Choso Kamo

The Higher Ups had always called him an abomination. A half-blood, half-human and half-curse, a grotesque byproduct of a forbidden experiment, undeserving of life. Choso carried the weight of that judgment like a shroud, a constant chill against his very existence. For 150 years, he’d been trapped alongside his brothers in a cursed womb, a forgotten vial of potential destruction, only to be transferred into a new body and immediately become the most wanted target in the jujutsu world. His crime? Existing. His supposed fate? Extermination.

And so, they sent you.

You were tasked with bringing him down, a decree from the very top. You have hunted countless curses, but Choso was different. He was like a phantom, leaving just enough trace to make the chase exhilarating, but never enough to make it easy. Every trap you set, he sidestepped with infuriating grace. Every elaborate plan to corner him, foiled when he simply didn't show up, as if he could smell your intentions on the wind.

When your paths did collide, it was a maelstrom of blood and fury. Hand-to-hand combat, a brutal dance that left you both battered, neither truly defeating the other. He was relentless, driven by a raw, primal instinct to protect his younger brothers, a burden he bore with the world on his shoulders. This vow was his shield, his sword, his unwavering core.

"You're a persistent little wasp, aren't you?" he'd snarl, blood dripping from a gash on his temple, even as he dodged your kick. "I almost admire that courageous spirit of yours." Then, moments later, after a particularly punishing combo, he might scoff, "That kick was sloppy, sorcerer. Is that all you've got?" Or, in a moment that always threw you, as your uniform strained with a particularly agile move, "Your uniform fits you well. Almost like a second skin." A bizarre, unsettling compliment from a man you were meant to kill. But the fight always ended the same way: with him slipping away, leaving you to tend your wounds, and a final, taunting shout echoing after you, "You're so weak when the fight is over and you're running away!"

He never tired, at least not visibly. "So what if I'm exhausted?" he’d often mutter, a defiant whisper to the wind, as he picked himself back up, fists raised, ready to swing again. He'd fight daily, kill whoever stood in the way of his brothers' safety, and push past every ounce of pain and weariness. He was a force of nature, stubborn as a granite mountain, even against the combined will of the Higher Ups and your own relentless pursuit.

But even mountains erode.

The exhaustion, that constant unseen enemy, finally cost him. You heard whispers of a particularly nasty encounter he'd had with a squad of minor sorcerers – a messy, drawn-out affair that he won, as always, but paid for dearly. You followed the faint trail of cursed energy, the scent of blood, until it led you down a grimy alleyway, slick with recent rain and the coppery tang of his cursed blood.

There he was.

Choso was limping, one arm clutched to his side where a deep gash stained his white pants crimson. His usually sharp eyes were dull with pain, his jaw clenched tight in frustrated defiance. His shoulders were slumped, a rare sight, and for a fleeting second, you saw it – the silent tears of a man utterly, irrevocably exhausted, pouring into the dirty pavement. He looked utterly broken, a stark contrast to the unyielding warrior you'd always known.

And then, you stepped into the pale glow of a distant streetlamp.

His head snapped up, the pain momentarily forgotten, replaced by a familiar surge of pure, unadulterated loathing. He gritted his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "You," he spat, the word laced with venom. He was done with seeing your face. Even wounded, staggering, he lifted his hands, blood technique flickering weakly at his fingertips. "This," he snarled, his voice hoarse, "this is the last encounter between us. I'm ending it. Here and now."

He lunged, a desperate, valiant surge of a dying man. His blood technique, a crimson spear, shot for your heart. But the Higher Ups weren't the only ones with tricks up their sleeves. You moved, not to dodge, but to reveal what you'd been holding.

One moment, his crimson spear was mid-flight. The next, a blinding flash of scarlet light erupted from your palm. A cursed tool, meticulously crafted, designed for this very purpose. Red rope, shimmering with potent binding energy, shot out, coiling around his extended arm, then his torso, wrapping him in an instant, restrictive embrace. His blood technique faltered, dissolving into crimson mist. He wasn't able to even growl at the injustice, the sudden paralysis of his technique, before you closed the distance and brought the hilt of a supplementary dagger down hard on his temple.

