.

Your cursed energy stirred anyway.

There was a brief moment of resistance—your brain very reasonably suggesting that maybe you should just… stay back. Observe. Offer moral support from a safe distance.

Then the cursed spirit ripped another one of Suguru’s controlled curses apart.

And Satoru, hovering slightly above the ground after using Blue to reposition, glanced back at you. “Don’t just stand there,” he called casually, like you were watching a street performance instead of a corpse-eating nightmare. “You’re on the team, remember?”

Right.

Fantastic.

You swallowed.

The dread didn’t go away.

But you pushed it down anyway.

Your cursed energy surged outward, responding to the familiar mental pull of your technique. The shape formed almost instantly—blackened energy condensing into something long and sharp in your grasp.

A naginata materialized in your hands.

The weight of it settled into your grip, solid and reassuring in a way that grounded the buzzing panic in your chest.

You adjusted your stance automatically.

Across the graveyard, the cursed spirit turned toward you again.

Rotting flesh shifted.

Cursed energy swelled around its massive arm.

You exhaled once.

-

The fight dragged on longer than you would’ve liked.

Not because the cursed spirit was particularly clever—it wasn’t. The thing fought like a starving animal, swinging its massive limbs with enough cursed energy behind each hit to crater the ground.

But raw power still counted.

Each blow that landed shattered stone, uprooted graves, or tore through one of Suguru’s curses with brutal efficiency. The graveyard had become a mess of overturned soil and broken headstones, fog swirling wildly every time Satoru warped space with Limitless: Blue.

Your school shoes slid through damp earth as you ducked beneath another swinging arm.

The stench was unbearable this close.

Every movement of the creature’s jaw made the corpses tangled in its teeth shift, something dark and wet dripping from the ruined bodies onto the ground below. The rot clung to the air so thickly that it felt like breathing through spoiled meat.

You had long since stopped using your nose.

Your naginata flashed through the fog, the blade carving through rotting flesh with sharp arcs of cursed energy. Each strike tore away chunks of the creature’s body, but the sheer density of cursed energy coating it kept the spirit moving.

One wrong step and you’d be pulp.

Across the battlefield, Satoru pulled the creature sideways again with another burst of Blue, the distortion yanking the massive body off balance. “Opening,” he called lightly.

Suguru moved instantly.

Two of his curses latched onto the creature’s arms, dragging them down just enough to expose its chest again. Suguru himself slipped forward with that same unsettling calm, driving a strike into its torso that forced the spirit to stagger backward.

And that—

That was the moment you’d been waiting for.

You pushed off the ground.

Your cursed energy surged along the shaft of the naginata as you closed the distance in a single forward dash. The world narrowed to the opening in front of you—the torn ribcage, the pulsing mass of cursed energy inside it.

You drove the blade forward.

The naginata pierced straight through the center of the cursed spirit.

For a brief second, everything went still.

Then the creature convulsed.

A deep, distorted shriek ripped from its throat as the blade pinned its core in place. The cursed energy surrounding its body fractured violently, cracking like glass under pressure.

You twisted the weapon.

The core shattered.

The enormous body froze.

Then it began to collapse inward.

Cursed spirits didn’t leave behind corpses the way humans did. Their forms broke apart into swirling fragments of energy, dissolving into the air like smoke.

Except—

Yours didn’t disperse.

Instead, the fragments condensed.

Thin streams of green light began forming where the creature’s body had been, coalescing into small, glowing orbs that hovered briefly in the air.

‘That…was new.’ Suguru’s head tilted slightly.

The orbs drifted toward you.

Before anyone could comment, they touched your skin.

And vanished.

Your body absorbed them instantly.

The sensation was subtle but unmistakable—like warm electricity spreading beneath your skin as the cursed energy folded neatly into your own reserves.

Suguru blinked once.

It was technically the first time he’d actually seen your technique in action.

He had sensed your cursed energy before, of course. Observed the way your weapon manifested. But watching a defeated cursed spirit compress into energy and get absorbed directly into you—

That was… unusual.

Extremely unusual.

Meanwhile, the last remnants of the cursed spirit finished dissolving.

Unfortunately, one thing did not dissolve.

The corpse that had been lodged in the creature’s mouth earlier slipped free during the collapse and landed nearby with a wet, heavy thud.

Your eyes flicked toward it.

Immediately—

Eurgh.

You recoiled a step.

The body had been half-digested, skin sloughing away from muscle in places where the cursed spirit’s teeth had torn through it. The smell hit you again now that the fight was over, thick and nauseating.

Your stomach twisted.

You had never liked dead bodies.

Bad history.

Very bad history.

You quickly looked away.

Nope.

Not processing that today.

With a quiet exhale, you dismissed your weapon. The naginata dissolved into fading threads of cursed energy that vanished into the night air.

Fight over.

Mission accomplished.

Which meant—

Time to leave.

You turned toward the gate without another word.

“Wait.”

You paused.

Behind you, Suguru stepped forward slightly. “There might still be people around the graveyard,” he said calmly. “If the spirit was hunting earlier, the victims could still be nearby. We should search the area.”

You stared at him. “…Why?”

Suguru blinked. “Why?” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said flatly. “Why.”

There was a brief silence.

“We just eliminated the cursed spirit,” Suguru said slowly. “If there are survivors—”

“I came here to kill the curse,” you interrupted. “Which I did. Mission complete.”

Suguru looked genuinely confused now. “…There are civilians who could be injured or hiding somewhere.”

“And?”

Suguru stared at you.

You shrugged. “They shouldn’t have come here.”

The silence stretched longer this time.

“You mentioned that before,” Suguru said carefully. “But I assumed you weren’t being entirely serious.”

“Oh, I was very serious,” you replied.

Suguru’s brows furrowed. “There are people who might be terrified and alone somewhere in this graveyard.”

“Yes,” you said calmly. “Because they decided ghost hunting in a cursed graveyard was a fun hobby.”

Suguru opened his mouth—

“You’re a bitch.” The voice came from behind him.

You looked over.

Satoru was leaning casually against a cracked headstone, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable behind the blindfold.

Suguru immediately turned toward him. “Satoru,” he said sharply.

But Satoru didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“You are,” he continued bluntly, tilting his head slightly in your direction. “A bitch.”

Suguru frowned. “That’s unnecessary.”

“No it’s not,” Satoru replied.

His tone wasn’t teasing.

That was the weird part.

“You’re a heartless, uncooperative bitch,” he continued matter-of-factly. “and you think your whole anti-hero—vigilante or whatever you are acting like right now persona makes you better than everyone else.”

The words landed heavier than you expected.

Because he didn’t sound amused.

He sounded… certain.

For a moment you considered arguing.

Several responses lined up in your head immediately, sharp and ready.

Instead, you just lifted your hand.

And flipped him off.

Then you turned around and walked away.

If they wanted to play hero in a cursed graveyard full of idiots who went ghost hunting, that was their problem.

You had already done your job.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

39

You and Suguru eventually reached the end of the hallway.

The storage room door stood slightly crooked in its frame, the old metal handle scratched and worn from years of use.

You reached for it.

Suguru noticed your hand pause for the briefest moment before turning the knob.

It was small.

Almost nothing.

But Suguru had spent enough of his childhood around you to notice those kinds of pauses.

The door creaked open.

A stale smell drifted out—dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic.

Inside were stacks of unused desks, spare chairs, cracked training equipment, and boxes that had probably been forgotten by three different graduating classes.

You stepped inside first.

Suguru followed, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead.

For a moment the two of you stood there in silence, surrounded by furniture that no one currently needed.

The awkwardness settled in properly now.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

You walked toward the nearest stack of chairs and pulled one free, brushing a thin layer of dust from the seat with your hand.

Suguru watched you for a moment before speaking. “…Kyoto suits you.”

It sounded casual.

But there was something careful in the way he said it.

Like he doesn't mean it but wasn't entirely sure what ground he was allowed to stand on anymore.

You glanced at him briefly. “Not really.”

Another quiet pause.

Suguru leaned one shoulder against a stack of desks, arms folding loosely across his chest. “How long…” he started, then stopped himself mid-sentence. His brow creased slightly. “How long were you—uhm…”

You saved him the trouble. “How long was I a cult leader?” you cut in calmly.

Suguru straightened immediately. “No—!”

“Just a year ago,” you continued, brushing more dust off the chair like you were discussing the weather. “If that's what you were asking.”

“No,” Suguru said again, a little more firmly this time. “That's not what I meant.” He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. “I meant… when did you start seeing curses?”

You stopped brushing the chair.

Suguru continued more carefully. “When did your cursed technique awaken?”

Your hand rested on the backrest of the chair.

For a moment, the room felt quieter.

“Am I still allowed to say ‘secret’?” you asked mildly.

Your tone was light.

Too light.

Suguru studied your face.

He knew that tone.

You used it when you were closing a door.

“…Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess you can.”

You nodded once and resumed cleaning the chair.

Conversation over.

Suguru exhaled softly through his nose.

He could push.

But he doesn't want another conversation between you two to end up as an argument. Especially since right now, Suguru feels like the distance between you grew massively over the years.

So instead, he leaned his head back slightly and tried a different topic. “The candy jar you left me is already half empty.”

You glanced at him. “The strawberry ones?” you asked.

“Yeah.” Suguru smiled faintly. “Those.”

He pushed himself away from the stack of desks and walked over to grab another chair. “Can I tell you something honestly?”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t stop him either.

“My cursed technique makes me swallow curses to manipulate them,” he said lightly. “They are, let's say, uhm…..,” he continued, lifting a desk from the stack, “they taste kinda bad.” He glanced at you briefly. “When we were kids, you used to coincidentally give me candy whenever I used my technique.”

You stilled slightly.

“You probably didn’t even realize it,” Suguru added. “But it helped.” He smiled a little at the memory. “It distracted me from you know….the curses.”

For a moment the only sound in the room was the faint buzz of the lights.

Suguru adjusted his grip on the desk. “I know we argued last time we saw each other,” he said quietly. “But… I’m glad you decided to join us.”

You looked at him.

And reminded yourself—

He doesn’t know yet.

He doesn’t know yet how corrupt the Jujutsu Society is.

He doesn’t know yet the kind of people sitting comfortably at the top.

He doesn’t know yet that you ‘joining’ wasn’t a choice.

He doesn’t know yet that the higher-ups threatened you with your parents.

He doesn’t know.

Your expression remained calm. “I’m only here to exorcise curses, Geto-san.” The honorific was deliberate. “I’m not interested in saving people.”

Suguru paused.

The words weren’t loud.

But they landed heavier than shouting would have.

For a brief moment something flickered across his expression.

Hurt.

Not anger.

Just hurt.

Because the girl he grew up with used to bring stray animals home and cry with the possibility of them dying when left alone to fend for themselves.

He opened his mouth slightly—

Almost ready to challenge you.

To ask what happened.

But the moment passed.

Instead he shifted the conversation again. “…Anyway,” he said, forcing a small smile. “How’s Jojo?” The thought of the dog brought a genuine smile on his face. Jojo would probably be eight by now. Of course Suguru remembers. “Did your mom let you keep all of her pups? The last update I had about her was when your mom texted my mom that she gave birth.” He grinned.

Your breath hitched.

It was small.

Barely audible.

