Chapter Text
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Cloud City
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There aren’t a lot of options for people like you.
Sorcerer or curse user, that’s typically how it goes for someone in your situation, and you decided a long time ago you weren’t suited to either.
Exorcizing curses? Gross. Disgusting. A mess.
Fighting sorcerers? Pointless. Stupid. A waste.
You didn’t ask to inherit a cursed technique, and dammit if anyone was going to make you live like being born with yours cemented anything about your future. Your technique wasn’t helpful in combat scenarios anyway; it only worked properly when the target was sleeping.
Dream Dealer. A cursed technique that allows the user to enter the subconscious minds of sleeping people or highly developed curses. The crux of the technique is a ritual involving the user (or victim) proposing a wager for control of the dream based on the outcome of any game of the proposer's choice. Theoretically, there was a lot that could be accomplished from there, since the dream has the same sure-hit effect as an innate domain, but you weren’t capable of forcing anyone to sleep.
Your disinterest in your abilities didn’t mean that you were free of them. In fact, your attitude toward your technique likely lent to your lack of control.
You would probably be able to get by without any issues if you could prevent your technique from activating. Unfortunately, when you slept, you were often forced into the dream of someone sleeping nearby. It made you a curse user whether you liked it or not, and that meant you were always at risk of facing the same consequences as any other curse user.
Sleep became a terrifying prospect for you at a very young age.
It was horrible. You didn't want to use your technique on random civilians, and you definitely didn’t want to end up in a dream controlled by some weirdo. You had experienced enough of other people’s nightmares to know that giving someone else creative control was ill-advised, if not downright dangerous. You carried more than your fair share of mental scars from what you had witnessed. Unfortunately, even when your technique didn’t activate, you still often relived the grotesque nightmares of others.
The fear drove you to delay sleep as long as possible. You tried to stay awake at night and sleep during the day when most people were active, often leaving you exhausted, irritable, and overwhelmed by the urge to become the best at every game in existence.
The only time you got real peace was when you went camping far, far, far away from everything else, but the presence of freak curses in the middle of nowhere drove you crazy too.
In the end, you ran away from anyone who knew about curses and sorcery. You left behind everything to live in a tiny town some distance from the biggest major city in the country, only barely close enough for an extended day trip.
You spent most of your time running a specialty store online selling miniatures for tabletop games and dollhouses, only occasionally venturing out into the world beyond your sleepy village for your fix of adventure. The routine was simple; you would stay up all night and watch the stars while you worked, then when you collapsed in bed midday, you would hope your technique didn't activate during the four hours you allowed yourself. Lastly, wake up cursing every god that might be listening and do it all again.
Go, go, go–CRASH. Repeat.
You chose it because it was safe and steady, and you genuinely loved your work. The fantasy worlds you helped bring to life offered escapism rarely afforded to you; they allowed you to go anywhere and do anything you wanted. Not even your frequent dreamwalks could ruin the fun of a good game. Plus, all the exposure in the waking world gave you extra practice, just in case. It was a slow, easy life.
It didn't suit you either.
You were the kind of person who needed excitement. Stimulation. Preferably not the yucky curse kind.
No, you wanted the drama of human life; you longed to taste all the flavors of the human experience. You wanted to meet new people, hear new stories, and play new games. You wanted to roll the dice of fate and defy the unfavorable outcomes, because you were the type of person who constantly strategized in an attempt to get everything they wanted in the end.
Alas, you were also a realist with a truly unfortunate understanding of game theory.
The best you could do with the current state of things was hide from the growing population of sorcerers in the city and avoid the equally burgeoning number of curses.
None of that meant you weren’t still a born gambler.
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You stared at your email, suffering from an internal conflict of unfair proportions. There was an opportunity to partner with some big-name game vendors in the city over the weekend, and you were having an extremely difficult time deciding if you should attend both days.
You knew it was risky; there was always an elevated amount of unknown danger when you went into the city, but the amount of time and effort being spent was what really made this venture particularly dangerous. Two days was a long time to be working so hard without sleep. The longer you were there working, the higher the chance was that you would overexert yourself and drift off. If you fell asleep in those circumstances, you were basically guaranteed to get involved in a stranger’s dream.
