Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Children are not often born frail, you were. Pushed out of the womb prematurely with scars already lining your body and doctors holding you in their palms as if you weighed nothing. Which you did, clocking somewhere below 5 pounds and promptly being tucked within a respirator. You almost didn't survive the first winter—almost. So it is common knowledge that you are the weakest of four siblings, you had it instilled within you.

Second-oldest, the weakest of four siblings. As it has already been mentioned countless times during your upbringing. No one ever dares to say it around you but it's easy to decipher what people truly mean if you stare at them long enough. They buckle under the pressure of prolonged eye contact and seem to think that your eyes hold the secrets of the universe. They don't, you don't—but fear is a necessary skill to cultivate when you're weak. There are ways to build up strength and you know it's to step on those who have already reached their peak, leeching on whatever they presumed what invulnerability.

You are seven when you think you are the strongest amongst the family. You are also seven when you see your first curse, relatives think you're a little off the rails and your father constantly shushes you before you can even begin to speak. Because he knows you will start a conversation about the gangly hobbled creature that lives in the basement. All four of its eyes shift to you whenever you enter the space and nudge over a bowl of kibble. At first, you think it's a dog—you've never seen one. Then it tries to devour your sister in the middle of the night, dogs don't do that. You've read books about it.

You are supposed to die at age seven, slaughtered along with your younger sister, but a gift is bestowed upon you. A pulsing worm that wraps around your waist and shoots silk from its abdomen, allowing you to suddenly wrap it around the creature without a second thought. Suffocating it, constricting it's bones tight enough that your infant sister is released from their palm. She lands roughly back in her bassinet.

The silk shrinks until the creature has been crushed to ash by a child who was supposed to be a ghost. A cry echoing throughout a frosted room, your feverish sister who has been disturbed, and as you're parents appear—it's clear to them that you are the culprit of their suffering.

And that is the day you are called by a singular name and shoved inside a spare room meant for your grandparents.

There is envy painting the walls of the house now, siblings staring as you have a space of your own that isn't tainting with the worming sense that children are nothing until they are grown. It's the only place that isn't bound by those creatures who rapidly grow in social rooms, fungi being attracted to the rot flies have cultivated. The stout writhing worm makes themselves known every time you encounter these monsters. They are no longer creatures in your eyes—creatures are kinder and smarter than the feed upon the flesh of newborns.

The second floor is the safest place away from those things, shoving down the pulsating animal that wraps around your hips and letting those things wreak whatever havoc they wish. You are isolated in your own world, jealousy covering your siblings features as if they would all disturb each other's sleep if it means they can finally have their own space. They would even kill if it meant for them to stand out amongst the rest.

Although, that leaves you to watch over them as some self righteous form of punishment. You were not made to guard over children and remain in the room where you first saw the near murder of your beloved sister. On Tuesdays, you are obligated to care for your younger brother: become his protector and survive whatever menial tasks he puts your through. He is the least demanding out of the four of you but his stocky build and abnormal growth spurt make up for a lack of assertiveness.

"What will you be when you grow older?" he asks because foolish children spout off questions they may never get an answer to. Questions that will haunt them. You are already a ghost.

"Strong."

His lips quiver into a pout, one that surges rage into your lower abdomen. Yet, you are in his domain and lashing out would be a dishonor on your name. "What does that mean?"

You shrug, "I am strong. I will be strong."

A prophecy spoken into the winter. You have survived since birth, you will dominate till your death bed.

▬▬▬

Gojo Satoru has been your mentor since you first encountered him in junior high. He's seen you in action before you could even realize who was the shadow slinking behind every corner, watching as you stared down lowly entities. He thinks you're strong, you know you are: here in lies the conflict. His lack of belief that stems from what he calls "blind vengeance" but you have nothing to prove, only a need make your name your own.

Your surname has been dead even since you were gifted with a curse, names don't hold anymore power than a maggot does.

Gojo is your mentor but he is also a nuisance to your daily routine, keen on becoming familiar with you. Maki has told you he does the same to everyone when you brought it to her attention once but it feels more like you're being targeted amongst your peers. He likes to tag along on your missions, requests to spar with you at any chance he receives, teases whenever misfortune is blessed upon your pretty little head (as he calls it).

