#Gojo’s Moving Castle AU

[therabbitthatpostthings]

✧ Gojo’s Moving Castle AU ✧

Note: This fanfic is a combination of the Book and Movie: Howl’s Moving Castle.

THERE WILL BE BOOK SPOILERS- I PROMISE YOU THERE ARE THINGS THE MOVIE DID NOT INCLUDE

READ AT YOUR OWN CAUTION

Also, I am anime only for JJK so if you feel like there is some S2 or Manga stuff I left out- I most likely did. Lastly, I claim no ownership of JJK or Howl’s Moving Castle. This is simply a fun little story to write for the funnies

⦾･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ⦾ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ⦾

Chapter 1: In Which (Y/N) Meets The Wizard

Chapter 2: In Which (Y/N) Contemplates Life

[chososcutie]

⟡ ݁₊˚⊹ SWEETHEART, SORRY IM LATE, I WAS LOOKING EVERYWHERE FOR YOU ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

—𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ synopsis♡: when one fateful day leads to you being cursed, you go on a mission to find the infamous satoru gojo and his castle, but little do you know you’d find yourself in his bed later that night..

—𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ featuring♡: satoru gojo x reader

—𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ tags♡: unprotected sex, riding, oral (fem!recieving), mating press, praise, making out, p in v, cervix kissing, big dick gojo!

—𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ a/n♡: howl’s moving castle is my favorite studio ghibli film ever, so you already know i had to write a fanfic about it!

—𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ w/c♡: 4.5k

"oh, darling won't you come out of that hat shop with us, you're truly overworking yourself!"

you smile softly, eyes flickering over to where your expectant sisters stood watching you, before looking back at the vibrant purple hat you had been working on, threading through with flowers. "oh no, i couldn't. you all go ahead, though."

they giggle softly at your reply, already well-acquainted with your firm work ethics and habits of almost never leaving the shop, tossing a, "suit yourself!" over their shoulders.

and as the door closes behind them, leaving you to stare at all of the colorful creations of caps littering your desk, you sigh, leaning back to take them all in.

maybe you had been working too hard..

being the eldest daughter of your family, you had been entrusted with the shop from a young age, making and sewing up hats for a living. it had been your father's, though now had been passed down to your mother, who had appointed you as an apprentice, although you were practically the only one who crafted and fabricated everything, and though the work was quiet and calming, it did tend to get rather boring at times.

the interior of the shop was tiny and just a bit cramped, every available surface being taken by assortments of feathery, patterned hats in almost every color. brown, old, and creaking rows of shelves surrounded your working area along with coatracks dipping under the weight of all the caps resting on them.

and though it wasn't much, it was yours.

you continued working for another hour, listening to the rickety clock on your wall tick tick tick away, with an impending sense of dull weariness.

was this all you were ever meant to do?

finally, you push back in your chair with a squeak! decidedly grabbing your hat and plucking it on your head, locking and closing the shop door with a resolute slam.

you would get out and see the town to clear your head. it wasn’t good to lock yourself away in the shop for too long, so you needed to breathe some fresh air before you started working again, and find some inspiration.

and so, you venture out through the hustle and bustle of crowded markets, trains whistling and blowing gray smoke as they chuff along, and the bumping of carriages along stoney paths.

the air grows thick with the amount of people thronging around you, spilling heedlessly in countless directions, and after more than one person gets in your way and abruptly stops, you huff, veering off toward a side alleyway.

it wasn't ideal but it would just have to..

bump!

“hey, what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone? you lost, sweetheart?”

a slightly heavier set, blonde man leaned in front of you on a wall, blocking your path. he smiled down at you condescendingly, but it lacked any actual warmth, all teeth instead.

“n-no sir, i’m not lost.” you manage to stammer out, trying to duck past him, but seemingly out of nowhere his companion sidles up next to him, bumping his hip and peering down at you, his mean brown eyes and thick mustache seeming menacing in the dim lighting.

“you sure?” his friend snickers, one gloved hand reaching for your side and spinning you around to press against his chest, a sinisterly unfamiliar cologne surrounding and practically suffocating you with its intensity. “why don’t we show you the way home?”

“leave me alone!” you gasp out, trying to break free from their suddenly too-tight grip on you.

“there you are sweetheart, sorry i’m late, i was looking everywhere for you.”

your body stiffens as a large, warm hand comes to grasp gently at your wrist, tugging you away from the two men, and spinning you around to lay eyes on the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

his eyes were azure colored and half-lidded, his voice low and resonant throughout the empty alleyway. he was dressed extravagantly with a poofy white button-up and red and black pattered overcoat flowing loosely behind him, and as his eyes meet yours, something warm twinges in your stomach, the feeling spreading all down your body hotly.

his gaze flickers away to the men still stood there, as if noticing them for the first time, and something about him sharpens, voice noticeably colder. “oh? and what are you two doing?”

"hey, we were just.." the blonde one's voice raises indignantly, trying to pull you back to them with a hasty tug.

"leaving." the blue-eyed man behind you finishes, his other hand lifting to raise his pointer finger and slice it to the side, causing the two men to immediately break into a march, boots landing heavily as they stomp away in sync.

"wha.. how did you?" you stare up at him in wonder, his own flicking down to your face with a small little smirk tugging at his lips.

"magic. now hang on!"

before you can even reply, he's grabbing you by the hand, and lifting you effortlessly up, up, up, into the sky, floating alongside him high above the town, all the people below you seemingly tiny dots scattered around the vibrant landscaping.

"oh!" you exclaim, fearfully clinging onto him as you feel weightless, the air whooshing below and around you.

"straighten your legs, it's okay.." the white-haired man whispers to you playfully, hands curling protectively around you. "now, start walking andd.. see! you're a natural!" he laughs softly at your hesitant steps into the air, growing more confident as he holds you up with ease.

the ground becomes a blur as you match each other's steps, airily floating as if it were any other day, coasting in sync as colors whirl below you in a mess of banners and flags.

"so, where ya headed?" the man's sultry, honeyed tone interrupts you as you quickly turn to glance at him, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

"oh, i.. uh.. just the hat shop."

so much for your day out.

"hmm, a hat maker you are?" you follow his eyes to where they linger on your simple little sun hat adorned with red ribbon.

"something like that.."

he smiles as he glides over to the small overlooking balcony outside your workshop, helping you down easily, your wide eyes gazing up at him as he prepares to leave again.

"make sure to be more careful next time you're out, mmkay? not everyone around here is quite as gentlemanly as me." his tousled, snowy white hair billows around him as he grins down at you teasingly.

" 'kay.." you nod shyly, and he begins to back up, smile widening.

"good girl."

and blowing a kiss to you, he jumps back off the balcony, eliciting a small gasp from you as you instantly rush over to press yourself against it, straining for a better look.

but he's already gone, practically dissipated into thin air.

with a tired sigh, and a combing of your fingers through messy hair, you lock the door to your shop with a click! before slumping down to the floor.

it had been a long day, and just as you're starting to relax, you hear a small, telltale tinkling of the bell that hangs above your door, alerting you when new customers arrive.

"hello? sorry ma'am we're closed right now." you start to stand up, noticing the woman in front of you, her face slightly flushed and eyebrows scrunched, as if in anger.

her figure is awfully plump, with a round, chubbed neck and doughy arms that hang out of her dress like deflated balloons.

her makeup is done rather sharply, as if made to look intimidating with hooked eyeliner and boldly colored eyeshadow, all accompanied by rouge red lipstick and a mole on the side of her mouth.

"why, you!" she stops right in front of you, lifting her─many─chins to stare down the bridge of her flat nose at you. "it was you he was floating around with this afternoon?"

you stiffen. she couldn't possibly mean..

"that wretch!" she hisses angrily. "eleven miserable years of my life spent chasing him! and this is what he does?" she slams her hand down on the counter loudly, causing you to flinch.

"please leave now! we're closed!" you say, your voice taking on a more firm tone as you try not to tremble, straightening yourself up.

she wheels around at you then, as if having forgotten you were there, still rambling on with passion. "oh? standing up to the most powerful witch, are we?"

her overdone, puckered lips draw up into a sinister little grin as you start to back up, unsure of yourself now.

witch?

"since he likes you so much, let's see if you can win over my precious, when i haven't been able to in more than a decade!"

black oozing spirits erupt from her flabby form, rushing over to you as you stand agape, horrified.

"and if you don't manage to fully capture his fleeting heart, you will die!"

all of a sudden, a cloying murky fog drifts in the homey space of the shop, invading your every sense, and clogging your nose tightly.

"what..?" you gasp, but all at once, it surges over to you, enveloping you in its tepid humidity, your mouth gulping in thick heaves of it, pouring into your throat, mouth, eyes, and nose with tendrils extending out of you, like a possession of your very body.

and then.. all is silent as darkness settles upon you, save for the fading echoes of the evil witch's deep, resounding laugh booming throughout the night.

when you open your eyes again, peeking out through your fingers carefully, you don’t feel different, with the exception of a vague, lingering sense of fear.

you were still plain ol' regular you, the you that stayed in working all day and turned down invitations to go out, opting to sew hats instead.

but something was.. off.

what had happened last night to make you so dazed, and memories so jumbled up?

and then, as quickly as it had been evading you, it all comes rushing back─ the man who had floated you into the air as if in a dream, the witch appearing, the sound of her cackle as she cursed you..

when you think back on the specifics of the spell she had cast however, you feel yourself pale, hands falling to your sides limply.

you were supposed to make the mysteriously magical guy that you had met yesterday fall in love with you? when you didn’t even know his name, or who he was?

that was practically impossible.

taking a deep breath, you desperately begin to wrack your brain for ideas as you try not to panic or think about the cruel ways the witch would kill you if you didn’t end up being capable of it.

one way you knew however that would be worth a shot to undo the curse, would be to find a well-practiced witch or wizard, and have them lift the curse from you, saving you a lot of time having to look for the elusive man and making him love you.

but.. there was no guarantee it would work.

you sigh heavily, trying to calm yourself down. that would mean leaving your town behind to move toward the wastelands where the witches resided, and in turn, leaving your faithful little shop, the only place you’d ever known to travel in the hopes for a remedy.

and so, it was with great strength that you straightened yourself up, huffing determinedly, and placing your hat firmly upon your head before heading out, intent on finding a way to break the curse before it was too late..

to the far west of the town, where weeds ran wild and the flowers never bloomed, muddy trails streaked across the land in brown stripes, was where you found it.

a creaking thing, four-legged and made of rotting wood with rusty pipes haphazardly sticking out of it, emitting black curling smoke to twine through the air, its agape, timber mouth and chipping, corroded eyes bringing a shiver to your spine.

gojo’s castle.

you had heard of it many times from your sisters, stories varying from grossly evil reenactments of how he devoured the hearts of beautiful women in search of his own, to tales of his haunting beauty, with glowing, cerulean eyes that were the last thing you'd ever see of the world, never being able to tell a soul.

and then it occurs to you.

of course! gojo was the most powerful wizard of them all, wielding magic that left no trace, going along with his cold reputation and secretive identity.

he could easily remedy the curse placed upon you with a snap! of his deadly fingers, but with the consequence that you still might not leave alive.

you look back up at the faltering, tarnished castle beginning to build up speed as it strode along.

it was now or never.

and so, with a running start and a leap of faith, you manage to clamber aboard the quickly taking-off oxidized clunker, clutching on to the door handle tightly before the wind practically shoves you inside, falling to the floor in a heap with a little, “oof!”

and when you look back up, rubbing your head with a wince, the enormity of the castle stretches before you, all glittering details that suggest riches, and antique, aged wooden furniture, cobwebs crowding near the top of the roof from the impossible vastness of it all.

slowly, you make it to your feet again, looking down all of the many stretching hallways for a sign of life, your steps clicking on the tiled floor ominously.

“hello? anyone here?” you call out, but to no avail.

eventually, your steps lead you to a small, tucked away room, filled with heaps of glinting trinkets and worn carpet that suggested someone had been here many times before.

there are bookshelves with dusty paperbacks piled atop them and shiny frames, but your interest was in the hefty bed shoved in the center, dipping under the weight of quilted blankets thrown lazily across it, and antique floral pillows that looked alike to a grandmother’s.

from the hours of walking that it had taken you to get here, your feet ached and your eyelids were already starting to droop from exhaustion.

all you needed was a nice sleep, and after evaluating your choices, your fatigue eventually wins as with a soft sigh, you shed your slightly muddied clothes into a pool on the floor, and trudge to the edge of the bed, lifting the heavy covers to slide in, your breathing slowing as you drift off, blissfully unaware of the warmth radiating from someone next to you.

darkness covers the room, so you don’t notice when you turn over on your side and press your soft tits against a moving, breathing body next to you, slinging your leg across him and drifting back off.

but he does, stirring awake with a sleepy murmur and tired, blue eyes blinking open only to freeze on your face, his cock hardening painfully in his pants instantly.

it couldn’t be..

you yawn sleepily, shifting closer only for your hand to drape itself directly across his lap,

fuck.

his eyes squeeze shut, breathing coming in soft, short pants as he tries to control himself.

this was so wrong, you were sleeping, completely unaware of..

your eyes flutter, and you groan as your hand curls around something hot, heavy, and pulsing, twitching beneath your touch frantically.

immediately, his face flushes a tinge pinker, eyes growing half-lidded and his breaths coming faster. wake up, wake up, wake up.

and then with a small yawn, your eyes blearily open to blink drowsily at your surroundings, startling only when they land on the pleading, blue eyed man next to you, hips unintentionally pushing up into your hand for more.

you scramble backward as your eyes land on where you’re tightly gripping him, gasping with surprise and already stumbling over an apology.

“i-i’m so sorry, i swear i didn’t know there was someone in here or i would’ve..”

but before you can stutter out another word, his mouth is on yours, and he’s kissing you hard, lips crashing onto yours a little uncertainly, as if he was lacking the experience, only making up for it in eagerness as he quickly finds the softness of your hip, pulling you closer and tugging your leg over him so the heat of your core is against him.

and then, as suddenly as he had been on you, he pulls back, face still shadowed and lined with the darkness of night as you gasp for breath from the intensity of it all.

you lean closer to him, causing your plushy tits to press up against his arm as your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark, only being able to see a faint outline of the man before you.

“i’m trying to control myself, but you’re making it a bit hard, sweetheart.” his voice is deep, slightly hoarse, and familiar all at once though you can’t quite place where you know him from.

you feel warmth pooling between your legs and lean forward, your hair tickling his face as you prop yourself up atop him.

“are you gojo? the wizard who eats the hearts of pretty girls?” you breathe out, rubbing your thighs together subtly.

he swallows thickly, lips parting slightly as his hand slowly makes its way to squeeze the soft, supple skin of your thighs as if grounding himself, his body feverish beneath yours as you feel his raging bulge poking into you with every small movement you make.

"s-something like that, although right now i'm thinking of eating something else.." his large hands skim slightly over your inner thighs, grazing the hot, gushing flood of wetness that had already begun to seep from your panties generously, one long thick finger curling slightly to press on your throbbing lil' clit like a button, your pink lips parting in a gasp as your eyes roll back immediately.

“y-you..” but your words immediately die in your throat as the bed dips and creaks as he rolls you over so he’s on top of you before pressing soft kisses all the way down your body, breathing out a soft, “s’this okay?” to which you quickly nod, already breathless for more.

and then he’s tugging your panties down in one swift motion, and exhaling sharply at the sight of your dripping cunt all laid bare before him, the feeling of the cool air grazing you making you squirm slightly.

two warm, large palms spanning across your waist hold you down as he nuzzles his head between your thighs, placing a chaste kiss to your pussy before pulling back, strings of arousal already attached to his lips.

“mmh.. so sweet.” he quickly buries himself between your legs, busying his mouth with lapping at you like a man starved, his tongue dipping into your honeyed cunt for more as the tip of his pert, button nose nudges against your clit.

“g-gojo!” you gasp out, your head falling back onto the pillows and back arching up helplessly as he uses hot, calculated sweeps of his tongue to stroke against you perfectly, slippery drool stringing sloppily between your legs.

“please..” he grunts, sucking your sensitive, twitchy bundle of nerves into his mouth before releasing with a sticky pop! “call me satoru.”

“satoru.. fuck!” you moan softly, body desperately curving up as you grind against his face for more friction which he lets out a pleased groan at, hands coming to your hips to rock you back and forth, suffocating himself in your warmth.

he quickly throws your legs over his broad shoulders, his head shaking side to side as he sticks out his tongue, gathering all of your honeyed slick with eagerness while you can only writhe and cling onto the snowy locks of his tousled hair tightly, tossing your head back with every loud moan he draws out of you.

it's only when you glance down that you notice the way his hips are desperately rutting against the creaking mattress, humping his throbbing, raging boner into the cushy bed for some form of relief as he eats you out vigorously, parting your sappy folds with his lengthy, dextrous tongue.

“castle gets lonely..” he mumbles into your pussy, the vibrations rocketing up your spine and causing a whine to get stuck in your throat as your stomach knots achingly tighter, the tang of your release on your tongue. “so m’so glad you decided to stop by..”

your eyes glassily cross, barely able to think or hear what he’s saying above the roar of blood crashing in your ears and your heavy breathing, hips twitching up into his mouth and thighs trembling as your stomach aches with the intensity of it all.

and then his whole mouth is covering your core, hot strings of spit mingling with your own sultry mess to streak down your thighs obscenely, and the stimulation turns out to be too much, as all at once your vision turns spotty and you're cumming hard, saturated shimmery squirt just gushing out of you as your body turns into a trembling, whining mess beneath him, sensitivity making your thighs clamp hard around his head.

and as he laps up every drop of your candied cunt, lips glossy and splotches of your sticky wetness pooling across his face, you can only shudder as he continues to suck and slurp at you, until you're desperately pushing him away, the tingling of overstimulation starting to settle over you in pulsing waves.

he sits back, out of breath and you see the slippery sheen of your essence dripping off his glistening chin in droplets, as he eyes you hungrily, like he hasn't had enough until he devours you whole.

he slowly makes his way back up to your face, your back hitting the plush mattress with a thump! as he pins you down, head lazing in a downward angle to draw your attention to the achingly painful, twitching bulge in his pants, sexy half-lidded blue eyes opening just wide enough for you to lock eye-contact.

blue? why did that remind you of someone..

but all of your thoughts are lost the second he's sliiiding his pants down and revealing the neatly trimmed, tufted white happy trail leading all the way to a massive, blushing pink cock, veiny and girthy with milky precum frosting out his tip so prettily.

his lip catches between his teeth as he wraps around himself with one hand, and begins to pull upward in rough-paced tugs, as his head lolls back, more stringy precum coming to gloss over his thickened mushroom head.

"you just gonna watch, or are ya gonna help me out here, doll?" he huskily drawls out, shuddering as you immediately spring to action, coming to straddle his lap in one fluid movement, desperately aligning yourself flush with his heavy cock and sinking down just on the chubbed, rounded tip with a grimace at how enormously big he was.

he makes a gruff noise, leaning back as he helps you to slowly work your way down onto his length, taking every thumping! veiny inch of him to meld into your hot, clenching walls, jaw falling slack at the pure effort it is just to fit him halfway.

"oh g-god, sweetheart.." he chokes out and you feel him pulsating and twitching faintly inside you as if he's fighting back the urge to cum right then and there, his hair flopping into his eyes as he rocks forward slightly.

and then, one thick finger is finding itself on your clit, gliding across the wetness just pouring out of you in sultry sheens as he guides you to take him, and almost instantly, your cunt greedily swallows him to the hilt, a faint bulge outlining his cock stretching all the way up past your belly button generously.

"good.. hah.. girl, taking me so well." he breathes out, and then his jittery lap is already bouncing you slowly, unable to wait another second as you feel his hefty length tracing sweltering hot strokes deep inside you, rolling his hips upward as he pants feverishly, a hand draping its way around your waist and pulling you closer.

drool pours down the side of your mouth helplessly as he moves you up and down on him, your pussy so stuffed and overspilling, it's almost obscene, though he seems to like it, cooing soft praises to you in encouragement.

"i betcha like this, yeah?" quickly grabbing ahold of your hips to get a better angle, he begins hitting into the cushy, soft spot of yours that always makes your legs weaken, smearing gooey precum from his bludgeony tip into you roughly, while the squelching between your legs grows louder, and more lewd with every thrust, the plap plap plap! of your sticky thighs ricocheting off his echoing throughout the vast castle.

he jolts his swollen head allll the way into your cervix, jackhammering with an urgency that leaves your mouth agape and tongue lolling as you feel your abdominals tighten, a familiar tautness creeping its way into your mind.

your pussy flutters around his length as his thrusts grow sloppy, and uncalculated, soft hair tickling you as he leans closer, his musky cinnamon-y scent infiltrating your every sense. "m' s'close my girl, i n-never.. hah.. thought this day would come." he shudders under your touch as you pause, bringing his face closer to truly examine it for the first time that night.

"wait- satoru?" and then, all the pieces come clicking together.

the magical man who had flown and twirled you around in the air was nothing other than the satoru gojo, owner of the infamous moving castle and the most powerful wizard of all time.

and it's then that he cums, spurting heaps n' heaps of creamy bucketloads of ribbony white. so much of it is pouring out, in fact, you swear your tummy swells up with it all, beginning to drip down your thighs in messy rivulets as gojo groans, unable to stop emptying himself heftily inside you.

your release follows just seconds later, as you soak his abdominals in your honeyed essence, slippery sheens coating him generously as he moans softly, still huffing from the effects of his own climax.

as you both come to, stars still blinking hazily behind your vision, you turn to him urgently. "g-gojo, the real reason i came here was 'cause.."

but he quickly shushes you, placing a finger on your pouty lips with a smirk curving up his features. "shh, baby i know, i know. you got a curse on ya, hm?"

you pause, taken aback. "how did you-"

he shakes his head. "in all truth, i was the one who sent her. i wanted to see you." he shifts himself to lean over you, bending your knees up to poke into your soft tits, grinning lazily down at you as he folds you into a mean, mating press. "and sweetheart, even if that love curse was real.. let's just say i already broke it, heh."

© 2025 CHOSOSCUTIE. please don't copy or translate any of my works. all rights reserved.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

tagslist: @brownied0ll @iluvgogurt445 @loafteaw @satoruswifeyyyyy @lunar-harts @springismss @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @luvvcho

[starrberry-milk]

this was my interpretation of gojo and geto as sophie and howl. howl's moving castle is my favorite movie ever so i just HAD to make a stsg au with it. it's self indulgent but this has gotta be one of my favorite things i've made, and i'm definitely gonna make more art for this au!

[jjksugurugeto]

howl's moving castle/jjk crossover (satosugu)

satoru, your hair looks just like starlight. it's beautiful."

[oppitfs]

"A Heart's A Heavy Burden."

Gojo Satoru x Howl's Moving Castle

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries, etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (but it won't be, soon. hehe); inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 25.5k.

➵ author's note. longest chapter i've written! let's make this official: there will be one final chapter after this. and then two epilogues. it will take longer to write from here on out, as all of these will be long (purely for my own indulgence sake). tysm for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

You return to the wooden bridge that evening just as precisely as you had left, the world slotting itself back into place as if nothing had ever shifted. The castle looms in the distance, golden light spilling from its many windows. The night air is cold against your skin, and the sharp scent of pine presses into your lungs with every breath you take. The bridge creaks beneath your weight, the only sound in the quiet.

And then, before you can say anything, before you can even process the way the weight of time itself seems to settle back into place, Satoru turns on his heel and walks away.

His coat billows at his ankles as he strides toward the castle, and you don’t stop him. You don’t call out. You don’t even try.

You understand.

If you had just learned that a war was coming in the next decade, that you were fated to stand at the center of it, you’d want to be alone too.

But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

The prophecy claws at the edges of your mind, and it's something you can barely begin to comprehend. Sukuna will rise again. And for what? To spread chaos, to shatter peace, to bring the world to its knees? He has no purpose beyond destruction, no motive beyond his hunger for power. He was never like Grindelwald, never a man with grand ideals of purity or domination. He exists only to challenge the strongest, to crush them beneath his heel, to prove, time and time again, that no one—not even the greatest among them—can match him.

And the strongest, right now, are Dumbledore and—perhaps, if he follows the path laid out for him—Satoru.

You’ve seen it before, in flashes, in hints, in the way he moves, the way he holds back. When he duels, he never fights at full strength. When he plays Quidditch, he never flies as fast as you know he can. He is always withholding, keeping something tucked away just beneath the surface, something no one else has ever truly seen. Not here. Not at Hogwarts. Because there has never been a reason to show it.

But there will be. And that scares you more than anything.

You exhale, the breath leaving you in a slow, deliberate sigh as your hands curl around the cold railing. The wood is smooth beneath your fingertips, worn by years of wind and rain and the occasional student who, like you, finds themselves here when they have nowhere else to go. Beyond the bridge, the Black Lake yawns wide and unbroken, darker than you’ve ever seen it. There are no ripples tonight, no telltale signs of the creatures that lurk beneath, and the reflection of the sky above—endless, and grey with the weight of something coming—sits undisturbed.

The Forbidden Forest looms just beyond the lake, its outline blurred by the early winter fog. It has never been peaceful, never been quiet, not really, not when it is filled with things that move in the shadows, things with sharp teeth and old magic. But from here, from this distance, it almost looks serene. You know better than to believe it, but for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend.

And then—

Snow.

It falls suddenly, in light, hesitant flakes, drifting down from the sky like the softest kind of omen. You blink, startled, looking up as one lands on your nose, and melts instantly. The air changes, sharpens, and you know that by morning the castle grounds will be buried in white.

Satoru is gone, and for the first time since you met him, since he inserted himself into your life like an inevitability, he feels distant. He is probably alone somewhere now, trying to make sense of everything, trying to fit himself into a war that has already decided his role for him. You should be doing the same, you think. You should be planning.

There is too much to do.

You could write down the prophecy, put it somewhere in the Room of Requirement, pin it to the board as if that will make it less terrifying, less real. You could go to a professor—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Fig, even Snape—and ask for guidance, though you don’t know how you’d explain how you know what you do. You could start researching, could spend every waking moment in the library poring over ancient texts, searching for anything that might tell you what you need to know. About Sukuna. About dark magic. About how to stop any of this before it is too late.

But you are exhausted.

It sits heavy inside of you, in the way your shoulders slump against the railing, in the way your eyelids flutter shut for just a second too long. You are tired. Scared. Anxious. You don’t know what will become of Satoru. Or Suguru. Or Sukuna. Or yourself. Any of it, really.

Because how do you stop someone from reaching for power they were never meant to touch? How do you stop something ancient, something that has spent centuries waiting for a moment just like this? How do you stop a war before it begins?

You don’t know because it has never been done before.

And that is what terrifies you most.

You hear voices in the distance, faint at first, then growing closer. A moment later, you see them—Shoko and Nanami, walking toward you across the bridge. Shoko lifts a hand in greeting, her other tucked into the pocket of her robes, while Nanami walks beside her, quiet, watchful.

You force a smile as they approach, though you can tell from the way Shoko narrows her eyes that it is hardly convincing.

"You left Hogsmeade," she says once she’s close enough.

"Yeah," you murmur, wincing a little. "Some stuff happened, and I had to go."

