Gojo Satoru X Reader || Hogwarts Au (18+)
gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)
wonderwall chp.6 unravelling whispers
✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader
✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you
✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)
✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings
✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating
✼word count: 10.9k
✼chapter: 6/?
a/n: hii! hope you’re enjoying the story so far. for some reason this chapter was the hardest one to come up with cause i had to do a lot of thinking and planning as it’s kinda critical for where the story will go lol, but i think i got it now. my graduation process is starting soon though:< next week i am doing the first part, it’s similar to an essay (one in my native language, second in english) so not entirely sure how much time i will have. this chapter is a bit longer so lemme know if u mind;)
based on this // previous chapter // next chapter (pending…)
˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to playlist
˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to vision-board
Things shifted since the attack took place during the Quidditch World Cup. People’s anxiety skyrocketed and hush of whispers started swirling through the wizarding world. Rumours spread like a plague, and who was to distinguish the truth from false accusations? It was unknown whenever what people have been gossiping about was actually something to worry about or not. It had you on edge and the majority of population as well. You had a first seat at watching the situation unfold due to your mother’s position. Meetings were held, discussing the events of the warm July night, when the Death Eaters appeared and robbed fellow wizards of life. It was unclear what the goal of their attack was. To the Ministry of Magic and to everyone else. Most of the members who initiated the terror only escaped Azkaban the previous night, the news of it reaching The Daily Prophet days later. The government didn’t want to cause a mayhem of panic, because they didn’t particularly know how it might’ve happened. How they let it happen. But they couldn’t hold the information private for long at the end of the day. It would only escalate the situation.
Elections are also itching closer day by day as spring is couple of months away and their turn out will most definitely determine the future. Multiple parties enrolled in participating, nonetheless, it comes down to simply two of them which have a real chance at winning.
The liberals against the conservatives. As it always have been.
If the conservatives would win in the spring, which isn’t an unrealistic scenario, the world would be send spiralling centuries back in time. That would reserve in lawful precautions concerning those who have already committed the “crime” of marriage with a muggle or those wizards born into muggle families.
As much as the popularity of the conservative party didn’t start out promisingly, they managed to transform their somewhat unimpressive start into a worthy competition against the liberal party over the years due to their clandestine campaign. One which started the summer before your fifth year, in the muggle born while you were strolling down the street with your father by your side, completely unbeknownst to what was yet to come.
And of course, the Gojo’s have to have their fill in all of it. Since the conservative’s views stand for the pureblood utopia, the very first brick of the ideal beliefs, they are hooked onto the party and many others as well.
At first, when the speculations about the Death Eaters regrouping seized the daylight in your sixth year, people casted the possibility aside.
Out of fear.
Well, they clearly shouldn’t have.
The attack proved it, and with that a gnawing sensation that the conservative party and the Death Eaters might be connected swallowed you during the break and spat you out totally spent, frightened at the image.
It sparked more suspicion in your system. You haven’t had a proper peaceful day since you returned home from the tournament. You wrote to Arabella back and forth, recalling the circumstances of your shared weekend. It was impossible to stop wondering, especially if the white haired wizard you grew to hate over the years could possibly be involved. A mixture of thoughts courses throughout your mind. A part of you hopes he isn’t responsible for anything. For his own good, but given his family name — it was never not a possibility.
The situation somewhat concerns you, for the sake of your mother and friends at least. You can’t comprehend people are actually considering voting for the party, so many of them too. It baffles you. Their stupidity and apathy for those who weren’t as fortunate to be born into wizarding families, or to those who have been struck by an arrow of love and chose to marry a muggle.
The world is on the verge of undeniable change, put simply.
For the better or for the worse?
That is yet to be decided.
Your mother distinctly refuses to share anything with you which angers you, because it feels like she is discarding you. On the other hand, it’s understandable. However, the situation is taking a significant tool on her and you simply wanted to offer her a shoulder to rest on.
Overall, you respect her decision to stay professional about it though, and haven’t spoken of the night ever again. Unless she questioned you for details.
You know you should probably be glad, yet, something can’t let you have peace. And as if all of that isn’t enough, your father’s health went downhill and the political situation sadly keeps your mother from going abroad with him. To support him during his treatment. Otherwise, her position would be put at great risk. The conservatives would be willing to sacrifice anything to get your mother out of the office and place someone of their own as the Auror.
Another thing which the conservatives wished for, was to take after Hogwarts and replace the headmaster with someone who wouldn’t be against filling the young wizards with their dangerous poison.
Exchanging the headmaster would mean Hogwarts would never be the same again.
Even though you guessed your idea of leaving with your father would be out of the question, you asked anyway. Your father was flattered, a warm hue of affection captivating his chest at your generosity. Of course he declined and your mother scolded you, reminding you of all your responsibilities here at home.
School, right. You have to finish it.
Still, as you bid a goodbye to your father at the train station, when he was leaving, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt and a overbearing sense that something is wrong.
For Satoru Gojo the world’s situation isn’t a mystery at all. His mind isn’t being flooded with numerous of possibilities, he knows the structure of plans for the future. The moment his childhood dissolved and adulthood struck, his destiny was sealed. Since the moment his eyes fluttered open as he was born into this world, simply one thing was sought from him. To follow. Follow his family’s footsteps and submerge into whatever deal that is considered to be in alignment with their views.
He didn’t have a choice. Not really.
It was the summer before your fifth year, or was it before the fourth? He couldn’t exactly remember. All he knows is that it was the one, when he saw you for the first time outside of the school’s walls. He and his family were headed to that stupid meeting held in the muggle world. Back then, he had no idea what the outcome of it would be like. Initially it was meant to stay at low number of supporters, however, his father’s cunning and constructed ways spread the news carefully, avoiding The Ministry until he allowed it to come to the surface as a shocking blow.
And indeed a blow it was.
Satoru didn’t see any future in his father’s ideas in then beginning, he didn’t put any hopes into his chances of success as it wasn’t something he necessarily cared for. Even now, it’s not something he’s necessarily fond of. He oh so desperately wanted the approval of his father and joining his party was the easiest way to achieve it, he didn’t think there would be consequences such as bizarre. In spite of that, it took him by a chokehold, when the numbers outgrew even his father’s expectations over the upcoming years. He can’t back down now, he is glued to the plan and has a place established in the party.
And as a member, he has to serve and prove his dedication as everyone else. The start of his descent into the abyss of darkness started out at the start of summer break. Last one before your journeys at Hogwarts will be finished.
It was the first summer he enjoyed. Or at least the start of it. Seeing you over that small duration of the weekend woke something within him. It didn’t come all at once, like some dramatic revelation. There was no sudden, gasping realization, no cinematic montage of every moment leading up to it. It was quieter than that, it was subtle — like the tide coming in.
Not new, not sudden.
Just something that had been waiting there all along, patient and steady, until he was finally ready to see it.
And what he did see, he tried to cowardly push it away throughout the entire weekend, regardless of how strong the urge to be near you had him twitching. He wasn’t there for you after all. He had a mission to accomplish, creating an opening for the Death Eaters to crash the tournament unnoticed. They truly joined the conservative party lead by his father, they were one of the first to do so. His father also being responsible for the escape of the Azkaban prisoners.
Satoru scanned over the terror, when his job was successfully done. A sudden regret spiked through him, eyes gliding as guilty gagged him.
And it was barely the start.
Originally, he was instructed to come straight home afterwards, leaving everyone behind. Yet, a worry that you might’ve been hurt or worse acted for him. The white haired starlet caused himself an injury, covering up anything which could paint him suspicious in your eyes and went straight to the hill, where he was met with the image of you and Arabella. Immense relief wrapped around him.
The realisation of the effect you had on him scared him out of his mind. He contemplated a lot and proceeded to shove his feelings back into the depths of his existence, locking them away behind an unyielding wall of duty. Regret, fear, longing — none of it matters. His family must come first. Always. Whatever part of him protests, it’s ignored, buried where it can’t interfere with his role.
Maybe one day, he’ll dig it back up. Maybe. But not any time soon.
Or at least that’s what he thought. Because now, as he pushes through the long hallway of the train, full of cabins bustling with joyful laughter as students fill each other in on their summer experience, uncertainty devours him. He and his friends came too late to find seats somewhere near each other, because most cabins are already filled to the brim. So his eyes scan each cabin he passes, looking for a place to sit during his last ride to the castle, and partially to capture a glimpse of you.
Eventually, he does manage to stumble across a free seat in the back of the train. And as he steps inside, he’s immediately hit with a sway of plums and jasmine dragging up his nostrils. The smell so familiar that it doesn’t take him long to label it, even before his sense registered your presence seated in the window seat, he knew. A smell, which stuck to him and one he can’t seem to get rid of due to a popular potion,
It feels awkward. The last time he saw you, he was a completely different person. This is also the first time you’re eye to eye since the moment your mother accompanied him home and God, how slowly the time seeped through his fingers. It’s like years stretched out in between you instead of weeks. A part of him, his heart, jumps at your imagine plastered in front of him full in flesh, while the rest is ignited with the urge to turn around and storm out of the cabin. He, too, thinks about greeting you and your friends. However, he resinates from that and simply sits down onto the seat closest to an exit.
His gaze doesn’t dare to slide over to your seat, but he can practically feel you rolling your eyes at his dismissive approach, similar to the first time you two had met in this particular train. He preferably stares through the cabin door, looking out the window there. His hand cupping the side of his face as he leans into it, pretending as if none of you are there. He’s aware it portrays him as a jerk, and perhaps that’s what he needs to do in order to cut out the shape of you from his mind.
Of course, his will isn’t strong as steel so he does occasionally glance your way and makes it out as if he’s rather scanning the scenery than doing anything remotely similar to acknowledging you. His orbs flicker over the greenland out the window, your reflection haunting the corner of the glass and stealing his attention.
Your head is leaned into the cushioned seat as you grip your book, eyes focused on the words printed on the paper with ink. Arabella’s head is resting at your shoulder, unconscious and drowning in sleep. You are different. Taller, poised in a way that came not from effort, but from time itself and your hair is slightly shortened. The softness of your features had sharpened into definition, your eyes holding something deeper, more knowing. People change when you aren’t looking or more precisely, when you are dumbfounded to it happening before your own eyes. That happened with you and with the thought, he becomes aware of how much time has passed.
The feeling suffocating his chest is unpleasant, heavy and raw. He proceeds to do what does the best, look away and pretend.
Although he’s so conflicted.
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The seventh year contained the most important exams given at Hogwarts based on those subjects that you had started taking in your sixth year. The entirety of your year carries the same schedule you had in the sixth year, these last months supposedly serving as a preparation for those exams which are meant to send you off into the real world.
And because of a special arrangement between the school and various other places around the world, students who have reached this stage of their education are offered the opportunity to explore various wizarding professions first-hand by signing up for an internship programme in the second half of the year.
Lastly, every year, a male and female seventh year student are appointed as Head boy and Head girl. Respectively by the headmaster and it turned out to be you for the house of Ravenclaw. The reason for the decision of choosing you are your outstanding grades and sense of responsibility.