Normally, people are quick to write you off as another face dawdling through the crowd but not him. Holding credence for future potential and that's what's so bothersome about those with optimism—they can never keep it to themselves.

"Hey, Hey, [Y/n]!" he greets just as your shutting your door. He always finds the most inappropriate times to manifest.

He's a strange person despite all your qualms about him. Powerful and invariably blind, letting his reputation speak before witty comments can roll from his tongue. Maybe, in some anomalous facet, you desire the precedent he's cultivated. The fear his name brings.

The door is still closing on him, "What? No warm welcome for me?" He stops it with the tip of his shoe, your eyes roll as it's forcibly opened once again.

A snarl crosses your features as he leisurely enters your room. He says he like your posters, but he's also always kicked out of here before he can ask to have one. "You're an annoying old man is what you are. Always trying to butt into my business." You're becoming too soft—he typically stays under a minute and it's been half past that.

The seconds tick in your head as soon as he steps foot inside your sanctuary, seeing if there's a swifter way to make him leave. Lately, he's been loitering around for longer and speaking to you as if you're life long friends. He knows you as much as your family did.

He muses, "You're scared, aren't you?" Because he thinks you're weak, just like the rest of them. He will taunt and tease just for a reaction and before you can think about it, you will offer him one.

It's the first curse you've been trusted to take care of without a partner. You aren't scared or nervous as much as you are anxious to make this thing beg beneath the heel of your loafers because they always like to plead in their own garbled language. Curses are gross mangled abominations that feed off the hatred and negativity of people, you know all too well how that feels like. The only difference is that you never cared to wallow around in that sort of self pity and loathing.

You scoff, opening your curtains so that you don't have to peer at his face without some type of natural light running through the room. A curse would be leeching off your back if you were forced to stare at his strange hairstyle for any longer. "No, the only thing that scares me is the day you tell us the blindfold is some part of kink you have."

There's a sixty-eight percent chance that it is, Panda helped you do the calculations.

"Ah, you totally are!" he keens and falls straight into the beanbag chair you bought a while ago. Great, it'll smell like his cologne for weeks if he manages to take off that store bought scent.

You're not sure why he wants you to be so petrified for your first mission, maybe he likes to project insecurity onto you despite an already confident nature. But then again, he just finds foolish amusement from crushing dreams.

"Do you do anything useful around here?"

He pouts in a way that makes you want to scream, he knows what he's doing. Little things that push your button until you finally overload and shut down into rage just like he expects you to. At times, you think it would be easier to gouge his eyes out. "So mean to your mentor, you should learn some respect."

"You should learn to stay out of my room. I don't care if you want my Dead or Alive Xtreme poster, I need to get ready."

"Fine, fine," he coos while exiting the room but stops short at your doorframe just so he can prolong this exchange. Patience is running thin and your teeth begin to chew at the inside your cheek. The tough chewy flesh already marked countless times by molars and canines. "but you'll be the first to let me know how it goes."

"I don't know, I'll think about it." the door slams shut.

Gojo Satoru is your mentor and you cannot stand the fact that he is perceived to be better than you.

▬▬▬

"Inumaki, you hear about the newbie?" you ask on a devoid of sunlight. It is spring but the showers have caused their own chaos all over campus and you have been a witness to it. Rain is its own reserved power—a force stronger than any man alive and, sometimes, it's nice to be reminded of the tenacity of Mother Nature.

"Salmon," he replies and there's not much else you'll get from him. He's too kind for his own good, too worried about who will be lost along the way if he unleashes his power. Sometimes, it just seems stupid. A servant to his own curse.

"Cool, I'm gonna go and check on my beehive. Tell me when they get here so I can avoid them."

He can't really notify you of anything but maybe he'll find some way to relay the message to your peers. Panda seems to discover ways to translate his nonsensical gibberish and it brings some relief that you are not the responsible, reliable one amongst your peers. Maybe Maki might let out an irritable mumble about his presence or even Gojo will intentionally have information slip and pretend it was only an accident.

They are nice to you because they doubt you—perhaps they know about your past and the unravelling of such a competitive childhood. How you would scratch walls just so wailing children could be heard and love was rationed based on perception. They must know, they have to know, there's no way they don't. Because being altruistic hides behind grave motives and you will die knowing that you were true to the core like an apple decaying from rot and filth.

