Heyyaaaa I Just Read Your Reborn Again For The 5th Time 😼 And I Am Going To Read It Again. Coz Why

(I’m the anon who requested a part 2 of the Michael grey fic) I have some ideas :) if Michael grey is in the process of healing but still isn’t strong enough, what if his darling began missing home more than she loved him, and tried to escape to go home? Or maybe it could be when he’s healing he becomes very clingy and his darling is there for him to cling to? Have a good day/night!

Lost and Found (Yandere Michael Gray x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Part 1

A/N: not exactly what was requested, but it was an idea I had rattling around in the ol' hat rack for a while. Can be read as a standalone, but it is part 2 of "Gray Chains," so either way ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ enjoy!

Word count: 2664

You can see him approaching you now. Through the crowds of swaying people, of hazy smoke and jazz hanging in the air of the dark, gilded nightclub, dressed in a tuxedo of white with a red bowtie at his throat. 

There’s a hungry look in his gaze, but that’s only because he’s been starved of you for hours. Five weeks of sitting in that hospital room with him, catering to his every need, his every desire. All because you’d accidentally fallen for the man that had left you tied to his bed for days on end.

In that white, suffocating room full of antiseptic and nurses filtering in and out, you’d sat there one night in a chair, pulled up next to his bed. Your bottom was numb and hot from the sheer number of times you’d been in that same position by his side.

His hand had been curled around yours, and according to the dimmed lights around the room and the darkness creeping in from the window, it was around ten or so at night. On his hospital bed, he lay flat on his back, still wrapped in surgical tape and stitches. The blue patches of skin under and around his eyes had begun to fade paler, almost matching the yellowed, stitched skin on his chest. His eyes drooped, the gunmetal blue in them tainted with exhaustion.

Still, somehow though, he found it in himself to smile at you, pulling your hand up to his lips with a doting sigh and peppering kisses along the back of your hand. His hair fell into his eyes during the act, and you brushed it back from his forehead into alignment with the other, freshly dampened strands. 

He paused his ministrations. Pressing his lips one final time against your knuckles, his gaze found yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin. 

He said it every night. He said it every morning too, and at least twice during each midday. 

You’d never said it back. You never felt the need to; to you, he was just supposed to be the kidnapper you’d found yourself forced to take care of. You’ve had the deplorable feelings and thoughts that came with you being around his loving self every day, but you’d never dared to give in to the words. 

Now, you’d felt them ghosting your lips. You’d felt your resolve break, and you’d actually told yourself there was no harm in returning the sentiment. He had won you over.

A panic struck your chest at your realization, and you fumbled back into your chair, mind frantic. 

Michael was completely unaware. Like usual, his brows twitched and furrowed at your lack of response, and he released your hand, settling himself carefully underneath the blanket and watching as you did the same in the chair beside him. Dutifully, he waited until your eyes fell closed and your breath steadied before giving into his own exhaustion. 

“Goodnight, love.”

And when his soft snores began to fill the room, you fled. With a pocketful of the stack of cash Tommy had delivered earlier to pay for Michael’s hospital bills, you walked, carefully blank-faced, through the quiet, marble halls and out the door before hailing a cab to London.

Eden Club. 

The pub the cab driver had recommended to you after the look on your face and your voiced need for a drink. You’d nodded absentmindedly, and now you found yourself in the heart of the thumping room, chandeliers twinkling on the ceiling and gold laced throughout the alabaster floor. At one of the few tables surrounding the group of dancers, you sipped on a red wine, the strong, thick flavor intoxicating your senses until you couldn’t understand why you were in the pub at all. 

But you knew it was Michael. It had to be. Who else would approach you in this pandemonium of sweaty, inebriated bodies? Saxophones wailed as a singer of sorts crooned into his microphone so many feet behind you, and you flinched as someone bumped into the back of your chair while making their way to the party floor. 

No, it wasn’t Michael, you realized now. The waiter in the all-white suit approached you now, a sommelier, in all actuality. The wine cloth over his arm was stained from many former visits, and you realize now that the bottle in his hand is of the same kind as the drink in your glass. 

The sommelier catches your eye, and before he can open his mouth to offer another glass, you shake your head, waving away the bottle. 

Not Michael. 

You watch as he nods, approaching the other tables around you in turn, the same offer filling their ears. 

No, you think to yourself, cupping your wine glass with both hands and losing yourself deeper in the crimson liquid. No more tonight. Your hands tighten, the one around the stem feeling so close to cracking the glass. 

A breath, not quite relieving after the fright you’d just had, escapes you. You’re not quite sure how long it’s been since you’d left, but it must be somewhere close to two a.m. by now. Michael will have awakened at least once or twice in the span of time you’d left, and certainly now he’s asking around about your whereabouts--presumably impolitely. 

Presumably with threats and torture, if his cousins had received a call. 

You try to care about the people who may have been hurt in your wake, but the fog that’s come to muddle your mind is making sympathy difficult. The rich, sweet taste is still on your tongue, and you wonder vaguely if your mouth is stained red at all.

Jewelry clutters and chimes on the dance floor, women’s bracelets and earrings and even men’s stopwatches jingling around the room. Some men, few and far between in the effervescent club, idle about with their canes, abrupt claps of solid wood against marble floor interrupting the beat of the song.

Behind you, that same clinking piques your ear in a steady rhythm, the pace surprisingly uninterrupted by the large number of people bumbling about. Though you haven’t seen the waiter with the cane before, his presence is uncomfortably close behind your back now. His hand reaches around, grasping the pair of yours in his own before his wine bottle comes into view. 

“No--sorry,” you stutter, watching a bit flustered as the glass fills substantially, “I told the other waiter I don’t need any more.”

“Believe me, love, you’ll need another drink.”

You snap your mouth shut, eyes locked on the glass as Michael keeps pouring until the wine is level with the rim. He slams the bottle onto the table, trembling the surface so hard liquid sloshes out and onto the tan tablecloth. 

He comes into view from behind you, and you draw a line from the clinking to the cane in his hand. You suppose you should have figured. Prior to leaving, one of the doctors seeing Michael had decided that he would soon be ready to walk, though with aid.

He sets the cane’s handle against the table before settling into the seat across from you. The lines in his forehead are angry and deep, especially in the dim lighting of the pub. Out of the pocket of his black overcoat, he pulls a pack of cigarettes, not bothering to offer one to you as he lights it with a match and adjusts himself. His mouth twists into a frown, and he hisses under his breath in pain. 

One cloud of smoke floats from his mouth through his nostrils and then escapes in one long stream. Then he draws his eyes up, and the second his gaze locks on yours, you know you can’t run any longer. 

You swallow. His eyes follow the movement, and when a flush crawls up onto your face, he inhales again. 

“You found me.”

“I did.”

You fall silent, and an air of sobriety seems to clean out the fog in your mind. You can feel it now, the pounding heartbeat in your ears down through your fingertips. Despite the implications of his presence, you can’t help the comfort that buzzes underneath your skin. 

Michael found you like he always did. 

That was supposed to be a bad thing. 

“Didn’t take you long.”

“You didn’t cover your tracks well.” He exhaled, two streams of smoke filling the air as he watched you. “The second you were mine, you were a Peaky Blinder. You left as a Peaky Blinder, so all eyes were on you.” His jaw tightened. “Perhaps you should have thought your escape through better.”

You pause, lips screwing shut as you traced with the rim of your wine glass. The room seems to have grown hotter, and for a second you feel like your breathing is far too audible. Underneath the table, a pressure against your knee causes you to flinch.

Michael crosses one knee over the other, a brow raised as his eyes bore into you. His stare crawls over your skin, claiming your face, your bare collar bones, down to the arms and then the fingers you can’t seem to keep steady. He’s unimpressed on the surface, especially with your performance tonight. Beneath all of that, though, you know he has some plan formulating in his mind. Perhaps it’s already in motion.

The look in his eyes is calculating, critical. As always, you feel as though he controls your next move. He was always so good at predicting you. That was how he got you in the first place. 

He takes another drag and taps the ashes out in the tray set on the table, waiting expectantly.

“It wasn’t planned,” you look away when Michael scoffs, “if that… makes you feel any better.”

“Do you think it does?” he jeered, leaning back into his seat with a curled lip.

You shook your head. “You don’t even know why I left.”

“I have a few guesses, love, but please, enlighten me.”

“Do you remember what happened? Before I left?”

“Only the usual things.” He huffed. “You fell asleep, or at least pretended to, and when I did, you bolted.”

“Before that.”

His jaw twitched, and he dropped his crossed leg to the ground, leaning forward and smothering his cigarette out with a slam of his hand, every movement quick and violent. “When I told you I fucking loved you, was that it? Was that why you did it?” He reached out and tore the glass from your grasp, throwing it against the floor. “You think I’m some fucking monster for loving you, for wanting you for myself.” His eyes flashed with rage, and with his teeth bared, he spat, “You left because I love you.” 

“I left because I love you,” you hissed.

Michael’s eyes widened just as yours did. His lips fell open, and all anger on his face softened and disappeared. 

“W-what?” he whispered breathlessly.

While a breath caught in your throat, you felt a tightness in your chest fade away. The fog that seemed to swim around inside your head for the last hour had finally dissipated, and you could clearly feel the regret clawing at your heart while battling another emotion. 

