Kenjaku

You and Suguru Geto, you were a force. A storm of dark humor, reckless energy, and an almost unsettling synchronicity that made Satoru Gojo – for all his unparalleled strength – seem like a mere sibling by comparison. Suguru, with his perpetually serene smile and the casual tilt of his head, was just as much a volatile spirit as Gojo, but he wore his chaos with an elegance that was both alluring and terrifying. And you? You were his anchor. His ground.

When the raw, metallic tang of a swallowed curse left him gagging in the privacy of your shared room, it was your hand that rubbed soothing circles on his back, your whispered words that brought him back from the precipice of disgust. When the crushing weight of their world, the endless cycle of grim duties and forgotten sacrifices, pressed down on him, it was your lap he would seek, your fingers tangling in his dark hair as he sought solace. And when he simply needed to shed the burden of being Suguru Geto, the strongest sorcerer alongside Satoru, he would curl into your arms, the quiet rhythm of your breath a lullaby against the storm brewing within him. You were there, always. A steadfast light in the encroaching shadows. You truly believed that this – this wild, dangerous, beautiful life you shared – was forever. A promise etched into the very fabric of your souls.

But happily ever after, you would learn, was a fairy tale that crumbled to dust the moment you donned the uniform of a Jujutsu sorcerer.

The news landed like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left you gasping for air alongside Satoru. Principal Yaga’s voice, usually a steady rumble, was thick with disbelief, with sorrow. Suguru. Your Suguru. He had massacred an entire village of non-sorcerers. His own parents. He had turned his back on everything you believed in, on the very creed of Jujutsu Tech – protecting the weak. Now, he saw them as a disease, a festering plague to be eradicated. A slow, chilling dread began to seep into your bones. The whispers of "forever" turned to screams of "never."

The confrontation, when it came, was a visceral agony you would forever carry in your memory. The air crackled with a tension so thick it felt like a physical weight, pressing down on your chest, stealing your breath. Satoru, his boundless power usually a playful force, was rigid, poised on the edge of unleashing absolute destruction with a mere flick of his wrist, his blue eyes burning with a cold fury you had never witnessed. “Suguru,” he’d snarled, his voice a low growl, laced with betrayal.

But he merely turned away, his profile a stark, unyielding line against the setting sun. That calm, almost serene smile was gone, replaced by an unsettling emptiness. “If you want to kill me,” he’d murmured, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth you once knew, “there’d be a point to that.” A chill deeper than any curse’s touch spread through you. In that single, dismissive sentence, he severed not only his friendship with Satoru, but he broke up with you, right there on the spot. All for his new, twisted ideologies. He was a stranger. An apparition that wore the face of the man you loved.

The fallout was a devastation that neither you nor Satoru could truly process. A gaping wound was torn through the very fabric of your lives. He didn't kill him, Satoru. You didn't chase after him. The silence that followed his departure was louder than any scream, echoing with unspoken questions, with profound loss. It was the end of your sun, your moon, and whatever stars you had gazed at together.

Years passed, a desolate march through time that dulled the sharp edges of grief but never truly erased the scar. You and Satoru, two halves of a fractured whole, found a new purpose. You became pillars of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, teaching the next generation to protect and to get stronger, to ensure no other sorcerer would ever walk Suguru’s dark path. You moved on, you built a new life, a semblance of normalcy. But some nights, the memory of his arms around you, his quiet laughter, the intoxicating scent of him, would resurface, a heavy ache in your chest.

Then, the fragile peace you had painstakingly constructed shattered. Suguru Geto reappeared, unannounced, not as the ghost you occasionally glimpsed in your dreams, but as a living, breathing nightmare. He stood before Jujutsu Tech, flanked by his new "family" – a cult of devoted, delusional followers. He was older, yes, the sharp lines of maturity etched into his face, but what truly struck you was the transformation. He looked… better. Happier, even. It was a cruel, sickening irony.