However, your mind isn’t set on school or graduation at the moment. You’re still severely pondering about the events which occurred and quite lack your usual drive to be overly good, the position of Head girl adds a layer to your mountain of worries and things to take care of.
You wish someone else would’ve been chosen instead of you.
But right now, in this moment, nothing matters as you stand in front of the great body of water, side by side with your friends. The lake stretches out like a dark mirror, its surface shimmering under the silver glow of a nearly full moon. The air is still warm, the last whispers of summer lingering in the early September night. Crickets hum softly in the tall grass along the shore, blending with the occasional splash of water. Everything feels alive. Pulsing with energy that makes your heart race just a tad faster.
You now stand waist-deep in the water, feeling it lap against her skin, cool but welcoming. You shift your weight, which makes the moon’s reflection distort on the surface and it dances on it like a liquid silver. The night sky stretches above you, velvety and endless. Stars are scattered like tiny, watchful eyes. There is something mesmerising about the simple moment which is tainted with forbiddance — something that makes you feel as if you have stepped into a dream, weightless and unbothered from the rest of the world.
The twins, Arabella and Margaret linger at the shore, their legs tapping into the water. You watch them for a moment, their silhouettes dark against the moonlit water, before a mischievous grin spreads across your face. Without warning, you raises your arms and slap the water hard, sending a spray of droplets their way. The moonlight caresses them and then they fall back, pattering against the surface in a chorus of ripples. Your friends squeal and laugh, their laughter rising like music into the night.
“The water’s warm! Come on!” you yell out with a snicker, waving your hands to urge them to dive in. It takes them a moment of hesitation, but they eventually dip their bodies into the lake.
You then tilt your head back, closing your eyes for a brief moment, letting it all wash over you — the laughter, the water clinging to your skin, the electric thrill of the fact you shouldn’t be here. There is something perfect about this moment, something you know you’ll hold onto long after the leaves change colour. A perfect farewell to summer.
“This is what you get!” the strawberry blonde says without a warning and before you can process it, she dunks your head under the surface, holding it there for a moment. When you reach the surface again, you’re gasping for air and coughing up the water you inhaled while uncontrollably laughing at her attempt to get back at you.
“Ah, since you wanna play this game,” you smirk playfully with droplets of water streaming down your face. You cup water into your palms, splashing it into Arabella and then doing the same with the twins and Margaret.
“I didn’t wanna get my hair wet!” One of the twins mumbles into the darkness as she tries to shake off the water that had just been thrown at her. Her tone suggests she’s annoyed, however, her smile tells a completely different story.
And that’s how a war unleashes upon you.
Hands slap the surface, sending arcs of sparkling droplets into the air. Arabella shrieks as a cool splash hits their back, spinning around with a grin, planning a comeback. Waves ripple outward as you chase each other, half-swimming, half-stumbling in the shallows. Sprouts of water fleeing in the air, reflecting the moonlight, meanwhile laughter fills the hollow space of the night. And when the thrill of doing something so forbidden and sacred dies down, your conversation takes another turn. A turn regarding the state of the wizarding world.
It’s the first time you’re seeing each other at the same time after the fateful weekend, so there’s a lot to unpack. Each of you fill the others on what went on during your break, the chatter carrying an echo of bitterness due to the fact the world has managed to deform while you were away for the summer. All four of you knew it, the conspiracies of what is about to come corrupting your light conversation.
One was clear, everyone was somewhat worried.
“You know, I can’t believe we’re here not even a week and they’re already making us learn about The Unforgivable Curses,” the younger of the twins hums after you’re done sharing the events of your last school break, taking you all by surprise.
It was true. On the first class of defence against the dark arts, you were acquainted with them. With how to prepare for them, resist some of them and fight them. Since The Unforgivable Curses are three of the most powerful yet sinister spells known to the wizarding world. They’re the strongest Dark spells in existence, consisting of three of them.
Avada Kedavra — kills the victim painlessly, bringing instant death.
Crucio — tortures the victim by subjecting them to excruciating pain.
Imperio — causes the victim to become unquestioningly obedient to the caster, however, with enough willpower this spell can be resisted.
And using any of the three can lend you a one way ticket to Azkaban if you are caught using them.
Your entire class sat in silence during the whole lesson.
“Are you surprised? With what’s happening?” her older sister chimes in immediately and shoots her a sympathetic look since it’s clearly bothering her. The younger twin glues her orbs to her fingers which are dwindling with the mild water.
“They aren’t teaching us how to use them, simply how to defend ourselves,” you decide to join the conversation, making an attempt at calming her raging nerves. That makes her look up from the surface of the water.
“I-, what I meant is that I hope they’re over-exaggerating,” the younger twin stutters and stumbles across her words, nodding at your words in approval.
“Same,” Arabella whispers and then it’s silent.
When you can no longer take it, you dive beneath the surface with your eyes fluttered shut and like magic, it makes the world go quiet. Cool liquid folds around your entire body, weightless and slow, as if time itself has decided to pause. The only thing which you can hear is the sound of your own held up breath and a familiar ringing in your eyes. You manage to open your eyes, simply to be met with complete darkness, regardless of that, it comforts you instead of scaring you off like it usually would. The chaos of the world fades into nothingness. Tiny bubbles escape from your lips, spiraling upward as the water calms your nerves, cradling them. Here, in the hushed embrace of the deep, there is nothing but peace.
Moment later, you’re once again brought back to surface, dragging wet strands of hair out of your face. You blink quickly to adjust your gaze back and then you’re met with the sight of your friends floating on their backs, some open eyed staring at the night sky, and some lost in their own world with eyes closed. You hum softly, smiling to yourself as you catch a glimpse of Arabella and Margaret with their hands intertwined in the water before copying them, lying onto the body of water. Letting it hold you, letting it caress the sides of your face and letting it fill up your ears, numbing your senses.
“Guys, look, it’s a lantern,” the sound of Margaret’s voice makes you twitch, your head dunking into water in the sudden shift of your body weight. You hurriedly compose yourself and look towards the castle. And indeed see a small flickering light in the distance.
“I bet my wand it’s Flinch,” Arabella is swift to assume.
“Quick,” you mumble and all of you share a fleeting panicked look. You’re the first to begin to drag your body out of the lake, the weight of the water heavy as you near the shore.
When you reach it, you clumsily slide your body into your robe, not having enough time to layer more clothing. You grab the rest of the clothes, shoes and wand meanwhile everyone else is eagerly doing the same. Once you have your things gathered, the five of you start to sprint, making your way around the castle towards the Greenhouse.
“Shit, I forgot my tie. He’s gonna know someone was there,” Margaret stops, mumbling out of breath. Her palms rest on her knees as she’s bending down a little to catch her breath. The remaining four of you share a glance, unsure of what to do as your lungs heave.
“Go, I’ll get it,” you let out weakly, taking couple of deep breaths yourself and then proceed to shove the pair of your shoes and clothes into Arabella’s chest. You don’t let them protest, because in a split of a second, you’re sprinting all the way back down to the lake. You ponder if you chose the right thing as you make your way, fast as a thunderbolt. The quidditch practices have certainly paid off and for the first time you’re glad for all of the laps you had to run.
When you reach the spot where you were, the lantern is creeping dangerously close. You curse under your breath helplessly as you survey the area, the tie nowhere in sight. You begin to grow anxious, worried you’re about be caught and stripped of your position as the Head girl. It wasn’t something you longed to be, but you didn’t want to disappoint the headmaster who picked you out of all your fellow seventh year’s Ravenclaws.
Just as you think all is lost, you fish out the green tie of the Slytherin house out of the mud on the very edge of the shore. Your triumph is quick to deflate, because footsteps can already be heard. Panic freezes you, causing your gaze to dart in all directions, not sure where to bolt.
After chaotic contemplation, you’re strongly urged to hide your frame behind the rocks nearby. You squat down, your robe getting drenched in the water. You then place a palm over your mouth to quiet down your needy breathing. The footsteps are now bathing in the mud near the shore. Cold sweat washes over you, fingers gripping the dirty green tie you’ve come back to retrieve.
The sound of metal echoes in the air as Flinch sways the lantern, looking for any signs of intrusion. You press your back into the rocks as a light yet chilly breeze ruffles around, making you shiver as your drenched robe sticks to your body. Flinch calls out, asking if anyone is present and his musky voice forces you to stop breathing, despite the burning from the running.
His footsteps soon start to fade into the distance again, and you can finally let out all the air build up in your lungs. Relief swallows you, regardless of the fact he’s heading towards the Greenhouse, which means you’re gonna have to take another route to get into your dorm-room.
You carefully straighten your figure and map out the surroundings, Flinch already distant enough for you to take your chance and escape. Your feet rush and take you to the edge of The Forbidden forest. It most definitely isn’t your favourite place, it always gives you the creeps, however, it is the best spot. If someone were to spot you, you could easily slip in between the trees and hide yourself.
Lingering around the outline of the forest was your general idea, so you went with it. Muscles twitching in pain from the sprinting. The exhaustion wraps you in a welcoming cloak, your eyelids heavy as you stroll through the long way, weird alluring presence of the forest, or rather what’s in it, seizing you.
A twig snaps in the background and it makes you abruptly turn around, wand ready to strike in your tight grip.
“Do you point your wand at everyone or just me?”
A voice you know all too well calls out, his hands lifted in air, portraying surrender.
An avalanche of suspicion tickles you as your gaze sticks to him.
“God, you scared me,” you heavily breathe out and with hesitation place the wand into the inner pocket of your robe. You cling the robe close to your body, when his gaze lightly falters down your figure as you put away your wand. Only then realising the robe is the only layer of clothing shielding you.
Neither of you speak of it.
“What are you doing here?” you ask neutrally, voicing out what you’ve been thinking the second you recognised his ball of white hair, impossible to miss even in the darkness.
“Could ask you the same, precious,” he purrs playfully and it catches you off guard. His nickname for you which you preferably ignore. The way he so effortlessly bites back as if it were the easiest thing in the world, waking up the familiar sense of irritation in your system. But deep down, you know he’s right. It isn’t common to wander around at such an hour and especially not so close to The Forbidden forest.
“You’re lurking,” you suggest, crossing your arms at your chest while still holding the robe together to avoid the mistake you had made moments ago.
“Keeping tabs on me?” the white haired wizard arches his eyebrow at you, stepping closer as a smirk decorates his lips. Not a surprise.
“Merely stating the obvious,” you shrug and instead of giving him the satisfaction of displaying your anger, you remain somewhat nonchalant.
“You sure wander around a lot for Head girl too,” his tone is clearly teasing as he cheekily answers, hinting at the fact you’re supposed be the one preventing this from happening and not the one practicing it.
“We didn’t see each other, yeah? Now get lost,” you give up after debating whenever to offer surrender or to poke further. You chose the surrender, because at the end of the day, you have no idea what to expect from him in this department. You’ve seen what he’s capable of throughout your school years and right now, you don’t want to risk anything.