“It’s not right—it’s wrong. So fucking wrong.” Tears begin to prick at your eyes, and you try to fight them away with the pressure of your palms. 

“That’s why you left.” Michael sounded in a daze. “Because you love me.”

You stayed silent, battling a headache as the tears finally fell. It was hard to breathe, but at the same time it was as though you’d caught the first breath of fresh air in weeks. 

Fingertips grazed your wrists, peeled your hands from your eyes. 

“You really love me?” he asked quietly, almost desperately. 

You fell back into an old habit, the words I hate you grazing your lips, but even the thought of letting them fly pained you as much as you knew they would hurt him. 

God, you didn’t even want to hurt him. You loved him. 

“This is so fucking wrong,” you muttered again, a sob almost following. 

All it took was a smile on that fateful day. 

You saw the cute boy—man—on the street, the one whose eyes were watching you with fascination, and you’d smiled back.

The next time you saw him, he was breaking the glass of your bedroom window, fumbling to get inside and barely snagging your ankle when you’d tried to flee. 

It’s all so wrong.

Until recently, you could still feel it, that chain around your wrist, like a phantom that haunted you every other day you’d fallen asleep in the chair at his hospital bedside. The one he used to keep you in his bed, his home, the one that stopped you from fleeing and made it so that all you’d known for months was Michael and his overbearing, delusional love for you.

You couldn’t even feel that anymore. He’d finally gotten through. He won. 

So, so wrong.

Michael caressed the skin of your wrists, pulling your hands closer and littering kisses along your palms. “Love, you’re perfect, do you know that?” His lips ran along your fingertips. “Just perfect,” he hummed.

He rose to his feet, releasing one of your hands to grab his cane before rounding the table toward you. Beneath his shoes, broken glass crackled.

Using the hand in his grip, he lifted you to your feet. 

“Let’s get out of here, love. Come on,” he released you and instead placed a hand on the small of your back. “I have a cab waiting outside. Let’s get home.”

Michael ushered you past the swaying, sweaty crowd, out from underneath the smoke that hung in the air of the club, and into the clean, cold atmosphere of the outside. You barely registered the nodding of the club bouncers at Michael, nor the familiarity of your cab driver’s face as he led you into the back seat, his long coat draped over your bare shoulders. 

On the way back to Birmingham, Michael never stopped touching you. Either his hand held yours, or his arm was wrapped around your waist or shoulders. One of his knees always pressed against one of yours, and when you dropped your head onto his shoulder, his head leaned atop yours. 

When exhaustion began to nip at your fluttering eyelids and softened your mind, you lifted your head to look at Michael. He stared back, blue eyes wandering adoringly over your face. “What’s wrong, love?”

You bit your tongue, wanting to restrain the gentle pulsing in your chest in some way, but you couldn’t help it. You can’t stop how it slowly overtakes your senses, especially when Michael raises a hand to cradle your cheek, thumb caressing your bottom lip. 

“I love you.”

His hand begins to tremble against your skin, and his lips twitch into a smile as pure reverence floods his vision. “I love you too,” he breathes.

And when he rushes forward to press his lips to yours, you wrap your arms around him openly, hold him lovingly. He accepts everything you give him, every whine, moan, and whimper, and in return he worships your body with his hands, petting and stroking and clutching onto you with every fiber of his being. 

“I won’t let you go again,” he murmurs against your lips, and his arms tighten around you. “I can’t lose you anymore.”

“It’s okay,” you cup his face, pulling him impossibly closer. “You found me.”

Okay, I have an itty-bitty problem. I have writer’s block. Like bad. The worst part is I just hit 200 followers and I really want to celebrate, but I don’t know how. This feels terrible. Does anybody have literally any suggestions for getting over this? Please help me, my brain feels empty.

Please give Oreo kisses for me... Hes so cute... He looks so done I love it

Eh, its true he is Pissy™. He really do got that rbf, but I promise he is babie. I’ll def give him kisses for u😙😙

hey okay so first of all i just wanted to tell you how much i adore your writing ahhh its so good omg!! also i know that you put the reborn (?i think) fic on pause but i just wanted to ask if you could put me on the taglist? bc its so good and i wanna know once you post again hehe

Aksjfkfj Thank you so much!! I’m glad u like my writing🥺🥺💜💜 I’ll for sure put you on the tag list! I’m glad you’re liking it so far🥰

Ten to None (Gojo x Reader/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Soulmates’ markings add up to ten so soulmates know just how much of a danger their soulmate is to them. You have a ten on your wrist, so you know your soulmate must have a zero. There’s just one problem: no one in history has ever been worthy of a danger rating of ten, so who the hell is the supposedly “invincible god” were you fated to? 

A/N: yikes that summary. Anyways, nobody got a soulmate au gojo out there that tickles my fancy, so here I am writing my own. Hope y’all like it! (Side note: this took me fucking A G E S)

Word count: 10406

        “A ten. Dear God.”

        “Oh-Oh my God, what do we do?”

        “Nobody’s ever had… Jesus.”

        A nurse had fainted when she saw the ten on the inside of your soft, newborn right wrist. The font was curling and slanted, almost as if it had been written nonchalantly with a few flicks of the wrist. Two black digits marred the plump flesh, unmissable. 

        Unmissable no matter how much your parents averted their gaze each time they saw it. 

        It wasn’t until kindergarten when your local bully ripped off the bandaid your parents pleaded with you to keep secure over your right wrist that you realized just how odd your number was. A circle of curious, mumbling five-year-olds formed around you, each one holding out their own wrists to compare. 

        Threes, twos, a couple fives and perhaps even a seven appeared in your vision. None of their wrists had been abraded by a freshly torn-off bandaid. 

        “Hold on, doesn’t it go one, two,... three, um…”

        “No, no, it’s one, two, four-”

        “Hey, what’s going on over here?” 

        Your swarming flock had gathered the attention of a recess aid. Her neon yellow fanny pack almost blinded you as she pushed through the crowd and towered over your cowering form. 

        “They’re m-making fun of me,” you whimpered, snot dribbling down onto your upper lip

        “Why’s her number so big?” Another child cut in, pointing an accusatory finger at your forearm. 

        The aid never responded to the other child’s question, nor did she defend you from them. Instead, when her gaze locked on the number on the inside of your wrist, she gasped. 

        Profanities your whole class had never heard were exposed to them that day, which they promptly repeated at any given chance out of the watchful gazes of adults. The recess aid had whispered them under her breath, eyes wide behind the sunglasses drooping on her nose. When she grabbed at your arm, she wrenched you up and glanced at your wrist once more, blinking a couple times as if to make sure it wasn’t the blinding sun in her eyes. 

        “Jesus Christ.”

        “Hey, I know him!”

        Then she hauled you off to the principal’s office, who promptly contacted your parents and told them of the incident.

        You were homeschooled from then on, and while other kids participated in afterschool clubs like soccer, basketball, and volleyball, you took classes in self-defense. When other kids were learning how to pass and set, you were learning seven ways to take down a man if he had you in a chokehold. 

        Weak points of the human body that, if struck quickly and at the right angle, would leave it paralyzed. The most efficient techniques for attacking opponents bigger than you. How to debilitate an attacker from behind; from the front; from either side. This was the foreign language you learned while others your age studied Spanish, French, even Japanese. 

        You couldn’t remember the last time you’d encountered a boy your age without the intent to use him as a sparring partner. You doubt you even knew how to carry a conversation with one--yet another everyday part of life you’d never been taught. 

        When you’d hit puberty, it seemingly shook your parents to the core. It was like they forgot they were raising a daughter and not a warrior--at the sight of blood, you could see they fought their inner instincts to ask how you would defend yourself against an attack like such at a later date. 

        It was one of the many battles they’d never thought to prepare you for--the many battles of everyday life. 

        “What is it?”

        “It’s called a pad, dear.”

        “Where do I put it?”

        “In your underwear, dear.”

        “Why am I bleeding?”

        “I-er, didn’t you read that book we gave you, dear?”

        You gave that book a dismissive glance the night before, skimming past chapters labeled “Periods,” “Hair Everywhere,” and “Boys, Boys, Boys” before tossing it aside and picking up Sun Tzu’s Art of War. 

        “Yes, I did.”

        “Good, dear. Then you should know why.”

        Your parents had never intended to be as cold and distant as they were; it was just a side effect of raising a child they had always viewed as destined for death. 

        After all, surely that’s what the ten on the inside of your wrist meant, right? 

        10.

        Ten. 

        十.

        Diez.

        Dix.

        X.

        You knew it in every language. It was easy, since people from all around the world were curious about you. Your parents received emails from scholars and historians on a daily basis, either with new inquiries or old news. Everyone always had the same thing to say: this has never happened before. 

        People have come close, of course. The strong paired with the weak had soulmate numbers paired eights-to-twos or sevens-to-threes. Humans destined to become curses even found themselves with soulmates whose wrists contained nines, while theirs held ones. 

        One figure you’d grown particularly interested in was the King of Curses, Ryoumen Sukuna. The most powerful curse to have ever lived, and even he only had a one on his wrist when he was a human. In every drawing or depiction you’d ever seen, at least one of his four arms had the single digit in black ink on his wrist, if not all of them. 