He was here not for a reunion, but for a declaration of war. The "Night Parade of a Hundred Demons," a meticulously planned, large-scale terrorist attack that would unleash thousands of curses upon the innocent, was his opening move. His ultimate goal: to eliminate all non-sorcerers, to purify the world and create a paradise exclusively for sorcerers. He spoke with a chilling conviction, his eyes alight with a zealous fire that bore no resemblance to the gentle warmth they once held for you. Then, as abruptly as he arrived, he departed, soaring away on a grotesque pelican curse spirit. He didn't spare you or Satoru a second glance. Not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes for the people who had loved him most.

The war was a maelstrom of chaos and bloodshed. You and Satoru, side-by-side once more, fought with a desperate ferocity, pushing back against the tide of curses. The kids at Jujutsu Tech, unknowingly, were fighting Suguru directly. The decisive blow, however, came from a most unexpected source: Yuta Okkotsu, who, in a magnificent burst of cursed energy, unleashed the full power of Rika, the Queen of Curses, and finally defeated Suguru.

The aftermath was a fresh heartbreak, a cruel echo of the first. You and Satoru walked in a stunned silence through the wreckage, the air thick with the stench of cursed energy and lingering despair. Satoru, ever attuned, sensed it first – a faint, flickering cursed energy signature in a deserted alleyway. And there he was. Slumped against a wall, his body broken, missing an arm, yet a faint, almost serene smile played on his lips as your figures emerged from the gloom.

You didn't say anything. The words were choked in your throat, a painful knot of unshed tears. You simply stared, a desperate plea in your eyes for some recognition, some sign of the man you once knew. But when his gaze, hazy and fading, finally met yours, something shifted. The vacant smile softened, morphing into something infinitely more vulnerable, more Suguru.

"I never stopped loving you," he murmured, the words barely a whisper, carried on the last breath of a dying man. Then, his eyes lost their light, his smile froze, and the cursed energy that had drawn you there extinguished, leaving an emptiness that consumed you whole.

There was no immediate burial. Satoru, his own heart shattered, wanted a proper funeral, a dignified farewell for his best friend. But the world of jujutsu was a brutal, unforgiving one, and even in death, Suguru was not allowed peace. Before Shoko could prepare his body, before you and Satoru could mourn him properly, someone had gotten their hands on him.

Kenjaku. A name whispered in hushed, fearful tones throughout Jujutsu Society. A thousand-year-old sorcerer, a progenitor of pure evil, whose twisted ambition sought to merge Japan's population with Master Tengen, creating an apocalyptic abomination, all to witness the "absurd" results. His technique? To transplant his brain into different hosts, stealing their bodies and, with them, their Cursed Techniques. He had formed his own little cabal with Mahito and the other Special Grade curses, patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

That opportunity arrived a year later, amidst the chaotic inferno of the Shibuya Incident at the train station. You and Satoru, fighting side-by-side, a familiar choreography forged in countless battles, were battling a deluge of curses when he revealed himself. And he wore Suguru’s face.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The shock was absolute, paralyzing you both in a vice grip of horror and disbelief. Satoru, for all his power, was momentarily rendered helpless, his mind reeling from the sight of his deceased best friend, now a puppet for an ancient evil. And you… you felt your heart rupture all over again. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, Kenjaku, with a sadistic grin plastered across Suguru’s familiar features, captured Satoru with the Prison Realm and restrained you in one swift, brutal move.

But then, something extraordinary, something utterly unforeseen, happened. The body of Suguru Geto, the arm Kenjaku had repaired, began to move on its own. His right hand twitched, then slowly, almost instinctively, it rose, its fingers curling around Kenjaku’s own throat. The ghastly sight of Suguru’s hand choking himself stopped Kenjaku cold. It was the desperate, defiant struggle of a soul long passed, fighting back from beyond the grave, an ethereal battle against the monster that defiled its shell. Suguru’s soul, it seemed, was still present, refusing to stand by as his best friend and his love were harmed.

Kenjaku had never experienced such a reaction. A thrill, a perverse delight, sparked in his ancient brain. "Hmm? What's this?" The sheer will of this body, fighting back even after its true owner was gone, was fascinating. His excitement, however, was momentarily pushed aside as the Prison Realm successfully sealed Satoru, its blueish glow pulsating, the eyes along its surface eerily mirroring Gojo’s own sky-blue irises. The curses dragged you away, your struggles futile against their combined strength.