Even if that didn’t go wrong, there was also a small chance that you would run into a curse you couldn’t handle, or worse, a sorcerer who recognized you for what you were. Worse still, there was a very tiny chance that any combination of those things could go wrong all at once, and then you would die in some objectively, spectacularly cool (but also kinda lame and messed up) way.
Ah, but you had always felt the urge to challenge fate. It was just in your nature.
The trip to the city goes as well as it could have the first day; you present your work to several different potential partners and clients, then leave tired, fulfilled, and confident your caffeine supply could support you through the rest of the trip. All you needed to do was avoid engaging in any terrible ideas.
Then, even though it was an awfully stupid deviation from that plan, you decided to spend the evening exploring the area around where you were working.
Of course, when rolling the dice, one needs to be prepared for the potential outcome of their gamble.
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You were decidedly unprepared for the outcome.
You had gotten lost almost immediately after leaving the area where you were staying, and after wandering for hours, you had found yourself on top of an empty train car at the mercy of a nasty curse that you were fairly sure was about to kill you. Even if the curse didn’t finish you off, falling from the roof at the speed you were moving certainly would.
The curse held you upside-down, its massive hand wrapped around your waist. It had been playing with you for a while now, but it seemed like it was getting bored with freaking you out. It was definitely going to eat you soon. The curse’s many disgusting mouths licked their respective cracked lips, its joy apparent from the way its single bloodshot eye crinkled in the corners. It shook you a few times before holding you over its largest mouth, the little mouths laughing at how you gagged on your scream.
The putrid smell wafting from the curse’s largest mouth was overpowering, causing your empty stomach to heave even as the odor was ripped away by the wind. The fetid creature produced a vile aura that penetrated everything, you could feel the curse invading your very being with its filthy essence. Slimy inside and out, the sickening energy filled your lungs with each breath. You released a feral scream in an attempt to eject everything from your body.
The creature giggled as it lowered you toward its revolting mouth, its foul tongue reaching up to meet you.
In moments of desperation, all creatures are capable of doing things that would otherwise fall outside their normal behavior or capabilities. People in unfortunate circumstances will commit heinous crimes that they would otherwise never consider. Animals backed into corners will bite indiscriminately. And you, when faced with something so utterly repulsive, were willing to connect a little with your cursed technique.
The sensation emanating from deep within your belly was foreign, but the feeling of your technique pulling you into a dream was not.
It burns.
It burns.
Fire? No wait; it was freezing, like ice . Or was it so hot it felt cold? So cold it felt hot?
Can it be both?
You wondered if you were dying. You had been dreamwalking for the better part of your life, and you had never been anywhere like this.
It overwhelmed your every sense and left you frozen and disoriented as you tried to process the fluctuating visual field. Flying, flashing colors and lights, a whirlwind of everything you could have ever imagined and more flew past you toward a void so black it registered in your brain as a hole in reality. The void was going to pull everything in, you were sure of it.
Or was the void growing? Pushing out instead?
It was hard to tell which way reality was being swallowed, this place was a violent cacophony of information that evoked a nauseating sensation throughout your entire body. Your feeble attempts to anchor yourself while you spiritually experienced what was most comparable to actual violence were pathetic at best, and at worst only flashes of brain activity, half-imagined actions playing in your head as you slowly died.
Then he looked at you.
Some people believe a fallen angel presides over hell.
The man before you was strikingly beautiful. He leaned over you, his towering presence shielding you from the insanity of reality collapsing. Stark white hair, blinding blue eyes. A smile so sinful you were now sure you had died and were meeting the master of temptation and indulgence himself. He would have taken your breath away if you could manage to catch it.
In the reprieve from the weight of the mental anguish inflicted on you by the man’s dream, you realized that you were crouched down with your chin tucked to your chest, hands over your ears, eyes screwed shut. And you had still been experiencing that much. How were you even seeing with your eyes closed? Your hands fell away from your ears, and you winced as the ringing in them was made louder upon exposure to the total quiet.
You briefly wondered how much of a marvelous disaster you looked in front of this ridiculously attractive man.
