#for the sake of fighting sukuna

[sukugo]

the thought of an unhinged feral satoru where sukuna has to be the one to placate him, and he's so calm and collected as he takes his wide-eyed boy into his arms and runs hands along him and whispers soft words into his thrumming skin until satoru gradually melts into him

[lavenderjewels]

im cool and normal (i repeatedly tell myself ‘yuuji will save megumi’ multiple times a day)

[ezralva]

Gege when brainstorming to create a Higuruma Hiromi

Gege: imma make a new character who is a non-sorcerer all his life, another office worker type, newly awakened by Kenjaku, and is such innately talented and a badass genius that after being awakened as a sorcerer, he self-taught his cursed technique, can master domain expansion and the basic of barrier techniques without any practice, to the point of reverse-engineering the barrier technique to manipulate cursed energy, develop his own powerful cursed tool, and is on par with 1st grade sorcerer, all within just 12 days, that he even impresses Kenjaku!

Choso, Yuuji, Nanamin, Ino, Noritoshi: .......

[nateezfics]

i have now officially binged all of jujutsu kaisen and can say with full certainty that i am an absolute whore for nanami. whew that MAN 😮‍💨

[xo2dee]

LAMBENT

JJK MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Sukuna/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: True Form!Sukuna, Pregnant!Reader, Heian Era Customs, Pregnancy, Mentions of Cannibalism, Sukuna being an asshole (what do you expect). WORD COUNT: 3,767. SUMMARY: Carrying the King's of Curses child, you knew wouldn't be easy, but you were more than happy to have a baby of your own. Even if said baby was growing rapidly while being the source of your bad back and changing appetite.

A/N: sukuna fluff is hard to come by in my opinion and so sorry if he's ooc but i wanted him like this. also, this is for lemon and ava, two of my favorite sukuna babes 🤍

Wrist flicking out, you fanned yourself, eyes heavy with the sleep you had been fighting as you pursed your lips and eyed the blooming trees of the garden. Spring was rounding itself off, the scorching weather approaching you knew in weeks as you could only prepare yourself to be practically bedridden due to your ‘condition’. You’d only arrived a year and a half prior, and you quickly realized you had not seen much of the palace still after taking a husband, be it due to the duties of a noble person who were bound to spend most their days inside and entertaining themselves another way.

You held back a snort, fanning yourself harder as you stopped and eyed a nearby bush full of bright fruit and as red as your husband’s eyes.

…Husband.

In your youth, you supposed the daydreams of living in nobility were only achievable through luck. Or perhaps told through a fortune told from the Omikuji you required as a teen, taking the fortunes of ‘blessing’ and ‘marriage’ with a grain of salt until you had grown into an adult and ran off to be elsewhere from the clutches on an arranged marriage. Into serving nobility, to becoming nobility wasn’t necessarily on your list, your marriage by all means was an unlawful one. Forged from blood and flesh when you remembered instead of sipping sake in front of the Gods, your husband-to-be curled his fingers around your wrist and bit into your palm to instead partake in you.

You had been enamored by him since you first met him, eyes memorizing every inch of his unusual face before taking his thumb into your mouth when he smeared his own blood across your lips. It had sealed your fate that moment, your love and lust for him bursting forth like a raging inferno then and during the commutation of your marriage. Something that had finally taken into effect and was weighing down on you heavily.

One you supposed was the reason for the wariness when it came to serving you.

Cutting your eyes to the side and slightly behind you, you held the sigh in, your attendant keeping her eyes on the ground (perhaps watching your feet when you walked) as to shield her pensive expression from you, however you were not the unobservant type and focused on the knot between her eyebrows. Mai, your first and most loyal attendant, was never one to shy away from pestering over you, speaking her mind and filling in for advice whenever you needed it, so to see her quiet and on edge grated your nerves more than you liked to admit. She had been your first friend when you arrived, and you absolutely despised when she reverted back into the meek and submissive attendant she played whenever your husband was around, and it was enough to make you frown and worry if you had done something wrong.

You sighed loudly, snapping your fan shut and turning to the woman slowly, “You look like you have something you want to say.”

Mai’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, long and curled as her doe-like eyes rose to meet yours. She seemed to mull over your statement, before bowing her head in submission and speaking quietly, “Permission to speak?”

A smile graced your lips, softening your expression and nodding to her in return, “You always have permission with me, Mai.”

And just like that, Mai’s entire attitude flipped at your nonchalance. Straightening herself up, she dropped the service act and eyed you with suspicion and wary, mixed in with tired disappointment at having to cater to your more… reckless wants. “It’s just that Lord Sukuna has told us to monitor you and keep you in the palace when he’s away. And you’ve disobeyed that… again.”

Ah, there it was. With a scowl threatening to mar your face, you turned your back to her and began to pick through the strawberries in the bush you had been eyeing before, “I’m in the gardens. That’s still the palace… Is it not?”

“Yes, but –”

“This one looks ripe…” you cut her off, not necessarily wanting to hear her prattle on about how your husband made it horrifyingly clearly that you were to say inside at all times when he wasn’t at the palace. You’d heard it all before so many times it had been practically engraved into your skull with ink, and you were fed up with sitting on your knees inside away from the outside world and learning calligraphy constantly. Lips downturned you plopped a good-looking strawberry into your mouth, humming at the juice and tangy sweetness that exploded upon your taste buds, before your stomach gave an abrupt twist and a foot kicked out against your ribs. You winced and rubbed at your belly while the fruit suddenly tasted foul, and you swallowed with a grimace, “I hate how hungry I get nowadays, especially when I seem to crave more than just human food.”

Mai had been watching you like a hawk, leaning forward to intercept you whenever you reached for another fruit, “Oh, let me get it for you –”

“Please, Mai, I can pick my own strawberries. You worry too much.” Batting her hand away, you plucked it, hiding it in your sleeve and turning to her with an exhausted smile as she took your fan from you.

“Yes, My Lady. But please consider my words, we can keep you entertained in the palace.” You watched the lines on her face carefully, creased at her eyes and wrinkles forming at her forehead, and you could only wonder if your pregnancy had been the cause of her newly formed stress (partly, you knew you could’ve blamed it on your husband, his aggressive and aloof behavior all in one keeping most of the servants on the tips of their toes, but you quickly squashed it whenever you remembered she tended to you entirely).

Of course, you knew she was only doing her job, however her job was also giving you a severe case of claustrophobia being cooped up inside all the time. It wasn’t like you were planning to ever leave the palace’s premises either, just small strolls in the garden or spending time by the pond to cool off. Honestly, you had reason to believe she and your husband were just worrywarts (yet for the latter, you would keep that strictly to yourself).

You nodded your head in the direction you wanted to go, signaling Mai to walk beside you as you sighed and lowered your voice, “The midwife told me exercise will help…” you caressed your palm over your protruding stomach, “The baby is already huge and only seems to keep growing. A little sun helps me too, Mai… I can’t stay cooped up forever.”

Mai took a few moments to respond, her shoulders relaxing and her voice regaining familiarity, “I’m only worried since the last time you fainted out here.”

Lips thinning outwards, you remembered it all too well. Not necessarily fainting, though you blamed it on the many layers you wore around the palace and how warm it was getting outside, but you remembered the aftermath and how your husband had all but slaughtered a few lowly servants in retaliation as to letting you out (and because of his temper). You had thought the gore would’ve had you running, but you’d grown so used to him murdering someone whenever they slightly pissed him off you could only sigh at the thoughts. Of course, you knew Mai’s worry also came out of fear, however you weren’t about to let him do anything to her. “I know, but I feel fine… Just swollen feet and my back aching every time I move.”

And the baby kicking at your body whenever something displeased him.

Mai sighed your name exasperatingly, dropping the formalities, “Please, given your condition I think it’s best if you return to the palace.”

Irritation began to seep in your muscles, your baby moving in response to your emotions as your feet marched faster to walk. If you wanted to walk around the garden, you were allowed to, you would deal with your husband later if he found out. “What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him… Just another stroll and we can go back in, I’m getting tired anyways.”

“My Lady – oh!”

Mai abruptly skidded to a halt, body bending quickly into a low enough bow for the towering sight of your husband appearing before you both. You spared her a quick glance, flickering back to your husband, Lord Sukuna, when you realized he wasn’t the least bit concerned over her. He kept all four eyes on you, a challenging glare in them and you nearly wanted to laugh at the sight of two of his arms crossed and the other two planted on his hips. He looked every part of a disappointed husband – a father in the making, and you could already feel the talking your ear was going to get. Ah well, you could always feign falling asleep on him, that seemed to always make him softer.

Bending slightly into your own bow, he spoke, addressing Mai with a singular command, “Leave,” and you only returned back to your own height whenever you peeked that she was gone. You held back the groan at the pull your spine gave, wincing slightly at the shine of the sun before his large form eclipsed it as he finally moved close to you with no one in sight. The familiarity of his warmth and scent eased some of your irritability, wondering why he was back to early and ecstatic that he came to look for you once he couldn’t find you.

You smiled up at him, rolling the strawberry around your fingers before gesturing with your head to the path you had been walking, “Walk with me?”

Sukuna was ever-so unwavering in his staring, watching you practically dawdle in your place with the world’s most unamused expression, “Weren’t you told to stay inside?”

You repressed a shudder at his rough voice as your skin prickled, another sigh leaving while your shoulders slumped; caught. “I might remember you telling me that.” He seemed to not be in the mood for your sweettalking.

A loud exhale made your smile turn sheepish. “You piss me off.”

You knew that was coming, pulling out your hand from the sleeve to produce the strawberry from before, letting his eyes follow the way you rolled it into your palm, “But you’re here now… Nothing could really happen now since I have you.”

Sukuna’s eyebrow furrowed, eyes narrowing inward before he scowled at you enough to let his upper lip slightly curve over his teeth, “Changing the subject won’t help you. Are you gonna walk back, or do I have to carry your ass and –"

In a bold move you silenced him, pressing the strawberry to his lips with two fingers and slightly pushing it forward in hopes he would eat it. His eyes couldn’t narrow or glare any further, shooting from you to the fruit, and holding them there for a few moments and you wanted to giggle because it nearly looked like he pouting. Your husband never really ate human food, perhaps to humor you before he would spit it out and complain about the horrid taste it gave him, however there were a few times his interest would peak and want a bite of whatever you had in your hand – especially when said food seemed to satisfy you so much. You supposed it was his curiosity to understand you better, having a human in such close quarters and as a wife was perhaps as jarring as it was to have him as your husband.