        So if even he was not worthy of a ten, what kind of unknown monster were you destined to be with?

                                ~~~

        Jujutsu sorcery. The next--and most difficult--form of combat you planned to master. It interested you mainly because it offered a wide variety of mediums with which to focus your power. Though you’d mostly trained with only your body your whole life, occasionally you’d dabbled in using weaponry. 

        Cursed energy, it seemed, was something that you had a large amount of. Born from negative human emotions, the more cursed energy a human harbored, the more damage they could inflict upon others. 

        This was the key to protecting yourself from the unpredictable dangers of your soulmate. Learning and mastering it seemed so easy--get angry, project that anger onto opponents, win the fight. The only problem was that many of your prior training encouraged restraint and objectivity. On the surface, your moods could be flicked on and off like a switch, but deep down you struggled to truly revel in any emotion.

        You practiced in the dim, dark dojo you often borrowed from a local karate class, slashing through mid-air with a bo staff. Sweat dripped down your temple as you envisioned some form in front of you. A shadowy monster of sorts, eyes glowing in its own darkness, dodging each and every one of your swipes. 

        It laughed at your attempts, its translucent body of black smoke shifting and gliding around the room. This was the enemy you always imagined, teasing and taunting you as though you never had a chance to defeat it. Whenever you attempted a vanquishing blow through its heart, whether by fist, bo staff, or wooden sword, it would encircle your blow, forming around it in an oval. 

        A zero. 

        It only took one fight, you battling your shadow creature with a cursed-energy charged bow and arrow, to realize that the monster you’d been picturing was your soulmate. Blue streaks of energy darted around the shaft of every arrow you fired, zipping around faster and faster the more you missed. 

        “C’mon,” you hissed under your breath, swiping a hand through your hair and tugging out a few strands in the process, getting them caught on the finger tab of your leather glove. Silence choked the atmosphere of the dojo, the moon long being the only lighting of the room. A bead of sweat dripped down into your eye, blurring your vision as you nocked another arrow. 

        Another chuckle filled the room, incoherent yet achingly familiar. You stayed low, one knee against the ground while you leant forward on your other, bare foot. But as you searched for your opponent, the dojo seemed to grow. 

        The sparring pads beneath you stiffened, and fresh blades of grass began sprouting up and licking at your bare feet. The white walls and glassy mirrors blurred, giving way to miles and miles of flat, green plain. A gray sky took the place of the low-hanging ceilings, clouds rumbling in the air but never giving off anything more than a light mist that flattened the strays on your scalp. 

        “What the hell…” you trailed off, taking in the new landscape before you. A concentric circle of stark white roses surrounded the large plain you sat in the middle of, and far beyond that was a wall of trees. Fresh air filled your lungs instead of the dank staleness you had been accustomed to during any fight. Now, with so much free space around, you felt so much more relaxed, no longer afraid of damaging the dojo while practicing your cursed energy techniques. 

        “But where the hell am I?” you wondered aloud. It wasn’t like you had teleported anywhere. If anything, it wasn’t you who had changed at all--it was the world around you that had begun to take a new form. You let the leg you kneeled against collapse, slumping to the ground in a figure four. The bow in your hand lay long forgotten beside you.

        It was a new… domain. You knew that word. But from where?

        As you racked your brain, the grass beside you melted away, an object pushing its way to the surface of the soil. A book sat face up, its spine familiarly crinkled from your recent weeks of flipping through it. 

        Cursed Techniques for Dummies.

        Though droplets of rain fell against the paperback book, they never wrinkled the pages. Instead, they slid right off as though the pages were laminated, sinking back into the soft soil underneath you. 

        Sticky notes stood out at the top of the book, small labels written on them in your own handwriting for each chapter. A blue slip with the word “domain” caught your eye, and you snatched up the book, flitting past chapter after chapter of techniques. 

        “‘A confined environment created using large amounts of cursed energy. Within personal domains, the creators are granted greater power at the cost of using an exhausting amount of energy. The longer a creator maintains his or her domain, the more fatigued he or she may become.’” You stopped the pad of your finger at the edge of the sentence, glancing up and around at the space before you. It seemed by the sheer size of your “domain,” your amount of cursed energy was greater than what you expected. 

        Your only concern was how to get out. No part of you felt weary like the book had warned; there was no pressing headache or tiring muscles. In fact, you felt more energetic like you had in ages. Perhaps it was the boost in your powers that your own domain had promised, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

        “All right, all right,” you glanced around, critiquing the area, “definitely seems like my kinda place.” Pushing yourself up onto your feet, you reached low for your bow, patting your back and feeling for your quiver. After you found it, you tugged an arrow out and nocked it, pulling back the string with a deep breath in and searching for your target. 

        “Come on out, buddy. May as well play while the going is good, eh?”

        But your shadow never appeared. The familiar black mist you always seemed to summon while practicing alone never manifested before your eyes no matter how many times you spun yourself dizzy. 

        It was gone. In your domain, it was gone. 

        The thought seemed to leave your chest a little lighter, and the blue streaks of lightning dancing around the shaft of your arrow sizzled and melted away. You let your arms fall to your sides, rolling your shoulders back and finally letting out your breath. 

        Then your eyes returned to the book still lying on the ground, open as a small breeze ruffled the pages. “Cursed energy, huh?” you hummed thoughtfully, setting the bow back on the ground while reaching for the book. Rustles and crackles sounded behind you, and when you fell back with the book in your hands, you collapsed into a cushioned sofa, somewhat out of place among the grassy plain.

        “What else ya got for me?”

                                ~~~

        “Domain expansion!”

        The dank alley’s downpour faded away into a fine spray of droplets, and the sky lightened from pitch black to slate gray. Crumbling asphalt and busted blue Dumpsters blurred away, replaced by a field of green grass and blossoming white roses. In the distance, the trees shivered with the force of the curse’s blows.

        But they never made it any farther than that. You’d spent five years mastering that technique after accidentally slipping into your domain on your eighteenth birthday. An insurmountable wall of trees barred any enemy from entering your domain, allowing you time and distance to steady yourself and recover during a fight. 

        In all of your ventures through books on cursed energy techniques, you’d never once come across anything like it. Domains were made to be advantageous fighting grounds, not havens for rest and recovery. But due to your lack of official training in any form of jujutsu sorcery, you had to use mostly unconventional tactics in many of your battles against curses throughout the last few years. And, you had to admit it worked quite well. 

        Another strong blow shivered your barrier of trees, their branches swaying from the force, but it only served to worsen your growing headache more than anything else. You crumbled onto your hands and knees, completely missing the leather sofa you kept summoned for quick naps or reading times, and curled up into a ball on your side, cradling your ribs beneath your palms.

        This cursed spirit was unlike any other you’d ever faced. It crawled on all four of its twisted arms with jagged bones tearing out of the leathery skin of its back, forming points like spades. At least three times your size, the monstrosity had three eyes forming an upside down triangle and a mouth layered with three rows of shark-like teeth. The drool spilling from its mouth was frothy and green, and when it had hit the asphalt of the dead-end alley in which you’d found it, it bubbled against the ground and melted the tar. 

        Inside of its wrist lay a “1.”

        “What the fuck,” you wheezed, squeezing your eyelids closed hard enough to see stars. “What the fuck kinda steroids is that thing on?”

        There was a constant ache in your side from when it had first slammed you into the concrete, no doubt leaving a rib cracked and broken. You just hoped there was no internal bleeding. 

        “Holy shit.” You scrambled up onto your hands and knees, coughing and sputtering on a sudden flood of metallic liquid climbing up your throat, painting the patch of grass crimson. Subconsciously, you acknowledged the black and blue knuckles on your dominant hand, no doubt caused by trying to throw the first punch after the cursed spirit had dodged your arrow. 

        10.

        Son of a bitch. 

        “Fuck!” You slammed a bare palm against the grass, teeth gritted and gaze narrowed. “Who are you?!”

        Like usual, you expected no response. 

        Except something had changed. 

        That damned laugh you had always heard but could never make out echoed in the distance, perking your ears. The same one that had haunted your dreams since you first realized what your soulmark meant. The same one you envisioned battling each time you trained.

        The laugh that promised defeat.

        With haste, you fumbled onto your feet, ignoring an oncoming wave of nausea that resulted, and eyed the wall of trees encapsulating your domain.

        Your body wasn’t ready to leave its refuge, bones and muscles aching, crying out with every movement. When you stepped forward, your knees wobbled. When you released your domain, a splitting headache blinded you for half a second. 

        Panic struck when you patted down your body only to remember the curse had crushed your bow to splinters, sparing only the lone arrow in your quiver on your back for self-defense. 

        Apparently, though, you didn’t need it. The cursed spirit, still snarling and chomping its slobbering jaw at you, had each of its palms stuck to the large puddle of melted tar that had formed beneath it in your absence. When more of its own saliva dripped from its mouth, it slid down the dip in the alley the puddle had formed and made contact with the hands of the spirit, who screeched in pain. Welts rose from where the saliva made contact, and it dawned on you that the curse wasn’t immune to its own acid. 