The thought was quickly banished from your newly empty mind when you looked up and finally met his azure gaze. There was something flashing in his eyes that you couldn’t quite identify, like he was turning over thousands of thoughts at such great speed that it would be impossible to pin down a single feeling. You weren’t sure how he tolerated all of it, you were still reeling from the extrasensory contrast of complete overstimulation and a sudden full stop. The silence became nearly as deafening as the dream itself.
“Rochambeau?” The man finally asked, extending a fist.
Oh.
Fuck.
You knew who this man was now.
It was the worst possible scenario. You had not only encountered an unmanageable curse, you had also fallen asleep and been pulled into the dream of a jujutsu sorcerer. Not just any sorcerer either; you had slipped into the dream of someone that you could never hope to survive after waking, even if you did manage to win against him in his dream.
Gojo Satoru.
The strongest sorcerer to appear in hundreds of years. You didn’t really retain information pertaining to the world of curses and jujutsu sorcerers beyond what was completely necessary for your survival, and all you needed to know about Gojo was that you should avoid him at all costs.
His was the combination of a rare inherited attribute and cursed technique that made him, in short, a ridiculously overpowered, completely unmanageable, absolutely deadly force of chaos. The man was straight-up god-modded. His ability to read cursed energy was unparalleled due to his unique eyes; you lost the moment you were on his radar. Gojo had not only instantly recognized you for what you were, a curse user invading his dream, but he also seemed to have worked out the conditions of your ability at a glance. And he was, to some degree, a lucid dreamer.
You were fucked.
The worst part was the knowledge that it was over the moment you entered his dream. It wasn’t possible for you to win against someone who could see what you were going to do. Everything from this point until you died was all a formality. You were probably already half-dead in the waking world anyway; this was just another bump on the road to hell.
You were terrified, but you were determined to be a big girl about it.
Numbly, you extended your fist upward to join his.
“Throw on three.” You asserted, your voice flat and dull, demonstrating the beat on which you would throw down your selections. You were sure Gojo said something to you, but you couldn’t hear anything over your dream-blood roaring in your ears.
One, two, three.
When it came to it, you had thrown rock because you couldn’t force your hand to unclench. Gojo’s long fingers curled around your fist slowly, his grip light but insistent.
You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It was like you were being electrocuted, little zaps flying up and down your nerves, crashing into each other spectacularly, and sending secondary sparks shooting through your soul. When you finally tore your eyes away from the hand swallowing yours, you found that Gojo was watching you intently.
As your mortified gaze met Gojo’s manic one, his full lips pulled into a devious smirk, all of him leaking pure sadistic intent. You could practically feel it radiating off of him; there was no quick death waiting for you; Gojo was going to play with his food.
He squatted down low to join you, just enough to lean in by your ear.
“Interrogation.” He whispered. As his warm breath carried those five syllables directly into your ear, a shudder rocked your entire body, emanating outward from your very core. Your neck seized painfully a second time as Gojo’s laugh ghosted against it, his amusement as clear as the curse’s had been.
Gojo’s genuine taste for your fear evoked something unnerving, a flux of sheer panic; a full-body arousal so uncomfortably carnal you almost hoped the curse would finish you off before Gojo could have his fun with you.
Unlucky again, the scene before you changed.
It wasn’t what you expected. You had imagined more…dramatic intimidation. A smaller, darker room. Maybe some visual motifs of the unspoken threats of violence. Bondage? At least something more sorcerer-y.
You were seated in an oversized, overstuffed, deep blue armchair in a very private alcove in an ornate library. The ocean of suede upholstery threatened to swallow you completely as you settled in to observe your new surroundings. A round, black, decorative pillow rolled into your lap as you leaned back.
The alcove was lit by two lamps, their matching blue-green mosaic stained-glass shades reflecting an ethereal incandescent light that washed the enclosed area in an otherworldly glow. There was a soft, warm hum that echoed throughout the space, a barely audible vibration that might have been very distant music. It smelled like old books and the forest floor.