"Stuff as in?"

"Stuff as in, Fushiguro and I ended things."

Not exactly a lie. But not the reason you left, either.

Shoko tilts her head, lips pressing together in something close to amusement. "Okay, Fawkes," she says, voice laced with a quiet kind of exasperation. The nickname makes your ears perk up, but she continues, "before you start lying to me again and again—"

You freeze.

She keeps going.

"-I know everything. So does Kento. We’ve known from the start."

You stare at her. "What?"

"We know you’re a Marauder," Shoko says simply. "And so is Satoru."

"Huh?"

"I figured it out first, actually. Right around the time you guys started," she continues, as if you hadn’t just been rendered speechless. "Kento caught on around the end of last year."

You blink, trying to process it, trying to make sense of how, when, why this happened.

"Hold on," you say, holding up a hand. "I’m still trying to—"

"Utahime doesn’t know because she can’t keep a secret, and Suguru doesn’t either, for obvious reasons," Shoko says, unfazed. "But yeah. We know."

You open your mouth, only to close it again.

"And," she adds, finally, "I just saw Satoru run to the Slytherin common room like his life depended on it, so I’m worried. Which is why I dragged Kento here with me."

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. Shoko smiles. You stare.

Nanami exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair before rubbing at his temple like this is already giving him a headache. The bridge is silent, save for the distant howl of wind threading through the trees, the occasional distant rustling of leaves.

"I'm sure by now you know that I sent the notes," he says finally, voice even but quiet, careful. "Well, Shoko and I both did. It would’ve been difficult for me to slip something into Gojo’s things without raising suspicion." He hesitates for a beat, then continues, "We just saw him running towards the corridor in a three-piece suit. He looked troubled. He was having trouble breathing, too, I think."

Something sharp pulls at your chest, your heart—like an invisible hook lodged deep inside, tugging. That familiar, gnawing worry. You’d known it was a lot. You’d known it would hit him, eventually.

"I should go," you say, the words slipping out in a breath, barely audible. "Check on him."

"No," Shoko cuts in, firm but gentle, shaking her head. "Let him be. Just for a while. God knows he needs it." She tilts her head, considering you. "Tell us what's going on until then."

Your breath catches.

"I…" You look away, pressing your lips together, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I can’t," you say finally, and it comes out more defeated than you'd like. You close your eyes, inhale deep. "It would put you two in danger."

"Tell us anyway," Shoko says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And you freeze. Because it’s what you’d said to Satoru. Your lips part slightly, the words catching in your throat.

"Shoko, Kento," you start, quiet, uncertain, "I can’t tell you because one of us could die. If anything goes wrong—if we make even the smallest mistake—any of us could die. And it'll be Satoru before anybody else." Your fingers tighten around the railing, nails digging into the wood. "I can't let anything happen to you all. I can't let it happen to him."

"I think that's exactly why we deserve to know," Nanami says. His voice is steady, certain. "If we knew, wouldn’t that make us prepared?"

"What he said," Shoko adds, jerking a thumb at him.

You chew at your lip, thinking. Really thinking. You weigh it in your head, measure it against all the things you have to lose. The answer should be easy. You should say no. You should shut them out, the way you’ve been trying to shut yourself out, trying to keep yourself from spiraling down the same hole that Satoru is surely falling into. But the reality of it is this: they already know too much. And you? You're tired of carrying this alone.

Your gaze flickers to Nanami. "You were the one who saw it happening," you murmur. "Suguru. Yes?"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation.

You exhale slowly.

"Then perhaps," you pause, gaze flitting between them, "perhaps I should show you. Both of you."

They exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them. You don’t wait for them to say anything before you push yourself off the railing and step away from the bridge.

"Come along," you say, and start walking.

When Ieiri Shoko and Nanami Kento watch the Room of Requirement’s entrance unfurl before them for the first time, they are silent. Not because they have nothing to say, but because for once in their lives, words fail them.

The heavy stone wall melts away as if it had never existed, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond an almost obsidian door, lined with flickering sconces that cast shifting shadows against the uneven stones. The air is thick with the kind of magic that feels alive—sentient, even. Like the room is watching. Like it knows.

Shoko is the first to step inside, careful, as though she’s afraid that too much movement might shatter the illusion. But her eyes are wide, alight with something almost childlike, and when she turns back to you, her face is alight with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

Nanami lingers in the doorway, gaze sweeping the space with the kind of measured, critical intensity he applies to everything. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so visibly stunned before—he probably wasn't when he figured out what you and Satoru had been up to last year, or when he discovered what Geto had been doing. But now, here, he looks awed.

“Welcome,” you say, voice soft in the cavernous quiet. "To the infamous Marauders’ hideout. The Room of Requirement.”

Shoko lets out a breathless laugh, half-disbelieving. “You’re telling me this has been a real place all along?" Her voice pitches, incredulous. "It’s not just a school legend?”

“No,” you say, amusement curling at the edges of your words, “it’s quite real.” You nudge your chin toward the far end of the room. “There’s even some Floo powder there, by the way. Although, someone who hasn’t been inside can’t access it from the outside. So it’s safe.”

They don’t reply immediately, too preoccupied with taking it all in. And you get it, you do. It’s a lot to absorb all at once.

The Room of Requirement is not just a place. It is a living thing, shifting to accommodate its keepers, breathing with them, anticipating their needs before they are even spoken.

Tonight, it is warm. Firelight flickers in the hearth, casting long golden shadows against the stone floor. A set of plush armchairs are arranged around a low table, the cushions so inviting you know that if Shoko sits, she won’t be getting up for a while. At the far end, a dueling area stands empty, training dummies lined against the wall, waiting. The bookshelves, stacked high with both school-required texts and books of a more illicit nature, stretch toward the ceiling, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations before you.

Nanami’s gaze drifts across the space, sweeping over it like he’s cataloging everything, making sense of it piece by piece. But it’s the long wooden table in the back that finally holds his attention. That, and the pinboard behind it—cluttered with parchment, scrawled notes pinned in a desperate kind of order, books stacked precariously in between.

“That’s your research, I’m guessing,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than before. He tilts his head toward the table but keeps his eyes on you.

You nod. “And the Marauders’ business, too. But we haven’t been focusing on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Shoko snorts, finally dragging her gaze away from the bookshelves. “Pansy was complaining about the fact that her love potion still hasn’t reached Satoru.” She rolls her eyes. “As if that would ever happen.”

That startles a laugh out of you, small but real.

Nanami sighs. "Please tell me you're not about to show us anything illegal."

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Depends on what you consider illegal," you say, before stepping further into the room.

The fire crackles, flames licking higher for a fleeting moment before settling into a steady glow. It smells like parchment and ink, like candle wax melting, like the dust that clings to old books. The air in the Room of Requirement is thick with something else, too—anticipation, maybe. Or something heavier. It's all waiting to be said.

You step toward the long wooden table, fingers absently undoing the buttons of your black long coat as you slide it onto the chair at the head of it. Shoko whistles low under her breath when she catches sight of what you’re wearing.

“Damn,” she muses.

You glance down at yourself, at the crisp white button-up and dark dress pants, the fabric stiff in a way your usual clothes never are. They feel unnatural on you, unfamiliar, as if you’re still wearing someone else’s skin. Gojo's mother's skin.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Just formals. Gojo told me to dress the part for something we did today.”

It had been the only thing in your wardrobe without color that could pass as formal in the first place. Everything else had felt too casual, too much like you.

Shoko smirks. “Didn’t think you owned anything that made you look like you mean business.”

You roll your eyes, pushing up your sleeves. “Alright,” you sigh, palms flattening against the table as you look toward the pinboard, “this is… going to be a long night.” A pause, before you try to divert. “I think we should get some food. Or something.”

Shoko waves a hand dismissively. “Just start. I’ll take care of that in a bit.” Her lips quirk. “I’m dying of anticipation.”

“O-okay.” You exhale slowly.

The room is quiet but not silent—Nanami shifts slightly in his seat, arms crossed as he watches you with that unreadable look of his. The fire murmurs in the background.

You glance toward the board, at the tangled mess of parchment and ink that holds more questions than answers, and begin.

“A few weeks ago, Satoru and I got notes with riddles on them,” you say, voice steady despite the weight of what you’re about to unravel. “We didn’t know who sent them then, but obviously, that was you two. He, however, still doesn't know that.” You glance between them. “It took us sometime decode them. Mostly because of me, I think. I was too focused on trying to get into the Restricted Section. I kept making it more complicated than it needed to be.” A wry smile flickers across your lips. “Didn’t realize I already had the answer.”

Shoko snorts. “Sounds about right.”

You shake your head, turning back to the board. “Anyway. We figured out the riddles. But we didn’t know who was practicing the said dark magic.”

“We told you it was someone with dark hair,” Shoko points out, arms folded across her chest.

You give her a flat look. “You didn’t tell us it was Geto Suguru. How were we supposed to know it was him with just that one hint?”

Shoko huffs, looking mildly offended. “I put it in Satoru’s quill case.”

You blink. “What?”

She lifts her chin, indignant. “The note. I put it in Satoru’s quill case. Suguru gave him that for Christmas last year. It has Satoru's family crest on it.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at her, processing.

“Oh,” you say. A pause. “Wait, what?”

Nanami exhales sharply through his nose, the sound quiet but weighted, and when he finally speaks, his voice is even softer than before.

"I'm guessing Gojo knew from the very beginning who it was," he says. "He just didn’t tell you. Because it was his best friend."

The words settle heavily between you, like stones thrown into deep water, sinking too fast for you to catch them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You blink, lips parting slightly, eyebrows knitting together as the realization unfurls inside your chest—too much, too fast.

"I..." You swallow, shaking your head slightly. "I can’t do this right now."

Your voice is quiet, but the panic threading through it is unmistakable. The walls of the Room of Requirement feel closer, the flickering candlelight too dim, the fire suddenly not warm enough.

"Wait," Shoko says quickly, pushing herself to the edge of her seat. "Calm yourself a bit. Don’t panic. Breathe."

But how could you? How could you possibly breathe knowing that everything could have been different?

"Shoko, you don’t understand," you say, voice trembling just enough to betray you. You take a step back, hands curling into fists, nails pressing into the flesh of your palms. "There's going to be a war. An inevitable one, and Satoru is going to be right dead in the center of it. We could’ve stopped this a lot sooner if he had just—" Your voice catches. "...If he had just told me."

Shoko’s lips part slightly, her brow furrowing in concern, but it’s Nanami who speaks first.

"I think coming to terms with the fact that your best friend is slowly losing his mind was hard on him," he says, measured as always, like he’s thought about this long before now. His voice is steady, but not unkind. "What would you do if it were Shoko? If you saw the signs, if you knew—would you tell everyone? Or would you keep it to yourself until you felt it was right?"

The question stills something inside of you, stills the rising panic clawing at your ribs.

That isn’t fair.

But the words don’t leave your mouth. Because the truth is—you don’t know. You’ve never had to consider it before. What would you do, if it were Shoko? If the signs had been there, if the truth had been staring at you all along, if you knew what she was becoming but didn’t want to know?

You don’t answer.

Nanami doesn’t push.

"Let’s not think about that right now," Shoko murmurs, her voice softer now. A sigh escapes her lips. "Just… tell us the rest. You can talk to Satoru later. I don’t think he’s going to hide anything else from you anymore."

You breathe out, forcing the tension from your shoulders, running a hand over your hair before finally giving a small nod.

"Yeah," you say, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

And so, after a long moment of staring at the polished wood of the long table, tracing the faint grain patterns with your eyes as if they might offer some clarity, you finally speak. The words come slowly at first, uncertain, before they gather momentum like a storm rolling in over the horizon.

You tell them everything.

The wild goose chase that led you through dead ends and tangled riddles. The reason you’ve been falling behind in classes, too preoccupied with shadows lurking at the edges of your vision, too consumed by something far larger than yourself. You tell them about the genealogy and the list you'd made of pureblood students, the weeks spent poring over lineages and old records, trying to untangle a history that had already written its ending. The wild goose chase Gojo had pushed you into, one he knew would come up with a dead end.

You don’t tell them about the night you found him bruised and battered, about the way his body had looked under dim candlelight, all pale skin and deep scars. You don’t tell them about how you reached for him before you could think better of it, how you’d pressed trembling hands against his wounds, whispering healing charms under your breath like they were prayers. You don’t tell them how, even now, the image of him sits heavy in your mind.

But you tell them everything else. Including the day you learned it was Suguru. And some of today.

The moment you say the name Sukuna, Shoko’s eyes widen. Nanami furrows his brow, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he folds his arms tightly across his chest. There’s a beat of silence before you continue, a silence so thick it almost feels suffocating. They know who he is.

"And," you say, voice barely above a whisper, "do either of you know anything about Horcruxes?"

You already know the answer before they shake their heads.

You sigh, fingers drumming against the table before pushing yourself to stand, turning towards the pinboard littered with notes, parchments, stolen scraps of information. You reach for one of them—a copied page from a book deep in the Restricted Section, enchanted to preserve its fragile ink.

"Horcruxes," you say, voice even, "are Dark Magic. The darkest. A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark wizard or witch has hidden a detached fragment of their soul in order to become immortal. As long as the receptacle remains intact, so too does the soul fragment inside it, keeping the maker anchored to the world of the living, even if their body suffers fatal damage. It is, by far, the most terrible of all Dark Magic."

Shoko lets out a slow breath, one you can tell she’s been holding since the moment you spoke the word Horcrux. Then, with shaky hands, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The flick of her lighter is loud in the quiet room, the flame sparking before catching. She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, shoulders tense.

"How exactly does one make a Horcrux?" Nanami asks, and his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it. A tension, a quiet dread, a thing he is holding back.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a slow step towards the pinboard, brushing your fingers against a yellowed scrap of parchment, one that holds the answer.

"Horcruxes can only be created after committing murder," you say, and your voice feels distant, as if it belongs to someone else. "The most supreme act of evil, as a means to tear the soul. The process involves a spell, but it also requires… a horrific act. Something else. Something beyond the killing itself."

Your throat is dry when you finish speaking. You don’t elaborate further.

Shoko exhales another puff of smoke, watching the way it curls into the air before vanishing entirely.

"Do we know what spell it is?" she asks, voice flat.

You shake your head. "No."

Nanami clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly. His voice is quiet when he speaks, deliberate. "How many does… Sukuna have?"

You hesitate. Your chest tightens.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say, "Twenty."

Silence.

Shoko is the first to react. She lets out a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh before running a hand down her face. "Oh, bloody hell," she mutters, more to herself than to either of you, her cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers. "We’re losing this fucking war."

You shoot her a sharp look, narrowing your eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she says, though there’s no real weight behind it. Just the unshakable understanding that she’s right.

"So, after that, on a pure whim," you continue, voice even, "and because Dumbledore hinted at it, Satoru and I went to the Ministry of Magic."

The words barely leave your mouth before Shoko furrows her brows, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Dumbledore?" she echoes. "He knows all of this is happening and he's just quiet?"

"Let me finish," you say, exasperated. "Anywho, we went there disguised as Satoru's parents. To get into the Department of Mysteries. And…" You pause, mouth suddenly dry. "We saw a memory. Through a Pensieve."

Nanami leans forward, the scrape of his chair against stone barely audible over the distant crackling of the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell from the way his hands tighten into fists on his lap that he wants you to continue.

So you do.

"I was the one who saw it. Gojo’s mother was there. And a Seer. And she… she predicted this."

You don’t need to look at them to know that both Shoko and Nanami are holding their breath.

You grab a blank parchment from the pile near the long table, then reach for your wand. With a flick, you enchant the quill and the inkwell, and ink spills onto the paper in deliberate, flowing strokes. The prophecy comes to life in front of you, each letter bleeding into the parchment as if carving itself into history.

Once it’s done, you peel it from the desk, walking toward the pinboard. You pin it in place, stepping back as the ink settles into its final form.

Then, you wait. You watch them as they read it. As their expressions shift.

Nanami is the first to react. His breath comes slow, controlled, but you can see the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly where they rest on his knee. Shoko exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

"I never knew it was this serious," she mumbles, shaking her head. "I thought Suguru was just… straying. But this is—" she exhales, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling as if it might give her answers, "this is so much more than just straying off the damn path."

"I'm aware," you murmur. Your gaze lingers on the prophecy, its words stark against the parchment. Then, you turn to Kento.

He is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor as if weighing something in his mind. Then, when he finally looks up, his voice is steady.

"He already has one."

Your breath catches.

You turn back to the prophecy, scanning the words again. Sure enough, there it is. Right in front of you. Hidden in the ink, waiting for you to see it.

The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.

It’s silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, softly, Shoko whispers, "Oh. Oh. Is that what that thing was?"

Your head snaps toward her. "What thing?"

She presses her lips together, then leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette on a scrap of parchment and leaving it there. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

"Kento said Suguru had something in his hand the day he saw him," she says. "Said he was trying to do something with it. But he failed."

You feel your pulse spike. "What was it?"

Nanami shifts in his seat. His brows are furrowed, expression unreadable. "Some kind of jewelry," he says after a beat. "A ring, a locket—something like that. If I remember correctly." His gaze flickers to you. "It glinted in the night. I wouldn't have been able to see it otherwise."

A ring. A locket. Something like that.

Your fingers curl at your sides. Your mind races, filling in gaps, connecting threads you didn’t even know were there.

Suguru had it. The first. He didn't know how to use it.

And for the first time in what feels like forever today, you exhale, a sharp breath pushing out of your chest, and let out something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. A breathless, almost incredulous smile pulls at the corners of your lips.

"He doesn’t know how to use it," you say, and the words sound foreign, unbelievable even as they leave your mouth.

Shoko’s head snaps up. "He doesn’t?" Her brows lift, her eyes sharpening with interest.

You nod, still grinning, still letting it sink in. "He doesn’t know the spell," you say again, firmer this time, "Just like us. He has no idea how to use it. He probably knows the ritual Sukuna performed when he made the receptacle, sure, but he doesn’t know how to absorb it. He doesn’t know how to become Sukuna’s vessel."

Silence. The distant hum of magic humming in the walls.

Nanami exhales slowly, a measured sound, like he’s letting himself believe it in pieces. "That buys us time," he murmurs, voice even.

"More than time," you say, your breath coming fast now, the weight in your chest loosening for the first time tonight. "This—this is good."

Something sharp and triumphant cuts through your voice, and when you look up, Shoko’s already watching you, her lips twitching, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

"Okay," you say, inhaling, rolling your shoulders back. "Here’s what I need from you two."

They straighten at once.

"Find out as much as you can about the ritual," you tell them, stepping forward, hands bracing the back of your chair. "Whatever you can get your hands on, I’ll take it. Anything. If you can find anything on the absorption process, even better."

"That would require us to go to the Restricted Section," Nanami points out, voice steady, "How are we supposed to get in without raising suspicion?"

For a second, it's quiet.

Then Shoko lifts her chin, something glinting in her gaze. "I’ve got it," she says. She sits up, snuffing out the last embers of her cigarette against a stray piece of parchment before flicking it onto the table. "I can get Slughorn to give us permission. I’m in his Slug Club, anyway."

She glances at you. "I know you dropped out because of everything else you've got going on."

You nod, lips pressing together. "I quit last year because I became a Prefect."

"Exactly," she says simply. "So it won’t look suspicious if I’m the one asking."

Nanami hums, nodding along, considering it.

"Good," Shoko says quietly, then shifts in her chair, watching you carefully. "And, erm…" She hesitates. "I think, just maybe, you should approach the Suguru angle with Gojo."

You blink at her. "What do you mean, 'Suguru angle'?"

She exhales, shaking her head. "Try to figure out where he’s doing what he’s doing. He probably realized the Black Lake was too conspicuous for him to be practicing dark magic there. If he’s serious about this, really serious, he’s already found a new place. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere not easily accessible."

Your lips thin as you consider it. You don’t like it. You don’t like the idea of talking to Satoru about this right now—not when you’re already angry, not when the hurt of his silence is still fresh. But you know she’s right.

"Alright," you murmur finally. "Makes sense."

And then, before anyone else can speak, the door swings open.

You turn at the same time as Shoko and Kento.

Gojo Satoru stands at the entrance of the Room of Requirement, eyes wide, his breath just slightly unsteady. The light from the torches lining the stone walls flickers across his face, casting half of it in shadow, but you can still see it—the shock. The way his whole body tenses when he takes in the room. The pinboard. The parchment. The faces of the people sitting at the long table, staring back at him like they know everything.

His mouth opens. "What the bloody hell is—"

But before he can even finish the sentence, Shoko and Nanami stand.

"We’ll be back in a bit," Shoko says breezily, brushing past him, her fingers already digging into the pocket of her robes for another cigarette.

Nanami is more measured, placing a hand on your chair as he steps away, his voice quieter, meant only for you. "Sort this out," he murmurs. "We’ll be back once you do."

Then, with a final glance at Gojo, they slip out of the room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind them.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Gojo stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you know him too well—you can see it, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his blindfold even though he isn't wearing it. Like he wants to hide.

The air in the Room of Requirement is thick, heavy, charged with something electric and sharp, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

"Why were they here?" he asks again, his voice slow, deliberate, as if each word is pulled from the depths of something ugly. "Why were they sitting here, looking at all our work? Why have you gone and put them in danger?"

Your spine straightens. You exhale through your nose.

You don’t know how to approach this, how to tread the thin line between confrontation and whatever twisted kind of loyalty still lingers between the two of you. Should you let him rage, let him try to talk his way out of it? Should you let him explain before you say the words that have been sitting in your chest like lead?

Or should you laugh in his face? Should you remind him exactly what it feels like to be kept in the dark?

Fuck it. You’re choosing the latter.

"When the fuck were you going to tell me you knew about Suguru from the very beginning?"

The tone shifts. It’s dead silent. You step forward. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for the first time tonight, his confidence wavers. His brows furrow, and he blinks, once, then again, as if he needs a moment to process the fact that you’re not asking—you’re accusing.

"I did not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me." Your voice is eerily calm, even to your own ears. "You knew. You knew from the beginning. You said you found the note in your quill case. The one with your family crest."

Gojo says nothing, but the shift in his stance is enough. His lips part, then press back together, like he's trying to think of what to say, how to spin this into something palatable, something that won’t make you hate him.

But you don't give him the chance.

"The one Suguru gave to you last year for Christmas," you say, voice quiet now, final, like a blade pressing against the soft of his throat.

"I-I told you, I didn’t know until I confirmed it," Gojo says, his voice breaking, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

You shake your head, pressing forward, your movements deliberate, and before he realizes it, he’s backing up, until the back of the sofa is against his legs and he has nowhere else to go. The firelight flickers behind you, casting long shadows over his face, over yours, over the room that has borne witness to months of secrets, of sleepless nights, of a war neither of you were ready for but have been forced to fight anyway.

"Gojo," you say, voice deadly quiet, "you lie to me one more time, and I walk away. I drop everything. I leave you to fight this war by yourself, and I won’t look back even if—"

You can’t bring yourself to say it. You can’t even bring yourself to imagine it.

Your throat bobs. The silence between you is thick, suffocating.

"Tell me the truth," you say, voice barely above a whisper now, but somehow heavier than anything you've ever spoken. "For once. Please."

Gojo exhales, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t try to charm his way out of it. His shoulders sink, his mask crumbles, and something inside him breaks.

"I knew from the beginning," he admits. His voice is raw, like he’s dragging the words out of his chest. "That it was Suguru."

The confirmation should not hurt as much as it does. But it does.

You inhale sharply, blinking once, twice, feeling the heat behind your eyes, the way your pulse roars in your ears.

"So you sent me on a wild goose chase for no reason whatsoever?" you ask, voice shaking, too close to his face now, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. "You let me go weeks without sleep. You let me end up in the Infirmary. All because you were scared of telling me the truth?"

Gojo’s hands twitch at his sides. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, and his voice is so full of regret, so full of something that looks like guilt and something that looks like shame and something that looks like every broken thing inside him. "I-I didn’t want Suguru to get hurt. He’s my—"

"Best friend," you cut in, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones, "yes. You’ve made that quite clear, by putting all of us in danger."

Gojo flinches like you struck him.

"Fawkes," he says, softly. It is not the teasing lilt you are used to, nor the lazy drawl that usually stretches your name into something playfully insolent. No, this is different—a quiet fragility in a way you have never heard from him before. "I’m sorry."

The room feels smaller now, like the walls have drawn inward, sensing the shift in the air. The parchment on the walls—maps, theories, pages ripped from books, all of it evidence of what the two of you have built together—rustles faintly from a draft you cannot place.

Gojo takes a breath, shallow, uneven. "I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, "I didn’t mean for you to end up in the Infirmary, and I really, really didn’t mean for it to become this bad. I’m sorry."

A muscle jumps in your jaw. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You are so close to him, too close, the heat of his body pressed against yours like a suffocating thing, a reminder of how easily he has wormed his way into every part of your life.

You shake your head. "What good is your apology going to do right now?" Your voice is thin, breaking apart at the edges. You swallow against the tightness in your throat. "We have to work. We have to figure out how to—"

"Fawkes."

His grip on your arm is sudden, warm, and firm enough to pull you against him. Your breath catches. It is exactly like earlier today, when you could not breathe, when he had held you upright and let you lean into him, when the weight of it all had pressed so violently against your chest that you thought you might shatter under it.

You look up at him now, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank, forcing yourself to ignore the way his touch—steady, grounding—threatens to unravel you. But your chin quivers, just slightly, and you curse yourself for it.

You exhale sharply. "There’s no point, Gojo." The words come out quieter than you mean them to. "Everything surrounding you is a lie. Everything you tell me is either a lie or half of the truth. I’m done."

"You can’t be," he whispers.

His throat bobs as he swallows, as if he is trying to push back something he cannot name. His fingers tighten around your arm, just barely, like he is afraid you will slip through them if he lets go. His eyes are wide, shining in the dim firelight, rimmed red in a way that makes something ache in your chest.

"Not now," he breathes, "not when everything is just starting."

You don’t pull away. But you don’t move closer, either. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at you again. "I know," he says, shaking his head, voice hoarse, "I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything you want to know from now on. I won’t hide anything, I promise." His hands tremble slightly as he moves, as he lifts them and cups your face, as if grounding himself in the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

You stiffen. His fingers are warm against your cheek, tentative, as if he is afraid you might pull away, might shatter like glass beneath his touch.

"Just don’t—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "Don’t leave."

Your breath catches. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, hesitant, careful, like he is memorizing the shape of you. His hands have always been steady, in duels, in Quidditch, even in your reckless Marauder stunts, but now they tremble just the slightest bit. You cannot tell if it is fear or exhaustion or something else entirely.

"I was stupid," he whispers, his forehead almost touching yours now. "I thought I could do everything by myself because I am the strongest. But I’m not."

You blink. He exhales shakily.

"I need you to be who I am," he continues, softer now, as if admitting it is costing him something. "I’m not a Marauder without you."

Something in your chest twists violently, and you cannot tell if it is anger or grief or something far, far worse.

You pull away from him. The air between you turns cold the second you do, like the warmth of his hands had been the only thing keeping it from suffocating you both.