But Suguru noticed. “Is Jojo still as stupid as ever?” he added lightly.

You didn’t answer.

The chair in your hands suddenly felt heavier.

Dust blurred slightly under your gaze.

A flash—

A dog’s bark.

White snow streaked with red.

Something breaking.

Something dying.

Your chest tightened sharply.

You closed your eyes.

Hard.

The memory slammed into a locked door in your mind.

And stopped.

You inhaled slowly.

When you opened your eyes again your expression was perfectly calm.

Suguru was staring at you now. Concern replacing his smile. “…Are you okay?” he asked.

You picked up the chair. “Yes.”

A beat passed.

“Did I say something wrong?” he pressed gently.

“No,” you said quickly. Then quieter— “No. Just…” You rubbed your temple once. “Stop asking questions, okay?”

“Y/n—” Suguru frowned slightly. “You know if something’s bothering you, you can always tell me,” he said. “I’m your friend.”

Something sharp flickered behind your eyes. “Geto-san,” you interrupted. Your tone had cooled. “How many times do I have to tell you?” You lifted the chair and started walking toward the door. “It’s L/n.”

Your voice remained calm.

Controlled.

But distant.

“Both of us aren’t close enough to call each other by our first names.”

Suguru froze where he stood.

The words stung more than he expected.

For a moment he almost called you out.

Almost said something sharp in return.

‘We used to be.’ The words sat at the back of his throat.

Then he looked at you again.

Really looked.

At the way your shoulders had stiffened.

At the way you were gripping the chair just a little too tightly.

At the way you were avoiding his eyes.

And the argument dissolved before it could begin.

Suguru exhaled quietly. “…Right,” he said. He bent down, picked up a desk and another chair. “Let’s get back before Satoru starts complaining about how long we took.”

You nodded once.

Neither of you spoke as you walked back down the hallway.

The distance between you was only half a step.

But it felt much farther than that.

-

“Look, newbie!” Satoru pointed at you like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence. “I don’t know why you’re allowed to not attend classes,” he continued accusingly, leaning forward from his seat, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t figure out whatever trick you used and copy it.” His sunglasses were pushed up on his head now, bright blue eyes narrowed with exaggerated suspicion. “I refuse to believe someone gets special treatment for no reason.”

‘Kidnapping a higher-up’s grandson usually encourages cooperation.’ you thought.

You adjusted the hem of your school skirt slightly, tugging it down over your knees.

God, sometimes you regretted not ordering a proper uniform from Jujutsu Tech. If you had, you could’ve requested pants like a sensible person.

Instead, you were stuck wearing the stiff navy uniform from your all-girls school in Yokohama. The pleated skirt felt impractical for a job that occasionally involved jumping across rooftops or fighting something with too many limbs.

Unfortunately, you never have thought of that earlier.

And now you were paying for it.

You could have easily shoved Satoru away. Or freeze him in place with a well-placed application of cursed energy (you don't know if you could, but you want to try).

But the three of you were currently wedged together in the backseat of a car barely designed for three teenagers.

The manager from the auxiliary staff was driving you to the mission site, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror with the expression of someone reconsidering their career choices.

You and Suguru sat by the window.

Satoru—who sat between you and Suguru—had somehow managed to occupy more than half the remaining space through the strategic use of elbows, knees, and aggressive manspreading.

You stared out the window instead of acknowledging him.

The city rolled past in muted shades of grey and neon as the car moved toward the outskirts.

You should have asked Suguru to take the middle seat.

You had forgotten how insufferable Satoru could be when he was bored.

“Anyway,” Satoru continued, apparently undeterred by your lack of reaction, “usually Suguru and I split up during missions so things finish faster.” He tossed your Jujutsu Tech ID card lightly in one hand like a poker chip. “But since you're a newbie,” he went on, “we decided we shouldn’t split up this time.” He grinned. “Who knows how weak you are.”

You didn’t look away from the window.

The mission itself was simple enough.

On paper, at least.

A semi-special grade curse had been lingering in an old graveyard outside the city. The location had recently gained popularity among local teenagers who apparently believed wandering through a graveyard at midnight with a flashlight counted as entertainment.

Five of those teenagers had decided to go ‘ghost hunting’ two nights ago.

Predictably, that had ended poorly.

Now the three of you were being sent to clean up the problem before anyone else wandered in.

Truly idiotic behavior.

Satoru kept examining your ID card. “But it’s impressive,” he added after a moment, sounding mildly annoyed, “how you were immediately labeled a semi-special grade.” He glanced sideways at you. “Especially since I’ve already seen you move and I'm telling you, I am not impressed.”

Your gaze shifted slightly.

What did he even mean by that?

You turned your head just enough to look at him.

Satoru was watching you like someone observing a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. “you’re so boring too!” he said casually. Then he shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Still tossing your ID card in the air.

You looked at him for another second. Then you looked back out the window. “I guess losers like you don’t enjoy the idea that someone might be stronger than you.” You said it quietly.

But loud enough.

You don't know why you're a semi-special grade! You're also sure as hell it's rigged and the higher up’s way to easily send you to your doom.

Satoru froze. “Haaah?” He slowly turned toward Suguru with exaggerated disbelief. “Did you hear that?”

Suguru, who had been silently enduring the entire conversation with saint-like patience, rubbed his temple. “Yes,” he said calmly. “She called you a loser.”

“Unbelievable,” Satoru muttered, offended. “The newbie has been here for five minutes and already started talking trash.” He leaned forward, pointing at you again. “If I get the chance,” he declared dramatically, “I’m leaving you in a sea of curses.”

You didn’t even look at him. “Please do.” Your voice was calm. “I’d prefer that over being with you.”

Suguru let out a quiet laugh under his breath.

Satoru stared at both of you. “Wow,” he said flatly. “You two are terrible.”

Suguru smiled faintly. “You started it Satoru.”

Satoru scoffed loudly and leaned back in his seat again, still holding your ID card hostage. “You better not die on this mission,” he added, glancing sideways at you. “Otherwise people will say I bullied the new girl to death, plus it's embarrassing for someone as cocky as you to die..”

Satoru Gojo doesn't have the right to call you cocky. If you are, what is he then? Cocky pro max?

You finally turned toward him. Your expression was perfectly neutral. “Its highly unlikely I’d die,” you said calmly, “though one thing's for sure, your ego would be the death of you.”

Suguru covered his mouth with one hand.

Satoru stared at you for two full seconds. Then he burst into laughter. “Oh, I like her,” he said, pointing at you again. “She’s rude.”

Suguru sighed. “This mission is going to be exhausting.”

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

38

“So you know how I travel two hours every day to attend school, right?” You kept your tone light, conversational, as if you were asking for the soy sauce. Steam curled from your miso soup. The apartment smelled like grilled mackerel and detergent and the faint citrus cleaner your mother liked too much.

Your mom hummed and nodded. “Mm.”

An easy lie.

To them, you were a diligent daughter commuting four hours daily—two there, two back—shoulders hunched on a train seat, earbuds in, textbooks open. In reality, you spent everyday at your grandmother’s estate refining cursed energy control until your veins felt like frayed wiring.

“Mom. Dad.” You set your chopsticks down carefully. “I told drandmother I want to stay in the dormitories.”

Your father paused mid-bite. “Huh? When will this happen?”

“After winter break.”

“That’s three days from now.” His brows pulled together. “Why so sudden?”

You shrugged slightly. “Traveling four hours a day burns me out.”

That part, at least, wasn’t entirely false. Pretending was exhausting.

Your mother frowned. “Flower, why did you agree to attend a school all the way in Yokohama anyway? There are better schools closer.”

You closed your eyes for half a second, irritation flickering behind your ribs.

‘Because you have a crazy mom, Mom.’

Aloud, you said, “It doesn’t matter. The point is I’ll be staying in the dorm instead of coming home every day.”

Your father set his chopsticks down. Not loudly. Just deliberately. “Doesn’t matter?” His voice didn’t rise, which somehow made it heavier. “Flower, ever since middle school, decisions about you are made by your grandmother and we’re the last to know. You are a kid. Our kid.”

The words hit somewhere inconvenient.

You exhaled slowly. “I told you now.”

“Three days before it happens,” he replied. “That’s not telling us. That’s informing us.”

Your jaw tightened.

He wasn’t wrong.

You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

“I’m not running away,” you said, keeping your tone even. “It’s just a dorm. A school dormitory.”

“You can’t make decisions like this so brashly without us,” he continued, and there it was—the edge. Not anger. Hurt.

Your mother shifted in her seat, eyes moving between you like she was watching a tennis match no one trained for.

“I’m not being brash,” you said. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re fifteen.”

“I’m capable.”

“I know you are,” he snapped back, then immediately softened. “That’s not the point.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. The ticking wall clock intrusive.

“You don’t look at me anymore,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“When something goes wrong, you don’t look at me like I can fix it.” His voice was steady but thinner now. “You used to look at me or your mom once when something was troubling you. Now you shoulder everything.” The irritation drained out of you, leaving something hollow and uncomfortable in its place. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… displaced. “I’m not trying to control you. I don't want to invade your privacy.” he added, almost as if clarifying to himself. “It just feels like you’re slipping off my finger.”

The metaphor was clumsy. It still landed.

Like he used to hold your hand when crossing the street and now your grip was gone.

You stared at the condensation forming along the rim of your water glass. Your reflection warped in it.

You couldn’t look at him like he could solve your problems.

Because some of your problems would devour him.

You swallowed. “Sorry.” you said quietly.

It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t defensive. Just… honest.

Silence lingered.

‘I promise, someday. I’d get us all out of here.’

Your mother’s expression softened first. Your father ran a hand over his face and sighed. “I have a point, though.” he muttered.

“You do.” you admitted.

That seemed to deflate the tension faster than any argument could have. He leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “…Okay.”

Your mother blinked. “That’s it?”

He shot her a look, then turned back to you. “Do you need help packing? What do you need? Clothes? Storage? I’ll buy it.”

The abrupt pivot almost made you laugh.

This was how he loved. Logistics.

“I can manage,” you said. “I have everything I’d need.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied immediately. “Tell me what you need.”

Your mother hesitated. “Are you sure about the dormitory? School dorms are cramped. Shared bathrooms. Bad insulation. The heating probably breaks.”

“It’s fine.” you started.

He cut her off gently. “She’s not staying in a cramped dorm.”

You looked up.

“I’ll find you an apartment in Yokohama,” he continued, already mentally reorganizing finances. “Close to campus. Safe neighborhood. You don’t need to live like a sardine.”

Your stomach dropped—then steadied.

An apartment.

Privacy.

No dorm curfew. No roommates. No school supervision. 

Since your parents brought it—your dad is the one paying for it, there’s a high chance your grandmother can’t spy you.

It works for you.

“That’s too much,” you said automatically, because you were supposed to.

“It’s not,” he replied firmly. “If you’re going to live alone, you’ll live properly.”

Your mother still looked uncertain. “Living alone at her age—”

“She’s already living halfway somewhere else.” he said quietly.

You pretended not to understand that.

He turned back to you. “We’ll go look tomorrow.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

There was a warmth in your chest you didn’t entirely trust.

You hadn’t expected support. You had prepared for resistance. Calculated it. Structured arguments around it. Instead, your father was rearranging his world to cushion yours.

