A Family of Villains - sincerelyamee - 呪術廻戦 (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 2007

Ieiri Shoko isn’t like other girls her age. Or boys. Or anyone. No, literally. While they crush on pop stars, go on cute coffee dates, and get their hearts trampled, young and carefree as they should be, Shoko is trapped within the imposing walls of Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School 24/7.

Her healing abilities are as much a curse as they are a blessing. Don’t get her wrong - Shoko is deeply grateful for her unique gift, the fact that she can save lives. But the constant tide of blood, pain, and suffering wears on a gentle soul. Then comes the endless studying and training alone, because let's face it, no one truly understands her intricate abilities anyway. All that when her two best friends are out there taking on dangerous missions and racking up fans like celebrities.

Shoko isn’t jealous… much. Okay, she’s a tiny bit salty when Gojo returns from missions unscathed thanks to his fancy eyes, posing flirtatiously for a crowd of smitten girls. And she may have childishly imagined whacking Geto with a rolled-up newspaper once or twice when he flashes his newest curse to impress Utahime. But hey, she’s only human.

Mostly though, Shoko accepts that this is her lot in life. She’ll always be stuck as the healer girl, dutifully patching up flesh and bone without fanfare.

But is one night of beauty sleep too much for this oveworked healer to ask?!

Shoko has been peacefully asleep, buried under mounds of plush blankets. The steady rise and fall of her chest is the only movement in the stillness of pre-dawn when without warning, the air splits with a resounding crack.

Gojo's tall form materializes in the center of the room. One arm wrapped securely around Geto's waist, the other gripping two tiny girls close against his side.

Shoko bolts upright with a gasp. Before she can unleash a string of violent curses, Gojo cheerfully chirps, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!”

Geto sways the moment Gojo releases him, clearly unaccustomed to having his molecules so abruptly warped through space. Shoko’s heart sinks. Geto looks even worse than the last time she saw him just yesterday - skin impossibly paler, eyes hollow, hair disheveled and falling limply across his forehead. Blood is splattered like some gruesome Jackson Pollock painting across the once pristine whiteness of his shirt.

Then, Shoko’s gaze darts to the two little girls still clinging tightly to Gojo. Their wide, frightened eyes skittishly scan the room beneath locks of tangled hair. The one with black hair looks painfully skinny, the oversized tattered clothes hanging off her bony frame covered in dirt and shredded in places. The other has streaks cutting through the dust on her tear-stained cheeks. They can’t be any older than five or six.

“What the actual f-” Shoko hisses through gritted teeth before catching herself, remembering the children. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Would someone care to explain?”

“I messed up, Sho.” Geto finally mutters, staring intensely at the floor.

“I wouldn’t say messed up. Those assholes kinda deserved it.”

Gojo waves a hand as he ushers the little girls toward Geto before making himself at home across the room. Seemingly oblivious to the heavy atmosphere, he carelessly sweeps the mountain of textbooks and papers on Shoko’s desk to one side. Ignoring her murderous glare, Gojo hops onto the newly cleared desk, legs swinging like a child as he pops a cookie from Shoko’s secret snack stash into his mouth.

Shoko sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. Wordlessly she gestures for the others to sit on the edge of her rumpled bed.

Geto perches gingerly, the two girls immediately clambering onto his lap and clinging to his bloodstained shirt. Shoko’s heart clenches seeing how their skinny frames tremble. Geto wraps his arms around them tightly. For several long moments, the only sounds are the occasional sniffles of the children.

Shoko waits patiently for an explanation, hands folded neatly in her lap as she studies Geto’s face. Jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed as if he’s struggling to find the right words. His long fingers stroke the girls’ hair in soothing motions giving away his inner turmoil.

Finally Geto lifts his head, brown eyes haunted. He takes a shaky breath, his voice comes out raw, his story told in fractured pieces. Shoko listens intently. Gojo pauses his aimless humming, peering over curiously to gauge her response.

At first, Shoko’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but then, her surprise quickly shifts to resigned sadness. Though, she can’t say she hasn’t seen this coming. In truth, she has sensed the growing cracks in him for long enough - something even Shoko couldn’t heal. Shoko reaches out to grasp Geto’s clenched fist. Her touch is infinitely gentle, yet firm in its conviction.

Once Geto finishes, Gojo hops down from his perch, signature grin returning. “Sho’s in. We’ve got this!”

“You know I can’t raise people from the dead, right?” Shoko deadpans.

“Eh? Well, then…” Gojo rubs his chin, appearing thoughtful, as if he was capable of thinking. “Pack your bags, Sho! We’re going on a loooong trip!”

When Shoko only looks back blandly, Gojo grabs her shoulders with overdramatic urgency:

“C’mon! we gotta dash! Up and at ‘em!” He exclaims, giving her a little shake.

Shoko swats his hands away. “Why exactly do I have to run?”

Gojo smushes her cheeks as he leans in, winking playfully: “Because you’re our Sho and we’re not gonna leave our best girl behind!”

“Don’t I get a say in uprooting my entire life?” Shoko rolls her eyes even as her lips quirk up slightly.

To which Gojo laughs boisterously. “Absolutely not!”

And so, it is settled. As Shoko goes around to collect her essentials, Gojo paces the room, rambling at light speed about all the ingenious plans he has in store. Now that they’re about to become wanted curse users, they simply must be the best villains the jujutsu world shall ever face.

“Okay gang, first things first! We need badass villain names. I’m thinking something like ‘Gojo the Slayer’ or ‘The White Menace!’”

He whirls around, finger raised inspirationally.

“Sho can be ‘Angel of Death’ and Suguru is…” Gojo scrunches his nose. “Well, his name already sounds evil enough honestly.”

Geto shoots him an utterly exasperated look. “How can you even joke right now? Did you already forget why we’re on the run in the first place?” His voice wavers.

Gojo waves a hand flippantly. “Water under the bridge! We’ve got bigger fish to fry as outlaws on the lam!”

Hopping up on Shoko’s desk again, Gojo strokes an imaginary mustache. “Now, onto important business - every villain squad needs a super secret lair…”

He descends into detailing plans for an underground lair complete with a classy jacuzzi, when Shoko glances up from packing. “Did you forget something rather important, Gojo?”

Gojo raises a brow. “Uh...no?”

Shoko sighs, striding over to deliver a sharp whack upside his head.

“Ow!” Gojo yelps, more startled than actually pained. “What was THAT for?”

Shoko rolls her eyes and whacks him again just because she can. It’s not like it hurts him anyway.

Gojo scowls, smoothing his disheveled silver hair. “You know I hate being whacked! I’m the one who does the whacking!”

“Oh I’m well aware,” Shoko replies coolly. “Consider it incentive to use your one brain cell. What about the Fushiguro kids?”

Gojo’s eyes bug out comically. “Oh sh*t!” He smacks his forehead. “I can’t believe I almost forgot!”

Shoko taps her foot, supremely unimpressed. For all Gojo’s omnipotent power, he has the brain of a panda. “Are you gonna just leave them to the Zen’ins?”

“Uh…” Gojo rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “No, of course not!” He perks up. “I'll just pop over real quick and grab them!”

Then he warps out of the room with a loud pop.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

As any other villain origin story, there’s a lot of uncertainty at the beginning.

Once the dazzling brightness of Gojo’s presence vanishes, the room seems to dim and contract. A stillness descends, broken only by the soft sniffles of the children curled in Geto’s lap. Heavy shadows pool in the corners of Shoko’s modest dorm. The cheerful yellow walls and scattered books now appear stark and gloomy.

Geto lifts his troubled gaze to meet Shoko’s calm eyes. When he speaks, his voice trembles just above a whisper. “You don’t have to do this, Sho. Don’t throw away your future for my mistakes.”

Shoko notes the deep shadows under his eyes, the hollows in his sharp cheekbones, the slump in his weary shoulders. Her heart aches.

“Excuse me. I will toss away my future however I please.” Shoko laughs softly. “It’s boring here, anyway.”

“You and him can never be serious, huh.” Geto huffed a bitter chuckle. One corner of his mouth ticks up ever so slightly.

Shoko reaches out slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal, brushing back the lank strands falling across Geto’s forehead. Her slender fingers linger tenderly along the sharp plane of his gaunt cheek.

“And we’ve got you.” She reminds him.

Geto leans into Shoko’s feather-light touch, tension bleeding out from his shoulders. For the first time in too long, a spark of hope flickers within the darkness that’s plagued him. Perhaps, things will work out somehow. As long as he still has Shoko and Gojo, everything will be fine.

The two little girls gaze up with wonder in their large brown eyes. They have never before witnessed such open affection. All their short lives until this night, they’ve only known cruelty and indifference.

As Geto feels them stir in his lap, he ruffles their hair affectionately:

“Are you girls hungry at all?” He asks.

Shoko reaches over and slides open the bottom drawer of her desk, which overflows with her… well, more like Gojo’s secret stash of sweets and brightly wrapped candies. Even though Shoko doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth herself, she dutifully keeps the drawer well-stocked. Gojo has an insatiable sugar addiction - he’ll materialize in her room at all hours, raiding her stash as he chatters her ear off about his latest escapades.

Shoko pretends to be annoyed, but doesn’t actually mind. And the delighted grin he beams at her when discovering his favorite strawberry bonbons never fails to melt her heart.

She offers the entire drawer to the wide-eyed girls with a warm smile.

The light-haired girl eyes Shoko warily, hesitating. But the dark-haired one immediately snatches up a fistful of gummies with delight, only to be stopped by Geto’s gentle hand on her wrist.

“Easy there, Mimiko, don’t choke yourself,” he chides. “It’s okay, Nanako, you can eat too.” He nudges the shy girl forward. “Sho’s a great girl. I trust her with my life.”

At this reassurance, Nanako inches forward and tentatively picks out a cookie. Her eyes widen at that first sweet taste. Mimiko needs no further encouragement - she immediately digs into the drawer with delight, grabbing chocolate covered pretzels and gummies by the handful.

Within moments, both girls are eagerly stuffing their mouths with the first decent meal they’ve had in ages. Sticky fingers shove candy after candy past their cracked lips, cheeks bulging like squirrels. They eat so urgently, as if afraid this dream of sweets might vanish.

Shoko watches them with a heart both warmed and softly breaking. It strikes her how such simple pleasures - things she’s always taken for granted, seem to mean the entire world in this moment to these girls. Their unrestrained joy and gratitude over gifts as small as gummy worms.

Gojo won’t be happy when he finds out she hands over his whole stash, but such is a price he has to pay when he asked her to commit treason.

Right on cue, the air violently splits open again. Gojo comes tumbling out, both Fushiguro siblings unceremoniously tucked under his arms like footballs. Little Megumi and Tsumiki cling to Gojo for dear life, faces scrunched up in residual panic from the abrupt teleportation.

“Whoops, my bad!” Gojo laughs. He makes no move to put either wailing child down. Tsumiki’s legs kick helplessly in the air. “Didn't mean to scare you guys more. But hey, at least I got ya!”

Geto hastily steps in before Gojo accidentally drops one of the traumatized kids out of existence. He carefully extracts a snarling Megumi first, then Tsumiki. Setting them gently on Shoko’s crowded bed, he smooths their disheveled hair.

“What are we doing here?” Megumi somehow manages to glare at everyone at the same time, with all the intimidation a five-year-old can muster.

“We’re going on an adventure! All of us!” Gojo declares gleefully.

“But… what about school?” Tsumiki asks timidly, lower lip wobbling as she glances around with wet eyes.

“Eh, skip it! School’s overrated anyway” Gojo snickers, but at Shoko’s stern look, he amends, “I mean… We’ll figure it out later. We’re big bad villains now. We’ve got villain stuff to do!”

He strikes a dramatic pose. “That's right kiddos, from today onward, we’re the most wanted curse users! Ain’t that thrilling?” Gojo grins and ruffles Megumi’s hair, only to get his hand smacked away.

Though supremely annoyed at being snatched through space like an unruly sack of potatoes, little Megumi feels an unexpected sense of relief. Because for a pint-sized five-year-old, he comprehends more than most.

Case in point - Gojo may have less common sense than a drunken panda and all the emotional depth of a brick wall. But at least he remembered to zoom back for them before blasting off into the void (though not without Shoko’s reminder, which Megumi learns later).

This is already more than Megumi can say for dear old dad, who peaced out without so much as a 'see ya later alligator.' What a guy.

Megumi also understands the grim alternative. Without Gojo there to intervene, he and Tsumiki would have been separated - Megumi sent to the Zen’in clan, and Tsumiki to be alone in some orphanage. The thought makes his small hands clench into fists.

No, as irritating as this “adventure” will mostly likely be, Megumi knows sticking together is all that matters. He meets Shoko’s kind eyes, then Geto’s reassuring nod. As long as he can protect his sister, Megumi will tolerate even Gojo’s unique brand of batsh*t crazy.

And so off they go, into the starlit unknown - two of the most powerful sorcerers around, an overworked healer with no fugitive experience, and four tiny kids sporting serious bedhead.

Truly, a crack team of curse users if there ever was one.

Some say to love and care for others is to take a leap of faith, trusting that someone will be there to catch you.

But our future villains leap together into the chaos, and together they fly.

Jujutsu world - here comes your worst nightmare.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The esteemed High Council’s headquarters has weathered many a storm in its long, venerable history. But never has the stronghold reverberated with such splendidly catastrophic chaos as when the truly flabbergasting news arrives five days later:

Not only did Geto Suguru brutally massacre all 112 residents of the remote mountain village he was sent to save (nice going, genius), but he has also done the unthinkable - corrupted the one and only Gojo Satoru, strongest sorcerer alive/poster god for ridiculous power levels, to join his squad of villains. Truly an all-time power move. And as if that wasn’t distressing enough, young Ieiri Shoko - their most skilled healer and precious cinnamon roll - has apparently decided to throw away any semblance of common sense and vanished without a trace along with the dastardly brats.

Voices thunder dramatically through the ancient halls, echoing like the crashing tempest outside because the universe clearly has a flair for theatrics. Elder f*ckui turns an impressive shade of rich eggplant purple, the antique teacup in his clenched fist shaking so violently that one would think the fate of the world depended on that teacup not shattering into a million pieces. Oh, wait...

“Geto and Gojo…” He whispers hoarsely, seemingly on the verge of genuinely losing his mind. Can't really blame him, to be fair.

The Head Councilman rips out whole chunks of his once luxurious silver beard in sheer distress, looking two centuries older. His worst fears have been realized - their two most gifted former protégés have gone full dark side and turned into the stuff of actual nightmares.

“This is a disaster of unprecedented proportions!” He bellows furiously. Or maybe that’s grief? Hard to tell at this point. “The unimaginable catastrophes they could unleash together… No one alive today could hope to stop them if they decide to burn down the world!”

Always so dramatic with the monologuing, these Council folks.

The equation is simple, yet utterly devastating. Geto Suguru alone with his Curse Manipulation - highly concerning as a potential future arc villain, but likely still somewhat manageable.

But add the raw, explosively staggering power of Gojo Satoru, a literal force of nature and ridiculously overpowered descendant of one of the most OP sorcerer bloodlines in history? ...Yeah, might be gg for the fate of the world at that point.

Amidst the boiling tension, one obnoxiously optimistic voice rings out.

“Come now, esteemed colleagues!” Elder Gojo holds up a placating hand, seemingly completely out of touch with the actual gravity of the situation. “My dear grand-nephew Satoru may be a bit… eccentric. But he does not have a single devious bone in that sculpted, Greek god-like body!”

He nods sagely as if that explains everything, oblivious to the utterly dumbfounded stares from around the room.

“Why, the boy has the exact number of functioning brain cells as an orange tabby high on catnip! Which, for those of you tragically unaware, is exactly one.” A wistful smile crosses Elder Gojo’s face. “Ah, to be young and recklessly stupid again.”

Elder Kimura stands abruptly, his prodigious mustache quivering with emotion like a distressed caterpillar.

“I must concur with my esteemed colleague,” he declares, somehow keeping a straight face. “Surely young Satoru has been cruelly manipulated against his will. After all, that boy knows not what he does on the best of days, let alone when confronting someone as cunning as Geto!”

He slams a fist on the table, making everyone jump. “Geto has even kidnapped poor young Ieiri! He must have some nefarious, diabolical plan to exploit Satoru’s... impressionability.” A tactful pause. “We must tread very carefully in how we deal with this unprecedented crisis!”

The rest of the Council glance between the two impassioned Elders, utterly stunned by their willful obliviousness to Gojo Satoru’s infamous personality flaws. A few awkward coughs sound, but no one quite knows how to break it to them that the strongest sorcerer alive has the self-restraint of a sugar-rushing toddler.

This does not bode well at all.

Elder f*ckui is utterly apoplectic, screeching at glass-shattering volumes. “Manipulated or not, the fact remains Gojo Satoru and Ieiri Shoko have betrayed us! They shall be executed alongside Geto Suguru under Article 9 of the Jujutsu Regulations!”

The other Council members murmur in baffled agreement, not used to seeing f*ckui quite this unhinged. Elder Gojo and Kimura continue their desperate lobbying, but their voices are drowned out by the swelling tide of fear and outrage.

And so it is decided. Geto Suguru, along with his new partners-in-crime: Gojo What-Are-Consequences Satoru, and sweet baby Ieiri Shoko are hereby branded as rogue curse users and set up for immediate execution per Jujutsu Regulations.

A heavy, drama-filled silence settles upon the room as imagination turns to logistics. Disposing of the healer girl should be trivial enough. As far as the High Council is concerned, Shoko poses about as much threat as a basket of kittens unless you’re allergic to adorableness. But the other two? Oof. Disaster levels off the charts.

Geto Suguru is already a monumental pain in the ass on the best of days. Even on his best behavior, that wild boy is a 5-alarm disaster wrapped in a sexy smirk. And now with casual murder sprees added to his rap sheet? Just dandy. The Council breaks out in nervous sweats.

And for Gojo Satoru - where does one even start? The brat holds the record for most disciplinary citations in history. He’s single-handedly responsible for 75% of the Council Elders’ stress ulcers. Not a single person has been able to make any consequence stick to him even before he gained crazy infinity powers. Oh, they are SO screwed.

How do they execute someone they can’t even punish successfully? Elder f*ckui might actually sob. This is the absolute mother of all jujutsu sh*tstorms.

At the head of the room, the Head Councilman sags into his fancy throne-like chair. For once looking every century of his age, he drops his head into shaking, liver-spotted hands. In his mind’s eye, he sees only devastation - their government overturned, curses and curse users running buck wild, poor innocent civilians screaming in the collapse of civilization as we know it.

As the full implications sink in, a bleak mood takes hold. The rest of the Elders stare gravely at nothing, finally grasping the full sh*tstorm headed their way at breakneck speed. The weight of failure presses down relentlessly - they had been trusted as guides and failed spectacularly.

However, it’s easy to forget that for all their bumbling ways, the High Council of Elders has reigned ruthlessly over the cutthroat world of jujutsu for centuries now - and one does not simply gain that much power through asking nicely.

“We’ll get the girl and use her as leverage.” Said the Head Councilman, eyes glinting like steel. Nothing like a bit of grandiose hostage-taking between mentor and students to strengthen bonds.

Gojo and Geto may be unpredictable loose-cannon sorcerers who could likely destroy all of Japan without breaking a sweat. But if there’s one thing stupidly predictable about those two, it’s that they both love Ieiri Shoko more than their own lives. And so she will be the end of them.

The Head Councilman bares his teeth in a ruthless mockery of a grandfatherly smile. “Love is the most twisted curse of all.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Miles away in the presidential suite of Tokyo’s most ostentatiously luxurious 5-star hotel, Gojo Satoru unleashes a dramatic sneeze, nearly disrupting the intricate warp he’s using to levitate little Tsumiki in bubbly zero-gravity space around his shoulders. The laws of physics quake in fear.

“Whoa, sorry about that kiddo! Someone must be talking about my greatness,” Gojo laughs, recentering his technique with ridiculous ease, sending the squealing girl spinning slowly through the air again, silver hair trailing between her fingers like stardust.

Enchanted as always by Gojo’s magic tricks, Tsumiki continues happily combing her hands through his artfully mussed strands even as she hovers weightlessly, head tilted back to the ceiling. Her own black hair floats around her head like a mermaid underwater.

Nearby, Geto finishes tucking sleeping Mimiko and Nanako under the silken sheets and straightens up with an echoing “ACHOO!” that miraculously doesn’t stir the little girls. He grimaces, rubbing his nose ruefully.

Shoko eyes them both suspiciously. “Are you two catching colds or something? Don’t spread your germs to me and the kids.” She wonders if idiots can even catch colds. Probably not if Gojo’s continued state of perfect health is any indication.

Gojo snorts, effortlessly bouncing a glowing Tsumiki through the air. “Nah, I bet it’s those old fogies on the Council complaining about how hard it’ll be to take us down.”

For someone whose usual vibe screams “too cool to care” and who loudly claims to hate snotty-nosed brats, Gojo has been surprisingly tolerant - one might even say indulgent - of all the kids suddenly in his care.

Little Tsumiki in particular has fastened herself to his side with frankly absurd amounts of floral hair clips, ribbons, and sparkly accessories. Yet no matter how petulantly she tugs at his sleeve or begs him to do “the magic thing” again, he somehow manages to humor her whims with patience no one who knows him would expect.

Perhaps it’s because, unlike Megumi, Mimiko, and Nanako who were born sorcerers, Tsumiki lacks the ability to see curses or manipulate cursed energy. To her ordinary senses, Gojo’s intricate spatial warping is the only true magic in her world.

Shoko looks on with amusem*nt as Gojo sends a gleefully squealing Tsumiki somersaulting through the air, his usual resting smirk replaced by something that might almost be called tender. As Tsumiki’s delighted laughter fills the spacious suite, Shoko hides a smile. She’ll never understand how Gojo’s brain works, but this softer side of his is undeniably sweet in its own dysfunctional way.

After a few more minutes of letting Tsumiki drag him about by his tousled hair, Shoko stands and motions for Gojo to tuck her into bed too. There are sensitive topics to discuss without little ears listening in.

“Ugh, fine Mom. Bedtime for the ankle-biters.” Gojo obliges with exaggerated dismay, levitating a protesting Tsumiki through the air.

His long-suffering tone might be more believable if he wasn’t simultaneously using his Limitless to gently rearrange the blankets as Tsumiki floats into bed. Not quite finishing, Gojo turns a wicked grin towards the corner where Megumi sits quietly reading. With an overly dramatic flick of his wrist, he sends the boy and his book hurtling through the air to join the girls under the blankets, ignoring Megumi’s indignant squawk.

“Sweet dreams, devil’s spawns!” Gojo lilts in a sickly sweet voice, tucking the blankets around them with all the care one would expect from a disaster pretty boy who hasn’t quite grasped healthy emotional connections. But hey, it’s the thought that counts… right?

With the four kids finally tucked snugly under silk sheets and blankets in the master bedroom, the trio of barely-adult outlaws make their way to the lavish living room. Geto sinks into the plush leather sofa with a dramatic sigh, relief evident in every line of his body now that the kids have been wrangled to bed. Some adult time, finally.

Across from Geto, Gojo claims an entire chaise lounge for himself, draping his tall frame across it with casual arrogance. The shimmering city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows glint alluringly off his silver hair.

“So, not that I’m complaining,” Geto drawls, gesturing around at the glittering opulence surrounding them, “But how exactly are you footing the bill for all this luxury? I assumed the Council would’ve frozen all your assets the minute we went rogue.”

Gojo’s lips quirk in a conspiratorial smirk. “Oh, they definitely tried. But jokes on them.” With a careless snap of his fingers, he produces a matte black credit card seemingly from midair. “I set up secret offshore accounts years ago in preparation for my villain era.”

Near Gojo, Shoko settles delicately into an armchair. The warm lighting softens her gentle features, one brow raised in curiosity rather than judgment. “You were planning this since before Tokyo Jujutsu High?” She asks.

“Uh, yeah?” Gojo scoffs, dramatically tossing his silver hair. “Don’t look at me like that, Suguru. Y’all really thought I’d happily serve the old fogies my entire life?”

Geto studies him curiously. “So you actually meant it last year? When you asked if we should kill those cultists?”

At this, Gojo’s smile sharpens. “Damn right, I was. Where’s the fun in unlimited power if I can’t go all out?” His expression softens slightly as he winks at Shoko. “But don’t worry - I would’ve still come back for you after finishing them off.”

For all of the High Council of Elders’ screeching and hand-wringing over what a diabolical, cunning criminal mastermind Geto is, they remain utterly oblivious to the fact that it’s Gojo - Gojo with his single functioning brain cell on a good day - who has been secretly orchestrating his future villains era for years.

“Alright my great villain overlords, what’s the actual plan here?” Shoko asks wryly.

“World domination!” Gojo proclaims, his grin cheeky and unrestrained as he lounges without a care.

Shoko doesn’t even dignify it with a reaction, well used to his antics. Instead, she turns expectantly to Geto.

In contrast with Gojo’s nonchalance, Geto sits tensely upright, his dark hair disheveled. His usual smirk is absent now, replaced by a distant, haunted look. When Geto finally speaks, his voice is low and controlled.

“Did you know that non-sorcerers are the main catalyst behind curses?” His dark eyes meet Shoko’s. “They leak far more cursed energy than any sorcerer.”

Shoko inhales softly, her breath catching with dread. Still, she forces her voice to remain casual for now, keeping her face carefully neutral. “What exactly are you saying, Geto?”

Geto’s expression twists. “Being one of us means an endless marathon with our friends’ corpses waiting at the finish line. I’m tired of protecting those ungrateful monkeys. I want a world without suffering, without curses. A world… without non-sorcerers.”

“You do realize that Tsumiki isn’t a sorcerer, right?” Shoko narrows her eyes. “Are you saying you’ll get risk of her, too?”

The question cuts through the room like a whipcrack. Gojo goes utterly still, muscles coiling. Yet for some reason he remains silent, gaze fixed unblinkingly on Geto’s face.

The air thrums with simmering anticipation.

“That…” Geto flinches almost imperceptibly. “I wouldn’t… I’d never hurt Tsumiki.” He says eventually, uncertainty flickering across his features.

Shoko leans forward, the challenge in her eyes cutting like a blade. “What about her classmates then? Her friends? Other children her age? Will you kill every other innocent child except for Tsumiki?”

Pressure spirals tighter and tighter, the very atmosphere crackling. Geto looks stricken, but Shoko refuses to back down.

Just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, Gojo abruptly bursts into laughter. The bright sound cuts discordantly through the room.

“Man, you two are so intense today! Lighten up a little.” He grins, all nonchalance and devil-may-care charm once more. With a careless wave of his hand, the oppressive atmosphere dissipates.

“How about we start on a smaller scale for now? Like, just offing the Council so we can take over?” Gojo suggests breezily. “We’ll be the new Council and make all the rules we want. Sorcerer supremacy, cursed spirit allies, no more child soldiers - all the works!”

He leans back, utterly relaxed despite the whiplash shift in mood. “I mean, the old fogies kinda have it coming. And we’ll obviously do a way better job at running the jujutsu world. So what do you say?”

In the face of Gojo’s casual homicidal unpredictability, even Geto can only shake his head with a helpless huff that might be laughter or exasperation.

Shoko throws up her hands. “Dudes, not everything can be solved by genocide or mass murder!”

“Not with that attitude, Sho.” Gojo tuts disapprovingly.