All of the heavily ornamented furniture, including the excessively tall bookshelves, seemed to be carved of the same incredibly lovely dark hardwood. The shelves were filled with leatherbound books, a muted rainbow of gold embossed spines, not unlike the bookstore checkout stacks of classic reprints that no one has any business buying.
Upon closer inspection, you realized that the bookshelves were attached to the floors and ceilings, as was all the furniture you could see; everything before you had been created from the same enormous tree. The designs etched into the wood came together, impressing an unfathomable story upon you, smothering you in a soothing underwater motif.
A soft cough brought your attention back inside the alcove. In a twin armchair quite close to yours sat Gojo Satoru, one ankle propped on his knee, one elbow resting on the chair to support his cheek. The man whose dream you had crashed. The man who was about to make life a little harder for you before it was over. It was hard to believe this beautiful, cozy place came from the mind of someone with a reputation like Gojo’s.
You had been unable to take him in completely before. Still astonishingly good-looking, he wore a dark uniform and a pair of small round shades. The tint on his glasses was so dark that you briefly wondered if he could even see before remembering that, oh yes, he could. Gojo was the picture of relaxed, his body slack as he leaned into the downy cushions.
There was a game of checkers set up between the two of you. The board sat on a table that sprouted from the floor perfectly between the closest arms of the two chairs; the checker pieces laid out on it made of perfectly smooth, white and black stones.
With his free hand, Gojo moved a black stone one square forward. “Looks like I still have the upper hand if I cheat to win.” Gojo observed, clearly suppressing a smirk. “Are you even a real curse user? Don’t tell me it’s your first time~” Gojo glanced up at you through his thick eyelashes, making sure you were paying attention to him teasing you.
Your eye twitched. Couldn’t he do you the decency of not pointing out your incompetence in the face of his genius?
Fine.
You knew how to play this game.
“I used a cursed technique, right? Curse user.” You snarked. “And I’m so sorry to burst your bubble, but there have been lots of others.” You flashed a coy smile, internally cringing because you had revealed such damning information for a quick jab.
Worse still, Gojo was visibly enthralled by your engagement.
“So you’re just pretty shit at using your cursed technique, yeah?” Gojo snorted.
“Nobody needs special eyes to see that, dumbass.” You huffed, your hands flying to cover your mouth as soon as the words escaped it.
What had you intended to say in return? Certainly not something that disrespectful .
Gojo just laughed. “So you do know who I am. Interesting.” He mused. “You’re so weak though; if you knew what you were getting into, why did you decide to walk my dreams?” He gestured to the board, motioning for you to take your turn.
“It’s not like it was intentional.” You spat, moving a white piece in a mirror of his own first move. You had never been one to intentionally throw a game; it was something you stood against, but at this point it was a strategic choice to not waste energy considering potential moves in a game of checkers against Gojo Satoru. “Like you said, I’m shit at using my technique. It was an accident. I could have ended up in anyone’s dream.”
“Wow, curse user~” Gojo smirked, moving another piece forward. “I can’t tell whose luck is better, yours or mine.”
That pissed you off. It was clear that this wasn’t a case of anyone’s luck being good, but rather of your luck being exceptionally poor. He was obviously just doing all of this to mock you.
“Could you put that in direct question form? I don’t think I’m forced to answer unless it’s a question, and I’d like to get this over with.” You complained, mirroring Gojo’s own move again.
Interrogation.
Historically, the most common of the seven applications of your technique was ‘Interrogation’, a dream scenario in which the questions asked by the winner of the Dream Deal must be answered with a significant degree of honesty. It was useful for espionage and obtaining confessions, but it was difficult to control the flow of dreams with enough precision to make it a technique every Dream Dealer could reliably master.
“Ah, sorry, you’re right.” Gojo admitted, moving his piece directly in the path of one of yours. “Are you feeling lucky, curse user?” He asked innocently, his pupils dilating as he took in your reaction to the cursed dream’s power.
The honest truth? You believed that great misfortune brought its own kind of luck.
For example, you could have ended up in the dream of a normal person and still been dead in minutes, hours, or days.
Yeah, this would be fine. You could rest easy knowing you had gotten what you wanted. Something like this, something that truly exemplified the drama of life, would surely satisfy your craving to taste the essence of human existence.