You rub at your arm, where his fingers had been wrapped just seconds ago, trying to erase the sensation, the weight of it. His touch lingers like an ache, like a bruise that hasn’t formed yet. Your breath is uneven, but you force your voice to stay steady. "Nanami sent us the notes."

Gojo's brows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, his face unreadable.

"Or, well," you correct yourself, "he saw it happen. And he told Shoko. And they thought it best to send us the notes."

A sharp pause. You can hear the low crackle of the fire, the distant echo of footsteps outside the Room of Requirement, the way Gojo’s breath hitches, like he’s bracing for impact.

"What?"

"Yeah," you say, looking up at him again, studying his expression—how he stiffens, how the realization settles into his bones, how his lips press into a thin line. "They sent us the notes because they thought we’d be able to do something about it. It’s how I know that you knew from the beginning."

His fingers twitch, curling into his palms.

"Shoko told me about the quill case."

Gojo exhales sharply. The sound of it is almost a laugh, but not quite. "O-oh." He nods once, slowly, then wipes a hand over his face. "Right. Of course."

You hesitate. "Y-yeah." The words feel thin.

A long silence stretches between you. He isn’t looking at you now, staring instead at the scattered parchment on the walls, at the hastily scribbled notes, at the maps and the half-finished equations, at the things the two of you have been piecing together, brick by brick, clue by clue.

You exhale. "So I told them everything."

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp, searching.

"It’s why they were here," you continue, voice quieter now. "They’re going to help us."

Gojo hums. His expression is unreadable again. "And I’m assuming I can’t say anything against it?"

You look him straight in the eye. "No."

Something shifts in his face. For a second, he looks tired—exhausted, even. But then he nods, and there’s something almost resigned in his voice when he says, "That’s alright too." Another pause. Then softer, "That’s perfectly alright."

He steps closer again, hesitant this time.

You don’t move away, but you can’t bear to look at him.

"Fawkes," he says, softer now. 

The room is quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quiet in a way that makes it hard to breathe, a quiet that seeps into the walls, into the very air between you. The glow in the room is too dim to be comforting. This is not a comforting place anymore. This is a room built for secrecy, for the unspoken, for the things no one dares to say aloud. And it is waiting.

You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.

“Let’s just get our work done, please.”

It comes out barely above a whisper, the words steady but brittle, like the glass panes of the high-arched windows, delicate and too easy to shatter. You walk toward the long table again, fingers trailing absently over the rough-hewn wood, and release a breath that is far too shaky for your liking. But before you can gather yourself, before you can push it down, you ask, “Oh, um, Satoru?”

He looks up immediately. His name on your tongue is a hook in his ribs, pulling taut. Always, he is waiting for you to call on him. Always, he turns too fast, listens too carefully.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else I should know?” You still don’t face him. Instead, you keep your hands busy, pressing the edges of a parchment flat against the table. “About this whole situation?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. A long, harrowing second where the only sound in the room is the slow crackle of the fireplace. But then, a shift. A sharp inhale.

The almost-imperceptible tension in his shoulders, in his spine.

When you do look up, he is already looking at you, wide-eyed, guilty in a way he can’t quite hide. His throat bobs, like he is forcing something down, like the words are already thick in his mouth. You narrow your eyes.

“Out with it, please.”

“I—” He hesitates. He wets his lips, exhales sharply, then straightens. “You have to promise me you won’t be angry.”

Your stare flattens.

“I mean it,” he presses, raising his hands in a pitiful show of defense. It’s almost funny—if you weren’t so tired, if you weren’t so very sick of this entire thing, maybe you’d laugh. Instead, you cross the space between you.

“Satoru.” Your voice is low, edged with something dangerous. “You realize we can’t keep going like this. With me in the dark all the time.”

A breath. A moment.

“You’re right.” He closes his eyes, just for a second. And when he opens them, there is something raw in his face, something hesitant and young and unsure. “Here goes, I guess.”

A pause. A bracing.

“Suguru is a Legilimens.”

The words hit like a curse. You still. “You have to be joking.”

“He’s—” Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “That’s all of it. I’m not hiding anything else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Wait, no,” you say, shaking your head, as if that will change what he just said. “Shut up, Satoru. Do you not realize what that means? He can read your mind! Everyone’s minds! He knows we’re the Marauders, and he definitely knows that we’re trying to stop him!”

“He doesn’t know! Well, he knows we’re the Marauders but he doesn’t know that we’re trying to stop him,” Gojo says immediately. “He doesn’t read everyone’s minds like that.”

“Satoru,” you snap, frustration curling sharp in your throat, “you really can’t be serious—”

“He doesn’t,” he repeats, firmer this time. He clenches his fists. “I know it. He doesn’t read my mind specifically.”

“How do you know that?” Your voice is rising now, unable to help it. “You defend your best friend with all your might. But you’ve known from the beginning, Satoru. You’ve known that it’s him all along. That he’s practicing dark magic on school grounds, that he’s trying to collect Horcruxes, and you kept me in the dark for all of it. Like a stupid puppet.”

“I am certain he doesn’t read my mind!” he says, and there is something desperate in it now, something like insistence, like panic. He shakes his head, hard, like he’s willing it to be true. “He does not. He cannot. He will not. If he does, he’ll die.”

The words drop like lead between you. You blink. Your breath stills.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates. It’s a strange thing—to see Gojo Satoru hesitate, to see him falter. It is a chink in armor you did not think was penetrable, a glimpse of something fragile beneath all that gleaming arrogance. Finally, he exhales.

“We…” He swallows. “We made a blood pact.”

You stare. The words don’t land, not at first. They slip through your mind like water, too large to process, too absurd to be real. “You made a blood pact with Geto Suguru?”

The horror in your voice is palpable as you continue. “You made a blood pact with a dark wizard?”

“He was not a dark wizard when we did it! And we were stupid and only fourth-years! We didn’t know what we were doing!” he fights back, something heated in his eyes, “He would not read me. He can’t read me. I-I made sure of it. There will be dire consequences if he does.”

“I know what a blood pact is,” you say, and you hate the bitterness in your own voice, the way your chest twists with it.

For a second, you are quiet. Too quiet.

You’d let go of his arm a while ago, but now you are thinking.

Something isn’t right.

“A blood pact is not made with just one person’s conditions,” you murmur, and your voice feels like it belongs to someone else. “What was your part of the pact, Satoru?”

The guilt that crosses his face is immediate. That is when you know.

“I vowed that I would not betray him.”

Your chest tightens.

Your breath hitches. The world is tilting, slightly, like a chessboard mid-topple, like something irrevocable has just clicked into place.

“You are inadvertently betraying him right this very second.”

“No, I am not,” he insists, shaking his head. “You know blood pacts do not need to be direct. I do not believe I’m betraying him. I believe, completely, that by helping take actions against his dark magic, I’m helping him.”

“A loophole to a blood pact?” you ask, voice barely more than breath. “Are you serious?”

“I am not dead yet, am I?” he asks, laughing hollowly. “Dire consequences are nowhere to be seen. I’m fine.”

The anger snaps back so fast you barely register it.

“What if you aren’t one day?” Your voice rises again, this time without restraint. “What if you’re dueling with him or something, and you drop dead? What am I supposed to do then? Live with the fact that you’re gone?”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can weigh them, before you can take them back. They echo in the stillness of the room, reverberating off the stone walls, hanging in the charged space between you. And Satoru? Satoru just stares.

His breath comes uneven, shallow, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His brows knit together, faintly, lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. He looks confused. Not at what you’ve said, but at why you’ve said it. At why you care.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, like he’s trying not to startle something fragile. “I’m not going to die.”

He steps forward, instinctive, but you step back. He stops.

Your head shakes, slow, resolute. “What if you do, Gojo?” Your voice is uneven, something raw lurking just beneath it. “What if you leave me all alone? What then?”

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right away. His throat bobs again, and he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s seeing something he wasn’t supposed to, like he didn’t expect it.

And you hate it. You hate the way his gaze lingers, searching, pulling apart your words for something unspoken. You hate the way the room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in, like something between you has been cracked wide open.

You hate the bitter, twisting thing crawling up your ribs, taking root in your chest, making itself at home in the hollow places neither of you want to acknowledge.

So you don’t. You say nothing else. You only turn, walking away, back to the table, back to your work, back to anything that isn’t this.

You wake to the soft crackle of dying embers.

The Room is quiet now, still wrapped in the remnants of last night—scattered parchments on the table, ink pots half-open, books stacked haphazardly as if the two of you had torn through them in desperation before exhaustion won out.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your body is sore, stiff from sleeping on a couch not meant to hold you for this long. The cushions are plush, but they don’t erase the weight pressing into your limbs, the ache behind your eyes. You sit up slowly, exhaling as you push the blanket off you—when had you even pulled it over yourself?

Then, your gaze drifts.

Across the room, Satoru is sprawled on the opposite couch, long legs bent awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest like he’d fallen asleep still determined to argue. His breathing is slow, steady. The faint glow of the fireplace flickers over his face, turning his white hair gold at the edges, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper than they should.

You don’t remember much of last night, only fragments—the two of you combing through pages of research, flipping back and forth between theories and dead ends, the tension never fully fading. You remember the way he had scowled, bitter, whenever Kento had an input on anything. That he and Shoko were helping. That it wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

They had left around four in the morning. You had stayed, not because you thought you’d find anything else, but because leaving had felt impossible.

You had tried, at first, to keep working. Then you’d gotten distracted by what Dobby had packed you. And then you’d forced yourself to work again. To go over the same notes, to dig through the same sources, to look for something—anything—you had missed. But your eyes had burned, and your hands had begun to tremble, and you had forced yourself onto the nearest couch, curling up closest to the fire, ignoring Gojo’s presence entirely.

You hesitate, glancing at him again. His blanket has slipped, one shoulder exposed to the cold air. It’s instinct, maybe, or something quieter, something smaller, but before you can think too much about it, you reach forward, pulling the fabric higher, covering him again.

He stirs.

A breath, sharp. Then a shift, a slow unraveling of sleep. He inhales, blinks rapidly, groggy and disoriented before his gaze finds yours.

“Oh,” he murmurs, sitting up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

You frown. “For what?”

He exhales, tilting his head back, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I don’t know. Just—sorry.”

There’s a nervous energy here now, thick and crackling. The fire crackles again, punctuating the silence, and you cross your arms, glancing away.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” you say, voice quiet.

His hand drops to his lap. He looks at you again, searching, as if trying to find something in your face that he can’t name.

“We should go for breakfast,” you say softly, “Utahime’s probably wondering where I am.”

He hums, “I should go, too.”

You look at him for a few seconds, and for those few seconds, it feels like it’s just the two of you. The world beyond the Room of Requirement recedes—Hogwarts, the war, the things you know you shouldn’t say aloud. Everything dissolves, leaving only the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace, the quiet rhythm of your breath, the space between you that neither of you dares to cross. He’s looking at you, his expression unreadable, the blue of his eyes sharp, like winter morning frost. And you are looking back at him, knowing something you cannot name, something that roots you to the spot, unwilling to move.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something. And for a moment, you think you might.

But then you stand, the movement stiff and awkward, your limbs sluggish from sleep, and the words you might have said slip away. You fidget with your fingers as you glance toward the door. The warmth from the fireplace lingers against your skin, the weight of last night still pressing down on your shoulders.

“You should perhaps,” Gojo says, his voice still rough from sleep, “change before you go to the Great Hall.” A pause, then, dryly, “You still look like my mother.”

You blink, looking down at yourself. Oh. You had forgotten—crisp white dress shirt, untucked from the black trousers due to you sleeping in them, the long black coat draped over the sofa behind you. It’s not a bad look, but it’s not yours. It had been necessary last night, however, to present yourself as his mother when you’d infiltrated the Ministry. But now, with the morning light filtering in, you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

You pull out your wand, murmuring, “Multicorfors.”

The fabric shifts and morphs, your clothes shift and settle into something that feels more like yourself. A multicolored jumper, the Gryffindor emblem embroidered near the collar, the threads slightly frayed where your mother’s careful embroidery had begun to wear over time. Beige jeans that are wide-legged, familiar and soft from years of use. Your shoulders drop slightly. This is better. This is you.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze lingering, feel him watching as you nod once and turn toward the door. The wooden panels creak softly as you push them open, and behind you, you hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he follows.

It’s quiet as you make your way through the castle halls, but unlike the quiet of the early morning, when sleep still clung to your bones, this silence is heavier. For as long as you’ve known him, Gojo has never let silence settle for long. He has always been someone who filled the spaces with something—easy laughter, a careless joke, a passing observation that made the world feel lighter. But now, there is nothing.

You don’t know if it’s exhaustion, or if it’s the weight of everything you learned last night pressing down on both of you. Either way, neither of you breaks the quiet.

When you reach the Great Hall, you spot them immediately—Shoko and Nanami, already seated at the Gryffindor table, unbothered by the stares Shoko’s presence earns. She is hunched over a steaming cup of tea, her face drawn with fatigue, while Nanami reads something, chewing absently on a piece of toast.

Utahime isn’t here. Probably still asleep. And Suguru is nowhere to be seen.

You slip into the seat beside Shoko, offering her a small, tired smile before reaching for a glass of water. The coolness soothes the dryness in your throat, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

Gojo sits across from you, but you don’t look at him. And he doesn’t say anything, either.

You watch as Gojo reaches for the serving spoon, lazily scooping a heap of scrambled eggs onto his plate. He takes his time, as if every movement is too much effort, dragging on as he adds a portion of sautéed mushrooms and a couple of sausages, barely looking at what he’s doing. Nanami, opposite him, chews on a slice of toast with the same absentminded exhaustion. His book is open, resting on the table, but his eyes are fixed on a single line, unfocused. He isn’t reading. He’s just staring.

Shoko cradles her teacup between her hands, fingers curled around the warmth, but she isn’t drinking. The steam curls into the cold morning air, dissipating in soft, lazy tendrils. None of them are speaking. The clatter of cutlery and the distant murmur of the Great Hall should fill the silence, but somehow, among the four of you, it feels heavy. Too quiet.

They’re all zoning out. You can feel the weight of it, pressing down, turning everything sluggish, hazy, muted. Like sleep paralysis while still awake.

You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice, trying to break through it.

“Guys,” you whisper, urging, “Come on. Cheer up. We can’t get like this.”

Shoko barely reacts. She blinks, slow and lazy, before murmuring, “We’re not sad, stupid.” She shifts her teacup to one hand, rubbing at her temple with the other. “I’m just tired. I reckon Kento is, too. It’s just you and Satoru who look like you’ve seen hell.”

Your grip tightens around the tea cup you had just reached for. You let the warmth seep into your fingertips, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much.

“That’s sort of because I have,” you say, voice lighter than it should be. The words don’t match the feeling in your chest. You glance at Gojo as you speak, sharp and accusing. Just a little jab. Just a small way to let him know you haven’t forgotten.

His eyes flicker toward you, narrowed, quiet in a way he rarely is.

Nanami’s gaze shifts. He watches, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside, studying the way you look at each other. His brow raises. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at Shoko either. Your eyes stay locked on Gojo’s. You want him to see it coming. You want him to know that you have no choice but to say it.

“It means,” you murmur, slow and deliberate, “that Gojo, here, has given me some very important information that he should have given me a long time ago.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, just the faintest shake of his head. It’s so small that if you weren’t looking at him, you might have missed it. It’s a warning, a plea, a quiet, desperate beg.

Don’t say it.

But you have to. Maybe not all of it. But some of it.

You turn to Shoko first. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity overpowering the exhaustion. Then to Nanami. He is already waiting, arms crossed, ready for whatever it is you’re about to say.

You swallow once before you speak.

“Suguru is a Legilimens,” you say, voice controlled but firm. “He can read minds.”

The moment hangs. Suspended. A thread pulled too tight. Shoko’s jaw falls open. Her fingers tighten around her cup.

You see the realization unfold in real time.

Her tiredness vanishes in an instant, her eyes widening as her mind catches up, as the implications sink in, as she pieces it all together.

Across from her, Nanami is still. Staring.

Then, suddenly, he exhales sharply, setting his book down with slow, deliberate movements, as if he needs to physically hold onto something to steady himself. His fingers tap once against the wooden surface of the table. His face betrays nothing, but you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the way his jaw locks.

No one speaks.

For a moment, the sounds of the Great Hall—the scraping of forks against plates, the distant laughter, the echoes of chatter—feel too far away.

And then, just like that, the air shifts. The weight of this knowledge crashes down, pressing into the space between the four of you. And you know, without anyone saying it, that they’ve both been stumped. 

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Shoko mutters, her voice edged with something sharp, something incredulous. She doesn’t look at you. She looks at Gojo.

Then, suddenly, she leans in, whispering, but it’s the kind of whisper that crackles with restrained fury, the kind that feels louder than a shout. “How dare you not tell us something that important beforehand? Honestly, Gojo, you stupid git. None of us can perform Occlumency. Do you know how hard this makes everything for us?”

Gojo exhales through his nose, tilting his head back just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, as if suddenly exhausted, he reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses, slipping them on in a slow, deliberate motion, like they might shield him from the weight of their glares.

“I was only trying to protect him,” he mutters.

The word ‘him’ sits heavy between you all.

Gojo adjusts his glasses, looking at Shoko again, like he’s daring her to argue with him on this. “If it was her,” he jerks his chin toward you, “you would’ve done the same.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Shoko snaps, “because she isn’t trying to absorb Horcruxes and revitalize a crazy wizard who likes killing everyone.”

You snort, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Shoko wins.”

“Stop that,” Gojo huffs, narrowing his eyes at you before turning back to the other two. His glasses catch the candlelight, making it hard to see his expression beneath them. “We can still do this.”

Nanami raises an unimpressed brow. “Really?” His voice is flat, even. “How are we possibly supposed to do… this? We can’t fight someone when they’ll know exactly what we’re going to do before we even do it.”

“He won’t hurt us,” Gojo says. His voice is calmer now, quieter. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise. None of us, absolutely none, will get hurt.”

The words settle over the table like dust.

It’s too big of a promise. Even Gojo must know that.

Shoko exhales sharply, pressing her fingers into her temples like she’s willing the headache away. Nanami leans back in his seat, arms crossed, brows furrowed, deep in thought. You stare into the dark amber of your tea, watching the ripples along its surface, the way it stills, the way it waits.

Nanami is the first to speak again.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks. “I mean, how are we supposed to approach this at all? We don’t know anything about absorbing Horcruxes. We don’t know anything about Sukuna. His name might be buried in the footnotes of some books in the Restricted Section, but he isn’t mentioned anywhere specifically.”

No one answers.

The four of you stare at one another, the weight of your own ignorance pressing down like a thick fog. You try to sift through everything you know, everything you’ve read, every lead you’ve ever had. But all of it comes back to the same thing. The prophecy. It isn’t enough.

Then, Gojo speaks.

“My mother.”

Your head snaps up. His voice is firm, certain. He doesn’t hesitate. “She might know something.”

Your expression hardens immediately. “Absolutely not.” The words come faster than your thoughts, automatic, firm. “We will not be going to the Ministry again. We are not contacting your parents—”

“Trust me.” 

It is not the first time he has said those words.

But it is the first time they feel different.

His voice cuts through yours, quiet but forceful. It makes you stop. He looks at you then, properly, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose. His brows knit together, just barely. His lips press into something unreadable. His expression is serious in a way that you don’t see often.

“My mother is not my father.”

The silence that follows is different this time. You watch him carefully, scanning his face, waiting for something—something defensive, something stubborn—but there is nothing but certainty.

And for the first time, it sinks in. The world slows.

The Room of Requirement feels closer than the Great Hall. You remember it. All of it. The way you'd crouched down in front of him, seen his most vulnerable side that even Suguru had never experienced fully. The way his entire pale body was filled with cuts and stitches. The gash that you'd undone—the same one Dobby the House-Elf had novicely stitched, because his father forbade any healing.

You remember the incantations you'd whispered under your breath, wand glowing, watching his blood trickle back into his body, leaving only the scar so his father wouldn't hurt him more upon seeing it. The quiet between you, the way his breath had evened out as the pain faded.

You remember looking back up at Gojo and seeing the relief on his face. You'd watched his smile come back when he realized that the pain was gone.

The tension in your body does not leave completely, but it shifts. Not quite loosening, but settling.

You still do not want to go to her.

But you know you will.

Shoko exhales, sets her teacup down carefully, the porcelain making a soft sound against the table. Then, she looks at Gojo, gaze measured, decisive. “I don’t think Kento or I should come with you for that,” she says. “I think we should search the library for anything about Sukuna that you two missed.”

Nanami nods almost immediately, as if he’s been considering the same thing. “I agree,” he says. “We weren’t at the Ministry. We shouldn’t be coming to see your mother.”

It’s logical. The right choice. But it makes everything feel more real.

Gojo’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly against the table, his shoulders drawing back as he processes it. Then, after a moment, he nods. “Right,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation. “Alright.”

As the four of you step out of the Great Hall, the corridor leading toward the Boathouse is alive with noise—frantic voices, hurried footsteps, the occasional shriek of frustration. The usual morning murmur of students moving between classes or lingering over breakfast has twisted into something far more chaotic.

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. People stand in clusters, talking in hushed, urgent tones, eyes darting around as if searching for something unseen. Others pat at their pockets, at their robes, their satchels—searching. A few are outright panicked, their voices rising above the rest.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you glance at Gojo.

He only shrugs, but his eyes are already fixed on the scene before him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows something the rest of you don’t. There’s a glint in his glasses when the torchlight hits them, an unmistakable spark of amusement that makes you eye him warily.

Then, you pay attention to the shrieks.

“Where is it? I just had it—”

“I’m missing my Remembrall!” someone else cries out from further down the corridor, their voice tinged with disbelief.

Another voice follows, equally distressed. “I had fifteen galleons in my pocket just seconds ago!”

More students are checking their robes now, some overturning their bags, some spinning in place as if they’ll find what they’re missing lying at their feet. The anxiety is infectious, spreading like wildfire, and soon, the entire corridor hums with suspicion and alarm.

You glance at Shoko and Nanami, but they only shrug, both of them watching with mild curiosity.

Gojo, on the other hand, is grinning now, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he surveys the commotion like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifts his weight onto one foot, pleased, expectant.

He knows something.

And whatever it is, you have a feeling it’s about to make itself known. You eye the corridor again, stepping closer to Gojo unknowingly, before you finally see it. 

A flicker of movement in the periphery of your vision—quick, darting, barely there before it vanishes again. The shadows in the corridor shift, and then, out of the murmuring chaos, a small creature scurries forward, its tiny claws clicking against the stone floor.

Your breath catches as you watch it—fur dark and glossy, a deep, ink-like sheen that catches the torchlight, but its snout is lighter, pinkish, twitching as it sniffs the air. Its eyes, round and black as polished obsidian, gleam with something both mischievous and knowing.

And it’s heading straight for Gojo.

It scales his leg with ease, nimble paws gripping onto the fabric of his trousers, moving with a confidence that suggests it has no doubt in its own ability to get what it wants. Gojo doesn’t startle, doesn’t even flinch—he merely raises a brow, watching as the small creature climbs higher, right up to his waist, before it stretches a tiny paw toward his face, reaching—

For his glasses.

Gojo grins, catching it before it succeeds, fingers curling around its tiny body. It squirms in his grasp, but only briefly, before settling against his palm, its small chest rising and falling in quick, excited bursts. You can hear the faintest sound of snuffling, of the creature’s nose twitching rapidly, as if it’s still searching for something, still determined to find something shiny to snatch.

“Niffler,” you whisper, exhaling in quiet disbelief as Gojo, entirely unfazed, tucks the small animal into his pocket.

You gape at him. “Gojo, you can’t just—”

But he’s already turning, already moving, leading the four of you toward the quieter hallway, away from the ongoing commotion. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking, casual, as if he hasn’t just stuffed a Niffler into his pocket like a particularly unruly quill.

Your frustration simmers, but before you can scold him, he stops abruptly, pulling the small creature out once more.

You watch as he holds it up to his face, as if inspecting it, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. The Niffler tilts its head in return, mirroring him, tiny paws twitching. Gojo blinks at it. It blinks back.

Then he nods, satisfied. “It’s a baby.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hagrid,” you mutter. “He’s probably lost one.”

Gojo hums, rubbing the Niffler’s tiny head with the pad of his thumb, and it makes the faintest chirring noise in response.

Shoko, who has been watching this entire interaction with mild amusement, rolls her eyes and stretches her arms above her head. “Alright,” she says, turning toward Nanami, “I think it’s about time we go check the library.”

Nanami nods in agreement, shifting his book under his arm. “We’ll try to find anything useful. Maybe we missed something before.”

Shoko looks at you and Gojo, then at the Niffler still nestled in Gojo’s hand. “You two should go take that thing back to Hagrid before it robs the entire school blind.”

“Yeah,” Nanami agrees, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Handle that first, then go deal with… whatever you’re planning with Gojo’s mother.”

You glance at Gojo, who merely shrugs, still preoccupied with the Niffler.

Shoko waves a lazy hand as she and Nanami turn to leave, already heading toward the library. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice dry.

You watch them disappear down the hall, the weight of what’s ahead settling in your stomach once more.

Gojo, still grinning, taps your shoulder with the tip of the Niffler’s snout. “C’mon,” he says, tucking the tiny creature back into his pocket. “Let’s go find Hagrid.”

The Niffler does not stay put.

No sooner has Gojo tucked it away than it wriggles free, its small paws gripping onto the hem of his pants as it pulls itself back into the open, its nose twitching, eyes bright and mischievous. It pops its head out of his pocket, looking directly at you—round, shiny gaze unblinking, expectant.

You soften immediately. How could you not? It is, objectively, adorable. You reach forward instinctively, running a careful hand over its soft fur, scratching lightly at the top of its head. It chirrs, a pleased little noise, and you smile. Which, evidently, it takes as an invitation.

Before you can react, the Niffler scrambles out of Gojo’s pocket entirely, landing with an almost comically quiet plop onto the stone floor of the hallway. It pauses, stretching out its tiny limbs as if testing its newfound freedom.

Gojo watches, unimpressed. “You realize it’s going to run, don’t you?”

You barely hear him. You’re already crouching down, reaching for it. “No, no—come here, it’s alright—”

But of course, it does exactly as Gojo predicted. It bolts.

Its tiny feet barely make a sound as it scurries across the hall, slipping effortlessly between shadows, darting past the ankles of unsuspecting students still lingering from the commotion. The flickering torchlight catches the glossy sheen of its fur, a quick flash before it vanishes around the corner.

Gojo chuckles. A low, knowing sound. “Told you so.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, already moving to chase after it. “Come on, let’s catch it.”

“We could just use the Summoning Charm,” Gojo begins, lazily, not quite making an effort to keep up. But then, he stops. His gaze sharpens, a flicker of something shifting behind his glasses. You follow his line of sight, and—

The Niffler has stopped.

It is at the very end of the corridor now, a dark, small shape against the cool grey of the stone floor. It does not run. It does not hide. It simply… waits. Its head turns back towards you, as if making sure you’re still watching.

You straighten. “It stopped.”

Gojo presses his lips together, contemplative. “Do you think it wants us to follow it?”