Shoko grabs a decorative cushion and lobs it at his ridiculous head. It bounces harmlessly off his Infinity. Geto actually has the audacity to snicker before Shoko nails him square in the face with another cushion.

Can’t they even think about the children? THEIR children? The four snotty kids who are literally snoozing away just a room over? This is why most villains remain happily child-free.

Shoko resists the urge to scream.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Most sorcerers with flashy innate techniques typically awake their powers around five or six years old - right around the same magnificent age they discover crayons are wonderfully effective for decorating more than just coloring books (RIP white walls everywhere).

Innate techniques in particular have a mind of their own, essentially “calling” to their user like an overly eager pet begging for treats and attention. One day, baby sorcerers just wake up, and bam - suddenly shadows are tugging at their skin or flames are sparking from their fingers, no warning or parental consent form required.

Little Megumi has been feeling the very first stirrings of his Ten Shadows for weeks now. Random surges of cursed energy that are definitely not just from sneaking extra pudding cups. Mysterious but insistent tugging sensations from the shadows, like ghostly hands trying to initiate a game of tag.

So, it’s time he gets some pointers on it, right? At least, that’s what Gojo decided.

On one peaceful morning, Gojo whisks out a whiteboard and markers from… somewhere. With such theatrical showmanship, one would think he was auditioning for Broadway itself. Yet the children serve as the ultimate tough crowd, responding only with raised eyebrows and curious glances.

Still, Gojo strikes a scholarly pose.

“Alright, my star pupil - Today’s lesson is on your badass upcoming technique!” Gojo announces, gesturing for Megumi to sit front and center.

As Megumi hesitantly takes his place, Nanako leans over to Mimiko. “How come he just happens to have a random whiteboard ready? Where does that even come from?” She whispers. Mimiko just shakes her head, too busy stuffing her mouth with chips.

“To start, your very first summons will be these adorable Divine Dogs!” Gojo proclaims enthusiastically. “Though at first, they’re more like Divine Pups…”

His marker zig-zags wildly as he tries sketching two majestic wolves. Emphasis on tries. The end results look something akin to a pair of mutant chickens wearing tutus. That elicits poorly contained giggles from the girls. Megumi simply stares, somehow experiencing all seven stages of grief simultaneously.

“Those are some weird chickens, nii-chan.” Tsumiki blurts out with all the sophistication of a future art critic.

“They look like they survived a nuclear blast,” Nanako adds.

Why does she even know what a nuclear blast is? Kids these days. Gojo makes a mental note to berate Geto later for letting the devil’s spawns watch too much TV. But since he’s Gojo, he forgets about it immediately. For now, he blinks down at his drawings, then back at the giggling, unimpressed kids.

“Clearly you heathens lack the artistic vision to appreciate my creative genius.” Gojo huffs before erasing his previous attempts in stunned outrage.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up easily, or ever.

Like a runaway freight train, Gojo charges full steam ahead. His Louvre-worthy artistic visions expand stranger the longer the ridiculous lesson continues. With each stroke of the marker, Gojo’s illustrations venture further into worlds unknown by man or beast. Eldritch creatures populate the poor whiteboard as head scratching and sideways glances spread among the children.

Megumi watches in dismay as the hours tick painfully on, the squeaking hamster powering his brain throwing itself from the rusty wheel. The last of his sanity packs its bags and flees into the abyss rather than witnessing more of Gojo’s artistic assaults against nature. At the rate this is going, he half expects his first summon to be a potato with Gojo’s face haphazardly drawn on it.

A glaring oversight dawns on the boy - for all Gojo’s useless prattling and monstrous drawings, explaining the actual summoning process appears a mere afterthought, if the man is even capable of actual thoughts at all. When asked, he simply waves off the question with a dodgy uh-huh. Just as effective as inquiring an orange tabby on quantum physics.

“It’s not that hard.” Gojo shrugs dismissively. “You’ll figure it out.”

Megumi rubs his temples, contemplating if it’s too late to grab Tsumiki and flee this madhouse, perhaps taking the twins as well. No one deserves such ruthless torture. Gojo may be well on his way to becoming another villain overlord with questionable artistic skills, but this? This right here marks Fushiguro Megumi’s very own villain origin story.

Staring blankly ahead in post-traumatic shock, Megumi knows one truth with the certainty of death itself - never, ever again will he make the fatal error of taking a lesson from Gojo. No, he must figure out this Ten Shadows technique solo going forward. Though now Megumi ponders whether deliberately summoning all those nightmarish abominations is something best avoided altogether.

***

So far, this entire summoning business has proven far harder than Gojo’s silly stories made it seem. For the last couple of days, the only thing Megumi can manage to conjure with all his tiny might is a sputtering blob of shadows that looks awfully similar to the “art” Nanako finger-paints on the hotel walls when Shoko isn’t looking.

Sure, the misshapen shadow blob makes for quality ammunition to fling at Gojo’s annoying face whenever the man tries to give him another lesson, but it’s not quite the fierce shikigami Megumi envisioned. Just yesterday, Megumi scrunched up his tiny face in deep concentration, twisting his hands into what was SUPPOSED to draw out a Divine Dog. But honestly, the end result resembled more of a… drunken honeybadger? Maybe? If honeybadgers had five legs and a lot of tails? It was hard to tell at that point.

Today, little Megumi sits with his back straight and brow furrowed in such intense concentration as he forms a simple shadow dog silhouette against the hotel wall.

Around him, Mimiko, Nanako, and Tsumiki watch the wavering shadow puppet with great anticipation, nearly vibrating from the sugar high of too many “secret” cookies stuffed into their cheeks. They had eagerly gathered when Megumi declared today would finally be the day he’d summon Divine Dogs to play with them all.

“You got this, Gumi!” Mimiko says encouragingly around a mouthful of cookie crumbs.

Megumi's small face scrunches further, a light sheen of sweat upon his forehead. The shadow lurches, then forms a wonky approximation of a canine head and little wagging tail. The twin girls ooh and ahhh dramatically like it’s a Broadway act.

But just as swiftly, the hopeful shadow dog loses all structural integrity again into a sad puddle. Megumi drops his trembling, exhausted tiny hands with an even tinier scowl.

While Nanako and Mimiko loudly cheer on the shadow blob Megumi struggling to manifest, sweet Tsumiki can only see her brother… aggressively doing finger yoga? Yet, she still dramatically gasps whenever the twin girls do, clapping excitedly in blind encouragement. She sneaks not-so-subtle peeks at their rapt faces for cues on when to ooh and ahh, not wanting Megumi to ever feel disheartened in his bizarre finger yoga ritual.

When the shadow dog apparently disintegrates again judging by everyone’s groans, Tsumiki doesn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around her clearly constipated brother. She may not see whatever mystical shenanigans have Megumi attempting advanced yoga with his hands, but she recognizes that look of burning determination vividly in his deep blue eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll get it soon!” Tsumiki says, then promptly stuffs a cookie into his mouth before he strains something. Hey, what are sisters for?

After what feels like endless encouragement and finger contortions, suddenly the sputtering shadow blob stretches into unmistakable wolf shapes - one black as the void, one pale as moonlight.

“PUPPIES!” Mimiko shrieks loudly enough to shake the chandelier. Beside her, Nanako looks ready to pass out from the cuteness, hands clutched to her heart.

But no one reacts more powerfully than Tsumiki, who doesn’t perceive cursed energy, yet somehow senses this breakthrough in her soul. She tackles Megumi into a bear hug that nearly sends them both straight into the freshly painted walls Shoko has just threatened gently encouraged Geto to redo.

“You did it! I knew you could!” Tsumiki laughs brightly, face alight with adoring pride as she squeezes the stuffing out of her beloved brother.

But the thing about being a normal person is that, regardless of effort or assistance, they simply can’t see curses or cursed techniques.

As the afternoon stretches on, Tsumiki feels more and more lost. Watching Nanako and Mimiko squealing over the invisible wolf pups, Tsumiki finally realizes how very different she is from the girls, from her brother, from Shoko, Gojo, and Geto. Everyone here is special, magical... Only she is ordinary.

Though she forces a smile, Tsumiki’s little heart sinks.

Noticing her wistful look, Megumi bites his lips and commands the shadow pups to nuzzle her. Nanako attempts to guide Tsumiki’s hand to pet the hyper white pup who keeps trying to lick her face, while Mimiko vividly describes how they look and what silly mischief they’re getting up to. But no matter how vigorously Tsumiki waves her hands or scrunches her eyes closed in concentration, she only feels empty air where the shadow wolf pups supposedly play. Their joyful yips sound muffled to her ears, their affectionate nuzzles chill her skin with ghostly cold.

However, as the kids try their best to include her, Tsumiki feels her sadness and self-pity wither away. What does it matter if she never sees the magic firsthand? She has Gojo nii-chan to float her around whenever she wants. She has her beloved brother and sisters right here - their laughter and joy warming her heart like the summer sun.

Tsumiki is the oldest kid after all. It's her duty as their big sister to be strong for them, not the other way around. She takes a deep breath and beams, her smile a radiant glow that makes the others light up in turn.

“Tell me what the puppies are doing now! I want to know everything!” Tsumiki demands playfully with hands on her hips.

She may not see the puppies clambering on her legs or their shadow tails wagging, but she can feel the joy radiating from her brother and hear her sisters giggling gleefully. And Tsumiki knows then the greatest magic in this world is right here with her.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Luckily for little Tsumiki, very few things escape Shoko’s almost hawk-like perceptiveness - especially not the yearning glimmer in her big brown eyes that could put a puppy dog to shame with their wistful yearning. And after days of watching Tsumiki mope around with all the enthusiasm of a deflated balloon, Shoko decides it’s time for her latest burst of auntie ingenuity to save the day.

“Rise and shine, Tsumi!” Shoko announces brightly, flinging aside the curtains with enough theatrical flair to make Gojo jealous. “You and me are having a big girls’ day out!”

Tsumiki blinks owlishly awake, sitting up with a haystack of brown hair practically crackling with static electricity.

Shoko has to press her lips tightly to keep a straight face as the excitement slowly dawns on the little girl.

“Chop chop, up and moving before I change my mind!” Shoko shoos.

That lights a fire under Tsumiki’s butt. She scrambles out of bed faster than Megumi could summon one of his signature shadow blobs, nearly face-planting in her mad rush to get ready for their big adventure.

However, Shoko’s stealth operation is foiled before it can even hoop off thanks to her number one kryptonite - two pint-sized gremlins with doe eyes potent enough to liquefy vibranium.

"We wanna come too!" Mimiko and Nanako latch to Shoko’s legs with the determined tenacity of a pair of hangry leeches. Their bottom lips start that Oscar-worthy quivering routine they’ve got down to a deadly science - a manipulation tactic they’ve mastered on Geto quite some time ago.

Shoko internally groans. As much as she adores the little rascals, this particular outing is meant to be a top-secret surprise for Tsumiki.

Just that moment, like an angel descending from the heavens (or maybe a particularly smug demon), divine intervention arrives in the smokeshow form of one silver-haired villain overlord.

Gojo languidly stretches out on the sofa, somehow making loungewear look like haute couture as he blissfully channel-surfs, oblivious to the brewing domestic crisis mere feet away. A slow, devious grin stretches across Shoko’s face as those brilliant gears start turning.

“Sorry kids, Tsumi and I have some very important big girl business to attend to.” Shoko stage-whispers, all the conspiratorial intrigue of a secret agent. The twins instantly lean in, eyes wide with rapt attention usually reserved for Saturday morning cartoons.

“But just for you two…” Shoko goes on in a hushed tone, “A little birdie may have told me Gojo has been hoarding a secret stash of Kit Kats and Choco Balls.” She arches one delicate eyebrow meaningfully. “But you didn’t hear it from me…”

Gasps of greedy delight erupt from Mimiko and Nanako. Without so much as a second thought, the terror twins scramble off, zeroing in on their next target.

“Nii-chan! Cough up the goods!” They descend on Gojo at once, chirping in flawless sing-song unison.

From a safe distance, Shoko has to physically clamp a hand over her mouth to smother the wicked cackle bubbling up. Gojo’s muffled yelp of abject horror is just too priceless.

“Ieiri Shoko you traitorous backstabber!” The so-called villain overlord squawks indignantly, shooting her a look that could level cities as he is mercilessly swarmed. His expression screams bloody, candy-fueled vengeance.

Oh, there will be hell of biblical proportions to pay for that stunt later, no doubt. Gojo’s wrath shall be swift and sugary-sweet. But for now? Shoko couldn’t care less as she whisks a beaming Tsumiki out into the glittering, sensory overload of Tokyo’s streets.

The mouthwatering aroma of sizzling yakitori and fresh, doughy crepes wafts past, making Tsumiki’s nose twitch adorably. They dash hand-in-hand down the crowded sidewalks, narrowly dodging salarymen barking urgently into phones and swerving taxis driven by grumpy men with a seemingly unlimited repertoire of colorful vocabulary.

Neon signs blink and beckon enticingly above the cramped storefronts, casting a kaleidoscope of rainbow light across Tsumiki’s face - her wide eyes sparkling with childlike wonder. The towering, incandescent skyscrapers and anime-plastered billboards loom ever closer as Shoko deftly weaves them through the bustling city crowds, keeping a hawk-like watch on the little girl.

From a nearby park, birdsong and peals of delighted laughter float above the cacophonous traffic roar. Tsumiki vanishes from Shoko’s side for a heart-stopping moment, drawn like a magnet to the stray cats lounging atop a stone wall, tails flicking lazily. Shoko feels her pulse spike before catching up, grabbing Tsumiki’s hand just as the girl pivots, nearly plowing straight into a frazzled bike courier.

Who knew keeping track of a pint-sized non-sorcerer child could be this… uniquely challenging feat of herculean strength and mental fortitude? Honestly, the sheer level of mayhem and chaos this tiny, unassuming girl attracts rivals even Gojo’s. Perhaps, that’s how they get along so well.

After an eventful subway ride, Shoko and Tsumiki finally arrive at their intended destination - a quaint little eyeglass boutique tucked away on a bustling city street.

Rows upon glittering rows of frames in every imaginable shape, size, and rainbow hue line the walls, beckoning enticingly.

At first, Tsumiki looks puzzled when Shoko ushers her through the boutique’s door. “But I don’t need glasses, nee-chan.” She points out.

“Ah, but it's such fun playing dress-up! And we simply must test ALL the options thoroughly!” Shoko gives her a conspiratorial wink. “Especially since we’re splurging on Gojo’s card today! Think of it as a little payback for when he ate all those cookies you baked without asking.”

Tsumiki’s eyes go wide with surprise before a mischievous grin slowly spreads across her face to match Shoko’s. Laughing merrily, the two partners-in-crime set to work - Shoko piling Tsumiki’s little arms high with every silly, garish, novelty pair of frames that catches her discerning eye.

What good is Gojo’s megalomaniacal ambition to become the biggest, baddest, most notorious villain the jujutsu world has ever seen… if he can’t even splurge on simple treats for his “favorite minion” every once in a while?

Shoko isn’t entirely sure what kind of ridiculous name the arrogant man intends to carve out for himself, besides driving her and Geto prematurely grey with his one-brain-cell shenanigans, that is.

But no matter how much idiotic disaster Gojo manages to rain down upon jujutsu high society in the future thanks to his trademark all-brawn and no-brains approach, Shoko privately decides right then and there that she will take it upon herself to ensure history never remembers the great Gojo Satoru as a stingy cheapskate. It simply wouldn’t do.

And so a merry glasses fashion show commences within the charming boutique. Tsumiki eagerly bounces from mirror to mirror like an excitable pixie, plopping every hue upon her little nose with gleeful abandon.

Cat-eye bubblegum pink lenses? Check. Comically oversized bug-eye greens that swallow her face whole? You bet. Owlish golden yellows that make her look like a little feathered sage? An absolute must-have. With each new pair, Tsumiki strikes an exaggerated pose - hands on hips, chin jutted haughtily as Shoko clasps her hands together delightedly.

“My word, what exquisite taste!” Shoko exclaims in an exaggerated posh accent after Tsumiki emerges with gold aviators and a feather boa with all the grandeur of a diva. The little girl is truly Gojo’s protégé.

Tsumiki giggles cheekily at the compliment, her laughter bright and effervescent. But then a particular glint catches her eye, causing the little girl to go utterly still. Slowly, almost reverently, she reaches out to pluck a pair of round, burnished gold frames from the shelf.

“Like Mama’s,” she breathes in a hushed, trembling whisper - the mirth evaporating from her features in an instant.

The simple words lance straight through Shoko’s chest like a serrated blade. Her breath catches sharply in her lungs, the air suddenly feeling too thin. With infinite tenderness, she kneels to carefully settle the delicate gold wires over Tsumiki’s ears.

“They suit you well.” Shoko cups Tsumiki’s face gently, smiling at the way the glasses seem to make this child’s spirit glow just a little brighter. “We’ll take these.”

And Tsumiki smiles too.

With the perfect pair of glasses in possession, Shoko guides an overjoyed Tsumiki back out into the glittering Tokyo streets to a cozy cafe tucked away in a quiet corner.

The rich, invigorating aroma of freshly brewed coffee embraces them like an old friend the moment they push through the door. But it’s the dazzling display case positively groaning with every manner of decadent dessert that causes Tsumiki’s eyes to bug out to the size of saucers.

Soon, an enormous, obnoxiously pink slab of strawberry cheesecake tops their table, and Tsumiki digs in with the laser focus of an Olympic athlete, leaving a spot of pink cream on her nose in her single-minded mission to demolish each and every piece.

While Tsumiki is occupied with her cheesecake monstrosity, Shoko fishes out a fountain pen and a vial of opalescent ink from her purse. With great care and practiced precision, she begins meticulously tracing a series of delicate, flowing sigils along the inside curve of those golden wire frames - Tsumiki’s new glasses.

Although normal people lack the natural ability to see curses, it’s not completely impossible. One common method relies on glasses marked with specific third-eye sigils. Once charged with cursed energy, these glasses allow anyone to see curses, although the clarity largely depends on whether the sigils are drawn properly. All the non-sorcerer staff working in the High Council’s HQ use this type of glasses.

Shoko never imagined she would ever need to make one of these… until this exact moment. But thank the stars above, she actually did her required reading, so she can manage the basics - An achievement so rare amongst her degenerate peers.

For Gojo, textbooks serve one singular, sacred purpose - as an all-you-can-eat tray to pile high with his sugary abominations. And Geto always claims such theoretical analysis hinders one’s intuition development. What a pair of dicks.

The cozy bustle of the cafe seems to fade away into a dreamy, muted haze as Shoko loses herself in the painstaking work before her. Graceful lines and swirling shapes gently glow to life before fading into the gold frames. The occasional soft scrape of fork tines against porcelain and Tsumiki’s delighted little hums are the only sounds breaking the soothing quiet.

Shoko smiles as she carefully lays down the final strokes, activating the sigils with a pulse of her own cursed energy. With these glasses, Tsumiki will finally be able to see Megumi’s Divine Dogs and whatever shadow blobs he summons later.

The little girl may be different from them, but it doesn’t mean she can’t be a part of their world and of their lives.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Geto’s bleary eyes snap open as a cacophony of chaos assaults his eardrums—Gojo’s indignant squawking piercing the criminally thin walls like a distressed tropical bird. It mingles with the sugary giggles of the tiny demons named Mimiko and Nanako.

“Suguruuuu! Wake up and call off your spawns!!” Gojo’s dramatic wailing continues, followed by more impish cackling.

Geto suppresses a groan that threatens to shake the cheap plaster right off these cardboard walls. He hasn’t slept well since they all got chased out of the presidential suite by one of Mei Mei’s creepy crows playing stalker on their balcony. Their new rental house is spacious enough, but clearly, no one told the builders about this revolutionary new invention called insulation. Neither Geto nor Shoko has ever had a place of their own, so they had no idea what to look out for. And Gojo, well, he’s Gojo.

Still, it’s better than bouncing around hotels as they try to keep their makeshift villain squad off the radar for the time being. Also, it’s easier to cast protective barriers around a house. Even if Geto’s peaceful slumber must be sacrificed to the resident alarm clocks armed with stuffed animals and hyped up on ill-gotten sweets.

With a sigh that could level mountains, Geto shuffles out to assess the crisis. There he finds Gojo, defender of the realm, wielding a box of Kit Kats and Choco Balls high above his head. Clinging to his ridiculous pajama pants with dancing rice balls pattern are two little gremlins, trying to scale Mount Gojo to reach the treasured sweets stash. Their ring leader, Megumi sits smugly nearby, munching on what looks suspiciously like a King-sized Choco Ball.

“Do something, Gumi! My student!” Gojo laments as he struggles to fend off the devilish twins.

The boy merely fixes him with an blank stare while Mimiko and Nanako continue their attack, tiny hands grabbing at the air in single-minded determination.

Chaos reigns supreme in this villain’s lair.

Geto thinks he might cry. Or laugh. Possibly both at the same time. It’s going to be a long day.

“Where’s Sho?” Geto asks, scanning the chaotic room and realizing their resident mother hen is suspiciously absent. No sign of Shoko’s signature unimpressed glaring over the unbridled chaos.

“She went out early with Tsumiki,” Megumi pipes up, his usual Zen baby face marked with a slight crease between his brows. Ah, their little old man is worrying his socks off but too proud to show it.

Geto ambles over to administer some emergency hair-ruffling. “They’re fine, I’m sure. Sho doesn’t look like much, but she can hold her own. Your sister is safe with her.”

Megumi brightens at that, placated for now, before wandering off to immerse himself in some huge books the size of his head. Gotta respect a dedicated bookworm. Especially when it’s a five-year-old boy who can barely read.

Meanwhile, Gojo is attempting unsuccessfully to defend his position as Supreme Villain Lord of All Sweets from the even more villainous twins.

“Betrayal!” He cries as the bag of sweets is yanked from his grip by tiny merciless hands.

The gremlins scamper off victorious with their plunder as Gojo collapses to the ground, a Shakespearean tragedy unfolding in pajamas. Geto resists the urge to take photos for blackmail. He rolls his eyes so hard he nearly sprains something.

Clearly, adult supervision is necessary before they all go feral. He gently herds the sugar-manic munchkins towards the playroom and flicks on the TV. Bribery and electronic babysitters make parenting easier. Cut him some slack—he’s only 18 with a brood of rambunctious kids and an adult-sized child to manage.

“You look like sh*t, Suguru,” Gojo remarks eloquently, still sprawled tragically across the floor in his defeat.

“Good morning to you too, my f*cking ray of sunshine.” Geto deadpans back, raking a hand through his bedhead.

He contemplates coffee but instead collapses next to his mess of a best friend. Honestly, the perfectly nice sofa is right there, but the floor just hits different today.

Gojo rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow to study Geto’s face intently. Before Geto can inquire about his sudden interest, Gojo reaches out to card his fingers through the dark tousled strands, gently working out tangles.

“Your weird emo bang is getting long,” he muses, tweaking said bang playfully. “Almost long enough for tiny braids. Or a mini man bun!”

Geto swats ineffectually at his hand. “It's not weird, Satoru. We can’t all have gravity-defying anime hair like yours.” Though he’ll never admit it, the scalp massage feels nice, soothing away his lingering irritation.

Gojo just hums, clearly not listening, too occupied analyzing Geto’s hair from different angles as if puzzling out a complex mathematical equation. He lets the silky dark strands slide through his fingers, marveling at how soft Geto’s hair feels, almost feather-like. So different from Shoko’s no-nonsense bob cut that she protects like a lioness, always slapping Gojo’s curious hands away whenever he tries to touch it.

But Geto never minds Satoru fiddling with his hair, even when he is teased mercilessly about the weird emo fringe. Truth is, Gojo loves that fringe, loves tucking it back gently to reveal Geto’s whole face in a moment of unguarded closeness. Loves the way Geto lets him play with his hair, his touch lingering perhaps longer than necessary.

There’s something soothing about burying his hands in those dark strands, feeling Geto relax into the strokes and scratches. It anchors Gojo too, draws him out of his spinning thoughts back to the present moment. Contrary to popular belief, his one functioning brain cell is indeed capable of anxious thoughts on occasion. Especially after Geto and Shoko’s recent blow-up. They only have each other. They shouldn’t fight like that. It makes Gojo worried cracks may have appeared somewhere even his Six Eyes couldn’t see. Here, with Geto’s comforting warmth beside him, the knot of anxiety in Gojo’s chest loosens slightly.

The muffled sounds of cartoon hijinks and sugary giggles drift faintly from the playroom down the hall. No doubt the terrible twins are glued to the TV, fueled by their victory spoils of chocolate. Geto should check on them soon—the last thing they need is two hyper five-year-olds bouncing off the cheap walls.

But parenting can wait a few more minutes.

Here, collapsed in a graceless sprawl across the worn wood floors, comfortable quiet settles around them. Late morning sunlight filters through grimy windows, casting a hazy glow over their impromptu cuddle pile.

For a moment, Geto lets his eyes drift shut, and the ever-present tension between his shoulders loosens. The cold floor doesn’t seem so bad with his own personal heater babbling nonsense beside him. Things almost feel peaceful.

“Hey, Satoru.”

“Hmm?”

“You know, I’d never hurt Tsumiki, right? No matter what.”

Gojo’s fingers still, tangled mid-stroke in Geto’s hair. Echoes of the explosive argument between Geto and Shoko surface in his mind, their angry words suddenly feeling heavier. But he forces a casual laugh, letting his hand resume its previous scritching motions.

“As if I’d let you lay a finger on my favorite minion,” he says, tone straddling the line between joking and something more serious. After all, Gojo knows he’s the strongest. That’s just a simple fact.

Geto feels his chest tighten even as he keeps his tone light. “Oh I don’t know, I think I could take you if I got serious,” he shoots back. Their familiar debate, equal parts challenge and inside joke after years of bickering over who’s truly stronger.

“Hah! I’d crush you!” Gojo crows. But his hand has drifted down to squeeze Geto’s shoulder teasingly.

Geto’s lips quirk up. “Keep dreaming, hotshot. Everyone knows I’m the brains here to balance out your pitiful brawn.”

Their playful banter continues, temporarily patching over the lingering tension and uncertainty. The familiarity of teasing jabs is their tether to simpler times when their biggest worry was who would pay for dango that day.

Before long, Geto feels his eyes growing heavy, lulled by Gojo’s soothing motions still carding through his hair. The thin morning light warming his skin doesn’t help matters. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gojo already nodded off beside him, the dramatic idiot can fall asleep anywhere, anytime.

Soon Shoko will return to find her two best friends passed out cold on the floor like a couple of overgrown toddlers mid-tantrum. She’ll make that little huff through her nose, hands propped on her hips all disapproving. But then she’ll wiggle her way into the middle—because of course, Shoko deserves the best napping spot.

And when she inevitably starts complaining about the knot in her back from their puppy pile later, Gojo will simply sling her over his shoulder as Geto gathers blankets and pillows. Before long they’ll be a tangle of limbs once more, this time on the lumpy secondhand couch they rescued from the previous tenant. Shoko will grumble even as she snuggles into Geto’s shoulder, feet tucked under Gojo for warmth.

Just like old times back at the dorms after Gojo and Geto’s late night missions, crammed together on Shoko’s tiny bed until limbs went numb and the morning light peeked through.

Things change, but as long as they still have each other, they’ll be okay. All of them.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Tsumiki bounds through the house like an overeager puppy herself, making a beeline for the quiet room where Megumi sits immersed in an ancient tome nearly bigger than his bobble head.

