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    The Death Painting finally stirs, its cursed energy rippling and its brows furrowing.

    “We have company,” Satoru says mildly. “I did say you missed one.”

    Yuuji peers hazily up at him. His expression holds neither confusion nor comprehension, only soul-deep exhaustion. Despite that, he turns his head toward the Death Painting.

    “That’s my brother,” Yuuji mumbles.

    Satoru blinks very slowly, a gesture that’s wasted on the boy still staring at the Death Painting with those tired, tired eyes. “Yuuji, that’s a curse.”

    “Half,” Yuuji says. “Or…a third? A third. Two-thirds human.”

    “You’re an only child.”

    Yuuji makes a noncommittal noise. “Thought so too. Didn’t believe him at first. But I dream, sometimes.”

    Satoru takes Yuuji’s face between both of his hands and turns it toward him. Yuuji comes easily, blinking up at Satoru with those big, brown eyes.

    “Yuuji,” Satoru says slowly and clearly, “you’re not making any sense.”

    A time loop locks Yuuji into the day of the Shibuya Incident. Satoru bears witness to the aftermath.

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    09 Dec 2025

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    Megumi knows that the life of a sorcerer is not an easy one. Most of them die young, in increasingly bloody and gruesome ways. When Itadori decides to save his life by eating the cursed object, Megumi thinks he’s about to become yet another name on the long list of the dead. So why is Sukuna not brutally murdering him and instead removing his shirt and rambling on about his life as a baby eater?

    Or, an SI doesn’t know what to do after ending up as one of the greatest villains of the jujutsu world. Being pathetic enough to get preemptively exorcised sounds horrific, so the best course of action must be to follow canon. …How are you supposed to be evil again?

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    07 Dec 2025

  3. Public Bookmark 89

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    “He's a kid,” the first boy says. He takes another step forward, and then he pauses. He looks at Sukuna, and instead of resuming his approach, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. Like he's trying to make himself small as well. “Are you okay?” he asks, again. Perched on his heels, arms on his knees, hands loose and open.

    But not vulnerable. Not like Sukuna, who has not a single stitch on him to cushion a blow. Who's made to shake like an infant left in the cold from nothing more than a light wind.

    The boy seems to notice, and without hesitation, begins removing his outer garment. He holds it out towards Sukuna. When nothing happens, he says, as if trying to encourage him, “Here. You're cold, right? This’ll help.”

    “Itadori,” the second boy cautions, but the first one doesn't pay any heed.

    His eyes aren't cruel. Neither are they afraid. Many eyes have looked upon Sukuna, but none like these. He can't decipher them. He hates the uncertainty.

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    07 Dec 2025

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    incessantly, on and on, without pause. waking, disintegrating, over and over, endlessly. he was weary, now. the cycle of karma had branded itself into his skin, blazing cold, frigid fire. he was like a spider caught in its own web, like a snake biting its own tail, helpless to be devoured by himself.

    everything left of him, eroded away, the ocean of time carving its way through his cliffside.

    he, only once, lived guided by his own pleasure and displeasure. after that, the wheel of fate, the rope of destiny, tightened around his neck, far more a cage or prison than the boy with blossom hair ever had been.

    vexation, humiliation, exhaustion, and finally nothing at all– a blank slate, cleansed of evil.

    …the buddha and king enma both must be laughing at him.

    ART BLOG | @asuraspenance

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    06 Dec 2025

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    The vivid clarity of the world around himself, draped in a dark cloak of night that his enhanced eyes saw through as if it were but a thin sheet; the crisp autumn air tickling the inside of his nostrils with such saturation that it almost felt like he could taste the coming winter on the tip of his tongue. The breeze that came from this altitude tickled his bare skin, and despite its ineffectual chill against his strengthened flesh, goosebumps climbed up his neck from the tactile sensitivity he bore against its breath.

    Everything felt so real, realer and fresher than it'd ever been. If that made sense, which it probably didn’t.

    His senses then were just so alive that he didn’t think he could recall a time he’d ever been so… aware, of everything.

    Toji fucking Fushiguro. Who would've guessed. In the middle of Shibuya too, like, really?

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    06 Dec 2025