You look at him. He looks at you. Then he nods. The two of you move forward, cautiously at first, then faster when it darts off again. It weaves through the dim corridors, past wide-eyed students still murmuring about their lost belongings, past the grand staircases shifting overhead.

It leads you downward.

Past the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, deeper into the castle’s stone belly, where the air is cooler, where the dungeons press against the foundations of Hogwarts itself.

You frown. “Where is it going?”

But it doesn’t stop. It does not linger near the dungeons. It turns sharply, scurrying up the staircase again. Up, up, up, higher and higher, the two of you following in its wake. You’re breathless by the time you realize where you are. Gojo hums beside you, entirely unaffected, his hands by his sides, his long, lanky stride making the chase look effortless. “It’s going toward Dumbledore’s office.”

Your lungs are burning. “What?”

He shrugs. “Dunno why.”

You groan. “Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he retorts, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m in the same boat as you.”

Then the Niffler takes one last sharp turn. And suddenly, you are not alone.

Because standing at the very end of the hallway, framed by the shifting candlelight, is the headmaster himself. Dumbledore.

The Niffler does not hesitate. It scurries right up to him, climbing his robes with the same eager ease it had when it clambered up Gojo’s leg. Dumbledore does not move, does not react, merely watches in quiet amusement as the small creature settles onto his outstretched palms.

He lifts it, the long sleeves of his robes shifting as he studies it with a curious, knowing gaze.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“This,” he murmurs, voice lilting, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, “would be Pip. He’s a new addition to Hagrid’s pets.”

You and Gojo share a look. 

Dumbledore watches the two of you for a long moment before he moves, stepping toward you with the kind of quiet grace that makes him feel untouchable, otherworldly, like he exists in a time entirely separate from the one you are bound to. He does not hurry. He does not need to.

With a gentle pad of his thumb, he strokes the baby Niffler’s fur. Pip, warm and impossibly small, lets out a soft chirp, burrowing deeper into his palm, entirely unbothered by the tension in the air.

Dumbledore exhales, the corners of his lips curling into something like amusement, though it does not quite reach his eyes. As he hands Pip to you, he says, “Curious, isn’t it? How creatures have a way of leading people exactly where they need to be.”

You glance down at Pip, who wiggles in your grasp, before flicking your gaze back up to him. “Sir, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”

He regards you carefully. Not unkindly, but knowingly, as though he is staring at something within you that you yourself have yet to realize. “Miss [L/N],” he starts, “not all knowledge is meant to be uncovered so soon. But perhaps, the two of you may be short on time.”

A beat.

Gojo shifts beside you. You do not look at him, but you can feel his stare, the way he turns toward you first before setting his sights back on Dumbledore. There is something sharp in his posture, something electric in the way he carries himself now. As though he, too, understands that they are teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

Dumbledore continues, undeterred. “I cannot stop you from doing what you must. But I can ensure you are safe.”

There is no doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Only quiet certainty.

Gojo exhales, slow and measured, but then he is stepping forward, his hands pushing deep into his pockets as he tilts his head. “Sir,” he says, his voice smooth, “can’t you do something about this? I mean, you already know everything. I’m sure you do. Why can’t you take any action?”

Dumbledore smiles at that—soft, understanding, but lined with something heavier. “That,” he says, “is because every action I take will be closely monitored by your father. And the Minister of Magic. I cannot use my wand without them knowing what spells I conjure.”

Oh.

The realization lands heavy in your stomach. The Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, shackled. Forced to move only within the constraints of the world he has built himself into. That is why he has been keeping his hands clean, why he has been letting the rest of you run headfirst into the unknown.

You sigh. “Sir, we think we should first figure out what exactly it entails. The Horcruxes and their absorption.”

“You would be right to do that,” he says, nodding slightly. “Come to me, when you’re done searching for information. I may have something that will guide you in the right direction.”

His gaze lingers, and there is something there—something unspoken, careful. It makes your stomach twist.

Then, as if in afterthought, he adds, lightly, almost playfully, “A record of sorts. An old thing, long forgotten, but still quite useful.”

You exchange a look with Gojo, a flicker of understanding passing between the two of you before you return your focus to Dumbledore.

He nods, but then he is stepping past you, walking toward the arched window at the end of the corridor, where the gray sky spreads vast and endless beyond the glass. His voice, when he speaks, is casual. But it is never just casual with him, never just words.

“The fields toward Hagrid’s hut,” he muses, “are rather peaceful at this time of day. A good place to gather one’s thoughts.” He clasps his hands behind his back, peering out at the grounds. “Of course, the path is rather open. But there are ways to walk unseen, if one knows how to step carefully.”

A pause.

Then, without turning back, he says, “Should you find yourselves there, I do hope you do not linger too long. It would be… unwise.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

The two of you run.

The wind drags against your clothes, the cold air biting at your skin, but you push forward, feet pounding against the earth as the castle looms behind you. The Niffler is warm in your hands, tucked securely against your chest, its tiny claws gripping at your sleeve, its small, round body rising and falling with each breath. You glance down to make sure it’s comfortable, adjusting your hold so it doesn’t jostle too much. It peers up at you, dark eyes bright, unbothered by the urgency, as though it is entirely content in your grasp.

You glance at Satoru. “I suppose we’re Disapparating to your home?”

“We are,” he says, barely winded. His voice is casual, but his gaze flickers around, scanning the landscape, searching for a place that is truly hidden. “We just need to find somewhere completely out of sight.”

Then his attention shifts to the creature in your hands, his pace slowing just slightly. “It’s cute. Pip. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the Niffler. Its tiny nose twitches as it burrows into your jumper’s sleeve. The two of you slow to a brisk walk, breath evening out, the grass crunching beneath your feet.

The fields stretch wide ahead of you, untouched and open. No students wander this far past the castle, anyway. Only Hagrid’s hut sits in the distance, a plume of smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The air is cool, the sky a dull blue.

“Should we go give him to Hagrid first?” you ask, adjusting Pip in your hands.

Satoru narrows his eyes at the creature, considering it, before glancing back at you. “Nah. I suspect he’ll be useful to us. If we need to swipe something from my home, that is. Let’s keep him for now.”

You eye him, unimpressed. “I still can’t believe the only reason you know everything you do is because you’re technically a thief. And an unconventional spy who gets caught from time to time by your father.”

He smirks, pushing his hands into his pockets. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my unconventional skills.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you mutter.

He lets out a small huff, shaking his head. “Alright, are you prepared? You get sick from Disapparition, right? Would you prefer it if I got us into my room again? So you can have a few moments before we speak to my mother?”

You shake your head. “It’s no matter. Let’s just get this done.”

A breeze cuts through the fields. You exhale, slow and measured, before stepping closer.

Step by step, you close the distance, until the space between you is almost nonexistent. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the way the air seems to shift, heavy and quiet. You let out a breath, looking down at Pip, then back up at him, your voice softer now.

“Hold me.”

Satoru stills.

“What?” he asks, his breath coming just a little faster.

You smile—just barely, teasing, the faintest curve of your lips. “Don’t you need to touch me to Disapparate me along with you? I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking once, twice. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. A hesitation. Then he reaches for you. 

The violent pull is back.

It doesn’t just take you—it seizes you, yanks you from the inside out, your entire body forced through a space too narrow, too suffocating. Your stomach twists, knots itself into something unrecognizable, your guts wrenching as if someone has reached inside you and wrung them like a wet cloth. There’s no air. No weight. No direction. Just a terrible, gut-churning sensation, as if your very bones are unraveling, as if you are collapsing inward and being thrown forward at the same time.

Then, just as suddenly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam onto a cobblestone path. Your knees nearly give out.

You gasp, the nausea surging hot and awful up your throat. Your stomach lurches, twisting again, fighting against itself. For a horrible second, you think you’re going to vomit. You clutch onto the nearest thing, which is Satoru’s sleeve, knuckles tightening, eyes shut. The world spins violently around you, and you focus on breathing. One. Two. In. Out. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

Satoru’s arm is still around you, steadying you as you keel forward.

“Fawkes, you good?” His voice is somewhere above you, wry but laced with something softer.

You swallow hard. Nod. Force yourself upright. The nausea lingers, a sour taste in your mouth, a hot wave in your chest, but it’s not as bad as before. That’s the worst part. The fact that it’s getting easier. That your body is learning, adjusting. That Disapparition—this awful, gut-wrenching, stomach-turning thing that you’ve grown to hate more than anything—is becoming familiar.

You exhale, long and shaky, before finally looking up. And stop breathing altogether.

The house, or what should be called a house, though nothing about it is ordinary enough to warrant the name, looms before you, towering, sprawling.

A mansion. A manor.

Its sheer scale is suffocating. Sharp, formidable stonework stretches high into the sky, cut through with vast windows, each one a dark, reflective eye. The glass glows faintly in the moonlight, but it isn’t warm—it’s cold, untouched, as if the place is meant to be observed, not lived in. The roofline is broken up by chimneys and sharp balustrades, delicate but unyielding. Ivy curls up along the lower portions, thick and dark, trying in vain to soften the edges of a structure that refuses softness.

It’s beautiful in the way something haunted is beautiful. In the way ruins are beautiful—except this is not ruined. It is intact. It is alive.

Your head turns so fast to look at Satoru that your neck twinges.

“I was inside that?” your voice is too quiet, almost incredulous. “The last time we came?”

Satoru exhales sharply. “Yes,” he mutters. “We were inside that.”

Your eyes flick back to the mansion. It is massive. It is horrifying. It is beautiful.

“That is,” you say slowly, “a horrifyingly beautiful mansion. And big. And I can’t believe that something this big is in London.”

Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze flat. “Thanks,” he deadpans. “I hate it.”

You blink at him. “Right. Of course you do.”

He starts walking, heading toward the front doors like this is just another ordinary day, and you force your legs to move, still half-struck by the sheer weight of the place.

The double doors open on their own as you approach, revealing a grand hall so large it almost makes you dizzy.

Marble stretches beneath your feet, gleaming, catching the flickering light of the chandeliers overhead. Everything is vast. The walls, lined with intricate carvings, stretch so high you can hardly see the ceiling. A sweeping, bifurcated staircase curves up to the right, its bannisters smooth and dark, splitting into two separate landings above. Balustrades line the mezzanine, delicate and detailed, polished so that even in the dim glow of candlelight, they shine.

The space is silent, the kind of silence that swallows you whole.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until you see Satoru already halfway through the hall. You shake yourself, quickly following.

You glance right, and through an open doorway, you glimpse a billiards table. You straighten, frowning. A whole room. For snooker.

Of course. 

Something small scurries past the edge of your vision, just then. A familiar figure, ears twitching, moving fast, and then—

“Master Satoru—”

"Dobby," Satoru interrupts smoothly, "where would my mother be at this time?"

You force your attention away from the billiards room, looking toward the house-elf. Dobby’s ears twitch again, and he fidgets slightly, gaze darting toward Satoru, then away.

"Master Satoru," he says hesitantly, "I can't tell you that, I'm afraid—"

Satoru hums. “Dungeons or library?”

Dobby squirms. Visibly uncomfortable. Satoru smiles. Pats the elf lightly on the head. “It’s okay, don’t worry. I won’t rat you out. I’ve got this.”

You smile at Dobby as you pass, pausing briefly. “The pastry you sent with me last time was really good, by the way.”

Dobby’s ears perk up. His expression brightens. “I’ll make sure to give you more this time.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to eat later,” you admit. “But sure. I’d like that.”

The two of you walk, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the sheer vastness of the place. Dobby trails behind, small and silent, his presence barely more than a flicker against the scale of it all.

Satoru leads you through the snooker room you had mentally dismissed a minute ago, and you blink, looking around as you step inside. The absurdity of it hits you first. Then the grandeur. The ridiculous, ridiculous grandeur. The deep green of the felt, the polished wood, the way the overhead lights cast perfect, crisp shadows against the walls. A whole room dedicated to this. An entire space, immaculate, untouched, meant only for the occasional amusement of knocking balls across a table.

You force yourself to walk forward, past it, into another stretch of hallway that is just as overwhelming, just as impossibly extravagant. You try to take it in, try to remind yourself that this is not a museum, not some historical estate, not a tourist attraction.

It’s Satoru’s home.

And that makes it even stranger.

Your fingers brush against the edge of your sleeve as you glance around, your heart giving a traitorous little kick of excitement when you see what’s ahead.

The library.

Your steps pick up slightly as you enter, as if drawn forward by some gravitational force. It is grand. Vast.

Rows upon rows of dark mahogany shelves stretch upward, polished to a deep, rich shine, so tall you would need a ladder just to reach the highest tiers. The ceiling disappears into shadow, the walls lined with books, the weight of them pressing down in a way that is not stifling but exhilarating. This—this is a library meant for reading, meant for existing inside, meant for getting lost in. The space is warm, not in temperature but in atmosphere, an old, settled quiet that feels untouched by time.

In the center, a designated seating area with deep leather chairs, tucked neatly around small tables. And those lamps—the classic ones, old-fashioned, heavy with history, the green glass shades casting a muted, intimate glow against the dark wood. The kind of lamps you’ve only ever seen in places where knowledge is sacred. Like the Hogwarts library. 

You inhale, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I knew you’d like this one. Remind me to bring you around in the summer if we’re alive,” Satoru murmurs, pushing his glasses up, unimpressed.

You barely hear him. Or you ignore him. You can’t tell the difference.

He stops walking, glancing at one of the bookshelves, tilting his head slightly before humming in vague interest. You watch as he steps forward, lifting a hand. His fingers brush against the top of a book—no, not a book. A block disguised as one. You squint, your stomach twisting slightly in anticipation.

Satoru steps back.

You take a step back too, just in case.

Dobby shifts uncomfortably at your side, his small hands twitching, and you swallow, suddenly clammy with anticipation.

The bookshelves move.

Not in the ordinary way, not like a door swinging open or a cabinet being pushed aside, but in the way magic moves when it forgets the laws of reality exist. The shelves fold into themselves, sliding back, layer upon layer peeling away, collapsing inward like a collapsing star.

It is seamless. Effortless. It is not a door opening. It is a secret unfurling. You gasp. The space beyond reveals itself slowly, another section of the library, deeper, older, hidden. The air here is heavier, the scent of parchment and ink more concentrated, as if time itself has thickened.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, crossing into the new space without so much as a glance back. You swallow your awe and follow. The moment you step through, the bookshelves slide back into place, as if this were an entirely different room. 

“I was wondering when you’d be coming home,” a voice. 

You flinch at the sound. The voice is smooth. Low. Measured. You tense, your spine stiffening instinctively as you turn. Gojo’s mother.

Mirai.

She stands, hunched over, at a podium—no, a lectern. The kind of furniture that exists in places of power. The kind that commands attention without trying. The kind you wouldn’t dream of even thinking if you were buying a house for yourself and decorating it. 

The lighting here is dimmer, the glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the floor. It only makes the space feel more cavernous, more secretive. Your gaze flickers, taking in the details, the delicate gold accents lining the bookshelves, the heavy wooden table in the center—the color and wood identical to the one in the Room of Requirement, only this one’s circular instead.

Satoru barely reacts.

“Mother,” he says, dry, unimpressed.

She looks up, adjusting her glasses as she takes the two of you in. The glasses, you realize distantly, are beautiful. Oval frames, thin, delicate, with spectacle chains that glint faintly in the low light, encrusted with stones so fine they can only be precious. Platinum? Silver? Some other metal you don’t even know the name of?

Her gaze flickers between the two of you, sharp and assessing.

“I’m guessing you’ve found out something is happening,” she says, voice smooth as ever.

Satoru exhales, leaning casually against a shelf, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk that pulls at his lips is almost lazy, but knowing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who was impersonating you and father at the Ministry?”

Her brows furrow, ever so slightly.

You shift, your palms damp, but you force yourself to glance around, taking in the details so you don’t have to feel the weight of the tension pressing against your skin. The books, the lectern, the grand structure of the bookshelves—raised slightly, a small step leading up to them, as if the act of retrieving a book is something to be ascended toward. It makes your stomach flip in some strange, giddy way. You love it here.

Mirai steps down, her movements smooth, unhurried. She pulls her glasses off, letting them rest against her collarbone, the spectacle chain glinting faintly.

Then, her eyes. Sharp, piercing, so much like Satoru’s as they flicker between the two of you.

She is composed in a way that feels calculated, her posture precise, every movement measured. A deep green coat flows around her, the fabric shifting with each step, its weight a quiet nod to both wealth and history. There is something structured about it, the way it cinches at the waist before cascading into a fuller silhouette, the high collar framing her face with an air of hushed charge. The buttons gleam in a neat row, catching the light like polished brass, fastening everything into place—elegance, control, restraint. The sleeves taper smoothly down to her wrists, fitted just right. Everything about her is perfect.

And then, her voice. Low, certain. "It was you?" she asks.

Satoru doesn’t blink. “It was I,” he says, almost pleased with himself. Then, glancing toward you, “And her. She might’ve told Evelyn that you’d read her research paper, though. Make sure you do that, and maybe compliment her or something. She seemed a little jumpy.”

You inhale sharply. “Sorry,” you blurt. “Mrs. Gojo. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out—”

She ignores you at first. “Polyjuice Potion?”

Satoru nods. Then, finally, she turns to you.

"You certainly dressed the part,” she remarks, her gaze sweeping over you, coolly appraising. “Although your coat wasn’t as long as I like mine to be.”

You blink. “Oh.” A pause, then meekly, “Sorry?”

“Don’t worry, darling, you did fine.”

She waves you off without so much as a glance, already moving, already shifting her focus elsewhere. There is something effortless about the way she moves, something deliberate, as though every action is carefully measured, calculated. She reaches for the lectern, her fingers pale against the dark grain of the wood, picking up the book and parchment she had been studying as though it were of no more consequence than a discarded letter. She does not hesitate, does not pause, simply turns and walks past you, the long hem of her dress sweeping against the marble floor with a whisper of movement.

You watch her as she places the book down on the large, round table in the center of the room, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. Then, without looking, she speaks.

“Come sit.”

A glance over her shoulder. First at Satoru. Then at you.

“You as well.”

You scramble.

The movement feels inelegant, out of place in a room like this, in the presence of someone like her. You reach for the chair closest to Satoru’s, gripping the back of it before pulling it out and sitting down, hands clenching briefly against the arms before you force yourself to release your grip.

You do not look at her.

Instead, you look at him.

Satoru sits beside you, careless in a way only he can be, his body angled slightly, his arm resting lazily on the table’s edge. His expression is unreadable as he stares at his mother, but his hand—his hand finds yours beneath the table, warm, steady. His fingers slip between yours, intertwining, holding.

Your breath catches.

It is an absurd thing to focus on at a moment like this, but you cannot help it, cannot stop the way your pulse speeds up, the way your skin burns where he touches you. You blink, hard, forcing yourself to steady your breathing, forcing yourself to look away from him, to look at her.

“I’m guessing you already know,” she says, voice smooth, even. “Since you looked through the Pensieve.” A pause. Then, sharper, “But seriously, Satoru, I raised you better than that. You cannot break the law and expect me to lie. What if they use Veritaserum on me someday?”

She fixes him with a look, one that is not quite exasperated, but close.

Satoru rolls his eyes, still holding your hand as he leans back slightly. “Mother,” he drawls, “You’ve practiced Occlumency for a reason.”

She exhales, a sigh that sounds half-resigned, half-amused. Then her gaze flickers back to you. Then to him.

“Who saw the memory?”

“I did,” you say softly, raising your hand the way you would in class, voice barely more than a murmur. Then, instinctively, “Sorry.”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Quit apologizing, dear.” A beat. “I’m guessing my son probably forced you to go there in the first place.”

You do not know how to answer that.

The woman standing before you is not the woman you saw in the Pensieve. That version of her had been different, sharper in a way that felt less like a mother and more like something else entirely. But this—this is something else. You get the distinct impression that she assumes roles the way one might change outfits, slipping into them with effortless precision, adapting, adjusting, becoming whatever the moment requires.

You wonder which version of her this is.

“Actually,” Satoru starts, as if this conversation is of little importance to him at all, “Have you heard of the Marauders?”

“The hooligans at your school that disrupt decorum and steal things?” she asks, raising a delicate brow. “I doubted it was you and your friends.”

“You’ve got me right,” Satoru nods, as if pleased with himself. Then, with a smirk, “But it isn’t Suguru or Shoko or anyone else. It’s her.”

There is a heavy pause. A single blink.

“Oh,” she says simply, considering. Then, almost amused, “That makes things a lot easier.”

“If I were to start from the beginning,” Satoru begins, but Mirai lifts a single finger, silencing him before he can go on.

She turns—not to either of you, but to the far end of the room, where Dobby stands, still and silent. You realize then that you had forgotten he was even there, standing as he has been this entire time, as if waiting for something. The realization makes something twist in your stomach, a sharp little pang of guilt. You try for a small smile, something apologetic, but it feels more like a grimace.

Mirai does not acknowledge your reaction.

Instead, she regards the elf for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before speaking. “Dobby, we might be here for a while. Hours, perhaps. Could you get us tea and refreshments?”

“Yes, Madam Gojo,” Dobby nods immediately, disappearing with a small pop.

You wish you could do that. Disappear, just like that. Not the sharp, gut-wrenching twist of Apparition, but the way elves do it, seamless and quiet. No sound but a hush of displaced air. No warning. Just gone.

You wish you could be anywhere but here, in this room, where the air feels thick enough to choke on, where something tight and coiled sits heavy in your chest. You were giddy at first, but the tension felt like it would drown you any second.

Unfortunately, there is nowhere else to be.

“Anywho,” Satoru drawls, stretching his legs out under the table like this is any other conversation, like he isn’t standing at the edge of something irreversibly dangerous. “As I was saying, we were… made aware of someone attempting to use dark magic at school. Anonymously, of course. And so, we investigated it. As the Marauders. After everything, here we are.”

His mother exhales, slow, measured.

She looks between the two of you, gaze flickering over your joined hands, the space between you, as if assessing something.

Then, finally, she asks, “How much do you know?”

Satoru’s grip on your hand tightens, the barest squeeze. “Everything,” he says. “Everything except what exactly is going to happen, and how to stop it.” A pause. Then, more deliberately, “The whole bit. Sukuna. Twenty Horcruxes. Suguru being the one behind it all. You already know the gist, though. From the prophecy.”

Something shifts in Mirai’s expression. Not quite fear, but something close to it.

“Satoru,” she says, voice careful now, “I do not want this for you. I do not want that prophecy to come into fruition.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes your chest go tight, that makes the moment feel heavier than before, like the weight of what you’re about to do is truly beginning to sink in. “Do not try to get dragged into this war.”

Satoru does not hesitate. “Like it or not, Mother, I’m already a part of it.”

There is a finality to the way he says it, an unwavering certainty, and you see the way Mirai’s expression shifts, see the way her fingers press slightly into the table’s surface, how her posture stiffens.

This could very quickly turn into something worse.

You feel it before it happens, the air in the room shifting, thickening with something unspoken. Your heart is in your throat, your pulse too quick. You do not want this to turn into an argument—not now, not when there are things more urgent at hand, not when there is something far more important to be said.

So you speak before it can escalate.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gojo.”

Her attention snaps to you, her gaze sharp, but you force yourself to keep steady, to press forward.

“We came here for a reason,” you say, voice more even than you expect it to be, though your fingers tighten around Satoru’s under the table. “That is to find out what exactly Horcrux absorption entails. We don’t know what’s supposed to happen. Or how it will happen at all.” You swallow, throat tight. “We don’t know anything about that kind of magic, and we couldn’t find anything on it in the library at Hogwarts. In the limited time we had, of course. There may be a lot we missed just because we were short on time.”

A moment of silence. Then another.

You exhale, shakily. The room feels colder now, or maybe you are just beginning to realize how real all of this is. How much you don’t know. How much you still need to figure out.

Mirai watches you. Then, at last, tilting her head as she regards you. “You’re much smarter than I thought you’d be. You should consider Research if you haven't already done so. The Department could use someone like you.” A pause. “I’d say you’re the brightest of Satoru’s friends.”

Something in your chest unfurls, unexpected but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing you’ve heard before, the kind of praise professors have given you in passing, the kind of validation that normally doesn’t mean much. And yet, coming from her—from Gojo’s mother—it makes something warm flicker at the edges of your ribs.

Before you can think of what to say, Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “Mother, please stop trying to recruit my friends into working for you.”

She ignores him.

Her gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, before she finally speaks again. “Tell me, in detail, how much you know.”

You inhale, steadying yourself, choosing your words carefully.

“Well,” you start, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table. “From what Satoru has told me, and from what I’ve been able to find, Sukuna was a dark wizard with a fixation on power—his objective wasn’t conquest or control, just the elimination of the strongest. And when he supposedly died, he fractured his soul, creating twenty Horcruxes. Somehow, in this day and age, Suguru has found one. And if someone were to absorb enough Horcruxes, they might become a vessel for him.”

Satoru takes a slow, measured breath through his nose. Then he exhales, looking at his mother. “I could’ve told you all of that.”

Mirai doesn’t even blink. “I know.” A pause. “But you would’ve said it in that sarcastic tone I have neither the patience nor the tolerance for at the moment.” Then, almost offhandedly, she adds, “And I like her more.”

Satoru makes a noise of protest, but she speaks over him, still looking at you. “She seems more sensible than you. And looks like she keeps you out of trouble.”

You don’t dare say anything, but Satoru makes a quiet scoffing sound.

Mirai ignores that, too. “That’s a lot more than you should know,” she murmurs, thoughtful now. She studies you with something almost unreadable, something careful and heavy. “I hope you understand that people have been killed in my Department for less.”

Your hands tighten in your lap, nails pressing into the fabric of your robes.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say quietly, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Satoru made that clear when he told me everything.”

Mirai hums. “I’d assume so.”

Then, finally, Satoru shifts forward, voice pressing into the space between you like a blade slicing through the tension. “So how do we stop it?” he asks. “What’s the ritual?”

His mother exhales, long and slow. Then, without a word, she reaches for the book and parchment she had brought from the lectern earlier. She sets them down in front of you, the pages crackling slightly as she spreads them across the table.

“This,” she says simply.

Satoru frowns, eyes scanning the parchment. The sheet is large, covered in ancient text and something even more incomprehensible—diagrams, circular and intricate, layered with symbols you can’t place. They are runes, of course, but not the kind you’ve studied before. Not the ones etched into the corners of your textbooks, not the ones carved into the stones of Hogwarts, not even the oldest ones you’ve come across in the Restricted Section. These are something else entirely.

His mother reaches out, tapping a few of them.

“Sukuna was a dark wizard,” she says, tone careful. “That much is known. But where his Horcruxes are hidden is not. No verifiable records of him exist, nothing about his followers—he had quite a few, by the way—nothing about how his magic worked. The information is ancient.” Her fingers skim across the parchment again, tracing the lines of the diagrams. “It’s like the way the Egyptians lasted for so long that they had to study their own history. What little we know about Sukuna comes from fragments, secondary sources, myths passed down through centuries.”

Something about that sparks in your mind, some half-buried recollection. “The Ancient Egyptian civilization lasted over three thousand years,” you murmur, the words coming unbidden, “the only major interruptions being the short twenty-year period of Atenism being made the state religion. And later, when it was annexed by Rome, which led to its decline.”

