synopsis: ㅤmakeshift card game with Yuki, after Gojo's sealing, in a safehouse.
The room smelled faintly of tatami and sea salt, an oddly soothing mix of dry straw and ocean-worn driftwood, like memory clinging to forgotten walls. Dust hung in the air like pollen, shimmering slightly in the late afternoon light that filtered through the open sliding doors. The breeze stirred the curtains, thin, sun-bleached things that swayed with all the hesitance of a ghost passing through.
Somewhere beyond the curtain of trees outside, the ocean murmured. You couldn’t see it, but you knew it was there, the low, rhythmic hush of waves folding into themselves just beneath the cicadas’ relentless hum. The land between here and the shoreline was thick with green, overgrown and heavy with summer, the kind of place that time forgot on purpose. The outpost had clearly been abandoned for years, maybe decades. Once a training ground, now little more than a stubborn skeleton clinging to routine: cracked floorboards groaned beneath even the lightest step, paper screens sagged in their frames, and a naked lightbulb above the table flickered with a lazy sort of defiance, only stable if you kicked the baseboard. Twice.
Still. It was quiet. And that, these days, was a luxury you didn’t take for granted.
Inside, you and Yuki sat cross-legged on tatami mats that had long since lost their shape. The fabric of your pants stuck to your legs, clinging with sweat and the weight of summer. A low wooden table stood between you, its surface cluttered with the strange evolution of a card game that had spiraled well past logic, Yuki named it "Reverse sweep bomb", the rules you couldn't even begin to comprehend.
A half-deck of mismatched playing cards was scattered across the table, interspersed with colorful bottle caps, a rusted washer, her so-called “damage counter”, and, most concerningly, a paper talisman with faded ink reading “Do Not Touch” that Yuki had immediately declared a wild card.
“You just made that rule up,” you said, pointing accusingly at the talisman she’d just thrown down like it was Exodia itself.
“Correction,” she replied, elbow on the table, chin propped lazily in her hand. Her eyes gleamed with smug amusement. “I enhanced the game. Don’t be mad just because you’re losing.”
“You literally just said that card means I owe you a favor,” you countered, leaning forward. “How does that even fit into the game?”
“It’s symbolic,” she said with a casual shrug. “Life debts. Emotional stakes. Adds flavor.”
You narrowed your eyes, unimpressed. “You’ve spent way too much time alone.”
She grinned, sharp and smug, with a playful edge. “That’s rich coming from you.”
The wind gusted again, light but persistent, and one of your cards flipped face-up with a gentle flutter. You smacked it back down with a quiet curse and shifted where you sat, adjusting the sandbag cushion beneath you. The bag had once been part of the training equipment; now it was your makeshift seat, lumpy and sun-warmed.
A cicada shrieked from somewhere in the rafters, buzzing like a shorted wire, then went abruptly silent. The quiet that followed was oddly deep, like the room was holding its breath. You let it sit between you, the stillness. Let it settle into your bones.
The air was hot. The kind of heat that pressed down on your shoulders and sank its teeth into the back of your neck. The sky outside looked pale and endless, washed-out blue on the edge of wilting, like even the heavens were exhausted.
You scratched absently at the sweat-damp edge of your collar. “Is this really what we’re doing with our time right now?” You were a sorcerer, trained in battles and cursed energy manipulation, but somehow you were still getting your ass handed to you in this ridiculous, made-up game.
“Yup,” Yuki said without even glancing up.
“We could be training. Scouting. Doing anything useful.”
This time, she met your gaze. Her expression was steady, too calm to be careless. “And that’s exactly why we’re playing Reverse Sweep Bomb right now.”
You stared at her. “So your coping mechanism is... half-baked card games.”
“And snacks,” she said, popping the last sour candy into her mouth with a grin. The wrapper crinkled between her fingers before she tossed it into the corner pile with impressive aim.
You scoffed, but you didn’t argue. The truth was: this beat the hell out of what waited for you outside. Out there, it was just mission briefings and hastily-drawn plans, tension wound so tight it might snap any second. Ever since Gojo’s sealing, the entire jujutsu world had shifted on its axis. Nobody said it outright, but you could feel it, like a crack in the foundation of something ancient, one tremor away from total collapse.
In here, though, things felt... still.
