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banjjakz · 5 months

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➡ Fall asleep.

When you blink back into consciousness, a gentle warmth welcomes you to the land of the living. At some point in your slumber, you pitched sideways to huddle your achingly cold bones in a fetal position. Now, you find yourself struggling to activate your joints after succumbing to a slumber so deep it’s seemed to have left you with rigor mortis.

As you sit up, an unfamiliar layer of fuzzy fabric slides from your shoulders. A blanket! Ah, that explains the extra warmth. But you don’t remember bringing a blanket with you… and you’ve never seen this particular blanket in your entire life. Sure, it’s cozy and high-quality, but the pattern of wide-open eyes littered across the black cloth is off-putting – although, not entirely unpleasant.

Oh shoot, did someone put this on you? Have you been discovered?

“Hello.”

Spooked, you whip your head to the side, where you had not even registered the presence of another living being. “Ahh!!!”

“I did not mean to frighten you. I apologize.”

Are you – are you dreaming?

You must be dreaming. They term isn’t “yumejoshi” for no reason. There is no way Choso squats in front of you, less than a meter away, so close that you can smell his earthy, metallic fragrance. He hasn’t even changed out of his stage costume: his customary white robes are still soaked through with sweat from the earlier performance, gracing the pale fabric a tantalizing semi-translucence. His purple gi is nowhere to be found, which exposes the unholy caverns of his collarbones, the inviting jut of his skeletal sternum. The signature pigtails are also undone, leaving his stringy black hair to metastasize down the sides of his gaunt face, across the barren valley of his jagged shoulder blades. And yet, that solid bar of black remains perfectly applied across the center of his face.

“…Nn?”

“Are you alright?”

Choso stays where he is, head cocked in concern. Quickly, you realize you have two options.

You can tell the truth and admit that you’d been waiting outside just to see him walk a few paces before getting into a nondescript vehicle. Totally normal fan behavior that will definitely go over well.

Or, you can lie.

“I-I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you demure, casting your eyes down in false bashfulness. You would feel bad about this if you were a better person. “And the memories from ShinShow’s performances always sustain me…I just thought, if I could enjoy the positive energy for a little while longer…I would be sustained. I’m sorry…”

“Why do you apologize?”

One of Choso’s most appealing charming points is his overly formal, somewhat antiquated manner of speaking. He sounds like a historical figure who has been yanked from the past, inserted haphazardly into contemporary pop culture. Very fitting for his lore. But you’d also been under the assumption that this was merely a stage act – is he that committed to his image? Or is it innate?

The thought of Choso simply being Like That is too endearing to bear. You hide your face behind your palms, concealing the tremulous smile that possesses your lips.

“It’s embarrassing… and I’ve troubled Choso-nii…”

The last thing you expect are cold, impossibly cold, hands to wrap around your wrists, kindly (but firmly) uncovering your face. Choso has drawn closer to you, so close that when he breathes, it brushes the bridge of your nose.

His face is impassive, as usual – but upon closer inspection, you notice a strange, wavering quality in his eyes, a slight tremor in his lips. There might actually be color on the tips of his ears. Usually, he appears as though he is so pale there is no blood coursing through his veins that could produce a blush.

Evidently, this is not the case.

“Choso-nii is not troubled,” he states plainly, leaving no room for argument. “The night is no place for a little one to be sleeping unguarded.”

Oh, you could faint here and now. It’s an active choice on your part to remain conscious. “Mn…”

“You will come with me now.”

And so you do.

This is how you find yourself in the back of an unmarked, utilitarian white van. To anyone else the vehicle would appear as little more than a maintenance truck. But you know better.

Inside the living-quarters is a mish-mash of discarded clothing items in varying degrees of cleanliness; discarded guitar picks; empty takeout containers; and a random jumble of electronic chargers. Inexplicably, there is also an abundance of first-aid supplies, with over half of it apparently already used. As he sits you down on one of the distressed leather seats, Choso uses the medical kit to tend to a few scrapes on your legs and arms earned from your impromptu nap on the concrete.