Your footsteps are soft against plush dirt, recently fertilized so that the seeds may finally blossom before summer heat ruins their youth. The smell surrounding the area is sour and irritates your senses but it falls away with a quick brush of your finger. Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil, the quote came across when western literature was a topic of study in junior high. At times like these, it rings true.

Your hands delicately move to pull out the treat you managed to snag this morning but another sight stops you from continuing further. Eyebrows furrow as this unwelcome interruption has already put an abnormal rut in your schedule.

A boy stands in front of your hive, tapping the sides of it and whooshing away bees with his spare hand. Normally, people wouldn't think of agitating a wooden box left alone is some backend woods but normal people aren't idiots.

You spit, "Ew, who are you?"

He stands, an inch or two taller than you are, with a bored expression tainting his visage. Sunlight that peaks through the leaves rushes down to cast a halo around his dark colored hair. Dark pools of midnight seemingly casting a glare at everything he stares at—whether it's deliberate or not doesn't matter when you're born with a face like his. Some part of him holds the essence of winter: frigid, reserved, and harsh even towards the smallest brush of life.

You swallow the salvia grossly accumulating within your mouth. He radiates untapped energy, malevolent incantations ready to be released with a flick of his tongue.

"Fushiguro," he replies quickly but you've never met a person who only greets themselves by a singular name. It pisses you off.

"You're messing with my beehive, Fungi," and promptly make a point by bristly shoving him away with a shoulder. Some bees are already flocking to your figure, they must smell the ripe fruit in your pocket. "bees don't react well with strangers. It's upsetting them."

"You're [Y/n]." he doesn't ask, it's a statement.

Normally, it's an annoyance to have to deal with such sudden shifts in conversation. As if the previous topic wasn't intriguing enough on it's own and there is something far more relevant to speak about. Yet, you don't feel the urge to discuss your hobby with a boy who still wears brown leather ankle boots.

You reach into your pocket, procuring matured figs and apples that simply rest within your palm. If you were to squeeze, juice would spill and trail down flesh—bees would swarm and maybe even sting. It's one of the many way that life fascinates you. "And you're still around me. Learn to read social cues."

"Okkotsu wanted me to meet you, but I can't figure out why."

Taking a knife from your sock, you steadily hold the snack as the blade splits them evenly (a handy party trick most are easily impressed with). His eyes narrow, firm and locked on your figure, even as you rise from the soil and meet his gaze. Eyes flickering back to the ground, you see packs of bees are flocking to the fruit just to savor the sugar. Having such a hive mentality must be so fulfilling, forced to follow orders at the expense of someone far more formidable than you.

Power is value. Nature has proven that much during the lifetime spent of Earth.

"I think he just wants everyone to get along. Okkotsu isn't one for conflict."

"And you're different?"

"Entirely," a smirk edges it's way onto your lips and you leave without a proper farewell, stopping just before you reach the fecundated marl. "just leave the bees alone. I don't care if you get stung, it's just a hassle to defend my hobby to the principal."

His eyes still bore into your figure as you leave, maybe even trying to fit pieces of you into an incomplete puzzle just so he can leap towards unfounded assumptions. Attempting to read you is like reciting enchanted incantations scribbled in some poor translation of Latin—dead languages hold no real tongue once they are ripped out of the mouth they reside in—it is a waste of time.

It is best he learns this sooner than later.

Chapter Text

Death is a worthy crux of society, it keeps the wheel turning and ensures that everyone must leave behind their bodies at some point in time. Witnessed like a sacrifice for the gods and arms open, bleeding, as they kneel before the chapel. There are messiahs who have died to spread their truth and tyrants who have fallen to their execution. Death awaits for no man as his fingers affectionately curls about your heart only to tear it away.

Have you witnessed someone die? Maybe, when you were younger and eyes were simply windows you couldn't understand. However, it's been only a series of missed calls and critical wounds repaired by calloused hands stitching whatever they can salvage.