Toying with him, you said, “It gave me bad taste earlier… Want to try it?”

Sukuna’s lips twitched behind the fruit, a clear sign he’d indulge you that time and when you went to move your hand away from him, one of his hand snatched your wrist with a small squeeze. An unspoken word for you to leave your fingers on the fruit and indulge him. And you did so with coquettish blink, pressing the strawberry harder against his lips until they gave way and his teeth were biting into it with the juice from inside sliding down your fingers as he slowly and sensually ate the strawberry from your fingertips. It didn’t help that he kept his eyes on your own the whole time, your cheeks burning as you never were able to get used to your husband’s forward assertion on sensuality.

Your breath caught and eyes widened when his tongue slid over the length of your fingers before slipping in his mouth and sucking on them until they were free of any residue stickiness. You couldn’t help the rapid beat of your heart, lips parting as his thumb tapped in rhythm to your pulse point before he let go of your fingers with a loud ‘plop!’ and a satisfied hum rumbling out of him as you could only gaze dumbfounded at the saliva coating your fingers. After a few moments you cleared your throat and swallowed, eyeing him warily as you knew his stomach probably wouldn’t last long and he’d be hacking it up with loud complaining.

And on cue, you watched fascinated as the mouth on his stomach frowned.

Oh, here it comes. It never lasted long in his system.

You sighed as he spat it out, licking his lips and scowling at the ground, “You’re right, tastes like shit.”

“Would you like me to say something to the servants?” you asked, mentally cheering with a soft smile on your face when he fell into step with you to walk along the gardens. It was never hard to get what you wanted out of him.

“It’s not poor gardening skills, it’s you.” You opened your mouth, ready to backtalk at the insult, yet he silenced you with a hand raised before one of his fingers traced along your cheek, “Weren’t you waddling in and practically whining for some of my food?”

How could you forget, a week ago you’d been lured out of your bed chamber by the most mouthwatering smell and your baby kicking incessantly once your stomach growled. You had stumbled upon Sukuna and Uruame, the latter making Sukuna’s dinner and the dinner something you never were to partake in since his appetite did not quell your hunger. However, when you found yourself salivating with your stomach rumbling and your baby kicking, it was a jarring experience to come to realize you were indulging in cannibalism and liked it. Liked it so much your child never rolled in a fit that night and Sukuna had been extra attentive to you afterwards with his praising.

An answer was on your tongue, though you chose to neglect saying anything when your taste buds twitched at the thought of that dinner and instead enjoyed your walk in peace. Your husband only snorted, a slight laugh leaving him at your pout before he returned his limbs to himself and rolled his gaze forwards on the path you’d been on. Times with him were normally relaxing as he was actually rather lazy when he had nothing to do, his affections ranging from just enjoying your presence in silence to twirling your hair around his finger whenever you were close enough. You never minded, glad to spend time with him though it was equally as nice whenever he seemed get even clingier once finding out you were pregnant.

Even his soft, lingering touches moments ago set your heart ablaze, and you wondered if he felt the same whenever you ran your fingers through his hair whenever he felt like resting his head in your lap.

Minutes into your relaxing walk you felt it, an agonizing cramp pulsing in your back and the soles of your feet screaming in protest at being mobile for too long. Of course, you get some time to do something with him and your body halts that and screams at you to stop. You didn’t want to say anything, not wanting to bother him nor ruin the peaceful moment you were so grateful to have. Although the pain in your body had other plans, cramping upwards and throbbing whenever you tried to take another step so much you immediately had to double over with one hand resting on your stomach.

You stopped, the other hand moving to hold your aching back, and you were vaguely surprised he stopped at the same time. A wince and awkward bouts of silence later, you groaned and straightened back up, “I’m sorry, I think it gets worse every day.”

Sukuna remained silent and still, before a rumbling from his chest prickled the hair on the nape of your neck. “Hm, almost like you should’ve listened to me.” He was back in that disappointed husband stance, and you knew if you were to look into his face you’d see the smug grin at your misfortune. Gritting your teeth you didn’t give him the satisfaction, watching glumly as he sighed rather loudly and moved away from your side to continue walking in the direction of this palace.

You reaped what you sowed you supposed, having to walk back alone after being told not to be out of the palace when he wasn’t there. And your body complaints for moving about too much agreed, a quiet moan of frustration leaving you as you closed your eyes and counted to ten to calm your nerves, reopening them when the pain muted itself into a dull ache for the time. However, you completely clammed up at the sight of your husband bent down in front of you, the black of his haori draped over his shoulders shielding your view of his sculpted back and his face turned forward giving you no indication of what he was doing.

Yet, he did seem like he said something, though you were too befuddled to even understand what he had said.  

“What –”

“Are you deaf?” he interrupted, turning his head slightly and motioning with his head from you to climb onto him, “I said get on, before I change my mind.”

He wanted you… to ride… on his back? Never once did he ever engage in something like that with you (besides carrying you in his arms, but that had been the night of your wedding and he’d practically tossed you on your beds afterwards), though you weren’t about to pass by the chance for him to carry you. Though you weren’t too sure how to climb on his back and hold on so heavily pregnant, Sukuna didn’t have four arms for nothing you supposed.

Not wanting him to change his mind and keep him waiting, you clambered onto him to best you could dressed in several layers with your legs kicking free to slip underneath the lower set of his arms. You held back a squeal when your baby kicked at all the movements, arms flying forward to nearly constrict Sukuna’s airway off as he in return grunted and stood to his full height while beginning to move forward in a slow pace. You were grateful he was taking it slow, still trying to get comfortable and trying not to think about how bad it would hurt to fall off his back from his enormous height…

“Stop fucking squirming…” he grunted again, readjusting you with his arms as your body reclined higher up on his back and he continued walking, “Acting like I’ve never touched you before.”

“It’s not that. He – “ you cut yourself off, you hadn’t necessarily told him that you believed your baby was a boy, and you didn’t want to hear any of his teasing, “the baby kicks and squirms whenever I move too much.” Or whenever he hears your voice, you groused, further proving your point when he kicked at you again whenever Sukuna spoke once more. You wondered if he could feel the kick on his back.

“Damn.” A pause of silence and Sukuna was jostling you on his back, “How much does that prick weigh? Or is that all you?”

Your hand itched to slap the back of his neck, though you held yourself together and only offered him a scoff while making yourself comfortable, “He takes after his father.”

“And he wiggles like a worm, just like his mother.”

You had half a mind to say something about him referring to your child as a boy, your cheeks hot when you rested your chin atop his shoulder and eyes growing lidded with sleep while he inadvertently rocked you with his steps. You bit the inside of your cheek in a girlish thought that your husband was walking slower on purpose, rolling your ankles to stop you from kicking your feet at the idea he wanted to spend more time with you alone. Then again, he was doing all of it for you when he could’ve just left you alone, or not come out to find you at all.

Maybe some days he missed you as much as you missed him.

In a bold declaration, you pushed yourself forward until your nose was skimming Sukuna’s cheek, a chaste kissed you placed there seconds later whenever he didn’t say or do anything to push you away, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Sukuna hummed low in his throat, a deep rumbling that vibrated against your arms and soothed your aching ribs, “Don’t get used to it. I just didn’t want to wait around for your slow ass to waddle back in.” Though he sounded rather harsh, you knew he was just doing roundabout affection in his own way.

Your head lolled against his, the leaves on the trees above swaying you into a warm midday nap the longer you watched them through your eyelashes, “Take me to bed?”

You didn’t necessarily hear his response, though you weren’t dreaming it when his fingers tightened the hold he had on your thighs, the warmth he emitted doing wonders for the pains in your body as he secured you further into his back to ensure you didn’t fall off. You couldn’t help the smile, your cheek smushed into his shoulder as you took one final look at the sunlight path before you both and closed your eyes as exhaustion took its hold over.

With a last conscious thought, you reminded yourself to thank Mai later for allowing you a nice stroll in the garden – especially when you were doing it with your family.

[nanamiskentos]

★ 🐚 🫧 GONNA' MATCH MY FREAK? jujutsu kaisen. 呪術廻戦.

prologue ⋆ ★ getting down and nasty with some fine men? yes, please.

pairings ⋆ ★ sukuna, toji, geto, hajime, choso, gojo genre tags & warnings ⋆ ★ afab/she+her!reader, making it fít, trueform!sukuna, against a wall, créampíe, bréeding, ríding, temple séx, mild mention of smoking (geto), unintentional public séx, óral (f), inappropriate use of jujutsu (electricity), backshóts, mentions of voyéurísm

word count ⋆ ★ 5.1k a/n ⋆ ★ going thru it 😝 was gonna add noritoshi kamo because he's my #bias #ult but i wasn't sure how to write him yet...

RYOMEN SUKUNA ៹ the king of curses

"now yer' just being stubborn," the blush-haired demon is grousing, dark nails clawing at the bare juncture of your hip, as though he's trying not to let his gaze leer downwards. to linger where your bare cunt is straddling over both his tattooed cocks. hefty, and weighty against the meat of your thigh.

"i can take them, 'kuna, know i can," and it's got sukuna sighing at your stubborn nature, as though he's not already being plagued by the most delightful visions of you swaying those delightfuls hips as both his tips swab at your entrance. oouh, tempting, tempting indeed.

you're already getting ahead of yourself, positioning your leaking folds over the first cock, the one stacked on top of the other, letting the fat tip snag at your gummy walls, and fuck, sukuna genuinely fears he may just be in love when you give him those insufferable, pleading doe eyes, "can y'help me fit them in, 'kuna?"

oh, can he ever. sukuna's ducking his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the shell of your ear, so you can't see the warm flush painting his cheeks, hands heavy on your waist as he gently props you up, two arms wrapped in coils around your torso, and two softly positioned underneath your shaking thighs.

slowly, carefully, lowering you down. angling you just right, so your cunt eagerly begins to swallow him up. slick already drooling and painting treacly strands over his cock, trickling down to the base of thick, curled pink hair that gathers at his groin.

"haahh," you're sighing, lips parting in a way that makes sukuna feel like someone just hit him with a shovel, dumbfounded at the sight of you, only you, "bigger than i thought, 'kuna."

and the king of curses won't admit in, no, he's loathe to lower himself thus, but his heart (and his cocks) only swell at the praise, the knowledge that you're still just so eager to take him, to ride him on his throne, his kimono opened bare across your pretty form so he can lave sharp, stinging kisses over your chest.