“It’s really not that bad…You don’t have to—”

“Enough.”

Embarrassed, you shut your mouth. How do you even cope with this situation? Here you are, in the back of your oshi’s travel van, as he sits on his knees in front of you, hands impatiently pushing your clothes away to reveal your bare skin. His touch leeches the body heat out of you like a parasite. You want to be sucked dry.

“This will sting.” That’s all the warning you get before hydrogen peroxide is unceremoniously dumped on your fresh scrapes.

Unbidden, you let out a strangled whine, hands flying to the closest part of him you can reach – which happens to be his head. You clutch at his hair to absolve you of your suffering. “Choso-nii! It hurts!”

Ker-thlunk. Glug… glug… glug…

Fuck! Your spasming must have knocked over the hydrogen peroxide…. the upended bottle spills its guts across the floor, drenching the air in an oppressively medicinal stink.

Oddly, no irritancy mars Choso’s features. If anything, he looks more flustered than you feel, which doesn’t make much sense to you.

“I’m so sorry! I c-can clean it up, I promise---”

“Leave it.” He speaks without meeting your eyes. “You are injured.”

Barely, you want to retort. But acknowledging the fact that your so-called “injuries” are very minor surface scrapes would shatter the illusory bubble of realized fantasy into which you have miraculously stumbled.

Before you can reply, Choso continues: “The human mouth is the fastest-healing part of the body. Saliva heals.”

“Okay,” you say, because there is nothing else you could possibly respond with. He can’t mean—surely, he doesn’t—

But there he goes, leaning in close to the supple flesh of your bared leg, breath ghosting along the very surface, raising the hairs that quiver in eager anticipation. “I said I would help you feel better. Please allow me this. It is my duty.”

And then he begins to suck on your wounds.

“Oh-kay,” you squeal, entirely convinced that you have begun to astral project. The scrape on the inside of your knee is laved over by his tongue, which is, strangely, just as chilled as the rest of him. When his eyes flick up at your exclamation, you realize that you have yet to release his hair.

Nor do you want to.

“B-be gentle, please…” You’re laying it on thick. You know it. How could you resist? He’s eating it up – literally – mouthing repeatedly over the sensitive area as though he is spiritually compelled to do so. And just because you’re a little too observant, a little too greedy for your own good, you decide to push your luck: “Will Choso-nii make me feel better everywhere?”

With a wet pop, he unleashes your leg from his wet, red mouth. “Where does it hurt,” he asks, pupils blown wide, nothing more than a twin pair of black holes.

“Mn…all over…I’m sore, from sleeping on the ground…”

Choso rises from his knees to crowd you into the back of the seat. Of course, you willingly melt back, pliant in the wake of his potent desire.

“Do you need Choso-nii to make it better?”

“Please,” you whimper, peering up at him through your dewy, tear-damp lashes.

Holy shit, you can’t believe this actually worked. Two hours ago, you were just one of hundreds of faceless, sweaty fans, screaming their hearts out to some of the most hauntingly morbid lyrics.

And now, you are caged in the unforgiving embrace of your oshi, completely at his mercy, littered in hickeys and lovebites and bruises as he has his way with you. Your sharp cries of pain do the opposite of dissuade him; with each groan and plea for him to slow down, take a pause, ow, ow, it hurts Choso-nii--, he grows all the more impassioned, all the more frantic.

He only pulls away from you when there is not a single inch of exposed skin left for him to mark. The sound of your comingled pants fill the van, fogging the windows with physical evidence of your salacious tryst.

Neither of you speak for a moment, content to simply gaze into each other’s eyes. His hair is frazzled every which way, due in no small part to your rough handling. Is it normal to be turned on by such a trainwreck of a human? Should you really be wet between the thighs at being mauled?

“Do—” his voice cracks in a way you have never heard before, not on any livestream, not in any video, not on any stage. “Do you feel better, now?”