Mirai glances at you then, just briefly, something unreadable in her expression. But there’s something else there, too—something almost like approval.

“You know your history,” she says. It isn’t quite praise, but it’s close.

Satoru looks at you at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Mirai turns her attention back to the parchment, fingers moving from the runes to the dense columns of text.

“Well,” she continues, voice steady now, “most of these suggest Japanese origin. Heian era.”

“The golden age of Japanese culture,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Mirai nods. “That’s what it suggests. That he was alive during that time. But no one in the Department, not even me, has been able to decrypt these runes.” Her fingers tap against the parchment, the ancient symbols etched into the brittle surface like the grooves of a fingerprint, impossible to erase, impossible to alter. “We can’t understand them, no matter how hard we try. I’ve brought in experts, some of the best minds in magical linguistics. Nothing. Even Bathsheba Babbling, your Ancient Runes professor, was consulted. No luck.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, frowning. “No one from Mahotokoro?” His brow arches, blue eyes sharp with skepticism. “Come on. If anyone should be able to read this, it’s them. The Japanese Wizarding School. It’s their language. Or, was. I think.”

His mother exhales, slow and measured. “It’s our language too,” she says. “And yet I don’t see either of us—” she gestures between them, a slight wave of her hand, “understanding what this means. Any of it.”

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh, but before the moment can stretch into something lighter, something less sharp, the sound of hurried steps against stone makes you glance up. Dobby appears at the edge of the room, scurrying in through—

A bookshelf?

Your brows lift, and before you can say anything, Satoru leans in, voice low. “There are multiple entrances. That one’s small enough for elves.”

“Oh,” you whisper back.

Dobby climbs up onto a stool—one that must have already been waiting for him—and carefully places three teacups onto the table, each nestled in a saucer. A small porcelain container follows, filled with tiny cubes of sugar. His hands are steady, practiced, but when you catch his eye and offer him a small, grateful smile, he stiffens slightly, his ears twitching.

You mouth thank you, and he quivers, just barely.

Before you can say anything else, another elf appears, this one balancing a much larger tray. Dobby takes it carefully, adjusting his grip before stepping forward and setting it down with practiced precision.

You blink. Two plates of strawberry pastries.

Your gaze flickers to Satoru just in time to see his mouth part slightly, eyes bright with interest. But then, you notice what he’s really looking at—a third plate, larger than the other two, piled high with soft white pillowy spheres. Not quite spheres, actually. Something round, but pliable, edges dusted in a fine white powder that you can only assume is sugar.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and takes one, biting into it without ceremony. You see it then. The thin outer layer gives way to something soft, something thick—white cream wrapped around a pale green filling. You tilt your head, curious, before Mirai speaks.

“Kikufuku,” she says, watching Satoru chew fondly. “A type of mochi. The green bits are edamame-flavored. He likes them a lot.”

“Oh.” You glance back at Satoru. He’s already reaching for another.

He swallows, then grins, gesturing toward the half-eaten mochi in his hand. “Mum took me to this bakery in Tokyo when we were in Japan. I was a kid, maybe six or seven. They had these, and I thought they matched my hair, so I asked for them.” He pauses. “Didn’t expect the inside to be green, though.”

You stare at him. “You wanted it because it matched your hair?”

He nods, completely serious. “Yeah.”

“And then you ate it anyway?”

“Obviously. Been my favorite ever since.”

“You are—”

“Insufferable?”

“Ridiculous.” You take a slow sip of your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest before setting the cup back down. “Anyway, we should probably get back to…”

You trail off. Mirai is watching you.

Not just watching, but watching—her gaze steady, unreadable, something almost like fondness flickering just beneath the surface. You’re not sure what it is, not sure if you should try to name it. But then she blinks, snapping herself out of whatever thought she had been lost in, and clears her throat.

“Right,” she says, a bit too briskly, shifting her attention back to the parchment. “As I was saying, there is nothing known about Sukuna. Not yet.”

Satoru finishes the mochi in his hand, brushing his fingers off against his pants. “What about Horcruxes?”

She exhales, long and slow, pressing her fingers into her temples, as if trying to smooth away an oncoming headache. The book before her is ancient—a dark olive green, its spine barely holding, pages so brittle they seem to whisper when the air shifts. It looks as though it has been read and reread for centuries, as though it remembers too much. She drags it toward herself with careful hands. 

“Horcruxes are something we know about,” she says at last, her voice measured, clipped, as though she is trying to convince herself that it is enough. “Not enough, according to me, but enough for now.” She inhales again, deeper this time, knuckles turning white where they grip the book’s edge. “Merlin, help me. I can’t understand why I’m sharing classified information with my teenage son and his friend, potentially putting both of your lives in danger, but—”

“Mum,” Gojo interrupts, tipping his chair back onto its hind legs, arms crossed, voice flat. He is already bored of this argument. Already exhausted by it. “Our lives are already in danger. Stop worrying.”

Mirai’s fingers tighten around the book. There is something in the way she looks at him now—something unreadable. Motherly, but distant. A deep inhale, a slow exhale, and then she is flipping the book open, splaying her fingers across the brittle pages as though steadying herself. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, and she pushes them back into place before speaking again.

“You already know what a Horcrux is,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, but no less heavy. “It’s a receptacle. Binds someone to the living world, even after death.”

You nod, chewing slowly, letting the flavor settle on your tongue. The pastry is soft, dusted in sugar, but the sweetness is cut by the sharp, tart burst of strawberry jam. You glance up at Dobby, who stands quietly at the room’s edge, eyes round and luminous in the dim light. You nod at him in approval, and he bows, delighted, before disappearing with a soft pop.

Mirai continues, her voice steady but her fingers still tense where they rest on the parchment. “A Horcrux is made through murder. Afterward, a ritual is performed—an ancient, unspeakable spell that encases the torn fragment of soul within an object. A Horcrux is never random. It is always an object of deep personal or historical significance. When I was a student at Hogwarts, Slughorn told me that Horcruxes were the ‘wickedest’ form of magic in existence. But Slughorn has a malleable spine. He is easily swayed.”

“Very few wizards know how to make them,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “I’m guessing you do.”

“I do,” she says. She places her teacup down with careful precision, the soft clink of porcelain ringing through the still air. “But it isn’t necessary for you to know. Hence, I won’t be telling you.”

“Sorry?” Gojo straightens, blinking once. “We deserve to know. We deserve—”

“No.” She shakes her head, the motion deliberate, firm. “You deserve to know what I tell you, you deserve to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You should know how to end a Horcrux. You should know how to stop your friend. That is all. I am not giving you information that is unnecessary. I will not have my only son playing with things he doesn’t understand. I will not have my only son die because of them.”

The silence that follows is sharp, the kind that slices before you even feel the wound.

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling as though it holds answers. And then, in a voice that is too calm to be anything but violent, he says, “I was dying every single day living with him.”

Mirai stiffens. You know it’s an unfair game. 

“You never did anything about that,” Gojo continues, quiet but unwavering, and something inside the room shifts. Something in the air presses heavy against your lungs. “I try to find excuses to stay at Hogwarts every summer, but I come back here anyway. Because of you. Do you know how hard that is? To come back here, to see his face, to know that you stay with him despite everything he’s done to me?”

She does not speak. She looks down at her lap, fingers curled so tightly against her robes that her knuckles glow white.

Your throat tightens. Slowly, carefully, you reach for Gojo’s hand. His fingers are sticky with sugar, dusted in white, and when you pull his hand toward you, pressing it into your lap, his grip is tight. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers press into your skin, firm and unyielding, as though grounding himself. You squeeze back. You don’t mind the stickiness, the way the sugar clings between the creases of your palm. You wouldn’t mind anything uncomfortable if it meant this—if it meant anchoring him, if it meant making him feel something other than what he is feeling now.

When Mirai finally speaks, her voice is quiet, so quiet it barely reaches above the sound of the fire cracking in the hearth.

“I can’t apologize for things that have already happened,” she says. Her voice is neither defensive nor pleading. Just tired. “I tried to do my best as your mother despite everything else.”

“Trying wasn’t enough,” Gojo mumbles. “Your trying got me a gash so deep that I had to ask her to heal it. I had to make sure the scar wouldn’t be gone in case he’d hurt me again because of it. Do you know how painful it is? Do you?”

She looks at him, unblinking, but her eyes are glassy behind her spectacles. You can tell. “I do, because my mother was the same, Satoru. I tried, despite your father treating you horridly. Trust me. Trying was all I could do.”

“Satoru,” you whisper.

The sound of his name tugs him back, just for a second. His eyes flick to you, unfocused at first, pupils slow to adjust before dilating, but then there’s recognition. His breath comes sharp and shallow, his fingers curled so tightly against his palm that his knuckles have gone white. You exhale, softer this time, tilting your head just slightly, enough for him to see the movement, enough for him to understand what you mean: Breathe.

His chest rises and falls once, twice, the movement deliberate, strained. His mother watches, expression unreadable, then looks down at the book in her hands uncomfortably. The sound of her fingers turning the brittle pages is nearly imperceptible, but you hear it, hear the paper sigh under her touch, hear the way she clears her throat before she speaks again.

You glance down at your hands. Sugar coats your palm, fine and white, dusted over your fingertips like ash. It has transferred from Gojo’s hands to yours, clinging stubbornly to your skin. The ghost of something sweet.

“A Horcrux cannot be destroyed through ordinary magical means,” Mirai says at last, her voice shaking, “It requires highly destructive magic. Horcruxes radiate a dark aura. An influence, a corruption. They take from those who possess them.”

“Possess them?” You frown. “Does that mean the same thing could be happening to Suguru? That he’s being controlled by whatever thing he found?”

“What thing?” Mirai repeats. She tilts her head slightly, waiting.

You nod. “A type of jewelry. A locket, maybe. Or a ring. Something small, something that catches the light.” You pause, thinking back. “Whoever saw it, said it was in the dark. They couldn’t get a clear look. But it was one of those two. A locket, or a ring.”

Mirai hums, a contemplative sound, her fingers tapping absently against the fragile spine of the book as she tries her best to straighten herself. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you, “it must have held significance to Sukuna. A soul, when split, becomes something less than human—both in form and in essence. And some Horcruxes, particularly those made by the truly powerful, develop a will of their own. They defend themselves.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, barely resisting the urge to groan. “How do you destroy one?”

“With something stronger than it,” Mirai replies simply. “A basilisk’s fang. A magical artifact imbued with raw, ancient power. The Sword of Gryffindor, perhaps.” She shakes her head. “There aren’t many options.”

You exhale slowly, mulling over the information. “And the ritual?”

“The ritual is… complicated.” She sighs, rubbing at her temple. “Again, we don’t know everything. But we know enough. It’s a process that allows a wizard to reclaim the fragments of their soul, to draw them back into a single vessel. But the process requires a location of immense significance—one tied irrevocably to the original caster.”

“Something tied to Sukuna?” You furrow your brow. “So… Japan?”

“Possibly,” she says. “But where, exactly? That is the question.”

“Damn,” Gojo mutters. Mirai flicks him a sharp glance at the language, and he mumbles an automatic apology before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s the most important place to a person?” he asks, voice thoughtful, gaze distant.

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as a person. What’s the one place in the world that matters most? The one that holds the most weight, the most history?”

The Room of Requirement. The answer sits on the tip of your tongue, burning there, desperate to be said. It’s the place where the two of you have spent countless nights—plotting, hiding, finding solace in stolen hours of mischief and whispered schemes. It’s yours. But that’s not the answer he’s looking for. It’s not logical enough. Sukuna wasn’t sentimental. He wouldn’t have needed comfort. He would have needed something practical. Something that mattered.

“Where he was born?” you say at last, though the words feel uncertain even as you speak them.

Mirai doesn’t respond immediately, but her expression sharpens, eyes narrowing in thought. She looks down at her notes, turning them over in her mind, and beside you, Gojo smirks.

“Or?” he prompts. You glance at him, confused. “Or what?”

His smirk widens just slightly, but there’s something in his eyes now—something knowing, and expectant. He nudges you, grinning as if you’ve missed something obvious. “You’re getting rusty, Fawkes. Think about it. Sukuna wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill dark wizard. He was obsessed with power. He spent his life eliminating threats, making sure no one could challenge him. He killed people for sport.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

And then, suddenly, you do. The realization crashes into you all at once, unraveling in your mind like a thread pulled too fast. You turn to Gojo, and he’s already looking at you, already knows that you understand, already knows that you’ve both come to the same inevitable conclusion.

“The place of his death,” you say.

“The place of his death,” Gojo repeats deliberately, as if saying it aloud makes it more real, more inevitable. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the chair again, staring at the ceiling like the answer is written there. “Probably somewhere in Japan. And somewhere that is… very well known. Mostly. Probably. Merlin, I hope not.”

“Even if it is well known,” Mirai says, tone measured, “a part of it will be hidden from Muggles. That much is certain.”

You hum, fingers tracing idle patterns over the grains of the wooden table. “What about the ritual of absorption itself? Is there anything you know about it?”

“Yes,” she nods, flipping through the pages of the book. “Horcruxes aren’t usually absorbed. But, for research purposes, we got our hands on one once. And we experimented with it.”

Gojo makes a noise, something caught between disbelief and exasperation. “Experimented?” His eyes narrow. “With a dark magic artifact?”

“Yes,” she says, flatly, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s my job, isn’t it? To uncover what has yet to be understood?”

You don’t miss the way Gojo’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue but can’t. She doesn’t give him the chance.

“Anyhow,” she continues, flipping another page, “we believe it was once used by dark wizards to steal or consume the power of another’s fragmented soul.”

“Vessel,” you whisper, the word rolling off your tongue before you can stop it. A sharp, quiet sound in the heavy stillness of the room. “Becoming a vessel for the fragmented soul.”

“Exactly,” Mirai murmurs. Her gaze flickers up to meet yours before settling back on the text. “The ritual must take place at a site with a deep magical connection to the fragmented soul. In Sukuna’s case, that would be his grave, as my very dear son, whom I am definitely not fearing for the life of, mentioned.”

Despite yourself, you smile, just a little. Now you see where Gojo gets his dry, sardonic humor.

But Mirai isn’t finished. She exhales, something weighty in the movement, before pressing on. “The process involves three elements. The vessel, which is the person performing the ritual, the one absorbing the Horcrux. In this case, Geto Suguru. The conduit. This would be the receptacle containing Sukuna’s fragmented soul. The third, however, remains a mystery. A magical force strong enough to contain the essence without consuming the vessel in the process.”

A pause.

You swallow. The room suddenly feels smaller. “So,” you begin, voice quieter now, thinking through the weight of it all, “if it goes wrong, Suguru faces—”

“Imminent death,” Mirai says, just as softly. But there is something else in her voice, something clipped and unforgiving. “Or something far worse.” She meets your gaze, unflinching. “He does not know what he is dealing with. And I intend on finding this location—Sukuna’s grave—so I can put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. I will not have my son be put on the frontlines of a war that should not exist.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

She tilts her head, watching him carefully. There is something unreadable in her expression, something that makes the air between them crackle, taut with unspoken things. 

“If you think I’m letting children stop a dark wizard and get your hands on an artifact like Sukuna’s Horcrux, you’re out of your mind.”

Gojo’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he stands, the sound splintering through the quiet. “Mother, you cannot be serious.” His voice is tight, and it’s not often you hear him like this. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. There is something far more dangerous about the way his voice lowers, like a thread about to snap. “We are the only ones who can do this without getting Suguru killed. If you—if they—get involved, he’ll die. You know what the Aurors are like. You saw what they did to Credence Barebone in New York in the twenties.”

“He didn’t die in New York,” you murmur. “He was… displaced.”

“And did that solve the problem?” Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, fierce, insistent. “They made it worse. You said it yourself.” He gestures at you with his palm, frustration bleeding into his movements. “If they had just let Newt Scamander handle it, if they hadn’t interfered, it wouldn’t have escalated.”

There is a moment of silence before Mirai sighs, rubbing at her temple. “How do you two know all this?” she asks, exasperated. “This isn’t being taught at Hogwarts, is it? Because if it is, I’ll need to send some very urgent owls—”

“Relax, mother,” Gojo rolls his eyes. “Fawkes considers this kind of thing light reading.”

Mirai’s expression shifts—barely, subtly—but enough for Gojo to see it. Enough for him to understand where this is going.

“Still,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not letting you kill my friend. Or displace him. If you get involved, you’ll throw him in Azkaban, and I’ll never see him again.”

Mirai doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t so much as blink.

“Satoru,” she says, voice calm, quiet, unwavering. “He is a dark wizard. He will be sent away. That is the law.”

And that—that—is when something in him snaps.

“I don’t care!”

His voice cracks through the air like a whip, like a fracture, like the beginning of something irreversible. You flinch despite yourself, knowing that this is the moment it happens. The moment everything spirals.

It is time to leave. Gojo will burst, and he will take you with him back to Hogwarts. The unraveling has already begun.

"Come on, Fawkes," he says, voice low and seething, the weight of it pressing against your chest. "We must leave this place at once."

"Satoru, listen to me—"

"No." His voice cuts through the room like a snapped wand. You stand, caught between instinct and hesitation, but he's already looking away from you, already turning, his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his neck drawn taut. His hands tremble—not with fear, never with fear, but with something else, something sharp and bitter and vile that seeps into his irises with fury. He turns his gaze to his mother, and whatever light lingers in his eyes dims into something cruel. "I will not. I hope you have a terrible day. Goodbye, Mother."

"Satoru—"

Mirai Gojo’s voice is the sound of something breaking. You feel it even as he yanks you forward, his grip on your wrist tightening, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your sleeve. He moves quickly, pulling you through the doors, past the cold marble and tall, unfeeling windows, but the click of heels follows. His mother is behind you, pacing after him, still speaking, still trying.

"Satoru, Dumbledore is an incredibly selfish man!" she calls after him, her voice warping under the high ceilings. "He won’t act until he realizes it’s begun to affect him personally, and by then, he will do anything—anything—to ensure he comes out on top! It’s why I had your father put him under surveillance! Please, stop walking away from me and just listen—"

He stops. And so do you.

It’s abrupt, jarring, even. He makes a sharp turn, and before you can speak, he grabs at your sleeve again. You blink up at him, but he isn’t looking at you, isn’t even breathing properly. His tongue clicks once, twice, three times, rapid, impatient, his mind already leagues ahead, already somewhere you can’t follow.

"Stall her," he murmurs.

"What?"

"Stall her," he repeats, more urgently now, eyes flicking to his mother behind you, then back to you. "Wait here. Talk. You’re smart, right? You’ll manage. She likes you, anyway."

Before you can react, before you can even process what he means to do, he’s gone—pushing past his mother, heading up the stairs two, three at a time, disappearing into the high halls of the estate.

Mirai Gojo stops walking. And you are left standing there, the air thick with words left unsaid, biting at the inside of your cheek, wishing for something to ground you as you stare at the floor.

Then, tenderly, brokenly, "Can I ask something of you?"

You look up. Her voice is different now, no longer the sharp edge of a woman trying to pry open the locked door of her son’s mind. Now, it wavers. She steps forward, hands curling into the folds of her dress, fragile in the way she looks at you.

"I don’t want anything to happen to him," she says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, with more force, more desperation, "Anything. I can’t… I can’t bear it."

You feel it before you understand it.

Something tightens inside your chest, a sharp, breathless ache that buries itself beneath your ribs and wraps around your throat. It is an unfamiliar feeling, terrible in its clarity, overwhelming in the way it presses against you, in the way it makes the world tilt on its axis.

The idea of something happening to him. The thought alone is enough to make you sick. For all his recklessness, for all the ways he invites trouble like an old friend, for all the ways he believes himself untouchable—what if he isn’t? What if he isn’t? What if he isn’t?

He cannot always be the strongest. The greatest. Honorable. And the thought haunts you. Your breath is shallow, your hands cold. And before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, "I can’t either."

The words slip out, and you realize with startling, terrifying certainty that they are true. Mirai Gojo stares at you, blinking her tears away.

"Then you’ll ensure it?" she asks. "His safety?"

You nod, your throat tightening further. "With my life."

She exhales, the sound small, almost defeated. "I’m sorry to ask that of you," she murmurs, looking down. "But it is the only way. He won’t—he won’t listen."

You swallow, feeling the weight of something irreversible settle onto your shoulders. "I understand," you say, voice steadier than you expect. "If I were in your place, I’d do the same."

And before she can say anything more, you hear the hurried thud of boots against the stairs. Gojo is rushing back down, skipping two, three steps at a time, and in the dim light, the sharpness of his face is more pronounced, the tension in his shoulders wound tight enough to snap. 

And the faint, familiar chirring sound from his pocket.

Your eyes widen. Pip. The Niffler had probably slipped away the second you arrived, and knowing him, he had spent that time collecting whatever he could get his tiny, greedy hands on.

Gojo barely spares his mother a glance.

"Alright," he says, grabbing onto your arm. "Let’s go."

And then—

Darkness. The sharp, gut-wrenching pull of disapparition. And silence.

Gojo doesn’t hesitate when the two of you walk into the Room. He steps forward, hoists the Niffler into the air, and, with a sharp grin, flips the creature upside down.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, Pip."

A moment of stillness—then a rain of stolen treasure.

Galleons clatter against the wood, rolling to a stop against the uneven surface. A delicate chain, unmistakably his mother’s, slides across the table before catching the light in a glint of gold. A sigil ring, heavy with meaning, lands with a quiet thunk beside it, its crest unmistakable—the Gojo family seal. Small, glistening gemstones follow, scattering like fragments of a shattered spell.

And then, last of all—a phial.

It does not clatter. It does not roll. It hovers.

Suspended in midair, the artifact is a delicate yet foreboding creation, its craftsmanship meticulous, its purpose unmistakable. At its heart, an opalescent gemstone glimmers—violet, blue, and gold shifting uneasily beneath the light. Silver filigree coils around it, twisting into vine-like patterns, an intricate cage meant to contain what should not be freed.

It hangs in the air, unmoving, its weight heavier than the metal that encases it. A pact sealed in blood. A promise not easily broken. 

This phial is the only evidence of the blood pact Gojo Satoru made with Geto Suguru. 

You reach out, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and as soon as you make contact, the phial drops into your palm with unnatural weight. Your grip tightens around it instinctively, your jaw clenching. You do not look at Gojo, but you can feel the shift in the air beside you, can hear the way his breathing changes—shallower, controlled.

You glance at him then, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The moment is broken by the door swinging open.

"Guys!"

You barely have time to slip the phial into your pocket before Shoko and Nanami step in, breathless and wide-eyed.

Gojo huffs, shaking off whatever had settled between you. He reaches for his sleeve, but before he can pull away completely, you grab onto it, holding him in place. He stills but does not pull away.

"We found something," Shoko says, voice hushed but electric. She glances over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to have followed them. "In the Restricted Section. Can you believe it?"

You lift a brow, waiting. She nods quickly, whispering a sharp "oh" in realization before nudging Nanami, urging him to pull a slip of parchment from his pocket. He hands it to you, and you smooth it out over the table, eyes scanning the inked lines of text.

Your breath catches.

"Your mother was right," you whisper, glancing at Gojo. "Japan. Kyoto, specifically. The burial site of Sukuna Ryomen. But it doesn’t say where in Kyoto. It’s a big city, after all."

Gojo exhales sharply. "No fucking way." His gaze flicks to Nanami. "How’d you find it?"

Nanami adjusts his glasses, expression unreadable. "Tricked Slughorn into thinking we were interested in Japanese locations and runes," he murmurs, though there’s something stiff about his tone. "It felt like committing a crime."

"Welcome to the club," Gojo mutters. There’s a short, humorless laugh before he shakes his head. "Feels like shit the first time. The more you do it, the more exhilarating it gets."

You refocus on the parchment, tracing the words with your fingertips. The air is thick with possibility, with something sharp-edged and thrilling that makes your heart pound.

"Satoru," you say, measured, "we should probably go talk to Dumbledore. He said we should come to him after it’s done, right?"

He nods, jaw tightening. "Yeah."

Shoko and Nanami exchange a look, something wary and unspoken passing between them. Then, Shoko’s gaze drifts down to the Niffler in your arms, and her lips quirk.

"You still haven’t returned that thing to Hagrid?"

You glance at Pip, now curled against your chest, small paws clinging to the front of your robes. His fur is impossibly soft, and despite everything, despite the night pressing in around you, you feel something settle, something warm. You stroke his head gently.

"He led us to Dumbledore earlier," you murmur. "I want to keep him. But I know I can’t. At least, not now. Maybe I’ll ask Hagrid to give him to me before I graduate."

"You’re just collecting creatures now?" Gojo raises a brow.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pip is not a creature. You said it yourself. He’s cute."

Shoko makes a low, teasing noise at the back of her throat. Gojo scowls.

"Fuck it," Gojo mutters then, his breath sharp as it leaves him. His hand rakes through his hair, the gesture quick and restless before it falls back to his side. "Let’s go to Hagrid after we see Dumbledore."

A pause lingers, stretching just long enough to be felt.

Shoko watches you both, arms folded, gaze keen in that way of hers that suggests she sees more than you would like her to. "When are you going to fill us in on everything that happened with your mother?"

You hear them land in Gojo’s silence, in the way his fingers flex where they hang at his sides. You feel them in your own breath, caught between your ribs. Mirai Gojo’s voice flickers through your mind, distant and clear all at once, echoing with something that had felt less like fear and more like inevitability.

"Meet us at Hagrid’s in half an hour," you say quickly, not giving her a chance to press further. Your fingers curl around Gojo’s sleeve, tugging him forward. "I’ll tell you afterward."

And then you run.

It is not like before.

This is not the reckless, breathless chase of childhood, not the kind where Gojo is laughing ahead of you, a blur of white hair and mischief as you swear you’ll hex him for whatever prank he’s pulled this time. This is not the kind where you are running after him or from him, the space between you filled with nothing but the thrill of the game.

This is different.

This is the sharp slap of your feet against the stone, the echo of your breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the cold bite of the castle’s air as you tear through the corridors. The walls blur as you pass them, a rush of shadow and torchlight, of portraits who barely have time to stir before you are gone.

The tower looms ahead.

The gargoyle sits, unmoving, its stone face impassive. The final stretch. You push yourself forward, legs screaming, lungs burning. You skid to a stop, breath catching in your throat.

“Sherbet Lemon,” you gasp.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then, stone grinds against stone, the gargoyle shifting aside to reveal the spiraling staircase behind it.

You don’t wait. Your feet hit the first step, and then the next, the staircase moving beneath you as you ascend, Gojo right behind you, the Niffler wriggling in his grasp. The office door swings open before you even reach for it. 

And the room is still. Faint candlelight casts long shadows, stretching along the walls lined with ancient books and impossible artifacts. The air hums with quiet magic, the kind that lingers in places where knowledge is older than time itself.

Dumbledore is nowhere to be seen. Your eyes dart across the space, searching. Then you hear it. Soft, measured steps, descending from above.

"Ah," a voice greets, gentle and knowing. "The two of you."