Although, this is the first corpse you've seen. Pink hair falling flat on his face, the color of tulips being grazed by a sweet honeysuckle breeze, as if it's lost life within it as well. Shut eyes give him peace through the afterlife but you still can't help but stare at the gaping cavern that overwhelms his chest. He is missing a heart, an organ his soul can cling on before it moves onto the next.

Corpses without hearts don't rest peacefully, they are doomed to an eternity of haunting.

Ijichi looks a little green in the face as you turn back to him, he's avoiding all possible eye contact with the body. Your mentor doesn't seem perturbed by the scene even if he was previously affiliated with the boy who inhabited that carcass, he's handed over all his information. Medical records, previous schooling, extra notes on his character, certain abilities he attains. It's short and concise, he wasn't here for long after all.

"Itadori Yuji, huh?" you ask to no one in particular, flipping through the minimal pages his record carries. Yet, Gojo is always there to quell rhetorical questions with an answer. Maybe he just likes looking more intelligent than he actually is.

"Yup, that's what his birth certificate says at least."

You flip another page to find the original document right underneath your fingertips. It smells a little bit like mothballs and fresh rain, the scent would catch anybody off guard. "How do you even—ugh, forget I asked." The higher-ups must have your information on file, the same that's in Itadori's, but it's not something urgent and you are not dying to validate what they are aware of. "Why am I looking at this if he's dead?"

Gojo merely snickers at your question before he proceeds to stand next to you. Releasing a single hand from the depths of his pocket just so he can knock it against your skull. "Use that head of yours, [Y/n]. Come one, I know there's a brain somewhere in there." A sigh escape past your lips as you slouch and review the documents once again.

Itadori Yuji was a plain boy born on the countryside who resided there until his sudden death in Tokyo, a tale you've seen play out too many times. Country bumpkins think that city air tastes like mint green confectioneries and that the metropolitan areas are always bustling with recycled life. Never a dull moment when you are created and destroyed in the same place. You've been out there a few times—acres of spare land and idyllic charm that manages to soothe even the most calloused souls—it is nothing more than people living out foolish fantasies.

Your eyes flicker back to his protruding wound, his chest still as there is a lack of anything to pump vigor back into his being. Then, something else catches your eye—something teetering on the frays of torn ligaments. He's still bleeding, crimson liquid brimming at the edges only to lose their edge and slip back into the cavernous abyss. Dead people don't bleed.

"He's ... he's still alive?" Gojo looks pleased at your observational skills but you are more focused on the imbeciles who requested new students to deal with a Special Grade. There is a lack of sorcerers, nowadays, they cower away from their responsibility because they cannot deal with the sacrifice. Your features are contorted into a strained grimace as you gear your gaze back at the older man. "You are the worst teacher alive. Worms would have better curriculums."

"So cruel even after all these years!"

Your next words are pointed towards the lackluster excuse for an assistant, lanky and dull Ijichi who appears as if he's on the verge of spilling his lunch. "You knew what he was up to?"

"Wha—No! He does stuff like this without telling me!" his squirms in his seat. Just watching him defend anything is exhausting.

"Stop being so jittery, it was a question. I don't have a high enough rank to kill you anyway."

"She's joking! Ah, I love her sense of humor sometimes." Gojo slugs an arm around the eldest's shoulders. He seems to have an excuse for anything, it really shouldn't surprise you at this point.

He sighs and mumbles, "Jokes are supposed to make people laugh."

You don't concern yourself with this pointless interaction anymore, watching the still body and expecting it to spasm awake at any moment. He was young, bursting with vitality and staunch from the way he's shape. Yet, he wasn't strong enough to survive—even if he is to come back and loudly greet all of you as if he was simply unconscious. The weak are devoured for pleasure, the thrill that a predator gets once they sink their claws into unsuspecting prey, and he was simply less than.

At some point, you wonder if he would've fallen victim to your curse. Asphyxiating on bands of silk wrapped daintily against throat, tightening with every moment he shifts and begs for mercy. He won't be granted it but it's always so nice to see someone fall to their knees and crawl into the afterlife. It's nothing more than a fantasy because he died by something greater than you can understand but it still manages to make a smirk slip through.

"When's he supposed to wake up?" you ask because either no one wants to or everyone knows the answer. It's irritating to be left out on such pivotal moments.

"An hour, give or take."