"t-taking it so well," sukuna bites out, doing his best to fight the crack in his gruff tone, for the sake of his dignity. or at least, that's what he tells himself, never mind at how he feels lightheaded from the way your cunt is almost kissing the base of his cocks now, and the sound is absolutely filthy, echoing through out the empty hall. all damp sloshes of pre that's leaving smears over your innermost walls.

he has to focus over the buzzing in his ears to catch your sweet words, a hand coming to rest on the back of your head, tilting you closer to him, "mhm, yer' sayin' something?"

you're nodding, breathless and hazy, steadying yourself now in his lap, groping at the little divot that's already formed where his tip(s) now lie, "does it feel g-good for you?"

sukuna stares at you, half-clouded with the tight heat of your pretty, swollen pussy swallowing him up, "what?"

you're pawing at his chest, nails digging into hardened skin, grazing over dark tattoos that have lasted a millennia, "wanna know if 'm making y-you feel good, 'kuna."

oh, he's in love with you. ryomen sukuna is absolutely, foolishly, pathetically head-over-heels for you. his pretty, little woman that's balanced on his hips, rocking yourself back and forth to feel that glorious friction against your sweet spot.

ugh, fine. just this once. dignity be damned, for he's got you.

a large hand cups your jaw, resting against the curve of your neck, as crimson eyes bore into you, "you are what i want, brat," and sukuna means it, planting a heavy kiss against your lips, "just you, just like this. couldn't be b-better."

"you're getting soft." gentle, teasing as you watch watercolour flush paint pretty pink over sukuna's handsome features. for someone who fancies themselves a rather stoic king of curses, a fearsome sorcerer that can command life and death, he does a poor job of hiding how just how much you undo him.

a low grumble erupts from sukuna, gripping at your hips, pulling you closer to him in a way that you feel his cocks jostle within you, brushing against that sweet, sweet spot, "careful, there. don't wanna' break m'favourite human." yeah, you know that idle threats means that you've really got him blushing.

TOJI FUSHIGURO ៹ the sorcerer killer

"heh, thought you said we were gon' get on the job," toji's guffawing even, but that smug expression quickly flitters away when your wandering, wanting hands are feeling him up. gripping at his pectoral muscles that strain against his black, tight top.

"we are on the job," you fiercely gasp against his mouth, feeling that rough scar twitch against your skin, "jus' need you, that's all."

you can see stone-green eyes flick upwards, heightened senses scanning for any intruders, any unwanted peepers to this show that he's about to put on, before kicking the rusted, weathered steel door closed. sealing you in this storage closet with him.

"so," toji simpers, and you know better than to trust the faux-concern on the assassin's face, "what does she need help with?" large hands patting at the clothed juncture of your thighs, running up the thick band of your holster, "couldn't even wait till we shot the damn' bastard, and took home a niceee paycheck."

you push at him, arms using as much as force as you can muster but it does very little to move this solid block of a man. but toji's clearly humouring you, letting you shove him against the reinforced, but worn-out walls, "how 'bout i give you an advance for the job?"

toji's wrapping a muscled arm around your waist, pulling you closer so he's nudging against your lips, "hah, a little taste then?" tugging at the waistband of your pants, "don't mind if i do."

and before you can even take a second to blink, he's whirling the two of you around. balancing you with inhuman levels of strength against the wall, so your ankles dangle in the air. quickly hooking against his waist, while toji thumbs at your underwear, eager to slide any remaining fabric away.

"stay focused now," toji murmurs, "got a big stretch for ya', heh."

and fuck, he wasn't exaggerating. you've never gotten used to it, the way his thick, girthy shaft melds into you, swabbing at the swollen, dripping walls that toji loves to call home. you're not sure if you're losing your mind, but you swear, you truly swear that you can feel the pulse of that one, angry vein that runs along the underside of his cock (yeah, you're pretty familiar).

"ngh –" you babble, "s-so big, fuck," your mind's gone entirely blank, grasping for the right word to encompass just how enrapturing toji's cock is, "so deep."

toji seems to like that, cheeks flushing the most adorable shade of peach and pink that he seems desperate to hide and deny, "y-yeah? deep in ya'?" he's rustling you in his hold, eager to hit bullseye on your cervix, to see you rolling your eyes to back of your head as you take him.

and if toji tears his gaze downwards, he can see your puffy folds parted, inches stuffed into your cunt. painting such a pretty sight that if toji were a less jealous, lecherous man, he'd hire a photographer to come capture the sinful view. hmm, maybe the new paycheck can go to a camera? oh, yeah, he's havin' ideas.

"t-toji –" you mewl, hands grasping at the firm curve of his pectorals, defined and taut underneath the fabric that stretched across his chest, "that's it, hah, jus' what i needed."

"mhm?" toji chuckles against the shell of your ear, "got so fucked out on the job, needed me to come take care of you like t-this?" he can feel your legs trembling in his hold, turning to mush and quivering, as he batters hit after hit against your mound. he shifts, readjusting himself for the right angle so...

plap! each smack of his heavy, laden sack rings throughout the abandoned storage room of this fuck-ass hideout, repurposed for something far more pleasurable. brows furrowed, sweat dripping down tanned skin as toji squeezes his eyes shut, feels every cell in his body unravelling (or well, something like that, he's not a scientist) as your tight cunt swallows him up, takes him apart.

"hnngh, fuck, girl, look what you're doin' to me," toji gasps, rocketing his hips to dig as deep as possible, cock twitching and practically sending s.o.s signals despite this being the first round of many.

he knows he's close, knows that tell-tale tightening in his groin will only lead to him shooting ropes out, so he pulls you in for a filthy, clashing kiss, "where do ya' want it? gon' have to tell me quick, – dunno' how long i can –"

"inside," you murmur, sounding as breathless as toji fushiguro feels, legs deliciously arched against his back, "want it inside, toji." whimpering the most beautiful, sweet groans against his ear.

toji wishes he was a stronger man, he truly does. wishes that he had some restraint, and sense but the very second your mouth parted to form those syllables, he felt the world go blank. ropes upon ropes of thick, cloying seed stuttering out of him, making the assassin feel off-kilter, "think it took, doll?" toji scoops some of the creamy release against your sloppy cunt, "or wanna' try one more time? or two?"

GETO SUGURU ៹ the worst curse user

"eyes on me, pretty," geto's panting, glossed lips parting, and you can see just how affected he is, that soft tremble of his mouth giving away the cracks in his composure.

but are you shocked? well, nah. you've learnt there are several ways to undo geto suguru, to unravel him until he's a trembling mess and your favourite way is to plant your hands on his bare chest, and rock your hips until the two of you are seeing stars.

and god, you feel as though your mind is turning to a sludgy mush, a faint whine building up between your ears until you realise that the sound is coming from your own parted mouth. geto's got a hell of a package down there, and he sure knows how to use it. every tilt of your pitching hips has his fat tip swabbing smears of silky pre against your inner walls, "mhm – feels s-so good, sugu', fuck!"

it's quite a sight, this you know. you had managed to paw off a decent swathe of geto's thick robes, still stained with a splash red that you're not eager to identify. pooling the silk on the cool tiles underneath the broad man. the taper of his broad, solid thighs keeps you well balanced as you crinkle your nose, plucking the lit stub from geto's smoky mouth. tossing it onto the tiles of the temple, so the flame patters out in the stained, warm glow of this sanctuary.

"hey, i was enjoyin' that," geto glowers, violet eyes subdued into a mauve, lustful haze, and you dig the very tips of your nails into the meat of his shoulders, opting for a harsher, sharper angle to slap skin against skin.

"enjoy this, instead," your eyes roll and fall to the back of your head as geto's grip on your hips tighten, almost bruising in the most delicious way possible. but a large, calloused hand travels further along, coming up to cup the underside of your tits, tweaking and pinching appreciatively. predictable, like an ant to some honey.

"heh, q-quite a sight," geto purrs, watching how your captivating form writhes and shakes. knowing that it's solely due to his thick shaft working inches into you, hitting spots that you weren't even aware of, "always so perfect for me, pretty."

you lean down, capturing his waiting lips in a sloppy, heavy kiss. a clash of your eager tongue against his, teeth sinking into plush lips. geto seems to been hit with a spark of some new idea, for he's suddenly pushing you back, murmuring a gentler kiss against your lips as an apology.

manoeuvring his broad frame so he's sitting up now, with you still balanced in his lap. the change in the nasty angle is so prominent, for his cock feels deeper than ever before. each thick vein scraping and pulsing against the walls of your swollen cunt, leaving no surface unclaimed.

"s-suguru, 'm there, right –" the sentence leaves you, mouth parting in a wordless, mindless oh! for the fat, creaming tip of his cock must have brushed past that delicious patch, that g-spot, and it has you trembling, climax washing over you in the most, delicious pulsing waves.

but geto suguru never lets up, never lets his best girl off the hook that easy. he doesn't stop bucking muscular hips up into you, sticky skin slapping over and over again in an addled cacophony of pleasure, determined to have you fall apart all over again. and he needs it to be asap.

"g-gorgeous, heh," he's tapping fingers against your cheek, pushing and pulling at your mouth, "what did i say about wanderin' eyes? keep them on me, love. need ya' to be lookin' at me when i split you apart."

"fuck, 'm feelin' –" you almost sob from the pleasure, crystalline tears pooling at your lashes from the sheer overstimulation. geto's cock absolutely heavy and weighty in you, kissing at your walls, and pecking your most sensitive spot.

"yeah, yeah, i k-know," geto gasps, feeling his own orgasm knocking on the door, thin strands of wispy cum already beginning to shoot out, but he's determined. a man on a mission, so a wide hand reaches in between the tight space, slapping sloppy circles against your sensitive clit in a way that has you sinking teeth into the side of his thick neck.

he's looking at you expectantly, like he knows exactly what's arriving. and when. long fingers twirling at your sloshy cunt, flicking over your throbbing clit, "three," he murmurs, "two..."

"and one –" geto's climax hits him at the exact same time, the hypnotising pulse of your pussy practically sucking any restraint out of him. translucent ropes of cream and ivory pumping into you, until you can only lay limp and boneless in his arms, with him still sprawled against the floor of the temple and...oh.

"suguru, baby?"

"hah, yeah," oouh, geto sounds ruined. his voice a rock-salt rasp, still quivering from the earth-shaking climax.