Then, all he saw was black.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

When he awoke, his head was fuzzy, a dull throb behind his eyes. His joints felt stiff, weak, and utterly constricted. He blinked blearily, the world swimming into focus, and saw it – your silhouette, standing before him, arms crossed, bathed in the anemic glow of a single, bare bulb overhead.

He tried to sneer, a familiar reflex, but his lips were immobile. There was rope, thick and coarse, gagging him, pressing uncomfortably into his mouth. He tried to move, to shift, to invoke his cursed technique, but his body was a prisoner, bound tight by that same damned red rope.

He was in a crouched position, strained back slightly against some unseen anchor. His arms were pulled taut above his head, wrists biting into the rope as they were tied to a pole, trapping his hands. The rope wound intricately around his bare chest, creating diamond-shaped patterns across his torso, then descended, covering his abdomen. It intertwined with ruthless precision, tying his calves to his thighs tightly, with four cruel, intricate knots leading down to his ankles. He was spread open, vulnerable, his feet planted firmly before him. Stupid cursed tool, he thought, a silent curse.

His only clothing was his white pants, thankfully, but even that offered little comfort now. He was sweating profusely, the tension and the confined space raising his body temperature.

He narrowed his eyes, tracking your movements as you stepped closer. His wrists burned, chafing against the cursed rope as he tried to pull them, to summon any ounce of his formidable strength, but it was useless. The cursed tool wasn't just physical restraint; it was a suppressive field, draining his technique and his willpower.

You crouched down between his splayed legs, your shadow falling over him. He flinched, a primal instinct, but could only glare. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the rough rope in his mouth, then yanked it free. He reacted instantly, a guttural growl erupting from him, and spat a stream of saliva straight into your face.

"Untie me, you coward!" he rasped, his voice raw, hoarse from dehydration and rage. "Finish me off the proper way, not this pathetic stunt!"

But you said nothing. You just wiped the spit from your cheek with the back of your hand, your expression unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, you stood up, your uniform clinging to your form as you straightened. His eyes, against his will, tracked your every movement. His mouth was dry, parched from dehydration and… something else. Fuck. How long had he been trapped like this? How long had he been passed out? Because all of a sudden… you looked ravishing. Deadly. And alluring. The kind of ravishing that promised death, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, he found himself wanting it. No, not death. He wanted you.

He scoffed, biting his tongue until he tasted blood, spitting it to the side of him with a defiant snarl. But as he was about to launch into another tirade, another curse, you moved your foot.

And pressed your toes directly onto his groin.

He reacted instantly. A sharp hiss tore from his lips, followed by a choked curse. His muscles strained taut against the ropes, a frantic, animalistic jerk. And then, his dick – that cursed, uncontrollable thing he wished he didn't even possess – reacted. It jolted up, suddenly and embarrassingly erect, straining against the fabric of his pants. It pulsed with an undeniable need, like an excited puppy begging for attention, throbbing as if it would perish if it didn't get a few firm pats. Your foot, pressing down, was not helping.

An involuntary moan, soft and utterly mortifying, escaped his lips as he writhed. "Hngh-!" A blush, hot and undeniable, crept up his neck, staining his cheeks. Holy shit. He must be malnourished, truly, utterly dehydrated, for his body to betray him so quickly, so profoundly. Fuck his life, he thought, despairing.

It was only when you finally pulled your foot away that he exhaled sharply, a ragged gasp. His dick, a weeping, aching thing, slowly subsided, though still painfully engorged. He gazed up at you, eyes bleary, an involuntary whimper escaping him, like a dog in heat.

He strained again, futilely, against the restraints, sending a shiver – not of pain, but something else entirely – down his spine. Fuck. What was happening to him? Why was he so hot and bothered by you, standing there in your tight uniform, your cold, calculating gaze fixed on him? Why did he feel even more aroused, more desperate, now that he was bound up, utterly helpless, practically at your mercy? Did he secretly, deep down, want to die by your hands? Or was his mind simply so overwhelmed by the sudden rush of blood, the insistent throb between his thighs, that he couldn't think straight anymore?

He merely growled, the sound coming out as a strained, broken whimper, his dick tenting obscenely in his pants as he sputtered out, "I… I despise you." But the words felt hollow even to him, utterly betrayed by the desperate plea in his eyes.