He emerges slowly, stepping down as if he has all the time in the world, as if this meeting is nothing more than a quiet inevitability. His robes shift as he moves, deep blue threaded with gold, the fabric catching the flickering light.

"You’ve gotten everything you need, I trust?"

The question is light. Deceptively so.

His hands fold together, gaze settling on you both with the kind of ease that makes something bristle inside you.

Gojo exhales, the sound quiet, and nods. "Yes. We do."

"Not entirely," you cut in, voice sharper than you intended. "We still need the location. The specific, exact location of Sukuna Ryomen’s tomb—if there even is one. Kyoto is too big. We need something more. Exact."

Dumbledore smiles. It is slow, faint, touched with something unreadable. The kind of smile that does not belong in a moment like this. The kind that suggests he knows more than he will say. He does not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicks, thoughtful. First, to the Niffler in Gojo’s arms. Then, to Gojo himself. And finally, to you.

"I promised you something," he says, as if recalling a distant conversation, an old favor once exchanged. "And here you are, ready to collect."

Your fingers twitch. "You said you have something that will guide us."

"That, I do."

And yet, he does not move with urgency. He turns instead, a slow pivot, his hand lifting to rest lightly upon Fawkes’ plumage. The phoenix shifts beneath his touch, feathers gleaming in the low light, but makes no sound. 

Then, Dumbledore steps past her. Toward the shelves. There is no hesitation in his movements. His fingers trail absently across the spines of books, skimming the dust that has settled over them. And then, without ceremony, he reaches.

Something wrapped in leather. He pulls it from its resting place, the drawer sliding shut with a quiet click. The object is old. You can see it in the way the edges of the leather are softened from years of touch, darkened with time. Dust still lingers upon its surface, undisturbed. 

He steps forward. And he places it in your hands. You unroll it. A map.

At first, it appears blank. The parchment is thick, the edges lined with deep maroon leather. The surface is empty, untouched, except for the faintest shadows of something beneath, something waiting to be revealed.

"It works the same way yours does," Dumbledore says, voice light.

Your breath stirs in your chest.

"The—" You swallow. "You know about The Marauders’ Map?"

His lips curl, just slightly. "This one works quite similarly. A minor enchantment. One the Ministry will not bother with. They will dismiss it as my own eccentricity, an old man playing with parchment and ink." He winks.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his wand. He presses the tip against the map’s empty surface. And he speaks.

"I solemnly swear," he murmurs, voice quiet, "I am up to no good."

At first, there is only silence.

Then, the ink does not appear in tendrils. It spreads.

A darkness unfurling like roots beneath the surface, creeping outward, seeping into the parchment’s fibers. It does not move like ink. It does not sit upon the surface but within it, sinking into the very bones of the map, pulsing, alive.

And within its depths, a dot. A single point of light, swallowed in the dark. Your dot. 

You stare.

"If you get close enough," Dumbledore murmurs, watching your face carefully, "you’ll find that it will lead you exactly where you need to go."

a/n. this was proofread with me being half asleep on the train. i'm pretty sure it's alright, but if there are any problems, do let me know! and thank you for following along with me on this journey, and supporting me even through tough times!

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[darlingsblackbook]

The princess and the fool

Jester!Gojo x Princess!Reader

Medieval Court AU

Summary : The halls of the castle are always cold. I have grown used to it, the chill, the silence, the feeling of existing yet never truly being seen. Then the jester arrives.

English is not my first language, I apologize in advance for any grammatical or spelling mistakes. Feel free to point them out but be kind with it♡

°•♡•°

The great hall is alive tonight.

The long tables overflow with food, the scent of roasted meats and spiced honey thick in the air. The golden chandeliers shine a warm glow over the gathered nobles, their laughter filling the room. Musicians play a lively tune, filling the air with the sharp trill of flutes and the deep hum of stringed instruments.

I sit at my place near the high table, not beside my father, nor near my brothers. Those seats belong to those with purpose. I am here because it is expected, nothing more.

Then, a voice cuts through the revelry.

"Ah, my lady of eternal gloom!"

The hall hushes, if only slightly, as heads turn toward the source of the voice.

I lift my gaze.

He stands in the center of the hall, a stark contrast to the muted elegance of the court.

Silver hair glows under candlelight, strands falling messily over his forehead, though I sense the disarray is intentional. His clothing-a jester’s garb in rich crimson and gold-is striking, adorned with delicate embroidery that glimmers when he moves. The bells at his sleeves and boots barely chime, as if he is too graceful to let them.

But his eyes...

His eyes are the most dangerous of all.

A shade of blue so bright they seem otherworldly, sharp with amusement yet unreadable beneath the weight of something deeper.

His grin is reckless, the kind that belongs to a man who has never known restraint.

"If I dare say," he continues, spreading his arms wide, as if addressing the entire court, "I have met ghosts with more cheer than you, oh princess of goom"

A murmur ripples through the gathered lords and ladies. Some chuckle behind their goblets of wine, while others glance at me, waiting to see how I will respond.

I say nothing.

I just hold his gaze

Then, as if nothing has happened, I lower my eyes back to my plate.

The moment passes. The court resumes its chatter. The musicians play again. The jester- whoever he is- laughs and continues his performance, spinning through the hall with charm.

But I can feel it.

Even as he entertains the crowd, his presence filling every inch of the room, those piercing eyes keep finding their way back to me.

And I can't helpt but wonder, what is it that he sees?

°•♡•°

I see him before he speaks.

It has been this way ever since that first night.

Whenever we are in the same room, his gaze seems to find me. Even when he is performing for the nobles, spinning tales and juggling goblets of wine without spilling a a single drop, I feel the weight of his attention.

I do not know why.

Perhaps he has taken it as a challenge: to crack the stonefaced silent princess, to pry a laugh from lips that rarely part.

Perhaps he is simply a fool.

His laughter echoes through the great hall again and I can not seem to withhold myself from lifting my gaze in the direction of the sound. His eyes almost seemed to glimmer in the warm glow of the chandelier suspended above the table. Lips pulled in a wide grin, his teeth-fangs- almost seemed to glint as if sending off a warning to stay away.

His head shifted and tilted to the side, I moved my gaze up to realize he had caught me admiring him. The jester did not seemed to mind though, he only blinked one eye in a quick wink.

What a fool.

°•♡•°

A week later, the feast is the same as always. Lords and ladies drink, their voices growing louder after every emptied goblet. Musicians pulling their strings until their fingers ache, the servants moving between tables like shadows, unseen, unnoticed.

My eyes swept over the great hall once, then another time, and again. I scanned every and each indivudal, but what was I looking for, really?

White locks, shimmering blue eyes and the faint sound of bells ringing.

My grip on my fork tightened until I could almost feel the heavy metal bend under my hold. What am I thinking? I released a breath I had not realized I was holding as the realization dawned on me. I had unconsciously been looking for-

A heavy sigh, exaggerated and drawn out, cuts through my thoughts.

I know it is him before I even turn.

"Ah, woe is me!," he laments, dramatically collapsing onto the floor beside my chair. A few nobles turn to watch the spectacle, curious. He places a hand over his heart, as if pained beyond reason. "My suffering knows no end!"

I raise one eyebrow as I lift my goblet and take a slow sip of my wine.

"If only—" he gasps, lifting his head to meet my gaze. "If only the princess of eternal gloom would spare me a glance, perhaps my shattered heart might mend just a little."

I do not indulge him.

He groans and lets his head fall back against the floor, arms spread as though he has perished on the cold stone. "No?" he mutters, voice full of despair. "Not even a glance? Not even the tiniest flicker of pity?"

Someone kicks him.

"Get up, fool," one of the knights mutters.

The jester lifts his head, feigning deep betrayal. "Even the knights have turned against me! Tell me, is there no love left in this world?"

But I simply set my goblet down and say, "Not for you it seems."

A collective murmur ripples through the court, amusement laced with intrigue.

The fool freezes for a fraction of a second.

Then he grins.

His suffering deepens—his body crumpling as if my words have physically wounded him. "A cruel, heartless woman! How ever shall I survive this torment?" He turns his gaze to the ceiling. "Perhaps I shall wither away. Perhaps the weight of my unrequited love will drag me to an early grave—"

"You would not be so lucky," I interrupt.

He falters.

Then, laughter bursts from his lips, loud and unrestrained. His whole body shakes with it, delight sparking in his impossibly blue eyes. He presses a hand to his chest, shaking his head.

"You wound me," he gasps between chuckles. "And yet—I think I adore you even more for it."

Fool.

I should not entertain him.

I should not allow him to pull me into whatever ridiculous game he has started.

But the corners of my lips twitch.

Just slightly.

But his gaze sharpens, as if he has caught me in the act.

He does not let me go so easily.

°•♡•°

He seems to always find me.

It does not stop at feasts.

If anything, he is worse outside of them.

I do not know how he does it, how he appears in the most unexpected places at the most ridiculous times.

But somehow, he does.

The first time, I am in the library.

The towering shelves stretch high above me, filled with books older than the castle itself. I am searching for a particular volume, my fingers trailing over the worn spines-

When a deep sigh echoes through the chamber.

"Truly," The jester laments from somewhere behind me, "this heartbreak will be the end of me."

I do not turn. "If you are here for pity, you will not find it amongst books."

He appears beside me in an instant, leaning against the shelf with a lazy grin. "No? I thought perhaps I’d find some poetry on tragic love to soothe my pain." He glances at the books. "Or a guide on how to win the heart of a cold and distant princess."

I pull a book from the shelf and hand it to him. "How to disappear, completely."

The jester takes the book from my hands, glancing at the title.

Then he looks at me.

Then back at the book.

His grin widens.

"Ah," he muses, flipping it open dramatically. "A personal recommendation. How cruel you are, princess. Do you long for my absence so dearly?"

I return to scanning the shelves. "I long for silence."

"And yet, you keep speaking to me."

I do not offer that with a response.

He leans closer, dropping his voice as if sharing a secret. "You know, if you wish to disappear, you could always run away with me. I happen to be very good at sneaking out completely unnoticed."

I glance at him then, just briefly. "A jester and a runaway princess. How original."

"Mm, you’re right," he sighs, pretending to reconsider. "Perhaps we should fake our deaths first. Make it dramatic. You can even pick how we go."

"Poison."

The word leaves my lips so quickly, so flatly, that for a moment, he blinks at me.

And then he bursts into laughter.

It echoes through the grand library, far too loud for the sacred quiet of this place. I should tell him to lower his voice.

But I don’t.

Because despite myself, I feel something stir in my chest at the sound of his carefree laugh.

Something dangerously unfamiliar.

Gojo holds the book against his heart. "I shall cherish this gift of yours, my gloomy princess. A token of your deep and unspoken love."

"Then I shall expect you to vanish by morning."

He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me! Again! Just how many times must I die for your love?"

"You have survived this long," I say, taking a different book from the shelf and turning away. "Clearly, your suffering is not terminal."

His laughter follows me as I walk away.

And when I am far enough that I should not hear him anymore, he still calls after me.

"I shall suffer on, then! Only for you!"

It is not just the library.

Nor is it just the feasts.

He seems to find me everywhere.

In the courtyard, where I sit by the fountain, enjoying a rare moment of quiet.

Only to hear a dramatic splash behind me as he throws himself into the shallow water, arms spread wide. "I am drowning in sorrow!" he declares. "A love unreturned is a fate worse than death!"

"You are drowning in two feet of water," I say without looking up.

"In my sorrow," he corrects, laying flat in the fountain like a man lost at sea.

I shake my head, returning to my book. A maid walks by and pauses, looking between us with concern.

"Leave him," I say before they can ask. "He is beyond saving."

The fool gasps, lifting his head. "How cold!"

The servant wisely leaves.

And him, the fool that he is, remains in the water for another five minutes, waiting for me to acknowledge him.

I do not.

But the next time I pass by the fountain, I see something new. Something that had not been there before.

A tiny paper boat, floating lazily in the water.

When I unfold it, I find a simple message written inside.

I would not mind drowning a thousand times, over and over, if it meant I could be by your side.

~ Your fool

I do not know why he seeks me out, why he insists on drawing laughter from someone who has long since forgotten how to give it.

I do not know why, despite everything, I let him

But I do know this.

The castle has always been cold.

The halls have always been empty.

And I have always been unseen.

But then came the jester.

And no matter how I try to disappear, he will not let me. He keeps finding me. He keeps seeing me.

°•♡•°

The castle is quiet at this hour.

Most are asleep, lost in dreams or the silence of the night.

Not me.

And, it seems, not him.

I hear the footsteps before I see him. Light, unhurried, belonging to a man who walks as though the world lays in the palm of his hand.

I do not turn, even when I feel his presence settle beside me on the stone ledge of the tower balcony. The wind is gentle tonight, cool against my skin as I look out over the sleeping kingdom.

"You never sleep," the jester muses. His voice is softer now, quiet, stripped of its usual mischief.

"Neither do you," I reply.

He leans forward, arms resting against his knees. "I sleep plenty."

"Liar."

A soft chuckle, but he does not argue.

For a while, both of us stay silent.

The air between us feels different tonight. Not tense, but something quieter, something softer. I do not know if it is the hour or the solitude, but for once, the Jester does not fill the silence with his usual laughter.

Instead, he tilts his head, looking at me with a strange kind of curiosity.

"You never call me by my name," he says suddenly.

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

He smiles, but it’s not the grin he usually wears, it’s something smaller, something almost… shy. "You call me ‘fool,’ ‘jester,’ sometimes ‘idiot’ when you think I’m not listening."

"You are all of those things," I say, but my voice lacks its usual bite.

"And yet," he hums, "not once have you called me by my name."

I open my mouth, then close it.

Because he’s right.

I never realized that I do not call him by his name, it had not been intentional. Or maybe, subconsciously, I had never called him by his name to still keep a distance between us- so I would not let him too close to my heart.

The thought of saying it aloud feels… intimate.

More intimate than anything we have ever done.

He watches me expectantly, his usual playfulness dimmed into something more patient.

And maybe it is the night, or the way the world feels impossibly small on this tower ledge, but-

"...Satoru."

The name feels unfamiliar on my tongue.

Satoru's eyes widen slightly, and for the first time since I have met him, he looks startled.

But the surprise fades quickly, melting into something impossibly soft. "Again," he says.

I shake my head, looking away. "No."

"Please?"

I close my eyes. "Do not push your luck."

A breath of laughter, and then,

"Come with me."

I turn to him, confused. "...What?"

"Let’s leave," he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. "You and me. Run away. Disappear."

I snort. "You are ridiculous."

"I’m serious.", His voice holds no humor.

I look at him then, truly look at him, and I see it, the absence of laughter in his gaze. The rawness in his expression. The way his fingers twitch against the stone as if he is holding something back.

He is serious.

He is serious.

The weight of it settles in my chest, something heavy and unfamiliar. I do not know how to hold it.

"Why would I leave?" I ask quietly.

"For the same reason I would," he says, and I hate that he says it like I should already know.

Like the answer has always been there, unspoken between us. I search his face, trying to make sense of this, of him, of the impossible thing he is asking of me.

"Do you know why I became a jester?" he asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard.

Gojo exhales, leaning back slightly, gaze drifting toward the stars. "Because I wanted to laugh," he says simply. "Because I wanted others to laugh. Because laughter makes the world feel lighter, even when it isn’t."

He looks at me again, and this time, I see something deeper in his eyes.

Something sad.

"But you… you never laugh."

I turn away. "Some people are not made for laughter."

"That’s not true," he says, his voice too soft, too kind. "I’ve seen it, you know. The way your lips twitch when you fight a smile. The way your eyes crinkle when you think no one is watching."

My chest feels tight.

"I could make you laugh," he continues, quieter now. "Every day. Every night. Until death do us part, and even then, I’d haunt you just to make you laugh."

A broken little huff escapes me. "You would be an insufferable ghost."

"Yes," he agrees easily. "But I’d be yours."

I close my eyes. It is too much.

Too much.

"Satoru…"

The way his name leaves my lips feels like a plea. For him to stop. For him to continue.

For something I do not have the words for.

But Gojo just smiles, tilting his head.

"See?" he murmurs. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

I shake my head, not knowing if I want to laugh or cry.

But he doesn’t push further.

He doesn’t ask again.

He just reaches out, slow enough for me to pull away-

But I don’t.

His fingers brush my wrist, warm and steady. And in the quiet of the night, with the whole world sleeping below us-

Two lost souls finally become whole.

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[candycandy00]

Once Upon a Time - A Sukuna x Reader Fanfic Part 2

Retold fairytales featuring the JJK men! This is Sleeping Beauty featuring Sukuna! After your parents are killed, leaving you as the young queen, you hire the mysterious and violent Sukuna to be your Captain of the Guard to protect you from an evil fairy’s curse. You’re in love with him, but he just keeps refusing you! 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Read Gojo x Cinderella Here!

Read Choso x Rapunzel Here!

Read Toji x Snow White Here!

Read Higuruma x Little Mermaid Here!

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. AU. Reader as Sleeping Beauty, Sukuna as her Captain of the Guard. Somnophilia (sort of). Paralysis (sort of). Rough sex.

Any feedback is adored! Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more and @benkeibear.

It’s a very strange sensation, falling into your supposed “deep sleep”. You can still hear everything going on around you, Sukuna yelling your name almost angrily, as if he can intimidate you into waking up. You can still feel everything too, his arms holding you, then lowering you to the floor. It feels like he’s cradling you in his lap, but that would be ridiculous. You suspect that if your eyes were open, you could see everything too. 

It’s not so much a deep sleep as paralysis. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even open your eyes. But you’re very much aware of everything. 

You feel Sukuna’s palm tapping your face in a light slap. “Wake up!” he shouts, then grunts as if frustrated, then calls for more guards. You listen as he commands one of them to fetch a doctor and another to inform your advisers. 

“Is the assassin still in the castle?” one of the guards asks. 

“It was the fucking cat!” Sukuna yells. Then he says, “There it is! Grab it and snap its neck!”

No! Briar did nothing wrong! He didn’t understand!

You want to scream the words but you can’t. 

You hear a sigh next to you. “Wait, she likes the damn thing. Just find the needle in its fur and let it go,” Sukuna says. 

You feel immense relief. You’re sick of things dying because of you and your curse.

“I’ll put her in her bed,” he tells the others, and you feel yourself being lifted and then carried. A few seconds later, you feel the softeness of your bed beneath your back. You miss the warmth of Sukuna’s arms though. 

Over the next hour, multiple doctors and advisers visit your chambers, some trying to help, others just curious to see the curse in action. 

Sukuna stays in the room, occasionally speaking even though he rarely talked to these people before. Is he… doing this on purpose? To let you know he’s still here, watching over you? No, he doesn’t know you can hear him. 

At some point one of the advisers asks another, “Should we try waking her? The former king and queen told us about that method.”

A hush falls over the room, then Sukuna says, “So you know how?”

The other adviser says, in an uneasy voice, “Her parents were told a specific method, and they told us, in case something happened after they died. It’s a bit of a sensitive topic.”

You listen intently. You knew there was some secret method of waking you in this situation, but no one would tell you what it is. Instead, your parents and later the advisers had looked extremely uncomfortable as they told you not to worry about it. 

The first adviser who broached the topic clears his throat. “To awaken the queen, a man must… lay with her… intimately.”

What?! 

You hear Sukuna’s voice again. “So someone needs to fuck her?”

“Er… yes, Captain. That is correct. We find it uncomfortable to discuss, as you can imagine. She is unconscious after all, and cannot give her consent.”

A third adviser, a woman, speaks up then. “Remember what she told us before? I believe her exact words were, ‘I don’t care if the method involves letting every person in town piss on my face, do whatever it takes to wake me’. I think we should honor her wishes, regardless of how distasteful we find it.”

Yes! That’s the choice I would make for myself! 

One of the male advisers asks, “Who will do the deed?”

If you were able to, you would be holding your breath. There’s a pause, then Sukuna speaks again. “I will.”

!!!

“You?!” one of the advisers asks incredulously. “We can’t allow a violent barbarian we know nothing about to-“

“Wait,” the lady adviser says, cutting him off. “This ‘barbarian’ has saved our queen’s life more times than we can count these past three months. And everyone in the kingdom can see that she has a certain… affection for him. I believe she would choose him herself if possible.”

Yes! Yes! Please don’t let anyone else touch me! It has to be Sukuna!

After some more discussion, the advisers finally all agree to let Sukuna try to wake you. You hear their shuffling steps as they leave your chambers. 

************************

Sukuna looks down at his sleeping princess. Laid out on her bed, dress spread around her, she looks more lovely than ever, more innocent. 

“Hey, you’re not really asleep, are you?” he asks, standing over her bed. 

She gives no response. Of course she doesn’t. 

He leans over her, placing his knee on the bed beside her and his hand on her calf, slowly sliding her dress up. Her cheeks redden, and Sukuna laughs. 

“I knew it. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been with you too much lately, or if it’s a side effect of the curse, but your thoughts are coming through to me. Maybe not in words, but I’m feeling the gist of it. Like earlier with the cat. I felt that you didn’t want anyone to kill it.”

His hand moves further up, dragging the hem of her dress up high enough to reveal the fresh set of frilly panties she’s wearing. “I also felt it when you got all excited about me waking you up, how it has to be me.”

Her skin feels hot. He can feel her sense of embarrassment. “Oh? Getting bashful now?” he asks, untying the laces of her corset. “If you prefer, we can let someone else do it. Or we can just let you sleep for a while…”

The word “no!” flashes through his brain, radiating from her. He grins. “So I’m good enough to wake the princess? I’m not gonna lie, having you so helpless, unable to move or speak, is turning me on.”

He rips open the corset and pulls it off her body, then pulls the dress over her head, moving her limp body as he needs to fully strip her. Once she’s completely naked, he stands back to look. 

She’s more beautiful than he imagined in those nights when he jacked off in his bed, picturing her whimpering beneath him. The night he saw her pleasuring herself, the room had been dark enough to conceal much of her form. But now, with every lantern in the room lit, he could see her in all her glory.  

“Don’t tell me not to stare,” he says, sensing her thoughts again. “I’ve been waiting to get a good look at this soft body, bare and spread out for me. My eyes are feasting.”

Her whole body is flushing. She looks so delectable. How did he resist for this long? When he heard the method for waking her, he knew it had to be him. Despite his reluctance to bed her, the thought of any other man touching his adorable princess, seeing her in such a vulnerable state, made him want to stab the nearest living creature. 

And he knew what she wanted. Even without her thoughts somehow flowing into his mind, he knew she would rather die than let anyone else see her being weak and helpless. 

He strokes one hand over her face, wishing he could see that defiant look in her eyes again. He leans his face down close to hers, remembering how she looked earlier when she thought he was going to kiss her. That look of anticipation, of longing… it had almost made him crack. He can feel her emotions now, flooding his own thoughts. She wants this more than anything. 

He kisses her lips, pressing his tongue into her mouth to lick every inch of it, savoring the sweet taste of her. While still locked in the kiss, he slides his hand up and gently pulls one of her eyelids open. 

****************************

The light almost hurts your eye, but you adjust quickly. As you guessed, you can see when your eyes are held open, and right now you see Sukuna’s face hovering right over yours as he kisses you, his own eyes looking straight into your one open one. 

He grins into the kiss, then pulls away. “Your pupil just dilated. So you can see too.”

You wish he hadn’t broken the kiss. You’ve been craving it for so long. But then he releases your eyelid, letting it close before you feel him climb onto the lower end of the bed. His hands appear on your legs, spreading them apart. Ah! It’s embarrassing to be opened up so lewdly before him, even if you’ve wanted him for months. 

“I bet your sense of touch is much stronger with your eyes shut, huh? Every sensation that much more intense…”

His voice is like velvet as you feel his thumb rubbing up and down your slit. “You’re dripping, princess. This pretty little pussy is drooling for me.”

Your heart is racing, your breaths coming quicker. 

“It’s just too bad I can’t hear that sweet voice of yours moaning while I do this,” he says, then his fingers part your folds, and you feel his hot, wet tongue glide over your open pussy. 

If you could move, you would be arching your back, bucking your hips from the electrifying pleasure that shoots through you. His tongue circles your swollen, defenseless clit teasingly, one of his fingers sliding inside you. Your rapid breaths are getting louder, your body desperate for his tongue to hit the right spot. When he laughs, you feel the vibration of it, and you think this must be some form of torture he’s devised. 

“Getting impatient, princess? This poor little clit feeling neglected?” 

If you could, you would be begging him to get on with it, to just lick your clit already. But you can’t, and his tongue continues to move all around it. Finally, his tongue withdraws, and a second later, you feel his teeth graze over the tender little bud. 

Your body sucks in a sharp breath, the pleasure almost too much to bear. Then his lips close over it, suckling it as his tongue runs over the tiny tip. All the while, his finger is plunging in and out of your tight hole. 

You cum right then, your helpless body twitching beneath him as pleasure washes over you in waves. Oh, how you wish you could cry out his name. 

Sukuna withdraws his finger and moves off the bed. You hear fabric rustling, and picture him undressing. It’s not fair! You’ve wanted to see him naked this whole time! 

He laughs again, and you remember that he can sense what you’re thinking. “You want to see me that badly? Maybe I’ll be nice and show you.”

His fingers are at your eye again, peeling back the lid to let you see him standing over you. Only his bare torso is visible, but it’s enough to get you heated again. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with a perfectly toned, muscular body and those tantalizing tattoos running along his whole torso. 

“There’s something else you need to see,” he says, and his voice seems to drop the teasing, almost playful tone for a moment. “There’s a reason I kept turning you down. I didn’t want to wreck you. But now we’re in this situation, and there’s no avoiding it.”

He lets your eye close for a moment, and when he opens it again, he says, “Have a good look, Princess. Still think you can handle me?”

It takes you a moment to process what you’re looking at. He’s holding something in his hand, something that should not be that big. Something the size of his arm. It’s an absolute monster of a cock, hard as stone and pointing upwards, clear fluid leaking from the fat tip. 

Oh god, forget wrecking you, that thing could kill you! 

As he lets your eye close once again, you feel him climb back onto the bed. He must sense your fear, because he pushes your legs up and apart and says, “I’ll try not to hurt you. Too badly.”

This position is too obscene! He holds your legs back, your knees nearly touching your shoulders, leaving you more vulnerable than ever. You feel the tip of his enormous cock prodding at your slick little hole, and you shudder. 

Then, he begins pushing the massive organ into your warm, soft, pliable body. 

Ahhh, it’s too big!

You feel one of his hands on your face. “What happened to all that bravado from before?” he asks. “You were so desperate for me to fuck you, so sure you could take me. Now you’re getting what you wanted.”

There’s a softness to his voice that doesn’t match his taunting words, and despite it all he’s moving slowly, slipping into you inch by inch instead of plunging in all at once like you imagined. 

Even so, the stretch is painful, and a whimper escapes your lips. 

“Giving up already, princess? I thought you were tougher than this.”

I’m not giving up! I want you even deeper!

He opens both your eyes this time, his thumbs sliding your eyelids up. 

“You sure about that?” he asks you, red eyes looking as wild as the day you met him. 

Yes!

He grins. “There’s my brave little princess.”

I’m a queen, not a pri-

He suddenly shoves in, still holding your eyes open, still staring into them, as his cock fully sheaths itself inside you. Your body jerks, your breath catches in your throat. If you could scream, the whole castle would hear it. 