“As you wish,” he winks at you cockily, but nods his head in agreement anyway.
And without any further explanation, he’s off.
To where? You have no idea.
You’re left alone, enveloped by the forest. A dilemma rises in your mind, to follow or to retrieve? What possible business he could have here, at The Forbidden forest, so late into the night? He did speak the truth. A wind of fate could’ve lead him here accidentally just like it did with you, and perhaps it was all a big coincidence. But then, why would he venture further into the forest?
Your curiosity gets the best out of you, so before his artic locks disappear into the depths of the forest, you’re sneaking in his direction. Towering trees loom over your head, their ancient branches tangled so thickly that only slivers of moonlight pierce through, casting ghostly patterns. The further you go the thicker the air gets — scent of moss, damp earth, and something faintly metallic. Silence is nearly none existent in here. The wind whispers through the trees, while distant, unidentifiable rustlings hint at creatures watching from the shadows. Every step feels uncertain. You nearly jump out of your skin each time something unregistered makes a noise, your heart drumming in your ribcage crazily.
Your eye stay peeled on the figure meters ahead, careful to not lose sight of him. Still, when a pair of glowing eyes glistens on the right side of your peripheral vision, your attention is split. Turning to the direction, stopping in your tracks. To realise the horrid creature staring at you is not in fact a horrid creature, but a stag. Your orbs return back to the foggy forest ahead of you to find nothing, his presence absent.
You stand flabbergasted, blinking.
A howl of an owl startles you and that’s when you decide it’d be best to abandon your mission and get the hell out of the forest. Flinch must be haunting other places by now. The Greenhouse entrance is surely free, you think to yourself as you turn around one hundred and eighty degrees. You can’t bring yourself to trust what moves around the forest so you run, despite the pain you’re feeling.
You run till your body’s sore, still damp strands of your hair flying around. By the time you arrive at the secret entrance you and your friends found last yea that leads straight to the Ravenclaw’s common room, you’re surprised your body hasn’t given out.
“Thank you for waiting for me. It was a close call down there,” you exhale in between your shaky breaths as you notice Arabella standing by the entrance to the passage, she probably offered to wait and told the others to slip into their own houses.
“What took you so long? I was getting worried,” she mumbles anxiously, fiddling with the fabric of her robe. Arabella then steps out of the way to let you enter and closes the door shut after you step in.
“Lumos,” her fingers delicately move in the air as she casts the spell.
“I bumped into Flinch and hid, had to take another route around the forest,” you beam tiredly and sound almost causally. As if you did this daily. You proceed to take out Margaret’s green tie out of your pocket “found the tie, though”
“You were near The Forbidden forest?” your friend stops in her tracks in front of the stairs, turning to face you, her expression telling you exactly how she feels about you wandering near that place. Completely ignoring your success of retrieving the tie belonging to her girlfriend.
“And you won’t believe who else I bumped into,” you announce, leaving her to figure it out on her own.
“Who? Gojo? Surely not,” she snickers, the sound ringing through the rocky walls as you descend higher, each stair urging your body to give up. Her quick and witty answer makes you falter, how did she manage so fast?
“You guessed it,” you peep.
“Am I sensing this wrong, or are you still thinking about what happened at the tournament?” Arabella gathers the courage to question you after a moment of silence, her grip on her wand is gentle and she leaves it pulled out in front of her of her. Lighting up the way up.
“You aren’t?” you question back, brows softly furrowing in the process.
“Merlin’s beard! Of course I’m, but I’m trying to not assume things without knowing the context. It’s not good for you either, worrying yourself like that,” her choice of words seems to get stuck in your brain, rewinding them like a broken record.
You’re aware she’s onto something.
“I have this paralysing fear that something’s wrong,” to which Arabella simply breathes out, not out of annoyance, but rather out of sympathy and her shoulder slump down as you ascend the stairs.
“Are you sure Margaret doesn’t know anything? I know you’ve asked her in your letters, however, something isn’t letting me rest,” you leave your previous statement behind without getting an answer and instead bring up something else, something not so reminding of what’s going on.
“I think you should let it go and focus on other things. It’ll be good for you,” she responds once you reach the top, walking quietly into the common room.
“You’re probably right,” you surrender eventually and don’t press.
Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop you from conspiring.
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼
First few weeks of autumn indeed go by differently than they normally would, and no, it isn’t because it’s your last year. But due to the reason your beloved wizardry school is supposedly a target for those in charge of the evil. Sadly, precautions had to be put up even here. The drastic one being Dementors floating around with their miserable existence, those who are meant to be guarding Azkaban. The Ministry stated some of them must be provided to the school as the Death Eaters who escaped the walls of the prison are now amongst the wizards.
For safety, they said.
Along with that came countless others new rules, some stupider than other. Quidditch season was held back for couple of weeks, because of the atrocious black coloured creatures. The Forbidden forest became an even bigger taboo to all, and students who would be caught outside of their room after curfew would be seriously punished.
At least the professors and headmaster focused on providing you with enough information and preparation for the worst.
And it seems problems occurred even outside of the school walls. The Daily Prophet started coming out with news about the conservatives and their skyrocketing popularity, including the fact muggleborns are now being cornered and forced to leave. That’s how it starts, it’s how it always starts, isn’t it?
The spreading news create an even bigger abyss in between people at Hogwarts. Most of the pureblood loudly encourage the conservatives and grow more disgusted, degrading the presence of those who were born into human families. The shift in behaviour alters the relationship of Arabella and Margaret, their disguised romantic bond shook with the impact. The friendship act they put out on in the public suddenly wasn’t enough of a reason to see each other anymore. Margaret’s brother prohibited his younger sister from tagging along with Arabella and you.
It caused a lot of fierce destructive sparks in their dynamic.
What a terrible thing it is to be kept away from someone you cherish, because of something so simple which is not in your power to change.
One thing that doesn’t seem to dread in these cursed times is Satoru Gojo’s profound effortlessness. To you he was the same in some ways, though not in all. From time to time, you find yourself recalling the weekend in July late at night, when you can’t sleep. You toss in bed, unable to lock the humid days somewhere hidden. What comes back to you isn’t all horrible. No, some of the moments are nice enough. Occasionally, you too dwell on the short-lived conversation between you and Gojo, the memory vivid. It feels like you share some sort of a secret with him, something only he’d understand if you were to mention it. And then the uglier moments strike — the terror, the dryness in your throat as you were being chased, the thought of death crossing your mind.
You reminisce about the circumstances of the attack too often. Too many unanswered questions are still spiralling through your mind. Wondering if there is a connection between Gojo and the events of the night, or if any of the Slytherins knew it was about to happen. Before the attack occurred, you naively thought the tension between two could loosen up, but the image was popped like a balloon the second he stepped into the train cabin and acted like you were strangers seeing one another for the first time.
That precise moment, your instincts became alerted and you pondered about more theoretical question. Not due to the fact he didn’t greet you, that was very like him, but rather in the general picture of his character.
You seem to have a misfortune of bumping into him at the strangest times and it results in your sense of suspicion increasing.
He is indeed acting odd. And he’s dodging you.
The out of character meeting you two shared in the forest was a surprise, and perhaps you would be able to mark it as a coincidence and leave be. That is ff it was a one time thing only. But as time passed, it became almost a routine.
One time you were preforming your duty as the Head girl, surveying the area before curfew to make sure no one was breaking the newly set rules, you caught a glimpse of his shimmering white locks. For a small fraction of a second only, so you were left to guess if your brain was playing tricks on you. You swear you saw him to Arabella, demanding that you’re not crazy. Another time you spotted him acting inadequately was as you walked down the Astronomy tower, the sun was setting behind the horizon and soft glows of colours casted a magical light all around you, and he suddenly spawned under the stairs leading up to the tower. You shared a quick look, swirling thoughts of what he’s doing clashing within your soul.
And the last time you’ve seen your suspicions forming before your eyes, was when you finished taking your extra class early in the morning. You were on your way to your dorm-room and as you peaked out the window, the sky darkened by the remains of the night, his unique features couldn’t have been overlooked in the distance, somewhere outside heading towards The Forbidden forest.
Yet again.
All of that and more occurred within the same week.
Overall, the outlook seems to be that he’s avoiding you. To possibly keep something a secret, is your guess, because not only did the entire world shifted, but so did your banter. You should be glad, however you can’t rest mindlessly while the doubts eat at you. You still share your classes with him, yet his presence became ghost like. His usual remarks towards professors and playful stunts are now absent. It’s as if they exchanged him with a carbon copy with the sole expectation of being different at core. He stopped competing with you academically long ago, letting you take the first spot without a single protest. He no longer torments you with his mere existence. The only place where you can bump into each other is the quidditch field, nonetheless, since the season was postponed, the option isn’t there either.
To everyone else Satoru Gojo probably appears to be the same pretentious douche he has been all these years. They absolutely adore him, he’s still the talk of your year — hell, talk of the most years anyway — so the news about him spread like he’s the main attraction. Participating in parties hosted in the Slytherin common room, to which only specially selected individuals from other houses get an invitation.
He always seemed to sort of dating around, though now rumours are circling that he has finally settled into a relationship with a fellow pureblood of his house.
The starlet is thriving even as the world descends into madness. And despite your dearest friend asking you to drop it, you never did. Actually, you went in the opposite way of what she wanted for you.
It must be a facade, you think to yourself.
But at the end of the day, it’s those Dementors causing you the most worries. Incidents happen when those lifeless creatures are near. It’s inevitable. It became somewhat important to you, knowing how to defend yourself against one of them. If it comes down to that. Their haunting presence chokes you with upmost fright if it happens to be in a close radius. You can’t phantom how soul sucking it must be to have them feed on your happiness. You don’t wish to imagine what an impact it’d leave and neither how defenceless it must be. In spite of that, you started practicing. Learning the one spell which can indeed hush them off is now your priority.
Though it’s not simple at all.
Expecto patronum — forms a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the Dementor. It represents a positive force, a projection of the very things that the Dementor feeds upon – hope, happiness, the desire to survive. But it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the Dementors can’t hurt it.
The Patronus has two forms, non-corporeal and corporeal. A non-corporeal Patronus can appear as a thin wisp of magic that hovers like mist. Not revealing its full form. Whereas a corporeal Patronus has a form that is clearly defined and is more than vapour or smoke.
So far you haven’t been able to charm either form so far, therefore you have no clue what form your Patronus carries. That’s precisely why you began attending early lessons with the professor teaching defence against the dark arts, every Monday and Thursday morning.
It is an advanced form of magic, yet the concept of it seems so very simple. A single memory embroidered with pure joy would be enough to conjure up the guardian.
With enough contraction, of course.
It troubles you enough to haunt you while you patrol the long hallways and hollow spaces of the castle, you dip into the furthest parts of your memory, recalling each significant time you’ve felt utopian. All memories which come to you aren’t strong enough to charm up that state. Your steps lead you to the library, your attention so far from reality you notice the tall slim figure only on your way out of there.