A spontaneous, chaotic collision with a jujutsu sorcerer.
At least it was a really hot and famous sorcerer, and it would probably be over relatively soon. Since it was already happening, you couldn’t help but feel slightly lucky.
“A little.” You gritted out the answer to his question, fighting the words the entire way.
That seemed to surprise Gojo, something that you would be relishing for these last several minutes of your life.
But then he was laughing at you again. Hard.
“Oh, you have got no idea how lucky you’ve been today.” Gojo finally choked out, still chuckling as he gestured again to the board. “Anyone else might have really taken advantage of the situation~” He mused. “You should be brainstorming ways to thank me, curse user.” Gojo suggested smugly.
Mmm.
Well.
Never mind feeling lucky.
Couldn’t Gojo live up to his reputation a little less fervently?
“If you’re just going to pick on me, could you do me a favor and wake up? There’s a really gross curse that’s eating me in the waking world right now, and I’m starting to think I’d prefer its company.” You snapped, brainlessly making the move he’d set up for you.
The moment you retrieved his piece, Gojo was completely on top of you, caging you against the heavily cushioned chair with his body. He had one knee resting on the seat, his weight sinking you even further into the pillowy pit.
“You want someone to eat you?” Gojo purred, trailing his thumb over your bottom lip before he slipped it between your teeth, gripping your lower jaw and forcing you to keep facing him. “You could have just said that from the start, curse user~I can always pick on you afterward.” He sneered, his eyes swimming with sadistic, salacious hunger.
Though his grip was gentle, there was still that firm, domineering tension behind it, a softly whispered inevitability.
I can do whatever I want.
You couldn’t help it. Your tongue swept over the pad of his thumb, running against the swell of flesh he’d pushed past your teeth, a soft whimper catching in your throat. You could feel your face flushing so quickly it was painful, capillaries opening for boiling hot blood, shameful lava running down your face and neck. The words threatened to bubble over, that humiliating verbal confirmation practically on your lips as you fought to swallow it all back down.
Your hard-won success did nothing to spare you.
If the look of bemused pleasure that had passed across Gojo’s face hadn’t been enough to warn you, the absolutely twisted lust that settled there was plenty premonitory. No way in hell was Gojo going to let that go, absolutely not. He was going to pull that loose thread until everything came unraveled. Including your sanity.
“Hmm~ ” Gojo hummed, adjusting his grip by pushing his thumb further into your mouth, pressing it down into the center of your tongue. He looked down at you over his sunglasses, something manic and needy hidden behind them. “I wonder what would have happened if you had been able to win.”
Your tongue twitched under his thumb.
You knew your eyes had widened, that your heart rate had quickened, that you had instinctively tried to pull away. Things like that were only natural in the presence of a threatening apex predator.
But your traitorous tongue.
He hadn’t even asked a real question, so why had you moved to answer him as if you were obligated by the curse? You didn’t want him to know that. Not with how quickly he’d gotten comfortable taking liberties invading your space and touching your body. Not with how he looked like he would indulge you, especially because you weren’t sure you wanted that anymore.
You didn’t want that anymore, right? It was a flash of a desire, a dying person’s intrusive thought. An attractive man appearing in the hour of your death? Lots of people would have considered it.
“You wanna tell me, curse user?” Gojo prodded, his barely contained glee growing with each word.
No! You scream internally.
Your tongue lurched back painfully in an attempt to free itself. A soft, indignant “ oh” sound left your throat, your best attempt to externalize your feelings on the matter, but Gojo was already using his grip on your chin to nod your head in affirmation.
His smile only became more sickening as tears began to prick in the corner of your eyes, his taste for embarrassing you in the privacy of his own mind only worsening your condition. A single, fat tear rolled down your cheek.
Fuck, why couldn’t you hold it together?
Gojo wiped the tear away with the thumb of his free hand before bringing it to his mouth in a mockery of his hold on you. “Crybaby, huh?” He purred, finally releasing your jaw. There was a new softness about him, but something in his tone had your stomach somersaulting.
“No-” You denied, sniffling pathetically as you looked upward past Gojo in an attempt to prevent your flooded eyes from spilling over.