“Your pupils are really dilating now!” he says. 

It hurts, but at the same time, the feeling of being so full of him excites you. He lets your eyes close again, and for a few moments he remains still. Then, he begins moving, slow and easy at first, but giving way to deeper, harder thrusts. 

He groans above you. “You’re tight as fuck! I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold back if ever stuck my dick in this little virgin pussy!”

He hits a spot that has your body spasming around him and tears leaking from your closed eyes. 

“There it is… I found your weak spot,” he says. “You like it really deep, don’t you?”

Oh god… it feels so good! 

Your mind is going blank, pleasure and pain mixing so deliciously as he does whatever he pleases with your body. 

**************************

Sukuna can’t stop himself now. The feeling of her unbelievably tight cunt clenching him everytime he plunges in is overriding all his willpower. 

“Fuck… never had a virgin… take me this deep before…” he grunts out, intentionally hitting the spot that has her limp body shaking. 

Her thoughts are spilling out, broken and choppy, barely comprehensible: “want more… want you… love you… hurts… feels so good… go deeper… cum inside me…”

He reaches up to caress her face again, leaning in to run his tongue across her lips. “I will, princess. I’ll fill you up so good.”

She cums again, her pussy clenching him in a vice grip, her mouth gasping for air, and it’s the most lovely sight in the world. 

“It’s time for you to wake up,” he says, his voice going uncharacteristically soft. “Your kingdom is waiting for you. I’m waiting for you, my queen.”

He thrusts in so deep, it feels like he’s become a part of her, before releasing his seed, shooting his thick cum into her quivering pussy. 

Her eyes snap open, she breathes in deeply, staring at him in wonder. Then her arms wrap tightly around his neck as she leans up to kiss him. When she pulls away, she gives him that haughty look he’s come to enjoy. 

“Took you long enough,” she says. 

He grins. “You’re acting awfully high and mighty for someone who just came on my cock with tears running down her face.”

She flushes and averts her eyes, and he realizes he can’t feel her thoughts anymore. Ah well, not like he needs that to know how she feels. 

He slowly pulls out and sits up, looking down at her exhausted body. She’s still shaking slightly, breathing hard. It makes him want to take her again. But he has other pressing matters to take care of. 

“I’m going into the woods to find the old fairy,” he tells her. “And I’m gonna chop her fucking head off. She’ll be sending regular assassins now that the curse didn’t work. She’ll never leave you be until you’re dead.”

His queen sits up in bed, grasping his arm. “Take me with you!”

“Of course. I don’t trust these weaklings to protect what’s mine. Let’s go on the offensive!”

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Guys, Howl’s Moving Castle is one of my favorite books ever so if you want to read the book- do that! This will be a combination of both the book and movie. SPOILERS! SO MANY SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK AND MOVIE!

(Masterpost)

⦾･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ⦾ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ⦾

Deep in the heart of the Market there is a little hat shop that is now on its third owner. The first was a highly regarded man in the community. The second, his second wife, a boastful young woman that loved to shower her guests with gifts. The third, the eldest child who often kept to themselves.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The Hatter family was known for having two extraordinary daughters…and (Y/N). That’s not to say (Y/N) wasn’t extraordinary, just not like their sisters.

Lettie was an absolute beauty, definitely taking after their mother. She was headstrong and determined. Martha was an educated young woman, though the youngest, she far exceeded in her magical power. Born to Mr.Hatter’s second wife Fanny, she upheld the family name with grace and honor. And then there’s (Y/N).

Responsible (Y/N).

Sensible (Y/N).

Filial (Y/N).

It was no surprise that after the second Mrs.Hatter, (Y/N) took over. Beautiful Lettie went to work for Cesari’s Bakery as a waitress and Brilliant Martha to Mrs.Fairfax as an apprentice.

And that left Quiet (Y/N) to run the shop. Quiet, boring (Y/N). The kind of person that never seemed to have a reaction. Not even when Martha cowered in fear of the day she left for her apprenticeship. On the hillside, bustling and scuttling was the legendary Gojo’s Castle.

Some feared it. Some adored it. (Y/N) thought it was ugly. Ugly like the legend of Wizard Gojo. Stealing the hearts of the most beautiful people around. Or that’s what the rumors said, it’s hard to avoid rumors in a hat shop. People often started to whisper when they spoke of the mysterious and charming man who visited the Market. He was as mysterious as he was powerful. Even those who hated Gojo would dare speak ill of him.

Unless you were a scorned Lover of his. Of course Quiet, Boring and Bland (Y/N) had no reason to worry about this.

No, (Y/N) had to worry about tending to their hats. The hats and their sisters. It had been just about a year since Lettie and Martha left. Fanny was, of course, outside enjoying the festivities of the Kingdom’s spring celebrations. The rumor being that she was also looking for a new love to snatch up. That didn’t matter, the hat shop was (Y/N)’s to run anyway.

What did matter was the festivities blocking their imports. The postman let out a half-hearted chuckle over the phone, “If you can get down here before nightfall (Y/N), that’d be great.”

“Thank you Mr.Potterman.” (Y/N) replied in their best tone.

Alas, Quiet, Boring, Bland and Awkward (Y/N) had to yet again grace the Market Square with their presence.

Shifting through the crowds of people was almost impossible. Just because the Prince was still in exile didn’t mean the King had to overcompensate with this year’s festival. The crowd was shifting from a nuisance to a mob. A mob of smiling faces casually enjoying their day. Ladies dressed to the nines meandered through the crowd, beckoned by strapping young men.

(Y/N) quickly ducked behind corners and alley’s to try and make it through the crowd. And then a young man stopped to beckon her.

“I beg your pardon.” (Y/N) said in a mix of annoyance and anxiety.

“I asked if I could join you on your walk.” He smiled. He dressed in a fancy blue and silver coat over a darker blue waistcoat and slacks. White hair, perfectly tousled and though (Y/N) couldn’t see his eyes behind his black glasses, they still felt unnerved by them.

He chuckled, almost pitifully, “I only wish to buy you a drink. You feel like someone I’ve met in a dream before.”

An unnatural beauty he was. Half his face obstructed, but just by his tone, his demeanor, this man dripped confidence.

He’s so annoying.

“Right…” (Y/N) grimaced. “Enjoy Market Chipping sir.” And turned to leave.

But he followed. Of course he followed. Just (Y/N)’s luck to be followed.

“You know I’m not from here?” He called out, barely five feet behind (Y/N).

“You dress like a peacock, you couldn’t possibly be from here.” (Y/N) called back, steadfast in losing this bothersome man.

“I see.” He chuckled.

“Please stop following me.” (Y/N) says sternly. For a moment (Y/N) thought he caught the hint. The footsteps behind them stopped, then started again, then became more footsteps.

Before (Y/N) could turn around, the bothersome man was right next to them. Holding them close, by the waist and rushing their pace. “Sorry, you’re involved now.”

“What are you-“

“Please, just stay calm and follow me. I’ll protect you.” The playfulness left his voice as (Y/N)’s dread sunk in. Oh someone above, what had (Y/N) did to inflict this wrath?

For what felt like hours, the annoying man led (Y/N) through the alleyways, with the occasional picking up of footsteps surrounding them. First from behind, then the sides, and now in front. His hold tightened on (Y/N)’s waist. “On the count of three, I need you to jump. One-“

The footsteps around them suddenly felt even closer than before. (Y/N) could see the figures starting to emerge from the shadows.

“Two-“

Is this how (Y/N) dies? Lured into some violent nonsense by a strange man? All because they wanted to get a head start on work that was months away?

“Three!”

With all their might and fear, (Y/N) jumped. A rush of air and growls came from the shadows as (Y/N) felt weightless. Finally opening their eyes to see themselves being launched into the air. The shadowy figures below merged into one another before slinking away.

The alleyways disappeared as they floated high above the buildings and over the Market Square. From here (Y/N) could see the people dancing in the square, boats riding through the river. It never occurred to (Y/N) just how big Market Chipping was before.

“Hey, stretch your legs out, start walking.” The man called out.

(Y/N) did as instructed. Though they knew nothing was under their feet, for a brief moment it felt like there was. Down they walked through the Market Square, over a crowd of people too happy to even look up.

“You’re a natural at this,” the man smiled.

Refusing to look at him, and still a little scared of him, (Y/N) scoffed. “Drop me down at Cesari’s. It’s that bakery over there.”

The man complied. He guided them to the open balcony above the Bakery. (Y/N)’s feet finally touched something solid and the weight of the situation set it. The strange man’s hold on (Y/N) kept them from toppling over. “Forgive me, I'm much more dashing than this.”

“Is that so?” (Y/N) chuckled awkwardly.

His tone changed, “I’ll lead them away from here, wait a bit before you go outside. Be home before night.”

“Right.” (Y/N) nodded.

The man took a moment to look at (Y/N). To really study their face. He smiled a devilishly charming smile, “There you are, Love” and tapped their nose with the back of his knuckle.

(Y/N) couldn’t hide the flushing of their cheeks this time. The man smiled once again as he floated off the balcony and disappeared into the crowd below.

(Y/N), back on solid ground and of sound mind came down to the crushing realization that they may have just met the Wizard Gojo.

⦾･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ⦾ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ⦾

Again, to reiterate, I have only seen S1 of JJK and a bunch of manga spoilers. I have read HMC 7 times and watched the movie probably 100 times. If you want to read the book I highly recommend you do because I'm taking from both the book and movie and there might just be some stuff I make up for the sake of the fic. Thank you all for sitting through another one of my obsessions. Oddly enough, I'm actually looking forward to writing Cinderella!Nanami too lol

Taglist: @hel1nn

[missmatchablossom]

Gojo x Reader Royalty AU | Part II.

summary: you are a princess in an arranged marriage with the crown prince of the country, satoru gojo. when you finally come of age and move into his palace, the two of you are forced to spend time together as the future queen and king of the nation. the future king definitely seems to have a thing for you though.

a.n: here is the link to part I of the story! this next part is a little fluff between you and gojo, where the two of you are slowly developing feelings :)

tags: @lysaray I hope you enjoy!

~

Part II.

The arrival of the evening quieted the usual hustle and bustle of the castle. You admired the path the lanterns paved to the west wing of the castle, where Gojo resided.

You carefully made your way towards Gojo’s study, trying your best to avoid making sounds in case he was in the middle of an important phone call, which was often. The familiar wooden door was slightly ajar, and you couldn’t help yourself as you peaked inside and admired the sight of the prince. 

He sat at his usual spot at his desk, his room warmed by the soft glow of his desk lamp. His silvery hair was tousled, his chiseled jaw set in concentration. Your eyes wandered to the sky-blue button-up he had on, the top few buttons undone. It brought out his eyes, which were focused on the documents littering his desk. It was almost painful how handsome he really was.

“You could take a picture princess. I promise I won’t mind,” he said, his expression relaxing and his lips morphing into a teasing smirk. 

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you strolled to sit in your favorite spot on the couch across from him. Ever since the night of the ball, you found yourself sneaking visits to him every chance you got. And by the way he started leaving his door open for you, he didn’t seem to mind.

He placed his elbow on his desk, propping his head onto his palm as he looked at you. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, flashing you his infamous smile. That damned smile that made your heart squeeze no matter how often you saw it now.

“I overheard that someone hasn’t eaten dinner yet,” you said, searching his face. Despite the teasing note in his voice, the dullness in his eyes gave away his exhaustion. The more time you spent with him, the more you learned about the insane workload he took on. You urged him to let you help, but he gently declined, saying it was business he had to handle himself. 

The few times you brought up concerns for his health, he reassured you with a smile and a wink that he took care of himself. Once you befriended the staff who cared for him, you realized how much of a lie that was. They told you how the prince had began skipping meals and working late into the night ever since his brother abdicated. 

“I got busy,” he said shortly, blinking slowly as if he were realizing how tired he was.

“It's 11:00pm Prince Gojo,” you chided, crossing your arms and giving him a look.

“You can call me Toru, you know. But I do like it when you call me your prince,” he said casually, seemingly aware of how that comment intensified the fluttering you felt in your chest everytime he looked at you.

“Alright then, Toru,” you began, watching the pleased expression spread across his face when you called him by his first name.

“If you’re not gonna let me help you with your work, you have to at least promise me you’ll eat properly,” you said softly.

He stared at you incredulously, as if no one had ever cared about his health before. But you didn’t give him time to respond as you left to grab the tray of food from the cart you left outside his door, leaving it on the small coffee table in front of the sofa. 

“You brought me food?” he asked, the disbelief evident in his voice. It wasn’t often you got to see this side of him, the side that didn’t hide everything behind a smile.

“I brought us food actually, I haven’t had a second to eat yet until now either,” you admitted, feeling shy again. The two of you were so busy lately it was hard to even catch one meal a week with him, and you missed him. You wouldn’t admit that though - not yet.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, patting the seat on the couch next to you, gesturing to him to come sit with you. 

You felt heat pass through you as his gaze shamelessly swept you up and down, taking in the cerulean sundress you had on. You totally didn’t pick it to match his eyes, nope.

“Starved,” he said, shooting you a tight smile before moving to settle beside you on the couch, the scent of his cologne kissing your nose.

“Sorry, it might be a bit cold,” you admitted, eager to change the subject. He shook his head.

“This is great, thank you. I’m really hungry,” he said sincerely, and you nodded as you placed a plate in his hand and began loading it up with food you knew he liked.

He thanked you again, never taking his warm, reverent gaze off of you. 

You both ate in comfortable silence, devouring the food in front of you at a faster pace than usual. 

When you were done, he cleared your plates and grabbed the carafe of water by his desk. He filled one glass and silently handed it to you, setting another on the coffee table for himself. You reveled in moments like these, where it finally felt like you had him to yourself.

You smiled to yourself as you sipped the mint-infused water, remembering something about him hating the taste of plain water.

“I have something for you,” he said, making his way to the shelves by his desk. He pulled out a small cardboard box as he walked towards you with a rare, shy smile.

“You got me something?” you said, unable to hide the surprise in your voice as he gingerly placed the box in your hand.

“It’s something small. I picked it up at a cafe when I went out today for that conference,” he said. You didn’t miss the rub of his thumb against his pulse point - the only sign of nervousness he ever showed. You opened up the box, unable to contain your smile as you found a gigantic cupcake inside. 

You gasped in delight, hearing him immediately chuckle in response.

“You got me a cupcake?” you asked in disbelief, chest tightening as you imagined the crown prince of the nation setting time aside in his busy schedule to buy you a cupcake.

“It’s white chocolate matcha,” he said, his cerulean eyes sparkling expectantly.

“My favorite,” you said, voice in a near whisper. You recalled mentioning it to him the night of the ball, but you couldn’t believe he remembered. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, staring at the cupcake as if it were the most precious jewel in the nation. You couldn’t recall the last time someone had bought you something so simple, yet so meaningful.

“You are welcome, princess,” he said, an indulgent smile gracing his lips. 

“You don’t have to keep calling me princess, you know,” you said, throwing his own words back at him.

He hummed to himself, stretching his long arms out so they wrapped around the back of the couch - and around you by default.

“But I like calling you princess. Especially when you still blush everytime I call you that,” he said lowly, gently brushing his knuckles against the pink spreading across your cheeks.

You pressed your lips together to hide the shy smile on your face, turning your head away from him and placing the back of your hand against your cheek. It was indeed warm.

“You are such a flirt,” you said, not daring to look him in the eyes.

“You love it,” he teased, and you didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling.

You shook your head and rolled your eyes again, turning your attention towards the cupcake in your hands. 

He handed you a fork and you eagerly took a bite, eyes rolling back as you savored the sweetness. 

“Holy fuck,” you said, staring at the prince in wonder.

“Such foul language for a princess,” he said, chuckling as he watched you.

“That good?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly. It was the best cupcake you had ever tried.

You grew embarrassed as he continued to stare, looking as if he’d be happy to watch you eat that cupcake forever. Feeling brave, you turned to him with a forkful of the cupcake, lifting it up towards him in offering.

“Want to try some?” you said boldly, enjoying the way his eyes widened ever so slightly whenever you were brave enough to catch him off guard.

Any boldness you had dissipated as he grinned, dipping his head down towards you as he placed his mouth gently over the fork, eyes flickering up to you for a second as he pulled back. 

You swore you stopped breathing as he used a swipe of his tongue to wipe the small bit of frosting off his top lip. You’ve never been so jealous of a fork.

He hummed contently to himself as he leaned back against the couch. 

“Delicious,” he said. 

Yes, yes he is.

You cleared your throat, focusing your attention to your cupcake to stop the trail of unholy thoughts in your mind. Every now and then, you’d feed him another bite, not daring to look him in the eye when his lips met with the fork. The two of you demolished the cupcake, and he got up take the empty box from your hands before you even got a chance to get up.

“Alright, I’ll let you finish up your work,” you said, moving to stand from the couch.

He stopped you with a cool hand covering your knee.

“Stay,” he said.

Badump. Badump.

You placed your hand over his, giving him a small squeeze.

“Don’t you have a lot left to do, my prince?” you asked, smiling at the hint of a blush reaching the tips of his ears.

“Well yes, but I’d much rather hear about your day. Cmon, talk to me,” he said, nudging your knee with his. 

“Hmm, alright. But only if you promise to sleep at least 7 hours tonight,” you said, knocking his knee back.

He let out a laugh, lighter than any laugh you’d heard from him before. 

“Deal. Now start talking, princess,” he said, turning his body and his attention fully towards you, where it stayed for the rest of the night.

[inotakumagf]

hi!! i have so many wips that im trying to work on but i cant decide what to post next. i would really appreciate input <333

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

Idea inspired by this art!

tags: sorcerer!Gojo Satoru x f!reader, au is kind of medieval, mentions of men grabbing reader out of home, burning at the stake, reader is mistaken as a witch but she is a prophetess, it’s giving castlevania x howls moving castle vibes, Satoru is a bit cocky but we love him (might do a pt 2?)

There’s a nice cottage outside the city, 15 minutes away by foot, you live in a home with your mother and brother (your father actually passed from a brutal cold three years ago, leaving you to tend to the home and seek work). It started off as a necessity, advising the horse racing, chicken fighting gamblers on what animal to place your bets on. your reply? intuition. that chicken has sturdy legs, that horse has agile movements. excuses that granted you money for the time being, for your gifts. an ability passed down by the women of your family though yours outweighed the abilities of your mother, so you remained unadvised. using your intuition to get by the day.

Word gets around that a young lady such as yourself is not married. 19, 20, 21, and now 22– you’re questioned behind your back by your neighbors at how you could possibly remain unmarried. It had been 6 months since men started disappearing in your route by your home, reportedly last seen by the lake not far from your home.

You had been labeled as an unmarried bloodsucking siren, a cursed demon who takes the bodies of young men, and although all that is false, it does not help your case that you’ve remained indoors most of your life and the fact that you’ve advised others in the world of gambling.

You were a sinner, sentenced by the court, but before that happened, a large storm broke 7 days before the fated event.

It was windy, dark, and rainy that your mother had frantically put everything away. “I’ll get the lights from the back shed!” you called, putting on a coat, a second for safe measures. the rain pours hard that it overcomes the splish splash sounds of your feet. When you’re walking towards the fence to the main road, and into the back of your home, you catch a man. wet, crouched, and seemingly pained from all the walking he did. the nearest town by foot was over an hour away, and waking in this weather surely meant he could catch a cold.

“I am sorry to burden you, miss...” the voice calls, head hooded from your eyes, “but is there any shelter I can rest for the night? I... I don’t have any-“

“It’s fine,” you speak, soft and understanding before you pull him gently by the arm, “come follow me,” and you lead him to your shed, making a bed of hay for him before you’ve taken your first coat and placed it over the hay for him to use as a blanket or mattress. the man behind you stands silent as you pull out to light a candle for him, turning to him, “it’s not much,” you say, “but you can stay here. It’s better than spending the night outside, right?” with not another word, you hand him the candle and grab the supplies you were originally here for. “stay here, I’ll be right back.” you direct softly, shortly before leaving the shed. at home, you take out a bowl and serve some leftover stew and some bread that you would have eaten in the morning, opting to give it to someone who could have needed it more than you.

“there’s some stew in here,” you say, handing the man a bowl and bread with your other hand. it’s at this moment you notice how unbelievably pale his hands are, almost like the statues outside the cathedrals. it almost leaves you speechless, and he notes. “Thank you, miss...?”

you give him your name without much thought. finishing your arrangements in the shed before you turn to him. “feel free to stay the night, or until the rain has settled. whatever will facilitate your journey, sir...?”

“Go-“ suddenly, he’s surprised that his bread has slipped past his fingers until you’re on your knees picking it up quicker than he can. It isn’t until you look up that your eyes meet his, a breathtakingly striking pair of azure eyes, bluer than any water or sky you’ve dreamed of, it leaves you silent. “Thank you,” he whispers softly, and the sound of his ragged voice reminds you where and what you’re doing. suddenly shy and remembering you’re a maiden, you’re quickly at your feet wishing him a Goodnight without another word, closing the door behind you.

He’s gone the next morning.

Several days pass and the talk of you around town grow more and more. you’ve asked your mother to keep your brother inside so as to protect him, but on the evening of the 7th day you’re harshly pulled from your home, leaving your mother with teary eyes as you’re feeling like the life out of you is being squeezed out with the way so many men manhandle you. pulling you, shoving you, shouting insults, you’re suddenly the main talk of the town as they expose you on the streets calling you horrible names: whore, slut, demon, murderer, and more. the names don’t cut as deep as the memory of being pulled away from your home.

“Burn the witch!” Cry out many, and you’re roughly shoved against a stake before rope is tied around your midsection, burning roughly against your soft skin it hurts. the town mayor gives a speech, then the priest calls your execution necessary for the good of humanity, blaming you for the deaths of over 12 men in a 6 month course. mother’s shout at you and men renounce your existence as worse than satan himself.

everyone wants you dead. and suddenly, the fire runs around you.

“God,” you call out, “please let these people see past their mistakes! you of all people know I didn’t do anything! please save my mother and brother from this fate! please spare their eyes from this shame, this torment they will carry- and please make my end as quick as possible so that I can look after them.” a long moment passes as your head is now dropped low, not long before you hear a chuckle.

“Well, that’s certainly not the type of monologue I’d expect from you.” calls a voice. he tilts your chin up to face him after your silence. you don’t know if you’re hallucinating, the fire is bound to burn you any second and your lungs burn. in front of you stands a man. tall, handsome, and pale. white hair and pink lips like the kind you’d see in paintings. and his eyes? they strike a familiarity you’ve seen before.

the man before you grins, and you can’t help but put your whole faith, even your idea of god on him as he looks at you with such admiration.

“So you’re the girl they call a witch, huh?”

amusement crosses his eyes. and yet again they are breathtaking, finer than any blue mosaic you’ve seen. possibly holier than any church you’ve stepped foot in.

“I’m not a witch, I... I’m a visionary,” you reply, trying not to grow dizzy from the fire around you. when you turn to look elsewhere, no one seems to acknowledge the man in front of you. were you hallucinating?

“So you’re another one of the freaks, huh?” He says, eyes laced with interest. “That’s why they have you here. even when you didn’t murder all those men.”

“I didn’t,” your coughing takes him by surprise and he remembers how sensitive humans can be, “I... I didn’t hurt anyone,”

“I believe you,” he says, lowly. “Tell you what. I’ll save you from this fire, and in return you can help me find out what on earth became of these men. put an end to this. deal?”

you nod, not remembering what happens moments later as the man wraps you in his arms, making you drown into a deep sleep before he kisses the crown of your head. the fire erupts and sparks behind you both as you both rise like shooting stats, terrifying the townspeople behind.

“From now on, you’ll live a life free of torment,” whispers the sorcerer, bringing you into the comfort of his cave.

[mythmash]

⇢ wip wednesday ✩

Gojo Lives!AU | Satoru Gojō x GN!Reader

Too many time he’s closed himself off from you, from life, but never from the world.

Too many times he’s plastered that charming smile on his face and reassured you the wounds on his body were nothing to worry about.

Too many times does he startles awake in the middle of the night doubled over in pain, clutching at his neck until he draws blood, re-opening wounds long thought healed.

You weren’t there to see him fall. You weren’t there when they took his body and stitched it back together to make use of it—of him—one last time. You weren’t there when they sent his desecrated corpse back into the battlefield, an empty vessel to be puppeted by a desperate child.

It’s only in the aftermath, when the dust had settled, are you allowed to see him. He’s quiet at first, left clumsy and confused and blind. A stranger in his own body. He asks the same questions every few hours—who are you, why is he here, who is he—his voice so cautious, so unnaturally hesitant.

You stay with him for weeks, slowly helping him come back to himself. He still isn’t fully present when you’re permitted to take him home, but Shōko suggests it would be good for him to be around familiar things.

A shame no one had such generous consideration when they were taking a scalpel to his skin and a knife to his soul, you think bitterly.

Home is…an adjustment.

It isn't the first time Satoru struggles, but it’s the first time he’s taken so long to recover. The loss of all six of his eyes hits him hard, vision left a messy blur of ever-shifting shapes and muted colors. His infinity is spotty at best, his body too weak to keep it up for longer than a minute at a time. He moves on unstable legs, shaky arms struggling to lift anything heavier than a glass of water.

And the memories…

The memories come and go, one moment as sturdy as a towering sand castle only to be swept away by the tide. He stares a lot, like he’s trying to familiarize himself with reality. He calls you the wrong name—names of people you’ve never met before, names of people he’s only whispered about while trapped in a nightmare—taking a minute too long to correct himself.

Some of your Gojō peeks through. That easy smile stretches across his face when he catches himself drifting away, tethering himself back to reality with a bad joke. The way he so casually invades your space, refusing to go anywhere in the house without you and attaching himself to you at any opportunity. He doesn’t hesitate to cling to you when you’re cooking or drape himself over your lap when you’re sitting on the couch, and, for a moment, you can almost pretend like things are the way they used to be.

np tags: no tags, just whoever feels like it!

[otakubimbo]

You Don't Know Me

Gojo x F!Reader

Will this be Gojo's chance to make things up to you? To finally get close to you?

Context: Cussing. Typical Gojo Behavior. College AU. No curse.

previous | next

It had been almost a full month  since you, Suguru, and Shoko all started to hang out together. They respected your want to not see or speak to Satoru so he was never invited. You came to really enjoy the company of Suguru and with everything that’s happened, you and Shoko have grown so much closer.  You have successfully avoided speaking to or even acknowledging Gojo, his efforts to talk to you going by the wayside.

Now it was Halloween, and you were trying to get dressed for the night out, you had bet Shoko that if you could get her an A on anatomy midterm, she would dress up with you for Halloween. Of course, you did, your notes and your help were flawless. She was able to record the lectures for you and you gave her the perfect notes to study. So now the two of you were going as an era of Britney Spears. You were being Slave for You Britney from the live performance and she is going as Oops I did it Again Brittany from the music video. You had got a fake snake to wrap around you that you were going to latch onto you with bracelets it was a genius idea initially, but your nails were making it hard for it to latch on, so you went to ask for help.