Maybe it’s fate…maybe, somewhere out there, far, far away, there is a benevolent being who wants nothing but the best for you. Maybe they concentrated their divine powers into finding you, in this moment, and directing your gaze to the loose pocketknife innocently resting on the grimy floor next to his clunky black platforms. In this moment, as you pick up the blade, unsheathing it without breaking eye contact with the ghoulish specter hovering above you, an inexplicable wave of love and appreciation washes over you, bathing your half-dressed body in the warm waters of some distant, far-off shore.

It's almost too easy to slice a surface wound – a cat-scratch, really – into the plush swell of your upper thigh.

“What about here, Choso-nii?” You ask, enraptured by the peculiar twitching of his facial muscles. “Can you kiss it better right here?”

Once again, you are right on the money.

Choso dives to chase the rivulet of blood running down your leg like a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert. Devotionally, he tongues at the gory slit, sucking more blood from your self-inflicted wound, moaning as if he is the one being pleasured right now. In a strange way, you think he might be.

Your initial quick-thinking unleashes an outlandish chain reaction which finds you, inevitably, entirely unclothed with a not-insignificant amount of reddening slashes across your naked form. When it’s all said and done, Choso will tend to each and every cut, diligently disinfecting and dressing the disrupted flesh, allowing you to weakly tug at his hair (now pulled back from his face into two twin pigtails) when it burns.

Upon the final swipe of antibacterial ointment, you are halfway in dreamland, barely cognizant enough to recognize that you should probably be getting the hell out of here, at this point. However, shunning reason and common sense is the exact behavior that’s gotten you this far – so you decide to stick to what you know.

“Choso-nii,” you murmur groggily into the leather seat. “Blanket?”

“What blanket?”

His confusion is confusing you. “The one you gave me… ‘s cold…”

“…I did not give you a blanket.” For the first time since he’d picked you up behind the venue, Choso’s voice sounds grounded in reality. Released from the shackles of lust and taboo desire, he speaks with lucid candor. “Was that blanket not yours?”

“Nope,” you hum, blissfully dazed. “Where ‘s ‘t?”

Sleep descends upon your worn, battered form before you hear his answer.

Oh well. As long as Choso-nii is nearby, you have nothing to worry about.

[ROUTE CLEAR.]

next suggested route: okkotsu yuuta

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#choso x y/n #choso x reader #choso #choso jjk #choso fic #choso smut #jjk fic #jjk smut #tw blood #tw self injury #tw selfharm #tw knifeplay #final girl banjjakz #final girl ao3 #final girl jjk #final girl choso route #my writing

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banjjakz · 4 months

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notes: major character death; gojo satoru is not a good person (we know this); direct continuation of geto suguru's route; if you have not completed the good end may you rest in pieces.

➡ Sneak out of the fire escape.

The thought of trying to navigate your way even further through the deep, dark bowels of this strange place fills you with a fearful repulsion – and not the good kind. While you got off quite lucky with such a faithful encounter with Geto, you shouldn’t get cocky. After all, the security guard from earlier could still be lurking around…imagine if he caught you in such a state of obvious erotic disarray: hair mussed, knees scraped and bruised, face flushed, lipstick smudged…you can’t imagine that would go over well.

Steeling your nerves to do something truly unhinged, you begin to search for the fire escape.

At least you aren’t jumping out of the window, or something insane like that – albeit, sneaking out of the fire escape is a little out there, even for you.

But you no longer inhabit the normal and upright world. It is almost as though you are now floating through reality, your soul wandering through life in an ambiguously disparate state, hopping from absurd situation to absurd situation, motivated by little more than the capricious nature of your arbitrary whims.

It's not like you have much left to lose, after all. The most important thing to you – perhaps the only important thing to you – in your life is ShinShow. And you’ve just achieved the highest goal of any dedicated fan: ultimate recognition.