“The library is closing,” you announce and step into the alley of bookshelves where he’s listing through one which he probably picked up randomly to make himself look busy.
“So?” Satoru doesn’t bother to look up, eyes skimming over the lines while leaning against the wooden archive.
“I’ll have to report and take points from your house,” you urge closer as you speak deliberately, carefully letting out each word to let him taste your venom, sounding almost teasing.
“And what about Margaret and Arabella, hmm? I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy if someone spilled their secret,” his voice is low, uninterested and he doesn’t bother to glance up even now as you stand closer.
It makes you freeze.
“You wouldn’t,” you reply confidently, standing your ground, when in reality you’re not so sure about anything he does or would do.
“I absolutely would,” his voice drips with defiance.
“I’m kidding, I’ll be out in a second,” he says as a response to your undefined silence and flips to another page, piercing icy orbs flickering to meet yours for a flash of a moment, the gesture weirdly reassuring.
You remain silent, meanwhile he’s probably hoping that you will let him be and keep this to yourself.
“What business do you have in here anyway?” you lean against one of the bookshelves as well, good amount of distance stored in between your bodies.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” his voice is now painted with the familiar mischievous glimmer, his eyes focused on the book. It makes you realise the book was definitely picked up on purpose and that causes you to become curious, trying to catch a glimpse of the title.
“You’re acting unusually strange, even for you,” you remark, focus sliding over to the books aligned in shelves, most of them covered in layers of dust “you must be hiding something.”
“Hiding something, huh? the white haired prodigy repeats the words after you, adding a glint of intrigue and playfulness.
This time he fully looks up, finding you to be the one looking away now.
“The other night at the lake, you disappeared like you were hiding something,” your fingers glide over the book’s spines, eyes briefly depicting their content as you point out his behaviour.
“You’re right, I am hiding something,” he makes you abruptly stop dead in any movement, hand retrieving to your side and head tilting in his direction.
You’re surprised your jaw isn’t on the floor.
“You admit it? Just like that?” you laugh out lightly with a hint of nervousness, not believing he’s confessing to it like it’s nothing.
“Mhhm, just like that,” he utters and shrugs carelessly, shutting the book and placing back on the shelf.
“Why?” your simple question hangs in the air before you can stop yourself from speaking it.
“Meet me at midnight on the edge of The Forbidden forest and I’ll let you find out,” your eyes immediately widen a little in surprise at his suggestion, heart racing faster than normally.
“Huh?” the only thing you manage.
“You heard me,” he blesses his features by curling his lips into a smile, one so smug it could cut right through you.
“You can’t be serious right now,” you say in denial of what’s happening.
“I hundred percent am,”
“You’re bollocks,”
“But you’re the one who’s considering it,” you’re about to shush him off, tell him he’s looking into things more than he should. None of it comes out of your mouth as your gaze lingers on him. Lucent ivory lighting creating a halo, enveloping him in the arms of soft yellow tones.
“Get out of the library or I’m reporting you for real,” you nod your head towards the exit after you realise the pause in between your responses extended over the acceptable limit.
“See ya at midnight,” a snicker slips past his lips and his body begins to move, heading towards you.
“I didn’t say I’d come,” you purse your lips, a slight furrow between your brows as you stare pointedly at him marching closer. And just as you think he’s about to walk past you, he stops by your side.
“Oh, but you will,” Satoru responds with a small shake of his head while staring you down.
Once he’s looking away, he walks past you and is on his way out.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mumble into the now empty space, left behind to drown in your own curiosity.
What the hell was this?
As soon as you regain your consciousness and shake off the peculiar offer, you instantly reach for the book he was flipping through.
You don’t know what you were expecting. But itdefinitely wasn’t magical creatures though.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
You grip the book and look into it the same way he did, not finding anything particularly useful to piece this puzzle together. With a heavy sigh, you carefully place it back and lazily patrol the rest of the area as you were initially meant to do.
Your entire way back to your room throughout the castle is long, however, with the amount of conspiracies running your poor mind exhausted, it goes by quickly.
If you decide to not go, you’re afraid this obsessive need to figure out the truth will only progress into the wrong direction and you might actually go crazy. And if you decide to go, you might come across something that can alter the way you see the world forever, if it truly turns out to be what you’re experiencing.
Perhaps you’re wrong and it’s all in your head.
You open the door to your room with carefulness, not wanting to wake your friend up in case she’s already sleeping.
The room is pitch black when you step in.
“Arabella? What’s happened?” you whisper into the silence of your dorm-room and close the door behind you. Something’s telling you this isn’t right. The room is swallowed by darkness, drapes keeping the gentle light of the moon out. Despite it, you can tell your friend isn’t asleep by the way her body lies sprawled out in her bed on her side of the room.
You inch towards your nightstand, no answer spoken. Your fingers pick up matches laying on the wooden table, lighting it up to breathe life into your candle so the room could be illuminated by a beaming light.
“Margaret,” a weak call out of her name pollutes the air. The sound of Arabella’s raspy voice telling you enough to assume she has been crying her eyes out.
“Did you have another argument?” the way you talk moulds into a softer one, delicate enough to show sympathy. You turn around to face her side of the room, Arabella’s body shifting under the blanket.
“Sort of,” she starts off, suggesting that another set of tears is prickling its way out to the surface.
“She-“ Arabella can’t bring herself to speak, breaking into sobs.
You guess what’s happened.
Arabella manages to curl into a ball, gripping her blanket for dear life as she spills her heart out into her pillow. Your heart clenches at the sight so much you can’t bring yourself to move for a whole moment.
Soon enough you’re moving towards her, laying your body on the very edge of her bed, arms spread open to show her your invitation. She takes it without a second thought, scooping her body into yours. She’s warm. From shielding herself underneath the blanket and from all the heavy tears she’s broadcasted. Your arms wrap around her frame as hers slide around your torso, head falling into the crook in between your shoulder and neck.
“Margaret suggested we should take a break,” her broken voice mumbles in between choked sobs.
The bare sound of her name makes Arabella shudder.
“There’s a lot of stuff happening, it’s not the end of you two. She loves you too much,” you attempt to reassure her, palm drawing soft sensual circles on the plain of her back. She nuzzles her head further into your neck, wet stains left at your skin from all of her cries.
“It sounded like a soft launch break up,” Arabella sniffles, fighting the urge to start crying again.
“You’re gonna get back together, when this nonsense ends,” you go on, holding her tightly than you normally would.
“Who knows when that’ll be. By then, she might actually seek out someone she can be with openly,” and with that, tears stream down the swell of her cheeks. You can sense them. Expect this time, it’s not violent. It’s like a caress to her stained cheeks. A reflection of her sorrows.
“If it’s meant to be then it’ll be, remember? It’s what you once told me,” you muster up a reminder of her previous strength and openness, hoping to ease her. Arabella stays still, the sound of her sobs calming down and her heaving breathing slowing down.
“Please don’t leave me, not you,” she mumbles while squeezing you tightly, her thinking you’d ever leave her shatters you a little, but you manage to collect yourself for the sake of her.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you exhale as you smile softly. Though she can’t see it, you bet she can hear it in the tone of your voice.
You don’t leave her bed for hours, letting her spill out ber boiling feelings. Arabella picks herself up to be able to share all the details with you. Meanwhile you think about asking her whenever it’s a good idea to go, however, you stop yourself from doing so as you don’t deem it as a good idea to bother her with it in her current state.
She does successfully fall asleep later on, her poor eyes red and puffy from the amount of tears shed.
When you look at the time, it’s nearly midnight.
You curse under your breath quietly and pick up your things, mindlessly without any further thoughts. Already decided.
The common room is cloaked in shadows as you tiptoe in, the dying embers in the fireplace casting flickering shapes on the walls. You hesitate at the entrance of your secret passage. Nothing but the steady ticking of the clock can be heard. Midnight is close. You pull your robe tighter around you and slip out, the stone corridor cool as you rush down the stairs.
The fear is there, a steady pulse in your chest, but so is something else. A thrill courses through you, mingling with it. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should turn back, climb into bed, pretend you never even considered it. And yet — you can’t.
By the time you reach the outside, your hands are trembling. The night air is crisp, laced with the scent of damp grass and fog of the early autumn days. The Forbidden Forest looms in the distance, a vast, tangled darkness against the sky. With one last glance behind you, you step forward, your feet squalling against the damp grass.
You glance around, nerves prickling. No lanterns flicker in the windows. No figures moving. The air is chilling you, thick with the scent of earth and rain-soaked leaves. The Forbidden Forest stretches ahead, embroidered with something ancient and electric. You recall the night at the lake, when your senses prickled with the same energy.
Your steps slow as you near the treeline. The forest is awake. The branches shift ever so slightly, as though whispering to each other of your arrival.
There is no turning back now.
Then there is a movement ahead. A figure half-shrouded in the gloom, waiting just beyond the reach of the moonlight in the forest.
Your pulse races.
He came.
“Thought you’d changed your mind and leave me hanging,” he teases lightly. The sound of his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine, and instant regret crushes down onto you. You should’ve stayed with Arabella. This isn’t something you are ought to drench yourself in.
“Yeah, me too,” you swallow a bundle nervous down your throat before providing him with an answer.
“Come on,” Satoru cocks his head in the direction of the woods, hands shoved in the pockets of his robe as he signals to head deeper.
“You want me to follow you into the forest?” you question doubtingly, eyes widening.
“We have to get to the place first,” his body begins to move, back turned your way as he starts to move.
Yeah, he definitely knows his way around here.
“I lost my mind,” you utter under your nose, only for you to hear.
You’re right behind him the next second.
The forest thickens around you, the air growing heavier, dense with something faintly sweet — like rotting fruit. The trees lean in close, their twisted limbs tangled together, whispering in a language only the wind seems to understand.
You don’t trust him. You shouldn’t, you can’t. But there’s something about the way he walks ahead of you, half in shadow, half in moonlight, like he belongs to both.
Like he could pull you into either.
You see it then, through a break in the undergrowth. A small pond, cradled in the earth like a secret. The surface is smooth, reflecting the tangle of trees above in near-perfect clarity. Yet something about it is off. The reflection is too sharp, the water too dark. You step closer, your breath catching as the tension spikes.
Beside you, the white haired wizard crouches down at the edge, fingertips skimming the surface. Ripples break outward, deliberate. For a heartbeat, his reflection doesn’t move with him. You swallow hard. You should leave. Every ounce of your being is telling you to bolt. However, when he turns to look at you, the pull towards this unknown tightens its grip on you.
“So, what is it?” the impatient basically seeps out of you as break through the lingering silence.
“Patience, precious. Now, we wait,” Satoru lets out a playful chuckle, finding your emotions tainted with fear quite amusing. And without any further explanation, he seats himself down onto one of the rocks nestled right by the edge of the pond.
“For what?” you press, fierce although scared.
