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Love Begins
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@songcurse
"Don't let yourself turn out like those two!!"
あんたは あのふたりみたいに なっちゃだめよ！！
IND. PRI. SEL. RP blog for Utahime Iori from Jujutsu Kaisen.
Cursed by Miko (30+)
⊹ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 ⊹ 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 ⊹ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 ⊹
𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝗗𝗘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆(𝐒) ⸝⸝ JJK, HSR, WBK, MHA & Multi!!
A small reminder that I have a total of six active blogs. Utahime's the primary, the other five are side blogs under her feet. If I seem inactive, I might not be. My hyperfixations hit, and when you have little time for yourself, you enjoy whatever feels funnest in that moment. I love Utahime the most. She can take over my free time like no other muse can.
I've been sharing the love with my other blogs.
♥️ you are so incredibly talented, miko, it kills me. the love and depth you give to your muses is honestly inspiring! I cannot wait to explore so many new things together!! ily!! 😊
What an incredibly nice thing to wake up to before heading off to work ❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎ Thank you for your kind words, Dandi. I'm looking forward to exploring all the things with you, and for my muses to meet each of your lovely muses too ! ! Utahime and Shoko outta team up against @mukagenborn & @taiyou-torikomu as a treat for 'em, 'cause the boys deserve it ❤︎
What celestial entity are you ?
EARTH
You beautiful, beautiful being. You are the essence of growth and change. You are constantly evolving and developing and that in itself is something to be celebrated. You are possibility, unpredictability, and spontaneity all wrapped into one super cool amalgamation of a person. You’re so friendly and, honestly, easy to love. The way you feel emotions and experience life is implicitly real, in a way most people struggle to be. you know how to enjoy a moment for what it is and are especially good at cherishing the little things. People just like being around you. You have a way of breathing life into things that need it. Renewing places and reinvigorating people. You make people feel grounded but also want more. Like jumping off the swingset and flying a few moments before being reclaimed by gravity. You’re simultaneously searching for home and something greater. You are randomly deciding to get food at 1am. First day of school friends. Adopting a stray because you know no one else will take care of it. Personalized gifts. Keeping small momentos like movie ticket stubs. The type to bring food to the whole class. The type to believe in ‘ if I win, we all win ’. You embody both ambition and greed. Your longing for new people and places and things can lead to an insatiable, conquering, hunger if not kept under control. Know that contentedness is not your enemy. You are like dancing — like discovery. You are dynamic and elastic. Supportive and nourishing — not in an obvious way but in a sustainable way. You are the spirit of perseverance. You're willing to forsake comfortability and do what it takes to make something happen. You are nostalgia and forward-looking at the same time. You are a reminder of why change is good.
DASH GAME FROM @fatesundone ! !
Tagging╰┈➤ @impishsensei, @cursedreversal, @mukagenborn, @taiyou-torikomu, @veilcurse, @skylakitis, @errantic & anyone else who may want to do this ! !
@impishsensei 💢
My constant struggle is how often I find myself swapping/switching between third-person past tense (how I've always written) and present tense (how tumblr moots write). Not all of you do it, but a lot of you do.
I've tried to learn and it makes me overthink. I'm very sorry for the inconsistency.
If you're okay with me —
— getting super wordy with my replies please give a like to this post. I'm not talking about 500 words, I'm talking about me yapping so much, it ends up being 2k words at the bare minimum.
Who is okay with novella? We don't need to match. If I give you 6k, 2k, 1k, and you give me 500 words, I can work with that.
★ | GetoHime!
─────────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────────────── {★} ( Artist; https://x.com/space0ddiT )
@taiyou-torikomu ☀︎
That's about 3 minutes in. It's almost impressive, and in record time... he notes to himself. At first, glancing over to Satoru, and then toward Nanami who's seems to be disengaging entirely. With that, he sighs slowly, and patiently, "you say that like i'm the designated handler." of course he is
// @songcurse @veilcurse
❝ You are the designated handler. ❞ Nanami huffs. It's not his responsibility to babysit Gojo — that's what they have Geto for. ❝ It's not like he listens to anyone else. ❞ Fully talking about Gojo as if he's a misbehaving pet instead of his senior.
"handler?!?" satoru's already huffing, faux-offended like he isn't well aware of his status as an annoying little shit.
"i rebuke all of these statements. i can't be tamed and i listen to no one."
UTAHIME'S FACE IS A SHADE OF RED that suggests her blood pressure is hitting record highs. She pivots on her heel, her finger switching targets between Geto and the retreating Nanami like a frantic compass needle before finally stabbing the air toward Gojo. "THEN ADMIT YOU'RE HIS ACCOMPLICE ! ! ! !" she shrieks at Geto, her voice cracking with pure indignation.
"Designated handler' implies you actually DO something, Geto ! Instead, you just stand there and enable his. . . his. . . whatever THIS is !" She catches Nanami out of the corner of her eye and her head whips around as she all but snatches him by the collar of his uniform. "Nanami—don't you walk away and leave me alone with—" She cuts herself off, her breath hitching as she turns the full weight of her exasperated fury back onto Gojo, who is undoubtedly looking far too pleased with himself. "—THESE TWO ! !" she bellows, gesturing wildly.