The eventful evening’s erotic high and the delusional adrenaline coursing through your veins gives you the courage not only to locate the fire escape, but also to slip through the dingy, rusting door and shimmy down the rickety, narrow steps. Even by Japanese standards, the contraption is quite small. Several times, you almost lose your footing and go tumbling down over the railing. Instead of instilling you with healthy fear, the near-accidents only serve to propel you forward with renewed vigor each time you brush closer and closer to impending mortal injury.

As soon as your chunky platforms hit the worn concrete, now back on solid, stable ground, you find it difficult not to deflate a little bit. What a night! What an experience! And you have Geto Suguru’s personal LINE ID to show for all of it…how are you supposed to return to your ordinary, mundane life after such an experience?

The thought depresses you. Work, school, family, friends…it all pales in comparison to the evening you and Geto shared together. Oh, if only every night could be that way!

But that would be selfish of you. Geto is a leader, after all; an inspiration to many, and an idol to all. To usurp him for your personal pleasure and only yours alone would be doing a disservice to his life’s work. You recognize that you must share Geto-sama, as much as it might pain you to do so.

“I don’t wanna share him,” you mumble to yourself, aimlessly launching the decrepit corpse of a crumpled beer can across the alley with a limp, half-hearted kick. “Geto-sama should be all mine…”

In the desolate boughs of this seedy in-between limbo sandwiched between towering buildings of various questionable services and wares, your pathetic utterances should be private, unheard by only your own self-pitying ears.

Operative word: should.

“Haha. That’s a funny joke!”

Your heart drops faster than you can turn around. By the time your body processes the shock at not being alone (seriously, when the hell did someone else get here? You’ve been loitering for several minutes, at this point!) the owner of the unfamiliar voice is already entirely too close for comfort. One moment, the snarky quip bounced off of the aged reinforcements of a residential building several paces away – but now, as you pivot on your heel to confront the stranger, your nose is but a hair’s breadth away from painfully colliding with a wide, solid chest clad in nondescript black cloth.

When you finally glimpse his face, the first thing that comes to your mind is that he’s definitely a douchebag. If the bleached platinum faded undercut weren’t bad enough, this asshole is wearing sunglasses at night. His over-six-foot stature is worn with a sort of self-reverential pride; he carries himself like he knows he’s probably the hottest guy in any room at any given point in time.

How annoying.

This is why, outside of ShinShow, you don’t really care to interact with the male species. They’re all cocky, self-assured, greedy, immature, uncaring, inconsiderate morons! Nothing like your hard-working and self-made idols…ugh.

Just being around this dude makes your skin crawl. Not in the sexy way.

“Excuse me,” you mutter, cutting him a sharp glare with wide, whaling eyes as if to actually convey the more sincere message you hold for him within your heart: get the fuck lost, creep.

But when you go to rush past him, his body moves – again with that mind-numbing, preternatural speed – and you run straight into his annoying firm and solid abs.

Oh God, is this it? Is this really how you are meant to depart from this world? You would’ve preferred to be sent to hell by Geto’s hand over anyone else’s…

Despondent and kind of over it, you direct a firm stare upwards at this asshole’s infuriatingly unbothered smirk. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” says the stranger, simply, distracting you with his blindly white smile so that it is far, far too late by the time you realize that both your wrists are now incapacitated by one of his large, strong hands. “Don’t struggle. It won’t make a difference. Or do! It would actually be kinda funny to watch.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You demand, instinctively jerking away and finding his grip to be even more iron-solid that it had initially seemed – if that was even possible. “Let me go!!”

When you go to kick him, you find that your perception of reality shatters apart like glass skittering across kitchen tile in a million, tiny, irreparably disparate fractured pieces.

Your foot cannot connect with his body.

The more force you put behind your futile defense against your assailant, the more frustrated and exhausted you become. How can this even be possible? It’s like there’s an invisible paper-thin shield dividing you and him – and yet, despite the thinness of the protective layer, the intimate proximity of your limb and his infuriatingly chiseled torso, there is an endless ocean of space that separates you. No matter how hard you try, you cannot touch him.

You cannot win.

How this is even possible, you haven’t the faintest idea. Some sort of illusion? An advanced kind of electromagnetic technology?