“You’ll know when you see it,”
“I’m getting tired of your riddles,” you sigh, loathing how mysterious he makes it out to be, your ribs nudging in your sides from all the possible scenarios. Your lungs let out a heavy breath, surrounding to the situation and stepping towards him to sit down as well. The rough, uneven surface of the rock presses against you as you settle onto it, its coolness seeping through the fabric of your robe.
Moonlight peaks through the branches, breaking into silver ribbons across the surface. The water, deep and unknowable, stares back at you, offering no answers, only the illusion of stillness and yourself. Suddenly, it’s not so frightening. Quite the opposite.
“Won’t your girlfriend be jealous? That you’re sneaking into the night with someone else” you blurt out, lost in thought as you zone out, and the next moment you’re drenched in upper hand embarrassment.
“She doesn’t need to know, does she?” he hums in amusement, his arogance spilling out of him so clearly it makes your blood pressure rise. At that point you don’t consider the option to tilt your head in his direction, but you can see from the corner of your eye that his gaze is on you now.
“And it sort of depends if she has a reason to be, do you think she does?” he shamelessly continues, fuelling both your embarrassment and your frustration at his behaviour.
“No,” you state too quickly and too firmly, someone would even say harshly.
Satoru Gojo simply laughs, something about it surprisingly genuine. He then averts his gaze back to the pond, looking out for the mystery.
“Quidditch is starting next week. Finally, huh?” your voice points out after another period of silence passes, trying to lighten up the atmosphere and mostly to direct the topic somewhere less awkward. And quidditch is probably the only thing you have in common, so it was no-brainer.
“What, ready to get your ass kicked?” his eyebrows arch up in a familiar way, powered by his ego since he’s still the quidditch captain.
“We’ll see,” you huff out in a light way, actually looking forward to blow some steam off on the field, especially when you’ll be playing up against him.
The water is still as you both sit at its edge, the silence between you and Satoru stretching longer with each passing moment. The conversation has faded once again. It isn’t uncomfortable, it’s quiet like the water before you. You expected it to be way more unpleasant.
All of a sudden, without warning, the air shifts. A glow so silver and soft emerges atop the water, flickering like mist catching moonlight. It takes a form, delicate yet undeniable. Hooves barely disturbing the surface as it steps forward on the surface. It’s a stag. Quite similar to the one you saw couple of days ago. Its presence is weightless, but utterly ethereal. The glow of it pulses gently, as if breathing. It does not move toward you, nor away. It simply exists, radiant and still. The water beneath it remains unbroken. And for a moment, you are certain that if you reached out, just barely, your fingers would brush something real.
“It’s a-“ your voice breaks as you can’t bring yourself to stand up, afraid it might go away.
Satoru doesn’t move either.
“A Patronus,” he takes the word right out of your mouth, breathless as you, despite seeing it multiple times.
“Who casted it? There’s no wizard around expect for us,” your short circulated brain asks a question after a question. Never in your life have you seen such a momentary example of beauty. The creature is so innocently light and pure, its energy warming you up.
“That’s precisely what I’ve been thinking, when I crossed paths with the creature,” your orbs roll over to him, he senses you so he repeats the action. He can decipher the amusement plastered in your expression.
“So that’s why you’ve been sneaking around here?” you aren’t even mad anymore at him for dragging you out here, into the depths of the forest, a place you could get punished for visiting. Your suspicions now seem silly. You’d never admit it to anyone, however, you’re relieved they were false.
“Busted. But it comes here nearly every night,” his voice is low, robbed of his usual styling of words.
“And did you figure something out?” you mumble back, eyes scanning the creature as if it might disappear if you even dare to blink.
“I picked up countless of books, none of them had anything though. Perhaps it’s tied to someone at Hogwarts and has unfinished business or it’s cursed to haunt the forest. Whatever it is, the wizard must be dead,” he proceeds to explain, your attention fully glued to whatever he has to say while the Patronus stands still, occasionally moving its head
“Dead?” you echo quietly.
The majestic creature floating on the small body of water dissolves the way it came. Unexpectedly and like a gentle caress.
“We have to figure out more,” your voice is laced with the thrill of the moment which causes his features to soften up ever so slightly. He finds your unanticipated passion admirable.
“We?” a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“You got me involved, didn’t you? So it’s now both of our problem,” you cross your arms on your chest after you’re finally put back to the planet and are able to stand up “and what made you show me this, anyway?”
“Dunno, thought it might interest you out of all people,” his body motions in the same way, towering above you, closer than you’d normally let him.
Was he always this tall? This-?
“Mhm, well, thank you for showing me,” you voice out your gratitude, your lips foreshadowing a hint of a smile. No additional twists nor banter. Satoru blinks down at you, heart skipping a beat at the situation as he opens his mouth, unable to bring himself to answer.
“We should probably head back, right? We’ll look into it tomorrow, noon,” you take a step back to look around, looking for any traces of the Patronus instead of acknowledging what has just occurred.
“Got it, noon,” the wizard with artic locks breathes out heavily.
For a split moment all feels pleasant, however, an inevitable sense of reality prickles him.
This is all an act. The stag stumbled into hiding way in the right time, allowing him to use it as an opportunity to convince you of his undying innocence. It’s a lie to cover up whom he had become over the summer and what’s about to unleash. It serves as a perfect shield from your insufferable nosy behaviour, protecting his actual reason.
Because at the end of the day he knows things you could only dream about. Things which are strictly forbidden to reveal, things worthy of being sent to Azkaban for a permanent visit.
Things that would give you a real reason to despise him.
It isn’t simply the electrifying night of terror which occurred at the tournament.
Not anymore.
There’s so much more to unfold.
credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]
taglist: [ @k-kkiana @cuffiescariche @sylustoru @hyori2 @ethereal-moonlit]
More Posts from Katsukijo and Others
a guide to ditching the world's most persistent nerd! ✦ series masterlist
a nerd!gojo x baddie!reader series
status : ongoing (2/? chapters, 7k word count) ✦ tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending
synopsis : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. he rejected your chocolates, ignored your attempts at friendship, and solidified himself as the most insufferable nerd you've ever met. years later, you're a party girl with a trust fund and a talent for avoidance, and he's still everywhere—top of his class, heir to an empire, and somehow, still your problem.
when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off. gojo thinks otherwise. he tracks you down at exclusive clubs, drags you back to work, and worst of all—he looks at you like he's already won.
you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and makes it your move.
oh no.
— chapter index
01 – the anatomy of a grudge
it starts with a princess, a prince, and a perfectly decorated box of chocolates. it ends with a broken heart, a flying carrot, and a lifelong vendetta. some wounds never heal. some grudges never die. and it is just impossible to avoid someone when you live in the same bubble.
02 – the psychology of making gojo satoru fold
step two in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: don't let him drag you out of a party. don't let him make you do actual work. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, fall asleep.
more to come.
The songs you grow to like never stick at first
Falling for your best friend is a blessing and a curse at the same time, especially when it's painfully obvious that your friend doesn't feel the same. So what is Yuuji supposed to do? He doesn't want to lose you but also can't help wanting to get out of the friendzone. Maybe his other friends can help him. Or he just has to wait because sometimes the songs that become our all-time favorites are the ones that don't stick at first.
Pairing: Yuuji x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, fluff, my attempt at humor, friends to lovers Playlist: College AU Word Count: 4.6 k Warnings: A lot of cheesiness, pining, unrequited love in the beginning, slow burn. Yuuji has smutty fantasies, so it's 18+. Smut in later chapters. All characters are of age. The story and my blog contain 18+ content, so minors don't interact.
This is my entry for the Fall Out Boy collab. My prompt is from the song Dead on Arrival:
The songs you grow to like never stick at first. So, I'm writing you a chorus, and here is your verse
I got very inspired, and so this turned into a multi-chaptered fic. I'm planning to post a new chapter every week! Here is an overview of the chapters you can expect:
Chapter 1: This is side one, flip me over. I know I'm not your favorite record. Chapter 2: The songs you grow to like never stick at first. So, I'm writing you a chorus, and here is your verse. Chapter 3: This conversation's still dead on arrival. And there's no way to talk to you. Chapter 4: A rivalry goes so deep between me and this loss of sleep over you (Part 1) Chapter 5: A rivalry goes so deep between me and this loss of sleep over you (Part 2) Chapter 6: Hope this is the last time, 'cause I'd never say no to you
Chapter 1
This is side one, flip me over. I know I'm not your favorite record.
Yuuji can't say when it started exactly. There isn't one big moment that changed everything. It happened gradually, sneaked up on him until he was in too deep. You have been best friends for almost three years now. Ever since Yuuji started college and got paired with you for a group project. You were both new to the city, and it was nice to have someone to meet up with and discover the busy streets with. Soon the two of you were inseparable. Of course, people kept commenting on how close you were. Raised eyebrows, knowing smiles, cheeky winks. But they all got it wrong. You were just friends!
At least, that's what Yuuji had been telling himself all this time. Until now. Maybe everyone else was right after all. They saw it sooner than Yuuji did. But they only got half of it right. Because this is strictly one-sided. Only one of you fell in love. And that idiot is Yuuji.
Being in love with your best friend is a blessing and a curse at the same time. A blessing because you know the other person loves you too. Not in a romantic way. But still. They don't hate you. They want you in their life and care about you. And you spend lots of time with them. You are allowed to touch them, hug them, ruffle their hair, shove them playfully, kiss them on the cheek for a greeting. You can do sleepovers and share clothes, go out together. It's nice and warm and feels like home. It is home.
But it's also a curse. No, it's mostly a curse. Because all of those things are suddenly not enough anymore. It's like a meal with all the best ingredients, but there's one little spice missing, and without it, the whole meal doesn't taste quite right.
Yuuji feels guilty about it. He appreciates your friendship beyond anything else. He doesn't want to be one of those guys who complain about being friend-zoned. He likes being friends with you! But he can't stop his heart from aching for more.
It's not like he didn't try to suppress those feelings when he first became aware of them. He probably looked like an idiot when you rested your head on his shoulder one day during lunch, something you'd done lots of times before, but, all of a sudden, there had been a weird feeling in his stomach. So Yuuji drained a whole bottle of ice-cold water because he thought the butterflies in his stomach would stop fluttering so much if he just put enough cold water on them.
And he definitely made a fool out of himself when he tripped over a bag because he was busy trying to count the clouds so he would distract himself from the feeling of your warm weight on his lap five minutes ago when there hadn't been a spare seat left on the park bench.
So yes, Yuuji tried to fight it, but nothing worked.
And that leaves him there he is now. He just has to accept it: he's hopelessly in love with his best friend. His best friend who doesn't want him that way.
But Yuuji will be damned if he lets this affect your friendship! He loves you, as a friend and as more. So he will make sure you are happy. He will be there for you and take care of you. Do anything a best friend does.
Currently, he's strolling towards where you are leaning against the wall in front of the economics lecture hall. The big boyish grin on his face gets even wider when you catch sight of him. Yuuji stops in front of you and shoves a cup of iced coffee into your hand. Two shots of vanilla syrup, one teaspoon of sugar, oat milk. He knows every order of yours by heart. This is your favorite, so he always gets you this when he stops at the coffee shop before classes.