        Without a second thought, you reached back for the arrow, not bothering a glance at the serrated tip before slicing it through the soft tissue of the monster’s throat. Black blood coated your hand by the time you tugged the arrow from its flesh, hot and sticky against your skin but otherwise harmless. 

        The cursed spirit crumpled to the ground with a silent cry, more and more dark liquid pooling around it and spilling into the cracks of the asphalt. The first time you had encountered and gutted a spirit, you wanted to hurl at even the sight of such a deformed monster.

        Now, you gave in to that urge, especially when a small, long object slithered out of its slashed neck, riding a fresh wave of blood that carried it all the way to your feet and thumping against your combat boot.

        “Dear God.” You wiped the back of your unbloodied hand against your mouth, grimacing. “What in the Goddamn fuck- is that a finger?!” You stepped away, reeling back and kicking the monster in the stomach one last time. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

        The slumped form jolted from the force of the kick, but otherwise remained still. You studied it long and hard one last time before turning away. “Yeah, you know what? Never mind. Dumb question.” 

        Your gaze found the finger once more, eyeing the long, sharp nail and the bone sticking out of its amputated end. It looked nothing like an average human’s finger, the skin far too wrinkled and ragged. But then what was it? And why would the cursed spirit eat it?

        Of course, there was always the chance the curse had an affinity for such snacks. 

        But you had also read that some objects interwoven with enough cursed energy could grant anyone immense power when used or consumed. 

        You guessed, with it being a finger and all, the cursed spirit had chosen the latter route. 

        “Ugh, am I really gonna do this?” You squatted next to the finger, lip curled as you reached out your hand.

        In one quick breath, you snagged the finger, hucked it back into your empty quiver, wiped your hand on your pants with a “gross, gross, gross,” and sprinted back to your apartment to take a two-hour long decontaminating shower to rid yourself of the days events and more. 

                                ~~~

        The plane, you’d decided after being thirteen minutes into a fourteen-hour long flight, was too stuffy. Of course, you shouldn’t have expected much. When the principal of Tokyo Jujutsu High had called and offered you a teaching job for future jujutsu sorcerers, he had been a little hesitant to shell out the money for a twenty-thousand dollar first-class flight for someone he had yet to interview. 

        The call had been… interesting, to say the least. 

        “Is this YN YLN?” a man with a monotonous voice had asked with a hint of a Japanese accent.

        “This is she. Who’s asking?”

        “My name is Masamichi Yaga, and I’m calling on behalf of Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School. Recently, I’ve gotten word that you’ve come across a cursed object we’ve been searching for.”

        “You mean the finger?” Ah shit, maybe you were supposed to keep quiet about that.

        “Yes… the finger. We were impressed to hear you defeated a cursed spirit in possession of the object all on your own, as well.”

        “Shi-uh, I mean, thanks.”

        “One of our teachers witnessed the fight and reported back to us about your natural skill in jujutsu sorcery despite any professional training. If you’re open to it, we’d like to interview you for a potential job at our school, if only to introduce our students to your technique. How does that sound?”

        Expensive as hell is what it had sounded like. But also… “Hold on, someone saw that fight?” The laugh…

        “Yes, one of our best. And if the ten on your wrist is any indication, we think you’ll want to come meet him.”

        You had tensed up on the sofa, pulling the phone away with wide eyes and pinching yourself to make sure you weren’t actually asleep. While holding your phone, your bare wrist faced up, the bold, black ten almost grinning at you.

        The Ten. He had watched you in that fight. 

        The fucking laugh. 

        “Ms. YLN?”

        “Sorry,” you hurriedly pressed your phone back to your ear, heart rattling around beneath your ribcage. “Sorry, what did you say?”

        “Would you like to come over for an interview? All expenses paid.”

        A potential job served up on a golden platter. It was almost too good to be true. Almost. Your soulmate obviously had some sway at this school, and the thought made you nervous. His number obviously made him a physical threat, but if he also had a whole school for jujutsu sorcery under his thumb…

        Obviously, you were soulmates with a highly intelligent, professional individual. Just your luck. 

        But who were you to reject the benefits from such a man? You’d barely been scraping by with the money you’d gathered while eradicating curses for the last few years. The evident favoritism, no matter how much it bothered you, was, in the end, giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance at a career.

        “How could I say no?”

         And that’s how you found yourself on a fourteen-hour flight to Tokyo, sitting stiffly in the blue-leather chair next to and surrounded by several people with personal space and snoring issues. 

        The mark on your wrist burned, and out of nervous habit you ran the tip of your finger over the number repeatedly. Your head pounded along with your growing anxiety, begging for release, and with one more sip of the water the flight attendant had offered you, you sank into your domain, allowing the cramped cabin full of people to fade away into a flourishing plain of lime green grass and pale pink roses. 

                                ~~~

        Tokyo--you’d discovered after seven hours of wandering--was gorgeous. After getting off your flight, you’d quickly realized you’d jumped the gun, having completely glossed over the necessary prerequisites for traveling to a foreign country. 

        To be fair, it wasn’t completely your fault. The Duolingo app wasn’t doing you any favors, what with struggling to download and all. 

        And so stumbling on and off several subway trips, wedging yourself between and through hundreds of random strangers, and battling with your phone for cell reception and data, you’d slowly and carefully traversed over every inch of Tokyo except for Tokyo Jujutsu High. 

        Perhaps it was an exaggeration, but your feet were certainly sticking to those claims. Despite reveling in and among the glowing billboards, advanced architecture, and homemade delicacies that seemed to line every main street, your body--and wallet--could only handle so much indulgence. After walking around what you were almost positive was the same park for the third time, you decidedly gave in to the blisters forming on your heels and the cramps biting at the bottoms of your feet, collapsing against a wooden bench and moaning in relief. 

        Your first debacle with Google Maps ensued prior to you finally escaping the Tokyo Airport, a fiasco in its own right. It was then that you remembered jujutsu sorcery and even sorcery in general was considered fictitious nonsense, and that googling a school that centered around said nonsense was futile. 

        When you checked your phone, you noticed that some deity had finally taken pity on your soul. A message from the same man that had contacted you, sent three hours ago with a link labeled “Directions to Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.”

        You’d never been so frustrated yet relieved at the same time. Three hours ago? A demon that had formed deep in your belly from your lack of sleep within the last two days combined with the rumbling in your stomach and the aching in the entirety of your body swelled and grew ten times the size, blurring every rational thought in your mind. 

        “FUCK!” You slammed a curled fist into the bench, reeling back in shock when the wood beneath you split in two from the force. Pain radiated from your knuckles, one of them split and bleeding. Just the sight of it pulled you back to all those days of sparring with other people--other boys--and accidentally playing too rough. 

        It was a habit--all your life you’d been pitied for your perceived lack of natural strength. All of the historians and soulmark recorders who’d ever called your parents to tell them about your never-before seen phenomenon had ended every conversation with a “Maybe she should take some self-defense classes. Just in case, you know?”

        You had black belts in seven kinds of martial arts, but instead of being labeled a prodigy, everyone who ever saw the 10 etched in deep black ink inside your wrist viewed you as a poor, unfortunate soul. Every match you’d ever had ended with a bow followed by a “Does your wrist really say ‘ten’? That’s insane!” A gold medal would be placed around your neck or a trophy in your hands, but a simple glance at your wrist and everything you’d ever worked for was stolen from you. 

        “Oh, that’s why.” You knew that’s what they thought. And you hated that it was partly right.

        However, the opportunity to work in a new country with a school full of people who didn’t know of your infamous soulmark (or at least you hoped they didn’t) felt like a breath of cool air for the first time in your life. These people didn’t know you. All they knew was that you were coming to their school with a cursed object and large amounts of potential. 

        That’s why you liked jujutsu sorcery over any other fighting technique you’d done; it prioritized mastering your own fighting style. So, how could someone ever beat you in a fighting style they’d never even seen before?

        They couldn’t. And you loved that. 

        What you didn’t love, though, was the mile-long walk up an extensive trail of white bricks leading you through what should have been the pearly gates of Tokyo Jujutsu High. The second you reached the opening to the school, you felt like army-crawling the rest of the way to the main building where your interview was to take place. 

        You couldn’t though, wanting to save face in front of the…student? Teacher? Whatever he was, he was walking toward you. White hair stuck up from the top of his head, matching oddly with his long, slender body not completely unlike a paint brush. While you battled to catch your breath near the entrance, he approached from about forty feet away. From there, you gauged he was about a head and a half taller than you, his hair only helping aggrandize his height. 

        There was a kind of dignity in the way he walked, confidence oozing off him and curling a corner of his lips. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he was dressed in a fitted, all-black uniform you’d immediately assumed was the mandatory attire for students at the school. He must have felt your wandering eyes because his smirked lips cracked open a sliver, revealing blinding white teeth and a tongue bitten between them. 

        Your feet began moving before your mind realized what was happening and took over. You swerved out of his path and trekked onward in the opposite direction, only realizing that the staggering heartbeat pounding in your ears was practically deafening when his head tilted back to cackle and you couldn’t hear it. The thought saddened you, and a wave of embarrassment overtook that sadness. Head dipping to hide your blush--What the hell was wrong with you!--you let your gaze study the ground, only catching a glimpse of the ants he was about to crush just before his foot steamrolled right over them. Then the chuckling grew louder. 