Guilt pressed against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

You pushed rice around your bowl absently. “I’m not slipping away,” you said after a moment.

He looked at you carefully.

“I just… need to handle things myself sometimes.”

He studied your face like he was searching for the little girl who used to cling to his sleeve in grocery stores. “…I know,” he said finally. “But don’t handle everything by yourself, flower. If your mom and I can’t help you, ask your friends….okay?”

The argument dissolved not because it was resolved, but because neither of you wanted to keep pulling at it.

Your mother started asking practical questions—laundry, groceries, emergency contacts. Your father pulled out his phone and began browsing listings before dinner was even finished.

You answered when necessary. Nodded. Agreed.

All the while, a quiet part of you observed the scene from a distance.

You were about to attend two schools.

One fake.

One lethal.

You were negotiating with clan elders and hiding it behind math homework.

And your father was worried about insulation.

You almost smiled.

When dinner ended, he ruffled your hair as he passed you.

-

You sat in Yaga’s office with the composure of someone waiting for a dentist appointment they couldn’t cancel.

On the surface you looked indifferent—hands folded neatly in your lap, posture straight, gaze resting somewhere politely unfocused on the shelves behind his desk. Inside, however, you were contemplating the architectural stability of the building and whether it might collapse in a way that would be both fatal and convenient.

Your school uniform felt oddly formal here. The navy blazer from your all-girls school in Yokohama sat stiff on your shoulders, the crest embroidered over your chest a quiet reminder of a life that had nothing to do with curses or clan politics—just some prestigious all girls school. You hadn’t bothered ordering a uniform for Jujutsu Tech.

Why would you?

You had no intention of being here longer than absolutely necessary.

Show up for missions. Fulfill obligations. Leave.

A perfectly efficient arrangement.

Yaga, unfortunately, seemed determined to pretend this was a normal academic transfer.

He was in the middle of giving you what you assumed was the standard introduction speech—history of the school, expectations of students, responsibility of sorcerers. You knew all of it already. Your grandmother (despite her distaste for the Jujutsu Society) had made sure you knew everything the Jujutsu Society wanted you to know, and several things they very much did not. You would never lack knowledge especially since ’knowledge is power’.

You drifted halfway through the speech, attention returning only when Yaga stood and motioned for you to follow.

“Classes started thirty minutes ago,” he said calmly. “You should meet your classmates.”

Exciting.

You stood and followed him through the quiet hallways. The school smelled faintly of chalk dust, old wood, and the kind of institutional cleaner that promised sterility but delivered only damp floors.

“I am glad you’re able to join us, L/n-san,” Yaga said as you approached the classroom.

You scoffed softly. “Yeah, right. I’m beaming with excitement.” You said sarcastically.

Yaga didn’t react. Either he had excellent patience or a very realistic understanding of how the higher-ups operated.

Probably both.

He slid the door open.

You paused for a moment outside the threshold, taking a slow breath before stepping in.

Two heads turned.

One didn’t bother looking up.

A tall boy with white hair lounged in his chair like the classroom furniture had been designed specifically to accommodate his boredom. A Game Boy rested in his hands, the tiny electronic chirps of whatever game he was playing filling the quiet room. He didn’t even glance up.

Gojo Satoru.

Besides him sat Suguru, who looked up immediately when you entered. His expression shifted from curiosity to something more attentive—measured, observant.

Then the only girl in the room leaned back in her chair, a cigarette absent but implied by the languid tilt of her posture. Shoko watched you with mild interest, like someone observing a new exhibit at a museum.

Yaga addressed them. “As I mentioned a few days ago, another student would be joining us once classes resume.” 

The Game Boy continued to beep. 

“It would be nice if the four of you introduced yourselves before we begin.” A subtle glance from Yaga told you exactly who was expected to start.

You inhaled slowly. “I am Y/n—”

“What’s the point?” Satoru cut in without looking up. “We all know each other anyway.”

Technically true.

Also incredibly irritating.

He finally glanced up, flashing Shoko a grin. “Yo, Shoko. That’s the girl we traveled all the way to Kyoto for last October.”

Your jaw tightened.

“The cult leader.” He leaned toward her and stage-whispered with absolutely no effort to lower his voice. “And Y/n—”

“It’s L/n, Gojo-san.” You cut in flatly. “L/n.”

“Oh?” he said lightly. “Touchy.” Satoru finally looked directly at you. Blue eyes bright with mischief. “Anyway, this is Shoko.”

Yaga sighed in the quiet, exhausted way of someone who had been a teacher long enough to develop something very close to spiritual fatigue. “Gojo.”

Satoru tilted his head from where he was slouched in his chair, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. “What?”

Yaga scanned the classroom slowly, eyes moving across the rows of desks. Then he frowned. “…Where is the extra desk I asked you to grab?”

There was a pause.

Satoru stretched like a cat that had just been disturbed from a perfectly good nap, arms lifting above his head with an exaggerated groan. “Oh.”

“Gojo.” Yaga said slowly.

“Relax,” Satoru replied lazily. “I’ll get one.”

“You were supposed to bring it before class.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He made absolutely no move to stand.

“You know what, it's my fault for asking you in the fireplace.” Yaga murmured. Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose like a man who was actively reconsidering every life decision that had led him to teaching teenagers with supernatural abilities. “You will retrieve it now.”

Satoru sighed like the request physically pained him but finally pushed himself up from his chair. “But Yaga-sensei!” he whined dramatically, rolling his shoulders like he had just come back from war. “I am too tired to do it. Yesterday’s mission beat me up so bad!”

You didn’t even look at him.

Suguru did.

And then, with the same quiet composure he always carried, he stood up from his seat. “You can take mine,” he said, turning slightly toward you. “I’ll grab another from the storage.”

The offer was simple. Genuine. The kind of thing that used to be second nature between the two of you.

Your response came before he could even take a step. You shook your head. “No. I’ll get my own.”

Suguru paused.

Just slightly.

A blink too long.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s just a chair.”

“I know.” Your voice was calm. Even. Careful. “I still prefer to get my own.”

The air between you both shifted almost imperceptibly.

A small distance.

A very familiar distance.

Before the moment could settle into something heavier, Satoru snorted. “Bold of you,” he said, leaning against it with one shoulder. “Considering you don’t even know where the storage room is.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

He was ragebaiting you.

Very obviously ragebaiting you.

You pictured several extremely satisfying ways to rearrange his skull.

You inhaled slowly.

Across the room, Suguru noticed the small movement of your hand. The slight tightening of your shoulders.

He remembered that.

You always did that when you were holding back.

He stepped in before the silence stretched too long. “I can show you the storage room instead,” he said. “may I, Yaga-sensei?”

Your gaze shifted to him for the first time since the conversation started.

It wasn’t hostile.

But it wasn’t the easy familiarity he remembered either.

“It’s just down the hall.” he added.

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

You walked toward the door without looking at Satoru.

As you passed him, he leaned slightly out of the way, one eyebrow lifting behind those ridiculous sunglasses. “Try not to get lost,” he added lightly.

You kept walking.

Suguru followed beside you as the classroom door slid shut behind you with a quiet click.

The hallway was quiet.

Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, stretching long gold reflections across the polished floor. The school felt strangely calm compared to the noise of the classroom.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your footsteps echoed faintly in the empty corridor.

Suguru walked half a step behind you at first.

Then beside you.

He noticed things he hadn’t expected to notice.

You’d grown a little taller.

Your posture had changed—straighter, more guarded.

You also looked….more tired.

Kyoto had shaped you in ways he hadn’t been there to see.

Finally he spoke. “You don’t have to let him bother you.”

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not.” Your tone was calm enough that someone who didn’t know you might have believed it.

Suguru did know you.

A beat passed.

Then you added, voice dry as dust. “I just thought it would be rude to bash his head against the wall in front of the teacher.”

Suguru stopped walking for half a second.

The mental image appeared instantly.

Gojo’s head. Wall. Impact.

He let out a quiet laugh before he could stop it.

Not loud.

Just enough to acknowledge the image. “…Fair,” he said. “Satoru gets so annoying sometimes….most of the time.

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

37

Hideo Kamo had long ago accepted that he would never be the kind of man history remembered.

He had not inherited the bloodline technique. He had not possessed the volume of cursed energy that made the elders murmur with approval. His late brother however—the twenty-third head of the Kamo clan—had been born correct. His brother’s son, the current head, had been born sufficient. Hideo had been born adjacent.

So he chose politics.

If he could not be power, he would sit beside it.

Replacing his uncle as one of the higher-ups of Jujutsu Society had not been glorious work, but it had been strategic. He served his uncle. Kept his head down to a bow. Brokered marriages. Secured alliances. Measured children the way merchants inspected grain. He married his son to a woman of strong lineage, calculating probabilities like prayer beads.

Perhaps the grandson would inherit the clan’s cursed technique and deem him worthy as the clan's next head.

Perhaps that would be enough.

His grandson.

Four years old. Cheerful. Loud. Supposed to be at home with his mother.

Which was why the sight in his office made something cold settle behind his ribs.

You were seated comfortably in his chair, one leg tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily over the edge. The late afternoon light streamed through the shoji screens, catching in the dust suspended in the air. His office smelled faintly of aged paper, polished cedar, and the lingering trace of incense burned earlier that morning.

On the floor in front of you, his grandson was in the middle of a very serious negotiation with a wooden toy horse.

“No, no,” you were saying, your tone conspiratorial. “If the horse jumps from there, he breaks his legs. Then you’ll have to heal him. Are you a healer?”

The boy giggled, loud and delighted. “No!”

“Ah. Then perhaps he should not be reckless.” you replied gravely. You had folded one of Hideo’s documents into a small paper crane. It sat on the desk beside you, wings uneven but functional. The boy kept trying to grab it, and you kept lifting it just out of reach, dragging out his laughter until it filled the room.

You looked relaxed.

Not tense. Not threatening.

That was what made it worse.

The door slid open.

You glanced up immediately, grin widening as though this were a pleasant surprise. “Oh! Osamu-kun, your grandpa is here.”

The boy twisted around, saw Hideo, and beamed. “Jiji!”

He sprang up and sprinted toward him without hesitation.

Hideo dropped to one knee and caught him instinctively, his hands checking shoulders, arms, face. No bruises. No trembling. No tears.

“Jiji, she made a bird!” the boy announced proudly, pointing back at you.

You lifted the crane between two fingers and wiggled it slightly. “He named it Taro. I suggested something more dramatic, but apparently Taro is non-negotiable.”

The child laughed again.

Not a trace of fear.

Hideo’s gaze snapped to you.

“Who are you?” he asked without looking at you, his body angled protectively.

You stood slowly from his chair, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from your sleeves. The faint scent of incense clung to the room, and underneath it, something metallic—fear, maybe. Or imagination. “You don’t know me?” you asked, tilting your head with exaggerated disappointment. “But you and your, ah… council have been trailing me for weeks or maybe years!—How would I know? I thought we were closer than that.”

His eyes finally lifted. Recognition dawned. “Tsumikage?” he breathed.

You wrinkled your nose. “No, no. That’s my grandmother.” You stepped forward, unhurried.

He stiffened immediately.

Interesting.

“I am L/n. Just L/n.”