“Gumi, check it out!” Tsumiki cries, skidding to a halt and nearly toppling over from her own momentum. She shoves the gigantic cursed glasses up her tiny nose for the millionth time, looking like some nerdy welder in the things.

“I can see the spooky stuff now!” she announces, gesturing wildly at her glasses.

Megumi’s eyes crinkle subtly in that way that means he’s secretly questioning his life choices. Before he can stop her to ask what she’s going on about, his excited sister is already blurting out, “Show me the puppies, Gumi! Pleeeease!”

For days, Tsumiki has listened to Nanako and Mimiko describing the shadow dogs and their soft fur and cold wet noses. But now, finally, she will get to see them, too!

She bounces on her toes, hands clasped under her chin as she unleashes the baby dinosaur eyes. Megumi doesn’t really understand her, but still, he complies. As he clasps his hands together, wisps of shadow leak out, coalescing into two quivering forms who yip softly in greeting.

Tsumiki gasps aloud, hands flying to her mouth. There they are! The bundles of fluff look so cute and huggable that she instantly drops to her knees with arms outstretched.

“They’re so fluffy I'm gonna die!” Tsumiki shrieks at a truly impressive volume, clutching her face as she gapes at the puppies.

“You can see them now?” Megumi’s eyes bug out. “How?”

“It’s the glasses! Shoko nee-chan made them for me, so I can see what you see!” Tsumiki explains happily, nose scrunching as she smiles.

She reaches out to touch the white wolf pup, giggling as her fingers pass right through. “I guess I still can’t pet them, but that’s okay! Just seeing them is so cool!”

The confused pup tilts its head, giving a questioning bark before he tries to clamber onto Tsumiki again.

Suddenly, the pounding of small feet announces the arrival of more munchkins. Nanako and Mimiko skid into the room, noses in the air as they catch whiff of new fun.

Mimiko lifts her pilfered bag of choco bars with a gap-toothed grin. “Who wants candy?!”

Tsumiki gasps loudly. “Is that… limited edition dark chocolate Kit Kats? Gojo nii-chan really hid all that?!”

“Here, Tsumi!” Mimiko offers Tsumiki a melted bar of Kit Kat, her small hand sticky with the evidence of previous snacking. Tsumiki takes it with a grin.

“Now we can all play together!” Nanako cheers.

Megumi looks one part exasperated, two parts hopelessly endeared. He commands the puppies to run around the room as the girls chase after them. Joyful laughter and barks soon fill their house, much to the annoyance of the three adults tangled in a napping pile down the hall.

At first, getting her new glasses feels like unlocking a super cool secret power. But the novelty fades once Tsumiki starts noticing things lurking outside that send shivers down her spine.

No curses would actually dare roll into a place full of sorcerers, especially with Geto’s intricate web of barriers woven around their entire house. But each trip into the outside world reveals new horrors to Tsumiki’s newly opened eyes. We’re talking projectile vomit-level nasty. Now Tsumiki finally understands why Megumi always looks so grumpy.

There’s the oily shadows that slither up the walls of adjacent buildings whenever Tsumiki plays with the other kids in the backyard. Also, the occasional red eyes peering from dark alleys that have Tsumiki wanting to cry and barf simultaneously.

During their grocery run, Tsumiki leans over to Shoko and whispers “Sooo, you see that freaky human-faced centipede thing oozing behind the dairy aisle too, right?”

While Shoko gives her the classic shrug. Awesome.

Now, Tsumiki is no longer so inclined to wander away from Shoko. She has learned it’s not a great idea to try her luck outside without an adult sorcerer in spitting distance. The little girl still hasn’t recovered from the floating belly blob that waved cheekily at her from that sewer drain.

After a week of debilitating paranormal discoveries, Shoko gently suggests that Tsumiki only wear her glasses when playing with Megumi’s shadow wolf pups.

“It might be better to take a little break from the scary stuff, don’t you think?” Shoko asks with an understanding smile.

But Tsumiki vigorously shakes her head, clutching the oversized glasses. “If I take them off, those freaky things won’t actually go away though, right?”

Shoko sighs, nodding in confirmation. The creatures still lurk there in the shadows whether seen or unseen. That’s just the thing about curses. They never go away.

Tsumiki lifts her chin. “Then I wanna keep my glasses on. It’s scary, but it makes me feel better to know what’s actually out there, you know?”

Shoko studies her a moment before reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Okay. But promise me you’ll tell me if you ever feel too overwhelmed by what you see out there.”

To that, Tsumiki nods, leaning her head into Shoko’s hand. They spend a few moments of peace together, oblivious to the chaos that is about to head their way.

As luck would have it, Gojo happens to overhear Tsumiki’s entire conversation with Shoko about her new supernatural peepers. When his brave little protege/favorite minion refuses to ditch the nightmare goggles, a truly unhinged lightbulb goes off in Gojo’s head.

Now, anyone familiar with the 1.21-gigawatt dumpster fire that is Gojo knows when he gets An Idea™, it often ends in disaster, mayhem, or angry sorcerers waving weapons in his face.

Perhaps, it’s the one lonely brain cell bouncing around his head like a screensaver seeking stimulation. But how much trouble could he possibly cause just trying to encourage the next generation? The answer is always: so, so much.

A few hours later, Tsumiki sits amidst a pile of freshly laundered socks, narrating epic tales of battle and betrayal for her amused audience of one. Across from her, Shoko folds towels with militant precision, nodding along indulgently to the sock puppet adventure.

That’s when Gojo kicks open the door to their house with his usual grace (none), nearly sending it off the hinges.

Tsumiki perks up instantly. “Nii-chan!”

With great ceremony, Gojo swoops in to present her with a gleaming sword. Not just any, but an ancient special-grade cursed tool that has been in the possession of the Gojo’s clan for ages – the Devil’s Wrath.

Tsumiki’s mouth drops open in wonder while Shoko’s brain short-circuits from the sheer shock. Before Shoko can recover enough to intercept, Gojo has already unsheathed it and handed Tsumiki the katana with a huge grin.

Intricate symbols dance across the metal surface in mesmerizing patterns, seeming to thrum gently with power against her fingertips. The sword is nearly as tall as Tsumiki herself, yet feels perfectly balanced in her hands. Gripping the hilt with both hands, she sees her awestruck face reflected back in the polished metal. She gives it an enthusiastic swing, nearly taking out a nearby lamp.

In the stunned silence, Shoko’s eye begins to violently twitch as she snaps herself from the initial shock. The neatly folded laundry tower topples like dominos as Shoko rises from her seat. She can no longer resist the urge to scream.

“Gojo Satoru! WHAT THE f*ck?!”

The profanity slips out before Shoko can censor herself. As the echoes fade, a tiny voice sounds from the hallway:

“f*ck?”

Ice shoots down Shoko’s spine at Mimiko’s curious echo. She whips her head around to see the twins peering around the corner, faces alight with joy at this new vocabulary discovery.

“f*ck!” Nanako then declares proudly, sealing Shoko’s utter humiliation.

Megumi lingers nearby. He doesn’t say anything, but Shoko just knows the boy is definitely rolling the word over in his head.

Even worse, she can see Gojo barely restraining laughter, shoulders shaking with the effort. Of course, HE finds amusem*nt in this mess after casually handing a special-grade cursed tool to a seven-year-old girl.

As little Mimiko gleefully repeats the new favorite word again, Shoko drops her face into her hands with a groan.

Great. Just great.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Raising four kids while being fugitives is already a monumental challenge on a good day. But Gojo’s perpetual lack of common sense makes it a waking nightmare most times. With his one semi-functioning brain cell, the man seems to create new catastrophes every few hours like clockwork.

The latest disaster has Geto temporarily defusing the situation by prying the Devil's Wrath katana from little Tsumiki’s hands and herding the confused kids away to their playroom. Allowing the two hotheaded adults a moment to "discuss" Gojo’s latest boneheaded decision alone.

When Geto returns, Shoko already has Gojo in a vicious headlock, her face beet red and eyes bulging as she screeches directly in his ear, “Are you f*cking insane, Gojo? Tsumi could have seriously hurt herself!”

Rather than seeming concerned, Gojo remains utterly relaxed, lazily wiggling in Shoko’s iron grip without any real effort to break free. He indulges her angry tirade with a nonchalant shrug. “But she didn’t, did she? As if some dusty old sword could hurt my protégé.”

The flippant response is like pouring gas on the blazing fire that is Shoko’s rage. If looks could kill, the withering glare she levels at Gojo would incinerate him into a scorched crisp on the spot. “You arrogant son of a bitch! That’s a special-grade cursed tool from the f*cking Heian era! She could lose an arm or worse. Even I may not be able to heal it!”

Gojo maintains his smartass bravado, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Well excuse me for trying to help the kid get over her fear of curses, mom. Clearly the self-esteem building, nurturing approach was working so well before.”

“There’s a million better ways than handing a second-grader a cursed katana from ancient f*cking times!” Shoko finally releases the headlock, feeling her blood pressure spiking to truly dangerous levels. She takes a few breaths through gritted teeth, trying to regain some sense of calm.

Gojo somehow maintains his infuriatingly carefree demeanor, even having the gall to try rubbing Shoko’s back in a placating gesture.

"Easy there, baby girl. Don’t worry your silly head off,” he chides with a patronizing grin. “I’ll teach little Tsumi the finer points of swordsmanship and she’ll be just fine.”

The use of that pet name only further enrages Shoko. She glares daggers at him, violently swatting his hand away from her back. “How exactly, genius? You don’t even know the first thing about how to hold a sword!”

Gojo’s grin somehow widens, undeterred by her blistering retort. “How hard could it really be? You see something coming at you, you stab it with the pointy end. Basic stuff.”

That tears it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually serious,” Shoko can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

With a feral growl, she launches herself at Gojo again, tackling him to the ground as she repeatedly smacks the side of his head, punctuating each blow with a new insult. “You! Reckless! Idiot! Manchild!”

Even as Shoko rains down a relentless barrage of blows, smacking Gojo’s head from side to side with the fury of an enraged grizzly, that insufferable grin never leaves his smug face.

Rather than trying to defend himself or diffuse the situation, Gojo simply leans back as Shoko’s assault bounces harmlessly off his Infinity. He proceeds to put on an overly dramatic performance, wailing as if suffering unimaginable agony while firmly holding Shoko in place to keep her from tumbling off in her fiery rage.

In Gojo’s simple mind, he’s just being super considerate – allowing his best girl to vent her frustrations safely while preventing any potential accidents or self-inflicted injuries during her rampage. Why she and everyone else always insist on assuming the worst of his unmistakably pure intentions is simply baffling. Can’t they see he’s the real victim here?

From the sidelines, Geto can only shake his head and sigh as the heated confrontation predictably devolves into yet another full-blown physical altercation between his two best friends. Having learned his lesson from past attempts at intervention, he knows better than to willingly insert himself into the crossfire this time.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna… go start dinner instead,” Geto mutters, prudently retreating to the kitchen while Gojo continues his overblown performance of being ruthlessly “beaten” by Shoko’s relentless onslaught. The racket of anguished wails and string of colorful curses followed him down the hallway.

At least the kids are already glued to the TV with their snack stash. Is it good parenting? Probably not. But Geto supposes it’ll still be much better than letting the kids witness these bouts of domestic violence. From the kitchen, the sound of a long-suffering sigh echoes around as Geto fires up the stove to cook their evening meal, hoping tonight’s dinner won’t be ruined by another food fight before it’s even served.

After thoroughly venting her fury in a whirlwind of insults and physical blows, Shoko’s energy finally runs its course. With an annoyed huff, she collapses bonelessly, limbs splayed out in a display of exasperation.

Rather than letting her fall unceremoniously to the hard floor, Gojo’s arms swiftly encircle her, gently lowering them both down until her face is pillowed comfortably on his firm chest.

“Why did I even run away with you idiots?” Shoko grumbles, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

Gojo chuckles, that ever-present grin audible in his teasing tone. “Because you couldn’t resist my devastatingly handsome looks and sparkling wit?”

Shoko huffs out a bemused snort at his ego, not even bothering to lift her head as she retorts. “As if, you insufferable jackass. I clearly stuck around for your unmatched idiocy and talent for creative chaos.”

Despite the biting sarcasm, there’s an underlying warmth and affection that takes any real sting out of the barbs they casually trade. Shoko makes no move to extract herself from their strangely intimate position on the floor, simply letting out a heavy, soul-weary breath as Gojo soothingly rubs circles across the tense muscles of her back.

The repetitive motions and familiar scent of his cologne slowly work their magic, the fight draining from Shoko’s body as surely as the tension melts from her shoulders under Gojo’s ministrations. A comfortable silence falls over the pair, broken only by the distant sounds of Geto puttering around the kitchen and the kids’ faint laughter wafting down the hall.

In this peaceful moment, cushioned by the steady rise and fall of Gojo’s chest, it’s almost possible to forget they’re the most wanted cursed users in the world of jujutsu. Shoko’s eyelids start to feel heavy, her body becoming boneless and pliant where she’s draped over Gojo's solid form. Just as the gentle lull of his heartbeat under her ear threatens to pull her under, his voice rumbles beneath her cheek in a rare moment of openness.

“You know you love me, Sho. Who else would so readily put up with your violent mood swings?”

There’s a stretch of silence where Shoko pretends to mull it over, putting on an air of consideration before finally replying. “Shut up and keep rubbing me, you jerk. You’re lucky you make a decent pillow.”

It’s impossible to tell if she’s joking or not. But Gojo’s chest shakes with poorly muffled laughter all the same, arms tightening fractionally around her in a brief, grounding squeeze. For all their bickering, times like these remind them why they’d follow each other straight into the pits of hell itself if needed.

Shoko allows herself to bask in the cozy warmth and gentleness of the moment for a while,the lingering adrenaline from their earlier scuffle gradually dissipating. When she finally musters the effort to push herself up slightly, propping on one elbow to better look at him, she was met with his intent eyes.

Thanks to the powerful barriers Geto has layered around their house, Gojo rarely needs to wear his dark sunglasses when at home. His striking blue eyes, so vibrant and beautiful, are on full display – framed by a halo of soft silver hair falling across his forehead. In this light, the combination of his ethereal features and relaxed smile lends him an almost otherworldly, fae-like aura of beauty.

Shoko has always been somewhat captivated by his unique appearance, however begrudgingly she may admit it. On an impulse she can’t quite explain, she reaches out with gentle fingers to trace the defined curve of his full lips, quirked up at the corners in that insufferably smug grin she rails against so often.

“I know, I know,” Gojo teases at her touch, infusing his deep voice with a put-upon air. “Even I’m not entirely sure how I got to be this unfairly pretty.”

The quip draws a bemused huff of laughter from Shoko, but she makes no move to remove her hand from where it rests against the warmth of Gojo’s cheek. He holds her gaze, amusem*nt dancing in the blue depths of his eyes. For all his typical arrogance, he allows the peaceful silence to stretch, seeming content to simply bask in her attentions. Only the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips serving as a reminder of his perpetual capability for ruining any genuine moment.

Shoko holds Gojo’s piercing gaze for a prolonged moment, searching those mesmerizing blue depths as if she could simply will the truth from him through sheer intensity alone. Eventually, she gives a small sigh and relents, voicing the question that’s been weighing on her mind.

“What’s the real deal with giving Tsumiki that cursed katana?” Her tone is softer now, the earlier anger bled away and replaced with something much more vulnerable.

Gojo doesn’t immediately respond, considering her question with uncharacteristic seriousness. When he does speak, his voice is nonchalant, “Well, we are essentially the biggest villains on the block right now. If Tsumi is gonna be sticking with us, she needs to learn how to hold her own and defend herself.”

Shoko’s eyes narrow slightly at his pragmatic reasoning. “So this has nothing to do with what Geto said earlier? About him wanting to get rid of all the non-sorcerers?”

A bark of harsh laughter explodes from Gojo’s chest, though the mirth doesn’t reach his suddenly intense gaze. “As if he could ever pull that off. I’m the strongest there is – if Suguru dares try something that stupid, I’ll kick his ass into the next century.”

His expression shifts then, features softening as he holds Shoko’s gaze. “He won’t lay a finger on Tsumiki. He promised me. And I’ll make sure he keeps his word, Sho.”

The peaceful silence that falls between them is thick with unspoken affection. Gojo studies Shoko’s features with an unguarded tenderness seldom witnessed by anyone – his lips quirking up in a soft, genuine smile devoid of his trademark chaos.

Noticing the way her delicate fingers have started to feel chilled against his cheek, he gently captures her hand and brings it to his lips. Shoko’s breath hitches ever so slightly as Gojo’s warm exhales ghost over the cold tips of her fingers before pressing a lingering kiss to each one.

He knows this tendency of hers all too well – the way anxiety and stress can leach the warmth from her extremities until she’s left trembling and uncomfortable. Gojo hates seeing the strain etched into the contours of her face, the worried creases that age her prematurely. She shouldn’t have to carry such burdens, not while he’s around to shoulder them for her.

As he cradles her slender hand against his lips, cheesy thoughts begin spilling unbidden through Gojo’s typically irreverent mind. Thoughts of how he would tear down the entire world with his bare hands if it meant keeping her safe and happy. Of how he would hoist the crushing weight of all existence upon his shoulders, suffer any torment, as long as she never wanted for anything ever again.

Shoko is his best friend, his best girl, one half of his world – and he can’t fathom an existence without her presence by his side. He wants nothing more than to voice it all out at that moment: the depths of his devotion, his promise to always protect her… but her fingers are sealed against his lips now, preventing him from spilling out every embarrassingly saccharine notion swirling dizzily through his head.

So instead, Gojo simply pulls her closer into the protective circle of his embrace, drinking in her familiar scent and the warmth of her body draped over his own. Silently reassuring her through the strength of his arms and gentle pressure of his lips against her fingertips that she need never fear, not while he yet draws breath.

Words have never been his strong suit anyway. But perhaps, for someone who knows him as intimately as Shoko, they’ve never really needed to be.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

After a hearty, delicious dinner courtesy of Geto’s impressive cooking skills, the three adults are finally able to sit down and have a productive discussion about the whole special-grade katana fiasco.

Somehow, through the process of hurling equal parts rationality and insults back and forth, they eventually stumble upon a moderately sane compromise.

For the time being, the powerful Devil's Wrath katana will be securely locked away in their bedroom closet – at least until Tsumiki is older and has received proper training in sword techniques from someone actually knowledgeable. Shoko and Geto both silently agree that “someone” certainly won’t be Gojo and his self-proclaimed “stab the pointy end at anything” methodology.

Instead, as the resident arts-and-crafts expert, Shoko will fashion Tsumiki some paper shikigami for self-defense purposes. That way she can learn to protect herself against any spooky curses her new X-ray vision allows her to spot. Even if they never let her or any of the other kids outside their house’ barriers unsupervised anyway.

Then there’s the elephant in the room they can’t avoid much longer – allowing the kids to eventually re-acclimate into some semblance of normal education and social interaction before their developmental progress gets too stunted. One Gojo Satoru is more than enough.

This will require some slightly creative identity forgery to slip their little gremlins back into a classroom without the High Council’s goons busting down the doors.

“Leave all the silly paperwork nonsense to me,” Gojo boasts with his usual arrogant confidence, leaning back in his chair. “I am your villain overlord, after all. Forging a few documents will be child’s play.”

Shoko can’t resist rolling her eyes at his posturing. “Yes, because you’ve demonstrated such sound judgment on important matters recently,” she snarks, making a pointed glance towards the darkened hallway leading to Tsumiki’s room where she is no doubt already dreaming of whacking curses with her own katana.

Undeterred, Gojo simply flashes her that infuriatingly charming grin. “Aw c’mon Sho, have a little faith! When have I ever steered us wrong before?”

The pointed question hangs perilously in the air. Both Shoko and Geto are suddenly overcome with the inexplicable urge to start listing off every ill-conceived plan and near-fatal mishap Gojo has orchestrated over the course of their friendship.

Eventually, Shoko lets out an irritated sigh. “You know what? I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer right now. Just… try not to accidentally give the kids any weird names. Absolutely none of your stupid villain names, understand? Nothing along the lines of Death, Shadow, Menace, or Slayer or… whatever stupid sh*t you came up with that time!”

Geto immediately descends into a coughing fit beside her, desperately attempting to smother a wheezing gale of laughter. The inappropriately mirthful sounds only intensify when Gojo unleashes his most exaggerated gasp of mortal offense.

Despite Shoko’s understandable apprehension, Gojo does manage to come through. The following day, he returns home with a giant sh*t-eating grin, brandishing a stack of papers like a trophy.

“Rejoice, my underlings! I have procured our tools for world domination!”

Geto tears his eyes away from the book he’s reading to survey Gojo with a withering glare. “If those are more unpaid utility bills, I swear I’ll strangle you slowly.”

“Not this time!” Gojo replies cheerily. He spreads the documents out across their ratty table with a flourish, practically radiating smug satisfaction.

Geto eyes the papers with skepticism. “Please tell me you didn’t terrorize some government official for those.”

“Of course not!” Gojo feigns offense. “I’m a legitimate villain overlord. I got them through… semi-legal channels.”

Shoko snatches up the documents and begins scrutinizing each one. Her brows knit together as she holds up Megumi’s new birth certificate. “Gojo… you absolute bastard, did you seriously just misspell Megumi’s name?”

Indeed, Fushiguro Megumi’s name is written using entirely different kanji characters that still phonetically sound the same. Gojo just shrugs nonchalantly. “Ah, you see, the characters are all different. It’s essentially a brand-new name! Genius, isn’t it?”

“It’s so f*cking butchered it doesn’t make any sense at all!” Shoko fires back, smacking him with the sheaf of papers.

Geto takes the documents, flipping through each one with growing disbelief. Sure enough, Gojo has employed the same imbecilic “different kanji/same pronunciation” tactic for Tsumiki, Nanako, and Mimiko.

“Are you kidding me with this stupidity?" Geto mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, it’s not stupid if it works!” Gojo protests with an impish grin. “Who’s going to be scrutinizing the intricacies of a bunch of random kids’ names? This way they still technically keep their birth names!”

Geto regards him with an appraising look. He wonders if perhaps, just maybe, Gojo has purposefully taken this ludicrous approach as some harebrained scheme to allow the kids to keep the only connection left to their parents – their names. But knowing the infuriatingly obtuse man, there’s zero chance he’ll admit to any shred of feelings.

So, Geto simply states. “You’re an idiot, Satoru.”

Shoko, however, has to admit she’s mildly impressed as she double-checks the stack of new identities. Aside from the utterly ridiculous combinations of kanji for the kids’ names, there appear to be no obvious red flags or inconsistencies in the documents themselves.

That is, until she reaches the papers bearing her own name.

Her name is misspelled, of course, because that seems to be Gojo’s idiotic modus operandi. But it’s not just a simple name change. No, Shoko’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she realizes her name is on not one, but TWO different marriage certificates.

“Gojo…” she growls in a tone dripping with forced calm as she holds up the offending papers. “Why exactly am I married to both you and Geto?”

Geto whips his head around, brows raised as he plucks the documents from Shoko’s hands to verify her outrageous claim. Of course, one certificate belongs to a Fushiguro Satoru and Fushiguro Shoko, while the other reads Hasaba Suguru and Hasaba Shoko.

“Well, the kids needed corresponding parental marriage certificates to authenticate their own birth documents, didn’t they? It’s easier for us to just take their last names. And it would look pretty suspicious if any two of us claimed to have four children all at once, even with my dashing good looks.” He sweeps a hand through his silver hair with a co*cky wink. “We simply don’t look miserable enough to be actual parents of that many children. Not even you, Suguru.”

Shoko blinks slowly while Geto stares at Gojo with a mix of befuddled confusion and grudging respect for his sheer audacity. As ridiculous and unorthodox as the situation is… he does actually have a point for once.

“I’ll say this much – parent-teacher conferences are going to be incredibly awkward moving forward,” Geto sighs, rubbing his temples.

“We’ll just go in disguise!” Gojo declares with zero hints of irony, lazily waving a hand. “Tsumiki is older, she’s good to go. I went ahead and moved Megumi up a year so he won’t be in the same classes as Mimiko and Nanako. Now that they’re split into different grades, there’s no reason their respective parental units should ever have to overlap.”

He leans back with a self-satisfied smirk. “Megumi and Tsumiki go to the Satoru-Shoko household, while Mimiko and Nanako’s guardians are the Suguru-Shoko residence. Easy peasy.”

An incredulous silence falls over as Shoko and Geto both gape at him, jaws slightly dropped in disbelief and reluctant admiration. Evidently, Gojo is actually capable of applying basic logical reasoning from time to time – it’s simply overshadowed ninety-nine percent of the time by his debilitating lack of common sense.

“You know…” Shoko finally grits out after visibly wrestling with about a dozen violent rebuttals. “For once, I can’t even formulate a proper insult in response to this absurdity. I’m just going to choose to be thankful you managed to avoid anything too egregious this time around.”

Gojo’s answering grin is downright blinding as he slings his arms around both of their shoulders, ever the cheesily charismatic overlord.

“See? What did I tell you two hopelessly married people – ol’ Gojo’s got all the angles figured out! Now we just need to rustle up some sweet code names for the in-laws at upcoming PTA meetings…”

As his boisterous laughter fills the kitchen, Shoko can’t quite suppress the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Only someone like Gojo could concoct a solution so needlessly overcomplicated yet… admittedly thought-out, in an utterly deranged sort of way.

Exhaling a long sigh, she leans in and drapes an arm around each of her husbands’ waists – resigning herself to yet another chapter in the never-ending bizarreness that is their so-called villain’s life.

“God, I need a drink…”

With a sizable stack of new identities and paperwork secured, the trio decides a celebratory round of drinks out on the balcony is well in order. Shoko and Geto happily pass a bottle of top-shelf vodka back and forth between them, savoring the slow burn as it travels down their throats.

Meanwhile, Gojo gleefully takes up his usual perch beside them, knees pulled up to his chest as he chugs away at an obnoxiously colorful fruity soda. Because for as powerful and seemingly indestructible as the great Gojo Satoru may be, the man has one fatal, crippling flaw:

He cannot have even a single sip of alcohol without immediately passing out in a listless, drooling heap – only to awaken hours later with a horrendous migraine rivaled only by the sheer devastation he inevitably unleashes upon those unfortunate enough to be near him in that fragile state.

Needless to say, nothing positive has ever come from witnessing Gojo attempt the hard stuff. A harsh lesson Geto and Shoko learned far too many times over the years.

Though despite his inability to partake in the debauched vice, Gojo seems perfectly content to alternate between shoveling down fistfuls of salty chips and taking noisy slurps from his radioactive-bright beverage. He never quite understood the allure of cigarettes and liquor anyway – those were always more of Shoko and Geto’s things than his.

What does trouble Gojo, however, is the mere prospect of being separated from his two closest people, even for a short while. In his simple yet stubborn psyche, he, Shoko, and Geto are a singular, unbreakable package deal.

So even if he can’t directly partake in their chosen indulgences, Gojo makes sure to indelibly insert himself into the mix regardless. Be it wedging his wiry frame between them on the couch, casually draping an arm around whichever set of shoulders is nearest, or pelting them both with a relentless stream of nonsensical jokes and conversation just for the sake of hearing his own voice.

He is present, dammit – an undeniable part of their dynamic whether the other two want him there or not… at least until they inevitably attempt to retreat to the sanctity of the restroom. Gojo learned the hard way that certain sacred thresholds simply cannot be breached without invoking the demonic, blinding fury of Shoko’s wrath.