"did we leave the temple door open? and aren't all your guests meant to be arriving today?"

HAJIME KASHIMO ៹ the god of lightning

"tch', thought you said you weren't gonna move, silly girl."

hajime's been going at it for hours, now. well, you can't truly be sure for the world has become slow and hazy, but it certainly feels like an eternal passage of time, rife with that familiar, cloying buildup of pleasure shaking your abdomen.

you're whining, glossy and reddened lips being gnawed and worried into, aching fingers curling into loose strands of cyan hair that's come loose from the knots that hajime seems to favour, "i k-know. but it's –" you squeal when sharp fangs bite at the inner flesh of your thighs, "it's so much, and i've already –"

the sorcerer fixes you with that piercing stare of his, that disconcerting gaze of jewel-cerulean that is a direct shade match with his soft hair, "you've what? finished already? twice? thrice?" the man's getting cocky, you murkily wonder, scraping the tip of his tongue against your throbbing clit, "that's the point. but 'm waiting for something else, y'see."

you can only what else he could possibly want from you, for hajime's got you splayed out for him. bare thighs spread across the edge of the clean bed, the heat of your cunt sensitive even to the cool chill of the air, as he continues to kneel in between your legs. humming, murmuring, as he toys with your slick, sweet folds.

but you know one thing for certain, hajime is a man who will never accept defeat. he's competitive as fuck, and he shows it in all aspects, but especially when it comes to pleasuring you.

"look at you," hajime's cooing, pink mouth blooming a vivid magenta, painted a mirror sheen of your arousal, "jus' falling apart from my mouth? already?"

turquoise hair bunched around hajime's shoulders, falling over his white robes in thick, silky swathes, as he wraps his lips right around your sensitive bud, cheeks hollowing to suck. slender, wiry fingers littered with scars trace mindless circles around your entrance, pushing at your gummy walls until he's the one sucking in a breath.

"heh, s-so tight," hajime mutters, bestowing a filthy kiss upon your cunt, all sloppy and so loving, "have half a mind to just fill you up instead, have ya' pressed under me." he seems dazed by the way that you're still taking his fingers so readily, never mind the six orgasms that he's ripped from you already.

and you would be lying if you said you weren't desperate for the thin but lengthy curve of his cock, pressing up against your cervix as he was so prone to doing when he had you in a tight mating press.

"why don'tcha, then, 'jime?" you're mewling, hands moving away from his sea-green hair to paw at the thick padding of his ivory robes, "want y'in me so, so bad." you're all but sobbing, for hajime's delighted with how you're taking a third finger, and he's crooking the digit up. searching, searching for that sweet spot.

"patience, woman," the rough pads of hajime's fingers swirling thick arousal back into every cranny and divot of your walls, "hmm, 'm gonna' try something." he's grinning now, face splitting into an electrifying smile that you are all too familiar with, "just need to relax for me, sweet thing." pulling sodden fingers out of your cunt, ignoring your needy cries at the sudden loss of sensation.

you can practically feel how restless the sorcerer is, bruising the fingertips of his left hand into the fat of your thighs, amused at how they leave gloss-streaked smears over the skin. but the other hand is slowly stroking at your folds, teasing as hajime takes joy in watching your hips buck up continuously, desperate for some stimulation.

and that's when you first feel it. it's a little jolt at first, something stronger and almost harsher than what you're accustomed to. you can't even help the wanton, candied moan that falls from your lips at how the pins-and-needles quickly turns pleasurable, and how hajime's eyes have become aglow, cursed technique ever so delicately ramping up.

"hahh, 'jime," you're not even sure what to say, to cry out and hope that the words are able to form themselves, and not fall out in slurred groans of pleasure, "more, m-more!"

the sensation is warm too, each small spark sets you alight. far more heated than the cool tips of hajime's fingers that you're used to. and you're certain that you can attribute the involuntary twitching of your leg to the small, controlled electricity being channeled through hajime's skin, each pinch at your clit having you arch your back in the most filthy, whoreish of ways.

"aha," hajime angles a finger in you once more, resuming that gentle push-and-pull pace that he's kept for hours, so the messy pop! rings in your ears each time that he glides away and bottoms his fingers out once more, "i think 'm getting the hang of this, wouldn't ya' say?"

you must look absolutely out of it right now, for hajime's cursed technique is running jolts and buzzes through you in such a way that you know jujutsu was never intended to be used for. tongue falling out of your mouth, whining, as you squeeze your eyes shut. feeling the pace pick up, and hajime's fingers hit bullseye when they brush that spot.

"there, there, t-there, 'm gonna –"

you faintly catch the satisfied, thrilled look on hajime's face when you climax, spraying all over his chin. droplets of clear release that he's eagerly digging into to lap up, hah, you know he's glad to have achieved a victory like this, exhilarated just from achieving your pleasure. tongue sloppy as it works you through a mind-numbing orgasm, slick dripping over his faintly-tanned chin.

"see, i knew y'had it in you," hajime's standing up now, and you bite back a bratty comment about how a four-hundred year old sorcerer was able to stay on his knees for so long, gulping as you see him reach for the loose ties on his martial pants, "and i wanna' see something else now."

CHOSO KAMO ៹ the death painting

"are you sure, my love?" you've barely even touched him, and choso already sounds ruined, tremors wracking his sensitive form. he's beautiful like this, broad-shouldered and thick with hardened muscle. a dark curtain of inky, clingy hair falling around his face as he looks down at you, from where he's hovering with his beefy arms on either side.

"i'm sure, cho," you whimper, inching your legs up to wrap around his waist, pulling him in and closer to where your hot, glossy folds are practically begging for his touch. or rather, for his cock — all his glorious inches that beam an angry, sensitive shade of scarlet.

choso brushes his nose against yours, as intimate as he always is, "jus' don't wanna' hurt you," thick tip snagging against the very entrance of your glistening, winking hole, "tell me if it's too much."

"i will, oh, i –" the air is punctured from your lungs, like your very breath has been stolen away from you in the most searing kiss. that first, initial stretch of choso's cock in you is nothing short of delicious and eye-opening. he's always like this, so intoxicating and sweet, and mindful of how the body of a human may differ to that of a half-curse such as himself, so he's running a thick hand against your abdomen, soothing as he bullies another inch into you.

"not too much, love?" choso gasps out, spellbound by your tight, loving grip, and he thinks he's already lost his mind, hand kneading at the sudden divot that's formed under your skin, from where his cock is settling.

"mhm, mm!" you shake your head, unable to speak from the instant swipe of his cock against your sweet spot already, determined not to wantonly start moaning and gasping in his ear before he's already bottomed out.

choso's worried thumb comes up to swipe at your lower lip, pressing into the kiss-stricken flesh, "hey, i like hearing you. always sound so pretty." pressing his lips to your mouth again, as though he could stay there forever. like this, with you. in you.

"ahh, cho, 's good, really," and you're telling the truth, for his thick cock is rendering you senseless, and so in love. nails lightly clawing at his peach-toned skin, certainly leaving small, crescent marks that you know will make choso flush later. raking your nails down as choso finally, finally bottoms out with a pop!

the sound of skin slapping and sliding against skin makes you flush, your arousal practically drooling out of swollen folds, as thin strands delicately balance between your hips before snapping into creamy puddles, creating an absolute mess underneath you.

"it's like i can feel all of you," choso groans, silky ends of his dark hair tickling your cheek, "and yer' so, so pretty," he's gnawing at his lips, blood-hued, fucking you absolutely stupid on his endowed cock. hitting you with solidified rams against that rough, sensitive spot, drawing senseless, pleasured sounds of your gaping mouth.

choso's weaving his hand in between the two of you, determined to reach for your glistening, throbbing clit. to run sloppy, mindless shapes over the bud that make the most filthy sounds, that soft and pulling sound of your translucent slick sloshing over choso's broad hand.

"you gotta' finish," choso heaves, hauling you a little closer to him, so he can do his very best to draw circles around your clit, despite the slick making it nigh impossible for his fingers to stay on course, "gotta' see you fall apart f'me."

and what a glorious sight for choso's eyes, to see how your lips moisten and part. eyes tight and shut, brows drawn together like a bow releasing a quiver of arrows, he thinks he'd be content to stay like this forever. to have your body tremble underneath him, orgasm painting over you in the most gentle shade possible, hips bucking further into him.

"wait," choso looks almost sheepish now, ears a glowing shade of berry-red, kissing away the last tremours of your climax, "can i turn you around? wanna' see how you look from the back."

GOJO SATORU ៹ the strongest

"w-what? here?" gojo groans, but god, he's never one to complain. hard for him to even find one fault in the world when you're straddling his thighs, looking so lustful and dazed above him.

you're nodding, lips pressed into a frown that gojo immediately swipes away with a kiss, "been wantin' you for days, 'toru." hands already pulling aside his haori, digging into the soft bands of his white pants, "always soo busy, everyone's takin' your attention."

oh. you're needy. and gojo's not ashamed to admit that he loves to play into it. loves to see how his pretty wife's brows furrow and lips part when she's desperate for him.

he snickers, looping a muscular thigh in a way that he's able to flip the two of you over. splaying you out on all fours for him, him only. your knees digging into the soft mats in the training rooms that gojo's certain he locked when you dragged him in here.

he's biting at the shell of your ear, rough hand slithering up your top to cup at the fat of your tits, "y'do know that everyone's on me because they wanna' check in about my fight with sukuna." rocking you back against his tight bulge, "and i did say i would face...him before the twenty-fourth."

"you're the s-strongest, – fuck, that's so –" hah, gojo's already a step ahead of you, sheathing both girth and length into your drooling pussy, leaning back to admire the way your swollen folds snatch and eagerly swallow him up, "and you're always trainin', i was getting lonely."

"my, my," gojo purrs, running a large, broad hand down your spine, slamming your hips back into his so the white curls at the base of his cock kiss the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, "if i knew m'wife was this jealous, i'd have brought ya' in to train with me." gojo's figuring that life's kinda short, and he's gotta live a little — revving up six eyes without any shame, desperate to see the curve of his cock drill home into your tight cunt.

you squeal when he rams his thick, rosy-toned tip deep into your sticky, slimy walls. and for each squelch! when he pulls out, there's a coating of gloss that drips from his cock, entrancing the white-haired man, "well, we're kinda' training now, s-satoru."