“Don’t look so tense,” you said mildly to Hideo. “If I intended harm, he wouldn’t be laughing.” You crouched again, lowering yourself to the child’s height instead of looming over him. “He’s very trusting, you know?” you added, brushing imaginary dust from the tatami. “Followed me without complaint. Didn’t even cry when we passed security.”

Hideo’s cursed energy flickered uneasily.

It was thin. Defensive. Not impressive.

“I told him we were playing hide-and-seek,” you continued thoughtfully. “He’s very good at hiding.” You felt it the way one feels a draft through a cracked window. “I didn’t hurt him,” you added, almost kindly. “If I wanted to fight you, I wouldn’t do it in front of him, there would be casualties…. someone so innocent might get hurt.”

You let that sit.

The unspoken continuation hung between you like a blade suspended by thread.

Who knows what I can do.

Silence thickened the room. Outside, somewhere in the courtyard, a wind chime rang once and stilled.

“I just wanted to chat,” you said lightly, straightening again. “Adults should communicate, don’t you think? It prevents… accidents.”

Hideo’s voice hardened. “You broke into my residence and abducted my grandson.”

“Abducted is such an ugly word,” you replied gently. “Borrowed. I returned him.”

You glanced at the child, who was now tugging at his grandfather’s sleeve. “Jiji, can she stay?”

There it was.

Not fear. Attachment.

You had sat on the floor with him. Folded paper. Let him win imaginary arguments. Listened when he explained the difference between fast horses and brave horses. You had matched his energy without overwhelming it. You had made yourself small, safe, interesting.

Anyone naive gravitates toward warmth.

Predators know this.

Hideo rose slowly to his feet, keeping his grandson tucked close to his side. “State your purpose.”

You wandered back toward his desk, running your fingers idly along the edge. The wood was old. Well maintained. Political power smelled like varnish and old tea. “You want me at Jujutsu Tech,” you said. Not a question. “Preferably monitored. Preferably close.”

He did not deny it.

You gave him a small, distracted smile. “I’ll attend.”

His brows twitched, just slightly.

“But,” you continued, “my attendance will not be strict. In fact, there may be months where I do not appear at all. Entire school years, even. I dislike rigid structures. They make me irritable.” You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked gently on your heels, as though discussing extracurricular activities rather than institutional oversight. “I’ll prefer to enroll in the Tokyo branch so it's easier to keep this from my grandmother.” you added. “Unless you’d prefer Kyoto.” You paused, glancing at him through your lashes. “Though I imagine my grandmother finding out immediately and throwing a rather petty tantrum if I were placed there. And we both know she despises you.” The thought made you giggle.

That earned the faintest tightening of his jaw.

Good.

“Feel free to send me on missions,” you went on smoothly. “Any mission. Dangerous ones are fine. I don’t mind.” Your voice was almost bored. “But if I choose a specific assignment, you will allow it.”

“You are in no position to dictate terms,” he said.

You looked at his grandson.

Then back at him.

Your expression remained light, almost distracted. “It was very easy,” you said softly. “To reach him.”

The child, oblivious, tugged at his grandfather’s sleeve again. “Jiji, she said horses shouldn’t jump from high places.”

You smiled faintly. “Risk assessment is important.” You met Hideo’s gaze again. “I walked past your guards. Entered your home. Spent half an hour teaching your grandson origami. And brought him here.” You folded your hands politely in front of you. “If I wanted leverage, I already had it.”

The boy leaned toward you slightly, as if considering whether he could wriggle free and return to your side.

He wasn’t afraid.

That was the most dangerous part.

“I’m offering cooperation,” you said quietly. “You secure the Tsumikage heir’s enrollment. Voluntarily. It will look impressive to your council.” You stepped back toward the door. “In exchange, I retain flexibility.”

“And if we refuse?” Hideo asked.

You shrugged lightly. “Then I suppose we all start making less comfortable decisions.” Your hand slid the door open. The corridor air felt cooler against your skin. You were already halfway through the doorway when you paused, as if remembering something trivial.

“Oh,” you murmured, turning back.

Hideo stiffened instantly.

You ignored him and crouched in front of his grandson again, lowering yourself until you were eye level with the boy. The floor pressed faintly against your knees. The office felt smaller now—air thinner, heavier with anticipation. “Osamu-kun,” you said gently, holding up one finger. “Follow this with your eyes, okay? Don’t move your head. Just your eyes.”

The boy blinked, then nodded very seriously. “Okay.”

You lifted your hand between you.

A faint glow bloomed at the tip of your finger—soft, green, almost translucent. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t explosive. It looked harmless. Like firefly light caught and held in place.

Hideo’s cursed energy spiked instantly.

You felt the shift before you saw it—his body angling, muscles tightening, ready to intercept. Ready to attack.

You didn’t look at him. You simply began to move your finger. Slowly at first, drawing a curved line through the air. The green light lingered faintly where you traced, as if ink were soaking into invisible paper. The boy’s eyes followed obediently, wide and fascinated.

You drew a circle.

Two triangles.

An uneven, lopsided shape that might generously be called a head.

The glow thickened, curling into itself. The air hummed—not loudly, but enough that Hideo’s breath hitched.

Before he could step forward, before he could commit to striking—

The light collapsed inward.

And in your hand, with a small, soft pop, something appeared.

An….object.

You blinked down at it.

It was a horse plushie.

Technically.

Its proportions were questionable. The legs were uneven. The head was slightly too large for its body. One ear flopped downward in a way that suggested either artistic intent or catastrophic error.

It was, objectively, ugly.

The boy gasped.

Hideo had already moved half a step forward, cursed energy rising—

You glanced up at him and giggled.

“Please,” you said lightly. “You’re going to strain something.” You turned the plushie over in your hand, inspecting it critically. The stitching was visible. The eyes were slightly mismatched in size. The color—a muted brown—was fine, but the execution was… debatable. You pouted. “That’s unfortunate,” you murmured. “It’s a little ugly.”

Osamu lunged for it. “It’s horsie!” he declared triumphantly, grabbing the plush from your hands and hugging it to his chest like a treasure. The crooked ear flattened against his cheek. He buried his face into its misshapen head and laughed.

Hideo stared at the toy, then at you.

No residual cursed energy pulsed from it. No malicious intent coiled beneath the fabric. It was simply… a plush.

Hideo hadn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. Because he understood what he had just witnessed. You hadn’t needed incantations. You hadn’t needed a weapon. You hadn’t needed to touch the child. You had gathered cursed energy inches from his grandson’s face—and chosen to create something harmless.

Chosen.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing your hands together as if dusting off chalk. “You see?” you said mildly to Hideo. “No need to be so tense.”

The faint green glow at your fingertip had already faded.

You tilted your head slightly, watching the boy cradle the toy like it was priceless.

‘Children are easy,’ you thought distantly. ‘Give them something imperfect, and they love it anyway.’

“Take care of him,” you added softly, though it wasn’t clear whether you meant the horse or the child.

Osamu looked up at you, beaming. “Thank you!”

You offered him a small smile—real enough to pass, distant enough to survive. “Oh one last thing,” you added, almost as an afterthought. “Please improve your security.” You looked at Hideo. Your gaze flickered briefly to the child one last time. “Goodbye, Osamu-kun. Take care of Taro and horsie.”

He waved enthusiastically. “Bye!”

You bowed just enough to be technically polite. Then you stepped backward toward the open door.

“Happy chatting!” you chimed, as if you had just concluded a pleasant afternoon visit. And with that, you turned and walked out, leaving behind an elderly politician clutching his grandson—and a crooked, ugly horse plushie that proved you could create something gentle just as easily as you could destroy.

-

“Grandmother.”

She was seated near the engawa, back straight, sunlight pouring across the tatami and catching in the silver strands of her hair. The garden outside was trimmed within an inch of its life—precise, controlled, obedient. Unlike most things in this world.

She looked up at you without warmth, without hostility. Simply expectation. “Yes?”

You folded your hands inside your sleeves so she wouldn’t see the faint tremor in your fingers. Not fear. Just calculation settling into place. “I think I want to take school seriously,” you said. “I want to attend every day.”

The koi pond outside made a soft, wet sound as something broke the surface. Your grandmother’s gaze sharpened slightly. “What,” she said carefully, “do you mean?”

“I know you enrolled me in Yokohama’s most elite all-girls’ academy for prestige,” you continued evenly. “The paperwork. The connections. The polished transcript.” You tilted your head. “But I’d like to attend classes properly.”

There was a small pause. Then, bluntly: “Why?” It wasn’t anger. It was suspicion.

You kept your breathing steady. Slow. Neutral. The house smelled faintly of incense and medicinal herbs drying somewhere deeper inside. Familiar. Containing. “They offer strong recommendations for medical school,” you said. “specifically in Tokyo.”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “And you believe,” she said, “our clan cannot provide superior education?”

“I know we can,” you replied immediately. You had learned long ago that hesitation read as defiance. “But I am only thinking about the long term.” You lifted your gaze to meet hers. Calm. Earnest. “My cursed technique reconstructs cellular structures. I understand the concept. I feel it instinctively.” Your voice softened—not pleading, just measured. “But instinct and knowledge are not the same thing. If I study medicine properly… anatomy, pathology, cellular biology… I’ll understand what I’m rebuilding.” You let the next part land gently. “If I know what a healthy liver cell looks like, I won’t just imitate memory. I’ll replicate accuracy.”

Silence.

“I need people, actual people to work on. I know our clan is willing…but wouldn’t it be better to go to medical school instead? Don’t get me wrong. I know how capable we are—how capable you are—but if we rely on only one place…we might end up clipping our wings instead of soaring up high.”

A cicada began its distant mechanical scream outside.

She watched you with that unreadable expression—the one that weighed whether you were being strategic or sentimental. “If you attend every day,” she said slowly, “you will neglect your training since that would mean you’d stay in your dormitories instead of going home.”

There it was.

The real concern.

Not your education. Your usefulness.

You lowered your eyes slightly in something that resembled deference. “I won’t.”

Her brow lifted.

“My school is in Yokohama,” you continued. “If I attend properly, I’ll stay in the dormitory during term. That gives me uninterrupted evenings.” You allowed the faintest hint of determination into your tone. “I will train every day on my own.” The koi pond rippled again. “I can structure my time more efficiently,” you added. “Morning classes. Afternoon study. Evening technique refinement.” You paused, then added lightly, “I would never neglect my goal.”

That earned the smallest flicker of something—approval, perhaps. Or pride. “You believe medical school will enhance Shōga Kiroku,” she said, using the name of your technique like one might reference a sacred relic.

“Yes.” You did not mention Jujutsu Tech. You did not mention Tokyo branch enrollment. You did not mention elderly politicians and crooked plush horses and negotiations built on implied violence. You kept your expression steady. “If I am to inherit properly,” you continued, “I should refine it beyond instinct.”

Her gaze lingered on you longer this time. Assessing.

You could almost feel her measuring the distance between ambition and rebellion. “You have never shown interest in mundane schooling before,” she said.

“That was before I realized medical school might be able to enhance my abilities and if I want to enter that, I need to seriously study in high school.” you replied. “If I’m going to rebuild myself repeatedly, I should know what I’m rebuilding.”

The logic was clean. Clinical. Hard to argue with.

She studied you for another long moment. You let your posture remain straight but not rigid. Devoted but not desperate. Finally, she exhaled softly. “…Very well.” The word settled like a stone dropped into still water. “You may attend.”