“Sho, is Sugu here? I need help with these bracelets. I can’t get the clasps” You ask as you exit the bathroom not paying any attention to the absence of Shoko. When you don’t hear a response, you look up to see the one person you didn’t want to Gojo Satoru.  He was dressed as the Howl from Howls Moving Castle. You almost freeze before composing yourself.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Shoko and Suguru? “ You ask taking a step back towards the bathroom, your voice a bit shaky. He hesitates not meeting your gaze.

“They went to get some weed and booze; they thought you would take longer.”

That made sense to you, they know you like to take your time, you aren't one to rush any process. It wasn’t like it took long in total for you to get ready, but you often did other things when you should be getting yourself together, so easily distracted.

“And they left you here?” You ask even though you believe what he said, eyes darting around the room anywhere but his face.

“Like I said, they thought you would take longer.” He says with a shrug. You knew he was coming with y’all to the party, they both asked beforehand if it was okay and you said yes, you weren’t going to be that girl who hung up on something so silly especially since he did avoid speaking to you this whole time as you requested.

You exhale before responding, “Well can you help me then?”

He looks at you wearily before coming over to where you extended your arm, gently holding your wrist as he fumbled with the clasp. He got the first one on and you extended your other arm for the second which he got much easier this time.

“Thanks” you say before adjusting yourself. You go to look into the full body mirror that was set in the living room, you look HOT, the green really complimented your brown skin tone and your hair was down and out which was not usual for you. Stretching your arms out making sure you had enough movement to have a good time and giving your ass a good look making sure not too much was showing. After a bit of glancing, you decided you looked perfect.  Gojo seemed to be trying to talk to you as you were checking your outfit out.

“Sorry. What you say?” you asked, giving him your full attention.

“I’m sorry, for what I said to you. It was stupid and I knew nothing about you to make that judgment.” He said still not meeting your eyes. This felt like a bullshit apology to you since he couldn’t even look at you, but you let him have it.

“It’s whatever, it’s over now. Who cares” You try to sound as nonchalant as you could, a small fake smile on your face but what you didn’t know is that Suguru and Shoko told him everything about the event. He knows how hurt you were even if you try to play it off now. He just nods at your response, as you go into the kitchen to get yourself a little something to drink. You had made Jell-O shots for the night, so you pulled them out just to make sure they were firm or not.

“Here, come try this,” You say to Gojo picking up a shot, he’s surprised by your niceness, but he shouldn’t be, all Suguru talks about is how nice you are when he spends time with you. He took the shot from your hand, his fingers gently grazing you making you almost immediately pull back. You watch as he sucks back the shot once it’s down he starts coughing a bit.

“What the fuck” He says as he grabs something to drink. Perfect, it was strong.

“Oh, they must have come out perfect then.” You say as you grab one for yourself throwing it back like it was nothing. That took Gojo by surprise, yes, he had been stalking yours, Shokos, and Suguru IGs for info about you but he didn’t know that you were such a strong drinker.  All you usually posted was cute little drinks.

“Yeah, Suguru said you were practicing being a bartender, not a murderer.”

“Oh, they’re not that strong, don’t be a wuss” You giggle as you down another one.

“Didn’t know you drunk like a sailor” He comments with a chuckle.

“yeah, because you don’t know me,” You say before shooting back another.

“You’re right I don’t, but I would like to if you let me” he says taking more of a step forward grabbing a shot from the tray you were holding, shooting it back trying to be as stoic as you but failing. You give him a small smile at his poor attempt.

“I guess, sure”

You and Satoru start chatting, he asks you about yourself. First about the right hook you gave him, and you got to tell him that you were a black belt and had been taking kick boxing classes That made sense to him because his face was fucked for a whole week. You told him about your hobbies like how you were into archery and squishmellows, and just regular things that friends getting to know each other would say. The two of you were having a nice conversation when Shoko and Suguru got back.

“Oh great, you’re ready and you didn’t kill him” Suguru says as he enters with drinks in hand.

“Wow, you look hot” Shoko comments as she enters with Suguru. You blush doing a little spin.

“You think so? It’s not too much is it?” You say fiddling with bracelets on your wrist.

“No, you look absolutely smoking. You may even start a riot” Suguru joked as his eyes quickly looked at Gojo who was trying his best not to stare at you.

“Well thank you” You giggle. “Alright, it’s shot o clock. Me and Gojo are already ahead of the game, you two gotta catch up.”

You grab two shots and hand one to Shoko and you try to hand the other to Suguru but instead, he grabs your wrist and makes you feed him the shot. Suguru locks eyes with Gojo as he does it, he knows that his crush on you has gotten worse since the incident especially with as much new information he finds out about you from him and Shoko. Gojo grits his teeth as he hears you giggling at his friend.

“You’re not a baby, Sugu. Take your own shots!” You giggle pulling your wrist free from his grasp. Shoko was watching the scene knowing exactly what Suguru was doing. Boys, so childish. You go and take another shot before grabbing Shoko.

“Come on Shoko, we need pictures and I already have the best captions.” You take her to her room where the full body mirror is for a few mirror shots, leaving the boys to their own devices. Suguru opens a beer for himself and Gojo, handing it to him.

“Thanks ‘Sugu’” Gojo says mocking the nickname you used for the man.

“Jealously doesn’t suit you, Satoru,” Suguru smirks as he takes a sip of his beer, he can hear your giggles and Shokos whines as you’re making her take too many pictures for her liking.

“I’m not jealous” Gojo groans as he can’t take his gaze off the door you just went through hearing the sound of your giggles.

“Okay, okay time for more drinks” they hear your voice say from the room as you walk out with Shoko going through your phone. “Suguru” You call not even looking up from your phone. “You got everything on the list I sent to you, yeah?”

“Of course, princess,” Suguru says casually, calling you the nickname he chose from the first night y'all hung out which is why it didn’t phase you but it definitely phased Gojo. Maybe he was a bit jealous now that he actually sees how the two of you interact.

You grin, looking up from your phone, “Great. Time for Kamikaze shots!” You go into the kitchen and make shots for everyone, your tongue sticking out as you focus on making them which Gojo found adorable, Shoko and Suguru exchanging knowing glances at each other. You smiled proudly after you were done pouring. When you looked up, you caught Gojo staring.

“What's wrong? It’s not gonna be that strong I promise.” You reassure him with a smile, figuring that’s the reason he was staring. His heart almost stopped when you smiled at him, and he immediately tries to play it off.

“Well, you did almost try to kill me with that Jell-O shot” he laughs casually.

“Don’t be a baby” You giggle, picking up a shot, “Here” you hand him a shot glass, but before he puts it to his lips you stop him. “I gotta get a video first, come on.”

You make everyone grab their shots and stand in a circle, “Please don’t mess this up, guys.” You whine trying to hold your hand steady that has your phone in it.

“Yes, princess” Suguru says with an eye roll, “So whiny” you stick your tongue out at him.

“Okay so, we go in to clink and then back out. Yeah?” You say looking around and everyone nods. “So one, two” and on three everyone clinked and pulled away perfectly, which brought a huge grin to your face. “Perfect, thanks!” Everyone throws their shots back while you work on your IG post. “Oi, Gojo what’s your IG so I can tag you, yeah?” You say not even looking up from your phone which is good because you wouldn’t be able to see the panic in his eyes.

“It’s GojoTheeGreatest,” Suguru says quickly answering you with a smirk, looking at Gojo.

“Like Megan Thee Stallion? That’s cute.” You say as you go to his profile and notice that he is already following you. “OH, you’re already following me. Cool.” You say casually not knowing that Gojo was dying on the inside. You follow him back and tag everyone on the video.

“Princess, Don’t you want to get one of your shot drink videos for your IG?” Suguru asks as you finish your IG post, looking back up at him.

“You really should be my social media manager, sugu. You always have the best ideas of what I should post.” You say handing him your phone.

“Shot trick?” Gojo questions as you put the shot down on the counter.

“yeah, its just like a no-handed shot. Shoko, you are doing it with me?” You say putting on your best puppy dog face.

“Absolutely not. The last time you made me do that, I almost drowned.” She states adamantly. You pout and huff, like the princess you are.

“Fine.” You pout before lining up to do the shot. “We good?” You look up at Suguru, and he gives you a thumbs up before you lower your head down to the shot glass, wrapping your lips around the whole glass then standing straight before tipping your head back to swallow in one gulp. The scene was utterly pornographic to Gojo and he had to adjust himself from the arising strain of his pants. You take the shot glass out of your mouth with a pop, a trail of spit connecting to the glass and Gojo thought he was about to cum in his pants from the sight. You look so innocent as if you had no clue the effect you were having on him, and you really didn’t have a single clue.

“Alright group picture and then we go, yeah?” You say as you come from around the counter getting your phone back from Geto as he slings as arm over your shoulder, Shoko comes up on the other side of Geto leaning in. Gojo just stands there awkwardly, and you peek around your phone giving him a big smile. “Gojo come on, it’s a group photo silly.”

Gojo was taken aback by you inviting him into the picture, he just assumed you wouldn’t want him in it. You were too sweet for your own good. He comes to your side, and you pull him in by his arm so you can all fit into the frame.

“thank you, now one, two, three” You snap the photo, you had a huge grin on your face, while Gojo was awkwardly squeezed to your side, Suguru had his cocky grin on and Shoko gives her usual soft smile.

“Wait this is too cute.” You grin, now changing the photo into your new wallpaper. “Alright let's go!” You exclaim, grabbing onto Shoko and exiting the place. The party wasn’t far, it was being hosted at a frat house, so it was definitely within walking distance. You were arm and arm with Shoko while the boys trailed behind you all. There were plenty of men catcalling the two of you, a lot of ‘oh I would be a slave for you any day ‘I can fix your loneliness tonight baby!’ One guy even had the confidence to actually stop you.

“You should have dressed as an angel because I know you had to come from heaven.”  The random man in front of you says and it was so corny to you, but it made you giggle, Shoko rolled her eyes unimpressed.

‘Well thank you’ you say shyly as you already feel Shoko pulling you away.

“She’s not interested” and pulls you away around him so that you could get to the party, you weren’t interested but Shoko was always so mean when it came to people hitting on you.

“You’re going to have to get used to that by the way,” Geto says to Gojo. “She gets hit on everywhere we go.”

Gojo just shrugs, “I get it. Look at her.” He jesters towards your frame head of them, you were as gorgeous from the back as you were from the front. Your hips swayed while you walked and your lower back tattoo was ever so present with how low your shorts were that was set right about your fat ass attached to thick thighs. Gorgeous. Literal walking sex appeal.

Once yall entered the frat house, of course, several eyes shifted to you. You hugged Shoko a little closer to your side.

“Let’s go find some drinks,” you say into Shoko's ear, trying to make your way through the crowded party. You quickly find your way to the kitchen, which is exactly where the drinks are, they had a guy standing there pouring, must be a probate.

“Well, hello there,” He says smiling creepily at you, you chose to ignore that. After the Gojo incident, Shoko said you need to start using your looks for evil if people were going to judge them for it, she started taking you to parties and she’s been using you to get free shit by having you bat your eyes at the nearest person who looks attracted to you. At first, you didn’t really want to go along with it until you saw how some of these people really just treated you like an object and not a person.

“Hiya,” You say leaning on the counter batting your eyes at him. Did this make you uncomfortable sometimes? Yes, but it was always nice to get more for just being pretty. “You think you could pour me and my friend a drink, yeah? And two more for some of my other friends if it wouldn’t be too much” You voice honey sweet putting it on when your voice is already a lil high pitched.

“Anything for someone who looks at good as you” He says with a cheeky grin, pouring you up four cups and even topping them off with a lil more alcohol.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do all that extra but thank you” You say with a little giggle grabbing two of the cups while Shoko grabs the other two.

“Once the drinks run out, I’ll be free to party ya know.” He tried to suggest that he would see you later.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll see you way before then,” You say with a wink as you and Shoko Walk away. Once your back is turned you gag, give yourself a little shake. Luckily it was easy to find Gojo and Suguru, handing Gojo the cup you got for him.

“I’ve trained my girl good,” Shoko says throwing an arm over your shoulder as you take a sip of your drink, it was definitely some type of jungle juice. Gojo looked down at his drink seeing that not only was it full but it was close to spilling over.

“I just be feeling so icky about it Shoko” you whine taking another drink form your cup. Gojo raises an eyebrow at you in question. “Shes been teaching me how to flirt so that we can get free/extra stuff/“ you huff and Gojo almost spits out his drink. “See how ridiculous it is!” You exclaim.

“So whiny” Geto fake complains pushing a finger into your forehead, making you pout.

“I’m not whiny” You grumble as you take another drink from your cup.

“Yes you are princess/YN” Geto and Shoko say in unison.  You huffed and turned away to walk off, “Don’t get lost” they both call after you. Gojo enjoyed seeing his friends interact with you, it was funny.

“You made her mad,” Shoko says casually to Geto as she drinks her drink.

“I always make her mad” Geto says with a chuckle, “Someone should probably actually go after her before she actually get’s lost.” Both Geto and Shokos gaze at Gojo.

“She’s gonna be mad if it’s me” Gojo claims.

“She absolutely will not. And we do it all the time, it’s your turn. She’s the princess for a reason, go save her Mario.”

Gojo huffs before making his way in the direction you walked off to. He weaves in and out of the crowd, he has to really push his way past because girls keep trying to stop him and ask for a dance or a drink. His only responses to people are ‘nah I’m good.’ ‘Move it.’ ‘ get out my way’ . Eventually, he spots you, drink in hand, sitting on a couch looking uncomfortable as some idiot has their arm around you obviously ignoring the signs that you want them off of you. He doesn’t understand why you wouldn’t just hit them like you did him. Your eyes are looking around somewhat frantically as you lock eyes with Gojo and he can see the relief hit your face.

“I know you said you weren’t interested but you know it’s Halloween, and I have so many scary movies back at my place that I’m sure you would love to see.” The sleazy man next to you says as Gojo is walking up.

“Gojo.” You say in a voice that sounds way too small. The guy next to you, is dressed up as Ken from Barbie (stickynote: the worst man you know is gonna dress up as Ken from Barbie).

“Heh? This your boyfriend?” He asks you with a scoff.

“Yes, I am now move and stop touching my girl.” Gojo scowls down at the man, who quickly gets up from you putting his hands up in defensive.

“My bad, dude. Just when you see a girl dressed like this you don’t really figure she’s taken. You let her go out like this?”

You can see the tension in Gojos jaw as he grits his teeth, “She can wear whatever the fuck she wants. Come on” his hand extends down to you, and you take it, once up he throws his arm around you as starts walking back to your group.

“You should have just punched him.” He says into your ear.

“I know it may be hard to believe but I actually don’t like doing that.” You say embarrassed, a sniffle to your voice.

“You crying?” He asks in a joking tone (stickynote:yes in the same exact way from the anime)

“NO! It’s just so embarrassing” You huff. Gojos arm doesn’t move from your waist, instead pulling you closer.

“You really are a whiny princess, Suguru was right.”

You huff again at him and he just laughs, you are so stinking adorable. The same girl who almost knocked one of his teeth out was too embarrassed to tell a guy to fuck off, cute. You really made no sense to him at all.

“What happened this time” Shoko sighs looking at your face.

“Nothing let's go dance.” You move from under Gojos arm, grabbing Shokos hand and pulling her away. It kind of felt empty not having you there anymore.

“So what happened?” Geto smirks while taking a sip of his drink while watching you force Shoko to dance with you.

“Some dude wouldn’t leave her alone.” Gojo shrugs casually.

“And your arm was around her because?”

“To get her away from that loser, it’s not a big deal.”

Geto just hummed in response, “Well I’m going to find me someone to go home with tonight. You have fun pinning” before walking off to some girl who had been eyeing him from across the room. Gojo is now left standing there a bit awkwardly when you look up from dancing with Shoko and catch his eye. A wide smile starts to spread across your face as you move over to him.

“Come dance with us,” You say as you grab his hand and pull him to where you and Shoko were once dancing together. He pretends to put up a fight just to hear you giggle, ‘forcing’ him to dance with you and Shoko. It’s just the three of you dancing together until Shoko says she needs to go smoke. With her absence, you throw your arms around Gojos shoulders, laughing and swaying your hips as you try to dance and drink. The feel of your body grind against him, along with hearing your laugh so close to his ear he tenses, trying to hardest to control his body. You can feel the tension of his shoulders, tilting your head at him asking if he’s okay.

“Yeah I’m good” He replies as his hands ghost against your hips.

“We can chill for a second, get another drink, sit out in the back, yeah?” Your mouth was too close to his ear, he almost shoved you.

“Sure” He basically whimpers into your ear, which you don’t realize because you immediately down the rest of the drink your hand. You grab his hand and pull him through the crowd, trying to remember where you originally found the kitchen. Gojo, realizing you didn’t know where you were going, decided to take the lead in getting you two to the kitchen. You grab two more drinks for the both of you and he leads you outside. Once outside, you two sit around the bonfire as Gojo pulls out a joint from his pocket sparking up.

“Sorry they put you on babysitting duty” you say shyly with a small giggle as Gojo passes you the joint. You take a gentle hit, while he looks at you confused.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, taking the joint back from you.

“I mean I’m sure you probably wanted to enjoy the party and not get stuck with just hanging out with me.” You look down at your drink, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“I don’t stay anywhere I don’t want to be” He nudges you to let you take a hit.

A smile appears on your face, “Well okay.”

The two of you talk casually, getting to know each other more. You learned that Gojo isn’t as arrogant as he portrayed himself to be and that he has a lot of weight on his shoulders from his parents to be successful. You really enjoyed talking to him, he was so easy to talk to. The conversation you two were having was interrupted when your phone started going off, it was Shoko.

“Hey Sho, what’s up?”

“You still with Satoru?”

You look up at him from your phone, “Yeah hes here, why?”

“Soooo I met this girl”

“Shoko, seriously! You know my roommate is having her boyfriend over tonight and you know how loud and obnoxious she is when they’re, ya know.”

“I’m sure Gojo and Suguru are fine with you staying over there tonight.”

“I can’t ask him that!” You quickly turn away from Gojo when you say that.

“Please, it’ll be no big deal. AND you owe me, for that last cock block at the café.”

“That wasn’t even my fault!”

“It doesn’t matter, you owe me.”

“Fine, hold on” You huff turning to Gojo, “So uhm Gojo.”

“Yeah.” He assumed what you were going to ask but seeing you flustered to ask him was too adorable to miss.

“You can definitely say no. Don’t think you have to say yes because you don’t but uhm do you think I could crash at you and Suguru place tonight? I was supposed to stay at Shokos but she’s trying to get laid. But like don’t feel pressured and if you already have plans like that’s cool too…. It’s just my roommate is having her boyfriend over tonight and she doesn’t really care about being quiet, but again don’t feel like you need to cause you don’t need to say yes.”

“It’s cool” he plays it off as if he wasn’t extremely nervous, especially after seeing how cute you were trying to ask. He knew Suguru was going to make his way into someone else’s bed tonight so it would just be the two of you, alone, together, alone.

You smile at him, “Thank you thank you thank you,” Lifting your phone back to your ear you tell Shoko that you’ll be staying over there, and you’ll just get your clothes tomorrow.

“We can go ahead and head back now if you want to” Gojo suggests, you nod at him standing up a little wobbly almost falling but luckily Gojo grabs you.

“yeah, maybe we should go” You giggle, straightening yourself. “Thanks for letting me stay over by the way.” You start as you two are walking back, your arm looped with his, he’s basically holding you up.

“It’s no big deal. We can watch a movie or something when we get back.” He suggests.

“Absolutely! Something horror, yeah?”  You smile at him. He looks down at you, quickly looking away and forward.

“Sure”

“Yay”. You pull him a little closer to you, “Don’t let what Shoko and Geto say about me fool you, I’m not a big baby like they say. Shoko’s the one who gets scared. I love horror movies, me and my dad used to watch them all the time when I was probably way too young to watch horror movies.  Like he had me watching Silence of the Lambs when I was 5 and I know that’s not the proper age to watch anything like that. I should have not known that cheek meat is the tastiest part of the human body, supposedly.”

He pokes your cheek, “you smile a lot so your cheeks are probably really gamy”

You roll your eyes with a huff, “I don’t smile that much”

“You’re right, you're either smiling or pouting. Really do fit the name princess.” He teases.

“I’m changing my IG name, this is bullying” you pout pulling out your phone. Gojo watches you get into your phone, seeing that you really did change your wallpaper to that picture of the four of you. It made his heart squeeze a bit, this crush on you may actually crush him.  He sees you frowning at your phone, hovering over the keyboard.

“Just keep it. You don’t want to change it anyways,”

“Yes I do! I just need to figure out what. I wish Suguru was here, he’s always good at coming up with stuff like this. Hmph. Ill just ask him later.” You pout and Gojo tenses a bit at your side from your mention of Suguru.

“Do you have a crush on Suguru?” the question left his lips before his brain could stop him. You looked up at him and burst out laughing almost taking the two of you down but it brought a sense of relief to him.

“Oh, that laugh sounded mean! I didn’t mean it like that but Suguru is definitely like an annoying older brother. He is a great guy, a wonderful guy, like if I had more friends, I would set them up with him but yeah not for me.” You say awkwardly.

“Hmmn okay.”

You try to stifle your giggle before asking, “Why do you have a crush on Suguru?”

“Oh, a comedian, are you?” He scoffs as he slips his arm out of yours and picks up his pace leaving you behind. “Hope you can find your way back to my place,” he says waving his hand back at you.

You shuffle after him, “I was just kidding. WAIT. I’ve only been there like twice I wouldn’t even know where I was going if I knew where I was going. Please!”

His pace slows down, allowing you to catch up as you slide your arm back through his holding on tightly.

“Rude” You huff, slightly out of breath, it was hard to run in those boots.

“I’m rude? You tried to say I had a crush on my best friend” He counters.

“Yes, BUT that’s like the best trope. Friends to lovers.” You smile up at him and he pokes your cheek.

“See, told ya. You smile a lot” He chuckles as you pout AGAIN.

[hrtbreakanniversary]

Back to Me | Satoru Gojo

I could make you mad, I could make you scream I could make you cry, I could make you leave I could make you hate me for everything But I can't make you come back to me

pairing: prince!satoru gojo x maid!reader

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), modern royal au, mentions of sexual activities, suggestive, they are college aged (gojo is about 23 and y/n is nearing 21), no use of japanese honorifics

word count: 1k

_

Annoyed was an understatement for what Y/N Y/L/N felt at the moment.

At the break of dawn, Prince Satoru Gojo begins his routine of an early morning run before going to the gym.

He's tried to do a public gym once but someone took a picture of him from an odd angle that made it look like the woman that was helping with his weights so that it didn't fall on his chest was sitting on his face. Social media went into a frenzy for the prince's exhibitionism. His publicists having a field day and his parents having a hard time believing him too because of his reputation that constantly bought him a spot on gossip websites.

Because of so, he's been instructed to stay home by his parents until everything dies down and also to just contain him. They have no idea what they did to create what they call an "embarrassment to the throne." and his need to cause destruction to his title.

Workers around the castle struggled to keep up with the male's new schedule. His very unpredictable new schedule.

One of these being Ms. Y/L/N herself who was up much earlier to direct the staff of what to do. Having basically raised the boy since he was born, she knew just about everything about him. How Satoru liked his breakfast. How he liked his clothes smelling. How he liked his bath.

Since it was the summer before her junior year of college, Y/N decided to come back home from the summer and visit to spend time with her Mother. Always forgetting that her mom's second home was the castle and that is just about where she spent all on her time.

Each summer consisted of her working at the castle to help her mother out. Well since it was legal to at the age of 16. All the summers and weekends before that when Y/N wasn’t preoccupied with school or homework, she too find would have considered this place her second home as well because how often she was here but the perception of that was ruined when she turned the grand age of 15 and heard who she once considered her safe person, her best friend, whispering things to Suguru Geto, another prince from the neighboring city that tore her heart into two.

Some would say it’s petty to hold such a grudge for so long. But she didn’t care especially with how bothersome he was being at the moment.

“Ow… Ow…” Satoru swatched at the other maid’s hand, “Are you trying to exfoliate my skin off? Shit hurts.”

In fear, the young maid moved away. Dropping the sponge into the tub, bowing with apologies spilling from her mouth.

Muttering underneath his breath, he looked at Y/N who stood in the corner of the room with her arms crossed.

“Aren’t you suppose to be doing this?”

“I’m teaching her.”

“Well, she’s rubbing me raw.”

“Sad.”

“Shouldn’t you be showing her how? What kind of teacher are you?”

“It’s 2023, Gojo. Don’t you know how to take your own showers?”

“It's Satoru to you. And don’t you know procedure?”

“I don’t know. Seems like I’m hearing this is the first time we've done something like this and that you specifically requested it.”

He should’ve known better. I mean your mother was the head steward. Of course, she’ll go into detail about specific things. Especially about how he suddenly required assistance in the bath. Complaining that he was struggling to scrub his body because he pulled something earlier this morning. Y/N too rose an eyebrow as Satoru didn’t usually take baths, he just took showers because it took less time and he was able to leave the castle quicker when he did so.

“Just hurry up and get over here.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. While picking up the wet sponge from the tub, she also resisted the urge to let her eyes wander down to his sculpted body, features of his abs and biceps prominent because the water that dripped down. Harshly pressing the sponge against his back, she began to roughly rub up and down his back.

Satoru warned, "Y/L/N."

Turning her head to the younger maid, Y/N glanced towards the door. Granting permission for the younger maid to excuse herself from the room before Y/N began to scrub again. Not as rough but definitely not gentle.

"I'm just doing my job, it's all."

Y/N ran the sponge up and down his back once before moving to his arms. Running the soap up and down the muscles xf his biceps that still appeared even though his body was relaxed. The motion reminding her of the last time she had her hands on him like this.

That's when she began to apply more pressure again, resulting in Satoru turning his head to look at her from over his shoulder. Her hands falling into the water behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"Perv."

"How am I a perv? I'm just trying to get washed up after my long workout." A smirk played it's way onto his lips which pissed her off more.

"Oh please! Who does this anymore?"

"Some people do!" Satoru actually got this idea from a tv show he watched on Netflix the other night. Although the show was set in the 1800's and the clothes that they were wearing were much older than what they're wearing.

"Yeah, babies do! You're a grown man."

"I can't move my arms." He pouted. "I need help getting to certain areas."

"Is this the only way you can get a woman to touch you, is that why? Oh my, are the rumors in fact untrue? Is the crown prince being a playboy a facade? Is he actually just a virgin?" Y/N switched positions so she was kneeling on the side of the tub and was now facing him. She placed her hand swiftly onto his chest, resting where his heart is," Tell me, is your heart beating fast just from the opposite sex touching you like this?"

“You, of all people, should know I’m not a virgin.” Satoru's blue eyes falling from hers down to her lips.

Y/N quickly yanked back her hand. The memories from 2 summer ago flowing in. Grabbing a handful of soapy water, she tossed it into Satoru's face before standing up abruptly.

"Whatever, do this yourself."

Y/N splashed him again with the dirty tub water, her back towards him as she walked to the door.

"I'll tell your mom!"

"Oh yeah? What is she going to do? Fire me?!"

_

a/n: might make this into a series hehe