Horror dawns upon you like a red sun on the horizon: there’s no way you can escape this.

The stranger is a seasoned and well-trained predator, that much is for sure. He senses the fight leaking out of your body as a shark might follow the intoxicating scent of blood in the water. He pursues your misery with a keen appetite, one that threatens to devour you whole.

“You’re almost cute,” breaths the strange white-haired man, crowding you up against the brick wall with little more than the oppressive force of his presence. “I can see why he thought you’d be easy.”

A stab of familiarity pierces clear and true through your thundering innards. Surely, he couldn’t be talking about… “Do you know Geto-sama?”

The bastard has the audacity to laugh in your face. His breath is annoyingly minty fresh.

“Oh, wow. You actually call him that? I thought it was just an inside joke between him and the fans, or something. Hah! That’s really good. That’s just too good…” He, honest-to-God, wipes a tear from his eye, underneath his sunglasses.

Even the precarity of your dangerous situation is not enough to cow the bullish indignancy that flushes through you, hot and temperamental, at the suggestion of a perceived slight against your (new?) oshi.

“Hey,” you grunt, chin checking up towards the sky, “you shouldn’t talk that way about Geto-sama. He’s really hard working, and such a good leader…the best there ever was or could be.”

“The best,” mulls the stranger, one large hand descending to stroke his jaw. You can’t tell if the gesture is more a mockery than it is a genuine display of sincere pensive contemplation.

“Tell you what. I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

And then he leans down, easy and natural as breathing, as blinking, lips coming to ghost along the crest of your quivering, hypersensitive ears:

“I already know that.”

With viper-like speed, his fist shoots up to close around your throat. “You don’t think I know that?” You’d sputter out a response if you could breathe. Or think. “Sweetheart, I’ve been here before that statement could even be said to be true. You could say we’re high school sweethearts. My one and only, he is.”

Oh, fuck.

Oh, God, oh, fuck.

Did you just mess with an OG fan?

Crap, this is bad. This is really, really bad. Never did you think you’d fall victim to the string of violent, sometimes deadly assaults that ravaged the streets of Kabukichou. But pissing off a dedicated wota by getting caught fucking around with their ultimate oshi is one of the fastest ways to find out!

S-sorry, you try to mouth as your weak, floundering hands doing nothing to persuade his grip into loosening, even just the tiniest bit. Didn’t know!!

“Don’t care~,” sing-songs the stranger, strangely cheerful given the circumstances. He’s not normal. It hits you quite belatedly. Even for a superfan, he isn’t normal. “No one told you to go around playing with other people’s toys~”

You don’t stand a chance. This is the end.

His next retort slips out as a simpering purr: “Good girl. You’ve accepted your fate.”

Can he read your mind, or something? This is seriously a scene out of some horror movie…

“For that, I’ll spare you. Quick and painless death it is! Simply deleted from existence. All your icky atoms and particles will end up somewhere in Timbuktu, probably. Hopefully. How does that sound? For a masochist like you, that’s almost a worse fate, I suppose.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

“Bye-bye~”

The last glimpse your poor, foolish mortal eyes catch of this cruel world are the slight peek of his startlingly blue over the rim of those opaque, black sunglasses. As you lose consciousness, in the split second before your existence is entirely wiped out from this chapter of reality, your vision blurs, doubling, then tripling, his bright, cerulean eyes appearing to you not as two, but six. They are everywhere, all-seeing, surrounding you, bearing down as the heavens might itself upon the woeful frame of a mortal slated for smiting. Soon enough, the six double, then triple, then multiply so fast that all you can see are rows and rows and rows of wide, unblinking, omniscient eyes. Staring. Judging. Tracking.

Why does it feel familiar, this sight?

[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]

ENDING ACHIEVED: GETO SUGURU BAD END 2

SECRET ROUTE UNLOCKED: RYOMEN SUKUNA.

> PROCEED TO ROUTE [coming soon!]

#satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #final girl jjk #final girl banjjakz

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