"heh, you're right, wifey," gojo decides to take it all the way, looming his frame over you so the tight weave of his dark tee presses against your back, his chest firm enough against you that it bows your back down in the most pleasurable arch, rummaging his cock all over, "see, what would i do without ya'?"

if you crack open bleary, hazy eyes, you can make out the cracks and fissures that run deep in the walls here, plaster splitting apart to reveal brick underneath. wondering, vaguely, whether it was the force of gojo's cursed technique tearing apart the foundations of this building. but it doesn't make you shudder, no, what truly makes you quake is the smack! of gojo's palm against the fat of your ass, and his thick, muffled groan against your ear.

"can't believe i've been neglecting ya', sweets," gojo whines, churning at your pussy in determined rolls of his hips, "and her, too, of course." he's got you bent at such a determined angle, that you're not sure whether you can muster the energy to even tilt your head back. but you certain that the hot drops that quickly cool upon your shoulder are leaking from his stormy eyes, prickling at his long-white lashes. gojo's always been so sensitive during sex, always so easily riled up and undone.

he doesn't let up on the place, continuing to smack the fat head of his cock against your cervix, as though he's desperate to not miss the right spot to spill thick wads of buttery release, and you know that gojo won't, not with those superhuman, heightened senses of his.

"close? close? is m'wife –" gojo hoarsely rasps, "are ya' close? because i think 'm gonna pass out, ouh, yeah. snatching me way too good, heh, been missing out on this training," already pussydrunk and babbling as he tends to do, running his mouth at the same pace at which he's slamming his cock into you, "you know i lo –"

gojo's never one to withstand a rude interruption, not even when its his own orgasm snatching the words out of his mouth, so even as steaming, slick strands of his climax pump themselves into you, he's mouthing and kissing at your neck, gently pulling you up from all fours to balance your arms wide, splaying your thighs wide apart — all while he's still filling you up, "love you, love you so much, i fuckin' love you."

[salsakiyoomi]

sukuna hates it when you're mad at him.

because, frankly, how dare you be mad at him? he does no wrong, so you have no right to be so upset with him for absolutely no reason.

okay, maybe you did have a reason, he was just too stubborn to admit it.

sukuna was no mere man, he was a curse for god's sake, a powerful king of an entire realm and a fierce being, he could slaughter you for even just looking at him funny if he wanted to.

and yet.

he couldn't find it in himself to do so, something about you was just so…unbelievably enslaving, like no other before — those measly concubines that he slaughtered couldn't compare to you in any sense.

you were simply a goddess in his eyes — his queen to be sat on his throne. his equal.

nobody was ever his equal, until you came along.

he doesn't know what you did to him, perhaps you put a hex on him that made him so infatuated with just the mere thought of you.

or perhaps, it was an emotion, something foreign to the king of curses yet prominently there.

an emotion…such as love…perhaps?

no, that's ridiculous. sukuna doesn't do love, you definitely put a hex on him.

he stands in your shared bedroom, looking like an awkward school boy (something he definitely isn't) as he contemplates how to get you to stop being angry with him.

“y/n.” he finally speaks, his voice stern and powerful, commanding attention, attention that you don't give to him, instead, you continue to focus on your book, completely ignoring his presence.

frustrated, he grunts. he hates it when you ignore him like that.

“petal.” he tries again, this time his voice softer and gentler and he's using the nickname that he knows makes you weak in the knees.

you stiffen and he can practically hear your heart flutter.

“what do you want, sukuna?” you speak, shutting your book with a loud thud as you look at him, your expression uninterested.

“no,” he says, shaking his head, “it's not sukuna to you, you know that.”

you roll your eyes, “you lost ryo privileges the moment you decided to put yourself in danger like that.”

“petal.” he coos, approaching you slowly and sitting on the edge of the bed near you, “nothing can kill me, you know that.”

“yes it can!” you exclaim, “you may think you're invincible but you're not sukuna, you may be the king of curses but that doesn't make you immortal, you can still die or get gravely injured!”

sukuna's heart breaks, or at least something close to it — the moment he sees the tears well up in your eyes and hears the concern in your voice, something inside him breaks.

you really, truly cared?

“oh, petal,” he coos softly, shuffling closer to you and cupping your face in his hand, wiping away a tear that falls with his thumb.

“i understand your…concern.” he speaks, his voice gentle, “but know that no matter the battles i fight, or the sorcerers who dare defy me, that i'll always come back to you — nothing will get in the way of having you in my arms.”

your eyes widen slightly at his uncharacteristically gentle and reassuring words and your heart flutters in your chest.

your lips wobble and tears fall freely from your eyes, “oh, ryo.” you sob, burying your face in his chest.

sukuna's eyes widen — he had gotten used to your touches and so called ‘cuddling’ yet having you sob in his chest was so…foreign to him.

nevertheless, his hand comes up unsurely to pat your back in a way one would assume comforting.

“i don't think i can bear the thought of losing you,” you say, sniffling as you pull away from him for a moment, looking at him with glassy eyes.

sukuna stares at you for a moment, and he gets the sickening heart flutter in his chest that he oh so hates so much, yet he’s unable to make it stop.

sukuna hates it when you're mad at him, but he hates it even more when you're crying because of him, so he makes it a point that as long as he's here, he'll never have you shed a tear, ever.

“and i don't think i can bear the thought of not coming back to you, petal.” he says, his hand coming up to grip the back of your neck gently, and his fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls you closer to place a soft peck against your lips, so uncharacteristically soft.

sukuna is an asshole, an irredeemable one at that, but he'll never make you upset with him again.

[emmyrosee]

Sukuna hates how petty you can get when you’re fighting.

There is a part of him that loves your stubbornness, sure, like when you huff at him and make him work for your affection, but right now, you’re on day three of the silent treatment, and he’s losing it.

You enter a room and he’s already in it, you leave. You’re talking to yuuji and he comes in, you stop talking immediately. You haven’t been staying the night anymore, and you haven’t given him a kiss goodbye any time you’ve left. Even his ma is questioning what he did wrong, and he can’t give her a concrete answer.

He’s losing it.

Hes spammed texted you, he’s been trapping you in rooms by leaning in the doorframe, he’s been trying to get yuuji to be his messenger, but nothings working. You’re not biting.

“You’re over complicating this,” yuuji shakes his head and thumbing through channels. “Literally just apologize.”

“At this point I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for!”

“Well they’re on their way over, thinking you’re going to apologize, so you’d better figure it out.”

“You’ve been an immense help, thank you, asshole.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door, and when Sukuna takes a deep breath and answers it, you nearly spin on your heel to leave.

“Oh I don’t think so,” he snips, grabbing your hand and pulling you in the house and trying not to focus on how you’re not even fighting against him, and that’s how indifferent you are to him. “We’re talking. Like it.”

“Hey dawg!” Yuuji cheers, clicking off the tv and waving. You wave back, your streak of not talking in front of Sukuna continuing. The younger chuckles, “I’ll let the adults duke it out. See ya!”

The room fills with silence as yuuji leaves, making Sukuna immensely uncomfortable. The way you’re looking at him has him uncomfortable, you’re making him so uncomfortable, and he just wishes you’d toss your pride to the side and talk to him and cuss him out or something.

“You look… good.”

Nothing.

“I’ve missed you.”

Nada.

“I made out with someone else because I got sick of you ignoring me.”

You scowl at him.

“Okay, I was lying. I was hoping you’d cuss me out.”

No dice.

“You’re acting like a fucking child!” He takes a deep breath in to try and ground himself, and you merely watch him with a hurt expression.

Okay. That didn’t help his situation.

“Fucks sake,” he grumbles, making a move to guide you backwards. He’s got you backed into a wall, hands on your shoulders while your arms stay nonchalantly crossed.

“I don’t get why you’re so mad at me; what did I even do?” He snaps, leaning close to your face threateningly.

You blink unamused.

Oh.

You’re gonna speak alright. He’s gonna make sure of it.

“Speak.”

You merely look him up and down and turn your head.

“Talk! Now!”

You let a tired exhale through your nose pass.

“I said i was sorry, and i know you know that was hard for me, why am i still being punished by you?” It’s bait to make you mad and talk, he knows he hasn’t apologized to the most sincere of his ability, but he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Maybe I’ll tickle ya, how about that?”

That, does, have your eyes widening but you still don’t spare him a breath. He smirks, “I’d bet you’d hate that, huh? Holding in all that laughter and begs for me to stop, knowing I’m not going to until you talk to me… and I’ll do it too. You know that.”

You merely cross your arms over your chest tighter.

He shrugs, “you asked for it.”

And he’s gotta say, he’s impressed with how little you’re fighting back from him scooping you in his arms and tossing you on the couch, straddling you, even taking your two wrists in his massive paw and holding them above your head. Your lips wobble in anticipation, and he’s got you booked now. “Any last words? A quick ‘I hate you,’ maybe?”

You blink, bored, almost calling his bluff, and he comes up to smack his face in frustration. He wasn’t actually bluffing, he did have full intentions of making you scream, but he was so sure you’d crack under his gaze, even a quick kick to him as he was adjusting your body.

No dice.

With a shrug, hands come down quickly to tickle the meat of your ribs, settling in the dips and scratching at the bones maddeningly. He sees your lip become wobblier, and he smirks down at you. “Nothing? Not even a giggle? You must be pissed at me.”

You screw your eyes shut to ignore him and he clicks his tongue, “now you can’t even look at me? That sucks.”

He leans down to nibble at your neck and ear, whispering little words against your skin to make you squeak. But it isn’t until he cheats and uses his mouth to blow a raspberry on your sensitive neck, an area he’s so used to pressing loving kisses to, that you finally crack.

“YOURE SO CHEAP!” You scream, followed by a flurry of laughter and struggling from his tight hold. Your laugh is whiny and desperate, feet digging into the couch while his fingers merely slither up and under your arms.

He smirks against your skin, “gotcha.”

“Fuck off!” You squeal, tugging as hard as you can in his grasp. “Stohop it!”

“Are you gonna keep ignoring me?” He asks. You shake your head back and forth, but he cocks a brow. “Is that a no? Are we going to talk about your issues with me, or am I going to have to tickle you for the next few hours?”

“HOURS?!” You howl.

He shrugs, “you ignored me for three days, least I deserve is to tickle you until you sob.”

“I wasn’t-“ you’re cut off by a flurry of your own giggles. “This isn’t-“ a few more yowls of your laughter when he digs in more. “FUCK OFF!”