"I listen to ' no one ' ? ? ? ? You sound like a chuunibyou moron ! You're not 'untamable,' Gojo, you are ' UNBEARABLE ' ! If you’re so independent, then take your ' accomplice ' and get your stupid faces out of my sight before I make it my life’s mission to see you all suspended ! !"
If you're okay with me —
— getting super wordy with my replies please give a like to this post. I'm not talking about 500 words, I'm talking about me yapping so much, it ends up being 2k words at the bare minimum.
Who is okay with novella? We don't need to match. If I give you 6k, 2k, 1k, and you give me 500 words, I can work with that.
@impishsensei 💢
random starter for @songcurse
everyone around satoru pretty much treats him like a god. he supposes he is as close to one as a human can be, as he wields the six eyes. the six eyes give him access to articulating reality in a way that treads eerily close to omniscience. granted, he hasn't quite worked out all the kinks yet since he's only eight years old, but he's working on it.
he doesn't know who his own parents even are. worldly attachments do not concern people like him. feeling attached to others as a jujutsu sorcerer is a mistake and tragedy waiting to happen, and he can agree with that. he doesn't even care to know who they are anymore. for all he knows, his birth mother could be one of the female servants that prepares his bath every evening.
he's speculated a bit. would his parents get an upgrade in status in the clan because of him? he knows he's not a direct heir to the clan head because the over-compensating old fool would definitely boast about his grandson being the gojo clan's future, but his placement in the family is a mystery aside from that.
regardless, the servants never dare look him in the eyes. it's kind of annoying trying to talk to someone that way. his clan members are often similar. they tread upon eggshells not to incur his anger, while the clan head, his great uncle and other elders, do try to dictate his behavior. it doesn't really work, of course, but there are some facts of life as a sorcerer that he simply cannot avoid, and that's where they step in to guide him.
they think they're so wise, but satoru has them all figured out. he knows they don't think of him as a person. he can see the barely-concealed fear in their expressions, and it amuses him.
i'm only eight, you damn weaklings.
he knows they want to mold him to be their perfect weapon and bargaining chip, to groom him into being the perfect future clan head that's controlled on a string, but he's positive that they haven't realized he knows they have no real power. real power is his technique, eyes, and seemingly endless supply of cursed energy. real power is changing the balance of the world and having assassins on your tail because of who you will probably grow into.
satoru is the one with real power, even as a small child, and it bores him. everyone is so predictable, and every lesson is a drag. it's lonely, too, because kids don't associate with him. he's above playing according to the elders, and every kid he could meet would probably be scared shitless.
he supposes he can't really blame them, but that doesn't make it any less boring.
what does pique his interest is one of his teachers mentioning that because he will one day lead their clan, he will need to have heirs.
"kids? i'm eight. the hell are you talking about that crap to me for?" satoru asks, bored as he flicks some popcorn from his bowl at his teacher. the teacher winces and shakes his head.
"w-what i mean, gojo-sama, is that jujutsu regulation demands--"
"demands?" he repeats with a laugh, flicking more popcorn at the poor man. "says who? sounds old and stupid. no one's gonna make me." the princeling settles onto his cushion, leaning on his side, and continues his game of flinging every other popcorn at his teacher rather than into his own mouth.
the screen door to the room slams open then in perfect timing, and satoru doesn't even have to look to realize who it is.
ugh.
gojo kenzo, the clan head's son and perhaps satoru's biggest hater. satoru would probably hate the twerp that usurped his future role too, but he's not the unlucky weakling that drew the short end of the genetic lottery stick, is he? nope, that's bitch-ass kenzo.
"insolent brat, that's enough disrespect out of you," he hisses. satoru laughs again and flicks some popcorn at him, too. it misses, because like satoru, kenzo also has the clan's ancestral technique. unfortunately for him, he lacks the excess reserves of energy and the six eyes to make proper use out of it. apparently, the chump can only manage 3 non-consecutive minutes at most, and pushing to that limit will leave him out-of-commission for a week. he's stronger than most in their clan, sure, but he will never even come close to reaching the heights everyone knows satoru will.
"and you're going to make me do something?" satoru quirks an eyebrow.
"you will do as the clan elders demand or i will harm your birth parents." kenzo replies, casual and cruel. there's a twisted glee in his voice that makes satoru compelled to listen if only because it's clear the man would prefer the outcome where he hurts satoru the most.
"the parents that i don't know? i'm supposed to care about that?" satoru asks, lips no longer curled up into a smug smile. there's an irritated furrow to his brows instead. why is this clan made up of weaklings and freaks?
"don't you? wouldn't you regret it, even a little bit?"
no. definitely not. why should i care?
"tch, no. tell me more about what the old bastard wants, though, just so you'll stop annoying me." satoru's attention is focused on both of the men in the room now, filled with curiosity and a desire to get this sitation over with.
"you're going to be the clan leader one day, so you will need a wife and children. we determine that via match-making and arranged marriages. luckily for you, our clan will interview potential candidates via playdates with you. whoever is the most suitable in all aspects will be your future wife. you won't marry until after your coming of age ceremony, of course, and we will need back-up options ready as well in case one of them gets themselves killed before you produce heirs," he explains, though most seems to go over satoru's head. his little-boy brain zeroes in on one part of that.