"Good morning!"
"Ooh, thanks, Yuu! You're an angel. I wouldn't know how to get through my economics course with Mr. Nanami without this. That man is so exhausting!"
"Shut up. I think he's nice!"
Yuuji elbows you playfully, which you return by ruffling his hair, making him lean into the touch like a puppy eager for affection. You pull your hand away too soon and chuckle lightly.
"He is! And hot! But he's so...serious all the time."
Yuuji pulls a face. He knows it's stupid, but somehow it stings that you so openly announce your professor is hot in your opinion, but you never once said anything close to that about Yuuji. Sure, you call Yuuji cute sometimes, but hot? Never.
Five minutes later, the two of you part ways so you can attend your course with hot Mr. Nanami, and Yuuji can head down the hallway towards his film analysis course.
But before he walks into the classroom, he takes a detour to the bathroom just to stand in front of the sink and stare critically at his reflection in the mirror.
Why do you think your professor is hot, but Yuuji isn't? Is it his pink hair? Do you think it's childish that he dyes his hair in pastel colors? Or is he not tall enough? Mr. Nanami is really tall. But on the other hand, Yuuji is tall too, right? He sighs and frowns at his reflection. What is he lacking?
Mr. Nanami has really broad shoulders. He looks like he's working out. So is Yuuji, though! But maybe he's not as fit as you like? He grabs the hem of his yellow hoodie and lifts it to inspect his exposed upper body in the mirror. Yuuji actually gets a lot of compliments from his gym bros for his immaculate biceps. And Fushiguro told him just yesterday that he would kill for pecs like Yuuji has. So this can't be the problem, right?
Just to be sure, he flexes his muscles, watches the way they become even more accentuated before putting a hand on his abs and tracing the taut muscles with his fingers. What would you think if this were your fingers? Would you like the way Yuuji's muscles feel beneath your fingertips? He closes his eyes, tries to imagine how it would be for you. Feels nice...
He jumps when the door opens and turns around to see Junpei stopping in his tracks, hand still on the door handle, staring at Yuuji with big eyes.
"Um.. good morning, Yuuji?"
Yuuji stares back at him with a matching shocked expression, quickly letting the hem of his hoodie drop, covering himself up again.
"Shit! Um..I...um..hey Junpei. I was...I am...I'll just leave! See you in class! Can't wait to hear your thoughts about the movie!"
He grabs his backpack hurriedly, rushing past his friend with a slight blush tinting his cheeks.
Great, just great! He absolutely had to make a fool of himself, right? Maybe that's part of the problem, he realizes. He's the type of guy who's good for a laugh but not the type to date. No wonder you don't want him!
But how can he change that? How can he become someone you look at and think, "Woahh, I want him to be mine!"?
He's still deep in thought when he enters his classroom and plops down on the chair next to Fushiguro's, sighing deeply and slamming his battered backpack onto the table, which earns him a glare from his friend.
Yuuji smiles apologetically and shrugs,
"Sorry, miscalculated my strength, I guess."
Fushiguro just fixes him with one of his stern, deep gazes that always unsettle Yuuji because it feels like his friend can see right into his brain. And sure as hell, the dark-haired boy leans a bit closer and lowers his voice to a confidential tone:
"Are you ok? Did someone upset you?"
"Aww, no, it's ok!"
He grins brightly and scratches his hair, but Fushiguro's gaze still bores into him unrelentingly, and of course, Junpei chooses that moment to sit down behind them and doesn't hesitate to inform Fushiguro:
"He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror checking himself out. Shirtless."
Fushiguro's eyebrows almost disappear in his hair. And Yuuji feels the need to explain.
"Hey, I wasn't shirtless! And I just did a little once-over. On my looks..."
Both of his friends still stare at him as if he's crazy, and so he adds:
"Guys, do you think I'm hot?"
The response is immediate.
"Where is that coming from, Itadori? But yeah, you are."
"Absolutely, Yuuji! You look gorgeous!"
The praise makes him relax for a moment before his face scrunches up in worry again.
"But I mean...can you even judge that? Maybe I should ask a girl? I'll text Nobara!"
He's already pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, ready to send an embarrassing text, but is stopped by Fushiguro's hand on his arm.
"Don't make a fool of yourself. Also, I am literally pansexual. I like men too, so I'm a good judge. You don't need a second opinion on this. Get a grip, Itadori, seriously! I didn't have enough coffee for this kind of shit."
Yuuji looks at him and nods, setting the phone down on the table,
"Yeah, ok, right! Thank you! You too, Junpei!"
Junpei smiles happily at him while Fushiguro sighs exasperatedly and rubs his temples as if he has a headache. But Yuuji feels a bit better. He has to trust his friends. Maybe he just needs to be a bit more self-aware and confident in himself. It will be ok!
His enthusiasm gradually fades again during the film analysis course, though. By the end of the lecture, he's almost gnawed through his pencil, and before his friends can escape, he asks in a miserable voice:
"What can I do to be more dateable?"
Junpei is quick to pat Yuuji's back,
"You already are dateable! Did you forget about all the girls who constantly ask you for your phone number no matter where I go with you? You just never text them back, but I think they'd all be very willing to date you!"
Yuuji blinks at him in honest confusion.
"Wait a moment...you think they would go on dates with me? I thought they just wanted my number for the movie discussions, or that one girl yesterday was just interested in where I got my shirt from. Junpei, I think you got it wrong."
He gets interrupted by a pained groan coming from Fushiguro.
"Just stop! You are hot. You are dateable. Why can't you just get it into that thick head of yours? I'm so done."
"Oi, bro!"
Yuuji smacks his arm but then looks at him with a thoughtful expression.
"Ok, thanks. But like, for real. Am I someone who people meet and think, wow, I want him!? Like, as in rip my clothes off and break a bed? Am I just the nice guy, or the sexy one?"
Junpei makes a squealing noise, and Yuuji wonders why his face is so red. Maybe he shouldn't drink that much coke. Fushiguro, on the other hand, is glaring at him, looking as if he's seconds away from punching Yuuji.
His voice is calm and controlled though when he answers, but it's clear that it takes everything in him to stay so cool:
"I have to go to my literature class now. But you are a fucking catch, man. You're a good guy, ok? That's what's most important anyway. You don't have to change."
"But.. but..."
Before Yuuji can finish, Fushiguro is already gone, practically fleeing from the classroom. He's already halfway out the door when Yuuji yells after him:
"But would you FUCK me, Fushiguro??? Answer me!!!"
Yuuji doesn't even hear the snickers and roars which start around him because his attention zooms in on the doorway, where you are standing, peeking into the classroom and looking at him with a curious and amused expression on your face.
Oh god, no! He wants the floor to swallow him. Your timing is really the worst. He slings his backpack over one shoulder and strides towards you, hoping that he isn't blushing.
But you just laugh when he catches up to you, and Yuuji forgets about feeling embarrassed when you wrap your hand around his arm and fall in step next to him, perfectly in sync, because the two of you are practically attached at the hips anyway. Your head rests against his shoulder, the scent of your perfume and hairspray making his heart twist.
"Hey, do you want to go shopping with me this afternoon? I need a strong guy like you to carry all my shopping bags."
"Count me in. I'm a professional shopping bag carrier!"
Your lighthearted laughter and the way your fingers tighten around his biceps send butterflies flying in Yuuji's stomach.
It's during the shopping trip when the two of you are taking a short break and sit in a coffee shop slurping iced coffee when you grin cheekily at Yuuji and finally ask:
"So what was that earlier, when you yelled after Fushiguro if he would fuck you? Is there something going on between you?"
Yuuji almost chokes on his drink, coughing and messing up his hoodie as some of the drink he had in his mouth spills out over his chin. He taps his fist against his chest and splutters:
"That was nothing! We were just being stupid."
"Oh really?" You raise an eyebrow and lean closer conspiratorially with a devilish gleam in your eyes. Gossip mode activated, apparently. "Or is it that someone's desperate for some action? So you're planning to get laid at the party this weekend?"
"What? No!!"
"Why are you so sensitive about it? Come on, Yuu, it's ok to admit you are horny!"
He is trying so hard to fight his blush. But there's a pounding in his ears, and his breath is coming out in short gasps. To hear you say the word "fuck" and talking about Yuuji getting laid is too much for him. He has to dig his nails into his knees to stop his body from reacting in a totally inappropriate way.
But you aren't finished yet. You bump Yuuji's side with your elbow and chuckle good-naturedly before adding:
"Now that I think about it, you've been a bit on edge lately. Maybe you should really take someone home. Would be good for you. Why did you stop doing that anyway? I haven't heard you talking about your bedroom adventures in what seems forever."
He wants to die. It's true. Right after starting college, he was rather active in the sex department. He wouldn't call it sleeping around, but he had maybe three or four encounters that ended in the bedroom, a swimming pool, or on a bathroom floor. And of course, he told you all about it! You are his best friend!
But that was before! Now he is in love! In love with you! How could he fuck someone else?? He couldn't do that! And he doesn't even want to! He doesn't want anyone else, only you!
Inwardly he's screaming but tries to shrug it off and grins and shoves you playfully too.
"Oh, shut up. I just don't want to fool around with strangers at the moment."
"Just not with strangers? What about people you know, huh?"
"Are you volunteering?"
His eyes widen when he realizes what he said in the heat of the moment. He hopes you will just see it as part of your usual banter. But a small part of him wants you to take it for what it really is. At least the secret would be out then. And in an ideal world, you would smile and put a hand on his thigh while you lean closer and whisper in Yuuji's ear that you've wanted him for a long time too.
But unfortunately, this isn't the pastel pink world of a rom-com. And instead of a love confession, you snort and burst out laughing loudly as if Yuuji made the best joke ever. Your hand does indeed land on his thigh, but only to slap it as you shake with laughter.
"You're so funny, Yuu! That's why you're my best friend! We can talk such dumb stuff and laugh so much with each other!"
Yuuji's heart clenches painfully at your words. Not for the first time, he wishes he could flip himself over like a mixtape because maybe side two would have what side one lacks. Maybe you would see side two as someone who can be more than a friend. Someone who would be able to make you get flustered when he makes a suggestive comment. Maybe the Yuuji on side two would be someone you desire and would like to take to your own bed and have him over and over again every night for the rest of your life.
It hurts knowing that this isn't going to happen. But Yuuji tries his best to act like everything's fine and joins in on your laughter.
You finish your drinks and the cupcakes before proceeding with your little shopping trip.
This basically means that Yuuji spends most of the time sitting on chairs and benches waiting for you to come out of the changing booth to present to him several shirts and jeans and some dresses.
The tight-fitting jeans and the short dresses are particularly bad for his mental stability. Your ass looks too juicy in those jeans, and why do you have to turn your back to him and wiggle your ass in front of his face? It's too much. Yuuji's hand finds the collar of his hoodie unconsciously and stretches it to get a bit of air.