Your shoulders did not sag in relief. You had learned not to show victory.

“You will not allow your discipline to falter,” she continued. “If I sense decline in your technique—”

“You won’t,” you said gently. A faint pause. Then, because you knew exactly which thread to pull, you added, “I want to be worthy.”

That did it.

Pride flickered across her face—subtle, but unmistakable. “See that you are,” she replied.

You bowed your head. “I will train every evening,” you promised. “I’ll send updates. Measurements. Progress logs.”

The more data you offered, the safer she felt. “Good,” she said.

The conversation ended as cleanly as it began.

You would be attending two institutions at once. One for appearance. One for survival.

A double life built from recommendation letters and cursed negotiations.

-

A/n: Hideo and Osamu Kamo are no one important HSHSHHS. :))))

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

36

“I am glad you dealt with it accordingly, dear.” Your grandmother’s voice carries the same gentle warmth she uses when discussing flower arrangements or funeral rites. You sit before the vanity, spine straight, hands folded in your lap while she draws the bamboo hairbrush through your hair in long, deliberate strokes. The bristles scrape faintly against your scalp. It should be soothing.

It isn’t.

“Though I wish you had been less lenient with those filthy sorcerers,” she continues, adjusting her grip. “How dare they trespass on our property?” The word filthy lingers in the air like incense smoke—sweet at first, then suffocating.

You watch her reflection instead of your own. The lamplight softens her wrinkles, turns her silver hair almost luminous. If anyone walked in now, they would see nothing but a devoted grandmother tending to her granddaughter. A tender domestic scene. Oil-paint worthy. “But isn’t patience an important virtue, Grandmother?” you ask mildly. Your tone is light, almost curious. You have perfected the art of sounding harmless. “Besides, I am nothing compared to a Gojo heir.”

The brush catches.

Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.

“Nonsense,” she says, the word clipped. Her fingers tighten briefly in your hair before smoothing it back into place. “You are far greater than that Gojo brat.”

Delusional.

The thought passes through you without heat. It doesn’t even feel rebellious anymore. Just factual. Like observing that water is wet, or that silk suffocates if layered thick enough.

She resumes brushing, slower now, as if polishing something precious. “If you think you aren’t,” she adds, voice honeyed once more, “then let that be your motivation to train harder.”

There it is.

Everything is always training. Every encounter, every restraint, every breath you do not waste on emotion. Even mercy must be sharpened into a weapon.

You close your eyes, not in obedience but in self-preservation. Behind your eyelids, the world is quieter. No gold screens. No ancestral portraits watching. No expectations pressing into your shoulders like ceremonial robes.

Just the faint awareness of the estate breathing around you—layers of barriers humming at the edge of your perception, servants moving softly across polished floors, curses trapped and catalogued in underground chambers like specimens in glass jars.

Elsewhere.

You open your eyes again.

“It’s getting late,” you say, rising smoothly to your feet. The motion dislodges a few strands of hair from your shoulders; they slide down your back like something shed. “It’s time for me to go.”

You dust nonexistent lint from your sleeves. A small performance. She appreciates tidiness.

Your grandmother studies you for a moment, measuring something unspoken. Then she nods once. Approval, dismissal—often indistinguishable.

“No need to walk me out,” you add.

“Safe travels, dear.” She leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your cheek. Her lips are cool. For a second—just a second—you allow yourself to imagine this is what normal feels like. A grandmother sending her granddaughter off after dinner. No curses. No bloodlines. No strategic alliances disguised as etiquette. “Do tell your grandfather you’re leaving,” she says lightly.

You incline your head. “I will.” As you step out into the corridor, the air feels thinner. Or perhaps that is just you. Your fingers brush the side of your neck where her hand had been earlier, where the comb had tugged. The sensation lingers longer than it should. You wonder, not for the first time, whether you are being groomed or sharpened.

Lol, probably both.

The lanterns along the hallway flicker as you pass, their flames bending subtly toward you. The estate recognizes its own. It always does.

You do not look back.

-

You’re being followed.

The realization arrives the way winter does—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore once it settles into your bones.

It is past midnight, and the city is muffled beneath fresh snow. Streetlights glow in halos, their light diffused into something almost tender. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, arms full of convenience store contraband: canned soda, strawberry milk, chips you absolutely did not need but purchased anyway because the packaging was festive and you are weak to marketing.

It is, objectively, idiotic for a girl your age to be out at this hour. It’s idiotic to sneak out of your house while both of your parents are asleep.

Fortunately, you are not objective.

This is one of the few indulgences you allow yourself. When you aren’t in the estate, in the cult. The apartment—small, cluttered, faintly smelling of detergent and your mother’s cooking—is the only place that does not look at you like a relic or a weapon. Sleep has not been kind, when night stretches too long and silence turns viscous, you leave. You walk. You buy sugar. You pretend you are ordinary.

Crunch.

The sound is soft but distinct. Snow compressing beneath a second pair of feet. You do not turn immediately. You let your awareness unfurl instead, slow and practiced, feeling for distortions in cursed energy. The snowfall interferes—cold always makes your perception lag by half a second—but there is something there. Controlled. Concealed well enough that a weaker sorcerer might miss it.

Crunch.

You stop walking.

The night hums distantly. Snow continues to fall, steady and indifferent.

You exhale.

Green light gathers in your palm before condensing into the familiar weight of a pistol. Cursed energy crystallizes along the barrel, faint orbs orbiting briefly before embedding themselves into the metal like stars swallowed by night. The glow reflects against the snow, sickly and luminous.

You turn.

Empty street. Snow-laden vending machines. Parked cars half-buried in white.

“Show yourself,” you say calmly. Your voice carries strangely in the cold air. “I am not too scared to use a gun. Actually, I’ve been dying to use it, but my teachers refuse to train me in modern weapons.” You tilt your head slightly, scanning rooftops, alleyways. “Apparently, traditional weapons are more dignified. Very unfortunate for everyone involved.”

Silence lingers a moment longer.

Then a figure steps out from the shadow between two buildings as if he had been there all along. He is not dressed like your clan. Not like a civilian either. His kimono is understated but impeccably tailored, layered beneath a dark overcoat unsuited for snow yet untouched by it. The flakes seem to avoid him, dissolving inches from his shoulders.

A stranger.

You do not lower the gun.

He studies you with mild interest, the way one might examine an artifact discovered in an excavation. “Impressive,” he remarks. “Your awareness is sharper than reported.”

Reported.

Of course it is.

“Who are you?” you ask, sweetly enough to rot teeth.

He inclines his head just enough to satisfy etiquette without conceding equality. He gives you his name, followed by a title that drips with institutional authority. One of the higher-up’s envoys. A voice of the conservative faction within the jujutsu higher-ups.

How festive.

You smile, small and polite. “To whom do I owe the displeasure of meeting you?”

For a fraction of a second, something flickers in his eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or irritation poorly disguised. He wastes no time. “You will be transferring to Jujutsu High.”

Snow collects on your lashes. You blink once then laughed. “No.” you reply. Not dramatic. Not defiant. Simply factual.

He chuckles softly, as though you have made a charming but naive joke. “You misunderstand. This is not a request.”

“It sounded like one,” you say. “You might consider improving your phrasing.”

His gaze sharpens. “It is naive of you to believe your grandmother’s whims will protect you.” he continues. “The balance of power is shifting. Your clan hoards you like a family heirloom, but heirlooms are displayed when necessary. We simply won’t allow power to remain unchecked.”

Yeah right. Bunch of cowards.

You say nothing.

He steps closer. Snow crunches under his sandals, deliberate now. “We are aware of your parents’ residence,” he says conversationally. He recites the address of the apartment building as though reading from a grocery list. Floor number. Unit number.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the pistol’s grip.

“It would be unfortunate,” he adds, “if a ‘minor’ curse happened to wander inside. These areas are so unpredictable in winter. Negative emotions accumulate. Doors left unlocked. Windows poorly sealed.”

There it is.

Anger does not flare the way it used to. It settles instead, cold and precise. A blade placed carefully on a table. You tilt your head, as if considering his weather report. “If a curse were to enter that apartment,” you say gently, “what makes you think I’d be unable to exorcise it. Might even shoot this gun while I am at it”

His smile does not falter. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a public safety announcement.”

“Nothing stops you from doing that.” He said. “But how sure are you that your non-sorcerer parents would remain intact the moment you arrive at your residence?”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. You cannot shoot him. Not here. Not without consequences that would ripple far beyond this street. So you smile instead. “You’re very concerned about my education,” you continue. “It’s touching. I didn’t realize the higher-ups cared so deeply about a teenage girl’s academic future.” The snow falls heavier now, collecting on your shoulders, melting against the residual warmth of your cursed energy. You let the pistol dissolve; green light fractures into particles and disperses into the air like fireflies dying.

“We care about power in control.” he corrects.

At least he is being honest.

“Yes.” you murmur. “That’s what I said.” Silence stretches between you, taut as wire. You hate that they forced your thoughts there. You hate that it worked. “I will consider your suggestion,” you say at last, voice composed. “After all, it would be irresponsible of me not to evaluate all options.”

His eyes narrow slightly. He knows a strategic retreat when he hears one. “Do so quickly,” he replies. “We would hate for circumstances to make the decision for you.” He steps back into the shadows. This time, the snow does not part for him; it simply swallows his outline until he is indistinguishable from the night.

You stand there a moment longer, listening. You wait until you cannot feel him anymore. Not the way civilians mean it when they say that. You wait until the air stops folding in on itself. Until the faint distortion of concealed cursed energy thins into nothing. Until the snow falls in a clean, uninterrupted pattern across rooftops and parked cars.

Alone.

You walk.

One step. Then another.

Your heartbeat is steady. Your breathing is measured. Anyone watching would see a girl returning home with a bag of junk food and poor sleep hygiene.

You make it to the corner.

You make it halfway down the next block.

Then you stop.

The laughter slips out of you before you realize it’s happening.

It starts small. A breath that shakes on the exhale. Then another. Then something brittle and bright splits open in your chest and spills out through your teeth.

“Of course,” you mutter to the empty street. “Of course.”

Your grandmother uses your parents as leverage when you hesitate during training, during rituals, during anything. A soft reminder of what you could loose. A gentle observation about how fragile non-sorcerers are. How accidents happen. How curses slip through cracks in poorly maintained barriers.

And now the higher-ups do the same.

Different shark. Same teeth.

You press the heel of your palm against your forehead and laugh again, louder this time, the sound bouncing strangely off snow and concrete.

Why.

Why are they all so obsessed with the same strategy?

Is this in the handbook? Chapter one: If prodigy resists, threaten civilians she loves. Very innovative. Applause all around.

Your breathing starts to fray at the edges.

You picture the apartment door. The cheap metal lock. The way it sticks slightly in humid weather. You picture your mother humming off-key while washing dishes. Your father falling asleep in front of the television with the volume too loud.

You picture a curse slipping under the door like smoke.

Your stomach twists so violently you have to brace a hand against a streetlight.

You are not scared of curses.

You are scared of being late.

You drag in a breath that burns your throat. The cold air feels too sharp, too thin.

Think.

Okay.

Options.

You could ask your grandmother.

She hates the Jujutsu Society. She would not allow them to “display” you like an heirloom in their institution. She would take offense at the audacity alone.