"i'm gonna meet and play with girls?!"
~
satoru was actually so excited at the prospect of meeting and playing with girls his age. he was so excited the day before his first playdate that he actually couldn't sleep (well, more than usual). unfortunately, the first girl didn't meet his expectations. she wasn't cool or fun or strong. no, she was weak and blushy and just kept complimenting him. it was weird. the second and third girls were similar, and by the fifth girl, satoru reached the conclusion that girls are weak and dumb or total ass-kissers that only care about securing the role as his future mrs. gojo, and not playing or sparring! what the hell?!
by the sixth playdate to find a future wife, satoru is jaded and beyond over it. he doesn't even brush his hair or bother with wearing his nicest yukata this time. it's a shame, too, because he regrets it the moment he meets the new girl. she's taller and older, and that alone already sets her apart from the other girls. she's like this mysterious cool beauty from a manga, which he can totally tell just by looking at her.
she doesn't blush when they make eye-contact, either. hell, she actually makes prolonged eye-contact with him which already sets her apart from a good 90% of people he's ever met. she's interesting for that, and kinda rude by his clan's standards, and that manages to liven him up a little. he refuses to show it because lil' satoru is too cool for that, though.
"you the girl from the iori family? utahime, right?" satoru walks up to her, speaking casually. his teacher looks stressed at how careless satoru seems. "hopefully you're not boring and weak like the other girls. c'mon, let's arm-wrestle and race each other, utahime."
𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟖 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆
UTAHIME IORI HAD BEEN TOLD SINCE CHILDHOOD, from her earliest memory, that her life didn't belong to her. Not in the way children were told gently, softened by smiles and reassurances from family. But in the way it was understood, without it needing to be said aloud — woven into the quiet rituals of her upbringing, into the weight of layered silk against her shoulders, into the way her relatives spoke around her rather than to her, as though she were already an offering placed neatly upon an altar awaiting its purpose.
The Iori family was not the most powerful of the Kyoto - affiliated jujutsu lineages, but it was old — older than the clans that boasted louder names, older than the politics that now dictated the laws of Jujutsu Sorcery, and that age manifested in traditions that clung stubbornly — rituals that had outlived the reasons they were first performed, and expectations that settled into Utahime’s bones long before she was old enough to question them.
To the Iori, Utahime was less a daughter and more a strategic investment. She was to become a source of strength for someone else, her very existence shaped around the needs of a more ' significant ' lineage. One day she would marry and bear a sorcerer his children ; a reality she accepted with a filial pragmatism.
Educated to understand it, she knew her role and she would fulfill it. Born under duty — born a woman — born a priestess. This was not a matter of unfairness ; it was the way of their world. A daughter in a household of sons, by the time she had turned two — as the sole bearer of the SOLO FORBIDDEN ZONE — she was bound to her sacred duty. Because Utahime existed, her brothers were permitted the luxury of being unremarkable. Allowed the grace to be failures, to be lazy, to be men, to be free.
Her role was to serve.
The Iori name carried a weight the modern world had forgotten. In the ages before the Heian, shrine maidens of her blood were oracles, voices through which spirits spoke — through whom the kami were made legible to man. But the world had changed ; the power of the kami had waned and the language of the divine was replaced. Power had become quantifiable — defined not by faith, but by the output of cursed energy, and by the potency of innate techniques. What could not be controlled was reduced. The miko of the Iori line were no longer conduits, they became the attendants — relegated to ritual performance, while the role they once embodied was quietly erased.
Utahime was the heir to that faded glory, and she carried the duty of it with a devotion that left no room for resentment. If her purpose was to be the wind beneath her future husband’s wings, she would be the most disciplined, perfect wind they had ever seen.
She was a shrine maiden first, an instrument of ritual second — a daughter, somewhere beneath all of that. Her days began before the sun rose. Body submerged in cold water, she would purify herself, the chill biting into her skin, numbing it until feeling became a distant hum.
Her instructors spoke of discipline. Of devotion to kami. Of sacrifice for others. Of purity of flesh, of the necessity of a body and spirit that could withstand the unseen. They corrected the angle of her bow, the cadence of her chants, and the precision of her steps. Perfection was not presented as a goal. It was a requirement she was simply expected to meet.
Mistakes were not punished harshly.
They were simply. . . remembered.
CATALOGED in the quiet glances exchanged between relatives, in the slight tightening of lips, in subtle looks of disappointment.
Utahime learned quickly that approval was not something given freely. It was earned and a fragile thing — easily lost, rarely regained.
She became careful.
Not timid — never that — but mindful. Observant. Aware of where she stood, of everything exacted from her. Having seen multiple times how easily a misstep could alter the way others perceived her value.
Which was why, when the topic of her betrothal was first introduced, she said nothing.
She LISTENED.
"An opportunity," one of the Iori had called it. Their voice smooth, practiced, and rehearsed. Their tone suggesting this conversation had been had many times without her in the room.
"A great honor," another corrected.
A third did not bother with either and simply stated the truth in the way only the oldest among them was capable of.
