༝     .   MAMA SANDWICH ! .  ✿

The Rest of Them

Pairing: Nerd!Gojo x Rich!User

This is a lil teaser…I’m still debating if I want to use Tumblr as my main way of posting fics, but the HTML feature and aesthetics are so cuuuteeee!!!!

Synopsis: Satoru Gojo always stood out at your prestigious university. A prestigious heir, a ridiculously pretty boy. But you were determined to prove that he was just like the rest of them. A spoiled rich boy, weak-minded, who was only interested in one thing.

The air outside the club was cold, the lights from various cars shining in your eyes as they passed. Satoru’s grip on your arm tightening ever so slightly as he drags you out of the door. It wasn’t painful, but it was harsh enough for even your bogged down senses to be aware he wasn’t letting go yet.

It wasn’t fair. You tried again, tilting your head just so. The way that made men fall to their knees in front of you. Your lips curled into a smirk, your lips slightly parting. He could feel the heat of your breath on his face, yet he didn’t waver. There wasn’t a crack in his gaze, as he released your arm.

“Satoru, you wound me.” You say dramatically, words slurred from the alcohol. Please, please. You don’t actually care. Prove it, prove it, PROVE IT. “What, am I not pretty enough for you now?” You ask the question, a tone of confidence. It wasn’t serious, you knew that. As if you weren’t pretty enough for anyone. But underneath that confidence, that arrogance, your eyes seemed to glisten with something pleading. It sparked a small hint of fear coiling in your gut. Could he see right through you?

You wanted him to be like the rest of them. You wanted him to crumble, and beg, and fall over himself for you. You wanted him to want your body, your power, your influence. You wanted him to want anything but you.

There’s a long moment of silence as Satoru seems to just…take in your appearance, the way the alcohol and club had made a thin sheen of sweat appear on your skin, making stray hairs stick to your face. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, that gave you pause. His hand twitched at his side, almost as if to reach out and touch your reddened cheeks, but it quickly settled back at his side.

So instead, he takes hold of your shoulders and pushes you back just a bit. “You’re drunk.” His voice wasn’t sweet, wasn’t teasing now. “We’re going home.”

He releases you abruptly, the places his touch had been feeling cold and empty. You put on a mask of arrogance and follow him to his car, a smirk on your face. “Hah, wimp.” You mutter, clicking on your seatbelt. The night was dark, the lights of downtown flashing in your face as he drove. It was quiet, other than the soft tones of the radio. Of course he listens to classical music. But the sound of the music, and the car’s soft hum create a peaceful atmosphere, lulling you to sleep. There’d be time to sort out this shitfest later. You were fucking exhausted.

author’s notes: IM SO HAPPY TO PUT THIS OUTTTTT!!! lmk if you wanna be tagged when I actually start posting the novel :p

(im super new to this whole tumblr platform so…any tips r greatly appreciated <3)

Katsuki is the type to always be tending to you while you’re mid-conversation. For example—

You were 5 months pregnant and had invited Mina, Jirou and Ochako over for a “girls night” and that’s what it was supposed to be but Katsuki was too busy micromanaging everything you did.

From the way you sat to what you ate he was there dictating it. Not in a possessive way he was just trying to look out for you.

“Remember in high school when I said I’d look so sexy pregnant.” You giggle motioning to your bump that slowly gets bigger everyday.

While you were talking Katsuki tapped your back motioning you to move forward so he could fluff the pillows behind your back, hoping to make you more comfortable.

“omg yes!” Mina said giggling; she wasn’t giggling at what you said but at the blonde who was physically unable to be away from you.

“So Bakugou- you’re like never not around her.” Jirou spoke up recognizing what everyone was thinking. “Shes my wife.” He said plainly, shocked she even had to make the observation. “As well as my baby mama.” He glared this time.

“you’re like.. a mom.” Ochako pointed out sipping her boba. “So what, someone has to look out for her might as well be her husband.” He scoffed, giving you your prenatal vitamins with a glass of water.

“I’ll be okay Kats, you can go do your own thing.” You pulled him down for a kiss before taking the vitamins that were handed to you.

He sighed giving a little huff before walking away to your shared room.

…He was back within 10 minutes claiming you weren’t drinking enough water. (It took him that whole time to come up with an excuse to come back and check in on you.)

(Ughhhh I wanna slurp him up so bad.)

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

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

I love my boy. I know for sure that he is everyone's favourite<33

midoriya-sensei!

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

RODEO STATION, 1 — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO 

A collection of you and Megumi, through the years, through Gojo’s eyes. 

content, warnings: friends to lovers, fluff, sort of canon-adjacent, satoru adopts megumi and tsumiki, reader has a cursed technique but it’s not mentioned in depth here, really just you and megumi falling in love and gojo watching

word count: 1.1k

part i: first years, jujutsu tech. fits in the timeline around when nobara first joins the class

When Satoru first finds him, Megumi has two conditions. First, that Tsumiki would be kept safe and happy, and far away from the Zenin clan if they weren’t going to be good to her—safe and far away from all jujutsu society if Gojo could help it; and that she would never have to worry about feeding herself or Megumi ever again. Satoru agreed right away, he would have done that without the request. 