“I forget sometimes that you're, like... an actual sorcercer.” you muttered after a while, flicking a bottle cap across the table just to feel it bounce. “It’s weird seeing you waste time playing pretend card games.”
Yuki snorted. “You say that like you aren’t a sorcerer, too.”
“Yeah, but we're sort of on the brink of a war."
“Which is exactly why you and I need a break more than anyone,” she said, waving a hand like she was brushing off the weight of the world. “Sometimes I just wanna play cards and talk shit.”
“…Talk shit to who? You’re always solo.”
“That’s why I drag you out here,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You talk back. That’s rare.”
You blinked. “So I’m your entertainment.”
“My grounding wire,” she corrected smoothly, a sly smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Also, you bring the best snacks.”
“I brought one bag of chips, and you ate the whole thing.”
“You’re enabling me. That’s love.”
You froze for a split second, then she laughed, and your heart kicked back into gear.
“Platonic love,” she added quickly, teasing. “Relax.”
You rolled your eyes and picked at a card corner. “You’re lucky you’re funny.”
“I’m also hot.”
You coughed. “Debatable.”
She gasped, hand to her heart. “Wow. You wound me again. I bring light and laughter to your existence and this is how you repay me?”
You chuckled, low and surprised, and leaned back until your hands pressed against the sun-warmed floorboards. The grain of the wood was splintery and uneven, but it felt solid beneath your palms. The heat pressed in, heavy and slow, but there was something comforting about it. Like the day was forcing you to stop. To breathe.
“…Do you think we’ll make it through all this?” The words slipped out before you could catch them. Barely more than a whisper, spoken to the room as much as to her.
Yuki didn’t answer right away.
She stretched her legs with a soft groan, bones popping in her hips and knees, and stared at the card pile like it held a more profound truth than it did. Then, casually, she threw another card down.
“I think we’ll get through it the way we always do,” she said at last. “Bit of luck. Bit of stubbornness. Maybe some cheating.”
You glanced at her, dry. “You cheat at everything.”
“Exactly,” she said, with a lazy grin. “Why stop now?”
She looked so easy in that moment. Not soft, but loose, like someone who had made peace with the fact that the ground might fall out beneath her any second and decided to dance anyway. It wasn’t the power that made her dangerous. Not the technique. Not the title.
It was the way she never stopped acting like she had time.
You didn’t say anything else after that. The next round started without ceremony, cards shuffling, old rules mutating into new ones as the minutes passed, Yuki's courtesy. She won again, of course.
By the time you stood to stretch, the sunlight had shifted, no longer blazing but soft and slanted, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the room. Your limbs ached, not from exertion, but from stillness. From being. A good kind of ache.
Yuki remained where she was, her arms draped over her knees, eyes squinting faintly toward the fading light.
“Hey,” she said, almost offhand.
You turned back.
“…Next time I say I want to play cards again,” she said, not looking at you, “you’ll come, right?”
You smirked. “Even though you cheat?”
“Especially because I cheat.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your jacket, slinging it over your shoulder. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
She didn’t smile wider. But it stayed. And that, somehow, meant more.
note:ㅤyuki my glorious queen, she needs more attention 😞🙏
synopsis: ㅤA rainy afternoon gets you more than a warm cup of coffee—kuroo and his terrible cat puns.
The Tokyo rain didn’t hold back, it came down in relentless sheets, turning sidewalks into rivers and umbrellas into flimsy shields. You ducked into the nearest café just in time, the bell above the door jingling as you shook out your umbrella, droplets splattering onto the mat. It was warm inside, cozy in that familiar, tucked-away corner-of-the-city kind of way. The scent of fresh coffee and rain-dampened books filled the air, mingling with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional hiss from the espresso machine.
The café itself had a sort of rustic charm, dark wooden beams crossed overhead, and shelves crammed with mismatched books lined the brick walls. Old concert posters curled at the edges, framed by strings of dim fairy lights that cast a golden glow over chipped tables and worn leather chairs. The rain against the wide, foggy windows added a soft percussion to the mellow indie music playing through dusty speakers.
Outside, the city blurred into gray. Cars splashed through puddles, their headlights smeared by the rain, while pedestrians wrestled with umbrellas that bent against gusts of wind. The glow of streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, turning it into a kaleidoscope of orange and red. Despite the storm, life carried on, people rushing home, students darting between storefronts, the occasional cyclist pushing through the downpour like it was just another Tuesday.