"A necessity."
The Gojo clan.
Even Utahime, who had been taught not to indulge in idle curiosity, had heard the name before. The Six Eyes. Limitless. The Gojo Clan. Concepts whispered with a reverence and unease under the same breath. They existed not as a respected family in the traditional sense, but as something closer to a force — a disruption that disturbed the order of Jujutsu Society — an axis around which the balance of the world turned.
And at its center. . .
A name.
Gojo Satoru.
His was a name spoken in the same breath as inevitability. Utahime did not ask why she had been chosen. She did not need to. She was of an appropriate age bracket — close enough to be considered viable in the distant future, young enough to be molded if necessary. Her family’s standing, while not dominant, was still respectable. Their traditions aligned cleanly with the kind of image a clan like Gojo would prefer to associate with.
Traditional.
Disciplined.
Compliant.
The Iori were a clan that knew their place in the world. They did not challenge what was ; they did not question what must be. They understood the price of sacrifice.
"A most harmonious match."
Her innate technique, Utahime ACCURATELY assumed, was the reason. Since the day her innate technique manifested, marriage proposals had been offered to the Iori. Only the Kamo Clan and the Zen'in Clan were considered by the High Priest, with talks not progressing beyond that. From what her parents said to her, the kami chose another path for her. But that changed with Gojo Satoru’s birth. Her relatives saw it as a divine calling. The Six Eyes, born in the same era as the inheritor of the Solo Forbidden Zone, it was fate. This was not a mere coincidence — it was a confluence of destinies. She was born for him. They would then remind her. Gojo Satoru was proof that the old bloodlines were stirring, that the kami were intervening directly in the lineage of sorcerers.
Utahime was not so naive as to believe that ( load of bullshit ). She was young but she wasn't stupid. She knew this was a culmination of generations of strategic positioning. The one alliance that could cement the Iori’s relevance back among the THREE GREAT CLANS — the final stitch in a tapestry her family had been carefully woven for centuries.
Utahime did not argue. She did not question. She did not show a glimpse of emotion. Keeping her head bowed, eyes downcast, hands in proper form, she murmured the appropriate response : "Understood." This was no different to her than being instructed to practice her calligraphy for another hour, or to learn a new, more complex purification rite.
The days that followed were a blur of PREPARATION. Enveloped in a white furisode — its intricate patterns of camellias and cranes having taken artisans months to complete — she was meticulously attended to. The silk lay soft against her skin, heavy on her form and rustling with every movement ; it clung to her like a shroud. Her mother adjusted her with precision, her movements as practiced and silent as her own. She arranged her hair with care ; perfumed oils were combed through it, and petaled pins were settled into place until styled into a perfect, shimmering black waterfall cascading down her back.
Utahime had been scoured, her body scrubbed raw, her entire person polished until she was DEEMED presentable. The skin of her face was taut and devoid of any adornment — no makeup to hide behind, no distractions from the ' purity ' she was meant to project. Her identity sanded down to a pleasing aesthetic. She stared at her reflection in the floor - length mirror. She didn't see a child. She saw the representative of a bloodline that traded in refinement because it could not trade in raw strength. She understood, in that immediate, ingrained way she understood things, that this was not about her as an individual — she was merely a canvas prepared for someone else’s signature.
She was being presented to the Gojos as the embodiment of her lineage.
The journey itself to the Gojo Estate was a lesson in restraint. She sat with perfect posture, hands neatly in her lap. The relatives in the carriage with her spoke in hushed tones, offering last - minute reminders as though she might forget something as fundamental as how to breathe.
"Observe him," she was told.
"Be respectful."
"Do not embarrass the Iori name."
"Do not overstep."
"Do not speak unless spoken to."
"Do not—"
Utahime listened to each instruction, absorbing them, filing them away, but somewhere beneath that practiced obedience, a sharpness pressed against her ribs. A feeling best described as irritation. A slow and simmering thing, that grew, and grew as she was treated like an object put on display — a doll dressed up and paraded for an inspection.
He is eight years old.
. . .and the thought was so clear, so cutting, that it almost made her sigh.
He is just a child.
She had trained longer, endured more, and yet she was the one being presented for his approval. She was being sent to be evaluated by a boy three years her junior. The injustice of it stuck in her throat, bitter as unripe fruit, but she swallowed it down. Swallowed it along with the dozen other small complaints that had been accumulating, unnoticed, unspoken, in the neglected corners of her day. She knew her opinion did not matter at all.
Kyoto’s familiar architecture gave way gradually. The shift subtle but noticeable to someone who had spent her entire life attuned to the nuances of tradition. By the time they arrived at the Gojo Clan estate, the air felt different — much denser, almost stuffy — as though the very ground hummed with an oppressive pressure. The servants who received them did not meet her eyes. That, too, she found, rather unpleasant. But less unnerving than the tension hidden beneath polite masks — the way their movements were precise but strained, the way their voices remained steady while a palpable tension lingered just under the surface.
Fear.
Fear ?
It was a reaction she couldn't understand. This was, after all, their home. What were they scared of ? These servants were moving as though they were being watched. As though the very walls themselves held a secret that would hurt them if they breathed the wrong way. She didn't ask. She simply followed, her expression neutral, her posture perfect.