Yes.

Wonderful.

You can march back to the estate and inform her that the higher-ups are threatening your parents. That they are using them as bait.

And then what?

She will smile.

She will say, how unfortunate.

And then she will tighten her grip.

You’re simply placing your parents in a shark’s wide and inviting mouth to avoid another’s.

You start laughing again, except it doesn’t sound like laughter anymore. It’s too sharp. Too loud for the empty street.

“Brilliant,” you whisper to yourself. “Absolutely brilliant. Avoid one predator by volunteering for another. That’s strategy. That’s growth.”

Your thoughts begin to spiral, fast and disjointed, colliding into one another without mercy.

If you join Jujutsu Tech, you are under their supervision. Your parents become collateral to ensure obedience.

If you refuse, they prove a point. A cursed spirit. A warning shot.

If you tell your grandmother, she reinforces surveillance. Maybe relocates your parents “for safety.” Safety meaning isolation. Meaning a gilded cage they did not ask for.

You slide down the side of the streetlight until you are crouching in the snow, convenience store bag crumpling beneath your grip. The cold seeps instantly through your tights, but you barely register it.

Why can’t they leave them out of it?

Use me.

Use my power. Use my body. Use my name.

Why them?

Your vision blurs, not from tears at first but from the sheer pressure of too many calculations firing at once.

You have spent years perfecting control. Perfecting composure. Perfecting the art of looking unbothered while something inside you quietly rots.

And now both sides have reached into the same soft place.

It feels deliberate. Surgical.

You press your hands into your hair, fingers tangling in it, tugging hard enough to ground yourself in the sensation. “They’re not pieces,” you hiss under your breath. “They’re not bargaining chips. They’re not leverage.”

Your voice cracks on the last word.

The snow keeps falling. It doesn’t care.

You start pacing in a tight, frantic circle on the sidewalk, boots slipping slightly on packed ice.

Okay.

Think worse.

Worst-case scenario.

A curse enters the apartment.

You feel it.

You sprint.

But what if you’re in training? What if you’re in your grandparent’s estate? What if they time it precisely when you are occupied, when your attention is stretched thin by design?

Your lungs feel too small.

What if they hurt them just enough? Not kill. Just injure. Just maim. Just demonstrate.

Your stomach lurches.

You double over and gag, though there is nothing in you to throw up.

This is ridiculous.

You are supposed to be the terrifying one.

You are supposed to be the prodigy. The heir. The weapon.

And yet the simplest pressure point reduces you to this—half-collapsed in snow at midnight, shaking over the vulnerability of two ordinary people who never asked to be connected to any of this.

You wipe at your face roughly, unsure when you started crying. “They don’t even like each other,” you mutter hysterically. “Grandmother hates the higher-ups. The higher-ups hate clans like ours. But the moment it comes to control—suddenly everyone shares the same playbook.” Your laughter fractures again, bordering on something feral.

Maybe you should disappear.

There’s a thought.

Leave the estate. Leave Kyoto. Leave the country. Take your parents somewhere remote. Somewhere with no cursed infrastructure. Somewhere quiet.

Except curses are born from humans.

And humans are everywhere.

Your batshit crazy grandmother would probably drag you back to your fate once she finds you and punishes you.

You don't wanna live a life on the run.

You sink back down into the snow, this time fully sitting, uncaring of the cold soaking through your coat. Your fingers dig into the powder until they ache.

You cannot outpace the system.

You cannot overpower both factions at once.

Not yet.

The realization settles heavily, suffocating but clarifying.

They are circling you because you are valuable.

Because you are strong.

Because you are useful.

And because they know the only way to steer you is through the people you refuse to let them touch.

Your breathing gradually evens out, though your chest still feels scraped raw from the inside.

You tilt your head back and stare at the sky. Snowflakes land against your lashes and melt instantly.

“Fine,” you whisper hoarsely.

If they insist on playing this game, then you will play it better.

You will not choose a shark.

You will build your own ocean.

But first—

You push yourself to your feet unsteadily, brushing snow from your coat with numb fingers.

First you need to make sure the apartment is still intact.

You pick up the crumpled convenience store bag, clutch it to your chest like something absurdly precious, and start walking again.

This time, you do not pretend to be ordinary.

-

a/n: cmere bby yn, lemme kwiss u and gwive u a hwuggg (totally wasn't the one who wrote yn’s fate).

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

35

You are getting bored.

Not the dramatic, poetic kind of boredom that inspires rebellion. Just the slow, suffocating kind that settles into your bones and makes time feel viscous.

Six months into your first year of high school and you have attended perhaps just a few laughable days of it.

An all-girls private academy in Yokohama, prestigious enough to silence questions before they form. The type of institution that prides itself on tradition and discretion. The faculty learned quickly that absences attached to your surname were not to be investigated. Tuition arrived punctually. Donations arrived generously. Inquiries did not.

If you were any normal girl right now, you would be in your dorm in Yokohama…probably studying. But here you are….in Kyoto.

Your grandmother had been almost indulgent after your improvements.

Proud, even.

Your awakening, as they insist on calling it, elevated the clan’s standing overnight. Your control over your cursed technique improved with a frightening efficiency that pleased her deeply. She spoke of legacy and inevitability with the softness of someone discussing spring blossoms.

In exchange, she allowed you to skip classes. “You do not need mundane education,” she had said. “Your future is elsewhere.” Plus she did mention you only need the prestige the school gives if it was stated you ‘graduated’ there.

Elsewhere meaning here.

Elsewhere meaning the estate.

True to her disdain for the Jujutsu Society, she never considered enrolling you in Jujutsu Tech. She would sooner burn ancestral scrolls than hand you over to that institution.

So you remain here.

Improving. Training. Performing like her doll.

And currently, sitting very still while a painter attempts to immortalize your face in oils as though the 20th century has not already invented the camera.

You stare at him blankly.

The studio chamber has been arranged to impress. Silk screens positioned to filter the afternoon light into something flattering. Incense curling in deliberate, aesthetic spirals. Gold-thread banners draped behind you like a halo.

The jūnihitoe is suffocating.

Layer upon layer of silk rests on your shoulders, pressing you into the carved wooden chair they insist on calling a throne. October air seeps in through the lattice windows, cool and crisp, but the fabric traps your heat until your skin feels faintly damp beneath the collar.

You had requested a fan and refreshments ten minutes ago. Apparently, that was an unreasonable demand.

You shift slightly, the movement small enough not to disturb the painter’s precious composition. He makes a distressed sound anyway. “My lady, if you could maintain the posture—”

You lean back deliberately.

If they insist on archaic portraiture, they can deal with the consequences.

The carved wood presses into your spine as you recline. The sleeves of your outer layer spill like green water over the armrests. You lift one massive sleeve and drape it over your face, blocking the light.

The painter sputters.

You ignore him.

If you must sit here as a symbol, you may as well nap.

Sleep has not been kind to. Not since that. Not since the blood dried beneath your nails and refused to leave, no matter how many times you told your mind it was gone.

Your breathing slows. For a moment, you almost drift. Then—

“My lady,” a servant announces from the entrance, voice carefully measured. “Your refreshments have arrived.”

You hum beneath your sleeve. Footsteps. The soft clink of porcelain. The predictable rhythm of service. Then something fractures that rhythm. It is not loud. Not a spike.

Just… wrong.

Your awareness snaps taut. You lower the sleeve slowly. Two presences. Strong. Foreign.

You should have sensed them from the outer gates. Normally, you feel disturbances long before they cross your territory. Your control extends like a net, woven into the estate’s barriers and embedded talismans. You feel shifts in pressure like a change in wind. But you haven’t been sleeping properly. Not for a year. Your senses fray at the edges when you grow tired. Plus with your grandmother requiring you to suppress your cursed energy, you've become a lot more exhausted than usual. Awareness dips without permission.

Still—

With these two closer, they are impossible to ignore.

One is vast. Sharp. Expansive in a way that feels almost arrogant. It does not try to hide itself; it merely tolerates containment.

The other is deep and controlled, smooth like still water that knows exactly how deep it runs.

Neither belongs here.

If these were actual enemies, you would've been dead by now. 

Your stomach tightens before your mind finishes the calculation. “Seize them,” you say, voice cool and immediate.

The painter startles violently. Green-clad attendants move without hesitation, hands already forming seals to trigger the binding talismans embedded in the threshold.

You rise just enough to see beyond your sleeves.

White samue.

Worn incorrectly.

One standing too casually for someone infiltrating a cult. The other composed but unmistakably out of place.

And then—

You see their faces.

Satoru Gojo looks mildly offended at being targeted.

Suguru Geto—Suguru’s expression fractures. Recognition hits him in visible stages. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then something that looks dangerously close to hurt.

He had expected a stranger.

A volatile sorcerer heir described in vague reports.

He had not expected you.

For a heartbeat, he forgets to breathe.

You look nothing like the child in his memories. 

You are draped in ceremonial silk, layered in green like a living banner of the clan. Your posture is effortless authority. The air around you bends—subtly, deliberately—anchored to your presence. The suppression Satoru mentioned is real; your cursed energy is folded inward so tightly it hums rather than roars.

But Suguru can feel it now.

Now that he is close.

It is not absence.

It is restraint.

His mind scrambles to reconcile images: the girl who scolded him for stepping on ants…..and the clan heir who died and returned stronger.

You straighten fully, silk settling into place with practiced grace. “Stand down,” you say.

The attendants freeze mid-incantation.

The binding talismans dim.

Satoru tilts his head, sunglasses glinting under lantern light. “Well,” he says lightly, “that’s not very welcoming.”

You stare at him.

Satoru looks exactly like the anime describes him—tall, sharp, but carrying the same infuriating ease.

Suguru stands beside him, composed on the surface, but his widened eyes betray him. He hasn’t masked the shock quickly enough.

He thought you were a non-sorcerer.

He thought you had left for a normal school.

He thought—

“I want everyone out except these two.” you say.

“But Y/N-sama—”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. “Out.”

The single word lands heavier than shouting ever could. Doors slide shut reluctantly. Incense lingers in the sudden quiet. The painter gathers his supplies with trembling hands and disappears, oil paint and unfinished reverence trailing behind him.

Silence settles.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Suguru studies you openly now.

The silk. The throne-like chair. The banners behind you. The faint distortion in the air that anchors the entire estate’s barrier system to your presence.

“You…” he begins, then stops. When he first arrived here, he had already made a game plan on how to look for you in Kyoto. Sure he doesn’t have your contact but surely his mom has contacts with your mom. He had imagined this reunion differently. On a street in Kyoto, perhaps. Outside a school gate. Something ordinary.

He'd even imagine scolding you for not texting back or not updating him about your life—anything that tells him his childhood friend is still alive.

Not here.

Not like this.

Satoru, of course, breaks the tension first. “So,” he says, shoving his hands into his sleeves, grin widening, “you two know each other?”

Suguru’s gaze flickers to him briefly, then back to you. “You didn’t tell me,” he says quietly. It isn’t accusation. It isn’t anger. It’s disbelief. “You’re—?”

You meet his eyes evenly. “I don’t think I am inclined to tell you anything, Geto-san.” you reply.

Suguru inhales slowly, recalibrating. “You’re the clan heir,” he says, as if saying it aloud might make it less surreal.