“Nah,” he snickers. “This is more fun.” He does, however, stop his torment and pulls back, but he does look down at you impatiently. “Speak,” he echos from earlier.

You let out a few more titters slip past your lips, but you do sober up slightly, “you don’t even care that I was mad at you.”

“Uh, I was about to tickle you until you died, I think I cared too much-“

“No, Sukuna. You just didn’t want me to be mad. You never apologized and you never even bothered to try and make it better…”

This, oddly, has Sukuna’s heart twisting, squeezed with emotions and realization that he did mess up, pride couldn’t save him now and if he wanted to fix this, he’d have to prove it.

He sighs in truce, “I’m sorry, babe.”

“….”

“What?”

“That’s it?”

He rolls his eyes, “what else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to care that I was hurt!” You whine, raising on your elbows. “I want you to understand I was hurt, that you messed up! Not be so prideful and not admit it!”

“Alright, alright, jeez,” he groans. He locks eyes with you, and he knows you’re not going to like it, but he leans down to kiss you, using his two hands to cup your jaw, letting his thumbs stroke your bone lovingly. “I’m sorry. It must’ve sucked having to deal with my shitty ass apologies before. I never should’ve pulled that shit, and I hated not having you by my side.”

This, has you softening.

He presses another kiss to you, “I missed your laughter. I missed you scolding me. I missed you being sarcastic… don’t pull that silent treatment shit again, will ya?”

You hum happily, “don’t piss me off and I won’t have to.”

He blinks unamused, and as the thought of tickling you again crosses his mind, you lean up to kiss his lips giggling softly in the warmth. “I’m kidding. You and I both know you’re not going to stop pissing me off.”

“Love when you answer your own demands,” he chuckles.

The tightness in his soul loosens as you submit to his affections, and he does make a mental note to never piss you off so bad again where you go back to happy to never talk to him again. He hates it more than even he knows, drags him down and he feels like he’s missing a crucial part of himself.

But it is good to know he can get you back out of that funk.

[cryptosexologist]

jujutsu kaisen’s at this point in its narrative drama zone where people getting MAD at other people for ||looking at the overpowered mentor man being brought back after being stowed away for half the manga, in order to fight the series’ primary antagonist, who is the only character thats ever been really treated as anywhere near a match for him, and whose powerset is Still largely unrevealed, AND whose primary goals (aside from ‘be the best’) is vague, AND has an additional layer of abilities that have canonically gone against someone with the equivalent powerset to mr mentor guy and resulted, unaided, in a stalemate, and thought “oh gojo’s fuckin dead. permanently mangled beyond hope of complete recovery at best. lol. lmao.” || is like. hun if gojo wins here, and i’ll admit its possible since JJK’s writing and pacing gas been dogshit since at LEAST mid-culling-game, it’ll be like. the saddest wettest fart. the yuji-bodyswapped-into-gojo theorists are fucking stupid but they WERE at least attuned to the fact that the actual dramatic chemistry of gojo and sukuna going into this is nowhere near strong enough for sukuna getting defeated to feel earned like. jfc lmao

[suhtorus]

₊˚ʚ 🌱 little sunshines au. masterlist

a jjk au where domestic fluff and parenthood are the main tropes.

fluff‐parents au. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ non sorcerer/curse au, domesticity, use of nicknames for the babies (nugget, mochi, squirt), mom!reader, mentions of pregnancy

all kids remain unnamed, apart from the already existing ones

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ɢᴏᴊᴏ sᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ

head of the gojo clan. after marrying his wife, he locked her in his estate with him. she ended up popping three healthy babies in the span of five years.

notes:

his precious mochi consist of two boys, aged 5 and 2 years old, and an eight month old baby girl—the three of them look like satoru

your two boys are huge fans of 'fishies'

kiss it better

something's fishy

mama's day

crybaby

cannibalism

—

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ɢᴇᴛᴏ sᴜɢᴜʀᴜ

the geto residence had been nothing but a girly sanctuary for the past few years. suguru, as the only man, faced a harsh reality check when the latest addition to his family, a baby boy, stole the hearts of every girl in his home.

notes:

suguru is so used to handling girls that he's still a bit lost with his little boy

the baby wants you all the time, and suguru is a little sad that he's not being favored

joyride

—

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ғᴜsʜɪɢᴜʀᴏ ᴛᴏᴊɪ

his biggest nightmare came true once his baby girl began to talk. she keeps him on his toes, a little princess that easily empties her daddy's wallet by asking for toys—expensive ones.

notes:

your baby girl wants to do everything you do: hair, makeup, nails. toji grows a gray hair each time she demands to get her tiny toes painted like mama

tsumiki (6) likes to say that the baby (2) is her doll, and little megumi (4) makes sure his puppies watch over his baby sister while she naps

!! technically speaking, toji's still a zenin + megumi and tsumiki are yours. so they'll be referenced as the zenin's/zenin kids !!

strawberry shortcake

copycat

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ʀʏᴏᴍᴇɴ sᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ

dogs out

—

his home has not known peace ever since his wife gave birth to their twins, a boy and a girl. he barely made it out of the 'terrible twos' unscathed, but now that they're three and way more talkative, he's starting to reconsider his life decisions.

notes:

the boy is a menace, always play fighting with his dad, while the girl is shy and cries around him

both toddlers get pretty calm and soft around you. sukuna says you hexed them

!! for the sake of the plot, sukuna is jin's brother, making him an itadori. choso and yuuji are step brothers (choso is kaori's son) !!

uncle yuuji

ugly mornings

mall santa

—

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ ᴋᴇɴᴛᴏ

preschool teacher with a concerning amount of patience. all of the kids know him because he's their art and crafts teacher, a very popular class among the children.

notes:

first grade (2-3 year olds): itadori twins, gojo's youngest son, and zenin's youngest daughter.

second grade (4-5 year olds): gojo's eldest son, megumi, and yuuji.

third grade (6 year olds): tsumiki, nanako, and mimiko.

first day

be my valentine?

[specialgradefckr]

Tiger in the Alleyway

tw: homelessness, implied mistreatment/assault, suggestive content. sukuna/reader. hybrid!sukuna, hybrid!reader. sukuna is not like, canon sukuna, but he's not really much better

It doesn't really surprise him that it's ending like this.

The thought occurs to Sukuna as he stumbles into the alley, tail swaying weakly behind him. Even injured as he is, a low growl - a tiger's warning - is enough to clear the stupid mutts out of his way.

He lived his life cursing others. Biting, tearing, eating. Taking whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. It was a life full of enemies, and that had to take its toll eventually.

At least he lived well. A good life. Free, on his own terms, by his own merits. He closes his eyes with a heavy breath.

There's a patter of rain - ugh. One final annoyance to accompany him into the afterlife. He supposes it might wash some of the blood and filth off him.

Louder, louder - this sound isn't rain at all. One bright red eye flashes open, glaring at the intruder - you.

A tiny, shivering housecat hybrid, crawling carefully up to his side.

Sukuna snorts. Of all the witnesses to his death, it had to be you.

You're nothing to him, of course. And nothing in general, really. A house pet, thrown out of your home - the worst fate for a domesticated creature like you.

A wild thing born and bred for companionship, to be a toy for humans - the only thing you deserved was pity and scorn.

That's all he'd ever looked at you with. He'd crossed you once or twice in alleyway scraps - never fought, oh no. You're a pathetic creature and you know it. Always surrendering, running from every fight.

Whenever you scrounged up any food for yourself, you had to hide or eat it right away. A good spot to sleep? You'd get bullied out of it. Anything nice, or soft, to comfort or amuse yourself with? Stolen from you within days.

You knew your place, and it was on the very bottom of the food chain. He supposes that your self-awareness was commendable, if nothing else.

He scorns you equally, now, if not more than ever. A worm like you, outliving him? How pathetic.

But his warning growl doesn't scare you off. For you, of all people, not to fear him -

What's that smell?

He smells it before he sees it. You carried it in your mouth, sitting carefully next to him and taking it into your hands. Offering it up.

It's a single, lonely sardine, probably the last from that little tin he'd seen you squirrelling away after he put down some mutt in an alleyway.

Fucking disgusting animals. Barking and pissing and shitting everywhere.

It comes together to him, then. Your pathetic, hopeful, wide eyes as you raise up your offering. You think he helped you. On purpose.

Eugh. For fuck's sake! A wave of revulsion shifts through his body, so strong he nearly hurls.

"It's okay to eat," You say with a painful kindness, "I had some! Take it!"

Putting up to his lips - he nearly pukes. Then again, he is pretty badly hurt.

"Stupid," He manages, it a low growl, but that only has his mouth open enough for you to stick it in.

Reluctantly, he chews, swallows. If only because spitting it out would do nothing at this point.

It seems dying wasn't a fit enough punishment for living a life like he did. Apparently, he had to live with the indignity of getting help from a waste of skin like you.

The rain is falling, harder now. He feels a tug on his sleeve and an involuntary groan of pain escapes him.

A small noise, like a whimper of disappointment, bubbles up next to him.

He hears you patter away - fucking finally - only to hear a scrape and scramble in the distance, along with a slow drag of something against the pavement.

There's a shift as you push him away from sitting against the wall - he hisses viciously at that - and then there's a cardboard set against it. With his weight back on it, it's held against the wall, hanging over his head and protecting him from the rain.

Sukuna sneers, "Stupid cat. You think you'll get something from me if you do this?"

His words are low, mocking, "You think I'll reward your kindness? You'll be lucky if I don't break your fingers for laying a hand on me."

Everything about his tone conveys exactly what he thinks of that idea. He's never needed help before and he doesn't want any now.

Especially not from some pathetic, weak creature like you.

"...could you do it on my right hand, please?"

A beat. "What?"

"Just... break the ones on my right hand. I can't really use it anyways, so... that should be fine..."

He remembers, then, how he'd seen you clutching one arm to your chest always. Probably an old injury that never healed right.

Just his luck. Choosing the most ineffectual threat possible for someone who had so little to lose.

The cold is just about to set in, bone-deep, when he feels the warmth against him. Stiffening, hissing in warning.

"...if... if you're so mad," your trembling voice says, "Th-then just push me off! Otherwise, I'm cold, so I'm gonna borrow your heat!"

He stops. Pauses. Calculates, thinks about it - but the numbers feel so far away from his tired mind.

The numbness feels like a solid, frozen mass inside him... but your form curls into his. Your tiny little housecat tail settling over his lap. It's thin, frayed, with notches and cuts in it, but your chest is warm pressed into his side.