You spotted an empty seat by the window, a rare find, and made a beeline for it. A stack of study notes hit the table with a soft thud, soon joined by a steaming cup of coffee. The outside world blurred through the rain-streaked glass. You flipped a page, half-reading, half-listening to the muted café chatter. Somewhere behind the counter, the barista was humming along to a soft pop song, and a group of students near the back were arguing about volleyball, voices raised over which school had the best libero.
“You look paws-itively miserable over here.”
The voice snapped you out of your thoughts, smooth, smug, and unmistakable. You didn’t even need to look up.
“Kuroo, if you’re about to drown me in cat puns, ”
“Too late,” he cut in, dropping into the seat across from you with a wet squelch. His hoodie was soaked through, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, though that infuriatingly smug grin remained intact. “Had to claw my way through the storm to get here. Almost didn’t make it.”
“You’re dripping everywhere.”
“Adds character.”
“You look like a drowned alley cat.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Despite yourself, you huffed a laugh, sliding your coffee across the table. “Here.”
He took it without hesitation, fingers brushing yours, whether on purpose or by accident, you weren’t sure. Probably on purpose. It was Kuroo, after all.
He took a slow sip, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “Y’know, I wasn’t even planning to come in here. Spotted you through the window and figured, ‘why not?’”
You blinked at him. “You came in here just because you saw me?”
Kuroo shrugged, but the smirk was all too telling. “Well, you looked like a sad little stray. Thought I’d rescue you.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here I am.”
The café buzzed quietly around you, students huddled over laptops, the baristas moving like clockwork behind the counter. Kuroo sat back in his seat, finally taking in your spread of papers. “Drowning in notes, over-studying… Nekoma’s academics really doing a number on you.”
You rolled your eyes. “Unlike you, some of us can’t coast through on sheer luck.”
He tapped the side of his head. “Natural talent. And charm. Don’t forget the charm.”
“Pretty sure Yaku calls it dumb luck.”
Kuroo chuckled. “Yaku’s just too intense. I swear, the guy could probably coach the team himself with how much he yells.”
You snorted into the back of your hand which you were using to muffle your laughs. “And Lev? Still giving him headaches?”
“Oh, definitely. Lev somehow managed to spike a ball into the ceiling last week. Yaku nearly lost it.”
You bit back another laugh, the sound muffled against your palm. This felt… comfortable. The Nekoma gym wasn’t your scene, but its players were hard to ignore, especially Kuroo, who had this frustrating habit of popping up everywhere.
Thunder rumbled outside, low and lazy, as the rain kept its steady beat against the windows.
Kuroo sipped from your cup again, shamelessly. “So, you come here often, or was the universe just feeling generous today?”
“You really gonna use that line?”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You shook your head, warmth pooling in your chest despite the chill outside.
There was a beat of quiet, not awkward, just soft, before Kuroo drummed his fingers against the table, then scribbled something on a napkin with a half-dead pen he pulled from his hoodie.
“Here,” he said, sliding it toward you. His number, scrawled in messy handwriting, sat beneath a poorly drawn cat doodle. “Figured you could use a study buddy. Or someone to keep the puns coming.”
You picked up the napkin, fighting a grin. “This is a bribe.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re such a menace.”
“And yet, here you are.”
Kuroo stood, gathering the damp edges of his hoodie, but not before tugging it off and tossing it onto the back of your chair. It was still warm, somehow.
“You’ll need it more than me,” he offered with a lazy grin. “Don’t want you getting cold. Cat-ch me later, alright?”
The bell over the door jingled as he left, the storm finally softening to a drizzle. You stared at the napkin, the stupid doodle, the barely legible number, and smiled.
“Dumbass,” you muttered, tucking it into your pocket.
cw: nothing except a very brief mention of violence (like two lines).
synopsis:ㅤdoing sukuna's skincare who—though begrudgingly, enjoys it.
The vast, echoing halls of Sukuna’s palace were usually filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faintest rustle of the wind through ancient stone corridors. The cold marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering columns, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with cursed energy. Crimson silk banners hung from the vaulted ceilings, their heavy fabric swaying ever so slightly, as though the palace itself breathed with a life of its own. Enormous windows, framed by dark stone arches, cast fragmented moonlight onto the cold floors, the patterns dancing like ghosts in the shadows.