“And you two are trespassing,” you return. “Both of you may be minors, but I am sure my grandmother won't hold back from holding you two accountable.”

“So you two DO know each other. Great, it makes convincing her easy!” Satoru snorts. “Good,” Satoru replies easily. “Saves time.” He paused a bit before speaking again. “In case you don't know me, the name’s Satoru Gojo, though I doubt you've ever heard that name.”

“Convince what?” Your gaze shifts to him briefly, ignoring his cockiness.

Suguru watches you carefully. The suppression. The control. The way the entire room feels oriented around you. He feels something else too.

Distance.

Not physical.

Something quieter.

“You’re… You feel like someone else,” he says finally, as though confirming it for himself.

“Hah?” You tilt your head slightly. “What did you think I was?”

He doesn’t answer that. Because the truth is embarrassingly simple. He thought you were safe. He thought you were ordinary. He—he doesn’t know who is standing in front of him right now. He thought Kyoto had taken you somewhere softer. 

Instead, it forged you into this.

And standing here now, in silk and incense and curated devotion, you look less like someone who needs rescuing and more like the axis the entire clan spins around.

Satoru glances between the two of you, amused and curious. “Well,” he says brightly, “this just got interesting.”

Suguru is the first to move.

You can see the exact moment he forces himself to recalibrate. The shock folds inward. The disbelief smooths out. His spine straightens—not in submission to you, but in resolve.

Fine.

If this is who you are now, he will meet you where you stand.

He steps forward, just slightly. Enough to take the lead.

Satoru watches him with interest, then leans against a pillar like this is a mildly entertaining stage play.

“We didn’t come here to trespass for fun,” Suguru says, voice steady again. Principled. Grounded. The Suguru you remember. “We came because you shouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean by that?” Your brow lifts faintly. “This is my caln’s property.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it isn’t.

He folds his hands loosely into his sleeves. Composed. Measured. He looks almost like a monk delivering a sermon. “You're a strong sorcerer,” he continues. “Strong enough that even Satoru noticed your suppression from outside the estate.”

Satoru makes a face. “I always notice things.”

Suguru ignores him. “With that kind of power,” he says, eyes steady on yours, “you have a responsibility.”

Satoru audibly gags. “Oh my god, uncle Ben?” he mutters. “He’s doing it.”

Suguru doesn’t even blink. “Power exists to protect people who don’t have it. That’s what being a sorcerer means. You should enroll in Jujutsu Tech. You should come with us.”

There it is.

The pitch.

Not politics. Not prestige.

Duty.

“You don’t belong locked inside a clan compound,” Suguru continues. “You should be out there. Exorcising curses. Saving people. That’s what your strength is for.”

You stare at him. For a long second, you say nothing. Then— “I’m not interested.” Flat. Immediate.

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t even consider it.”

“I don’t need to. In fact, I am offended that you are asking me to risk my life for something so insignificant.”

Satoru whistles under his breath. “Ouch.”

“Insignificant? Y/n they are people.” Suguru steps closer. Not aggressive. But insistent. “You can’t just sit here while people die.”

“And you can?” you reply evenly.

His eyes flash. “Well, that’s exactly why I don’t.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Because you think you’re responsible for them.”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Absolute. It almost makes you laugh knowing damn well how this fiasco end up for him. “And what happens,” you ask calmly, “when you get tired?”

“Huh?” He frowns. “I won’t get tired doing what is right.”

“That’s naive.”

Satoru, to his credit, stays quiet now. He’s watching the shift. Watching the current under the surface.

“What happens,” you continue, silk whispering as you step down from the raised platform, “when you realize that the weak you’re protecting are the reason curses exist in the first place?”

Suguru’s expression hardens.

You don’t stop. Might as well make him doubt his choice. “Cursed spirits are born from their fear. Their hatred. Their resentment. Their grief. The accumulation of it. Endless. Leaking into the world like rot.” Your gaze sharpens. “You exorcise one, and ten more will form. From them.”

“They can’t control that,” Suguru replies firmly. “They shouldn't be blamed for that—”

“You’re mistaken, I am not playing the blaming game. I am just saying the reason why I don’t care if they die because of it. They die because it is their own doing. Sure, they don’t know what they are doing but ignorance doesn’t change the fact that they caused it.”  you counter. The room feels smaller now. “What if,” you press, “the person you save today becomes the reason someone else suffers tomorrow? What if the one you protect grows up and hurts someone weaker than them? What then, Geto-san?”

His jaw clenches. “That doesn’t mean they deserve to die.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Silence.

Your eyes do not waver. “If the source of the poison keeps producing more poison, how long do you keep treating symptoms before you question the source? I refuse to be a hero. Are you suggesting my life is worth less than their therefore i should risk it to protect them? It’s not them who would bury me when I die protecting them—infact they would have zero idea someone out there is risking their own lives protecting them from themselves. It’s my parents who will bury me if I die.” 

There it is.

The crack in your worldview. 

Suguru sees it.

Satoru sees it too.

“Someday you would bury your own peers too, Geto-san.” You continued. “Maybe your own mom would bury you too.”

Suguru’s voice drops, quieter now. “That’s not like you.”

You almost flinch.

He steps closer again. Close enough that the incense between you feels suffocating. “Y/n, what happened?” he asks. Not accusatory. Not argumentative. Just… searching. “You weren’t like this.”

Your fingers tighten slightly within your sleeves.

“Talk to me.” He lowers his voice further. “Please”

The words hit somewhere you don’t want them to.

For a moment—just a moment—you feel it.

Everything else is so unfamiliar, your current life, your parents, your own body, everyone else surrounding you. Everything and everyone is so unfamiliar except Suguru Geto.

Conflict.

Memory.

You used to be a girl who cried because a puppy was abandoned. A girl who can't bear to look at someone, especially one so young, suffering. The girl who relies on her parents when she has problems.

That girl feels distant now. Like someone you read about.

You swallow it down.

“Oh please, stop the drama.” Your expression smooths. “That version of me,” you say quietly, “was ignorant.”

Suguru’s brows draw together. “Ignorant of what?”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, you will have to talk about blood.

About waking up stronger than you were the night before.

About realizing strength isolates more than it saves.

About how much you feel like a stranger trapped in this body.

About how much you need someone to pull you out in this filthy polluted river.

About how much you need to be saved from this fate.

About how you fear for your own parents’ safety just because suddenly you're ‘important’.

Instead, you step back.

The distance returns. “You two should leave,” you say. “Before my grandmother gets here.”

Suguru’s eyes widened slightly. “Y/n—”

“Now.” Your tone is not raised. It doesn’t need to be. The air shifts subtly in response to your will. Not threatening. Just undeniable. The estate itself aligning behind you. “Unless you want to spend your night behind cells? If so, be my guess.”

Satoru straightens from the pillar, expression unreadable for once.

Suguru doesn’t move at first. He studies you. Searching for something. Anything. “You’re still you.” he says quietly. “Right?”

It isn’t a question.

It’s a plea.

Your gaze flickers—just for a fraction of a second.

Then it stills.

“Please leave.” you repeat. “My grandmother isn't exactly someone so lenient to crimes.”

The doors slide open behind them without anyone touching them.

An invitation.

Or an expulsion.

Satoru rests a hand briefly on Suguru’s shoulder. Not mocking this time. Just grounding.

“We’ll be back,” Satoru says lightly, but his eyes are sharp. Assessing. Calculating. “Well not us maybe, but someone else would try to recruit you. Those old geezers won’t let go of you.”

Is that a threat?

Suguru lets himself be guided toward the exit, but his gaze never leaves you. Something changed. He knows it.

The doors slide shut.

The incense continues to curl upward as if nothing happened.

You remain standing in the center of the room long after their presence fades beyond the barrier.

Your hands tremble once.

Just once.

Then you still them.

-

a/n: to summarize this chapter it's basically—

Suguru: “Y/n please, look at me! This isn't you! Look at me!”

Satoru: *that one meme of a wolf with arguing parents*

[cyllres]

Side Character | JJK x Reader

34

Sneaking into a cult had never appeared anywhere on Suguru’s list of things he hoped to accomplish before dying.

It had, apparently, been penciled enthusiastically into Satoru’s.

The entire train ride to Kyoto had been a contradiction. Satoru complained the whole way—about the humidity, about the traditional architecture, about the audacity of clans who still thought sliding doors were practical—loud enough that their assigned manager looked moments away from either leaping off the car or praying for divine intervention. And yet, the moment the estate walls came into view, something in Satoru shifted.

Annoyance remained. But it was threaded with excitement.

Now, crouched near the outer hedges of the Tsumikage estate, Satoru looked far too pleased for someone who had spent the last two hours threatening to boycott the mission.

Suguru took a moment to absorb the scenery despite himself.

The mansion rose beyond the walls in layered roofs and dark wood polished to a muted sheen. Lanterns lined the stone path in careful intervals, their paper panes glowing softly in the late afternoon light. The air smelled faintly of incense and trimmed pine. Even from this distance, Suguru could sense residual cursed energy embedded into the foundation—old, deliberate, like something cultivated rather than merely accumulated.

It was beautiful.

In a way that felt curated.

In a way that made the back of his neck prickle.

He was still taking it in when something soft and white hit him square in the chest.

Suguru looked down.

A white samue.

He raised his gaze slowly to Satoru, who was already peeling off his uniform jacket with zero hesitation.

“We’re lucky, loser,” Satoru said brightly, as if they were discussing festival tickets instead of infiltrating a clan compound. “Most people here are non-sorcerers.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and stuffed it carelessly into a shrub that absolutely did not deserve to be involved in this operation. His tie followed, crumpled and abandoned without ceremony.

“And I doubt the actual sorcerer members are hanging around the entrance,” Satoru continued, slipping into the white samue with theatrical disdain. “They’re probably off doing whatever culty nonsense they schedule on weekends.”

He paused to tug at the sleeves, frowning. “Ugh. It’s so plain. No personality. Not even a trim. Who designs these?”

“Can you be less obvious?” Suguru said evenly, already changing into his own set with far more restraint.

Satoru blinked at him. “I’m being subtle.”

“You just said ‘culty nonsense’ at full volume.”

“No one’s around.”

As if summoned by spite, a pair of distant voices drifted from somewhere beyond the hedges.

Suguru shot him a look.

Satoru lowered his voice by exactly two degrees. “Fine. I’ll whisper my insults.”

Suguru adjusted the collar of the samue and tied the sash properly. The fabric was coarse compared to his uniform, simple and unadorned. Designed for uniformity. For blending.

For sheep.

He couldn’t help but think of the report classifications. Non-sorcerers making up the majority. White-clad members filling the estate grounds.

From what they’d gathered, the true sorcerers of the clan—the ones with actual ability—were few and insulated. Which meant if they moved carefully, they could observe before being noticed.

Satoru, meanwhile, rolled his shoulders experimentally and grinned.

“You’re enjoying this,” Suguru said, not accusing—just stating.

“Of course I am,” Satoru replied, as if the answer were obvious. “You think I get to sneak into creepy sorcerer compounds every weekend? This is premium entertainment.”

“You spent the entire ride saying you hated Kyoto.”

“I do hate Kyoto,” Satoru said immediately. “It’s pretentious. All old money and older grudges. And this clan?” His grin sharpened. “They’re freaky.”