And he can't push you away, can't muster the strength. He supposes death will soon spare him this indignity -

A painful breath batters his ribs as he hisses again. It stings!

His eyes flick down to see you. Neck carefully stretched, reaching over his form so you can lap at a cut by his throat.

This time, your eyes hesitantly meet his, but you still lick carefully, sterilizing it, watching him wince from the contact. It doesn't stop you from a moment.

Clearly, you have no fear for your own life. Are you enjoying his humiliation? The fact that a powerful tiger like him is weak enough to succumb to the whims of a tame little kitten like you?

One of your legs brushes forward, between his, and -

The moan that comes out of Sukuna's mouth is purely from pain. It has nothing to do with the rough, wet strokes of your tongue over his enflamed wounds. The heat of your body against him. The weight of you on his exhausted body.

His chest heaves, from exertion, labored breaths. A low, warning rumble is the best deterrent he can make.

Your eyes flicker closed as you tuck your head into his neck, nuzzling closer. "So warm..."

At this point, you've half-climbed into his lap. Arms around him, legs twined with his. He's got a little feeling back in his limbs with the cold staved off - just enough to feel them ache and throb.

Sukuna tilts his head back with a weary sigh, letting it hit the wall behind him. His arms have found their way around your body. If you're offering your warmth, after all, he'd be a fool not to take it.

But you're a fool, too, if you think this will get you anything. He doesn't need help from an abandoned stray like you.

There's a small, barely-there tremor against his chest. It's low, and gentle, and before he can complain about it, it's lulled him to sleep.

[sidsinning]

You ever think about how Gege's idea of a happy ending for Gojo is just being with Geto again

Like Gege really said stsg moving on from one another bc of smtg stupid like death Does Not Exist

Gojo was content with his life teaching his students and finally connecting with people properly before his fight with Sukuna. It's what he wanted out of his dreams to guide the next generation, and even more.

But personal, selfish (and I don't mean this in a negative way) fulfillment all for his own sake was being with Geto again, back in high school when he didn't need to worry about such grandiose things

He's real for that

At least that's what I think

[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.

[aakeysmash]

Farmer Sukuna and YN interacting with the other town folk?

(Which lead into my other question; is there any villager Sukuna actually enjoys talking with or is he a complete loner? I would think he would at least hang out with the adventure guild.)

farmer!sukuna and you visiting the old ladies in town

Farmer!Sukuna’s masterlist

Reader and Sukuna have many connections to the town folks. Yes, they’re self-sufficient, but they still have to make a living. Sukuna sells whatever his fields produce, and you’re a really great baker, so you end up selling some muffins/pies/sweets from time to time :)

You try to keep your lives as peaceful as they can get, so you keep to yourselves the majority of the time, but for the sake of your business you still have to meet up with people. Sukuna isn’t really happy about this because he is pretty much a loner lol, he isn’t an easy person to deal with 🧍🏻‍♂️ but he tries, mainly because he knows you care. You, on the contrary, are really good with words and gestures, and the old ladies really appreciate your company for tea time on Fridays. Sukuna, obviously, comes with you every time, too. And they absolutely love him.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re so thin these days! Is that brute not treating you well? Come, come, eat this biscuit,” a lady ushers you into her home, glaring at Sukuna who is behind you. You softly laugh while Sukuna grumbles “I ain't even do nothin'”.

“He’s treating me very well, ma’am. And I got you a blueberry pie, he made sure to pick all the ingredients for me,” you say sweetly, sitting down on the chair your husband got out from under the table for you. The old lady beams at your pie before shaking her white curls, pointing an accusatory finger toward Sukuna’s chest.

“You’ll have to fight me if you make her cry, do you understand, mister?”

“I would never, ma’am,” he says somberly, laying his hands on your shoulders. The other ladies at the table are hurrying to bring a chair from somewhere for him too, but he raises a hand to stop them. He doesn’t mind standing if you’re comfortable.

“One free pepper for every tear!” The same old lady exclaims, still furrowing her eyebrows.

“Let’s make ‘em two,” he smirks, bowing slightly. The old lady’s expression softens, and she coos at him. She pats him on the cheek affectionately, and you see his jaw ticking. He hates it. You snort, and he sends you a mean glance.

“You found yourself a gem, honey,” another kind lady sighs your way. You get up to point your chair at Sukuna, and he rolls his eyes, already knowing what you want him to do. You’re trying to include him in the circle around the table, just like every Friday. He sits down and you plop right on his left leg. His arms circle your waist, and you lean your back on his chest, content. "Strong, put a ring on your finger fast, makes sure you're fed healthy ingredients..."

"Oh, that I do, ma'am," he barks out laughing, making all the ladies follow. He has that young man charm that makes the group of ladies swoon.

"Let's drink some tea, shall we?"

[nessieartss]

sukuna would carry megumi to safety like in shibya, if megumi's mission went to shit. but megumi would probably be surprised being saved by sukuna? what do you think of this type of scenario?

sukuna brought megumi to shoko because his RCT is not powerful enough to heal him fully, and dealt with mahoraga himself. Megumi would later wake up and surprised to find that sukuna already finished the job and he was the one that saved him. Sukuna just rolled his eyes when megumi said his thanks and asking if he’s okay.

yeah, sukuna definitely gonna scold megumi after unleashing mahoraga, saying “you’re so fucking reckless. That damn six eyes will not let me hear the end of it if you die for fucks sake.”

megumi thought that it was really weird for sukuna to endanger himself fighting the shikigami, he doesn’t owe megumi anything. Megumi was ready to die that time for the sake of saving his friends, but instead he was the one being saved while almost destroying the city in the process. I guess he owes sukuna for this one.

sukuna would joke and later call megumi “suicidal bastard”

[phyrestartr]

If We Had Lived (Divine Favour) | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader

W/C: 3k #SFW, fluff, mentions of past abuse, heian sukuna, typical kitsune shapeshifting, jp mythology, morally grey reader, DRABBLE

tags: @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah @memedealer-exe @f0th3rr @boretheral @cicithemess @paastaboi @someone0vx

--

“Sit still.”

“I'm sitting fucking still, fox.”

Sukuna did not sit still. He shifted and huffed, not unlike an annoyed, restless bull locked up in a pen–only, he was far from being in a pen and could leave whenever he so wished. 

Yet, he stayed. He endured the torture you, his prized possession, put him through for the sake of making good impressions or whatever. But the harvest festival was hardly a big deal–the last time the king was bestowed a gift of any value was when he found himself the owner of a beautifully annoying fox that hid in his garden for a fucking eternity. A prize like that was unlikely to be given again. What else could possibly excite the man who had everything?

Your tails swished behind you dramatically as you shifted on your knees, tilting your head to look over the work you'd done with cleaning and manicuring his nails and hands. Thankfully, you left callouses in place. Not that he thought you'd be so cruel as to remove them, but you certainly had the ability to, considering how soft your own hands were. 

“How much more?” Sukuna grumbled.

Your eyes flicked up to his for a moment before returning to your task. “I've hardly finished one hand.” 

The king scowled as a child might as you continued gently pushing at his cuticles with the slim, soft stick of an orange tree, carved specially for this occasion. Sure, he was the one who demanded you to turn your self-preening onto him, but still--

Your soft, warm touch cupped under his jaw and lifted his pouty gaze to meet yours. “You asked this of me,” you reminded. “If you've changed your mind, I've other tasks to attend to.” 

Sukuna’s lip twitched in an ugly, childish snarl. “You'll stay here and finish your job.” 

“Very well.” You leaned up toward him and kissed the spot between his brows before sitting again. But Sukuna followed you, bowing his head to chase a proper kiss that you gave freely, the kind spirit you were. “Then you will have to sit still.” 

“Tch.” But he obliged to the best of his abilities. “Already gonna have to sit still for hours while those damn peasants show up and dump scraps at my feet,” he sighed, pulling up a knee and resting an elbow on it. 

“My, a kingly thing is complaining about fealty?” You wondered, sarcastic yet cripplingly honest. “While I understand your unwillingness to do anything but fight and kill, you must remind those beneath you of your status.” 

Sukuna scoffed. “Yeah? Then why isn't my kyuubi doing just that?” 

“I am no king,” you said. “I am simply the servant of one, no? Given to him as a mere offering, yet kept alive for his amusement.” 

“Huh. Guess you know your place.” Sukuna shifted, and he noticed you pick up the pace, tending to him a bit quicker lest the restless beast lose his patience and leave with the job incomplete. He wouldn’t leave, not when he hungered for your attention and touch more than anything else the pathetic world could offer him–only something from the divine plane could satiate him. 

“Mh.” You raised his hand and pressed his knuckles to your lips, then against the soft plushness of your cheek. “My place is by my king’s side. It will forever remain that way.” 

–

You left his side. You left him, your pious saviour, your sworn king, your chosen mate, in favour of–what? Freedom? Adventure? Men? Women? What was it? 

Thunder echoed in Sukuna’s chest as he paced. He’d swept through towns, destroyed any houses you might have been sequestered in, searched vacant shrines and the like, but never caught a glimpse of your ebony tails nor your decorated kimono. It drove him mad. How had he not noticed? Did the harvest festivities really engulf his mind? Sure, they were more eventful this year, what with clansmen attempting revenge in the name of their fallen brethren, but it’d only been a week of problems–nothing challenging, nothing that really, truly required his full attention. And still–

“Sukuna-sama,” Uraume called, interrupting his buzzing thoughts. 

“What?” The king snapped, turning on his heel to face Uraume standing at his chamber door. “If this is about anything other than my fucking fox, then–”

“Please, come,” they said. “I believe I’ve found an explanation.” 

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. Uraume sounded calm, not that they ever sounded particularly frantic, but they seemed…happy, maybe? Some weird kind of content, perhaps. It wasn’t something Sukuna was used to seeing on their placid face, though it’d become more common ever since you entered their lives and made yourself at home. The frost sorcerer had a soft spot for you. Sukuna couldn’t blame them. 

“Pray tell what the fuck the explanation is,” Sukuna grumbled as he followed his subordinate, arms all crossed and tensed. 

“I’m certain I’ve found the whereabouts of your beloved.” Uraume slid open the door leading to the gardens in the back and walked on. “In the absence of (Name), I decided to tend to the gardens myself. In doing so, I found something quite peculiar–a hidden grove of sorts.” 