You were not a crybaby. You took the shitty hand that life had dealt you, and you did what you could with it. Life wasn’t going to let you have what you wanted, and you were just bitter enough to sacrifice pieces of yourself to not let life have the last laugh. You squashed your feelings, your desires, your hopes and dreams. You let it all go, because you knew it was all temporary, even your suffering. What was the point in crying about it anyway? What was the point in feeling anything about it? It was a waste of time.
You were not a crybaby.
One blink, and the world wasn’t underwater anymore. Your attempts to contain your whimpers were pitiful, and you slowly lowered your head in defeat as your cheeks grew wetter. You turned your head to the side, trying your absolute hardest to not let Gojo get an easy full view of your vulnerability.
This fucking sucks.
You hated this. You hated how he had you completely under his thumb, quite literally at one point. You hated how he indulged in his power over you. You hated how he had you pinned down, how he’d cut you open with a few teasing words and let out all the softness that you had worked so hard to keep inside.
You hated how he was making you feel like your head was full of downy cotton, how he was softly wiping away new tears as they fell, how he was whispering to you so low you couldn’t hear it over your own sobs.
Most of all, you hated how fucking wet you were getting.
It was mortifying. You didn’t want him to witness years and years of pure, unadulterated feeling finally breaking the levee, and you really didn’t want to like how it felt.
And you definitely didn’t want to survive to ask him to do it again.
You calmed down after a few minutes, your sobs finally ebbing into sniffles as your burning eyes ran dry. Gojo’s face was almost sympathetic, though that may have been the swelling of your eyes impairing your vision.
“Since you’re so pathetic and weak, I’ll make you a deal, curse user.” Gojo offered casually, much too casually for the scene he’d just caused, settling into his own armchair again. “If you willingly tell me what you would have done as the Dream Dealer, you’ll get off with a warning this time.” Gojo winked, spreading his legs wide as he leaned back, revealing something with proportions you could only hope were exaggerated by the dream.
Gojo was hard. There was a massive bulge running down his left thigh, straining visibly against the dark fabric of his pants. He was huge. Long and thick. You would have mistaken him for a weapon if you weren’t already so turned on yourself. You swore you could see him pulsing from where you sat.
You sniffled again.
“Won’t the curse just kill me?”
“You think the random curse that was attached to you survived what happened when I felt something enter my dream?” Gojo asked, cocking an eyebrow.
A solid argument.
It was a tough decision. While you had somewhat come to terms with your death, you wouldn’t say you were committed by any means. On the other hand, living was becoming a more and more mortifying prospect.
Wait, isn’t living real life everything you wanted?
What are you so afraid of?
You met Gojo’s eye, though it was the last thing you wanted to do, if only to not give him the satisfaction of feeling like he was completely humiliating you.
“I was going to ask if you wanted to fuck. Cuz, like, I was in mortal peril.”
“You lying?”
Bastard.
“No.”
The words came easily, embarrassing as they were, but you weren’t surprised by your own candor. It was what it was.
Gojo, however, seemed to have lost that thread he’d been following. He was still smirking, but it looked a little strange, like it was just a placeholder he was using while he decided how to feel about what you had said. The silence was deafening. Maybe you had succeeded at taking the wind out of his sails by refusing to play his game the way he wanted.
When Gojo finally spoke, you nearly jumped out of your chair.
“Well, Dream Dealer, a deal’s a deal.” Gojo slapped his thighs before standing abruptly. He leaned down and snatched your hand before pressing a swift kiss to your palm as your vision blacked out. “Catch you later, crybaby.”
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You woke up laid across the seats of the train car, your long jacket laid over you like a blanket. You were mostly fine, just a little bruised and scraped up, but though physically you felt okay, you were emotionally and spiritually exhausted. Deciding that it was best to cut your losses and go home, you made the arrangements from where you sat as dawn broke over the city.
You were already frantically packing your things in your hotel room when you realized that you were no longer wearing panties under your skirt.
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It wasn’t long after your disastrous trip into the city that you started to feel watched at night.