But tonight, the air inside Sukuna’s private chambers felt different, softer, warmer, as you sat cross-legged on the silk cushions sprawled across a sprawling blackwood rug. The chamber walls were adorned with towering shelves filled with relics, ancient scrolls, and the occasional bone-white skull, each one telling a story of conquests long past. A towering brazier in the corner bathed the room in a flickering amber glow, casting dancing shadows across the high, vaulted ceiling. Behind Sukuna loomed a grand bed draped in dark crimson silks, the headboard carved with symbols you couldn’t begin to decipher. The heavy scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, grounding the room in a strange, unexpected calm.
Sukuna sat in front of you, his tall frame slouched lazily against the foot of his extravagant bed, though his crimson eyes burned with barely-concealed irritation. An eyebrow twitched upward in obvious disdain, his jaw tight, muscles flexing as if he was resisting every natural instinct to push you away. His many tattoos glowed faintly in the low light, the raven markings tracing sharp angles along his jawline and down his collarbone. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but there he was, letting you smear moisturizer and an array of skincare products across his infamously fearsome face.
“This is pathetic,” he sneered, voice laced with venom. “You think I care about something as worthless as skincare?”
“You have dry skin,” you replied simply, as if that justified everything.
He clicked his tongue, crimson eyes narrowing. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Acting all smug while touching my face, do you have a death wish?”
“But” you murmured, dabbing the cream onto his cheekbones, “you're enjoying it.”
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Bold. I could rip your arms off before you blink.”
“You won’t,” you replied, meeting his glare head-on.
His jaw tensed, crimson irises burning with annoyance, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he sat there, rigid, his clawed fingers twitching in irritation, as you rubbed gentle circles along his temples. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, rough in some places but surprisingly smooth in others as if decades of battle didn't even land a scratch on him. He tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if despite himself, he didn’t entirely hate it.
“You’re playing with fire, brat,” Sukuna growled, though there was a crack in his usual cruelty.
“You’re letting me,” you shot back with a small grin.
His lips curled into a sharp, mocking smile. “Hah. You’re lucky I’m bored.”
“Lucky, indeed.” you teased, tracing the edge of his jawline.
Sukuna’s eyes flickered, a dangerous gleam in them. “Keep running that mouth, and I might actually shut it for you.”
“Duly noted,” you replied dryly, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.
As you smoothed the cream across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, your fingers brushed over a marking running along his temple. Sukuna’s breath hitched, so subtle, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so close. His eyes snapped open, narrowed slits of red locking onto yours.
“What?” he snapped, though his voice was softer than before.
“Nothing,” you replied, your thumb still grazing the marking. “Just... you’re not as terrifying like this.”
He barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re either brave or stupid.”
“Maybe both,” you mused.
Sukuna’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in—just a fraction. “Don’t get any ideas. This means nothing.”
“Obviously,” you echoed, though your grin said otherwise.
Finishing the last of the cream, you sat back slightly, admiring your work. His skin gleamed under the flickering torchlight, the sharp angles of his face still fearsome but softened, just barely.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Be glad I’m in a good mood. One slip and you’d be nothing but a stain on the floor.”
“Yes, my lord.” you replied, waving him off.
For a moment, the cold, merciless palace felt almost... alive. There was something softer hidden beneath the layers of cruelty, though Sukuna would die before admitting it. “Don’t get used to this,” he growled, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
You smiled. “Ofcourse.”
But deep down, you both knew you’d be doing this again. And Sukuna? He didn’t hate it, not that he’d ever say it out loud.
synopsis:ㅤa friendly rivalry leads to a bet with gojo over a game of shogi
It all started as a joke, a small rivalry between you and Gojo, the kind that began with silly bets over trivial things. At first, it was harmless: a challenge to see who could eat the most snacks in one sitting, or a competition to see who could make the best cup of coffee. But as time went on, the stakes grew higher, the dares more outlandish.
The latest one? A match of shogi.
It was a quiet afternoon at Jujutsu High, the kind where the usual chaos had temporarily taken a backseat. Yuuji and Nobara had been sent on a low-level mission with Megumi, leaving the campus unusually calm, everyone else was too busy to notice Gojo sneaking away with a shogi board.