For his second condition, an eight year old Megumi looked Satoru straight in the eye and told him that he would absolutely not be separated from you. Satoru thought it was cute, sweet, in the bratty, and naive but determined kind of way that seemed to be everything that kid stood for, and Satoru couldn’t fault him for it. Megumi’s evident childlike adoration of you aside, Satoru saw potential in you, too, so he accepted Megumi’s conditions, happy to welcome the two of you to the world of sorcery. 

It’s not until a week before you both start at Jujutsu Tech, that Satoru really asks Megumi why he wants you here (never mind the fact that you had already also made up your mind about being a sorcerer, and if there is anything that Satoru has learned about you in the past decade, it’s that: one, you have the magical ability to make Megumi do anything you say; and two, you’re incredible persuasive and very stubborn). Megumi doesn’t look him in the eye when he answers, fidgeting with his melting ice cream instead when he says, “Well, she saved my life.” 

Satoru doesn’t tease when he hears this, only digging his spoon in for a scoop of Megumi’s toffee butter, smiling to himself when the cold hits his tongue, because he’d heard the message loud and clear: Megumi believes he owes you his life, and to keep yours protected, he wants you by his side.

Satoru quickly learns that Megumi truly has his work cut out for him as he watches you burst through a top-floor window of a high-rise building, falling carelessly with the object of your mission—a special-grade cursed object—clutched in your grasp. Second later, there’s a loud explosion, as the ugly head of a large cursed falls limp in the hole in the broken glass that you’d left behind. Satoru chuckles when he sees you smile, and the faint cheer of weeeeeeeee as you fall. He knew you were wild and stubborn by the way you bossed Megumi around without a care, but seeing you in action proved that you were also in your own league of crazy, a fantastic sorceress in the making. 

To his left, Yuuji gapes wildly as he looks up, shielding his eyes with his hand, and then flinching back when Nobara bursts through the ground floor door, not without a nail going flying into the curse that had been chasing her. She looks angry, then wide eyed, then up to where Yuuji and Megumi were also staring and starts squealing alongside him. 

“Gojo-sensei, what are you standing there smiling about—do something!” Nobara shouts, pointing an accusatory finger up in the air at your flying body. 

Yuuji gasps again, like he’d just figured out the consequence of you falling from a building, spewing on his own cries, “Hey, seriously, what the hell are we doing—she can’t fly,” he shouts, turning to shake his sensei, then pausing, “Wait, Fushiguro, can she fly? You know her.” 

“Idiot,” Nobara spits, “If she could fly then she’d be flying, not falling.”

“Then why aren’t we doing any—you know what, I think I can catch her,” Yuuji boasts, rolling up his sleeves, prepared to position himself underneath your descending body, and that’s when Satoru steps in, extending an arm in front of his students. 

“You all worry too much,” he smiles, lifting his blindfold just enough to look the pair in the eye, and tilt his head up slightly, “Besides, Megumi’s handled it.” 

Three heads turn back up to the sky, where you’re no longer in freefall, instead have had your shoulders snatched by Nue’s talons. You’ve still got that wild smile on your face, wider now as you descend much more elegantly via Megumi’s shikigami. Nobara and Yuuji wince as Nue’s wings flap widely when you’re set on the ground. You shift the box with the cursed object to one hand, reaching your free one around to pet the bird’s feathers. It crows happily, and Satoru snickers, much to Megumi’s dismay. You always did treat his shikigami like pets. 

“Hey, you’re okay!” Yuuji cheers, eyes sparkling, “What’s in the box? A sword—actually, I don’t want to know. If it’s another finger, keep it away from me.” 

“Hand it here,” Nobara demands. You’re happy to hand over the box and have another hand available for petting Nue. 

Satoru watches fondly as Yuuji and Nobara fuss over the box. They should probably exercise more caution, but he’s there, so the worst can’t happen. Meanwhile, you step closer to Megumi with Nue fluttering behind you. 

“You’re the one who told me there would be no need to get involved,” Megumi says, voice soft, hands falling comfortably at his side. 

“I said that you wouldn’t have to get involved with the curses,” you correct, standing on your tiptoes to nuzzles your head into the bird’s feathers, “I said nothing about not getting involved with me.” 

Satoru does his best not to choke out a loud laugh as Megumi’s face becomes increasingly pink when you reach forward to pinch his cheeks, his grumbling drowned in the sound of Yuuji and Nobara’s bickering. Satory sighs, content. He cares for all his students, but there’s a certain weight lifted on his shoulders knowing that when it came to you, there was truly nothing to worry about—Megumi would always be there for you. Honestly, he thinks Megumi might fight him to protect you if it came down to it. 

That thought does bring an audible chuckle to his lips, Megumi’s pinched expression calling to him, “What are you laughing about?” 