        Yep, definitely some sort of held-back senior.

        You turned back to watch him as he walked away, fluffy hair bobbing with each step, and it finally clicked. “Was he wearing a blindfold?” you mumbled, eyes wide and arms dangling helplessly by your sides. The suitcases you’d been lugging around for what must have been eight hours now rolled to a stop beside you, and you placed a palm on one of the handles to steady yourself. Your body was buzzing at the sound of his deep chuckle.

        Just who the hell was that guy?

        “YLN YN?” A deep voice suddenly spoke beside you, shocking you out of your stupor with a flinch. You struggled to drag your gaze to the man who loomed beside you, another absolutely terrifying colossus with broad shoulders, sunglasses, and deep lines in his brow. While you wondered what the hell was in the water, the man, who introduced himself as the principal you’d spoken to over the phone, asked, “What’s your first impression?”

        “Of what?” You glanced around, suddenly nervous he meant the school layout you’d been too distracted to observe yet. 

        He gestured his head toward the man still strolling away, who was now whistling a tune. “Gojo Satoru. That’s the teacher who recommended you, the one we believe has your matching soulmark.”

        Your mind fell blank, and your eye began to twitch. 

        10.

        “That was him? That’s the guy who’s worthy of a freaking ten?!”

        “People tend to say that,” he remarked monotonously. In utter disbelief, you looked at the principal, then at the man, then at the principal again, investigating his face for a hint of jest, but it soon became apparent he wasn’t that kind of man. 

        “Are you serious?” The words still slipped out without your volition. 

        He didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded towards the ground where the man had walked earlier. 

        No ant massacre. No little ant workers losing their little ant minds and scrambling around the trampled bodies of their little ant friends. Just a perfectly organized, studious line of tiny black dots holding salvaged crumbs in the same orderly way they’d done it just before the man had--evidently not--stepped on them. 

        “How the hell…”

        You’d seen it. With your own two eyes, you’d watched him step on them. At the very least, if somehow his ginormous feet had managed to miss all fifty or so of them, you’d think they’d at least be scurrying around trying to find better cover. 

        “It’s one of his techniques,” the principal commented, piquing your interest. “It makes him relatively invincible, almost untouchable. It’s called- er, what are you doing?”

        You stay crouched beside your open suitcase, rifling through the folded clothes and toiletries to get to the zipped up, hidden compartment of the hardshell reserved for valuable items. When you fished out what you had been looking for, the principal hummed in thought, but stayed otherwise silent.

        Rising from your squat, you clicked each end of the compound bow into place, extending it from its compact position. Then you nocked one of the few carbon-shafted arrows you’d been able to fit into your suitcase diagonally, narrowing your gaze on your target as you pulled back the bowstring comfortably close to your cheek. One twitch of your fingers and the arrow was let loose, flying towards the middle of your soulmate’s back. 

        He froze at the sound, and you sucked in a breath when it hit its mark. 

        He’s a ten, he’ll be fine. He’s a ten, he’ll be fine. The mantra repeated itself in your head every second your soulmate stood stock still. 

        But then he twisted around, and the arrow stayed levitating in place. Your legs almost collapsed beneath you in…amazement? Maybe relief? You weren’t quite sure. You watched as his head tilted to one side, observing the arrow now pointed towards the center of his chest. Then, with a half-grin, he untucked a hand from his pocket and snagged it from the air with an unceremonious snort. 

        “Well that wasn’t very nice.” He waggled it at you like a discipling finger.

        “Ten,” you could only mumble in response. It was the only thing running through your mind right now, the only word you could even speak. Your eyes were still wide in shock, locked on the arrow that had somehow floated in mid-air. You’d always planned on testing your soulmate in some way, but you’d never really tried to predict the outcome. You’d only ever planned on a before, never an after. 

        “Zero,” he simpered, a teasing lilt in his tone. Though your mind began to hyperfocus on his taunting tendencies, the rest of your body suffered the after-effects of a shiver running down your spine. Would your name sound just as captivating as your number, you wondered.

        “I’m afraid I have a mission to get to,” he continued, unzipping his jacket, “but we’ll be discussing this-” he flourished the arrow at you once more “-later.” Then he pocketed it within his black jacket, zipping himself back up before reaching up to his blindfold. He peeled up one edge of the black cloth, and your jaw grew slack at the sight of long, white lashes bordering a hypnotizing, iridescent blue iris.

        You barely took note of his wink before he slid the blindfold back into place, turning on his heel and waving a hand behind him. “See you soon, zero.”

                                ~~~

        One sip of the golden, bubbly liquid left a hint of apple on your tongue and a slight tingle at the back of your throat. You relaxed further into the cushions of the sofa, sweeping your tongue over the residual foam on your upper lip.

        A cloudless sky filled your domain, and a slight breeze blew back the stray hairs on your forehead whenever the sun grew too hot. You set the flute of champagne back onto the coffee table you’d summoned in front of you just beside the open bottle. Its sides were still sticky from the froth that had overflowed, and the cork was long absorbed by the soil. 

        Japan, you thought, was going to be wonderful. You were still in search of a permanent home in the city, but for the time being the principal--Yaga, he preferred--offered you a dorm on campus. On your campus.

        After presenting him with the wrinkly finger you’d so lovingly confined in thirty layers of paper towels, duct tape, and three Ziploc bags, along with a haphazard resume you’d concocted on three hours of sleep, he’d proposed a trial run of a job. 

        You were a temp. 

        Not only that, you were a babysitting temp.

        “You really think I’m qualified to teach first years?” you asked, though immediately regretted after remembering the “27 Dos and Don’ts for Interviews” you’d memorized beforehand. 

        Do build yourself up.

        Don’t reveal what you suck at in any way possible, no siree bob.

        “Well, I’ll admit that’s not all I expect of you. We are not in desperate need of a first-year teacher, but we believe that the current teacher is someone you could have a good influence on.” It was the first time the daunting man before you had ever avoided your gaze, fiddling with one of the many teddy bears that crowded his office on his lap. 

        The words sunk in after a moment, and the breath was stolen from your chest. 

        “Hold on. Are you saying that I could be working alongside that guy?”

        “Yes.” He nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose for just a second. “As much as we believe in his abilities, it is his…” he paused, searching for the right word, “personality that we fear he may pass onto the students instead of his expertise. We don’t need duplicates of Gojo-” he dragged out a sigh,“-but I fear we may already have some in the works. Thus, I hope you may be able to counteract his impression on them.”

        The seat beneath you had long grown hard and stiff, and you fidgeted on top of it. 

        “After all,” he set down his teddy bear, “there was a reason we sent him to report on you in the first place, Ms. YLN.”

        The situation was bittersweet with a little more sweet than bitter, so you had accepted the conditions. Though the thought of working alongside your soulmate had appealed to you at first, that had been before you remembered you’d shot an arrow at him. 

        And how he’d smirked afterwards.

        The wink he’d given you once more resurfaced to the forefront of your mind, and you dropped your head into your hands with a groan. A rapid thumping started in your chest, and you reached out for the flute once more, swallowing the remaining liquid. 

        You cursed under your breath after sweeping the back of your hand across your lips. “Can’t believe it’s one wink and I’m blushing like a little schoolgirl. What the hell’s wrong with me?” With a shake of your head, you kicked off your boots and reclined horizontally along the couch, squirming to get yourself into a comfortable position before dropping an arm over your eyes. 

        A sigh escaped you, and you tried to silence your wandering mind by zoning in on the sounds around you. Wind rustling the grass, new, fresh raindrops pattering against the soil, and your own heart slowly pounding. The cold began to nip at your skin, and you pondered summoning a blanket. 

        Then a rumbling of the ground below you caused you to drop your champagne glass. As it was swallowed up by the earth, you twisted to sit up straight, brows furrowed and eyes searching the line of trees hundreds of yards away. 

        Another tremor, this one strong enough to rattle the bottle on the coffee table. Glass clinked against wood as it finally tipped over, spilling its contents all over the polished surface. You could feel the trembling through your entire body now, teeth chattering as you clutched onto the couch, almost slipping right off.

        Your bow and a full quiver of arrows were spat out by a sudden crack in the earth that sealed itself after they surfaced, and you gathered them up into your arms. Unsteadily rising to your feet, you splayed your arms out for balance, body wavering in effort to not tip over against the force of the quake.

        “What the fuck is happening?” you barked, head darting back and forth to search along the circle of trees around you. Their long branches grew entangled with one another, each thick trunk wobbling as though it was being uprooted as the trees swayed in a new, far stronger gust of wind. Rain poured now, and you slipped on a jacket that emerged from the grass, forcing the hood up and over your head before setting an arrow and pulling back the bowstring.

        Even through the sights you couldn’t see anything, couldn’t aim for anything. Everything was blurry as your eyes rattled around in your skull, a headache born from the hard vibrations of your domain pinching and stabbing at your brain. 

        Someone was trying to get in, you realized. 

        And it was working.

        One more tremble and you dropped to your hands and knees, crying out in agony. It felt like someone had forced their way into your brain and gripped each half, trying to split it apart. You shoved your face against the damp grass, hoping for some relief while bracing both hands behind your neck. Your jaw ached from how hard you clenched your teeth, and you were almost positive blood had begun dripping from your nose. 