For the first couple of weeks it was only occasional, but it had quickly escalated to a near-nightly affair. You would be going about your business, taking a midnight stroll, or watching the stars while you dreamt up new designs. Then you would suddenly feel that heavy pressure appear near you.
Being someone who could sense cursed energy, you were acutely aware that meant there was someone or something out there that had sensed you too. You had a sick feeling that you knew what, or rather who, it was, but you were so unnerved by the idea that you had been refusing to dwell on it.
If you hadn’t proved yourself harmless during your initial meeting, it would have certainly become apparent to anyone after watching your rut of a routine for a few days. You lived around your curse as best you could, even if sometimes it felt like you were only half-alive because of it, and you weren’t going out of your way to inflict your technique on others. No way a big-shot sorcerer like Gojo Satoru was spending his nights following you around.
Catch you later, crybaby.
A shudder rocked your spine. You were on your way home from the grocery store. You had checked out right before closing, much to the chagrin of the staff, and you were now regretting going out so late. You were sure you were being watched; the night air was unnaturally heavy.
You hustled home as quickly as you could whilst laden with a week’s worth of groceries, finding yourself sighing in relief when you deadbolted the door behind you. Pointless as it was, it did make you feel better to have the door locked.
When you turned around, you noticed that you had left the main light on in your bedroom, something that you almost never did as you preferred permanent soft lighting due to your nightmares.
Interestingly, the frequency of your cursed technique activating had waned to some degree after your encounter with the train car curse, but the lack of dreamwalking didn’t mean you weren’t still dreaming heavily. The plot of your dreams had evolved, now most often featuring a certain strongest sorcerer.
Your dreams that starred Gojo were like a strange memory. They often began with a replay of the real event, but the details had become muddled and twisted over time. In particular, the focus had shifted largely to Gojo teasing you, first verbally and then later physically.
Dream Gojo would ask you weird, personal, and embarrassing questions. It was a winding train of dream thoughts in question form, vaguely related inquiries that forced you to have a conversation. It was often heavily one-sided and occasionally just a vehicle to embarrass you further. He would ask if you liked what he was doing to you often. The first time he did it, he’d asked immediately after he pulled you into his lap in lieu of being crowned in checkers, causing you to squirm all over him in your frantic attempts to withhold your answer.
He never shut up, often asking you more questions than you could reasonably answer before he launched the next batch, making it difficult to do anything other than attempt to survive the onslaught.
What do you do for fun? Do you like games or hate them? Are you good at any of them? How do you lose at rock-paper-scissors every time? Why didn’t you learn to control your technique?
Is it difficult being so weak, or do you feel like you manage the dangerous stuff well enough? Would you ever want someone to take care of that stuff for you? Do you like when people help you or give you things? Have you ever thought about letting someone else take care of everything for you? What kinds of things do you like?
What do you like in a person? What are things you can’t stand? Who do you spend time around? Do you think I look good? Are you crushing on anyone?
The interrogation was endless, answers pouring from your mouth while Dream Gojo traced the lines of your palm, running his fingers over yours occasionally while he listened. The casual physical intimacy had increased in frequency as well, sometimes overshadowing the more sexually charged moments entirely.
Not that those moments weren’t prevalent too. Sometimes you found yourself wondering if you were a deviant because of the way that your subconscious made Gojo act.
Did you like it when I scared you? Would you let me make you cry like that again? Do you like how powerless I can make you feel? Do you like how strong I am? Do you want to feel how strong I am?
Do you want me to touch you? What’s something you’ve always wanted to try with a lover? Have you ever had a boyfriend? Has anyone ever made you cum? Do you think I could do it better?
How many times do you think you could cum for me? Have you been thinking about how it would feel? Would you like it if I ruined you? Tell me you want me again. Can I touch you right now, please?
Okay, maybe your Gojo dreams weren’t all that bad. He was mostly mouthy; he didn’t do anything that made you feel nearly as intensely unsettled as you had during your meeting with the real thing.
Dream Gojo was softer than the real Gojo had been. Most of his touches were a gentle caress to your back or arms. Even when he pulled you into his lap to whisper vulgar filth directly into your ear, Gojo generally kept his arms busy anchoring your waist against him, only occasionally dropping a hand down to squeeze your thigh.