As they drew closer to the inner chamber, Utahime realized the air wasn't just stuffy — cursed energy saturated the hallway like humidity after a typhoon. Pressing against her own cursed energy with a density that nearly made her stumble, as if she was wading into a pool she couldn't see the bottom of. Every step closer, the pressure intensified, and by the time she heard her name announced, a headache had already taken root — a throbbing ache across her temples that pulsed in rhythm with the cursed energy reverberating in the building's structure. That pressure hadn't been coming from the ground ; it was radiating from behind a set of ornate sliding doors.
A vast, awful thing — it made the hair on her arms stand up. This was the source of the servants' fear.
This must be him.
Gojo Satoru.
The doors slid open, and she was guided inside ; the humidity of the hallway vanished, replaced by an absolute, bone - chilling clarity that made the previous pressure feel like a mere prelude. The presence inside consumed all available space, leaving no room for anything else to exist.
The other occupants of the room faded into the periphery, their cursed signatures a muted background to the primordial singularity at its center.
Utahime looked ahead, and her breath caught. She expected. . . something. Not kindness. Not warmth. Certainly not normalcy. But something befitting the way his name had been spoken.
Discipline, perhaps.
Refinement.
A presence that justified the awe wrapped around the very mention of his name.
What she did not expect was. . .
He is smaller than I imagined.
Her mouth slightly parted. She had been prepared for a child, but the boy on the cushion looked like a figure pulled from a celestial scroll. He was devastatingly, unfairly PRETTY — stark snow - white hair and eyes like cracked sapphires, shimmering with a light that didn't belong to a human. He looked like an ethereal angel carved from ice, a transcendent, perfect godling that made her family’s desperate hopes feel almost. . . rational.
There was a crystalline purity to his presence. A clarity that felt not unlike standing at the mouth of a mountain spring — cold, ancient, and absolute.
For a single heartbeat, the ' Instrument of Ritual ' in her recognized its master ; she felt the pull of a devotion she hadn't known she possessed, a sudden, breath - stealing conviction that perhaps the sacrifices of her life — and her brothers' freedom — were worth it if it meant standing in the presence of a being so divine. He was a beauty that couldn't be ignored. There was no way he was real. No one living could look as he did.
An angel made flesh that made the ' shroud ' of her clothes and the ' raw ' scrub of her skin feel like a fair trade for the privilege of standing in his light.
But the light did not hold.
As she watched, the ' angel ' shifted, a lazy, petulant motion that sent a cascade of disordered hair over his eyes, and the divinity curdled into something far more mundane :
Boredom.
He was lounging.
He was slouching.
He was treating the sanctity of this meeting — and the weight of her family's history — like a tiresome chore he couldn't be bothered with.
The contrast was a physical blow to her pride.
She had been raised on tradition. On the fundamental understanding that age and station commanded a baseline of respect, even between adversaries.
It was a social contract.
A language.
And this boy, this EIGHT - YEAR - OLD brat, was refusing to even acknowledge its existence.
"You the girl from the Iori family? Utahime, right?"
Utahime’s eyes widened a fraction ; something intense flashed in their depths. Just for a second. A barely perceptible falter. "Iori-san," she CORRECTED, her tone even, her voice calm. An immediate insistence on the boundary he had crossed. She straightened her spine, an infinitesimal adjustment that drew her shoulders back, her chin lifting almost imperceptibly. She held his gaze without looking away. She smoothed her expression into something acceptable.
The disrespect left her absolutely staggered. It took every ounce of her training not to react to it, not to allow her temper to get the better of her. To hear her name uttered without a single honorific. That he used her first name like it was nothing. Like he knew her. Like he had earned the right. Utahime. Not ' Iori-san. ' Not even, at minimum, an ' Utahime-san. '
Gojo Satoru did not bow.
He did not offer any form of greeting. He simply spoke to her as though she were an afterthought, a distraction from whatever he had been doing before she arrived.
Gojo Satoru is a child.
She reminded herself of this, but it did not help. It made it worse. A child SHOULD HAVE known better. Her teachers would have never permitted such a lapse in conduct. The faintest line of displeasure formed between her brows, so subtle it would be missed by anyone not paying close attention. This was the first thing about him that aligned with what she had expected.
Okay, alright, fine.
She had been prepared for this. Not this specifically, but for the possibility of a lack of decorum. She did not bow to him immediately. Not out of defiance, but because she was measuring him in the same way he was measuring her, and she would not allow herself to be placed at a disadvantage before a proper greeting had been exchanged.
"It was a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Satoru-kun." She executed a bow. A small, precise gesture, economical in its movement, standard formal but not subservient. The angle deliberate. It communicated respect for the Gojo Clan, without diminishing her own personal standing. The perfect, proper bow, hands folded correctly in her lap, the angle of her back flawless. An obvious demonstration in etiquette. Using his first name was a forward move, one that made her own skin prickle. If word got back to her parents. She knew that would get her punished. He might be a brat, but he was the Gojo heir. The Six Eyes. The Limitless User. She had been warned to use ' Gojo-sama, ' but she had NEVER intended to. Sama. That title was reserved for the Kami. He was younger than her by three whole years anyway. He should be addressing her with proper keigo. That was non - negotiable, and she would enforce it.