        Stop, make it stop. Go away, just make it stop. Stop! Please!

        You felt your body go slack, too tired from being tense for an extended period of time, and you rolled over, allowing the stars in your vision to dance until watching them was too exhausting. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you wormed your arms out from under you to splay out at your sides, the quakes palpable under your fingertips.

        And then it stopped. 

        All of it--all the pain, the headache, the trembling underneath you. All of it had disappeared without a trace, as though it were never even there.

        “Well now, almost caused me a little trouble there.”

        You didn’t even have enough energy to flinch nor to contest when two arms slid underneath your back and knees, hauling you up and a few seconds later dropping you down onto what you assumed was your leather sofa. 

        Two fingers peeled open your eyelid, and white hair filled your vision. Gleaming blue eyes watched you in amusement, and in your peripheral you noticed upturned lips. 

        Such a…dick.

        Your soulmate hummed and pulled his hands away, allowing your lid to close before pressing a hand to your forehead. “Quite a fight you put up for a while there. Almost had me breaking a sweat. Can’t imagine you’re feeling any good.”

        But, to your slight dismay, you were. The feeling of his hands against you, on you, helped the echoes of pain still haunting your body fade away. A strong scent of pine mixed with clean musk and citrus flooded your senses. Unauthorized bliss buzzed along your bloodstream, goading your drained form to lean closer to the sudden source of endorphins.

        “Like shit,” you mumbled. “Your fault.”

        Gojo chuckled. “Maybe next time you should just let me in.” 

        “Hell no.”

        “Mmhmm, we’ll see about that.”

        The hand drifted from your forehead, and in a shameful state of panic you whined under your breath. When he laughed louder, you knew you didn’t want to open your eyes and see the smirk that would greet you.

        “So needy.” His hand palmed your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. “Guess I’ll just have to be your doctor until you’re feeling better. I doubt you mind.”

        “Fuck…you…”

        “Soon, zero.”

        “Pervert.”

        He made a noise of objection, but rather than argue with your half-unconscious self, he grumbled something under his breath like “We’ll see about that,” before busying himself with prodding at your face with a tissue. You cracked open your eyes a sliver to see he’d pulled the coffee table up beside you, curling his form over yours to spare you from the easing downpour.

        The tips of his white hair dripped water onto your couch cushions, and only then did you realize his usual blindfold was down and around his neck. 

        Holy shit, is that really the same guy?

        Your gaze traveled farther down, brows furrowing in confusion when you realized he wasn’t wearing the same black jacket from before. In its place was a white, long-sleeved button up, the top button undone and the fabric entirely soaked through. 

        “I heard you got the job.” His voice dragged you out of your daze, forcing your attention up to his face. His eyes flashed when they met yours, an unidentifiable emotion flitting through them that left no trace a second later. “Congratulations.”

        “Yeah,” you shut your eyes once more, hoping to halt any heat rising to your face. “You're sitting on the champagne I was drinking.”

        “Ew.”

        “To be fair, you’re the one who spilled it.”

        “You could’ve warned me.”

        “Where’s the fun in that?”

        He didn’t respond, but his gaze was almost as palpable at the fingertips resting on your cheek. His other hand had long tossed away the tissue he’d used to clean up your bloody nose and was now propped on the couch cushions beside you so he could lean over you better. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now. 

        “So you heard I got the job, but did you hear I’m your babysitter too?”

        He sniggered. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Though you may be more enjoyable to have around.”

        You swallowed at that. “Oh?” Beneath your front was a raging pile of nerves you struggled to stifle. “I’m flattered.”

        “People always are.”

        Well that certainly helped. Your lips pursed in effort to hold back a sneer, but you opened your eyes to glare at him. 

        “Never mind.”

        “Nuh-uh,” he waggled his finger in your face, “can’t take it back now. Speaking of, I think I’m due an apology.”

        Both his hands abandoned their post on and around you, leaving you feeling cold and bare. When he reached toward your body, though, was when you wriggled to get away. He latched onto you, snagging something layered over your body as equally soaked as his shirt. After he lifted it up, you recognized it as his jacket, and something warm filled your chest while he fished something out of it. 

        Okay, he’s one cocky son of a bitch, but that was sweet.

        Then he revealed one of your arrows, the black metal tip all too familiarly engraved with your initials.

        “Anything to say for yourself?” He waved it over your head tauntingly, even tapping the tip of your nose with part of the shaft. 

        You smacked your lips shut, avoiding your gaze. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

        One long, slender finger poked the side of your forehead. “You sure? There must have been some reason for you trying to kill me.”

        You fell silent, and it took two seconds for him to grow bored with your lack of response. “Maybe,” he reached over your body, slipping past his jacket he’d lain over you once more, “just maybe it had something to do with this.” A warm grip on your wrist tugged it into sight, and Gojo slid down the sleeve of your jacket with his other hand. 

        The way the number ten was written matched his personality, you realized. It was dark and firmly settled into your skin with a certain amount of force behind it, but its effortless flow from one digit to the next displayed a level of insouciance you’d only ever seen in the man before you. 

        Gojo’s eyes studied the 10 with intense curiosity, like it was whispering secrets in his ears. His lips squeezed together before parting, words he couldn’t quite seem to grasp lying in wait upon them.

        “I-” you broke the silence first, staring at the number as well, though mostly to avoid his burning gaze, “-I imagine you being born with a zero was much less a dramatic experience than mine.” Your gaze fell to his own wrist, something you’d had yet to see bare. “...Right?”

        The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “My number was an attestation to the power of the Gojo family. You’d think they expected it of me.” He ran the pad of his thumb over the 10, a grin splitting his face when goosebumps rose from his actions. “So, I suppose, then, you may get a pass for shooting at me. But I’ll be keeping this.” His unoccupied hand slipped the arrow back into his jacket pocket. “Maybe I’ll just hang it on my wall from now on.”

        “And if I need it back?”

        “Nope, it's mine now.”

        “In exchange, then,” you sat up straighter, gulping “do I at least get to see your mark?” 

        His mouth softened into a small smile, and he offered his hand to you. “I suppose that’s fair.” Unlike yours, his body did not shiver at your touch. The second your fingertips grazed the palm of his hand, a sound not unlike a purr left him, and you did not bother looking up to his face, already knowing his eyes were on yours in return. 

        You’d grown accustomed to his stare by now, feeling it was something akin to sun rays burning into your skin. Already, too, you felt heat rise to your cheeks.

        0. 

        A little lopsided, larger on one end rather than the other. Bold and black against his lighter colored wrist, and soft to the touch. A sort of narcissistic satisfaction flooded your chest, and your body felt all the warmer for it. 

        “You must like what you see.” Gojo’s voice dragged you out of your reverie. “I know I do.”

        You only realized you were smiling when it fell at his words. Such an ass. You let your hands fall from his wrist onto your lap, and, acknowledging the urge to reach for him once more, you occupied your hands by picking at your fingernails. 

        “Your blush is adorable, you know that?” Without warning, his hand cupped your cheek. He ran his fingertips along your reddened skin, dancing them over your cheekbone and running them behind your ear along with a strand of hair. All the while, he studied your face, chuckling at the veil of wariness that took over. “So cute,” he mumbled. 

        Then he stood up.

        “Well then. I guess I got what I came here for.” His sudden movements gave you whiplash, and you flinched back when he rose to his feet. With two palms planted on his back, he pushed his abdomen forward, groaning at the stretch. 

        You bit your tongue. 

        “Now, I gotta go. It was nice seeing you, zero.” He grasped the blindfold around his neck, sending you one last wink before securing it over his eyes. 

        Out from under the weight of his crystalline gaze, you relaxed back onto your couch, sucking in a short breath. 

        “Three days from now we have our first mission together,” he reached for the coat over your lap, pulling it on and patting down the pockets. The corner of his lips rose. “I’d say be there on time, but I’d hate to keep you waiting. Expect a half-hour delay or more.” 

        He paused and pursed his lips, his head tilting to one side. “Actually, you know what, I’ll just come find you. Make it easier that way.” With that, he turned and walked away, throwing a wave over his shoulder. “See you then, zero.

        “Oh, and next time, I suggest you just let me in. Save yourself the trouble--you’ll know when it’s me.”

                                ~~~

        A fierce wind whistled through the abandoned building, its wooden walls crackling and crying at its touch. Spare leaves scraped along the ground along with broken glass from both fallen photographs and busted windows. Through every hole in the wall filtered in a bit of sunlight, highlighting the dust you and Gojo kicked up with your every footstep. The floorboards underneath you wobbled uncertainly. 

        “Nanami said authorities reported two suspicious persons hiding out inside this building.” You glanced up from the text message, eyeing the torn, bloodstained furniture that lay askew around the room. “So that means there’s two demons after one finger.” You pocketed your phone. 

        “God, that sounds like the worst porn ever.” You hurled a glare at Gojo, who raised his hands in defense. “Am I wrong?”

        “You’re perverted is what you are,” you sighed, massaging a finger against your temple. 

        “But not wrong,” he sang as you both walked on. 