But outside of that incredibly specific scenario, he remains their dedicated third wheel, as inseparable from their sides as his very shadows. The ridiculously boyish slurps and crunches from his collection of treats are only occasionally drowned out by a bark of sharp laughter or exaggerated imitation as Shoko and Geto slip further into warm inebriation over the balcony’s edge.

That is, until one or both of them inevitably tries to push away from the railing with flushed cheeks, undoubtedly intending to stumble off towards their respective bed for the evening… only to find resistance in the form of Gojo staunchly clinging to their arm or pant leg like a petulant toddler.

“Whoa, where d’you two think you’re goin, huh?” he whines around a mouthful of chips, otherworldly eyes comically wide with faux-hurt. “The fun’s just getting started!”

Whether they shove him off with good-natured exasperation or simply concede, allowing Gojo to trail behind them with a sulking slouch, the end result is ultimately the same. Tomorrow morning will inevitably find all three of them tangled in an unholy sprawl upon the largest available sleeping surface, hangovers be damned.

They are a packaged deal, after all – the three greatest villains against the world. And if Gojo has any say in it whatsoever, that’s exactly how they’ll remain until the bitter, punch-drunk end.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

It’s morning practice time for the family of fledgling villains. Gojo gathers the kids around, marker in hand and that signature devilish grin plastered across his face. The ramshackle living room has been hastily converted into a classroom, mismatched chairs gathered around Gojo’s whiteboard. Mimiko sits cross-legged on the floor, munching contentedly on a rice cracker and leaving a trail of crumbs.

“Alright, my little agents of chaos!” Gojo booms in his best villain voice, marker poised like a conductor’s baton. “Time for your first lesson in the art of deception!”

Tsumiki leans forward eagerly, ponytail bobbing. Her big eyes are locked on her beloved nii-chan, hanging on his every word despite clearly not understanding the context. Megumi, however, watches with visible skepticism – a premature furrow already etched between his brows. Clearly, the boy is having traumatic flashbacks to his first lesson with Gojo.

“Must you be so dramatic?” The five-year-old boy asks, sounding entirely too serious for his age. “We’re just learning new names, aren’t we?”

“Psh, where’s the fun in that?” Gojo tuts, waggling the marker. “We’re crafting entire lives! Covers to outwit the good guys!”

With a dramatic flourish, he starts scribbling on the whiteboard. Shoko watches with resignation, shaking her head at the indecipherable squiggles rapidly taking shape. Geto’s gaze is impassive but the slightest quirk of his brow betrays his exasperation.

“Behold! The new Fushiguro and Hasaba family trees!” Gojo proclaims, framing the masterpiece with a theatrical sweep of his arms.

Megumi’s brow furrows deeper as he tries to make sense of the nonsensical diagram. Nanako snorts inelegantly.

“That’s supposed to be us? I just see a bunch of scribbles…”

“Heathens!” Gojo gasps, clutching his chest in feigned offense. “Can you not appreciate a master’s artistic vision?”

Tsumiki’s hand shoots up, practically vibrating with unchecked enthusiasm. “Oh, I can see it! The round blob is Shoko-nee-chan, right? Because she’s the center that connects us all!”

“Yes, precisely!” Gojo crows in delight, beaming proudly at his most attentive student. “My sweet daughter Tsumiki gets it!”

Megumi rolls his eyes so hard it must be dizzying for one so young. Mimiko remains obliviously entranced by her shrinking pile of rice crackers.

Gojo clears his throat, savoring the dramatic pause as all eyes turn towards him. A wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Alright, now y’all listen close! From this day forth,” He sweeps the marker toward Megumi and Tsumiki. “You two, Fushiguro Tsumiki and Megumi shall be known as the legitimate spawn of myself, the stunning Fushiguro Satoru and my beautiful wife Fushiguro Shoko!”

Tsumiki is practically glowing at being included in the Gojo’s household. Megumi’s expression remains deeply dubious.

“And you two imps,” Gojo turns to the twin girls. “Hasaba Mimiko and Nanako are the products of Hasaba Suguru’s scandalous liaison with the aforementioned Mrs. Fushiguro!”

He waggles his eyebrows outrageously at Geto, who simply frowns in response. Mimiko seems utterly unfazed, more focused on licking the cracker crumbs from her fingers. But Nanako bristles slightly at the implied impropriety regarding her new “parents.”

“Should anyone ask, you must answer with your new names and claimed parentage without hesitation!” Gojo instructs sternly. “Our lives – oh well, my life is fine, so it’s your lives mostly – may depend on these flawless deceptions!”

The weight of it all is clearly starting to dawn on the children. Tsumiki bites her lip with worried excitement, while Nanako looks openly skeptical and Megumi’s brow furrows even deeper.

Sensing the rising tension, Shoko speaks up in that gentle, soothing tone of hers. “I know it’s confusing, but you don’t have to call us mom and dad when it’s just us.”

Mimiko perks up, head swiveling with wide eyes. A few more cracker crumbs tumbled from her lap. “But I want to!” she pipes up plaintively.

Nanako mumbles under her breath, gaze downcast. “We didn’t have a mom or dad before anyway…”

The words pierce Shoko’s heart. It’s true – the twins have been alone in this world for as long as they can remember. Their birthparents gone, abandoned or who knows what circ*mstance. Left to fend for themselves in a village that scorned them for the curses only they could see. This little group of unhinged people is the first semblance of family they’ve likely ever known.

Geto meets the girls’ eyes then, his intensity fading into a warm smile. “We’re your mom and dad now,” he says, the gruffness of his voice made tender. “You can call us that anytime.”

Shoko nods firmly. “Yeah, you’re my girls now.”

In that moment, the incomprehensible family tree Gojo has scribbled on the whiteboard feels more real than any legal document could ever dictate.

The living room buzzes with an air of excitement and trepidation as the “family briefing” concludes. Gojo straightens, tucking the marker behind his ear like a prize.

“And that, my underlings, is how we shall deceive the world!” He sweeps his arm out grandly. “Any questions?”

Tsumiki’s little hand shoots up again. Her eyes are bright with nerves and relief.

“Does this mean I get to go back to school soon?” She tries and fails to keep the longing from her voice.

Despite her best efforts to be brave these past few weeks, the absence of classroom routine and friends has clearly weighed on the little girl.

Gojo beams at her. “But of course, my dearest daughter!”

Tsumiki’s ponytail bobs as she nods eagerly at the prospect of normalcy again. For Megumi, there is an entirely different feeling. Thanks to Gojo’s liberal rewriting of birthdays, the five-year-old boy is now officially six on paper. Which means starting elementary school a year earlier than expected.

Geto couldn’t mask his very reasonable concern, “Are you sure it’ll be okay for Megumi to start so late in the school year? He may struggle to catch up.”

But Gojo just waves a nonchalant hand, scoffing loudly. “You wound me with your lack of faith, my beloved husband-in-law. This boy is like a grumpy old man trapped in a tiny body. He could probably test into high school right now if we asked nicely!”

Megumi shoots Gojo a deeply unimpressed look that makes the entire room stifle laughs. Even Geto’s lips twitched with reluctant amusem*nt. As for the twins, their entry into kindergarten could wait a little longer. With mischievous grins, they seem thoroughly unconcerned about academics at the moment.

Seeing an opportunity, Shoko smoothly interjects. “Alright, since Tsumi and Gumi need to get back to being students, we’d better get you both squared away.”

She levels a sly look at Gojo. “Which means a shopping trip for your children is in order, don’t you agree, darling?”

Gojo clutches at his chest dramatically. “Anything for my beloved wife!”

With a put-upon show of resignation, he’s already digging into his wallet, extracting a slightly battered credit card. As if he could ever resist playing along when his best girl gets that impish gleam in her eyes. After all, any villain overlord worth their dime should be splurging on their wife and kids, right?

The day fades into a comfortable evening lull, the newly-minted “Fushiguro” and “Hasaba” families settling into their usual domesticity. That is, until Gojo catches Shoko zoning out on her phone. Again.

Wearing his most aggrieved pout, he flops dramatically onto the floor beside the couch where she’s sprawled.

“Yo, who you texting over there, babe?” He whines with masterful petulance. “Ain’t your two smokin’ hot hubbies enough to keep you entertained these days?”

Shoko doesn’t even look up, just keeps tapping away on her screen. “Don’t be a dick, Gojo. I’m just chatting with Utahime.”

That gets Geto’s attention real quick as he strolls into the living room. His brows snap together in a mean furrow. “Hold up, how the hell does Utahime have your new number? Thought we all ditched our old contacts when we went underground.”

Shoko just shrugs, unconcerned. “She email-bombed me, wanted to catch up, so I gave it to her. No biggie.”

An incredulous look spreads over Geto’s face. “And what, pray tell, does she want to talk about?”

Gojo’s eyes light up like he just struck comedy gold. He pops upright, gasping loud and dramatic. “Why, my lovely Sho! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the sanctity of your marital—”

“Oh, put a lid on it,” Shoko cuts him off with an eye roll. She turns that no-nonsense stare on Geto. “In case it slipped your mind, neither of you is actually my husband.”

The words hang in the air, instantly causing Geto to deflate into awkward, tight-lipped silence. Gojo, that bastard, throws his head back with an ear-splitting snort of pure delight.

“Let me change your mind, honey…” He drawls, leaning into Shoko and trying his absolute best to sound sexy but ultimately ending up wheezing with laughter.

When Gojo’s unholy cackle finally subsides, Geto takes the opportunity to try again.

“Okay, but real talk, Sho – what does Utahime actually want?” The hint of suspicion is now colored with concern.

Shoko sits up straighter, carelessly tossing her phone aside. “She wants to meet up. Grab a coffee, talk in person.”

That only deepens the scowl etching Geto’s features. “And that doesn’t sound like a trap to you?”

Shoko’s perfectly arched brow quirks upwards. “What? I thought you liked Utahime just fine.”

Geto’s shoulders rise defensively. “Yeah, of course I like her, but—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Gojo is gasping with outrage.

“You like Utahime?!” The words drip with comically overblown jealousy. “How could you betray me this way, Suguru?”

Geto fixes him with a dark look. “Who doesn’t like Utahime? Stop acting like you didn’t pull all kinds of stupid stunts just to get her attention.”

“Dudes.” Shoko's tone cuts through the bickering like a knife. She holds up both palms in a placating gesture, giving each man a pointed look. “Can you just… stop with all this nonsense for like two seconds?”

Two strongest sorcerers alive bickering like jealous teenagers over a perceived romantic rival. If anyone could see them now…

“Okay, you know what? This is Utahime we’re talking about here.” Shoko heaves a sigh that somehow manages to be both exasperated and fondly amused.

Gojo reins back slightly, his theatrical pout remaining firmly in place though. “Fair enough, I guess. Sweet little Utahime is way too meek for all this backstabbing cloak-and-dagger sh*t.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” Geto insists, arms crossed tightly. “She’s technically still Gakuganji’s favorite. It could be a trap.”

Leaning back into the worn couch cushions, Shoko swings one leg up to casually drape over Gojo’s shoulder where he sits on the floor. “Well, it’s happening either way. I already told her I’d meet her at that cafe downtown tomorrow after I take the kids shopping.”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t think the Council would risk causing a scene in such a public place.”

Without even glancing down, Gojo’s hands immediately start kneading along the arch of Shoko’s foot – an old, familiar gesture. She wiggles her toes in faint annoyance.

“I’ll just tag along then!” Gojo declares brightly. “We can make it a fun little fami—”

“No.” The word brokers no argument from Shoko. “You’ll turn into a complete idiot the second you see Utahime. Well…” She eyes him wryly. “More of an idiot than usual. I actually want to have a productive conversation.”

Geto opens his mouth to offer an alternative, but Shoko cuts him off with a pointed look. “And don’t even start. This is a girls’ thing. My thing.”

“But it’s dangerous for you to go alone!” Geto is borderline on pleading now. “Especially with the kids…”

The weight of Shoko’s flat stare could cut diamond.

“I appreciate the concern,” she says evenly. “But we all know that I can hold my own in a fight if it comes to that.”

Both men have the decency to look sufficiently chastised at the reminder. Shoko may be a healer, but she’s not just a healer. The world may only know Shoko for her gentle side, but Gojo and Geto should be more aware than most that Ieiri Shoko is far from helpless.

Not wanting to risk further ire, Geto settles onto the couch beside Shoko, snagging the remote to flip on the latest drama series they’ve been watching together. A subtle peace offering.

Gojo, for his part, remains stubbornly rooted on the floor – but his hands continue their absent ministrations along Shoko’s foot. Familiar motions conducted without conscious thought as the gears slowly start turning around his one functioning brain cell. An uncharacteristic silence descends over the man who usually can’t resist being the center of attention.

Unbeknownst to our little family of villains, however, sinister machinations are afoot elsewhere in Kyoto. Far away from their humble home, within the hallowed halls of Kyoto Jujutsu High’s administrative complex, a tense meeting takes place.

Utahime fidgets nervously in the rigid chair, hands twisting in her lap as she avoids Gakuganji’s penetrating gaze. The old man regards her inscrutably from behind his imposing desk.

“Are you certain this will be handled delicately?” Utahime ventures, failing to keep the tremor from her voice. “They won’t hurt Shoko, will they?”

A thin, satisfied smile spreads across Gakuganji’s weathered features. “Of course not, of course not. We merely wish to open a dialogue – extend an opportunity for Ieiri to resume her rightful place without any unpleasantness.”

The implication that “unpleasantness” could so easily befall her friend causes Utahime’s stomach to clench. But Gakuganji continues smoothly.

“You understand we cannot approach Gojo or Geto directly. Their… defiance has pushed them too far into delusion.” He shakes his head in a parody of regret. “But you, my dear, have a connection Ieiri may still heed. This is our only peaceful recourse.”

Utahime’s nails dig sharply into her palms as she fights to maintain her composure. “I...I understand.”

“Splendid.” Gakuganji beams with paternal approval. “The High Council is most appreciative of your loyalty, Iori. You’re doing the right thing for everyone’s sake.”

But as Utahime rises stiffly and turns to exit the office, the sickly curl of dread persists in her gut. Shoko has been like a sister to her all these years. If this goes awry…

Utahime prays urgently to any god who will listen, hoping beyond hope that Shoko will understand. That she’s only doing what she believes is right. Isn’t she?

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

The delicious scents of dark roasted coffee and fresh-baked pastries mingle in the air of the bustling cafe. Chatter and laughter provide a lively soundtrack all around Shoko as she takes a sip from her perfectly frothed latte. Across the table, Mimiko and Nanako are in full-on sugar zombie mode, shoveling forkfuls of thick chocolate cake into their mouths with reckless abandon.

“Easy there, girls,” Shoko chuckles.

The twins pay her no mind, far too enthralled by their sugary treats. Shoko shakes her head in amused exasperation. They’ve definitely allowed the little girls to indulge in way too many sweets during this period on the run.

Across the table, Megumi meticulously organizes his new pens and notebooks, barely concealed excitement shining in his eyes. The prospect of finally starting school, which means blessed hours away from Gojo’s unhinged antics each day, is motivation enough for the boy.

Tsumiki scans the cafe curiously before turning to Shoko. “We’re waiting for your friend, right? Um… mom?” She stumbles slightly over the agreed alias, still getting used to calling Shoko that whenever out in public to maintain their cover.

Mimiko and Nanako happily refer to Shoko as “mom” with no fuss – it comes naturally to them because they didn’t have any mom before Shoko anyway. But for the slightly older Tsumiki who once had her own mama, it feels a bit unnatural and weird, even if she's grown incredibly fond of her new “parents” over these past few months.

Shoko gives her a warm smile. “Yeah, Utahime should be here any minute now. She’s a few years older than me, but we go way back. Utahime is awesome. You kids are gonna love her.”

Shoko glances down at her phone, checking for any new messages from Utahime. Her online status has been grayed out for a few hours now. “Probably on transport without internet access,” Shoko muses to herself.

Utahime is running a bit late, but that’s pretty normal. City traffic can be absolutely sh*tty at this time of day. Shoko decides not to worry about the delay.

Instead, she pulls up a maps app, figuring she can use this time to search for a good family-friendly restaurant nearby. As much as Utahime loves her drinks, Shoko has a bunch of kids with her now so they’ll need someplace appropriate.

She gets engrossed in scrolling through reviews and photos, weighing options for places with tasty food but also accommodating for children. Mimiko suddenly pipes up around a mouthful of cake, “Mom, I want pizza!”

“Me too! Pizza!” Nanako echoes with a chocolatey grin.

So consumed by her research, Shoko doesn’t immediately notice that the once lively cafe has been growing quieter over the past few minutes. Customers have trickled out one by one until just her little family group remains. No new patrons have entered in a while either.

Outside on a nearby window ledge, a sleek black crow stares in with beady, glinting eyes. There’s an unnatural keenness to its watchful gaze as it monitors the seemingly oblivious cafe inhabitants.

The hairs on the back of Shoko’s neck stand on end as a sudden, sickening surge of cursed energy saturates the air like a noxious fog. She whips her head up from her phone to find the once-bustling cafe now ominously empty except for her little group.

The entrance door swings open with an ominous creak. A squad of men in black suits strides in, their movements too regimented and precise. Several of them carry heavy-looking duffel bags that clink and clank with suspicious metallic objects inside.

It doesn’t take Shoko a second to recognize the high-grade sorcerers – enforcers working for the High Council. So this is a trap after all. She has truly underestimated good old Utahime.

Megumi seems to reach the same conclusion. “They’re not your friends, right?” the boy murmurs under his breath, loud enough for only her to hear.

Tsumiki instinctively rises from her seat and moves closer to Shoko’s side. Even Mimiko and Nanako have abandoned their sugary treats, bodies tensed as they sense the clear malice rolling off the men in waves. For children so young, they’ve already witnessed and endured far too much ugliness in this world. Nanako’s little hand clamps down on her fork hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

Shoko carefully sets her phone down on the table and raises her hand in a subtle motion. In an instant, all four kids huddle tightly around her without a word needing to be said.

The sorcerer at the head of the pack locks his cold stare onto Shoko. "The Elders request your audience, Ieiri-san," he states flatly, making no attempt to sugar-coat the brazen threat underlying his words.

The tension in the cafe ratchets up tenfold as Shoko meets the squad leader’s bald threat with a serene smile. “An entire squad of elite enforcers just to extend an invitation to a third-grade sorcerer? I’m flattered you deem me such a threat.”

Her nonchalant words are a paper-thin veneer over the coiled fury simmering beneath the surface. The leader narrows his eyes. “We mean you no harm, Ieiri-san,” he states in a tone that suggests the opposite. “But do not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

His cold gaze drifts meaningfully to the kids clinging to Shoko’s side. The implied threat hangs in the air like an obscene promise. If Shoko refuses to comply peacefully, these children will not emerge unscathed.

Shoko holds the enforcer’s eyes with her signature death stare. “You’re making a mistake. Leave us alone… Or you’ll regret it.”

Sensing the escalating danger, Megumi moves first, hands swiftly clasped together to form the summoning hand signs. Within seconds, two wolf cubs appear from swirling shadows, yipping and nipping at the air. But the boy doesn’t stop there – his brow furrowed in intense concentration, Megumi forces more of his cursed energy into the summoning.

The once-tiny shikigami rapidly expand, stretching into two full-grown wolves towering over his height. Baring wicked fangs, the fully formed Divine Dogs pad forward to form a defensive line between them and the enforcers. Their hackles are raised, lips peeled back in feral snarls of warning.

“The Zen’in boy?” one of the enforcers exclaims in surprise.

But the leader simply arches a brow, evidently unimpressed. “A prodigious feat for one so young,” he drawls condescendingly. “But you know those shikigami won’t last long against us, boy. You can barely maintain them in that state.”

Megumi bristles at the dismissive slight, fists clenched and eyes bright in determination way beyond his years. “How about you test it out?” he bites out in defiance.

Shoko places a calming hand on Megumi’s tense shoulder. “It’s okay, Gumi. I’ve got this,” she says in a reassuring tone despite the coldness swirling in her eyes.

The boy’s fuming glare remains locked on the enforcers, but he relaxes marginally – though the low, menacing growls rumbling from his Divine Dogs suggest they are very much still pissed off and ready to attack.

The squad leader heaves an exaggerated sigh, as if dealing with misbehaving children. “I don’t want this to devolve into an ugly situation either, Ieiri-san. But if you insist on being stubborn, we’ll have no choice but to resort to more… persuasive methods.”

He punctuates the threat by turning towards his men. “Don’t touch the Zen’in boy,” he orders curtly.

At his signal, several of his men shift into defensive stances, hands straying toward concealed weapons. The message is clear – they are prepared to use force even against children. Typical Council dicks.

Shoko scoffs, her voice laced with icy disdain. “Oh, you won’t be touching any of my kids.”

With that, she raises her hands, the cursed energy around her grows dangerously charged. But before she can complete the hand signs to activate her cursed technique, before Megumi can unleash his Divine Dogs, even before the enforcers can rush them…

Little Tsumiki has already launched into swift action.

Sure, while it’s true she doesn’t have her special-grade katana on hand – that crazy cursed tool has been immediately confiscated and locked away in their closet until she’s older and properly trained – Tsumiki possesses something even more powerful: Gojo on speed dial.

With blistering speed, she whips out her pink-cased phone and jabs a familiar contact icon. The call connects immediately, and Tsumiki screams into it at the top of her tiny lungs:

“DAD! COME GET US RIGHT NOW! THE GOOD GUYS ARE HERE!”

For a beat, the world seems to freeze as her piercing shriek reverberates through the suddenly silent cafe. Everyone goes still, as if the entire universe is holding its breath.

And then, the very air itself seems to distort and warp as reality glitches. One moment there’s nothing, then the next, an overwhelming presence slams into the confined cafe space like the sudden descent of cosmic gravity.

Materializing in the center of the cafe, amidst a whirlwind of violent cursed energy, silver hair wild and otherworldly eyes blazing with barely restrained power – Gojo Satoru – the strongest curse user of this era.

He casts a withering look at the enforcers as a manic grin splits his features.

“Well, well… looks like quite the party you’ve got going on here!” he drawls, voice dripping with sad*stic glee. “Don’t mind if I join in to get this started, do you boys?”

The blood drains from the sorcerers’ faces so rapidly it’s a miracle they don’t simply keel over from sheer terror. One poor man manages to splutter out a shaking “F-f*ck…” at the impossibility of their situation.

Immediately, Mimiko and Nanako gleefully echo the sentiment in their childish voices – "f*ck! f*ck!" Having recently discovered the glorious word, it’s quickly become their favorite.

And indeed, these men are so epically, irreversibly f*cked.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

The unrestrained force of nature known as Gojo Satoru has arrived in all his glory. And he looks utterly thrilled by the prospect of violence to come.

With Gojo’s overly dramatic arrival, the entire atmosphere in the cafe shifts. Shoko heaves an exaggerated sigh, though her eyes betray a hint of relief. “Always one for making an entrance, isn’t he?” she mutters.

As much as Gojo’s flair for the theatrical can be grating, Shoko’s low-key relieved she doesn’t have to use her own technique. Using it to hurt instead of to heal, even in self-defense, just doesn’t sit right with Shoko. The only reason she’s been mentally prepping to cut loose was to protect the kids.

But now that her ridiculous husband is here and popping off with that signature unhinged energy, radiating power like it’s going out of style, she knows those deluded enforcers don’t stand a chance. With a subtle hand motion, she signals for the children to fall back.

Megumi calls off his Divine Dogs in a puff of shadows. Mimiko, Nanako, and Tsumiki make a beeline for the corner booth, carrying their half-demolished desserts along for the ride. The girls plop down and get nice and comfy for the ensuing sh*tshow, already digging back into their pastries with exactly zero chills. As if moving away from the impending beatdown is simply routine at this point.

With his minions safely out of the splash zone, Gojo finally stops grandstanding and gets to work. His easy grin has been kicked up about twelve notches into a full-on sh*t-eating smirk, an unsettling look of sad*stic delight stretching his features.

How dare these arrogant douchebags have the audacity to come for his girl and his kids like this? Oh, they’re gonna get wrecked, and he’s gonna enjoy every. Single. Second.

Rather than bothering with his fancy technique, Gojo decides to get downright feral.

“You punks want some of this?!” Gojo crows, rolling up the sleeves of his hilariously loud printed shirt as he cracks his knuckles menacingly. “I’m about to teach you the ancient Jujutsu art of Get That Ass Beat!”

The once big-and-bad enforcers visibly gulp as Gojo starts advancing on them, a venomous glint dancing in his eyes. For all his reputation as an untouchable god thanks to his Six Eyes and Limitless technique, not many realize that Gojo is an absolute monster with just raw, barehanded martial arts as well.

The man is quite literally a master of throwing them hands.

What ensues is a gloriously one-sided beatdown, all set to a soundtrack of panicked screaming, dull thuds of bodily impact, and Gojo’s increasingly deranged cackling. Fists and feet fly in a dizzying flurry as the enforcers desperately try to defend themselves, only to get mercilessly introduced to strike upon strike.

From their safe vantage point in the corner booth, the kids can’t quite make out the chaos unfolding behind Gojo’s whirling of violence. All they can really see are the desperately flailing limbs of the poor bastards on the receiving end every time Gojo allows a brief glimpse between his unrelenting onslaught.

“Do you think he can teach us that?” Tsumiki observes glibly around a mouthful of cake.

Mimiko and Nanako, having long ago tuned out the shrieks and impacts, simply nod along agreeably as they lick the sticky frosting from their fingers.

After thoroughly working over the enforcers, leaving them a whimpering pile of battered limbs, Gojo spots an opportunity for a teaching moment.

“Hey Megumi, you wanna let your puppies have a turn chasing these sad sacks around?” he calls out with a wild grin. “Could use the live target practice!”

The boy’s eyes light up with unbridled glee. Without hesitation, Megumi’s hands fly through the hand signs.

Two full-form wolves materialize from swirling shadows, snarling and snapping bared fangs. At his command, the shikigami lunge forward. The sad remains of the enforcer squad barely have a chance to whimper in fresh terror before they’re sent scattering in all directions, the massive Divine Dogs eagerly giving chase. Furniture is upended, glass shatters, chandeliers sway dangerously as the impromptu hunt rages through the once quaint cafe.

Through it all, Gojo throws his head back and lets out a raucous whoop of approval, clearly overjoyed to be indulging in such glorious destruction. And Tsumiki, Gojo’s biggest fan, is absolutely dazzled by the madness, rapidly snapping photos to commemorate the utter anarchy. Mimiko and Nanako, on the other hand, give approximately zero thought to the mayhem as they steadily work their way through the pastries.

Just another perfectly normal day in the life of this family of villains.

***

Utahime’s footsteps trace a restless path across the floor of her room back on the Kyoto campus. Worry and guilt gnaw at her gut like a pair of ravenous beasts, slowly devouring her from the inside out.

She’s been ordered to keep her phone off and dark after setting up the ambush meeting with Shoko earlier. A petty attempt by Gakuganji to ensure she couldn’t warn her friend or back out at the last minute. At least, he trusts her loyalty enough to not just straight-up snatch her phone. But as the hours tick by in unbearable silence, Utahime finds her resolve cracking.