To which Satoru only hums, sticking his hands in his pockets. Megumi’s eyebrows furrow deeper, but it’s quickly dissolved when you catch his attention again, saying your farewells to Nue before giving Megumi the okay to let him recede into his shadows. 

“Oh, nothing,” Satoru chirps, turning to lead the group back to Ichiji’s car, “Come on, who’s still up for revolving sushi!”  

Cheers follow him as the veil dispels. You question Yuuji about whether or not you think the restaurant will have grilled eel, and Nobara pretends to throw up, arguing that eel is the worst, that you all should stick to hand rolls instead. Megumi stays quiet, walking on your outside, and humming along with all of your suggestions, and Satoru can’t help but wonder whether or not you knew that Nue had been out from the moment you’d stepped in the building. 

Honestly, he thinks Megumi might win that fight—might win any fight if it meant being with you.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

Fushiguro, your enemy, had one palm slapped against your mouth to mute your moans, his other arm wrapped around your waist to thrust himself into your slick heat. Those stormy eyes of his focus on your features, eyes heavy-lidded and blissed out, lost in the feeling of your pussy. “Be. Fucking. Quiet,” he harshly ruts his hips into yours, teeth gritted into a permanent snarl. “If someone comes in and hears you-we’re both dead.”

Wrapping your arms tighter around his neck, he lets out a trembled breath as your moans grow higher and higher in pitch. “Fuck-“ he curses beneath his breath, drinking in the sight of your tits bouncing up and down with each rock from him. He leans and sucks one into his mouth, eyes rolling back at the plushy flesh he grew to become obsessed with. You were disheveled, ponytail falling to the side, cheeks and nose red as crimson.

“Meg-“ you keen, nails scratching down his blazer clad chest. “Please, deeper. Need it deeper.” You plead, earning a growl from him before he angles himself quickens his pace, beginning to hit that one spongey spot that makes you crumble apart. You let out a scream, resulting in him to swallow your moans, as your orgasm grows nearer and nearer.

His hand clasps around your throat, “What did I say about being fucking quiet?” He snaps as he pierced his eyes into your hooded ones-his mouth hanging open while he split you open on top of him. God, you loved this sight. His dominating his eyes, raspy groans falling from his lips, which were leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck. “C’mon baby-cum all over my cock. Hurry up before they notice we’re gone.”

And suddenly you’re contracting sporadically around him, shouting and crying against his hand, as Megumi fucked you through your release. “So tight-fuck-“ he grunts and pushes you down onto his cock, holding you so that you didn’t fall during your high. “Just like that-yeah.”

Once you come down, he pulls out, head falling between your breast as his hot cum spurts all over your stomach. “Next time,” he mutters, face still buried in your bare breasts. “Don’t wear that shirt if you don’t want to get fucked.”

You giggle as he smirks, looking up at you. “I’ll make sure to wear it every chance I get then.”

I loved your boxer good can we get boxer gojo in jealousy pleaseeee😭❤❣

hehe ofc bb<3 jealous boxer!gojo it is.. part 1 part 2

boxer!gojo who gets jealous way too easily. he sees the way the other fighters look at you—his sports therapist, his girl. sees the way they grin when you tape their hands, the way they lean in when you check their injuries. and he fucking hates it. "bet they like having your hands all over ‘em, huh?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous.

you roll your eyes, used to his possessive streak. "it’s my job, satoru." but that’s not good enough. because right now, his job is making sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

boxer!gojo who fucks you against the locker room mirror, making you watch. "see that?" he pants, one hand gripping your throat, the other pushing your legs apart. "no one else gets to touch you like this. no one." his hips snap into you hard, deep, stretching you open until you can barely stand.

you whimper, hands pressed against the mirror, and he leans in, smirking. "aw, baby—what, too much? you didn’t seem so shy when you had your hands all over those other guys."

boxer!gojo who makes you scream his name. "who’s fuckin’ you like this, huh?" he groans, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow and teasing circles. you choke on a moan, legs shaking, and he laughs, low and smug.

"c’mon, sweetheart. say it."

when you finally sob out his name, he rewards you with a bruising thrust, hips slamming against yours. "that’s right. mine."

boxer!gojo who doesn’t stop even when someone knocks on the door. "oi, gojo, you in there? fight starts in five!"

he grins against your neck, still rolling his hips. "guess i gotta make this quick, huh?" his fingers tighten around your throat, keeping you right where he wants you as he fucks you even rougher. "better cum before i do, baby—don’t wanna walk outta here with my cum drippin’ down your thighs, do ya?"

boxer!gojo who leaves you wrecked, trembling, completely fucked out. he kisses your jaw, smirking. "next time you touch another guy, remember this, yeah?" he fixes his shorts, winks, and heads out like he didn’t just ruin you.

and when he wins his fight that night, he points at you in the crowd, grinning. "that one was for my girl."

…because everyone in this arena should know who you really belong to.

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.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

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]