        Another strong gust of wind tore into the room, slamming open the entry door and blowing a tuft of your hair into your face. You spat it out with an annoyed grumble, but just as you reached up to pull the final strands from your lips, Gojo caught your wrist and, in turn, your attention. 

        “Over there,” he gestured his head to a side room that split off from the one you currently stood in. It appeared to be a bedroom judging by the yellowed mattress visible from the doorway, but a rancid scent of spoiled eggs intermingling with dried blood wafted toward you from its direction. With the scent came palpable cursed energy. 

        “One for me, one for you?” you asked, blindly reaching for an arrow in your quiver while removing your bow from around your chest. The energy was so strong you were almost choking on it, and when you took a deep breath to relieve yourself from the pressure, you gagged at the taste.

        Gojo paused, staring at you for a second and watching as you loaded the arrow and pulled back the string. “We’ll see,” he said, reaching up and removing his blindfold. 

        Your grip on your bow faltered, and you relaxed your hold on the arrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

        Gojo did not bother waiting for you nor answering your question, instead disappearing from your side, blue eyes glowing and body cocooned in a sort of translucent, wavering bubble. 

        Then all hell broke loose. 

        A broken squeal pierced your ears before sizzling black blood painted the doorway. The building began rattling more from Gojo’s fight than from the wind outside, and you feared the infrastructure was going to collapse from the pressure. Anxious--and perhaps feeling a bit left out--you darted towards the room, making the subconscious decision to avoid the splatter on your way. 

        The second you stepped foot inside, you found yourself in a domain. From what you could tell, it wasn’t Gojo’s. Though you’d never actually seen his domain, you figured it would look a little less monstrous than the one you were currently in. 

        Concrete rubble crunched underneath your feet. Glistening stalagmites rose from the floor, oozing with a black liquid not unlike tar that made it appear as if they were melting. The black abyss you stood in was sweltering, and almost instantly you felt your long sleeve jacket and pants begin sliding and sticking against your skin. A green fog hung in the air, a medium for the light of the crescent moon dangling in the sky. A monster’s domain indeed. 

        In all your time admiring, you almost missed the figure bounding toward you. A long blue tongue reached out to lap at the side of your face, and you sidestepped just in time, shivering at the hot breath that still managed to reach you where the tongue had missed. The creature blew past you completely, four spindly legs scrambling for purchase in the uneven rubble. 

        “Holy shit,” you gasped, eyes wide as you loaded and aimed your bow. Your chest pounded hard enough to flood your ears, and your heartbeat was palpable in your fingertips. When the monster’s head, resembling a spider’s with a hundred eyes all locked on you and fangs drooping from its mouth, sat on top of your arrow point, you let your fingers slip from the string. 

        “YN!” Gojo’s voice perked your ears, and just as you turned to find him, another spirit, this one twice your size with sharp thorns covering every inch of its body, reached with one large, three-fingered hand for your head, its two eyes deep pits of fire and rage.

        And despair, but you figured it was only your own gaze reflected within his. 

        You envisioned it to be somewhat like a strong man twisting the cap off a pickle jar, or perhaps even squeezing a tomato in his fist hard enough that it bursts, juices flying everywhere. Maybe it would be like being flung around like a ragdoll, body flailing as your head stays trapped in his palm. 

        Whatever it was, you were certain it wasn’t going to feel nice. 

        In one last, hail-Mary attempt, you tried to sink into your domain, to feel the light droplets and the forgiving sofa one last time. “Please,” you whispered.

        Everything grew dark and quiet. White noise rang in your ears, fluctuating with each racing heartbeat that shook its way through your body. When you did open your eyes, there was nothing, not even black darkness in your sight. 

        Nothing. 

        Nothing but a pounding headache, like someone trying to split your head open and read your thoughts like an open book. 

        “YN! YN, wake up!”

        It was him, that voice. But something was wrong, wasn’t it?

        “Come on, you can’t do this to me--I just found you!”

        It was distant, like usual. So far away you could barely hear him. But there was something about his tone–why was he so scared?

        “Wake up for me, YN. Please, just look at me.”

        He wasn’t laughing. His voice sounded so weird when he wasn’t laughing at your defeat, and isn’t that what he’d always done?

        Perhaps, maybe, it was because you’d won for once?

        Or, perhaps, maybe, he’d lost?

        Nonetheless, a short laugh escaped you. A small giggle, accompanied by a snort. Then another chuckle, louder now, because it was just so funny!

        How could a ten possibly lose?

        The very idea was hilarious!

        You cackled louder, wheezing in effort as you braced two hands over your stomach, trying to ease the pain of the action. Your own howls met your ears, sounding even more ridiculous coming from you, and that made you laugh harder. 

        He had gone silent. 

        You opened your eyes a sliver, gray, drizzling skies dampening your face and mingling with the tears already present. Your wrinkled clothes, still damp with sweat, grew cold and clung to your skin. The grass underneath you tickled your bare palms. 

        Gojo. Gojo loomed over you, long fingers paused in their obvious raking through his white hair. His blindfold was nowhere to be seen, and his chest rose and sank in a swift pattern. 

        Opalescent eyes scoured your face, and it was when you felt a pressure on your lips that you realized he had moved to cradle your head in his palms. 

        “What,” he whispered, choking on a breath, “-What was so fucking funny?” 

        All the laughter had been sapped away, slowly deteriorated along with your energy as you let your head relax in his hold. Your hands reached up on their own volition and grasped at his wrist, trying to move him or stop him from moving, you weren’t quite sure. 

        “Am I alive?” you pondered aloud. 

        Gojo shook his head in disbelief, gnawing angrily on his lip before hissing a curse under his breath. He made a move to release his hold on you, and that was when you discovered you were holding him there.

        “Yes. Yes, you are, and I can’t fucking believe it.”

        “You know what’s funny?”

        His eyes snapped to yours. “No, I really don’t. Please, for the love of God, enlighten me.”

        “All my life, I thought you would be this… this sort of invincible god. A ten. I thought you were the one who was going to kill me.”

        “YN-”

        “But you didn’t. You saved me.” You removed his hands from your face, with an evidently necessary amount of force, and wrestled yourself up into a sitting position, your legs splayed out before you. Gojo kneeled beside you, one of his hands insistent on your back. “You were so scared, Satoru. But you shouldn’t be.” You couldn’t help it; you reached up to cup his cheek, wiping away a raindrop from under his eye. “Because no matter how much I don’t like it, I know you have been and you always will be there to save me.”

        Gojo chewed on the inside of his lip, eyes examining every inch of your face as if he was trying to imprint it into memory. You doubted you looked as great as his gaze implied--your hair was a rat’s nest on top of your head, your entire body was trembling, and your eyes were still unsteady from the blows you’d almost taken amidst the fight. 

        “You’re gonna be such a pain in my ass, zero,” he hummed.

        Then his lips captured yours.

                                ~~~

        “So, you…eat…the fingers?”

        “Yep.”

        “Well… are they good?”

        “Nope.”

        You purse your lips and nod. “Okay… but why was your first thought to eat it?”

        Fushiguro shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

        “Will do.”

        You led the group of first years to the school courtyard, directing them toward the center of the clearing where you stood. The sun shone today, blisteringly hot with only a cool breeze every few seconds to offer slight relief. Birds chirped in the trees of the school’s surrounding forest, and Itadori frantically swatted away a few gnats. 

        “All right, everyone, today you will learn my cursed technique.”

        You closed your eyes, focusing a little harder to allow three more people into your domain than usual. You envisioned a plain of grass, a surrounding barrier of roses, then trees. You saw the light gray sky, the cooling drops of rain, the barely-visible sun.

        “Gojo?!”

        And Gojo splayed out on your sofa, arm thrown over his eyes, mouth open to catch flies as he snored. He was a large jumble of long limbs and white hair sitting lopsided on your couch. 

        “Didn’t he say he was on a mission today?” Kugisaki asked, her brow raised. 

        Yuuji creeped toward him, finger outstretched and ready to poke him in the cheek. He met an invisible wall instead. 

        “Are you really surprised?” Fushiguro crossed his arms. “My question is, why’s he in here?”

        Three pairs of eyes turned to you, and, helpless, you shrugged. “Sometimes he breaks in to take naps. I’ve gotten used to it after a while.”

        “Hold on, are you the ‘zero’ lady he’s always talking about?!” Itadori gawked at you, his eyes locked onto your wrist.

        A loud yawn split the air. Gojo, his snores finally silenced, let his arm fall from his face. A smirk danced on his lips when he saw you, but it fell when he saw the three first years. He locked his glowing gaze on their forms and groaned exhaustedly. 

       “Yes she is. My little zero.” He winked at you, then turned his blue glare onto them. “Now scatter, you three. My wife’s domain is my nap space, not yours.”

“dude” but like romantically

One Punch Man Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Garou:

■  Betrayal 🔔🌦️ 

You were interested in Garou ever since he stepped foot into your grandfather’s dojo. But after he attacks the others and gets expelled, you have to try and forget every emotion that’s ever festered for him over the years.

■  Child’s Play 🔔🖤💋

Getting you to fall in love with Garou was like child’s play. Now, he just needed to give you a reason to stay by his side. 