You found yourselves sprawled out in one of the less-used classrooms, sunlight filtering through half-drawn blinds, dust particles swirling lazily in the warm beams. The desks had been shoved aside to make space on the floor, where the shogi board now sat between you. Gojo lounged like he didn’t have a single care in the world, his long legs stretched out, blindfold pushed up to rest on his forehead, revealing those annoyingly bright eyes.
"I’ll play you, but here's the twist," Gojo had said, an arrogant smile stretching across his face as he leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets. "If I win, you have to spend a whole day doing whatever I say."
You’d raised an eyebrow. "And if I win?"
He shrugged. "Then we can call it a day. I’ll buy you lunch, or whatever." His nonchalance only fueled your competitive spirit. After all, you’d been practicing, and Gojo, as usual, underestimated you.
"You’re going down this time," you muttered, moving a piece forward with more force than necessary.
Gojo scoffed, flashing his trademark grin. "You say that every time, and yet here we are."
A faint breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of crows cawing from the school’s wooded edges. The faint thud of someone practicing cursed techniques echoed somewhere in the distance, probably Yaga overseeing some poor first-year’s training.
You studied the board, your brain ticking through strategies. The soft creak of the old classroom mixed with Gojo’s idle humming as he lazily moved his pieces. For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
The match started off easy enough, your moves deliberate, calculated. But Gojo? He didn’t even seem to care. His pieces moved in a haphazard way, as though he were trying to lull you into a false sense of confidence.
"Careful now," Gojo teased, leaning forward. "I might just be toying with you."
You scoffed, moving your piece across the board. "Keep dreaming. You’re getting too cocky."
His eyes glinted. "We’ll see about that."
The match grew tense, and you were certain that you were getting the upper hand. Every move you made felt like it was drawing you closer to victory. You could practically taste it. Though it quickly kicked up in intensity. You planned each move carefully, watching Gojo’s fingers dance across the board with infuriating ease. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he baited you into traps, then pulled back just when you thought you had him.
"Why do I feel like you’re letting me think I’m winning?" you muttered, narrowing your eyes.
He didn’t answer, just offered a cryptic smile.
The tension built with each move. You were so close. A few more strategic placements, and Gojo’s king would be boxed in. But then… Gojo did something unexpected.
He smirked. "I think I’ll make my final move.”
And then, in a single, effortless motion, Gojo slid his rook forward, completely flipping the board’s dynamic, You didn’t see it coming, your entire strategy unraveled with one swift move, and before you knew it, your king was in checkmate. “Checkmate,” he sang. "You lost," Gojo said simply, crossing his arms and leaning back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You stared at the board, dumbfounded as your heart slowly sank. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
He didn’t answer. He was too busy reveling in his victory. You clenched your fists, trying to suppress the urge to throw the board across the room. Of course, you’d lost. Of course, Gojo had somehow won, even though you’d been so close. You glared at him, frustration bubbling up.
Gojo smirked and leaned down to meet your gaze. "So, about that punishment…"
And that’s how you ended up at an abandoned bookstore on a cloudy afternoon.
The store loomed in front of you like something out of a forgotten storybook. Its windows, smeared with layers of grime, let in only the faintest light, and the door creaked open as Gojo pushed it with one swift motion. The smell hit you instantly, musty, like old paper and aged wood, the kind of scent that only came from books that had been left to gather dust for decades. The air was thick and cool, almost too cool, as though the building itself was holding its breath. You could hear the soft echoes of your footsteps on the creaky wooden floorboards, each step making the floor groan beneath you.
Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched out into the dim, shadowy corners of the room. The shelves were packed so tightly with old, worn books that they seemed to lean inward, threatening to spill over. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the shelves, delicate and undisturbed, as though the bookstore hadn’t been touched in years, maybe decades.
The walls were lined with faded, yellowing posters of authors you didn’t recognize, and a few scattered armchairs lay abandoned in the center of the room, their cushions sagging from years of neglect. The light filtering through the dust-matted windows cast long, eerie shadows across the room, making the whole place feel like it was caught in a forgotten moment in time.
Gojo seemed completely unfazed, right at home in fact, his energy practically bouncing off the shelves as he enthusiastically dragged you deeper into the place while he gleefully announced that you’d be doing exactly what he wanted today.
"So, here’s the deal," Gojo said, spinning on his heel and looking around the shop with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I’ve always have a really creepy ghost story, and you, are going to be my audience."
You raised an eyebrow. "A ghost story? Really?"