His mind runs crazy about what he would like to do to you. How good it would feel to slip his hands into the back pockets of those tight jeans, pull you against him, and kiss you while his hands knead your cute ass.
Or how sexy it would be to let you sit on his lap while you're wearing one of those short dresses. His mind short-circuits at the thought of feeling the warmth of your naked thighs seeping through his sweatpants, letting his hands slip under that dress and explore what's waiting for him there. Feel your heat through your cute panties before he pulls them to the side to caress you where he wants to the most, feeling you get wet for him, grinding eagerly against his fingers, coating them in your arousal, moaning his name needily, wanting him...
Fuck.
Yuuji squints his eyes shut for a moment as if that could get rid of the imaginary pictures running through his mind. He hopes he can distract himself before this becomes a bigger problem, literally. He shifts around uncomfortably on the pink plush couch he's currently sitting on, silently begging his dick to please be nice and not do anything embarrassing. He curses himself for his poor fashion choices because the grey sweatpants he's changed into for the shopping spree do nothing to hide his growing boner.
"Earth to Yuuji! Did you hear a single word I said?"
He looks at you with big startled eyes, hastily putting his hands in his lap, hoping that you won't see that he is half-hard.
"What?"
You cross your arms in front of your chest and roll your eyes.
"I guess I took too long trying on clothes. You're already zoning out. I said I'd either take the yellow dress or the pink shirt with the black print. What do you think?"
"The dress!"
Maybe his answer was a bit too enthusiastic because you burst out laughing, but you look so pleased, so Yuuji doesn't have it in him to feel bad about it. Instead, he spends the next minutes making a mental list of the worst movies he's ever seen to distract himself from his dirty thoughts and will the problem in his pants away, so he'll be able to get up from this fucking pink couch and carry your shopping bags.
The next thing on your list is makeup and Yuuji tags along, happily carrying your shopping bags now that he feels normal again, and voicing his opinion anytime you ask for it.
He actually enjoys your shopping trips. It's nice to spend time with you, and he likes the feeling of pleasing you and being needed by you, even if that just means that he's your personal bag carrier and advice giver. That's an excellent job in his eyes. He gets paid in warm smiles and happy laughter, and he can't see anything wrong with that.
And luckily, you are so busy searching the stores for things you like that you stop pestering Yuuji about finding someone for him to get laid.
He's following you through long pastel-colored aisles lined by mirrors and bright lights. Stops to swoon over different nail polish shades with you and even lets you paint his nails at one of those tester things. Anything to see that happy smile on your face!
You look so cute when you stick the tip of your tongue out in concentration while applying the nail polish. Yuuji can't stop looking at you.
Two girls are passing by, and Yuuji overhears them talking about how they wish they had a boyfriend who went shopping with them too.
Yuuji smiles at them gratefully. Hearing someone call him your boyfriend makes his heart beat faster. It's a bittersweet sensation, though, since you aren't really dating, and Yuuji will probably never be your boyfriend for real. But the fact that they saw the two of you and assumed you are a couple makes him feel exhilarated.
You don't bother correcting them, or maybe you didn't hear. But you laugh and admire Yuuji's black nails.
"Just like your brother. You should send him a picture!"
Yuuji joins in on your laughter and really snaps a picture that he sends to Sukuna, his edgy big brother who has too many tattoos and is never seen without black nail polish. Come to think of it, though, he never complains about pining for someone he can't have. Usually, Sukuna is the one who gets chased by everyone.
Yuuji blinks at his phone. Maybe he should try to be a bit more like his brother. Does he have to change his style? Should he get a tattoo? Or is it the rude arrogance that makes Sukuna so attractive to everyone? Yuuji doesn't think he's capable of being rude.
His phone beeps with a new message and Yuuji looks down to see his lovely big brother replied to the picture:
"Aww, is my wittle baby brother trying to be a bad boy now? You are so pathetic, brat."
"Fuck you."
Yuuji shoves his phone angrily back into his pocket while looking for you and sees you standing in front of a display of a limited lipgloss launch.
"What do you think, Yuu? Cherry or strawberry?"
The innocent question makes his head spin because now he's imagining kissing your glossed lips to get a taste of the different fruit flavors. Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated because of how much he likes you!?
"Take strawberry. Or both. I have money left. I could buy one for you if you want both."
That's technically not true. Money is always sparse, especially towards the end of the month. But for you, Yuuji would give his last penny.
You smile at him, and your hand lands on his arm, squeezing it lightly.
"Trying to become my sugar daddy? Nah, for real, that's really nice, I appreciate it, but I won't let you spend your lunch money on an overpriced lipgloss. I'll just take the strawberry one, and that's enough."
You grab the light-pink tube of lipgloss and head towards the checkout as Yuuji quickly takes the cherry-flavored lipgloss once your back is turned. He will give it to you for your birthday. He smiles to himself, thinking about the look of surprise and the happy glint in your eyes you'll have when you get his gift. He makes sure to go to the checkout furthest away from yours, so you won't see what he's buying, making sure to grab some hair wax on his way, so he has an excuse for what took so long.
Once he catches up to you in front of the store, you smile brightly at him and point at your lips:
"Look! I love the color! And it tastes nice."
Yuuji's eyes widen as he is forced to look at your lips. Oh god. They look so delicious, wet and juicy, glistening from the thin layer of lipgloss, and he can smell the strawberry flavor from here. He wants to kiss you so bad. Close the distance between you, press his lips against yours and kiss the lipgloss off them. Trace your sweet lips with his tongue, sucking on them, licking all the sticky strawberry flavor off them, and letting it fill his mouth.
He hopes his voice doesn't sound too strangled when he answers you:
"It looks pretty!"
He isn't able to tear his gaze away from your lips. But he'll make such a fool of himself if he doesn't stop! He gulps hard and shoves his hands deep into the front pocket of his yellow hoodie to keep himself from reaching out to you.
But you take a step closer to him now with a wide grin on your face.
"Thank you for being my shopping companion! I can always rely on you for these things."
You lean closer until you can press a quick kiss on Yuuji's cheek.
This shouldn't be a big thing, because this is your usual way of greeting or saying goodbye. But lately, it makes Yuuji's heart skip a beat anytime you do it. And right now, you are wearing that damn lipgloss, and the smell of strawberries is overwhelming and turns Yuuji into a complete mess.
His self-control is gone, and before he can stop himself, his arms encircle your waist, hands sprawled over the small of your back possessively as he kisses your cheek too.
He is aware that the kiss lasts too long, his lips pressing against your soft skin tenderly, eyes closed and breathing in your scent deeply as he savors the little moment where he has you in his arms, where he can pretend for a little while that you are his, that you are more than friends.
But of course, the moment is over too soon, and he has to let his arms drop to the side again, letting go of you before it becomes awkward and he gives himself away. You are still smiling at him, and Yuuji answers your smile with one of his own while his heart is hammering in his chest and his fingertips tingle with the urge to touch you again.
Yes, being in love with your best friend while they don't love you back is really a curse.
The two of you make your way home. Yuuji insists on carrying all your shopping bags for you, making you laugh and tell him he's such a gentleman. And once again, the annoying butterflies are back in his stomach.
Your lipgloss left a sticky stain on Yuuji's cheek, but he doesn't wipe it off all the way home. Even lets it stay there during dinner and only reluctantly lets the warm water wash it off when he's taking a shower before bed. He's got it bad, and he knows it.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! When I saw a Fall Out Boy collab, I HAD to join because I really love their songs and lyrics, and I knew it would be super fun to think of a story that fits the overall feeling I get from listening to their music. I hope you enjoyed Yuuji's college adventures and his pining. There will be more soon! In chapter 2, Yuuji tries to flirt and ask Reader on a date. Let's see how that will go! I would be super happy if you left some comments and reblogged this story! Let me know how you like it so far! Thank you!
The amazing @brautschnitzel made some super hot fanart of Yuuji in his grey sweatpants 😍 Thank youuu! I love it so much!
Tag-list: @babe-im-bi @peach-memoirs @yuujiskitten @christalcake
@eva-gates @lawfulrhi @manjiken @brautschnitzel @cyancherub
@ambrodias
If you enjoyed reading this, here's chapter 2
❝𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝❞
CROWN PRINCE MEGUMI FUSHIGURO MASTERLIST
༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻
~ here you'll find all the content related to this series!
~ please do not copy, translate, or edit my work!
~ if you want to be added to the taglist, you can ask me under this post!
~ the series is in chronological order down!
۶ৎ Not Because You Tried
۶ৎ The Invite
You say you don’t like him. So why are you riding him like that?
Nerd!Gojo x meangirl!Reader 💌 public sex (library), lots of teasing & denial, he's a little subby, you're a little evil, maybe a part 2 where you get caught by ta!suguru from my au.
“You’re disgusting.”
You say it while sinking down on his cock, slowly, like you're savoring it.
Gojo’s glasses are fogged up, his mouth open and flushed and a little stunned—because you’re so warm, so tight, so fucking mean even with your pussy wrapped around him. His fingers grip the edge of the desk to try and stay grounded. You’re still fully dressed, skirt hitched up and panties shoved to the side. He’s got his slacks around his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned, the stupid little red pen still clipped to his collar.
Nerd.
“You—fuck—but you said—” he chokes, head thumping back against the shelves. You bounce once. Hard. His voice breaks.
“I said you’re disgusting,” you snap, grinding down slow just to feel him twitch. “And annoying. And ugly.”
He moans as if you were telling him he’s perfect. Quite the opposite.
“But you’re so—fucking—tight—” he whines, hips twitching up into you. “Nngh—you’re clenching so much—!”
“That’s your problem,” you bite, hand wrapped around his throat—not enough to choke him, not really, just enough to make him look up at you. Make him see your gloss smeared lips and your fucked out gaze.
You ride him faster. The slap of your ass against his thighs echoes between the library shelves. Your breath stutters but you don’t stop—not when his hands tremble, not when his glasses slip down his nose, not even when he whimpers, “C-could you just admit you like me?”
“No.” Your voice is sharp, shaky. You’re close. You’re pissed. “I don’t even like you. I hate you. I fucking—hate—”
You clench around him on every word. He cries out—high, breathy, overwhelmed.
He’s gonna cum first. Again.
“Oh my god, you’re literally such a loser,” you pant, leaning in close. Your forehead brushes his. “Can’t even hold it in when I talk shit to you, huh? Ew- don't tell me you're into that shit.”
He nods. Fast. Desperate. “I’m—I’m sorry—” Pathetic.
You smile.
“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, licking into his mouth. “Cum in me, 'Toru.”
He does.
Loud. Shaking. Hips bucking up into you like he’s never been touched before. And that loser probably hasn't.
And when he comes down, twitching thighs and cum leaking out while he blinks up at you like he’s in love, you just tilt your head and sigh.
“…Gross..”
But you don’t move.
Not until you cum too.