The servant standing nearby looked like he might have been physically ill from stress, but Utahime did not spare him a glance. Her focus entirely on the child in front of her.
"Hopefully you're not boring and weak like the other girls. C'mon, let's arm-wrestle and race each other, Utahime."
The words landed with a thud in the suddenly silent room, as crude and jarring as a stone thrown through a paper screen. Utahime looked at his outstretched hand — small, pale, and offered with a casualness that made her stomach twist — then back to the crystalline blue of his eyes. Up close, they were even more devastatingly pretty ; they weren't just eyes, but living prisms, fractured and multifaceted. It was a cruel irony : to possess the most beautiful sight in the universe, only to use it to look at her with such dull, petulant expectation.
A hot flush crept up her neck, a prickle of indignation that she had to consciously suppress. His dismissal bypassed all the careful layers of etiquette she had been taught to wield like armor ; it was not a challenge, but some kind of appraisal. He did not see her as an individual ; he saw her as part of a disappointing collective, and the repetition of her name — unadorned and disrespectful — grated on her nerves like a needling, repeated act of aggression.
She had been prepared to be evaluated. She had not been prepared to be categorized and found wanting by a brat who could not even be bothered to stand up straight for a guest. A surge of something hot and familiar rushed through her. She was an eleven - year - old girl who had been taught that her value lay in her composure ; she had been trained to be still, to be silent, and to be elegant. She had been prepared to endure a lifetime of this. But in this moment, all of that training collided with an eleven -year - old girl who was, beneath all of it, still a child herself. She allowed a silence to stretch — just long enough to be noticeable, just long enough to assert her own presence and signal that she would not just do whatever he asked.
This is the Gojo Satoru they spoke of ? The one who altered the balance of the Jujutsu World ?
The one her family had sent her here to. . . potentially. . .
She could not bring herself to finish that thought.
She ignored his request to arm - wrestle and his invitation to a race because doing so would have validated the premise of his statement. Instead, she took a step forward, the soft friction of her tabi barely audible against the tatami mats. "Your appearance is disheveled," she observed, eyeing him up and down with a frown. She did not say it as an insult, but as a statement of fact.
She approached him immediately, hands reaching out — she touched him without any hesitation. She didn't care if he was the Six Eyes, such a slovenly appearance was completely unacceptable ! In that moment, her irritation was more powerful than her apprehension. As her fingers brushed his hair, she felt the uncomfortable dissonance — uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe it — coming from his cursed energy, but she easily dismissed it. ( She was terribly used to men lording their power over her as if it were a substitute for character. )
She started to tidy his hair, tucking stray strands behind his ears and adjusting the collar of his yukata where it had slipped. Her touch was clinical. She was not being gentle ; she was being CORRECTIVE. She was treating the future of Jujutsu Society like a wayward younger brother who needed to be tidied up before being presented to adults.
"You are the Gojo clan's heir," she continued, her fingers smoothing a particularly stubborn lock of hair into place with a bit more pressure than was strictly necessary. "A future clan head should present himself with dignity. You should endeavor to look the part."
Her hands stayed on him for a moment longer, her gaze fixed on her own work, as though he was nothing more than a mannequin she was adjusting. The silence that followed was a jarring tacet, punctuated by the soft rustle of her own furisode. Utahime could feel Gojo servant’s horror — a physical wave of shock that she had dared to breach the boy - god’s personal space. By the laws of their society, she had committed a sacrilege. But Utahime didn't care. She was a ' good girl, ' and had been one for eleven years, and if this brat was the pinnacle of power, then power desperately needed a lesson in humility.
She was not looking at him — but she was aware of every shift in his posture — of the way he was reacting to being touched, to being criticized so openly by someone who, by all rights, should have been deferential. She could practically feel the servant behind her having an aneurysm. The elders would have been horrified. This was not how one was supposed to behave in front of the Six Eyes. But Utahime was operating on a different set of principles. He had disrespected her. He had disrespected the Iori name and the very idea of this meeting by presenting himself this way. So she would, in turn, correct him.
It was a lesson. A small one, but a lesson nonetheless. This was how you treated someone. This was how you showed respect. This was how you carried yourself. She was, in her own eleven - year - old way, guiding him. Not with cursed energy, not with threats, but with sheer, unadulterated nerve, backed by the unshakeable conviction that she was in the right.
"Mhm! That’s better."
She finally released him, taking a small step back to admire her handiwork. She gave a single, decisive nod of approval, as though she had just completed a satisfactory task.
"As for your request," she said, her tone shifting, becoming even more formal, as though she was now addressing a business proposal rather than a child's whim. "I am not here to ' play. ' The purpose of this meeting, as I understand it, is for us to become acquainted. A race or an arm-wrestling match would not facilitate meaningful dialogue."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over him one last time.