"Oh, come on. It’ll be fun!" He grinned, plopping down on a tattered old chair as though he were preparing for a long, theatrical performance. "Here’s a good one."
He cleared his throat, dramatically folding his hands in front of him like a storyteller at the edge of a campfire.
"There was once a man, a very lonely man, who stumbled upon this very bookstore," Gojo began, his voice taking on a deep, almost ominous tone. "He was a scholar, a man of knowledge, but he had one deep obsession: he was always searching for the ‘perfect’ book. You know, the kind that’s said to have… powers. Something dark, something that could grant him knowledge beyond any human’s understanding."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming as though he were pulling you into the story.
"But little did he know, the bookstore he found wasn’t just any ordinary place. It was cursed. The books it housed were not mere pages, but… trapped souls."
You frowned, feeling an unease building in your chest. Gojo's grin widened.
"As the man wandered deeper into the store, he could feel the air growing colder, the shelves shifting. And then, from the darkness, a voice whispered. It called his name, over and over again. 'Help me.'"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Just when the man thought he couldn’t take it anymore, one of the books fell from the shelf. He opened it, and inside, there was a single sentence written in blood: 'I will never leave.'"
Gojo's voice dropped even lower, the silence in the room making the tension unbearable. "The man, terrified, turned to leave… but the books wouldn’t let him. The shelves closed in on him, the pages cutting him like knives, until he was consumed by the curse of the store. And now…"
Gojo’s voice took on an eerie whisper as he leaned closer to you. "Now, his spirit is said to haunt this place, seeking anyone foolish enough to step foot inside…"
You could feel the chill in the air as Gojo let the story hang in the silence, the weight of his words lingering in the space between you. You tried to roll your eyes, but the way he delivered the story, complete with creepy sound effects and exaggerated facial expressions, actually got under your skin.
As he spoke, you couldn't help but glance around, the dim lighting casting long shadows over the rows of books. You were so engrossed in his storytelling that you barely noticed Gojo quietly slipping away behind a stack of old books. It wasn’t until a chill swept through the room that you realized something was wrong.
"Gojo, I don’t-" you started, but then the lights flickered, and suddenly, the room felt far colder. You froze, a cold shiver running down your spine. You spun around, searching for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
"Gojo?" you asked, your voice unsteady. "That was just a story, right?"
But there was no answer. You glanced around, a creeping feeling settling in. The air had become so still, so tense, and then… nothing.
Your heart pounded.
"Gojo?" you called again, trying to shake off the rising sense of dread. No response.
And then, just as you turned to leave, you heard a soft creak from the shadows. You whipped around, expecting to see Gojo standing there with that grin of his, but no, nothing. Only darkness.
"Gojo?!" you snapped, stepping forward cautiously.
Thud!
A book fell off a shelf, the sound too sharp in the thick silence. Your breath hitched in your throat. Suddenly, a figure darted past the edge of your vision. You gasped, stumbling backward. "Gojo, stop it!"
But there was no answer. The room felt colder.
Out of nowhere, Gojo jumped from behind a stack of books, hands raised in mock horror. "Gotcha!" he laughed, clutching his stomach as if he were about to collapse from laughter.
You stood there, heart still racing, trying to catch your breath as your chest heaved. "You, " you started, your words a mix of frustration and disbelief. "You scared the living hell out of me."
Gojo wiped away a tear from his eye, still laughing. "I couldn’t resist. I mean, you were so into it!"
You shot him a glare, trying to ignore the adrenaline that was still surging through you. "I’m going to get you back for this."
"Ha! You couldn’t if you tried," Gojo said, brushing himself off and straightening his clothes. "Alright, now that we’ve gotten past the scary stuff… how about we grab some ice cream? Or maybe we can prank some of the other teachers?"
For a moment, you just stared at him, that playful gleam in his eyes making it impossible to resist. "You know," you said with a smirk of your own, "I think I’ll let you off easy this time."
Gojo raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So I’m off the hook now? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
He chuckled and ruffled your hair. "Well, that’s no fun. But I’ll take it."
And with that, he led you out of the bookstore, already rambling about his next ridiculous idea. It was clear that, despite the pranks and the playful rivalry, the bond between you two was something deeper than just a game.
List is subjective to change. I do not write for every character in every piece of media, feel free to ask, though. Before requesting, please refer to "rules".
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
titsay
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
stormborns