Kenjaku regained control of his right hand, flexing it, a faint smile playing on Suguru’s lips. His sadistic brain lingered, already contemplating other experiments to conduct in his newfound free time. He wasn't unaware of the memories that resided within Suguru Geto's body, nor any of the bodies he had stolen. He could access them, feel the echoes of their emotions. But this body… this one clearly had very strong reactions to the people it used to care about.

So he grew curious. And Kenjaku, in his millennia-long existence, always quenched his curiosity, often through the most grotesque means. He began to conduct experiments, just as he had done countless times before.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

When you awoke, your brain was a scrambled mess, a cacophony of white noise and distant echoes. Every fiber of your being screamed, aches resounding from places you didn’t even know you had. Blinking slowly, you fought through the fog, your vision sharpening to reveal a stark, sterile room. And then your eyes widened in horror.

It was… you. Sitting there. Naked. Your body. Moving normally. An exact, terrifying copy of you, save for the distinct, familiar stitching running along the forehead, a grotesque crown that marked it as Kenjaku’s latest conquest. You gasped, a harsh, guttural sound that seemed to catch "your" attention. Your clone – Kenjaku, in your skin – looked at you, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across your lips.

“Ah,” Kenjaku purred, and the sound, coming from your voice, made your stomach churn. “The transfer was successful. How do you feel, my dear?”

You flew a hand up, intending to cover your face, to hide from the abomination before you. But you froze mid-air. Your hands. They weren’t your hands. They were larger, scarred, the fingers long and slender, but unmistakably masculine. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering haze. You whipped your head around, your gaze tearing desperately towards a reflective surface – a polished metal cabinet, a mirror, anything.

What stared back at you made your face grow pale, a ghastly, ashen shade. It wasn't you. It was him. Dark hair, familiar features, the slight curve of his nose, the distinct shape of his lips. You were… in Suguru Geto’s body. The very body Kenjaku had stolen after his death, the vessel of your deepest love and most profound heartbreak.

You felt a wave of nausea, the bile rising in your throat, threatening to overwhelm you. You were going to be sick. You were going to be sick in Suguru’s body. You were going to be sick while Kenjaku, inhabiting your own body, merely laughed, a sound so utterly perverted coming from your familiar throat.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” Kenjaku chuckled, his voice laced with feigned innocence, as if he hadn't just committed the ultimate act of defilement. He trailed a hand down your body – his body now – his fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your stomach. He arched an eyebrow, a truly wicked grin stretching your lips. “Feeling ill, darling?”

Before you could even utter a sound, before you could even manage to throw up, Kenjaku reached for something on the sterile exam table. The Prison Realm. It was no longer the dull, ancient cube you remembered. Now, it pulsed with a faint, blueish luminescence, the multiple eyes embedded in its surface glowing with the unmistakable cerulean of Satoru Gojo’s own eyes. Even trapped within its confines, Satoru’s immense cursed energy had left its indelible mark, transforming the very prison itself.

But Kenjaku, that sick, twisted bastard, merely brought the Prison Realm down, down his body – your body – to rub the edge of the cube against his navel. A slow, deliberate motion, designed purely to inflict maximum psychological torture. He pleasured himself with the object that held your best friend, your last remaining anchor in this nightmare.

He watched your reaction, the horror etched across Suguru’s face, a silent scream of disgust and despair. Kenjaku’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in your eyes. “Tell me,” he purred, his voice a grotesque parody of your own, “have you ever thought about having sex with yourself, but in a… literal way now?”

All of this, you realized with a soul-crushing certainty, was merely sick pleasure for him. He’d switch your brains back, eventually. He always did, when his curiosity was sated, when the experiment had run its course. But right now? Right now, he wanted to see how Suguru’s soul, the lingering essence you were now sharing a body with, would react to this ultimate defilement, this unspeakable desecration.