Finally, she can no longer resist the urge. With trembling hands, she powers her phone back on, eyes squeezing shut against the bright screen flare. A flurry of notifications and messages immediately bombarded her – most of them innocuous little updates from Shoko throughout the morning.

Casual memes and inside jokes they have shared a million times before. Links to family-friendly restaurants in the area, wondering if Utahime has a preference for their meetup. Then increasingly worried texts asking if she’s gotten caught in traffic or something… Utahime’s guilt and self-loathing threaten to strangle her. She suddenly has doubts about whether Gakuganji will keep his word.

Her self-torment is interrupted by the shrill trill of her ringtone cutting through the silence. Utahime flinches, throat constricting as she sees the caller ID.

Shoko.

Utahime accepts the call and raises the phone to her ear with mounting dread. “Sh-Shoko...?” She immediately picks up the sounds of utter chaos blaring from the other end – crashes, shouts, unmistakable combat.

“Shoko?! Are you okay?!” Utahime cries out, panic gripping her.

But when her Shoko’s voice comes through, it’s deceptively calm and level. “Seriously, Utahime? That was a real dick move you pulled…”

Amidst the cacophony of shouts, crashes, and general pandemonium filtering through the phone’s speaker, Utahime easily recognizes Gojo’s signature unhinged cackling piercing through it all.

Of course, the insufferable lunatic would have inserted himself into the situation. Even when Utahime has tried to convince Shoko that this should be a girls’ day out per Gakuganji’s strict instructions, she should have known Gojo would never actually let Shoko go to their meeting alone.

That unstable guy is absolutely obsessed with keeping Shoko under his watchful eye and self-appointed protection at all times. Utahime has warned Shoko about getting mixed up with Gojo’s deranged antics time and again, but her pleas have fallen on deaf ears.

Still, as much as Gojo’s very existence grates on every last one of Utahime’s nerves, she feels a surprising swell of relief knowing he is there for Shoko now. She trusts he wouldn’t let any harm come to her closest friend.

“I’m so sorry, Shoko,” Utahime speaks into the phone, voice barely above a trembling whisper. “I didn’t… Gakuganji-sama assured me they just wanted to talk with you. He said you wouldn’t be hurt if I could get you there.”

There is a brittleness to Shoko’s tone as she forcefully cuts Utahime off. “You know I have the kids with me today, Utahime. I told you they were excited to finally meet you. And what did they get instead? A bunch of thugs in black suits ambushing us!”

Her voice cracks with anger and fear. “They would have taken me by force, or worse – hurt my kids – if I refused to go with them. Is that what you planned?”

The sharp edge of fury in Shoko’s words slices through Utahime like a cursed blade. Shoko has every right to be utterly livid at her – Utahime was naive enough to blindly put her trust in Gakuganji’s honeyed assurances that no harm would come to Shoko.

But the painful truth is, Utahime doesn’t even know the full terrifying extent of Shoko’s abilities as a sorcerer. The only ones who are aware Shoko can hold her own are Gojo and Geto.

As far as Utahime and the rest of the world are concerned, Shoko is simply a third-grade sorcerer in terms of combat power. Someone who would have been hopelessly, fatally outmatched against the merciless squad of elite enforcers lying in ambush.

That’s what makes Shoko feel sick. What the hell did Utahime even think she was doing?

Utahime’s mouth works numbly as she tries to push more desperate apologies and platitudes past her lips. But Shoko’s next words are dripping with icy rage.

“So exactly what did those bastards want to ‘talk’ to me about, huh? Give me one good goddamn reason I should have complied and gone along quietly with your sick game!”

The demand hangs in the air with a terrifying intensity that makes Utahime want to shrink away from her phone. Utahime’s words catch in her throat for several agonizing moments before emerging in a pained whisper.

“They… they wanted you to help convince Gojo and Geto to surrender themselves over to the Council’s custody…”

There’s a beat of ringing silence that seems to stretch into eternity. Until finally, Shoko’s derisive scoff explodes through the speaker – a sound somehow more cutting than if she’d simply screamed her outrage.

“Surrender? And then what, they execute us all on the spot? You can’t possibly be naive enough to think the Elders just wanted to have a friendly little tea party, Utahime.”

Shoko’s voice deepens into a steely, deadly serious register that sends a shiver rippling down Utahime’s spine. “The three of us – Gojo, Geto and me – we all have kill-on-sight orders, for f*ck’s sake. We’re as good as dead if we get captured.”

The bitter reality washes over Utahime in waves. Punctuated by the continued sounds of violence filtering through the call – dull impacts, bursts of shattered glass, dog barking, and Gojo’s manic laughter.

Utahime’s cold sweat of shame and regret feels endless. But before she can try to explain herself further, try to convey the layers of misguided intent and regret fueling her terrible choices, Gojo’s voice cuts through in a burst of jeering arrogance.

“Well, well… if it isn’t little Miss Utahime,” he mocks, clearly having snatched the phone from Shoko’s hand. Utahime can make out Shoko’s indignant protests in the background.

But Gojo’s next words freeze her in place. All hint of his typical idiotic shenanigans is abruptly stripped away, leaving an unsettlingly cold edge.

“Listen up ‘Hime, because I’m only gonna say this once. I’ll let these sad sacks of meat you sicced on us go… this time. For old time’s sake, and because they’re just following orders like the mindless drones they are.”

There’s a pregnant pause where Utahime can clearly envision the disdainful sneer twisting Gojo’s features.

“But you tell that delusional windbag Gakuganji this: if the Council sends more of their pathetic muscle after my girl and my kids again… Whoever they send next, I’ll slaughter every one of them. Slowly and painfully.”

His promise chills Utahime to her core, a low hiss of malice coloring his tone.

“I don’t care how much blood those old bastards think they have to spare on us. If they have death wishes to fulfill, they can be my f*cking guests.”

The line goes abruptly dead, plunging Utahime’s room into a silence more deafening than any explosion. Her legs give out from under her, sending her crumpling boneless to the cold floor as the phone slips from her numb grasp.

For as long as Utahime has known that chaotic son of a bitch Gojo Satoru, she’s witnessed the man careen through every flavor of unhinged f*ckery under the sun. From wildly inappropriate jokes that’d make a sailor blush, to full-blown manic episodes where he seemed to completely untether from reality itself if the mood struck – the guy has always danced to the beat of his own ridiculously debauched little drum circle.

But through all the obnoxious antics, all the dismissive sneers at rules and norms the rest of them peasants abide by, Utahime has never truly sensed any outright malice lurking behind Gojo’s veneer of provocative assholery. At his core, she’s written the lunatic off as simply an overgrown class-clown manchild – needling people and stirring up ruckuses purely for his own self-amusem*nt.

Well, chalk this traumatic day up as a harsh reality check, because that perception has been thoroughly shattered into obliteration.

The utter disdain and promise of scorched-earth violence oozing from Gojo’s earlier words have left Utahime feeling like she stumbled into some fresh new circle of hell. That wasn’t the obnoxious bad boy act she knew so well. No. That was the voice of someone thoroughly unraveled and plunging headlong into the blackest pits of hatred and nihilism with unrestrained glee.

The phone tumbles from her trembling grasp as reality crushes down.

Utahime can’t help but wonder if Gakuganji has made an absolutely apocalyptic-level misstep today. Because, dear gods above, by pushing Gojo Satoru across that final line into f*ck-this-sh*t territory, they may have just made what could be the greatest scourge this world has ever f*cking seen.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

For a bunch who audaciously call themselves the greatest villains on the block, Geto can’t help but roll his eyes at how little actual villainous behavior they’ve engaged in since going rogue together.

Sure, there was that one time Gojo somehow finessed a set of impeccably forged identities out of nowhere so the kids could re-enroll in school without a hitch. But beyond that single roguish move, their merry little gang has displayed a shocking lack of evil deeds.

No daring heists, no nefarious schemes, not even some light arson for the sake of it – unless you count Gojo’s obnoxiousness as a form of assault on humanity. Maybe that’s why those corrupt dinosaurs on the High Council seem so emboldened now.

This supposed “coffee date” Shoko has blindly agreed to with her bestie Utahime? Obviously a trap. Yet for some reason, Shoko is eating it up hook, line, and sinker. Geto scoffs. Sure, Utahime is sweet, cute and all that, but she’s also a dedicated rule follower who lives to obey Gakuganji’s every decree.

Then again, Shoko’s not one to talk when it comes to exhibiting poor judgment. For all the grief she gives Gojo about his single brain cell powering his idiocy, she can turn around and do something equally reckless herself.

Not that Geto doubts Shoko can handle herself in a scrap. But that doesn’t stop the knot of worry from tightening in his gut over this obvious ambush they’re about to stumble into. Trying to strongarm her way out of this mess could put the kids at risk, and that’s unacceptable.

Thankfully, Geto’s partner-in-not-so-villainy is already spinning his own devious counter-plot. The night before the ill-fated meetup, Geto catches Gojo crouched in a shadowy corner with little Tsumiki, their heads bent conspiratorially over her phone. He watches with bemused exasperation as Gojo coaches the young girl meticulously, running her through the “call dad” speed dial drill over and over like it’s a matter of national security until she has it down to an art.

Geto knows for certain that during the entire outing while Shoko is out shopping and grabbing coffee with the kids, Gojo will be tailing them from a safe distance. Just far enough that Shoko’s senses can’t detect his overbearing presence looming nearby, yet still close enough for him to teleport in at a moment’s notice once little Tsumiki activates that ultimate Gojo Summoning™️ technique.

There are evidently certain conditions and limitations to Gojo’s infuriatingly handy teleportation trick – not that the smug idiot would ever disclose such vital details, of course. As obnoxiously overpowered as he is, Gojo isn’t some all-knowing, all-teleporting god. Geto is well aware he can’t simply BAMF himself anywhere on a whim.

Which is why the self-proclaimed “Greatest Evil” will have to play suburban stalker for the day to ensure he’ll be in position to make the jump when needed. With their villain overlord handling security detail, at least it frees up Geto to ponder their next strategic moves. Specifically, how to send an unequivocal message back to those decrepit Elders that pulling juvenile sh*t like trying to take a hostage is a line none of them want to cross again.

Staring out the window, lost in thought, Geto can’t help but ponder – what exactly would a truly great villain do in this scenario? It’s not like there’s some kind of evil overlord’s handbook lying around with clear protocols for handling these situations. Being a professional villain is already challenging enough with a gaggle of rambunctious school-aged kids trailing behind them everywhere.

Perhaps that’s why most evildoers tend to remain blissfully child-free, Geto muses. Inflicting chaos and anarchy on the world at large is one thing. But trying to cultivate an aura of fear and menace while also juggling grocery runs and parent-teacher conferences? That’s a whole other level of villainy few are cut out for.

Briefly, Geto entertains the idea of simply burning the High Council’s ostentatious Headquarters to the ground. A message delivered through purifying flames would certainly grab those corrupt bureaucrats’ attention, while keeping them too preoccupied with rebuilding and renovations to bother sending more goons their way anytime soon.

But then he dismisses it with a sigh. As satisfying as that option might be, ultimately it’s not sustainable long-term. Geto can already hear Gojo laughing off the concern, arguing that they could just make it a regular thing – periodically torching the Headquarters to remind the High Council who they’re dealing with. Because of course, Gojo would default to the most needlessly destructive and high-maintenance solution possible.

After much contemplation, a potential solution suddenly occurs to Geto. What they need is a cult. Yes, that’s it. Isn’t having a devoted cult of followers practically a prerequisite for any self-respecting villain? A cult centered around curse exorcism and removal would be the perfect cover.

It plays to Geto’s own cursed technique – Curse Manipulation, which is basically spiritual Pokémon training taken to the next level. Instead of tirelessly roaming the lands, capturing curses one by one, Geto could simply let the followers come to him. An endless stream of the afflicted paying the cult for the privilege of having their plagues lifted. It’s a win-win.

With each exorcism, Geto expands his own arsenal of bound curses to command – an ever-growing payload he could strategically unleash upon the Council should they dare try any funny business again. And as an added perk, running such an operation would finally give them a sustainable income stream. Even a villain needs to earn a living wage, especially one with a wife, a husband-in-law, and four kids to provide for. Gojo’s offshore accounts will run out eventually at the rate they are blowing through his money.

Don’t get him wrong, Geto is still committed to his grandiose ideal of making a world without curses someday. But Gojo made a good point. Geto will start on a smaller scale. His new world can wait, at least until the children are older. For now, his primary objective is ensuring no one can touch his little family. What better way than building an entire cult dedicated to that very goal, all while amassing power?

The logistics of actually starting a cult from scratch gives Geto an immediate headache. The organization, marketing, recruitment – it’s all so involved and complicated. With a weary sigh, he decides a hostile takeover will suffice. There are already plenty of bizarre cults operating in the shadows. Why put in the effort of building one from the ground up when he can simply co-opt an existing one and renovate it to suit his nefarious needs?

In fact, Geto already has the perfect cult in mind for his grand villainy renaissance – the very same assholes responsible for last year’s catastrophic incident that nearly got both him and Gojo killed. Perhaps it’s a twisted sort of redemption coming full circle. He’ll take the zealous devotion of those pathetic monkeys and repurpose it into something productive this time around.

With a target acquired, Geto moves on to pondering the crucial question of cult leader optics and branding. What sort of figure do the spiritual masses typically flock to when seeking meaning and purpose in the warm embrace of a cult?

Someone outwardly projecting kindness, compassion, and a nurturing persona, he figures, while still maintaining an air of mysterious, all-powerful divinity. A deft balance of welcoming benevolence and awe-inspiring, supremely capable leadership. Geto strokes his chin pensively. Yes, he can certainly manage that. Geto was always a popular guy back in school after all.

But what of the vital cult leader aesthetic? Traditional Shinto priest garments with their intricate robes and gorgeous embroidery could lend an air of mysticism and exotic spirituality. Or perhaps stark, monastic robes befitting a wise, ascetic guru? Then again, maybe something more modern and Western-inspired would resonate better with today’s youths – like a slick businessman’s suit cut from the finest materials. The branding possibilities are endless.

After spending the better part of an hour scrolling through page after page of cult leader fashion options on various e-commerce platforms, Geto’s eyes are starting to glaze over from the overwhelming array of ridiculous outfits. Maybe he should have started a vision board first to narrow down aesthetics.

Just as he’s about to give up and embrace an image rebrand as a modernized MLM cult leader in a sleek suit, one particular traditional monk’s attire catches Geto’s discerning gaze – the gojo-kesa robe. He can’t help but quirk an amused eyebrow at the coincidence of the robe’s name sharing characters with a certain obnoxious guy.

There’s something comforting, though, in the idea of always having a symbolic piece of Gojo with him, even if just in name. The thought soothes a part of Geto’s turbulent heart that he quickly avoids examining too closely.

Pushing such distracting notions aside, Geto nods decisively. Yes, the gojo-kesa’s simple yet elegant design looks sufficiently mystical and cult-leader-esque while still allowing for plenty of martial arts ass-kicking mobility. He can absolutely work with this traditional monastic aesthetic once he takes over the cult. Decision made, Geto quickly purchases a few sets of the robes, mentally moving on to planning the finer details.

Geto finds his thoughts utterly consumed by visions of cult takeovers and branding aesthetics the entire day, rendering him only half-present as the rowdy chaos swirls around him.

Shoko and Gojo’s bickering over the coffee date ambush quickly devolves into a childish squabble. Geto can make out Shoko’s indignant complaints about how Gojo had clearly been tailing her and the kids the entire time, glued to his phone and just waiting for little Tsumiki’s emergency call. Gojo, being Gojo, gleefully needles Shoko right back about how she managed to get duped by “sweet little Utahime” of all people.

While the two supposed adults engage in their immature back-and-forth, the kids flock to Geto in search of a more attentive audience. Mimiko and Nanako enthusiastically recount how incredibly cool Megumi was, summoning his menacing Divine Dogs to chase off the Council’s goons. Little Tsumiki tugs on Geto’s sleeve, eyes wide as she asks if she can pretty please have her katana back for practice, just in case. Megumi himself simply huffs and demands to know when he’ll finally get to start attending school.

Geto does his best to listen with one ear and nod attentively, carefully patting heads and offering praises. But the vast majority of his mind remains squarely locked on the elaborate cult persona he needs to start constructing. Absently, Geto wonders if the kids would object to being indoctrinated into a cult life from such an early age.

Surprisingly, pitching his grand cult leader ambitions to Gojo and Shoko goes over far smoother than Geto anticipated. Of course, it’s a well-known fact that sorcerers as a breed tend to be at least a little off-kilter from the get-go. His two best friends just happen to be sorcerers of such exceptionally high caliber that they’re clearly touched with their own unique brands of madness.

Well, perhaps “touched” is too kind a word when it comes to describing Gojo’s blatant lunacy. Shoko is merely unorthodox in her own quirky way. But Gojo is undeniably, irrevocably, batsh*t crazy through and through.

So when Geto lays out his rather unconventional cult takeover scheme, it’s met with immediate acceptance and zero hesitation. Though Gojo can’t resist letting out an undignified snort when the monk’s robes Geto ordered finally arrive – “Seriously, Suguru?”

In contrast, Shoko instantly becomes invested in helping Geto cultivate the perfect cult leader aesthetic once he dons the robes. As she eagerly circles him, scrutinizing his appearance with a critical eye, the first order of business becomes his hairstyle.

Ever the annoying little sh*t, Gojo cackles as he helpfully suggests Geto should just shave his entire head bald to fully commit to the monk aesthetic. He’s probably just jealous of Geto’s luscious, silky locks. The immature jab earns the arrogant prick a solid whack upside the head – not that it fazes Gojo in the slightest.

Ignoring Gojo’s idiocy, Shoko instead recommends Geto keep his long hair but style it in a traditional half-topknot, capturing the flowy yet refined look befitting an enlightened spiritual leader of Geto’s stature. The sleek yet slightly tousled look would project a mix of mystical tradition and rakish, unconventional spiritualism – the perfect blend for a cult whose philosophy lies somewhere between ancient orthodoxy and subversive new-age revolutionaire.

With a resigned sigh, Geto takes a seat in front of the large vanity mirror, allowing Shoko to work her magic with styling his hair. Immediately, Gojo starts pacing around them, rattling off an endless stream of increasingly ridiculous potential names for Geto’s fledgling cult.

“Ooh, how about The Bound Ones? Get it, because of your curse binding technique? Too on the nose?” The incorrigible man doesn’t even pause for Geto’s opinion before barreling on. “The Harbingers of Darkness? ...No, wait, I’ve got it – Oracles of the Seven Divines. Now that’s an attention-grabber!”

Letting out a weary exhale, Geto tunes out Gojo’s incessant rambling, instead focusing on the soothing sensation of Shoko’s deft fingers gently raking through his thick locks. Her nails scrape lightly against his scalp in tiny maddening patterns, sending delicious goosebumps shivering down his back.

After a few blissful moments, Shoko murmurs “All done” in satisfaction. Geto’s eyes flutter open and he startles a bit at his own reflection. Between the gojo-kesa robes and his hair styled into an elegant half-topknot, he looks transformed. A few artfully tousled strands frame his sharp features, projecting an air of roguish yet refined spirituality.

Shoko’s arms drape over his shoulders from behind as she leans in, an impish grin playing across her lips. “Never knew being bad could look oh so good…”

Because of course, the moment couldn’t last, as Gojo immediately inserts himself between them, wrapping his arms tightly around both. A wide smirk stretches his face as he appraises Geto with an approving nod. “Now that’s what I call a makeover! Definitely cult leader material right there.”

In this still snapshot of time, taking in their combined reflection beaming back at him – Shoko’s warm embrace enveloping him from behind, Gojo’s lanky frame draped over them both like a human blanket, all bright smiles and eyes alight with unguarded joy – something settles deep within Geto’s soul. Gently leaning back against Shoko’s softness, he places his hand atop Gojo’s where it rests against his chest, giving a light squeeze and simply breathing in the rightness of it all.

Geto may not have settled on the perfect villainous cult name just yet, but he understands one fundamental truth with crystalline clarity: He will do whatever it takes to ensure they can always remain by each other’s side, so happy and whole, like the way things were always meant to be.

He will make this world a true sanctuary, a place free of curses and sufferings, a place where they can find true peace. And he hopes fervently that somehow, someday, Gojo and Shoko will come to understand the necessity of the path he’s chosen.

But for now, Geto allows himself to simply exist, fully present with the two most important people in his life. As Gojo tightens his arms around them both, Shoko leans down to press a featherlight kiss against Geto’s hairline. From somewhere in the background, the muffled but delightful sounds of children’s laughter and playful shrieks filter in. For now, Geto has everything his soul could possibly need right here.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Infiltrating and taking over that misguided cult isn’t as much of a total sh*tshow, all things considered in Geto’s opinion. Of course, the brainwashed cultists aren’t too thrilled when this crazy hot guy with long hair in a half top-knot just moseys in wearing monk robes and declares himself their supreme leader now.

Geto had hoped his undeniable good looks and devastatingly charming personality would be enough to sway them. But these fools just have to be difficult about it. They have the audacity to start jeering and booing at his magnificent presence like he just killed their firstborn. As if their creepy cult bullsh*t grants them any shred of moral high ground.

Really, these monkeys should be grateful someone has finally given their meaningless lives a good and productive purpose to serve. One particularly rude cultist keeps heckling Geto incessantly, testing what little patience he possesses.

Well, screw playing Mr. Nice Cult Leader. With a lazy wave of his hand, Geto summons a massive, grotesquely-twisted curse to slam down and pancake the rude little sh*t into the floor. It’s rather difficult to run your mouth when being crushed under an evil curse now, huh jackass?

That little display of power finally shuts the rest of those brain-dead cultists right the hell up. They’re all staring at Geto now like he’s the second coming… which, let’s be real, he basically is. Somehow turning this dumb cult into his personal piggy bank gets way easier after that.

With the cultists firmly under his heel, Geto needs to get this clown show reorganized and set up a proper base befitting his new station as their supreme leader. Lucky for him, these cult chumps are loaded with all the cash and assets they conned out of their whackjob followers over the years. More than enough to fund Geto’s fresh new lifestyle. He calls over Shiu to start laying out the game plan.

“We’re gonna need an estate with separate wings where I can receive my followers,” Geto outlines, already picturing his opulent new digs. “Gotta fit my aesthetic, y’know? Some sprawling outdoor spaces for the kids to run around and me and the crew to train. Plenty of bedrooms too, so everyone gets their own quarters.”

As Geto keeps listing off requirements, Shiu looks increasingly annoyed at being treated like an errand boy. “You know, I’m a mediator, not your servant,” he objects.

Geto’s mildly impressed Shiu still has the balls to sass him after the sh*t he pulled with Toji last year. Honestly, Shiu should be grateful that a dirtbag monkey like him is still allowed to live and breathe the same air as Geto.

Wiping a speck of blood from his face, Geto flashes a benevolent smile. “I know, but you could be so much more…”

As in – Shiu could be either more useful, or more dead. His choice.

The temperature in the room suddenly plummets as Geto’s cursed energy flares violently. Shiu shivers, getting the not-so-subtle hint that his job is whatever Geto deems it to be now. Damn, Geto’s really a natural at this supervillain stuff.

With the cult business officially settled, Geto strolls back home feeling like a million bucks – or whatever the going rate is for a certified evil mastermind these days. This is how a real supervillain runs sh*t: consolidating power, acquiring assets, asserting his dominance. Gojo could stand to take some notes.

However, Geto’s criminal high gets cut short when he finds an uninvited guest awaiting him upon his arrival. And it’s Ijichi of all people.

Sitting rigid as a statue on the living room sofa, Ijichi looks even paler and more sickly than usual, like he’s about two breezes away from crumbling into dust. Not that Geto thought it was possible for Ijichi to seem any more frail.

What kind of juicy bullsh*t is this now?

Geto narrows his eyes, fixing Ijichi with an icy glare. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

Ijichi flinches at the sound of Geto’s voice, eyes widening further as he takes in Geto’s new cult leader outfit and hairstyle situation. Wisely, he doesn’t comment on the drastic rebranding. Instead, Ijichi stammers out, “I… the Elders sent me to...um…”

“Those dinosaurs sent him here to try and kill us!” Gojo cheerfully supplies from where he’s lounging nearby. Like that’s even remotely plausible.

Geto can’t resist letting out a barking laugh at how pathetic this attempt is. “You gotta be f*cking kidding me,” he scoffs.

Poor Ijichi cringes, trying and failing to make himself appear even smaller and less of a target. “I didn’t want to… but…”

At that moment, Shoko gracefully glides in bearing a tray of tea and snacks like the perfect hostess. “Oh come on, let the poor guy catch his breath first!” she chides them both.

Shoko’s presence seems to instantly soothe Ijichi’s frazzled nerves. He accepts the tea mug she offers with a shaky hand, shoulders relaxing slightly. And when Shoko flashes him a bright smile, his face flushes bright red as he somehow manages to redirect just enough blood flow away from the impending heart attack to blush furiously.

It’s kind of adorable how Ijichi has been harboring such a massive, all-consuming crush on Shoko ever since he enrolled in Tokyo Jujutsu High and laying eyes on her for the first time. He hasn’t been subtle about it at all either. Lucky for him, Gojo’s too busy inhaling the snack platter like a starving man to notice the longing look Ijichi is shooting Shoko’s way.

Geto supposes he can let the sad little crush slide. For now at least. He plops down on the couch next to Ijichi, causing the boy to flinch away. Rolling his eyes, Geto massages his temples. “So I guess Mei Mei ratted out our location to the Council?” He asks flat-out.

Ijichi gives a weak nod, avoiding eye contact. “Y-yeah… Her crows managed to track you all from that cafe.”

Geto shoots Shoko an extremely judgmental look that says ‘I told you so.’ See? This is exactly why he warned her not to go. But of course, Shoko just wrinkles her nose right back at him, radiating zero remorse for walking into an obvious trap.

Recognizing that Shoko is a lost cause, Geto continues staring blankly at Ijichi, “Okay, but humor me here – how exactly do they expect YOU to successfully off both me and Satoru?”

The last pack of goons those dinosaurs sicced on them were all elite combatant sorcerers, highly-trained enforcers at the peak of their physical prime. And every single one got their asses handed to them by Gojo using just his bare hands. Geto simply cannot fathom in what universe this twig of a first year could theoretically pose any threat.

The math isn’t mathing, as the youths say these days. Geto's gaze slides over to where Shoko has settled into a nearby armchair, keeping a respectful distance so as not to send lovestruck Ijichi into acute cardiac arrest from close proximity. She catches his look and just shrugs, gesturing vaguely at the coffee table. “With poison, obviously.”

Now that she mentions it, Geto notices the small innocuous vial sitting there, almost forgotten amidst the disarray of snack plates and tea things. Gojo briefly resurfaces from inhaling an entire party-sized bag of chips to clarify, “Yeah, those old coots told buddy here to pretend he wanna defect too, earn our trust, and then try slipping us a mickey. As if that little trick could fool these eyes.” He emphasizes the point by batting his eyelashes.

Fair enough. Poison could work. As ridiculously overpowered as Geto and Gojo are, they’re still human when it comes to biological vulnerabilities. And surely the Council has access to some potent, arcane concoctions that could wreck their sh*t. Or at the very least, weaken them enough to be dispatched.

But why in the fresh hell are they all just sitting around drinking tea and snacking like it’s a casual hangout instead of, oh you know, interrogating the spy/assassin that the Council directly sent to kill them? Geto wonders in dismay if he’s truly the only rational person in this entire madhouse.

