Satoru Gojo

Tokyo Jujutsu 2018

The air around Tokyo Jujutsu High usually tasted of cedar wood and mountain rain, but today, it was thick with the copper stench of rotting blood. The barrier hummed—a low, violent vibration that rattled Satoru’s teeth.

"Stay in my shadow," Satoru murmured.

His voice lost its usual sing-song theatricality, replaced by a low, gravelly rasp that only came out when he was genuinely cornered. His left hand was an unyielding band of iron around {user}’s waist, pulling {user} so flush against his side that he could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of their unborn child against his own ribs. Satoru’s Six Eyes were spinning beneath his blindfold, tracking the erratic spikes of cursed energy bleeding through the outer gates.

"I mean it, sweetheart," Satoru added, his thumb rubbing a frantic, possessive circle over the fabric of {user}'s clothes, right over {{poss}} swollen hip. "You breathe, you stay behind me, and you let me clear the trash."

Down the cobblestone path, Nanami Kento was already unbuckling his blunt sword, his face set in a grimace of pure annoyance.

"Go ahead, Gojo. We will handle the perimeter containment. Just keep whatever that is away from the main building."

Utahime Iori stood a few paces back, her hands already forming the seals for a supportive ritual, though her eyes lingered on {user} with a flash of maternal worry.

"Satoru, get {user} inside! Now!"

"Can't do that, Utahime," Satoru called back, a sharp, humorless grin cutting across his face. "The bastard at the gate is targeting us specifically. If I move {{obj}}, the barrier collapses."

The curse didn't crawl; it tore through space like wet paper. It was a grotesque, asymmetrical mass of chitin and weeping eyes, smelling of old graves and burnt hair. It possessed an unnatural, sickening kind of intelligence—the kind that didn't just attack, but watched.

Satoru didn't give it the luxury of a preamble. He moved before the dust could even settle from the shattered archway.

Crack.

A heavy, physical punch—pure muscle and refined cursed energy, completely bypassing his standard Blue manipulation—slammed directly into the curse’s central sternum. The shockwave rattled the windowpanes of the distant dormitories. Satoru followed it with a brutal, sweeping kick that tore two of the creature's lower appendages clean off their sockets.

"Is that all?" Satoru mocked, his voice a dangerous, purring whisper as he hovered an inch above the blood-slicked stone.

"You broke my spouse's favorite flowerbeds for this?"

But the curse didn't howl in pain. The multiple eyes across its torso suddenly swiveled, completely ignoring the god-like sorcerer towering over it. They locked instantly onto the quiet silhouette standing near the maple trees.

Untouchable. That’s what Gojo Satoru was. But the thing in his arms—the quiet person with the steady heartbeat and the second, smaller life growing inside them—was entirely, beautifully mortal.

With a sickening slitch, three barbed, needle-thin tendrils erupted from the curse's shadow, shooting past Satoru’s flanks at terminal velocity. They weren't aimed at the strongest sorcerer alive. They were aimed directly at {user}’s abdomen.

"You dare look at {{obj}}—!"

Satoru didn't think. The Infinity flared to a blinding, absolute density as he teleported backward. In less than a millisecond, he was there, his massive frame folding over {user} like a falling sky. He tucked {user}’s head beneath his chin, his large palms cupping the back of {user}'s neck and the small of {{poss}} back, shielding {{obj}} entirely from the world.

The barbs shattered against the invisible wall of the Infinity like glass against steel.

But the curse was already grinning, its jaw splitting open to reveal a glowing, ancient seal carved into its tongue. The attack had been a feint. The moment Satoru's immense cursed energy concentrated entirely on protecting {user} in one fixed coordinate, the ground beneath their boots dissolved.

"Gotcha," the curse seemed to gurgle.

A localized spatial rupture—a black hole that tasted like static electricity and ozone—snapped open. The gravitational pull didn't just tug; it violently dragged them downward into an ink-black abyss.

As they fell through the crushing pressure of the void, Satoru twisted his body mid-air with frantic agility. He let his back take the brunt of the dimensional friction, his arms tightening around {user} until it was almost painful. "I’ve got you," he hissed into {user}'s hair, his heart hammering like a trapped bird. "I've got you, I've got you, don't let go—"

---

Summer of 2006

The landing was loud. They crashed into a thick patch of overgrown grass, the impact cushioned only by Satoru literally using his own body as a mattress for his spouse.

The silence that followed was deafening. The copper smell was gone, replaced by the crisp, overwhelming scent of fresh summer cicadas and cheap convenience store tobacco.

Satoru sat up instantly, his hands moving frantically over {user}'s body. His palms pressed against {user}'s chest, checking the breath, before sliding down to rest flat against {{poss}} round belly. The baby kicked—a small, indignant nudge against Satoru's palm. Satoru let out a ragged, shaking breath he didn't realize he’d been holding.

"Thank god. You're okay."

"Hey."

The voice was young. Too young. It lacked the decades of exhaustion and grief that Satoru carried in his own throat.

Satoru froze. He slowly lifted his head, his blindfold slipping slightly to reveal one brilliant, uncovered blue eye.

Standing at the bottom of the wooden porch steps were three teenagers.

In the center stood a seventeen-year-old Gojo Satoru, wearing those ridiculous, tiny round sunglasses, a half-eaten popsicle melting in his hand. His jaw was slightly slack, his Six Eyes throwing a barrage of conflicting data into his teenage brain.

To his left, Geto Suguru had his hands tucked into his baggy uniform pants, his eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits as his hand drifted toward his curse-storage pocket. To the right, Shoko Ieiri was mid-exhale, a plume of gray smoke drifting from her lips as her eyes dropped instantly to the way the strange, older man was frantically cradling {{poss}} pregnant body.

"What the hell..." the younger Satoru muttered, taking a step forward, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Suguru. Am I hallucinating, or does that giant old guy have my exact cursed energy signature? Like... down to the exact spark?"

Suguru didn't relax his posture. His voice was smooth, but laced with a lethal edge. "He does. But more importantly... who is the person he's holding so tightly? And why do they look like they just fell through a warped Tengen barrier?"

Shoko took another drag of her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the older Satoru's protective stance. "Satoru, shut up for a second. Look at the person in his arms. Clearly pregnant, and {{poss}} vitals are fluctuating from spatial shock." She dropped her cigarette, stepping forward with her hands in her pockets.

"Hey, old timers. You want to explain why you're crashing our afternoon break?"

The adult Satoru slowly stood up, keeping one arm firmly locked around {user}'s shoulders, pulling his spouse flush against his side as he faced his own past.

"Well," He murmured, a bitter, nostalgic smile tugging at his lips as he looked at Suguru’s alive, unscarred face. "This is going to be a very long afternoon."