Secret Santa for @cryptid-juzou !! They had maid!Chuuya among the requested prompts and I immediately jumped at that. I really hope you like it! (Some bonuses that didn't make the cut) Thanks to @bungostraydogs-secret-santa for organizing this!
a/n. it's been a hot minute, y'all. this is inspired by a reel i saw on instagram (@dagirlythang), although i believe this is one of those notorious accounts that reposts content from other creators without proper citation :\ still, credit is due where it's (partially) due. anywho, i haven't written in a WHILE, but i hope this still scratches the itch for some of you. enjoy! (0.6k)
“here, kats.”
from where he’s just put the car in park, bakugou looks at you—first, instinctively—then carefully, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sight of what you’re holding.
his normally crimson eyes that are seeming darker under the dim light of his brand new porsche dart up to meet yours. “the fuck is that?”
you frown at his unexpectedly hostile reaction, although it’s quick to morph into a look of realization when it hits you belatedly.
“shit, sorry,” you half-laugh, half-sputter, hurriedly returning it to your bag before reaching into its depths for your phone. you thumb in your password in almost less than a second, gaze trained on the app as you click it, “i forgot you preferred cashless transactions.”
you’re in the middle of typing in bakugou’s phone number—you’re embarrassed to admit you already have it memorized just two weeks into dating him—when your device is unceremoniously yanked out of your grip—so fast that you could barely squeak in surprise. you whip to face the pro-hero—about to reprimand his ear off for ripping it away from your hands like that—when you catch a glimpse of his features and all the words suddenly die in your throat.
uh oh.
“tell me,” he starts, voice low, and you find yourself gulping despite yourself. “did i buy this car so i can quit hero work and be a driver?”
“…no?”
a scowl. “then why are you treating me like i’m you’re fucking uber?”
you blanch. “i’m not! i just figured i give you some gas money.”
“why the fuck would you send me gas money?”
you know better than to answer that, so you shake your head and ignore the way he’s practically glowering at you, before pulling out the wad of cash from earlier, “is this much okay—”
“you ain’t sending me shit,” bakugou essentially spits—cutting you off—just as he reaches over the console and thrusts your hand back into your wallet.
he’s still gripping onto your phone.
you toss him an exasperated expression.
that earns you an eye roll. “don’t.”
you pout. “why won’t you let me help?”
“this isn’t about help, dumbass,” bakugou drawls, mirroring your irritation. “i won’t be caught dead asking my girlfriend for money.”
you try to breeze past the way he just referred to you as his girlfriend, masking your fluster with a scoff. “so it’s a pride thing now?”
the ash-blonde sneers. “more like the bare fucking minimum.”
to that, you snort, although you can’t fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “easy for you to say, rich guy.”
“watch it,” he warns, and you break into a laugh, then laugh harder when his mouth wobbles in a sorry attempt to keep a stern face.
that grants you a playful punch to the shoulder, which you take in stride, still chuckling. soon enough, the air falls into a quiet lull with neither of you making a move to get out and into your apartment’s parking lot. this goes on for a few beats, before bakugou finally breaks the silence.
“p-promise me.”
bewildered, you glance at the pro-hero, who’s looking straight ahead onto the wall beyond the car. “promise you what?”
he swallows, as if nervous. “that you’ll get used to this.”
your eyes widen, suddenly speechless. the urge to ask him what he means by ‘this’ quickly surfaces—something tells you it’s more than just him spending on you—albeit dies down just as swiftly. the last thing you want is to ruin the moment.
instead, you settle with peering at him curiously for another minute, before: “…do i have a choice?”
at that, bakugou turns to you, grinning. “nah.”
˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!
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love comes in small sizes
chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!
pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader
summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.
but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.
tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity
series masterlist. | other works here. | next.
you and satoru gojo have always been something.
it’s just never been labeled.
from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.
it’s not just him, though.
because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.
“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”
“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”
his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.
“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”
“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”
shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”
you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”
“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”
shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”
suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”
your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”
but suguru just hums, unconvinced.
and maybe he has a point.
because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.
and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.
it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.
you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.
so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.
but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.
so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.
but then, one summer night, something shifts.
it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.
“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”
you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”
he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”
it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.
you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”
his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”
“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.
“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”
“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”
you snort. “sure, satoru.”
but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.
and then, just as you’re about to look away—
“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”
your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.
he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.
your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.
“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.”
he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—
you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.
he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.
and maybe he does.
because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.
“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.
he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.
the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.
after that night, everything changes.
not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.
but then, it happens again.
it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.
it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.
but you don’t.
it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.
it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
and then, it just keeps happening.
but it also happens in other ways.
like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.
or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”
or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.
it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.
like he’s waiting for you to stop him.
like he knows you won’t.
and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.
shoko notices first.
it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.
“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.
“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”
your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.
“yeah, okay.”
suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.
“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.
satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”
but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.
still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.
until it does.
until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.
his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.
and worse than that—suguru is slipping.
you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.
one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.
you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.
one year passes.
twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.
suguru is gone.
satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.
he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.
except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.
you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.
“come inside, satoru.”
he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”
you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.
“you can’t keep doing this.”
he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”
you don’t smile back.
you don’t say anything at all.
but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.
and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.
before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.
“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”
your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.
“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.
his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.
and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.
he just wants.
it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.
it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.
when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.
his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.
not yet.
a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.
“satoru, we need to talk.”
he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”
“it’s not about that.”
your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”
you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”
his smirk falters.
it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.
he doesn’t like it.
you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”
“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”
“satoru, this is serious.”
your voice cuts through his like a knife.
his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”
you flinch.
it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.
too late.
your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”
his pulse kicks up.
it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.
he doesn’t let you.
“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”
“satoru—”
“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”
a long, heavy pause.
your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—
he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.
you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—
“nevermind. i’m leaving.”
he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”
but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.
“i’m serious.”
his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.
but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.
and it makes him panic.
so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.
“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”
the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.
because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.
your mouth opens—then closes.
whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.
he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.
then you turn around.
and you walk away.
but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.
he doesn’t.
so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”
he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.
(you don’t.)
six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.
he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.
(he does.)
at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.
the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.
but then the quiet comes.
it always does.
he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.
he dreams about you.
sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.
but other times, the dreams aren’t good.
sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.
he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.
but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.
so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with.
at least he pretends to.
and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.
he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.
not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.
six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.
your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.
for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.
somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.
“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”
you freeze.
not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.
then, finally, you turn to him.
and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.
your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.
and then you open your mouth.
your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.
“gojo.”
not satoru. never satoru.
his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt tl say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.
he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.
“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”
there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.
and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.
“it’s not for me.”
not for you.
his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.
and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.
the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.
hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”
but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.
but it’s enough.
enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.
your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.
“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”
was. past tense. final.
his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.
you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.
but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—
“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—
but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.
small. deliberate.
he doesn’t see it.
doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.
she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.
she watches.
studies.
eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.
he doesn’t see her.
doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.
because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.
he can only see you.
satoru doesn’t breathe.
not at first.
not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—
before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.
looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.
when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.
the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.
but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.
she blinks. once. twice. assessing.
and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”
satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.
she is… dazzling.
for all the wrong reasons.
because that is his nose. those are his eyes.
the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?
his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.
satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.
“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”
the reaction is instantaneous.
she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.
both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.
“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. Her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”
satoru blinks.
for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. He opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”
“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”
he startles.
it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.
only fondness.
or maybe he’s imagining things.
he’s still trying to process it when—
“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.
“let’s get back to business.”
his brows furrow. “business?”
“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”
satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.
because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.
the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.
he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.
“you have white hair.”
her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.
“you have blue eyes.”
satoru’s pulse stutters.
before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.
then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.
“i guess you’ll do.”
…do what now?
he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.
there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.
his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.
the answer comes before he can find the question.
“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”
satoru chokes.
the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.
he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”
the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.
“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”
something in his stomach lurches.
his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.
his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”
“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.
but it is a big deal.
a very big deal.
his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.
“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”
his throat tightens.
“pity.” he repeats, blankly.
“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”
his breath catches.
she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”
satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”
she preens. “i know, right?”
and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”
his stomach drops.
the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.
“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.
“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”
satoru stops breathing.
his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.
the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.
holy shit.
“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”
he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”
“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”
his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”
“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”
his pulse jumps. “…or else?”
she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.
“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”
his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”
“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.
in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.
his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.
her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”
satoru can only stay there. staring.
his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.
his daughter just found him before he ever found her.
his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.
she’s real. she exists. she is his.
and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.
satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
he comes to terms with something horrifying.
his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.
the absolute audacity.
the sheer talent.
his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.
he has never been more proud.
“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;
“she so gets that from me.”
a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly
tag list: @akeisryna , @funicidals
comment to be added on the tag list xx
megumi fushiguro // fic recommendations
note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works
once bitten, twice shy
lost and found
your type?
dark red
pick you up, keep you close
i really (x6) like you
bunny kisses
the flower and the bee
(divine) dog cuddles
off limits
cockblocked by the squad
lover boy.
staring problem
pomegranate problem
conveniently yours
better late than never
you're the only one that's holding me down
takes one to know one
it's fenty
whatever this is
the birthday boy
with you, my fears disappear
hands
diamonds on the skyline
just feel it
laser focus
all my ghosts
making the last sacrifice
see you around
ducky slippers
therefore, i am
Gojo would 100% be that over-the-top, chronically online boyfriend, the kind who turns every mundane moment into a viral TikTok or Instagram story. The fact that he's dating someone who barely texts back, has no social media presence, and just doesn’t care about internet clout? It drives him insane in the best way.
He’s all over his feed, posting thirst traps with captions like, “POV: You’re the luckiest girl alive,” tagging you even though you’ll never see it. Then there’s you—completely unbothered—rolling your eyes every time he shoves his phone in your face for a new TikTok.
“Babe, say hi to my followers!” “Gojo, what followers?” “The millions of them, obviously. Now give them a little wave—” “No.”
Gojo would totally make a TikTok of you fixing his car with some absurd soundbite like "A MAN, A MAN, AMMMMAANNNNN" while dramatically zooming in on your face covered in grease. Meanwhile, you’d just be looking at him like, "Do you ever shut up?"
And his followers? Eating it up.
Then cuts to a thirst-trap selfie of himself, just because.
Imagine him dragging you into a video where he’s like, “POV: You bagged a billionaire,” and you're standing there in your work clothes holding a wrench, absolutely done with his antics.
“Do you ever get tired of being embarrassing?” “Never,” he grins, “it’s part of my charm!”
And the nepo-baby billionaire vibes? Oh, he’s unbearable in the best way. You’re the grounded yin to his unhinged, internet-addicted yang, and somehow, it works perfectly.
Bouns:
He tries to rope you into one of those TikTok dance trends, but you’re having none of it. “C’mon, babe! Just do one move!” “No.” “Just clap at the end!” “No.” He eventually edits the TikTok with a cardboard cutout of you in the background while he’s dancing alone, captioning it: “Relationship status: She’s too good for me.”
<><><><><>
jjk fans we need, this tomorrow is a rough day for us 😩 let's thug it out together.
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