Corpses look so small compared to the metal slabs they rest upon. Shrinking and stiffening as their souls finally detach and advance to a new life. Death is not a comforting experience and you will not be one to fall right into its palm.

Gojo stands beside you as the two of you examine the carcass once again as if you'll find something new to pick at or complain about. Yet, silence is the only thing that comes from shared company. "Don't get so attached to the kid. It's your biggest weakness." Warning him is the only thing you can do because he didn't listen the first time when he discovered you or Fushiguro. He is a man who works based on his own whims and it will consume him in the end.

"You underestimate me," he says. A small simper toying at the ends of his mouth and a two finger salute following right after. He's good at hiding things but you know how he would react if he was to ever witness your demise—you've asked him once.

Your mentor is good at hiding things. Grief is not one of them.

▬▬▬

Gojo summons you from the depths of comfort on an early Saturday morning (wriggling away from mountains of blankets and filtering sunlight is a task within itself). He asks you to weave your way through the catacombs buried beneath Jujustu Tech to find a door etched with pointless gibberish. The problem is that most have that decoration and many of the rooms are empty until you find yourself kicking rocks. They aren't rocks, they're corn nuts.

An adult man left you a snack trail to follow like a dumb dog. This is one of the greatest sorcerers alive.

Maybe he knows you haven't even had breakfast, that the stars are burning out their final spark before the twilight is swallowed by the dawn. Although he probably does know this and would rather have you eat ranch flavored nuts seasoned with dirt. he'd make an excellent father one day. The contaminated food crushes under your feet with every step you take. A satisfying sound until you realize you are now only welcomed by the echo of your loafers.

You turn to your left, an arched stone entrance stands in the way with flamed torches evenly set. Carved onto the medieval era door is a message that reads, Gojo's private training room. Another bothersome sparring session under the guise of something paramount—the man is nothing but predictable. And you are simply a dog who follows at his beck and call, you are nothing but self aware.

Reaching out, your hand nearly comes in contact with the door before it opens on its own. Warmth rushing through the frigid corridor and a wide smile greets you along with a strange. No, not a stranger—a boy who is supposed to be dead.

"Ah, he's here. Good, I was starting to worry that he'd break his record setting punctuality."

Normally, you'd be a little shocked to see your mentor arrive anywhere on time but he's the one who invited you here. His comment on your schedule seems a little hypocritical to say the least. Yet, you're not much of a talker in the first place.

The boy beside him gives a small grin, rose colored hair swaying a second behind his bodily movements, extending a hand towards you. "Nice to meet you, I'm—" You already know who he is. Introductions are trivial sentiments at this point.

"Why am I here?"

"I thought you were bored of the same old things," He knows you're not, you've kept a calendar and planner for as long as you knew those things existed. Even Fushiguro's arrival wreaked havoc on your day as everything was set back by a few minutes. "so I present you with a challenge!"

He promptly shakes his hands vigorously at the unfamiliar boy, who grins at the attention that was undeservedly given. Yuji Itadori is not a challenge, he is a hassle. One you will surely have to lie about to keep hidden, lacing stone cold phrases with saccharin vagueness just to evade questions. You have never known peace since Gojo Satoru witnessed your power, it will be long before you experience it again. 

"So what? I'm the resident babysitter for washed up projects?"

"Hey! I'm not washed up!" he protests despite being dead for a few hours and exuding a great lack of cursed energy. He is faulty, just as you first suspected, hiding behind a crutch of the spirit that lingers within his form.

"Yuta isn't here to help me, you're my runner up."

Okkotsu is somewhere else, that's all the available information you've been given once you noticed that he hadn't shown up for breakfast and he was half an hour late on an exorcism you were supposed to preform together. He is ranked above you, someone else who wills a curse their way by the luck of the draw, and you would stomp his skull into nothing if given the chance.

You are his inferior, a sorcerer only paired with him by convenience because Hikari always seems to find little ways to weasel himself into troublesome situations. Compared to him, the elders must see you as nothing and a tick that has buried itself under the skin of Gojo. You would not be here if it weren't for them, no one would witness your might if others hadn't paid you with faux sympathy.

If you could, they would all be demolished. Licking the dirt that has caked your shoes as they are strung from silk lines, webbed together until slowly cocooned into oblivion. Born again as dehydrated corpses, wilting and bloated.