Warnings: Smut, breeding kink, dirtyyyy talk, overstimulation, slight?cum play, dubious consent maybe?? (not really but he’s yandere so who knows)

■  The Gift-Giver 🔔🖤

Belts, tank tops, even a metal bat. All these “gifts” from the Hero Hunter’s fights on the news keep showing up at your doorstep. Today, you expected no different, except it is; an empty suitcase is there, and the white-haired man in your bedroom wants you to pack up for your new home.

■  Lovesick 🌦️💥

You have a cold, but Garou doesn’t know that. All he knows is that you wanted him to stay away, and that was something he could never do when it came to you.

■  Misery Loves Company ☀️

Garou was falling for you, ever so quickly. It only takes a small bath with you for this to settle in.

■  Please Don’t Save Me 🔔🖤

(TW: gore) After the Monster Association kidnaps you under the claim that you’re bait for a friend, the man that comes to save you is unfamiliar, but he seems to know you quite well. He’s your savior… but who is he?

■  Turning the Tables 🔔🖤

The monster never gets the girl, but why not? Garou never knew, but what he did know was that that was about to change. He was getting the girl… getting you, whether you want him or not.

Genos:

■  Childish Ways 💥☀️

You always throw magnets at Genos. He’s gotten used to it at this point.

■  Explosive Antics 💥 (slight🌦️)

After playing a cheating prank on your boyfriend with a rather loud, raunchy video, Genos decides to take his frustration out on the laptop that tricked him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🟣Headcanons🟣

(Soft) Yandere Garou Headcanons 🔔🖤☀️

Garou General Relationship Headcanons 🔔☀️(slight 💋)

Y!Garou and Y!Metal Bat Crushing on the Same Oblivious Reader 🔔🖤

It’s the thirsting on Hisoka even tho I’ve never actually watched hunter x hunter for me🤡

He Accidentally Confesses (Haikyuu!! Fake Texts)

(Tsukishima Version)

A/N: tehee it just came to me, enjoy!

Garou General Relationship Headcanons (Partly NSFW) *Request*

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Yep, I’m just gonna combine these two requests bc they’re basically the same thing. As you can see, the nsfw part is labeled, so for those of you who are okay with my cussing but not with my dirty cussing, ur welcome. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Word count: 1459

SFW:

I gotta be honest. Initially, I think Garou would see your relationship as a waste of his time. He could be training or fighting people or… y’know, fighting people. 

But then you hug him for the first time and he’s just like *surprised pikachu face*

The cuddles with this man. Really, it’s not hard to see that he’s a little starved of love and other intimacies, so you best believe you're making up for that slack. 

Spooning in bed is a must, and as much as I hate to say it, you’re always the little spoon😔. Yes, yes, I know you’re thirsting over his beautiful back, but this guy’s paranoid, and he likes to feel like the man in the relationship. Under no circumstances are you ever holding him from behind. Not even when you try to sneak up on him. 

Rip you. Guess who has to wash the blood out of his hair. Sorry not sorry. 

“How tf did you get blood in your eye??”

“Just get it out!” 

Moving on, just consider this one for a sec:

The hickeys with this dude. Have you seen his teeth??

They look more like bite marks than anything, but Garou just loves to show that you're his.

People called him Wolf Man for a reason, amirite

N E ways, you’re more become his personal nurse than his girlfriend. The goddamn blood he tracks into your house has you almost pulling your hair out, but before you can give him a good talking to, he usually crashes on your couch. 

It’s covered in a plastic liner for just this occasion.

After years of healing himself, he much prefers your gentle touch to his often shaky one. You wrap his wounds with disappointing looks 24/7, but God it just reminds him that someone finally cares about him. 

“I really wish you wouldn’t do this, Garou. I don’t want you to not come home one of these days.” Not over, but “home.” He almost spontaneously combusts after you imply that you live in the same house. 

Speaking of, he doesn’t really ask to move in, you just find a shrine of hero pictures in your spare room one day, some covered in red Xs and others left bare. Then you see him, conked out on the mattress that doesn’t even have sheets. You try to crawl in and hug his back, but this guy’s always attentive. The second the bed shifts, he rolls over and tugs you down against him. 

“Don’t move, I’m tired.” 

“LET ME SPOON YOU, YOU BEEFY BASTARD!”

“Shhh.”

Size doesn’t matter with this one. Garou’s got muscles for days, so he’s gonna haul you around whenever he can. You can be literally in the process of making dinner and he’ll just swoop you up into his arms, bridal style or your thighs wrapped around his hips, and he’ll just swing you around. Fite me, but he loves holding you. 

Everybody, say it with me now: Touch Starved.

Only five months into the relationship does he mention kids. I mean, you’ve stuck around this long, surely you’re in for the long haul, right?

He wants kids, simple as that. You figure you wouldn’t mind a couple baby Garous runnin’ around, and that’s all he needs to hear before he jumps you.

SORRY, SORRY, SORRY, one more thing, I swear.

Garou is the definition of 🤩 Ass Man 🤩

Your ass? Smacked. Hotel? Trivago.

Whether he’s in a mood to just follow you around the house, or he’s on his way out to kick some heroic booty, you best believe he’s got one hand on your cheeks. 

Cup ‘em, spank ‘em, stick ‘em in-- wait, wrong meme.

Nah but seriously, Garou just likes holding your butt, and after you’ve gotten over scolding him and turning into a tomato about it, it’s actually kinda nice. 

Legit, have you seen those hands? B r u h, they’re big bois. 

I’m going to hell for this, so just know that this man smacks your ass instead of saying hello. 

Hope you keep soothing lotion on hand🤷‍♀️

NSFW:

Excuse me, hello sub? You’ve found your dom. 

This guy is fucking… mwah *chefs kiss*

Though he doesn’t have much experience, we all know he learns quickly. 

Using those 🥵 fingers of his (hand kink anyone?), he’ll figure out what exactly makes you fall apart before his eyes. 

I mean damn, could you imagine his gaze watching you? Fuck, those golden eyes swallowing up your fucked out face as he grins that wolfish grin of his. 

Smug Bastard™

LISTEN LINDA!!

👏spank-👏ings. 

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. 

Like I said, he just wants to see that ass jiggle. God forbid you ever try to get your own smack on him tho. 

“Are you trying to test me, Angel?”

Tbh, I don’t think he wants to choke you. Yeah sure, if you want him to, he will, but like… he’s pretty young. Of course he knows his own strength and when to stop but… idk, I feel like that’s just too far, even for him. He doesn’t want to get too into it and, ya know… bye bye YN. 

You’re not on top. Nope, not happening. Not even once, sweetheart.

Well, maybe once. 

“You know what? Pretty sure I don’t like this. Untie me please before I break these bed posts.”

“I didn’t even do anything yet!”

Lemme just bring your attention back to the wonderful provider that is Garou. 

His teeth: sharp. His tongue: long. His fingers: Good lordy, how many times am I gonna talk about ‘em. 

He’ll hold you down and eat you out anywhere you want him. At a restaurant? Oof, hold up, give him a sec to just slip under the table, and if the waitress asks, he’s in the bathroom. 

The marks between your thighs, whether from his fingernails for holding you in place or his teeth for biting your irresistible skin, keep you from wearing shorts for quite a while. 

Seriously, I’m never gonna stop saying this, but Garou is like the guy for biting and marking you up. There’s just an animalistic side that you draw out of him whenever you cry out his name.

All right, so you help him discover this one, but thigh riding. 

This one. This. One.

Fuck, this guy’s so pretty. Tiny waist, but he got them thicc thighs, u know?

Anyways, lemme just paint you a lil picture of how he figured out he liked this. 

We all know Garou’s a lil closed off, so he’s not really one to try anything unless you’re the one to bring it up. 

Back to it, you guys were just making out on your couch. At some point, you had straddled his lap and hot damn, now we’re gettin’ somewhere.

Before he even realizes, you’ve slithered one of your legs between his and plopped down on top of his thigh. It was the perfect size, you were needy, and oh fuck, when he subconsciously flexes it bc he’s so anxious to kiss you? Ughhhh

Then he hears your moans and the hands he’s got gripping your hips with the intent to leave bruises feels you moving back and forth and he’s like “oh, well hello.”

“Ugh, fuck YN, you like this? Holy shit, Angel.”

Garou starts to help you move back and forth and before you know it, you’re releasing on his thigh. Rip those gray sweatpants, they will be missed. Damn, I mean the fabric is just soaked and-- oop, when did this ride get so slippery?

Your shuddering underneath his rough hands, but if you thought it was over, you’re severely mistaken. He loves the idea that he can get you off so effortlessly, so don’t think for once that you’re in control. *Overstimulation has entered the chat*

“Nuh-uh, Angel. One more time, I know you can do it. You wanted to cum so bad, now you get to. Keep moving.”

Fairly certain I’ve preached this one before, but… breeding kink???

Yeah, he definitely wants to fill you full of his… kids.

Hmm, not sure if he’s a huge fan of being called daddy, but if you like it, he likes it too so whatever🤷‍♀️

Aight, aight, last kink y’all, cuz this is gettin’ too long. Here’s the ultimate reveal.

You really wanna know what gets Garou off the most? 

H*nd H*lding🥵