He tapped the side of his head. “Vault full of curses. Ritual awakenings. Grandma Death Glare running the place. It’s like someone took a horror story and made it bureaucratic.”

Suguru studied the estate again.

Beautiful. Ordered. Quiet.

Too quiet.

“You’re sure she’s here?” he asked.

Satoru’s expression shifted—not entirely serious, but focused. “Oh, she’s here,” he said. “I’d recognize that cursed energy anywhere.”

There was no exaggeration in his voice now. Just certainty. Suguru adjusted his sleeves once more, steadying himself.

They were here to recruit, not provoke. To assess, not antagonize. Yaga had made that clear.

Beside him, Satoru bounced lightly on his heels like someone about to break into a restricted section of a museum. “Alright,” Satoru said, flashing a grin that looked dangerously close to trouble. “Let’s go join the sheep.”

Suguru exhaled slowly.

Sneaking into a cult was not on his list.

But walking in beside Satoru Gojo, pretending to be harmless, was somehow worse.

The main mansion was worse up close.

From beyond the outer walls it had seemed merely grand. Standing beside it now, it felt disorienting. Corridors branched in symmetrical perfection, polished wood reflecting lantern light in warm amber streaks. The building curved and extended in layered wings that looked identical from every angle, as if designed to make outsiders lose their sense of direction and quietly accept it.

Suguru was fairly certain they had already passed the same stone basin twice.

“Relax,” Satoru said, walking ahead like he owned the estate. “It’s intentional. The architecture loops in on itself. Keeps guests where they’re supposed to be.”

“You sound familiar with it,” Suguru noted.

“I told you. I’ve been here before.” He had. Just once but it was long enough to memorize the layout. Long enough to recognize exits.

Instead of entering through the main hall, Satoru veered toward a side corridor and slipped through a narrow passage that curved behind the central structure. Suguru followed, suppressing the uncomfortable realization that Satoru’s casual confidence in hostile territory should not be this reassuring.

The mansion eventually opened into something even more excessive.

Behind the grand residence stretched the true heart of the clan—the cult grounds.

If the mansion was aristocratic restraint, this was theatrical devotion.

An expansive courtyard unfolded beneath hanging lanterns arranged in deliberate constellations. Green-lacquered pillars framed a massive ceremonial hall whose doors stood open, revealing silk banners embroidered with gold thread and symbols Suguru didn’t immediately recognize. Incense smoke drifted in pale ribbons through the air, sweet and heavy enough to coat the tongue. Stone pathways cut clean geometric lines through manicured gravel gardens, leading toward smaller shrine-like structures that gleamed with polished brass and lacquered wood.

It was extravagant in a way that bordered on operatic.

And it was full.

White-clad members moved in slow, orderly patterns, their samue identical to the ones Satoru had tossed at him. They bowed as they passed one another. Murmured greetings. The air carried a low, collective hum—chanting from within the ceremonial hall, steady and rhythmic.

Suguru let his senses extend cautiously.

He felt cursed energy—yes—but it was scattered and faint. Traces embedded in the architecture. Talismans hidden beneath floorboards. Protective barriers woven delicately into the beams.

He did not feel her.

Not the way Satoru had described.

He frowned slightly.

Beside him, Satoru clicked his tongue. “See?” he muttered, leaning in closer under the guise of adjusting his sleeve. “Dirty trick.”

Suguru kept his gaze forward. “What is?”

“She’s suppressing her cursed energy.”

Suguru glanced at him. “You’re certain?”

Satoru’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Suguru. I’ve seen her. That kind of cursed energy doesn’t just vanish. It doesn’t get quiet because it feels like it.”

They passed beneath a string of lanterns that cast warm light across the courtyard. From the outside, they were indistinguishable from every other white-clad initiate drifting between the structures.

“She’s folding it inward,” Satoru continued, voice low but animated. “Compressing it. Tucking it under layers. It’s smart. Annoying. But smart.”

“That would explain why I can’t sense her,” Suguru said thoughtfully.

“Exactly. You’re not crazy.”

“I didn’t think I was.”

“I was starting to.”

Suguru resisted the urge to elbow him.

Satoru scanned the grounds with open curiosity, his posture deceptively loose. Anyone watching would assume he was another bored youth dragged into ritual participation. Only the slight tilt of his head gave him away—Six Eyes working quietly behind tinted lenses. “And she seems stronger.” Satoru added, almost conversationally.

Suguru’s attention sharpened. “Stronger than when you first saw her?”

“Way stronger.”

The answer came without hesitation.

“When I saw her in the vault, it was… explosive,” Satoru said, searching for the right word. “Unstable. Like something cracked open and flooded everything. Raw power, no polish.”

His smile shifted into something more intrigued.

“Now it’s different. I can’t feel it directly, but I can see the distortion. The barriers here? They’re anchored around her. Just what are they feeding her?” (Totally not the elderly! HSHSHS)

Suguru let that sink in.

The courtyard shimmered faintly under the lantern light, but now that Satoru mentioned it, Suguru could detect the subtle reinforcement patterns—threads of cursed energy woven outward from a central point deeper within the compound.

“She’s refined it,” Satoru went on. “Condensed it. Whatever happened in that vault? That wasn’t the peak.”

Suguru studied the ceremonial hall, where chanting swelled and receded like a controlled tide.

“You sound impressed,” he observed.

“I am,” Satoru admitted easily. “It’s rare.”

Rare did not impress Satoru lightly.

A group of white-robed members passed them, bowing in polite acknowledgment. Suguru returned the gesture with practiced grace. Satoru offered something that resembled a nod but lacked the humility.

“So the clan heir is playing quiet,” Suguru murmured.

“Yeah,” Satoru said. “And it’s annoying.”

“Because?”

“Because suppression like that isn’t just technique,” Satoru replied. “It means control. And if she’s this controlled already…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

The implication hung between them: if she was this strong while hiding it, what would she look like unleashed? That certainly would make those power hungry old geezers want her more.

The chanting from the hall rose slightly, deeper voices layering beneath the higher ones. The sound vibrated faintly through the stone beneath their feet.

Suguru’s gaze drifted across the extravagance—the gold-thread banners, the polished wood gleaming under lantern light, the disciplined choreography of white garments moving in harmony.

It was beautiful.

It was unsettling.

And somewhere at the center of it all stood a girl powerful enough to anchor the entire structure while pretending she wasn’t there.

Satoru’s grin widened as he slipped his hands into his sleeves. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go meet our future classmate.”

The closer they moved toward the ceremonial hall, the thicker the incense became.

Inside, the extravagance sharpened into something almost suffocating. The temple’s interior was a cathedral of lacquered wood and gold leaf, lanterns suspended from carved beams like captive constellations. Silk banners cascaded from the rafters in layered greens and deep crimsons, embroidered with crests and archaic script. The polished floor reflected everything in softened amber, so that even the white-clad members seemed doubled—real and mirrored.

The chanting they had heard outside echoed here, resonant and controlled. Rows of kneeling figures bowed in unison before a raised dais at the far end of the hall.

Suguru’s eyes adjusted quickly.

And then—

“You two.”

The voice cut through the ambient murmur like a blade.

A middle-aged woman stood to the side of the hall, her posture rigid, arms folded into her sleeves. Unlike the sea of white around them, she wore a green haori layered over her robes—the color marking authority within the clan’s internal hierarchy.

Satoru blinked.

Suguru bowed immediately.

Satoru followed half a second later, noticeably less sincere. “Yes?” Satoru said, tone hovering dangerously close to casual.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?”

Suguru opened his mouth, but she continued without waiting for an answer.

“The western corridor lanterns were left unattended. The gravel path near the temple’s inner garden is uneven. And you are late to assist in the ceremonial preparations.”

Satoru’s eyebrows climbed higher with each accusation. He leaned slightly toward Suguru and muttered, “Do I look like I manage gravel?”

Suguru elbowed him subtly.

The woman’s gaze sharpened further. “What was that?”

“Apologies,” Suguru said smoothly, bowing again. “We were reassigned earlier and must have misunderstood our duties.”

Satoru tilted his head, studying her openly.

It was only now that it registered.

She wasn’t old.

Not elderly. Not frail. Not one of the ancient, wrinkle-lined Rōkyū figures he had expected to dominate this place. She looked to be in her forties, perhaps. Severe. Controlled. But undeniably younger than the brittle elders he associated with clan authority.

He scanned the hall again.

No elderly figures in green.

Not one.

That was new.

Usually, in these fossilized clan structures, the green haori signifying authority hung off the shoulders of people who looked like they would crumble if you sneezed too hard near them.

But right now?

Nothing.

Interesting.

The woman continued her reprimand, voice measured but edged with irritation. She listed minor infractions with clinical precision—lateness, inattentiveness, lack of decorum—as if they were long-standing disappointments rather than two strangers who had slipped in less than ten minutes ago.

Satoru’s patience thinned visibly.

He shifted his weight, jaw tightening.

Suguru could practically feel the moment Satoru decided he was over it.

“Are you finished?” Satoru asked lightly, a smile tugging at his mouth that did not reach his eyes.

Suguru resisted the urge to physically restrain him.

The woman’s gaze hardened, but before she could escalate, a distant voice called her name from the upper level balcony.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Very well,” she said sharply. “If you insist on being useless elsewhere, then make yourselves useful where you are needed.”

Satoru blinked.

“You will attend to the young mistress,” she continued.

Suguru’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly.

Satoru’s irritation paused mid-bloom.

“The painter has arrived to complete her portrait,” the woman said. “Since she must remain still. No one was assigned to fan her yet, and she has grown impatient.”

Satoru stared at her. “…Fan her.”

“Yes.”

“With a fan.”

The woman’s eyes flicked over him as if he had just revealed a disappointing level of intelligence. “Obviously.”

Suguru leaned closer and whispered, barely audible, “What a baby.”

Satoru’s mouth twitched.

The woman pointed toward a staircase that curved along the inner wall, leading to a private balcony chamber overlooking the hall. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not make eye contact unless permitted. And do not test her patience.”

Satoru’s grin returned, slow and sharp. “Oh,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Suguru shot him a look that translated clearly to please behave.

The woman turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd of green-clad attendants, leaving them momentarily unobserved.

Satoru let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said under his breath, “that was easy.”

Suguru glanced toward the staircase.

Their mission had just accelerated.

They had come to locate the clan heir discreetly. To observe. To assess.

Instead, they were being escorted directly to her.

Satoru adjusted his sleeves, expression brightening in a way that suggested he was far too entertained by this development. “Guess we don’t have to wander around awkwardly anymore,” he said. “VIP access.”

“You were getting impatient,” Suguru noted.

“I was getting bored,” Satoru corrected.

They began ascending the staircase, the chanting below fading into a steady undercurrent. From above, Suguru could feel it now—not a direct presence, not something loud or overwhelming, but a subtle pressure. Like standing near deep water.

Suppressed.

Folded inward.

But there.

Satoru’s grin sharpened.

“Told you,” he murmured. “She’s hiding it.”

Suguru exhaled quietly as they reached the landing.

Fan the clan heir.

The absurdity of it nearly made him laugh.

Instead, he straightened his posture and prepared himself to meet a spoiled aristocrat irritated by insufficient airflow.

Neither yet understood just how wrong that assumption would be.