"Fine, I'll teach the twerp a thing or two if I get to go into the city by myself."

Gojo places a hand on his chin, blindfold shifting upward as he gazes at the ceiling while in thought. As if the action doesn't seem ridiculous because he considers himself cute and charming, traits that fall short within your presence.

"Hm, I don't see anything wrong with that. You could always get a massage, stress is not a good look on you."

"I so don't need your opinion on what looks good." The man once wore open-toed sandals with neon green socks and claimed it to be high fashion. You think he just always wants to be recognized as the least professional person in the room. "I'd rather take fashion advice from Nanami."

Itadori asks, "Nanami?"

And you ignore him, "So what does he know?"

The older man grins and this may have been a bigger challenge than he first made it out to be. Setting up big expectations he wants you to meet as if you'll meet with any vexation. Maybe it's him who undermines you. "Next to nothing."

He moves on from the subject just as quickly as he touches upon it. Itadori's eyes widening in confusion at the interaction and you can't help but whisper, "Bastard."

▬▬▬

"Are you a second year?" Itadori asks in the middle of Human Earthworm 2, his face slightly bruised from how many times he's been smacked around by a cursed stuffed bear. It's a bit laughable but there's not much humor in physical comedy alone.

The movie is boring, filled with nonsensical gore and monologues that could send blundering elders to their grave. Your student doesn't seem to mind, eyes brimming with fascination as a woman is deprived of her kneecaps and mouth being torn open in section on to be stapled onto someone else's flesh. Watching violence occur from a second person point of view doesn't make excitement and disgusting linger within your frame.

No wonder Gojo thought it would be perfect for him to watch.

"Yeah," you start and his eyes move to watch the side of your face, a tender gaze of something on the border line of curiosity and admiration. It's strange, his feelings writhing a tunnel straight into your mind just so you can understand what he truly thinks about you. Yet, his opinion means little. "but I was a sorcerer before I attended here."

"Seems like that's the case with everyone." he sighs before being promptly punched once again—the woven cursed bear in his lap suddenly going back to snoring. Masamichi does not put much thought into his creations. He rubs at his jaw before speaking once again, "Where did you live before this?"

He's already being a pest and you've barely managed to get past a few films, although it's easy to become bored by this selection. There's be no harm in entertaining this topic. Telling small lies about your past so that he's satisfied but Itadori enjoys biting off more than he can chew and he will ask others about you.

"What's with all the annoying questions? I'm here to train you, not give you a tragic backstory and receive pity."

"I didn't—" he pauses, stopping entirely as he realizes this must be sore subject. A subject that has been stretched and worn to expand your lifetime, linger regret never seeming to escape. Then, he moves on with renewed enthusiasm as a mentally unstable man bashes a woman's teeth in with a rusted hammer. "Hmm, you're so much different from Gojo."

"Surprise, people don't have the same personality."

"I like it! It feels much more professional."

Maybe you should go around searching for a rusted hammer.

A frown graces your features as the screen before you fades from a crimson inky pool to black with credits starting to roll. There's a third movie after this, only available at theaters, so you place in an annoying American romantic comedy. "You should be focusing on what you don't like. It's why you're getting the beating of a lifetime."

He nods as if everything has suddenly been made clear to him, his fingers ginger scratching at the plush. Itadori is an idiot if you've ever seen one, fraught with optimistic ideals that will have him slaughtered by a creature sewn by his own morals. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Sorry, I think I'm just excited about all this."

Sorcery is rarely something people find exciting, a thin line of abnormal witchcraft that purely birthed talent slapped onto a child wailing for the sensation of a womb and amniotic fluid. The boy—no, the worm that sits beside you is nothing more than a half wit who was cursed with a fate worse than death. He is a vessel, a consuming process that will drain him of any sanity that remains and rot the playfulness that crashes onto waves of public.

Your eyes flicker to follow his thrilled stare, a title card soon popping up on screen that reads My Fair Dame. He exclaims, "Ah, I love this movie!" Before being swiftly punched another time and growling as he tries to strangle the rabid stuffed animal.

Naivety is a gift you wish everyone still had. It would spare you the awareness of people's mediocrity.