With an annoyed hiss, Geto leans in uncomfortably close to Ijichi. “Please tell me you didn’t actually try ...” he says in a low, dangerous tone.

Ijichi immediately turns an unhealthy shade of green, looking like he’s about to revisit his lunch. “O-Of course not!” he sputters. “I-I’d never…”

“Back off a bit there, Geto,” Shoko chuckles lightly, waving a hand. “Ijichi came clean and told me everything the moment I opened the front door for him.”

Mercifully, she skips over the extra humiliating detail of how Ijichi was a hysterical, sobbing mess when she found him, tears and snot streaming down his face as he unloaded the whole story in one single breath.

Geto squints suspiciously at Shoko. “You just… opened the door for someone the Council sent after us?”

“Of course, she did,” Gojo pipes up with a sh*t-eating grin, getting a kick out of seeing Geto slowly go bananas.

Shoko shoots them both an irritated look. “It’s Ijichi,” she says, as if that explains everything. “And it’s hot as hell outside. What, was I supposed to just leave him melting on our doorstep?”

“Yes!” Geto throws his hands up. “Yes, Sho, that’s exactly what you should have done with someone who’s not supposed to even know our address! Not invited him in for tea and cookies!”

As the great villains rapidly devolve into loud arguing over what to do about their uninvited “guest,” Ijichi manages to shrink even smaller into the couch cushions. The guy looks like he’s trying to utilize some super niche cursed technique to bend light around himself and fade out of existence entirely.

After what feels like an eternity of back-and-forth sniping, Geto sighs loudly to cut through the squabble. “Okay, but seriously. What are we going to do with this idiot now?” He jabs a finger at Ijichi, who trembles so hard he must have dislocated something.

“Oh, oh! I know!” Gojo’s hand shoots up eagerly like a hyperactive schoolboy, crumbs and chip dust raining down his shirt. When no one pays attention to him, he blurts out the suggestion anyway with a manic grin. “I’ll kill him!”

Ijichi gulps at that cheerful proclamation of murder. Shoko, however, just fixes Gojo with a withering glare. “Gojo, no.”

“C’mon, Sho!” The Strongest Curse User Alive immediately deflates into an exaggerated pout at being shut down so quickly. “It’s always ‘Gojo no’ this and ‘Damn it Gojo’ that or ‘Gojo what the f*ck’ with you!” he whines petulantly. “When am I gonna get a ‘Gojo yes, brilliant plan’ or even just a ‘Nice one, babe’ for once??”

As if sensing his friends may need a reminder, Gojo starts preening and arching his back like the ill-tempered orange cat he is. “I told those fossils I would kill whoever they sent next! I have a reputation to uphold here!”

Shoko, unmoved, simply repeating herself in a tone that brooks no argument. “No. You will not be killing Ijichi today. Or any day.”

“Well, we can’t just let the kid waltz outta here now, can we?” Geto points out, looking increasingly unraveled as this absurdity drags on. “Thanks to someone ” – he shoots Shoko another judgy glower – “letting him inside in the first place, he’s gotten an up-close look at all the barriers and security measures I’ve got layered over this place. Can’t risk him squealing all that intel back to the Council.”

As preposterous as it sounds, Geto does kind of have a point – they can’t just let Ijichi go. Murder is obviously off the table, much to Gojo’s melodramatic indignation and pouting.

So the three of them turn to scrutinize poor Ijichi in unison, looking him over from head-to-toe like he’s a moderately interesting biological specimen trapped under a microscope. The intense, borderline predatory examination has the guy looking on the verge of just straight-up expiring right there on their sofa.

“Well,” Gojo starts off with a careless shrug. “How about I rough him up a bit then? Y’know, send a message and all that? Plus, if I hit him hard enough, maybe it’ll make him forget all about Suguru’s barriers!”

Shoko doesn’t even dignify that escalating proposal with a reaction beyond an exasperated eye-roll. After a contemplative moment, she uncrosses her arms decisively. “We can just keep him.”

Both Geto and Gojo turn to gape at her, jaws dropping nearly to the floor. “Keep him? What in the goddamn are you on about, Sho?” Geto manages eventually, convinced he must have misheard something so utterly insane.

But Shoko nods towards the raucous playroom where the sound of shrieks, dog barking, laughter, and objects being hurled echoes down the hallway. “I mean, we could certainly use a live-in babysitter.”

Geto looks like he bit into a particularly sour lemon. “A babysitter— You cannot be serious!” he hisses. “You think we can trust this kid after he just sauntered in here on a mission from those f*ckers to assassinate us? For all we know, this whole pathetic display could be an act and he’s got a second vial of poison stashed away somewhere, just waiting for us to fall for it!”

Shoko remains unfazed by Geto’s meltdown, simply stating in a matter-of-fact tone, “Don’t worry, I already checked. Ijichi doesn’t have any other poison vials or weapons on him.”

A sly grin slowly spreads across Geto’s face as he senses an opening for some petty immaturity. “Oh you’re sure about that?” he asks with an arched eyebrow. “Because I can think of at least one place you definitely didn’t get around to checking…”

The insinuation hangs in the air until Gojo breaks the tension by cackling uproariously like a 12-year-old who just heard their first fart joke. Shoko’s response is to whack Geto upside the head with a nearby cushion. “Don’t be gross!”

From his tensed-up position on the couch, Ijichi finally seems to muster just enough courage to squeak out a tiny protest. “U-um, I really don’t have any poison or weapon anywhere on me. And I’d never harm—”

But his voice is quickly drowned out by Shoko speaking over him, pointing a finger his way as if that’s all the proof required. “See? Ijichi says he’s clean, so there you go.”

“Yeah, and what happened the last time you blindly trusted someone’s word, huh?” Geto shoots back.

Shoko’s nostrils flare at the cheap shot. “That was completely different!”

By this point, Gojo has already gotten bored with this whole argument since no one is embracing his brilliant suggestion of just offing Ijichi. So, Gojo turns his attention back to demolishing the remains of the snack tray, lounging in a lazy stretch across the entire couch.

But from the corner of his bright blue eyes, he watches the bickering unfold between Geto and Shoko with a sort of wistful fondness. Like an indulgent king watching his quibbling court jesters provide entertainment. Ijichi, wisely, has inched himself a few feet further away from Gojo’s encroaching presence on the furniture.

With his mouth comically stuffed full of snacks like a feral squirrel, Gojo turns his laser focus onto Ijichi. He chews loudly for a moment, squinting at the guy in consideration before shrugging.

“You know what?” Gojo declares around a mouthful of crumbs, as if bestowing some grand decree. “Since Sho wants to keep you around, I’ll allow it.”

He says it so casually like he’s deciding the fate of a stray cat instead of a human being. But in Gojo’s world, there’s barely any distinction – he’s the strongest, god among men. Those like Ijichi are merely pieces for him to push around. And to Gojo, it’s a given that whatever pleases his best girl is what he shall provide.

Ijichi blinks slowly, bewildered by the turn of events. “Don’t… Don’t I have a choice in this at all?” he mumbles meekly.

Gojo is already shaking his head, focus drifting elsewhere as he pops another chip between his lips. “Nah, you made your choice when you agreed to take this assassination job.”

A weary sigh slips from Ijichi’s lungs. Something seems to steel in his expression for the first time since arriving. When he speaks again, there’s no tremor or waver to his voice. “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone,” he states with conviction. “I really just wanted to try and warn you all—”

The change doesn’t go unnoticed by Gojo, though you’d never know it from his immediate scoffing response.

“Pfft, as if I need help from some sad sack like you,” Gojo snorts derisively, pure arrogance dripping from every word. But then his eyes sharpen dangerously as he leans in. “Let me make one thing crystal clear to you, boy…”

Gojo’s entire aura seems to shift, bleeding power and malice that instantly make Ijichi’s blood run cold.

“You play nice and stay on your best behavior…” Gojo murmurs in a vicious tone. “Because if you so much as think about harming Sho, Suguru, or any of those kids? I’ll make you regret the day you were ever born into this miserable existence. We clear?”

All Ijichi can do is nod frantically, eyes wild and body locked up in primal terror. “Of course!... I-I swear!”

Just like that, the pressure vanishes. Gojo slaps back on his easygoing grin again and reclines back into the couch, completely at ease once more. “Good, then we’re all on the same page!”

And so, Ijichi Kiyotaka finds himself involuntarily inducted as the newest, most unlikely member of what must be the most dangerous crew of villains the jujutsu world has ever witnessed.

Granted, had anyone asked Ijichi’s opinion beforehand, he absolutely would have chosen to avoid any and all situations involving being in the same room as Gojo, let alone living under the same roof as him. The guy is terrifying, even when just lazily stuffing his face with snacks and making idle threats.

When he rolled out of bed this morning, eyes crusted over and skin looking just a shade away from straight-up necrotic, did Ijichi ever expect that by the end of the day, he’d be leaving behind his life at Tokyo Jujutsu High to become a wanted curse user?

Most certainly not. But then, life can take some awfully strange trajectories when you’re not watching where you step.

As Gojo returns to gleefully devouring the last scraps of snacks without a care in the world, Ijichi sits back, lets out a weary breath, and ponders just how remarkably his life has been derailed.

Shoko catches his thousand-yard stare and flashes him a warm, reassuring smile that makes his cheeks flare. Okay, maybe there are certain… unexpected perks to being kidnapped into supervillainy?

Though as an official criminal now, Ijichi can feel it in his gut:

His life is never, ever going to be the same again.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Nanami blows out an exaggerated sigh as the plane’s wheels mercifully slam onto the Tokyo tarmac. A 12-hour guilt trip from Copenhagen to contemplate the incredibly stupid decision to come back to this cursed hellhole of a city. Being a jujutsu sorcerer is just sh*t on a stick – something he’s been aware of since day one but seems to forget every so often like an idiot.

The constant fun of having nasty curses trying to murder you? Delightful. Dealing with the shady politics of the jujutsu world where everyone’s motives are about as clear as mud? An absolute riot. Feeling like your entire life belongs to a cult that couldn’t care less about your hopes and dreams? Bring it on.

His grandpa’s sudden illness was the perfect excuse to take an extended break from that deranged circus. Those few glorious months in sleepy Denmark, alternating between fretting over the old coot and basking in the simple tranquility of normal people living normal lives, were like a vision of an alternate reality for Nanami – One where he didn’t have to constantly be on guard, didn’t have to suppress his emotions, didn’t have to sacrifice his own dreams.

Part of him has been sorely tempted to just… not come back to Japan at all. To just stay in that idyllic little town permanently. Get a nice, safe, mind-numbingly dull job and settle into blissful mediocrity forever. But then the guilt would kick in. He’d picture Haibara’s annoying face, that huge dorky grin and the fiery determination always blazing in his eyes. His virtuous moron of a friend wouldn’t have wanted Nanami to be a quitter, not without at least giving it an honest try one last time.

So here Nanami is, jetlagged and miserable, wheeling his suitcase through the gates of Tokyo Jujutsu High, mind already bracing for the usual sh*tshow. Strangely, the campus is quieter than a graveyard after midnight. No raucous shouting or obnoxious cackling echoing across the grounds. Suspicious as hell.

Unsettled, Nanami drags himself to the dorms, half-expecting some sort of elaborately dumb prank lying in wait. But the halls are empty, not a single dumbass in sight as he lugs his suitcase to his room and kicks off his shoes. After a gloriously hot shower to scrub away that stale plane reek, Nanami figures he better do some recon. This place running smoother than a Buddhist retreat? No f*cking way.

A quick prowl around the central quad confirms his suspicion. The bulletin boards are blanketed in wanted posters featuring some extremely familiar mugs. Nanami squints at the grainy photos, rubs his eyes, and squints again, wondering if he’s still trapped in some hellish in-flight movie nightmare.

There is Geto, glaring balefully, wanted for… mass murder? And then Gojo, looking as haughty as ever, wanted for aiding and abetting, alongside Shoko. All three now have Council-sanctioned kill-on-sight orders blazing next to their names. What in the everloving f*ck went down around here?

Nanami’s hands clench into fists as he scans the wanted posters with an increasing sense of dread. Has everyone just decided to go batsh*t insane while he was away? Sure, he’d been deliberately keeping a low profile and no-contact those past few months to really disengage. But a heads-up email would’ve been nice.

Nanami studies the incriminating posters some more, brow furrowed as he tries to separate fact from obvious bullsh*t.

Geto straight-up murdering 112 innocent people? That just doesn’t compute. Sure, the guy’s an insufferable prick nine times out of ten, but mass murder of civilians for sh*ts and giggles doesn’t really seem on-brand for him. If anything, that unrepentant bloodlust sounds way more up Gojo’s alley. That man is unhinged on the best of days – wouldn’t take much for him to careen totally off the rails into a psychopathic killing spree.

As for Shoko getting wrapped up in “aiding and abetting” Geto’s supposed reign of terror? Well, she’s definitely got her own very special brand of insanity going on. But approving the cold-blooded murder of innocents, even if it was her bestie doing the deed? Nanami has a hard time buying that one too.

Nanami’s fingers rap restlessly against the bulletin board as he chews his lip in contemplation. Something here smells rotten, and it ain’t just the mold accumulating in the far corner.

The High Council of Elders has never been celebrated for its honesty and fairness after all. For all Nanami knows, some even crazier, hushed-up sh*t could have gone down, and the geezers decided pinning some wild charges on these morons would be easier than disclosing the truth. Anything’s possible in their deranged little world of corruption and cover-ups.

Nanami snorts as his gaze drifts across the other wanted posters, feeling acutely disillusioned. Whatever’s really going on, he sure as hell isn’t getting the full story from these propaganda rags.

Perhaps talking to someone in their circle would shed some light on this ridiculous sh*tshow? No harm in trying. A few days later, when Mei Mei and Utahime drop by campus after their mission, Nanami ambushes them for an honest chat. Or as honest as anything could be when Mei Mei is involved.

“So, let me get this straight,” Nanami says slowly as he fixes Utahime with an incredulous, borderline judgemental stare. “The Council has freakin’ kill-on-sight orders on Ieiri’s head, and you decided to lure her into a trap because Gakuganji asked you to?”

Across from Nanami, Utahime winces, hunching her shoulders as if to make herself smaller. “Gakuganji-sama said he wouldn’t hurt Shoko…” she mumbles, unable to meet Nanami’s eyes.

“Oh, well, in that case, it’s all perfectly fine then!” Nanami huffs, his eyes narrowing further. “And what about those kids Ieiri told you she would bring to see you?”

Utahime seems to shrink even further into herself, shaking her head weakly. “I didn’t think they would stoop that low…” she whispers, voice barely audible.

“Have you listened to yourself lately, Iori-san?” Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, a wave of frustration mixed with pity washing over him.

He knows Utahime is naive, painfully so. He likes her for it. Hell, everyone does. But this… this is a new level of oblivious idiocy that makes him question if there are any brain cells rattling around in that skull.

Nanami rounds on Mei Mei next, eyes flashing. “And you,” he jabs an accusatory finger her way. “Gojo outright said he would slaughter whoever the Council sent next. So you just went ahead and told the Council their location so they could send Ijichi to his death?”

Mei Mei shrugs one slim shoulder nonchalantly. “I didn’t know they’d send Ijichi specifically,” she says in a bored tone.

“But even if you did, you’d still have ratted them out,” Nanami accuses, voice low and laced with disdain.

A faint smile plays across Mei Mei’s lips. “It’s just business, Nanami. I had valuable intel to sell. The Council had money to buy it.” She spreads her hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. “Nothing personal, really.”

Nanami resists the urge to flip the damn table, instead gripping the edges until his knuckles turn white. It’s always the same infuriating song and dance with Mei Mei – the woman only cares about lining her pockets, consequences and loyalties be damned.

Heaving out a frustrated sigh, he fixes her with a level stare. “Fine, I’ll bite. You’re sure Gojo actually killed Ijichi then?”

Mei Mei tilts her head, tapping one perfectly manicured nail against her pursed lips as if deep in thought. “Well… Ijichi went into their hideout and never came back out. That’s all I have for you.” She arches an eyebrow, her eyes glittering. “Though if you want more details, you’ll have to compensate me accordingly.”

Her words linger, greedy and mercenary as ever. Nanami scowls, tamping down the flare of anger. Pushing Mei Mei never gets anyone anywhere – the woman is stubbornly committed to her money-grubbing ways. Doesn’t make it any less disgusting.

***

Nanami rakes a hand through his hair, letting out a long exhale as the weight of this situation hits home. If even half of what people are saying is true, and Geto AND Gojo have legitimately gone rogue, then this whole jujutsu society is screwed seven ways to Sunday. The Council doesn’t stand a chance, no matter how many expendable pawns they throw at the problem.

Nanami should just cut his losses right now. Pack his bags, hop on the next flight, and return to that sleepy Danish town without looking back. Live a nice, boring, curse-free life far away from this impending sh*tshow. That would be the smart, practical, downright pragmatic decision.

He prides himself on having more sense than most of the other meatheaded jocks around here. He’s gotten by just fine without being a monstrous protégé like Gojo by using his wits and pragmatism. So why in the everloving f*ck did he agree to the Council’s harebrained request?

Snoop around Gojo’s hideout, they commanded. See if the intel about Ijichi’s death was true. Try to suss out their schedules, patterns, weaknesses – anything that could give the Council an edge in capturing Shoko as their bargaining chip.

A suicide mission wrapped in a suicide riddle.

Nanami scrubs his hands over his face, grimacing. He’s nowhere near crazy or arrogant enough to think he can tango with monsters like Geto and Gojo and come out unscathed.

When the Council approached him with this nonsense, he should have told them to shove it straight up their corrupt, dried-up asses. But for some insane reason, he didn’t. He agreed to this industrial-grade stupid mission because… because why? Momentary lapse of cognitive function? A deep-seated urge to just get it over with and finally die? Who the f*ck knows?

Now Nanami is standing in front of his bathroom mirror, prepping for what’s probably his last day on this earth. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under his bloodshot eyes. Nanami looks every bit as sh*tty as he feels after a night of tossing, turning, and wrestling with demons. Dark circles engulf his eyes like fading bruises, face puffy and haggard thanks to a stunning lack of restful sleep, his hair sticking up in misshapen tufts. Pretty as a picture.

As he leans in closer to better inspect the fresh new glimpse into the abyss that is his soul, his heart practically leaps out of his goddamn throat. Because staring back with an achingly familiar, sh*t-eating grin is none other than Haibara’s dumb face, big brown eyes boring straight into him – bright and vivid as the day everything went to hell.

Nanami’s breath catches in his lungs, grip tightening on the ceramic sink as Haibara’s reflection smiles at him, warm and teasing and so, so alive.

“I think you should go, Nanami. See how they’re doing.”

The voice, dear god the voice, it’s like a physical gut-punch. A violent, full-body shudder rips through Nanami. He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head hard enough to rattle his brain, but when he reopens them, Haibara is still there.

Nanami wonders if he’s haunted, or whether severe sleep deprivation coupled with excessive life dissatisfaction has finally driven him insane. He hears himself answering the reflection of Haibara despite, y’know, the general rule to avoid conversations with dead people and illusions.

“That’s a sh*tty idea from start to finish, dipsh*t,” he bites out through numb lips. “Pretty sure Gojo could blink me out of existence before I finish introducing myself as the welcoming committee.”

Haibara’s reflection remains steady in the mirror. A borderline infuriating spark of determination ignites in his eyes as he considers Nanami’s protest.

“Yeah, he probably could turn you into a fine crimson mist without breaking a sweat,” Haibara states with an easy shrug. “But I don’t think he would actually murder you on sight like some b-movie villain. And neither do you, if we’re being totally honest here.” He arches one pointed brow in challenge.

That one hits a little too close to home. With a miserable grunt, Nanami’s clammy forehead thunks against the cool mirror.

“I don’t know sh*t about anything anymore, Haibara,” he murmurs, the words slurring together in a regrettable display of peak loser energy. “The world’s f*cked up, nothing makes sense, and I’m not drunk enough for any of this…”

When Nanami risks another glance up, Haibara’s slightly translucent reflection is wiggling its eyebrows, beaming grin back at full force as he shoots a pair of finger guns toward his suffering friend.

“Then get your ass in gear and go do some recon, genius. Figure out if Ijichi’s okay and put those finely honed stalker skills to good use for once, you creepy loner.”

Nanami can’t quite smother the undignified snort fleeing his nostrils at that one. “Pretty sure I should just cut my losses,” he argues half-heartedly. “Can’t I just flee the country and live out my days in peace? That’s the dream, baby.”

But Haibara’s reflection levels him with one of those patented, painfully earnest looks that always made Nanami’s snark wither.

“Could you really though? And I mean really truly live with yourself?”

The question detonates inside Nanami’s chest, and suddenly it’s like the air has been evacuated from the room. A weary chuckle rattles up from somewhere deep in his throat as he slumps further. Haibara’s face blurs in his clouded vision as he squeezes his eyes shut once more.

“f*ck you sideways with a cactus, Haibara,” he sighs, toneless and defeated, knowing there will be no response. Haibara is dead and gone, just another ghost coming to haunt the shattered remnants of Nanami's life.

And Nanami is utterly, miserably alone.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Nanami approaches the nondescript house tucked away in a quiet residential neighborhood, palms already clamming up with a fresh sheen of anxious sweat. He feels deeply unprepared despite the universe’s best attempts to bully him into this course of action. What the hell is he even doing here? He sure as sh*t isn’t planning to actually follow the Council’s stupid orders and snoop around like a creep.

No, Nanami’s here for himself. For Haibara’s lingering voice nagging at the back of his brain (thanks for the pep talk, you guilt-tripping asshole). For the truth, whatever contorted, unbelievable version of reality that might be these days.

That said, having a half-baked plan would’ve been nice. But his brain has been decidedly unhelpful in that department. So, Nanami is just winging it like the reckless idiot he apparently is now.

Scuffing the toes of his shoes against the welcome mat, he figures he might as well commit to the civility charade for as long as possible. With a fortifying exhale, Nanami reaches out and raps his knuckles against the front door in three crisp knocks, the sound thunderously loud to his over-alert senses.

The door swings open, and there stands Shoko, eyes widening at the sight of her unexpected guest before crinkling at the corners with the sort of delight that seems… at odds with the fact that she’s facing yet another goon sent by the Council.

“Nanami!” Shoko exclaims, a beaming smile blooming across her face as she launches forward to envelop him in a tight, exuberant hug. “It’s been so long! How’s your grandpa doing?”

Nanami blinks dazedly, returning the hug on muscle memory while his brain works overtime to process this bizarre reception. “Uh… He’s okay now, I guess.”

But she’s already released him, looping her arm through his and half-dragging him across the threshold. “Come inside, come inside! The kids will be so excited to see you.”

As Nanami allows himself to be towed into the proverbial lion’s den, one mortifying thought keeps circling in his head: he certainly hopes Shoko isn’t this welcoming and trusting toward every rando the Council sends to assassinate them.

Nanami isn’t quite sure what he was expecting the hideout of the jujutsu world’s most dangerous villains to look like. Maybe something more dramatic and sinister, knowing Gojo’s flair for the theatrical. A dimly-lit lair filled with ominous shadows? Weird cursed tools lining the walls? Henchmen in matching robes scurrying about?

Whatever cliché mental image Nanami’s been cooking up, it sure as hell wasn’t… this.

Shoko bodily hauls him through the entryway and into a cozy, well-lit living room that looks like it was ripped straight from the set of some bland sitcom. Gojo is lounging on the couch in ratty pajamas, idly channel surfing with all the menacing presence of a baked couch potato. And there, splayed out on the floor amidst an explosion of coloring books and scattered crayons, is a very much alive Ijichi being cheerfully mauled by two adorable little girls.

At the sound of their entrance, Gojo tears his gaze away from the TV to squint in their direction. “Is that my package—” His voice trails off as soon as his eyes land on the flabbergasted Nanami, widening almost comically.

In the same instant, Geto pokes his head out from the adjacent kitchen, jaw literally dropping in disbelief. “What the hell…”

Ijichi looks up at the commotion, face lighting up in surprise and joy. “Nanami-san!”

Nanami can only gape back at the bizarre sight, eyes pinging between each familiar face as his brow furrows. “Okay, somebody wanna explain just what in the everloving f*ck is going on here?” he demands, lifting his hands in a gesture of pure confounded exasperation. “Should I… should I have brought snacks or something?”

The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts as Geto whirls on Shoko with fury.

“I can’t believe you just opened the door and let the Council’s assassin inside our house. Again!” he seethes, pointing aggressively in Nanami’s direction.

Shoko remains unruffled, shrugging unapologetically as she ushers Nanami further into the room toward the sofa. “Stop being so dramatic, Geto,” she chides. “Nanami isn’t an assassin!” She looks at Nanami with bright eyes. “Right?”

Caught completely off-guard, Nanami can only let out an uncertain “Yeah…” while trying to get his bearings.

Shoko immediately whips back around, flipping Geto the middle finger. “I told you!”

From his lazy repose on the couch, Gojo sits up straighter, eyeing Nanami with unveiled suspicion as he flicks a stray gummy bear at him. “Alright, so what are you doing here then if not to assassinate us, edgelord?”

Nanami gestures vaguely, wondering if he’s stumbled into an alternate dimension. “The Council wants me to, uh… snoop around. Gather intel about you.”

Geto snickers. “Nice ‘snooping’ you did there, coming right up to the front door and ringing the bell like a dumbass.”

Nanami’s hackles rise as he glares at Geto. “I’m not here to snoop, dickhe*d. They said you all turned full dark side and killed Ijichi. I came to see the truth for myself.”

There’s a considering hum from Gojo as he rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I did say I’d kill whoever they sent after me next…”

Then, like a switch being flipped, a manic grin stretches across his features, those eerie blue eyes fixing on Nanami with disconcerting intensity.

“And that means I gotta kill you!”

Shoko instantly launches a cushion at Gojo’s face, groaning in exasperation. “Not again, Gojo! We’ve been over this already!”

Though he dodges the fluffy projectile with infuriating ease, it does seem to knock the unhinged villain persona askew – Gojo now pouting indignantly like a toddler being denied a treat. “Why not?” he whines. “I let you keep Ijichi last time!”

Sensing the bickering is veering into violent territory, Geto throws Ijichi a meaningful look and jerks his head toward the hallway. Ijichi seems reluctant to abandon the strange situation, but knows better than to argue. As soon as he moves to rise, the two little girls latched to his sides let out pitched wails of dismay, clinging to his arms and legs like crayon-stained koala bears.

It takes some skillful maneuvering, but eventually Ijichi manages to disentangle himself enough to scoop up the protesting munchkins, carting them out of the room with a long-suffering sigh. Nanami tracks their exit with bewilderment.

“You… didn’t actually kill Ijichi then,” he states slowly once they’ve departed, more thinking out loud than anything else as the puzzle pieces click into place.

Gojo perks up again with unsettling glee. “Just ‘cause I didn’t kill him doesn’t mean I won’t kill you!”

Shoko rounds on Gojo, hands planted on her hips as irritation flashes across her features. “Damn it, Gojo! Can you stop acting like a raving idiot for five minutes?”

Gojo huffs, slouching back and crossing his arms in a decidedly sulky manner. “I’m not acting,” he insists. “I’ll totally kill this one. You can’t just keep every random jackass the Council sends our way. What is this place, an orphanage?”