"Which is why I suggest we adjourn to the training grounds. There, we can properly gauge each other's abilities in a structured sparring session." She wasn’t here to ' play.' Playing was for children who had lives of their own. She was here on the business of her family’s survival. If he wanted to see if she was ' WEAK, ' she would show him exactly what a ' support ' technique looks like when it’s backed by a decade of suffocating refinement. She would show him that her power wasn’t a passive gift, but a violent, yet disciplined symphony.
. . .
Or so she would have, if she were properly attired.
She looked down at the heavy, intricate silk of her sleeves, then at the way the long furisode pooled around her feet. Her mother would never let her hear the end of it. . . She looked back at Satoru, her expression a little tight. The brows on her face furrowed as she raised her sleeves a bit. Her gaze was one of immense comedic frustration. ( I. . can't fight in this. I mean, I can, but mother and father will. . . ) She seemed to be calculating something, the gears in her mind turning. She had just told this boy that a future clan head should present himself with dignity, only to find herself in a situation where her own attire prevented her from acting on her words. Her eyes went back to him, and a muscle in her jaw twitched.
"Gojo Satoru," she began, her voice strained with a new kind of frustration — the frustration of a practical person faced with an impractical problem.
"How are you with a bow ?"
The question was so abrupt and out of place that it hung there, a complete non - sequitur that made the servant behind her audibly CHOKE.
About shipping, Miko's yapping —
I think I've drafted everything.
Gonna focus on writing for the next two days, hopefully I get a couple of things done. This month was pretty tiring for me. I'm not gonna let life get in the way of my fun though. Sorry for the delay. I'll get to some inbox messages soon. I don't really do inbox calls or take much part in them often, but know that if we are mutuals, it means I want to write together and I have an interest in your muse(s). This is true for each of my blogs.
Feel free to tag me in anything.
I'm gonna say this. I don't know what's happening, but I'm not a quiet person. If you got any issues with @ofcrossroads, @jinseiborn or any one of my moots. You can rightly-so, go fuck off and block me now. You do not dictacte other people's portrayals, or whatever the fuck they want to write on their blogs.
Unfollow, block and leave. I'm using this gal cause she is my main blog. But you will not ruin people's good vibes by thinking you can lord your opinion around. I delete any stupid shit or opinion sent my way, I'm too old to humor the chronically online children.
Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.
@songcurse TEXTED: Your muse claps a hand over my muse's mouth to silence them. ( songcurse \ it needed to be done. ) ∞ - Still accepting!
無量__Something to be said about easy communication - the fall from grace that she could act out in the span of a second was one of his favorite things to witness. To drop that proper act, when he knew full well she was a spitfire baseball fanatic with a preferred vice, it was always a pleasure to drag that honesty out of her. Not sorcerer society's best girl, tagging along with whatever the nursing home that called themselves 'higher ups' could spew, but the batshit upperclassman who would even tell him to shut up and sit down and mean it. It was honest, way more honest - He preferred to trust people, you know? Her final straw was met with exuberance in the form of his cursed energy exuding in pressurized amusement, the edges of a crescent grin visible even from behind a tiny hand. Wide cerulean was sans his blinding veil for the moment, as he had been in the middle of switching over to some shades, and they shimmered with a vividly taunting stare, laden with affection, of course, but also a secret third thing. A threat, a question. 'Do you really wanna do this?' 'I'm gonna win this, you know' Unspoken, as he was being polite in allowing her insistence to be heard; He was at least that fair, never using untold power to force his whims on those around him, even if it would be easier and way funnier; Instead, there was a long, nigh dramatic pause, and within an instant, he had opened his mouth wide in order to drag his tongue across the entire breadth of the palm daring to silence him.
THE SECOND GOJO UTTERED THOSE DASTARDLY WORDS, Utahime kept her hand firmly in place. She wouldn't yank her hand back like he wanted. He was GOADING her. So she did the opposite. Her fingers, which had been splayed in her hasty attempt at muzzling him, now curled, digging into the soft flesh of his cheek. Not hard enough to leave a bruise — she wasn't THAT far gone — but with enough pressure to make a point ; a point that involved her nails biting into his skin. This stupid bastard really thinks he can scare me off like I'm the skittery prey here ? As if she would back down ?
Who does he think he’s talking to ?
"I am your senior," she reproached, words stern, a simmering murmur meant for his ears alone. "Show some respect !"
She knew what Gojo was about to do the second the gleam hit his eyes. She pushed her hand harder against his lips, smushing them, a warning to him not to even think about it. Utahime bent her fingers slightly, feeling the soft give of his cheek — testing for his reaction without making it obvious. A vein in her temple throbbed, a frantic little drumbeat of pure, unadulterated rage that was always, always simmering just beneath the surface whenever he was near.
"You won't win, you stupid brat," she promised, without a single trace of doubt in her voice. "You will lose."
'' Do you really want to do this ? I'm gonna win this, you know. ''
He'd said with that arrogant look in his eyes. Her answer was a resounding PISS OFF. She hated how easily he could unravel her, and hated even more that he knew it, which was the worst part. He wore a knowing smirk, one that was currently being mashed into an unflattering pucker by her palm. But she could still see it in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes — that always infuriating, self-satisfied look. She could feel the heat radiating from her own face, a telltale blush of frustration that was a dead giveaway of her emotional state.