Sukuna’s fury morphed into prickling, fiery intrigue. “Bullshit. I’ve been all over this fucking garden with that fox. I know the ins and outs.”

“Then it would not surprise me if he indeed kept this a secret from you.” 

Sukuna grumbled. “He knows better.”

“I don’t believe it’d be intentional,” Uraume said, “but I believe his instincts may have influenced him to secure a quiet, safe place for the future.”

The king relaxed. Electricity sparked weakly in his fingertips first,then throughout the rest of his body when everything started falling into place–you wanted all eyes to be on him, you didn’t want anyone to look at you during the festival. Your cheeks had grown fuller, your body more plush, your desire to snuggle and snooze went through the roof. Could you have been–?

Uraume stepped toward a thicket of trees in the far corner of the garden–one that Sukuna indeed had never bothered with, considering it looked full of trees and foliage and definitely not a spot to meander on your shared morning walks–before ducking under thick branches and pushing aside flimsy bushes. 

Sukuna followed with a little more brute force, nearly ripping the pesky foliage out of the way and half-considering decimating the trees that dare whip him in the face with a cluster of leaves. But you’d probably get pissy if he did that. A pissy fox was fun, but also withheld sex, and that was a no-go for Sukuna these days, considering his concubines just weren’t doing it for him as of late. 

Sure enough, Uraume’s words rang true. The grove was small and cozy, letting in warm dappling sunlight while shielding itself from the prying eyes of the outside world. In the very corner of the garden and the evident centrepiece of the grove, stood an immense weeping willow, one with a formidable trunk and thick, gnarled branches reaching up to drape long curtains of green like cascading waterfalls around itself. Truly, it felt like a separate little world would be hidden in there, behind swaying vines and rustling leaves. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” Sukuna muttered, stepping past his right hand to push aside the foliage, revealing a black fox curled up in the hollowed trunk of that very tree. 

You didn’t stir when he approached. Something uneasy curled in Sukuna’s gut, but once he sat himself in front of the mouth to your little den, he spied the steady breathing shifting your small form, and calmed–until he saw something else wiggling against you, chirping and squeaking with pathetic, fragile voices. At first, he thought it was some sort of parasite sucking you of your lifeforce, but he realized too quickly that what he beheld were two, tiny kits, both covered in fluffy brown-black fur, both keenly aware of the presence of a curious new man sitting before them. 

Sukuna tensed when they approached him. Their chubby bellies knocked their weak, stubby legs off balance, but they persevered best they could, bumbling their way through trampled leaves and grass, and finally reaching the crossed legs of the king. Tiny paws papped at his pant legs before they hazarded climbing the formidable mountain before them And despite Sukuna’s hesitation, he hastily held their butts before they fell off of him like the stupid, dumb babies they were. They were his stupid, dumb babies, after all. Best to take care of them. 

“It appears he went somewhere quiet to nest,” Uraume hummed, sounding far too pleased as they watched the king handle fox kits. “Perhaps the festival was too stressful.”

“Tch. Could’ve shot the runts out inside,” Sukuna mumbled, half-heartedly annoyed. “Coulda said somethin’.” 

“He could have,” Uraume agreed, an air of ‘but what’s done is done’ clinging to their words. 

Sukuna sighed. “What a pain in the ass.” His eyes flicked to you again. He expected you to wake up, to snap at him like the feral thing you were. He expected you to calm after recognizing him. Maybe he expected you to curl up in his lap, too. Or did he just want that?

But you stayed sleeping. Content and safe under the shelter of your lover and the stalwart embrace of a weeping willow. Perhaps it was thanking you for your kind care with the way it soothed your soul and kept you hidden away. Sukuna wouldn't doubt it for a second. The garden acted differently ever since you claimed it as your own. 

“Shall we take them back?” Uraume asked.

The king thought for a long moment, sifting through selfish desires and rational decisions before coming to his conclusion: “Leave ‘em. He'll probably throw a damn fit if we interfere. You know how gods are–annoying and irrational as hell when they don't get their way.”

His subordinate smiled. “Very well.”

–

Winter’s first frost came, and you returned to his side. 

You woke him with a classic move–standing on his chest and staring at him expectantly until he woke up and gave you attention. You didn’t do it as much anymore, not ever since you found yourself in the midst of a thousand responsibilities and daily quests, but every once in a while, like when your lover would return from long journeys, you’d pester him endlessly for pets, scritches and kisses. 

But this time, once his heavy eyes opened, he not only saw you standing atop his chest, but a chubby pup caught in your maw, too. 

Sukuna blinked away his grogginess just as you gingerly placed the babe on his collarbone, tucking him underneath the king's chin. One of his large hands flew up to ensure the kit (his kit) didn't slip off when you let go and trotted away with purpose. 

“Fox,” Sukuna grumbled, displeased with your hasty retreat. Thankfully, you trotted back up to him a handful of moments later and placed a second ball of fluff on his chest before settling down beside him and watching. 

“Tch. Took you long enough,” the king huffed as he tried his damndest to be careful and gentle with the little ones. “Was about to drag your sorry ass in here myself.” 

I see. If you were so desperate for my company, you could have simply requested it, you countered. 

Sukuna sucked his teeth and huffed. “Like it woulda been that easy.” Nothing was that easy with you–and Sukuna liked it. If you gave in, if you tended to his every fleeting want and need, you'd be too boring, frankly. 

It is unlike you to not try. You shifted and wormed your way into his arms and half onto his chest, right beside the two snoozing kits you'd worked hard to bring up while Sukuna was off fighting, killing and maiming. But that was expected; servants and bedded beasts were to stay and make a home, weren't they? 

“Tch. I let you have your way for once and this is how you act?” Your partner admired your foxen features and traced his fingertips along your snout, between your eyes, to the top of your little skull before scritching behind your ears. You leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed with the meagerest offering of affection.

Shall I praise you and bow at your feet once I am able? You teased. 

“Bending over'll do the trick.” Sukuna smirked when you huffed. “How long you gotta stay as a shitty mutt anyway?” 

Until they wean. I'm not certain as to how long that will take.

“Not even a guess?” 

Perhaps another week or so. You turned your nose to the two small fluffs and groomed the tops of their heads. They're becoming more independent. More willing to explore. I take that as a good sign for their development. 

“Huh. Good.” A strange coil relaxed in Sukuna's chest, and he braved petting them with a single finger again. “‘N how long ‘til these two learn to play human?” 

Not for some time, but I will help them until they master it themselves. You nipped at Sukuna's hand as a third rose to come pester you. You should not pray for them to be human too soon. They will terrorize you. I have seen such chaos before. 

Sukuna grinned. “Ho? You forget who their father is?” Your sigh echoed in his mind, and his smile split wider. “I can handle anything.”

–

Kazuya and Genji took too much after you and your mischievous heritage. 

Too often Uraume would find them in baskets of produce, happily munching away like they were supposed to be in there. Other times, they'd be caught stealing shiny jewelry or knick knacks from the king's concubines and servants. They'd sometimes even take Sukuna's clothes and run amok with them, using them as toys or completely shredding them. 

You, he who had birthed and raised them, were swift when it came to correcting them. You were, of course, the prime example of a kitsune, and therefore found their treasure stashes, foretold of their destructive crimes, and knew when they'd be off to steal food. You were like them, once, after all. 

And maybe that's why you had a peculiar pep to your step. Once the boys found their devious personalities, you bothered lifting your tails from the floor. No longer did you let them drag and droop like limp noodles hanging from chopsticks. You seemed…prouder. Livelier. Perhaps being amongst your own gave you a sense of belonging, of hope. 

Belonging, huh? Tch, what a load of shit. Sukuna mused as he rested his cheek against his fist, lounging while he watched you wrangle the twins from his spot under a shady tree. Spring was here, and that meant the runts were now terrorizing the great outdoors. 

More accurately, they were following you around like two tiny shadows, too eager to waddle after you as you moved along the paths, sowing seeds and pruning withered leaves as you went. The tots picked up whatever your tending cast to the ground, and they held each thistle, leaf and twig close in tiny, pudgy hands like they were rabbit's feet. Strange little things.

He lost sight of you and the bumbling babies eventually, but your light chatter flitted through the brush and kept him company for a time. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot accompanied your walk as you came back around, closer and closer and–through the garden itself? Wait–

“RAH!” A little voice cried before a littler body launched onto Sukuna. 

“Ha?” The king quirked a brow and looked at the little thing biting and kicking at his arm like a spastic cat. “What the hell is this?” 

“He's trying to play with you,” you said as you wandered back into view, voice airy and light. “They wrestle.” 

Sukuna held his arm up to get a better look at the runt nibbling on him. “This is supposed to be playing? Damn thing's acting feral.” 

“Because he's young.” You settled down beside your lover, adjusting your robes and such to ensure they cascaded and pooled around you attractively. “One day, he'll ask you to teach him how to fight. How to use cursed techniques.” 

Sukuna's expression almost softened. “Huh. That so?” 

“Mh.” You smoothed Kazuya's hair back as he settled in your lap, choosing peace over violence, unlike Genji. “They are yours. I've no doubt they'll have the same hunger for strife and knowledge.” 

They are yours. The words nearly made Sukuna sick; they weren't his per sè, they were a result of his relentless attempts to tie you down and make you stay with him no matter the cost. They only shared half of his genetics, they didn't rule his every thought nor own half of his heart. That all belonged to you.

But then why did he feel…trepidatious? The way he once felt too long ago when he knew nothing of the world and met too many cruel hands from the moment he opened his eyes. Maybe because these little ones were that age, able to run around and cause problems where they ought to not. Maybe because messing with the wrong person might not end with them slaughtering he who had the audacity to harm them, but with their young lives being lost. 

Ah. That must have been it–the petulance of his own kind pissed Sukuna off to no end. The thought of extensions of himself being looked down on brought about creeping waves of disgust and distaste. Humans were the ones who thought themselves godly enough to kill Sukuna. Humans were the ones who thought themselves mighty enough to enslave and breed a divine beast. The little ones were destined to share humanity's ire, and it pissed him off. It really pissed him off.

“Yeah,” Sukuna decided, shaking his arm to test Genji's ability to cling onto him. “I'll show ‘em a thing or two. Can't have humans beating the shit outta some godlings just for fun.”

“Well, if one were to try, I'd kill them myself,” you cooed like it was the most romantic thing in the world. “Level their village, light the sky ablaze.” 

“Now you're speakin’ my language,” Sukuna said, grinning.