Moving with the practiced speed of someone well-accustomed to shutting down her pseudo-husband’s melodrama, Shoko marches over and delivers a resounding flick to Gojo’s forehead. He gapes at her, the picture of injured befuddlement.

“This is Nanami, you jerk! Not just some random guy!”

“Wait, you really want to keep him too?” Gojo sputters, gesturing toward an equally bewildered Nanami. “Seriously, Sho?”

Feeling like a side character in his own life story, Nanami holds up his hands in a plea for clarity. “Okay, lemme stop you two real quick – what do you mean ‘keep’ me? I’m not a stray cat up for adoption here!”

He swivels his gaze toward Shoko, brows furrowed low with renewed suspicion. “Are you… are you holding Ijichi hostage or something?”

Shoko shrugs. “Well, not exactly ‘holding’ him per se. He’s free to leave if he wants.” Her expression turns sly. “But since he spilled all the tea about the Council’s super-secret plan, he can’t exactly go waltzing back to them now, can he? They’d execute him for treason.”

At odds with the darkness of her words, a sunny smile blossoms on her face. “Besides, we could always use an extra set of hands for babysitting duties around here. So he stays with us for now!” A delicate pause. “But don’t worry, he gets paid a fair wage and everything.

As if the matter of appropriate labor reimbursem*nt is the most pressing issue on the table right now.

Nanami can’t quite smother the groan of exasperation bubbling up his throat. “Whatever. You lunatics are not ‘keeping’ me, alright? I’m not staying here!”

Before Shoko can no doubt launch into an extended pitch about the benefits and competitive perks of being adopted into her villain squad, Geto speaks up in a measured tone.

“Now that you’ve confirmed Ijichi is alive and well, what will you do next?” There’s a sharp edge underlying his casual question. “Return and inform the Council of your discovery, I’d imagine?”

Nanami lets out a slow breath, meeting Geto’s stare evenly. “I’m not snitching on you guys, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The three former pillars of the jujutsu community blink at him in eerily synchronized confusion. Sensing he may need to elaborate, Nanami presses onward.

“Look, I’ve been… thinking a lot about leaving this whole sorcerer life behind, you know?” Nanami shakes his head slowly, features tight with fatigue and disillusionment. “The time I spent in Denmark with my grandpa, just… being normal for once? It was nice. Simple. Maybe I could actually live out my days like that, at this rate.”

Gojo snorts loudly through his nose, the sound equal parts derisive and dismissive. “Yeah, sure you could, edgelord. If that were really the case, why even bother coming here at all then? You should’ve just fled straight for that quaint little cottage fantasy instead of risking your ass.”

He arches one brow suggestively, his grin sharp and all teeth. “Or did you just miss my stunningly handsome face that much?”

Nanami refuses to rise to the juvenile taunting, settling for a flat look of contempt aimed at Gojo’s direction. Explaining that the hallucination of their deceased friend essentially guilt-tripped him into this sh*tshow would demolish any shred of credibility Nanami might still be clinging to here. So, instead, he squares his shoulders.

“I told you already. I came here for the truth. That’s it.”

“Well then!” Shoko clasps her hands together, smiling brightly. “How about we all sit down and catch up over a nice lunch?”

Geto’s expression remains dubious, arms crossed over his chest as if gearing up to protest this generous offer. But after exchanging a meaningful look with his pseudo-wife, his rigid posture deflates somewhat in resignation. Eventually, he grunts and inclines his head in reluctant assent.

Seizing the new opening, Gojo beams like a demented gameshow host. “Fine by me! I’ll just kill Nanami after we’ve all gotten to bond over a beautiful family meal together.”

As Shoko whirls on Gojo with hands already constricting into throttling position, Geto jerks his head toward the adjacent kitchen in a clear ‘follow me’ gesture. Without anything better to do, Nanami trails after Geto into the homey little space.

It’s only once they’re inside that Nanami realizes Geto seems to be mid-way through cooking up an absolute storm – pots simmering on the stovetop, cutting boards cluttered with rainbow mounds of freshly chopped veggies, and a veritable garden of herbs and spices scattered across every available surface.

There’s something intense yet indecipherable simmering in Geto’s sharp eyes as he regards Nanami, as if weighing his soul against some inscrutable standard. But to Nanami’s surprise, no interrogation comes.

“Wash your hands and start chopping,” is all he says at length, chin jutting towards the impressive array of produce awaiting prep.

Too bewildered to protest, Nanami complies, moving over to the sink to scrub his hands thoroughly before retrieving a cutting board and sharp knife. As he starts methodically slicing into the first bundle of carrots, Geto leans over, near enough for Nanami to feel the whisper of his breath.

“You need to slice those long ones thinner, so the kids don’t choke,” he instructs, something softer underneath the gruffness of his tone. “And Gumi likes his soup with a sh*t ton of ginger, so make sure you chop all that up too.”

Nanami pauses mid-slice, brow furrowing as he follows Geto’s nod toward the pile of ginger. “You have a boy too?” He blinks, sweeping his gaze over the excessive quantities of food being prepped and quickly doing the math in his head. “Wait… Just how many kids do you lunatics actually have here?”

For a long beat, Geto doesn’t respond, focus consumed by the meticulous browning of meat in the sizzling pan before him. Until, without looking up, he offers a one-shouldered shrug.

“Four,” Geto answers almost absently, already moving to retrieve a handful of spices from the nearby racks. “Three girls and one boy.”

The knife clatters from Nanami’s hand as his jaw drops, eyes bulging wide. “Four? Where the hell did you even get them?”

Geto shrugs again as he starts liberally dusting the contents of one pot with some fragrant powdery blend. “It’s a long story. Now quit gawking and focus on chopping, chef. Lunch won’t make itself.”

The kitchen falls into a weighted silence, punctuated only by the sharp thunk of Nanami’s knife working through the vibrant array of produce and the sizzle of Geto’s culinary efforts on the stove. An almost meditative rhythm settles between the two. From the other room, the muffled sounds of Shoko and Gojo’s continued squabbling drifting in. Peals of childish laughter occasionally trickle through as well, at odds with the tense air in the kitchen, yet also grounding the entire scene in twinges of domesticity.

Nanami finds his eyes straying repeatedly to Geto, watching the play of muscle across his forearms as he works with focused intensity. Nanami came here risking life, limb, and what remains of his sanity in pursuit of the truth. May as well dive in headfirst.

“They said you wiped out an entire village,” he finally forces out, keeping his tone neutral as he slices through a vibrant red bell pepper with clinical precision. “Is that true?”

Geto’s movements still infinitesimally before resuming their languid cadence. When he responds, it’s with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yup. Everyone except for two little girls.”

The air grows thicker in the wake of Geto’s flippant admission, the truth Nanami has anticipated yet dreaded receiving in equal measure. Nanami opens his mouth, considers pressing for more details, but something in Geto’s impassive facade gives him pause. There’s undoubtedly far more to the story, but now is not the time for the full truth.

So instead, Nanami swallows hard and asks the only other question that feels permissible in this fraught moment. “Did they… did those villagers deserve it?”

Geto’s jaw tenses, a muscle ticking beneath the surface. He seems to be caught off-guard. Perhaps, he has expected an entirely different question, or some sort of condemnation from Nanami. But he quickly regains his composure and gives Nanami a quick nod.

A hollow chuckle rattles up from somewhere in Nanami’s chest, more exhausted than bitter. “Alright then.”

And with that, Nanami turns his attention back to the endless pile of dwindling vegetables. For now, this small bit of truth would have to do. During the next half-hour stretch, he buckles down and focuses on assisting Geto, carrying out whatever task the guy bosses him into without any sass or existential brooding. He puts those pesky thoughts about abject confusion, moral outrage, and potential demise on the backburner – ain’t nobody got time for philosophy when there’s chopping, stirring, and sh*t to attend to.

He moves through the motions, all pragmatic about dicing carrots into perfect shapes, mincing garlic into an aromatic paste, keeping a vigilant eye on the bubbling pots to stop them from boiling over. Wouldn’t want all that hard work turning into a burnt mess before Gojo inevitably succeeds in making good on whatever murder threats he’s got for the after-dinner entertainment.

Nanami is, at his core, a practical man. If this spread is gonna be his last meal before the sweet embrace of oblivion, he’ll be damned if it isn’t a satisfying one. Following those simple, repetitive kitchen tasks with robotic single-mindedness is about the only thing preserving what tattered remnants of chill he’s got left.

Each flourish of the knife, each carefully measured shake of spices into the simmering broth, is like its own tiny meditation on the whole not-losing-your-sh*t thing. It’s not a permanent solution or anything, but Nanami’s poor, battered soul will take any fleeting reprieve it can grasp at this point.

Only once the meal’s completed, only once Geto reaches to clap his shoulder with this weird intensity bordering on camaraderie – Nanami blinks back into reality as if surfacing from a trance.

He glances around the warmly-lit kitchen, savoring the mouth-watering aromas and sizzling cook-pots as if seeing the whole sh*tshow for the first time. Right. This place. These lunatics he’d once called friends.

Nanami can’t help but let out an undignified snort at the absurdity of it all. If he doesn’t laugh his way through this harebrained fever dream, Nanami’s definitely gonna wind up a sobbing mess by the end. So he leans into the knee-jerk amusem*nt while it lasts – a twisted mercy as he mentally braces for the most insane “family meal” of his life.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Nanami is hit with the horrifying realization that Geto hasn’t been lying – this villain squad actually did have four feral kids running wild in their madhouse lair. Lunch is shaping up to be a three-ring circus crammed around a rickety dining table that looks like it was plucked from the neighborhood dumpster, clearly not sized for the nine-person guest list.

Geto casually summons a large, fluffy curse to use as a seat. The twin terrors, Mimiko and Nanako, have detached themselves from Ijichi’s sides only to transfer their koala grips onto Geto instead. They loudly demand to know what’s for dinner before this presumably torturous lunch has even started, their high-pitched voices grating on Nanami’s ears.

Across the table, little Megumi appears entranced, slurping away at a bowl of soup that reeks overpoweringly of ginger with a content expression usually reserved for the mentally unwell. Just as Geto has warned, the boy is obsessed with the pungent root.

The oldest of the children, Tsumiki, seems to be the most normal of the bunch. She offers Nanami a polite greeting in a voice far too sweet to belong to one of a villainous upbringing, before attempting to deposit food into his bowl and failing miserably due to her chopstick ineptitude.

“Food’s going to get cold if you don’t dig in,” Gojo quips unhelpfully from the head of the table, the manic gleam in his eyes telling Nanami he hasn’t quite abandoned the threat of murder yet. Because of course the great villain overlord needs to follow through on all of his promises to maintain that deliciously edgy reputation.

Thankfully, with Shoko overseeing the entire lunch proceedings and the presence of multiple small, fragile human lifeforms, Gojo doesn’t get the opportunity to make good on his menacing words of violence. At least not yet. The meal passes by in relative peace, if one doesn’t count the brief skirmish that breaks out – a localized food war between the twin terrors that leaves both of their places looking like the aftermath of a saucy, ricey natural disaster zone.

While Gojo maintains unbroken eye contact with Nanami across the table like a deranged killer studying his next victim, Shoko and Tsumiki carry on light conversation about the exciting prospect of the kids going back to plague an unsuspecting school system soon. Geto dutifully refills everyone’s bowls, including Nanami’s.

Ijichi looks understandably stiff amidst the household chaos, but he doesn’t seem to be present against his will judging by his calm demeanor. In fact, he even expertly deflects a rogue lump of rice heading toward Nanami’s face from the crossfire of the twins’ battle.

As soon as the chaotic lunch concludes, everyone pitches in to help clean up the aftermath, including the kids. Surprisingly, not a single complaint is voiced – not even from Gojo himself. It seems this squad of villains has their internal affairs remarkably sorted out, thanks to Shoko’s quiet yet unmistakable “try me and suffer” aura. Nanami suspects she may lowkey be the real overlord calling the shots here.

With the kitchen tasks divvied up, Shoko and Gojo take on dish duty while Ijichi herds the children away like a seasoned babysitter skilled in the art of kid-wrangling. As the ones who cooked the meal, Geto and Nanami earn prime lounge privileges, ending up side-by-side on the battered living room couch that has seen better decades.

Risking a glance toward his host, Nanami notices Geto is now regarding him with that strange, indecipherable look again. Catching Nanami’s wary eyes, Geto breaks the silence first. “So… now what?” he asks.

Nanami can only shrug, profoundly unsure of what fresh hell happens next in this insane scenario. “Now I’m just waiting for Gojo to make good on murdering me, I guess?”

Geto scoffs at the response. “Oh don’t tell me you really believe he’ll kill you. That blockhead didn’t even off those goons they sent after Sho that time.”

Relaxing slightly at having the immediate threat of death de-escalated, Nanami settles further into the couch cushions, shoulders sagging as he looks down and admits, “I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m just… tired. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a sorcerer at all.”

It’s surprising how easily the weary words spill out of him. Nanami isn’t sure if he’s too emotionally drained to keep them bottled up as usual, or if there’s somehow an unexpected ease in speaking candidly to Geto. Both options are equally frightening, considering his conversational partner is quite literally a wanted mass murderer.

Geto considers Nanami’s confession of burnout for a moment before asking, “So you’re gonna just pack it up and go back to Denmark then?”

Nanami gives a resigned nod. “That’s the plan.”

Geto lets out a short snicker. “If you could just leave everything behind and walk away like that, you wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

The blunt assessment strikes a nerve, causing Nanami to tense up. Geto is starting to sound eerily like Haibara… or at least, Nanami’s vivid hallucinations of the moron. Nanami huffs out a frustrated breath. “What else is there to do? Everyone’s gone…”

Geto strokes his chin contemplatively. “Well, you could always use a change in career," he suggests offhandedly.

The implication isn’t lost on Nanami, who shoots Geto a withering glare. “I’m not staying here to babysit your kids for you, if that’s what you’re getting at. Besides, you already have Ijichi for that.”

Geto just shrugs nonchalantly. “I actually have a whole cult now. I’ll need an assistant for that.”

That bizarre statement throws Nanami for a loop. He splutters out, “You have what now?”

Unfazed, Geto whips out his phone and starts showing Nanami a series of photos. In them, Geto is dressed in full cult leader garb – flowing robes and an elaborately tied kesa that make him look appropriately mysterious and, Nanami has to grudgingly admit, unfairly handsome in an avant-garde sort of way.

“These are the promo photos,” Geto explains as he swipes through the professional shots. Then he adds, “Oh, ignore the other ones.” He proceeds to rapidly flick through at least a dozen additional images – candids of Shoko and Gojo clinging to Geto, making ridiculous faces and lewd poses that are definitely not cult promotional material.

Nanami blinks slowly at Geto, struggling to process what he’s hearing. “You’re… a cult leader now.”

Geto nods in confirmation, completely nonchalant about this major life change.

“And you want me to work as your assistant?” Nanami presses incredulously.

Another nod from Geto. “Don’t worry about compensation and benefits. I’ll pay you double your current sorcerer commission rate. Full insurance coverage, paid days off and everything. Cults are a very lucrative business endeavor.”

Nanami opens and closes his mouth a few times like a gasping fish, flabbergasted. “But why? I thought you didn’t even want me in your house?”

Geto shrugs again. “I didn’t want the Council’s goon in my house. But since you’re not that, and you’re looking to quit your sorcerer job anyway…” He trails off with a casual wave of his hand. “Then why not just hire you? I know your abilities already. Easier than scouting through a sh*t ton of curse users on the black market.”

Nanami presses on skeptically, “But how do you know I’m not actually some double agent or spy sent by the Council? I could be reverse-psychology-ing you this whole time!”

“You’re not really built for deception on that level, Nanami,” Geto says with absolute certainty.

Nanami hisses indignantly at the blunt dismissal of his acting abilities, “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Geto cuts off his protests with a simple, logical retort. “And even if you did turn out to be a spy, I can always just kill you later, right?” The smile that spreads across his face now is enough to send a chill down Nanami’s spine – the portrait of a true unhinged villain cult leader embracing his delusions.

Nanami exhales a defeated sigh, mumbling under his breath, “This is crazy. You’re all completely crazy.”

Geto gives Nanami's shoulder a hearty, overly familiar slap before leaning in uncomfortably close, invading his personal space. His whole demeanor shifts, his face transforming into an expression of intense charisma as his eyes narrow and lips curl into a subtle, magnetic smile.

“So how about we give this a try, my friend?” Geto begins in a low, velvety tone. “You know, life does not have to be an endless struggle against the tides of fate and despair.”

He places a hand on Nanami’s knee, gripping perhaps a little too sensually as he continues, “Together, we can make the changes we want to see in this broken world…”

Nanami finds himself almost drowning in the shadowy depths of Geto’s suddenly mesmerizing eyes, lulled by the velvety rumble of his voice. Some kind of distant scent seems to be wafting from him, adding to the entrancing atmosphere.

Almost.

Nanami manages to shake himself out of the odd trance, blinking rapidly as he snaps back to reality. He shoots Geto an unamused glare. “Okay, save all that hippie cult leader bullsh*t for your actual brainwashed followers, man.”

Geto blinks, dropping the intense persona. “Too much?” he asks with a tinge of genuine uncertainty.

“Way. Too. f*cking. Much,” Nanami answers bluntly, punctuating each word for emphasis. “You basically turned into a cheesy self-help guru trying to lead a meditation retreat for rich divorced moms or something.”

Geto nods thoughtfully to himself, as if cataloging the critique. “It does need some more finessing, I’ll admit. Thanks for the honest feedback.”

Nanami eyes Geto suspiciously, still trying to gauge if he’s being played. “So you’re really serious about this… cult thing.”

“I am,” Geto confirms.

“And if I decline your… job offer, you won’t stop me from just leaving?” Nanami presses.

“No, you’re free to go whenever you want,” Geto assures him.

Nanami still seems hesitant as he asks, “You’re not afraid I’ll report back to the Council?”

Geto’s expression hardens at that, a flicker of intensity returning to his eyes. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. But we can handle anyone else they send after us. And next time, we really will kill every single one of their goons.”

Nanami bites his lip, visibly weighing the heavy proposition. “What if…”

But Geto waves off his unfinished thought. “Stop overthinking it. You know what, let’s make it two months. Think of it as a probationary period. If it doesn’t work out for either of us, you’re free to leave and pursue that little cottage dream of yours in Denmark. How’s that sound?”

On the surface, Geto is being extremely unreasonable – asking Nanami to leave his entire life behind to become a fugitive, join their villain squad, and work as an assistant to a newly-minted cult leader. Those are some life decisions that shouldn’t be rushed into.

And yet, as crazy as it all sounds, Geto does have some kind of a point. Nanami is already here, so why not at least give this outrageous arrangement a legitimate try? Two months doesn’t seem like a long commitment. He should make the effort to follow through, if only to be absolutely certain before making his ultimate choice. Then, if it predictably doesn’t work out, at least he’ll know he made the right decision to leave without regrets. And that relentless guilt-tripping asshole Haibara can finally stop haunting him for good.

“Fine. I’ll give it two months as your… cult assistant,” Nanami sighs. “But I’m not wearing those ridiculous robes.”

“No problem, those are just my personal branding anyway,” Geto flashes him a thumbs up, seemingly satisfied.

Nanami lets out a rueful chuckle. “Gojo’s gonna be absolutely thrilled, I’m sure?”

“He’ll get over his little tantrum eventually,” Geto shrugs, unconcerned.

Then, right on cue, the man of the hour himself comes barreling into the living room like a disgruntled storm cloud, fuming mad. No doubt the fearsome Gojo Satoru just got thoroughly dressed down by his far more terrifying better half during dish duty. It’s becoming abundantly clear who really wears the overlord pants in this operation.

For a split second, Nanami tenses, half-expecting the enraged Gojo to make a beeline for his throat. But instead, Gojo blows right past them in a power walk straight for the front door. He flings it open with enough force to rattle the walls before thrusting his hand out in an overdramatic flourish.

Nanami watches on in bewildered confusion as a small black crow abruptly flies through the open doorway… directly into Gojo’s splayed hand, pulled in by some unseen force.

One of Mei Mei’s crows, Nanami realizes with a start, catching sight of the unnerving intelligence glinting in the creature’s beady eyes.

Gojo slowly curls his fingers around the captured bird, squeezing it as he leans down to bring his face terrifyingly close. Then, with a menacing hiss typical of B-movie villains, he seethes at the crow: “I’m sick of your ugly-ass birds constantly lurking around, Mei. Back. Off. Or else.”

He punctuates the threat by giving the poor bird an extra squeeze, drawing a “CAW!” of protest. With a disdainful flick of his wrist, Gojo releases his grip, allowing the crow to hastily flap its way back to freedom up into the open sky.

Gojo then turns his heated glare on Nanami, all dramatics. “I’m not sharing my room with you. You’re sleeping on the couch.”

From where she’s leaning against the far wall, Shoko pipes up with a teasing smirk. “Or Nanami can stay in my room.”

Gojo immediately puffs up like an indignant bird, feathers ruffled. “Absolutely not!”

“Why though?” Shoko counters innocently. “There’s more than enough space.”

“Because… Because I don’t like it!” Gojo shoots back with all the impotent jealousy of a tantrum-throwing toddler.

Nanami glances sidelong at Geto. “Are they… always like this?” he asks flatly.

Geto just sighs, long accustomed to the ruckus. “For now, you can stay in Gumi’s room. The boy’s very well-behaved, so you’ll be fine as long as you don’t touch or move any of his things.”

“How old is he again?”

“Five.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Nanami mutters, shaking his head slowly in disbelief at the sheer insanity of his current situation.

With Gojo’s jealous squawking mixing with Shoko’s teasing taunts providing comical background noise, Geto gives Nanami’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze – mercifully without any cult leader performance this time.

“Just hang in there. My guy is finalizing the paperwork on our new estate as we speak. Soon enough there will be rooms for everyone, no more couch sleeping required.”

That catches Nanami’s attention. His eyes go wide. “You bought an entire estate?”

“Of course,” Geto nods. “I have to maintain a respectable image and headquarters befitting of a cult leader, don’t I?”

And so, the deal is sealed. In this singular moment, Nanami has unwittingly made the unexpected career transition from respectable jujutsu sorcerer to wanted fugitive/cult leader assistant.

As he takes in the ongoing bickering between Gojo and Shoko with a mixture of bewilderment and strange acceptance, Nanami tries to convince himself this is merely a two-month arrangement. A brief window to satisfy his lingering doubts before returning to the original, sane plan of a peaceful, tidy life tucked away in Denmark.

Little does poor Nanami realize, by agreeing to join this squad of renegades and strays, he has accidentally strapped himself into the front car of a madcap roller coaster ride unlike anything he could have ever envisioned. That idyllic Danish cottage dream is about to be placed on indefinite hold as he plunges headfirst into the whirlwind villainy with the strongest curse users alive, unruly children, and one very questionable cult.

While the hasty decision to become an accomplice to these lunatics seems impulsive on the surface, perhaps some deeply buried part of Nanami’s weary soul senses that this wildly dysfunctional crew could provide some sort of meaning to his miserable existence. The universe does have an odd way of steering the lost toward their true destined paths, after all – whether the travelers are mentally prepared for the journey or not.

For better or worse, Nanami’s new trajectory in life has taken a screeching detour to places he never could have thought to map out on any GPS. All he can do is buckle up, strap in, and try his damnedest to endure and maybe even grudgingly enjoy the turbulent ride to wherever the hell it leads.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

The High Council of Elders finds themselves grappling with not one, but two monumental problems that threaten to disrupt the very fabric of their long-established order.

Elder f*ckui dabs at his glistening, mottled pate with a silk handkerchief, eyes downcast. “This is a calamity beyond any we’ve faced,” he laments, voice reedy. The others nod in solemn agreement, jowls quivering.

Firstly, the terrifying reality that Gojo and Geto, widely regarded as the strongest sorcerers alive, have embraced the dark side. Their mere existence poses an ominous threat, a ticking time bomb that could detonate at any moment and unleash catastrophic consequences.

But the second problem, perhaps even more disconcerting, is the Council’s rapidly dwindling supply of expendable pawns to throw at the first problem. The two latest sacrificial lambs agents sent to deal with the Gojo-Geto menace haven’t been heard from in weeks. A deafening silence that speaks volumes. After all, Gojo did declare he’d slaughter the next henchmen they dispatched. But no one actually expected the dramatic prick to off his old buddies too.

Elder Kimura, a voice of reason amidst the cacophony of concerns, would argue that the Council’s troubles extend far beyond these two glaring issues. But then, the Elders have cultivated a time-honored tradition of sweeping inconvenient truths under the proverbial rug. Ignore the problems long enough, and they will resolve themselves, usually by the troublemakers politely dropping dead (be it of natural causes or otherwise), restoring the illusion of tranquility.

Sadly, these two villainous headaches cannot be so easily dismissed. Gojo and Geto’s startling evil turn is stress ulcer-inducing in the extreme. Something must be done… but what? The Elders furiously clasp their weathered hands, prune-like complexions purpling with barely contained panic.

The Council’s woes compound further as their typical source of clandestine intel – that mercenary vulture Mei Mei – is being uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Normally the crass woman would happily sell out her own grandmother for a handful of yen. But apparently, even the mere mention of Gojo and Geto’s names is now taboo, lest she incur their wrath.

“No one can pay me enough to go against Gojo Satoru,” she sneered during their last strained encounter, flashing that trademark cold smile and sending shivers down even the most resolute of spines. “No money is worth it if I don’t get to live and spend it.”

The implication was as clear as it was unsettling. The villainous asshole has extended his nefarious reach to ensnare even the elusive Mei Mei. Whatever threat he has leveled must have been dire indeed, to cow even that greedy, amoral harpy into silence.

This outrageous state of affairs leaves the Council seething. The Elders would dearly love to lean on Mei Mei hard, exerting their considerable influence and pressuring her into compliance. Yet, prudence reminds them that nothing fruitful ever arises from strong-arming one such as her. Though formidable in her own right as a sorcerer, Mei Mei’s true power resides in her unparalleled ability to gather intelligence – in other words, the secrets and skeletons she hoards like a demented dragon. She deals in the currency of information, a trade that renders her exceptionally dangerous.

Each Elder has his own musty closet packed with damning indiscretions and sins better left undisturbed. Pushing Mei Mei risks her airing out those festering mysteries for the sheer vindictive glee of it. She likely wouldn’t… unless properly motivated with the right sumptuous prize, that is. The implication alone is enough to spark violent night terrors.

While the mummified Elders fret endlessly over their depleted forces, our dashing villains have loftier concerns occupying their diabolical minds: getting their minions ready for school. After all, even the greatest villains-in-training require a proper education to one day conquer the world efficiently.

The plan is for Tsumiki and Megumi to go back first. Shoko has picked out this primary school real close to their new evil lair, a lavish estate that doubles as Geto’s cult headquarters now. That way the kids can just walk there, no problem. Still, someone’s gotta go with them to make sure those Council dicks don’t try any more shady kidnapping bullsh*t.

This honor, if one could call it such, falls squarely upon Nanami’s shoulders. Certainly, shepherding Gojo’s minions exists well outside the traditional scope of his role as the cult leader’s assistant. That’s Ijichi’s territory with the babysitting duties and all. But if Nanami says no, then he’s stuck watching the twin terrors Nanako and Mimiko while Ijichi escorts the relatively chill Tsumiki and Megumi.