She could feel the heat of his breath, the slickness of the prelude to his juvenile stunt. A phantom itched between her shoulder blades. Gojo's energy, a constant, thrumming buzz that set her teeth on edge, was practically vibrating with glee. He was enjoying this. Of course he was. The freak. This was just a little pre-fight skirmish to get his blood pumping. And it was working. It always worked. And she despised him for it.
Utahime shouldn't humor his childish games ; she had school papers to grade and a lesson plan to go over, not to mention the fact that Gojo had his own duties to attend to. The responsible part of her wanted to say, this is stupid, but the competitive part — the part that had been born and bred to hate this man's guts — would not allow her to back down. She couldn't bring herself to pull her hand off. The idea of him losing, of hearing him admit defeat, was too great a temptation.
The wet slide of his tongue against her palm was expected. But it didn't stop the visceral, full-body shudder that wracked her frame. The disgust was instant, a physical recoil that started in her gut and traveled up her spine like a ghostly scream, raising the hair at the nape of her neck. Her nose scrunched a bit, already anticipating what he would do if she didn't remove her hand. He was a brat. A man-child, for one thing. He'd never been good at keeping his mouth shut. She’d been ready to endure this much for shushing the motor mouth.
There wasn't a single soul alive that could beat Gojo, not if he didn’t allow it himself, and the knowledge of that was what truly fed his ego. Gojo was the Strongest. That was something that had always been a point of contention for Utahime, that his title wasn’t some meaningless brag, but that he actually was the strongest, and would likely remain so for all time. He treated everything in his life as a game — power, people, life, death — as if it was all just one big joke to him. She hated this part of him most of all. The nonchalance, the smug self-assurance that he could do anything, say anything, and get away with it all without ever having to face the consequences. Because who could make him ? The idea was enough to make her scoff.
And yet, here she was, allowing him to do what he wanted, becoming the butt of his joke, and trying to win a challenge set forth by him. What is wrong with me ? She was letting him get under her skin, and that was the last thing she should allow ; she'd already learned her lesson years ago about not giving into him. Or so she'd thought. She had walked right into it, and he would laugh at her. She was certain he would. And she would deserve it. The humiliation burned hot, a second, more potent wave of heat flooding her cheeks.
If he laughs at me, I’ll punch his face in.
When she felt Gojo's tongue trace the lines of her palm, it took everything in her not to react, and she fought the strong urge to jerk away. That can't be sanitary, she thought, as she imagined exactly how many questionable things that tongue had touched on any given day. Gojo's tongue felt wet and oddly a bit warm. It was a strange sensation. The only thing she could compare it to was something uncomfortably reminiscent of a dog slobbering over her hand.
She didn't want to think of it as anything inappropriate. Gojo Satoru was a pervert. That was a given, a fact to her, and she didn't need reminders… but he wouldn't turn it into an act like that, would he ? No, he was just being annoying. This was Gojo's idea of fun. This was how he amused himself. That was all it was. But why was she tolerating him amusing himself like this ? At her expense ? She didn't understand it herself.
I hate him.
Utahime raised a single eyebrow at him, the other one remaining furrowed, and she stared directly into Gojo's eyes. It was almost jarring to see his irises staring back at her, those crystalline blue eyes of his, enough to make the sky jealous, free of the veil that typically hid them from view. They were. . . always so. . . she didn't want to say beautiful. He was Gojo, after all, and she could barely stomach him. But she couldn't help thinking that his eyes were. . . not pretty, never pretty. Ugh, ew, gross. No, no, no. She wouldn't entertain those thoughts. That would be a true loss. This was a battle of wills. She took a breath through her nose, her chest puffing out with the motion. She leaned in closer, her expression turned blank.
There was a familiar authority in those eyes, an unspoken command that pressed against her willpower, making her acutely aware of how easily he could overpower her. She didn't like that. Not one little bit. That, Utahime reminded herself — fingers pinching his tongue, palm pressing firmer over his mouth, holding him in place — was precisely why she couldn't let him have the upper hand ; Gojo would only get more insufferable than he already was if she did.
"That's it ?" she asked, tone clipped, eyes sharp — sounding as if she were speaking to a petulant child. You think that’ll intimidate me ? "Is that the best you got ?" A tiny shift of her wrist adjusted the pressure on his tongue, a small reminder of who was setting the rules. Utahime tilted her head, a slight condescending motion. "Lick my hand all you want," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with a chilling sort of sweetness. "I am a grown woman," she stated, as if reminding herself of the fact as much as him. "I have dealt with far worse things than a little bit of spit."
Ah, crap.
There was NO BACKING DOWN from this. She was fully committed to winning here. The words tumbled out and she wanted to scream. "If that was your winning move, Gojo, then I've some bad news for you," she said, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a furious smile. The kind of smile she'd give a cursed spirit right before she sent it to hell.
"I don't believe you'll win."
She held his tongue, the slick, chatty muscle, between her thumb and forefinger ; she was certain he would get a kick out of this, the absolute degenerate. She could almost hear the smug little laugh he'd let out once she finally released him.
Gojo didn't want to SHUT UP ?
Fine.
Utahime would make it so he would.