You liked the attention, even if it was pathetic and unhealthy to go to bed hoping you would have a nightmare about Gojo making you kiss him. The first time you had dreamt of Gojo rubbing his cock through his pants while he asked you about your day, you had very nearly made an appointment with a therapist, but had quickly concluded that even the creepiest Gojo dream was better than your typical nightmares.
Shaking your head, you put your bags on the kitchen counter before heading over to turn the bedroom light off. Your house was quiet enough that it made you uneasy. Even the hum of appliances seemed drowned in the silence, the creak of the floorboards lost to the pull of that void of quiet. You found yourself trying to make less noise as you walked, tiptoeing toward your own bedroom despite how foolish it felt. Were you even breathing?
You came just short of the threshold, frozen outside the doorframe. Did you really leave the light on? It wasn’t like you to even turn on the bedroom light, let alone leave it on afterward.
What if he was in there?
You weren’t stupid, just an escapist. Who else with a suffocating amount of cursed energy would have started following you immediately after your trip to the city? It didn’t have to make sense to you. Gojo did whatever he wanted, and while you were reluctant to admit that “whatever” included showing up in your house in the middle of the night, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
You practically jumped into your bedroom.
Your completely unoccupied bedroom.
Everything looked completely normal, not a stray sock out of place. You exhaled a laugh, looking at your untouched bed with pointed relief. Your bed was your sacred place. You were incredibly superstitious when it came to the vibes you cultivated in order to sleep well and not curse anyone while you did so. Having a nicely made bed always made you feel better about bedtime, like fruit flavor in cough syrup; sickly sweet and utterly necessary.
Sighing as you flipped the light switch, you turned on your heel to finish up in the kitchen, only to freeze again when you realized the bags weren’t on the counter anymore.
In their place was an enormous bouquet. Concerningly, it appeared to be made from an arrangement of flowers you had examined in the store just an hour earlier. Someone had already cut and prepared the bouquet, placing it in a nice blue vase you had never seen before.
There was no note. You didn’t need one.
On further investigation, you found your groceries had also been put away, with a marked adherence to your usual preferences.
You felt sick. Your stomach threatened to eject the meager dinner you’d had before deciding the trip to the store was unavoidable. It churned with your unease as you looked the rest of the house over before returning to the kitchen to stare at the floral arrangement.
You had known it was possible, probable even, for Gojo to have some unsatiated sadistic curiosity after your crash encounter in his dream. However, this was beyond your strangest, most horrific fantasies, even with the increasing frequency of your personal nightmares that featured a sexually aggressive Gojo.
What exactly was he playing at? Stalking you was one thing, it was his job to ensure that you weren’t cursing anyone, but breaking into your house to do chores and leave you nice gifts was a new level of psychological warfare.
You leaned in to smell the flowers. The bouquet was baby’s-breath heavy, their sweet smell overpowering the rest of the unique scents. The arrangement was indeed essentially a mix of the flowers you had touched at the store with a single addition.
Blue roses. They dotted the bouquet, the same shade of blue as Gojo’s eyes. That made you smile, though you planned to admonish yourself for it later.
You wondered if Gojo knew anything about the symbolic significance of blue flowers.
You concluded he was likely just a narcissist.
Still, you would have been lying if you claimed you didn’t watch the clock until it was late enough in the morning for you to justify going to sleep. You slipped under the covers thinking about the flowers, wondering what was wrong with you as you giggled at the idea of your Dream Gojo asking you about them. The idea of not dreaming of Gojo and his billion questions didn’t even cross your mind as you drifted off.
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Do you get scared walking home alone at night? Are you ever worried about someone following you home? Do you know how many men would love to get their hands on you? Would you ask them to fuck you if they threatened you too? Have you ever thought about getting a guard dog?
Did you like your bouquet? Was it big enough for you? Do you prefer them bigger? The colors were pretty, right? Did it remind you of anyone?
Have you gone to bed early this week on purpose? Have you been sleeping better? Do you like dreaming about me? Do you think about me when you’re not dreaming? Do you want to see me again?
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Your hand just passes through his, you don't feel anything.
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