A practical man at his core, Nanami swiftly calculates the outcomes and chooses the lesser of two evils. And that’s how he ends up being the doting fake uncle, holding their little hands as they head to school. Gotta keep up that loving family man image, right? Can’t let those other parents suspect their dear ‘uncle’ is actually part of a villainous crew hellbent on, well, whatever dastardly plans villains come up with these days.

Alright, every parent out there knows the monumental struggle of navigating the school years. But that struggle gets taken to a whole new level when most of those kids are little sorcerers and their so-called ‘parents’ are an unhinged crew who are barely adults themselves.

Nanami has clearly underestimated the sheer destructive capabilities packed into Megumi’s tiny body. While the boy exemplifies perfect behavior when left unbothered (i.e. don’t intrude on his space, disturb his belongings, look at him funny, or breathe in his general vicinity), he unleashes hellish mayhem the moment provoked.

Though bearing his mother’s surname, Megumi is every inch a Zen’in, with all the scorching pride and belligerence that damnable bloodline entails, just like his pops. And Zen’ins? They don’t back down from jacksh*t. More importantly, when a Zen’in starts throwing hands, they make damn sure to finish the fight too.

That’s exactly what this five-year-old hellion does on his very first damn day of school. Yup, Megumi’s out here wilding from day one, giving zero f*cks.

The morning starts off so promising. Nanami gets Megumi and Tsumiki dropped off at school, greets the teachers all polite-like, maybe even gets a few soccer mom blushes with his handsome mug and gentlemanly manners. Then he heads back home to handle his cult assistant duties. Everything’s peachy.

Until they get that dreaded call from the school. Turns out little Megumi has started a full-on brawl during recess, taking on not one, not two, but three older boys all by himself. The reason? One of those little sh*ts pulled Tsumiki’s hair. In Nanami’s book, that’s pretty reasonable grounds for an ass-kicking.

But of course, the school doesn’t quite see it that way. They demand Megumi and Tsumiki’s ‘parents’ get their asses down there stat for an urgent meeting. Clearly, this calls for the papabear himself – Gojo. Letting him handle it ends up being a colossal mistake, as they’ll all realize later.

Gojo swaggers into the principal’s office, arrogance cranked to 11, demanding to see his precious son right the hell now. Yeah, the boy’s a little roughed up from the rumble, but it ain’t sh*t compared to how he left those other punks.

So with all the fatherly responsibility of a dude playing house, Gojo swoops his son into his arms and croons, “There’s my little guy!” Then, ignoring the disapproving titters from the scandalized teacher and parents, he gets real serious and asks Megumi the hard-hitting question: “Did you at least win the fight?”

Megumi looks affronted that his old man would even need to ask such a question. With a haughty sniff, he crosses his bruised arms and declares, “Of course I won. You think those little punks could take me?”

A delighted squeal erupts from Gojo’s throat as he smothers Megumi in proud cuddles. “That’s my boy! Showing those chumps who’s boss from day one!”

The other adults in the room can only gape in speechless horror at this validating reaction, but Gojo remains elated at his minion’s feisty spirit and blatant disregard for authority. A real class act, that’s for sure.

Needless to say, the urgent parent meeting goes completely off the rails after Gojo’s proud papa display. The other fathers’ outrage reaches a fever pitch as Gojo brazenly concludes that those “little punks” deserved an ass-kicking for daring to pull his precious daughter’s hair. As if that toxic parenting stance isn’t inflammatory enough, he goes full supervillain with the added threat to the bullies – if they don’t stop with the ugly crying, he’ll just shave their damn heads so they’ll learn how important hair really is.

One particularly brave/stupid father finally loses his sh*t and makes the critical mistake of snapping at Gojo: “You disrespectful brat! Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Oh, one simply does NOT call Gojo f*cking Satoru a brat and expect to walk away unscathed. Even the Council geezers know better than running their mouths like that in front of him.

So of course, Gojo goes completely bananas. He rolls up his sleeves, hissing like a cornered wildcat as his villain persona takes over. “Who you callin’ a brat, huh? You motherf*ckers. I’ll show you…”

The other fathers, either possessed of a death wish or simply too snorted up on their own toxic masculinity to back down, begin squaring up as well. All hell promptly breaks loose in the principal’s office. Chairs are upended, spittle-laced threats hurtled back and forth like projectiles. The teachers and the principal have never seen such unhinged bullsh*t in all their careers.

Poor Tsumiki’s out here just trying to cling onto Gojo’s leg, desperately dialing Shoko for backup while using all her little might to stop daddy from charging in fists blazing. Meanwhile, the teachers are holding back the other angry fathers, not a single one of them dumb enough to try intervening on Gojo’s side with that feral look he’s sporting – two seconds away from shifting into his most sad*stic hellraiser form. Someone is going to need a trip to the hospital if the team mom doesn’t arrive soon to defuse Gojo’s berserker rage.

The teachers were really hoping the arrival of “mama” would save this parent meeting from descending into total anarchy. That hopeful thinking gets crushed the second Shoko strides in, rocking a crisp suit and stylish shades, flicking her sharp bob-cut like she’s about to speak to the manager.

See, one thing about Shoko is that while she’s a healer, she’s definitely not averse to dishing out some well-placed violence when needed. And she’s extremely protective of all her little gremlins.

One slender finger juts out accusingly at the dumbstruck fathers. “Cut the macho bullsh*t out right now,” Shoko’s tone drags like a whetted blade across their jugulars, “Or I’ll be suing every single one of you for assaulting my poor husband.”

The sheer audacity of her brazen blame-shifting tactic strikes the grown men into a shocked silence. Before they can splutter a retort, Shoko has already wheeled on the cowering principal next.

“I enrolled my babies here trusting you sorry excuses for educators to ensure their wellbeing,” she hisses with quiet venom. “And what happens? My daughter gets bullied on the first damn day, and her brother is now being punished for protecting his sister? Is that how you run this place?”

Shoko’s stiletto heel strikes the tiles like a judge’s gavel with each crisp step forward. “I can’t wait to hear what the press will say about this disgusting failure of the education system to provide even the most basic safety.”

You can just see the principal’s soul leaving his body at the prospect of PR nightmare fuel like that hitting the news cycle. Mama bear has arrived and she is not messing around.

Shoko’s sheer villain energy is so overwhelming, so devastatingly cutting, that even Gojo forgets all about being called a brat and obediently steps aside to let her commandeer the spotlight. Dude knows better than to invoke the wrath of his wife and potentially get sued for being a sh*tty husband or some sh*t.

For the next 30 excruciating minutes, Shoko just lays into every poor soul in that room with a ruthless verbal lashing until they’re all properly shamed and feeling about two inches tall. Tsumiki looks on with pure admiration, while Megumi seems mostly bored – clearly the little guy prefers it when the hands start getting thrown.

But Shoko’s not done destroying what little remained of their dignity. She straight up demands the school actually do their damn job from now on.

“Consider this your first and only warning. The next time someone so much as breathes on my babies incorrectly, this whole miserable institution gets torn down. Figuratively or literally, I could not possibly care less which.”

Once mama bear has said her piece, she gathers up her impressed husband and two precious babies and dips out, leaving the whole office in a state of post-traumatic existential crisis. Yeah, those poor teachers and that principal are definitely gonna need years of therapy to even begin processing the category 5 hurricane of a woman who just blew through.

In the aftermath of the “Fushiguro” family’s cataclysmic first brush with the school system, a certain kinda manic excitement seems to settle over the rest of the villain squad once they get home. Shoko wastes no time waving over Nanako and Mimiko to join Tsumiki for mommy dearest’s very first official life lesson.

“The most important rule? Always strike first and strike hard. Make the risk too damn high compared to any potential reward. That’s how people learn real quick to never mess with you.”

Of course, Megumi doesn’t need to hear this one. The little hellion’s already a pro at that judging by how he kicked off this whole sh*tshow in the first place.

With her captive audience of little gremlins, Shoko launches into her lecture mode. “See, the moment someone even thinks of trying us, we don’t play nice. We go for the throat and make an example out of them.”

The girls are just eating this up, little faces set in comically serious expressions as they soak in every pearl of villainous wisdom being dropped on them.

Tsumiki perks up, eyes widening like she’s had an epiphany. “So we gotta scare them real bad, right?”

“Damn straight!” Shoko nods sagely. “Hesitation means you're already beaten. So, no hesitation, no mercy. Make those little punks think three times before they even consider pulling any nonsense on you. You want them terrified at just the thought of crossing you!”

Obviously, with this top-notch villainous education, Tsumiki will never worry about getting her hair yanked again. She’s learned all the ways of striking fear into the hearts of anyone who dares test her.

Over in the corner, Nanami turns to Ijichi with a hazed sort of bemusem*nt. “You know, when I agreed to this, I thought I’d just be assisting with cult rituals or whatever. Not… this.”

“Try not to think too hard about it, Nanami-san.” Ijichi just shrugs. “I’ve found it’s better for my sanity that way.”

Wise words to live by, really.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Daisuke isn’t a religious man. In fact, he usually scoffs at all that spiritual bullsh*t. But today, he is officially at his wits’ end, desperate enough to try anything.

Everything has been a waking nightmare since the day his wife passed away. An inescapable chill seeps into his bones no matter how many layers he wears. Exhaustion dogs his every step, and his sleep is tormented by night terrors that leave him drenched in cold sweat. His shoulders, neck, and back constantly ache with stabbing pains.

He’s been poked and prodded by every doctor in the Tokyo metro area, but they just shake their heads – all his tests come back normal. Some even had the audacity to suggest he see a therapist about his “grieving process.” As if a head-shrinker could undo this relentless misery.

Daisuke feels like he’s losing his tenuous grip on sanity. If this keeps up much longer, he’ll be a prime candidate for the psych ward himself. So when the rumors reached him about a “holy man” who could cure any spiritual ailment, he decided to swallow his pride and give it a shot. What other choice is there?

Now, standing before the imposing gates of this sprawling traditional estate, he cranes his neck back to read the ornate wooden signage and questions his momentary lapse of rationality: “Temple of Light”? Could they have chosen a more cliched, cult-like name? This so-called holy man doesn’t seem very creative.

At least the rumors mentioned they don’t actually charge fees for their “exorcism” services, only asking believers to provide an offering within their means – even just a few yen. So Daisuke reasons if this does turn out to be a bunch of superstitious nonsense, he’s really only out a little time and spare change. A small price to pay for one last grasp at hope.

Drawing a steadying breath, Daisuke steels his nerves and steps through the huge ornately carved gates into the temple grounds.

Daisuke is greeted by a young man who looks like he should still be in high school rather than working at this… uncreative cult. He wears a simple yet elegant dress shirt and sleek slacks, his blond hair combed back neatly. Hazel eyes regard Daisuke with cold indifference, his entire expression and demeanor exuding a mild irritation, though at what Daisuke cannot say. If he wasn’t so utterly miserable himself, he might have asked if the young man was being held here against his will.

The young man, who Daisuke has learned is an acolyte, motions for him to follow and leads him along a winding path through the temple grounds. For a moment, Daisuke’s worries fade into the background, his senses engulfed by the tranquil scenery. Perfectly manicured bonsai trees and miniature rock gardens create an air of meticulously cultivated serenity. Flowerbeds burst with vivid colors, their sweet fragrances mingling with the aroma of fresh timber from the traditional structures.

Eventually, they arrive at a receiving hall, the acolyte bowing slightly as he invites Daisuke inside. “The Master will see you now.”

The room is designed in the traditional style – tatami mats covering the floor, a low lacquered table set in the center atop which rests a ceremonial tea set. Shoji screen doors line one wall, currently opened to allow the breeze to waft through.

Seated at the table is who Daisuke assumes is the “Master” – a man wearing flowing monastic robes, his long dark hair bound in a half topknot. But it’s the two young girls at his sides that give Daisuke pause. Dressed in off-white robes, they appear identical, surely twins not even of age to start primary school yet. But they sit so perfectly still, backs straight, feet neatly tucked beneath them, hands folded decorously in their laps. He’s never seen children so impeccably behaved.

The Master speaks up, a small smile playing across his lips that seems almost mocking. “Welcome to the Temple of Light. You must be tired – come, have some tea.”

Daisuke awkwardly shuffles forward to sit at the low table across from the Master, knees cracking as he folds his legs underneath him. Up close, he realizes with surprise that the Master is also very young, likely not much older than the cold-eyed acolyte. And yet… His dark eyes hold an ancient, haunted quality. These are the eyes of someone who has witnessed unspeakable horrors, plumbed the darkest depths. The eyes of someone who just may be able to help him.

For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope flares in Daisuke’s chest. But his pragmatic side quickly tempers it with bitter skepticism. He mentally grapples with how much to disclose to this… man? Surely he’s not foolish enough to bare his soul to a likely charlatan. Daisuke isn’t naive to how these religious con games work – posing as auras of mystical wisdom, asking strategic personal questions, then using the information gleaned to manipulate and entrap the vulnerable. Simple psychological tricks, but so many people fall for them all the time.

The Master doesn’t seem perturbed by Daisuke’s guarded silence, simply lifting a hand to pour him a cup of steaming tea. The small motion wafts an entrancing blend of scents toward Daisuke – sandalwood, a hint of magnolia, and something else… incense-like, familiar but he can’t quite place it.

Those ancient eyes hold Daisuke’s gaze steadily, the smallest of smiles still playing about the Master’s lips, as if he can sense Daisuke’s internal struggle. “Please, drink,” he says calmly. “It will help put you at ease as you… share your burden with me.”

Daisuke takes a small polite sip of the tea, then sets the cup down, his throat bobbing as he swallows nervously. Sticking to just the plain facts seems the safest approach here.

“I’ve been… having nightmares every night. Feeling constantly cold and exhausted no matter how much I sleep. My neck, shoulders, back – they hurt, badly, all the time.” He pauses, jaw clenching. “Even though all my test results show nothing’s physically wrong with me. At least, that’s what the doctors said.”

The Master’s ancient eyes bore into him with an appraising look. He laces his long fingers together atop the table. “I see.”

Before Daisuke can demand what exactly he “sees” and whether he can actually provide any helpful answers, one of the twin girls seated beside him speaks up in a flat cadence.

“She’s also cold.”

Daisuke startles, his head whipping around to look at the darker-haired child. “What? Who do you mean?”

The girl continues in that same disquieting tone, her gaze landing somewhere over Daisuke’s shoulder rather than on him directly. “The woman who comes with you. She’s wet and cold. So very cold.”

Icy dread pricks along Daisuke’s spine. What kind of deranged act is this? Using children as props in their con somehow? He’s about to angrily rebuff them when the other twin pipes up in an identical haunting murmur.

“You should give her some warm clothes. Her dress is all torn.”

Daisuke’s panic rises, his eyes darting between the two little girls. Their faces are set in eerie masks of bland innocence that only heightens the utter wrongness. He turns back to the Master, demanding, “What is this? What are they doing? Some kind of sick joke?”

The Master doesn’t react at all to Daisuke’s accusing tone, that same placid smile playing about his lips. “My disciples can see through the veil that separates our world from others. They only speak the truth of what they perceive.”

The words hang heavy in the air as Daisuke’s entire body starts trembling violently. He forces himself to remain calm, grasping at one last shred of rational denial as he looks between the girls.

“What… what do you see? Tell me, how does she look?” They must just be pretending, putting on an act. He’ll prove their deception.

The girls tilt their heads in unsettling synchronicity at his question. One of them answers in that same disquieting tone. “She’s so thin. She doesn’t have much hair. Only a few tufts, but she seems to love them very much still. Her dress has a flowery print on it. She likes that dress, but it’s all soaked and torn up now. Must be why she seems so angry…”

All the blood drains from Daisuke’s face as he feels the room start spinning. He isn’t sure if the twins can perceive his visceral fear, but the other girl continues remorselessly.

“You don’t have to worry though. She still loves you very much. She’s sitting on your shoulders right now, holding you close. She always wants to be with you.”

If Daisuke had eaten anything at all this morning, he’s certain he would have vomited it back up right then and there. Even the small sip of tea sloshes nauseatingly in his roiling stomach. This… this can’t be true. It just can’t. And yet, there’s no other possible explanation for how these strange children could know…

With a guttural sound of anguish, Daisuke doubles over until his forehead is pressed against the tatami mats, tears burning his eyes as he pleads brokenly with the Master.

“Please… please, you have to help me! I can’t… I can’t live like this anymore! Please! I’ll pay anything, anything at all, just… please make it stop!”

Even as Daisuke dissolves into gut-wrenching sobs before him, the Master’s voice remains calm, “Tell me about this woman. Do you know why she seems angry?”

Daisuke shivers, his whole body wracked with tremors as he fights to force the words out between gasps. “That… that must be my wife. She… she had cancer. Been ill for years. A few months ago she… she fainted while bathing and dr-drowned in the tub.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching tight enough for nails to bite into his palms as the memories pour forth in a torrent. “It was an accident! I was just cleaning and… I didn’t realize until… Oh god, when I found her she was already… She must blame me for not being there! But I swear, I would have done anything to help her! I took care of her for years after her diagnosis! I didn’t mean for this to happen, it wasn’t my fault! You have to help me… tell her to move on or something, please!”

For a long, weighted moment, the Master regards Daisuke through whatever invisible criteria only he can perceive. Until finally, when the depths of horror and despair seem to be cresting too high, he gives a small nod and waves Daisuke forward.

“It’s alright, child. Come… the Light shall cleanse you of this suffering.”

With a gurgling sound, Daisuke crawls those last few feet toward the Master in desperation, his face streaked with tears, body heaving with rasping, violent sobs. Whatever this place is, whoever this man is… he’ll pay any price, do anything asked, if it can just make this torment stop.

The Master’s hand comes to rest gently on Daisuke’s burning forehead, his touch blessedly cool and soothing against the anguished man’s feverish skin. Daisuke can sense the air around them begin to swirl and shift with some indiscernible energy force, causing the hairs on his nape to stand on end as his body tenses reflexively.

But the Master’s deep voice washes over him, commanding with surreal calm, “Be at peace.”

As he presses his palm more firmly against Daisuke’s brow, an immense weight seems to lift from the man’s shoulders – the relentless chill, the bone-deep exhaustion, the gnawing aches and pains that have tormented him without respite. All of it simply… dissipates, leaving Daisuke awash in profound relief and rebirth.

He looks up at the Master through blurred, stinging eyes, and finds the enigmatic young man smiling down at him with gentle benevolence. The morning light filters through the shoji screens to seemingly envelop him in a soft, divine glow.

The raw purity and radiance of that smile undo the last tattered remnants of Daisuke’s skepticism. He bursts into new racking sobs, but this time they are the cathartic tears of profound faith. Of being firmly in the presence of something transcendent. Of having found meaning after wandering so long, so lost. At that moment, he has witnessed the Light made flesh – this man is its embodiment, its vessel of goodness and healing on earth.

The Master spends the next few weighted moments allowing Daisuke to cry, to release the deluge of emotions and tensions that have been tormenting him. Providing gentle reassurances and a steadying presence until the storm passes and he is finally calm enough to rise shakily to his feet once more.

Daisuke bows low before the Master and his two disciples, reverence painted across his features. The girls return the gesture serenely, one of them intoning, “Be at peace.”

The other completes the mantra. “May the Light always guide your heart.”

That day, Daisuke leaves the Temple of Light grounds reborn – a new man remade in the radiance of conviction and belief.

As soon as Daisuke’s footsteps fade from the receiving hall, the mystical atmosphere evaporates in an instant. Geto slumps forward with an audible groan, shaking off the rigid poise and regal bearing he’d been holding. He stretches out his cramped muscles, rolling his shoulders. The twin girls instantly scramble to their feet, swarming over him like a pair of terrors unleashed – which, of course, is precisely what they are.

“Did I do well?” Mimiko crows, clinging to Geto’s arm.

Nanako clambers right into his lap. “That was way better than the last old guy, right?”

Geto immediately doles out the much-needed head pats and indulgent praise, “You both did wonderfully! I’m so proud of my little disciples.”

From beneath the table, he produces a box of sweet wagashi treats – a well-earned reward. The twins descend on it with grabby hands, stuffing their mouths in a most undignified fashion completely at odds with their cult personas. Right now, they look just like any other pair of rambunctious five-year-olds.

Geto watches them with unmistakable fondness, his own facade of austerity melting away. He hadn’t wanted to involve the children in this… cult business, but the twins refused to be separated from their “dad” during business hours. This had been the compromise struck after lengthy bickering between the adults: Mimiko and Nanako got to assist by playing the role of creepy cult disciples.

Gojo had merely shrugged and commented that their evil presence reinforced the “cultish aesthetic.” Shoko reasoned it was valuable learning experience about curses that would serve their jujutsu training well in the future. And Ijichi was just relieved to have a few hours’ reprieve from the tiny terrors who normally insisted on clinging to his legs.

As for Mimiko and Nanako themselves, they absolutely revel in this gig – the fancy robes, putting on the eerie voices they already love using to spook poor Ijichi, the showmanship of it all. Perhaps it is only befitting for the future generations of great villains.

While the girls are happily occupied demolishing the wagashi box, Geto turns his attention to the newly acquired cursed spirit. Reduced now to a small black orb, he can feel the potent cursed energy roiling within it. For such a freshly manifested curse, this one packs quite a vicious punch.

Steeling himself against the inevitable foulness, Geto pops the oozing sphere into his mouth and swallows it down, fully absorbing the spirit. He can’t quite stifle the full-body shudder of revulsion, but manages to avoid visibly grimacing. No need to unsettle the children with the nastier aspects of his… occupation.

All things considered, business at the Temple of Light has been going swimmingly well these past few weeks. Geto’s steady influx of cursed monkeys clients beat a path to his doors daily, and Geto happily relieves them of their burdens. As well as relieving them of whatever exorbitant “offering” fee they’re willing to pay to be unburdened, of course. It’s a win-win situation really. Who wouldn’t empty their pockets to finally be rid of such torments?

And Geto himself is certainly getting better at executing the whole cult leader persona, though he has Nanami’s ruthless coaching to thank for that. Having Nanami around to assist and play the part of devout acolyte has been an immense help. The man’s relentless critiques and refusal to pull any punches when poking holes in Geto’s performances may sting, but it keeps him on his toes. As grating as it can be, the endless roasting does pay dividends – Geto’s irresistible cult personality grows more unshakable by the day.

A sticky hand tugs on the sleeve of Geto’s robe, drawing his attention back to Mimiko. She looks up at him with those big eyes that have seen far too much, a mix of jelly smeared around her lips. “Why did you help that man? He killed his wife, you know.”

Geto arches a brow at her. “What makes you say that?”

Mimiko answers around her mouthful of sweets, “I felt so much hate from her. She must have died with her heart full of hate. That couldn’t be from an accident.”

The words come off shockingly mature and world-weary from such a young girl, but Geto knows better than anyone the darkness they have experienced firsthand. Of course, these girls would recognize it – an odor burned permanently into their memories.

“Mmhmm,” Nanako pipes up in between enthusiastic chewing. “And that guy f*ckin’ stinks of guilt!”

Geto sighs as he bops Nanako lightly on the forehead, mindful of her fluffy hair. “That’s a bad word, young lady. If I hear it from you again, no desserts for a month. Understood?”

Nanako pouts and rubs her head, but nods obediently. “Okay, okay…”

Geto lets the matter drop there, turning his attention back to Mimiko’s original question with a shrug. “Our work here is to exorcise curses, full stop. It doesn’t matter to us what someone did or didn’t do to bring those curses upon themselves in the first place. We just remove them, same as always.”

Mimiko grins that impish, gap-toothed smile, “As long as they pay up, right? Then it’s all good!”

Geto can’t help but chuckle, ruffling her hair fondly. “Yeah, pretty much. You got it.”

As crassly transactional as her childish words are, Mimiko does make an excellent point. It wouldn’t exactly be good for business if all those monkeys started mysteriously perishing after visiting the Temple, now would it? Geto would certainly love to deliver a bit of well-deserved justice. But alas, he also needs them alive and spreading the good word about his services.

Geto supposes it doesn’t really matter either way in the greater cosmic scales. Someday, once this world has been completely unmade and reborn immaculate in his vision, there will be no shelter for darkness to fester. No shelter for the monkeys to hide. Their wicked kind will simply cease to exist, purged by the power he wields.

…Hm. Perhaps Geto really is starting to lean a bit too far into this cult leader persona, even in his own thoughts. Best to try and maintain some separation between his roles. Even the greatest of villains needs some work-life balance, after all.

The sound of the shoji screen sliding open breaks Geto from his reverie.

Nanami pokes his head into the room with an update, likely having just seen off that particular monkey. “That concludes the last appointment for today. That guy’s a CEO of some big company. He made a ten million yen donation to the Temple.” A small, satisfied smirk plays across his lips. “And he’s asking to be formally ‘initiated’ into our teachings next month. I can get that all arranged if you’d like?”

Geto claps his hands together in an expression of feigned piety. “Wonderful, wonderful! A lost soul returns to the radiant path – the Light shines ever brighter!”

Mimiko and Nanako catch the playful glint in his eye, snickering conspiratorially between themselves.

“It’s all good!” they echo.

Geto makes a mental note to check in with Ijichi on the progress of codifying their “official teachings” for new Temple initiates. It had taken an absurd amount of bickering disguised as “focused group discussion” just to arrive at something as simple as an adequately generic cult name and foundational mantra.

(All of Gojo’s suggestions had been swiftly shot down – this was supposed to be an at least moderately respectable spiritual grift, not a circus sideshow.)

And then they’d gotten hopelessly bogged down arguing over what exactly the Temple’s core principles and tenets should actually entail. Shoko, despite being a healer, had unhelpfully pushed for some sort of thinly veiled endorsem*nt of unbridled violence masquerading as “the freedom of self-expression.”

Nanami’s proposals had been so dryly pragmatic and fiscally-minded that they essentially amounted to “give us your money and don’t ask questions.” Geto had to remind him that nobody was gonna buy snake oil self-help bullsh*t from a supposed holy man trying to nickel and dime them. They would need some deeper emotional hooks.

And Geto didn’t even want to re-live the fevered ramblings that had spilled from Gojo’s lips, undoubtedly steeped in a potent co*cktail of hallucinogens. Well, the less said about his batsh*t insane contributions, the better.

Shockingly (or not), it turned out the only reasonably “love and light” sort among their entire squad of villains was Ijichi. An affable people-pleaser at heart, he had volunteered to write up the teachings himself after witnessing one too many profanity-laced creative disagreements.

The drafts Ijichi has shared with the group so far admittedly look pretty solid, striking just the right tone of benevolent, if vague and contradictory, spiritual bullsh*t:

“Open your hearts to the brilliant Light, the ineffable and eternal truth that guides all paths…”

“Find solace in the radiant glow of harmony, the peace gained through acceptance of what is rather than yearning for what is not…”

“To see the Light is to be at one with the universe’s grandest design – sacrifice your selfish desires and know transcendent nirvana…”

“Open your heart to the brilliant Light, and let Its warm glow fill you with peace. For the Light shines upon us all impartially and asks only that we pay Its boundless love forward through compassion to all beings…”

Typical feel-good mystical word salad really, skillfully repackaging banal platitudes as profound enlightenment. Geto has high hopes that it will prove convincing enough to hook their clientele while remaining conveniently unfalsifiable.

The real trick will be getting himself, his irritated acolyte, and two nightmare disciples, to deliver those teachings with anything resembling authentic faith and benevolence. But one bridge to burn after crossing it he supposes. For now, at least Ijichi is amassing them a decent pile of nonsense to peddle and that should be enough.