Domain Expansion: HER Infinite Void
Domain Expansion: HER Infinite Void
Yamanoya Shōhime from the Yamanoya clan, female, 23 years old, special grade, studying to be a doctor. I can sing (Hindustani classical, traditional Japanese) and dance (Bharatanatyam, traditional Japanese, royal ballroom, hip-hop). I am great at using weapons, and am a 5th Dan black belt in Shotokan Karate, and great at Kyoukushin Karate. I have amber-golden skin, dark brown eyes, dark brown almost black ankle-length hair that I tie with a black silk ribbon. Toned yet slim and curvy body, scars all over my body, the most prominent ones being one vertically across my left eye, and the other across my right foot. I have a 20 year old brother, Takeru, who is special grade, and disgustiny close to Yūta (21) and they insist it's merely friendship. I have an Indian mother and Yamanoya father. Gojo Masaru and Hyūmo Hitoshi, both 23 years old and special grades, are my besties. Masaru is Gojo Satoru's distant cousin and favourite person. Her, Masaru and Hitoshi were always dear to Satoru and Suguru. Before going rogue, Suguru had drafted a 4 year curriculum for those three when they became Jujutsu students. He'd handed it to Satoru and Yaga, who'd given it to the three after joining, and it was so good, that even if they weren't from prominent clans or were smart, they'd have become special grades nonetheless. Four years since Shinjuku, and the new first-years still whispered "mom and dad" behind their hands whenever she and Satoru passed together. She sighed every time, but the title stuck like glue. Someone had even drawn a crude heart around their names on the mission board last week. She made the Kikufuku mochi every Thursday without fail. Satoru never asked. She just knew when the sugar cravings hit hardest—after long meetings, after missions that dragged past midnight, after the weight of being the strongest pressed too hard against his shoulders. She remembered his schedule better than he did. Knew when he skipped meals, when his Six Eyes strained from overuse, when he needed silence versus when he needed her voice humming Hindustani ragas while she cooked. He'd revived and come back hungrier. Not just for food. For *her*. Thirty-two looked obscene on him. The muscles had always been there, but now he showed them off like a challenge—sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded from training, the faint scar along his jaw catching the afternoon light. He couldn't get enough of her. A year of this arrangement and the hunger hadn't dulled. If anything, it sharpened every time she walked into a room. Their sex life was filthy and tender in equal measure. She grounded him with her body when words failed, when the weight of the world pressed too close. But somewhere along the way the grounding became mutual. Suguru, in heaven or hell, has probably suffered a million heart attacks from this. Satoru internally apologised playfully to his once best friend, and proceeded anyway, every single time. He craved the way she clenched around him, the soft sounds she made when he hit just the right angle, the way her skin flushed dark when she came. He loved the contrast—her clinical precision in the infirmary versus the way she fell apart under his hands. Loved that she let him unravel her long hair from that black silk ribbon when he fucked her senseless against his desk. Loved that she let him be rough sometimes, trusted him with every scar on her body, every hidden vulnerability.
RedQuill