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Hi, I'm io, the owl that writes | whump enjoyer | 25+F | ENFJ | Navigation | Requests closed, suggestions and rants accepted

[icyowl]

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[icyowl]

Body (aka Kirishima gets hit with a quirk-altering bullet)

Pairing: Kirishima x reader

Request: none

Synopsis: kirishima gets hit with a bullet that makes his quirk go out of control. You help him, bakugo helps you both. 2k.

A/N: my good old angst-to-comfort trope

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

His roars bordered on the inhuman, with enough power to hurt your eardrums even from down the hall. The grueling aftermath of villainy greeted you with shades of red and black.

Kirishima — the man that threw motorcycles and carried you to bed and did interviews when no one else would and took your temperature with his lips on your forehead and never wanted anything for himself — now writhed and arched off the gurney like he was trying to push his own soul out of his body to avoid the agony gripping his system. His hardening quirk was activated so thoroughly that he scarcely resembled a person anymore. Jagged edges covered his entire body and his thrashing made the muscles creak and groan under the strain. The sharpness meant he cut holes in the bedding of the cot with each movement and stuffing and feathers were hanging in the air amongst the commotion.

“AHHHHH!” He wouldn’t stop screaming; it was endless, piercing, powerful enough to make your heart refuse to beat for a time. Around him the nurses were frenzied.

“His skin's too hard for the needles — we can’t give him any morphine!”

“His organs are hardening. If we don’t get this under control he’ll suffocate!”

“Fuck, I can’t even touch him without getting cut!”

His eyes, no doubt hard as stone and painful to move, nevertheless shifted across the room and all but put the fear of god into you. Jagged, warped, and unrecognizable. His voice, distorted from the pain and struggling, still worked hard to stay as calm as possible while he spoke.

“Get h-h-her… outta here.”

Kirishima’s eyes rolled in an unnatural direction just as a hulking shadow moved from its spot hiding inside the doorway to block your view.

“Come on.” Bakugo said. His eyes stayed low. Grime covered his body and his nose lost its signature pinch; he shared your hardships. Past six feet tall and still sporting his combat gear, it made it very easy for him to keep you from the man who pinched your cheek just hours ago.

“But-”

“Now.”

Bakugo moved down the hallway with you, to join you or to make sure you didn’t turn around, you didn’t know. You didn't realize you hadn't taken a breath until your vision spotted and Bakugo was there to hold you up against the wall. Had you been falling?

“Inhale.” He ordered.

You all but heaved. The waterworks rushed. “Sorr-”

“Don't.” Bakugo looked down the hall, searching for something. “Can you stay on your feet while I get you some water?”

Whether or not it was true, you nodded. His domineering shadow parted to let the cold, stale hospital air turn your skin to trembling gooseflesh. You hunched, your hands coming to hold yourself together. The horrific twisting in the flesh just above your pelvis had you feeling to see if your soul had spilled out onto the ground. Breathing was a gargantuan struggle and the only thing you could focus on to stay conscious. Eijiro had been hurt before, but you’d never seen his own quirk betray him.

Dry styrofoam pressed against your mouth. “Drink,” Bakugo said. He tipped it while you gulped - a distant image of you as a child came up - until the water was gone. Your inhale was a ragged, pathetic little thing. Bakugo pulled you under his chin and locked his arms tight around you. Others in the hospital paid you no mind, perhaps because this was a common occurrence or because they didn’t want to burst that imaginary aura around a hero. His hands petted your hair and rubbed your back while you fought the monster chewing at your heart to maintain some composure.

A particularly loud scream from down the hall drove a javelin through your chest.

Bakugo spoke over Kirishima’s throes of anguish: “he’s too tough to die, so you better kill those tears and be ready to help him when he gets through this.”

You nodded, wiping the water away. Thoughts of recovery welled up: how long would it take, would he ever be normal, did you need to consider another job or a loan, who could help you, what if he couldn’t be a hero - not because you liked it, but because he loved it. If he couldn’t stay at the agency with Bakugo—

Another of his wails made you jolt. Bakugo looked at you: eyes unseeing, shoulders bunched, hands trembling. His hulking mass stepped up, blocking out the ceiling light, but his arms were affectionate when they pulled you in and wrapped you tight. He even petted your hair.

“He needs you to fight right now.” He said.

You stood for an unknown time, feeding off his warmth despite the rough combat gear and hoping your tears hadn’t soaked through. It was impossible to stop them all.

Bakugo lifted his head. Whatever he saw made him stiffen.

“What do you want?” He growled.

Behind you was a tall, slender man in a pinstripe suit. He adjusted his glasses, unbothered by Bakugo’s tone, and clicked his pen off his clipboard. You recognised him, but only just. He’d been on TV before, taking interviews, but memory couldn’t tell what he’d said or who he was with. “Do you have a minute?” He asked. “Just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh yeah, we’re not busy at all.” Bakugo replied. His scowl was deeper than usual and his arms kept you to him - there was no way to properly introduce yourself or approach the man.

“I understand this is stressful, but the more you cooperate, the sooner I’ll leave.”

“Then hurry up, commissioner.”

The man raised a brow at you. “Are you sure she should be a part of this?”

Bakugo bit back with a vengeance. “Ask her yourself! I’m not his emergency contact.”

“Yes, but,” he finally faced you, “I’ll be discussing facts of their battle, how Red Riot ended up in the hospital/like this. . . are you sure you want to stay?”

Another scream from the distance. Another jolt from you. Bakugo ushered the three of you outside. The dark sky looked ready to burst, and you hugged your own arms against the wind yanking at your hair and clothes. For the first time since you could remember, the sound of distant thunder made you jump. You were content to stand there and tremble but Bakugo ushered you to a bench and helped you fall into the seat. He watched you watch some kids play on a playground nearby; not a care about the surrounding storm or nearing rain.

He had to use every bit of his strength to pry you hand open. When he did, he caressed it in his own, curling your fingers over his to start a gentle thumb war. You breathed out a quiet laugh. Kirishima had done the same no less than a week ago after a hard day at work.

“Thanks.” You whispered.

“Alright Bakugo,” the man said, clicking his pen a few times, “she’s calmer now, let’s go inside—”

“She deserved to know.” He hissed.

The commissioner settled the pen in his gaunt fingers. “If you insist.” He replied.

“We finally found the manufacture for the enhancer bullets - it was right where that weasel said it was. He didn’t warn us about the ambush, though. Kirishima and I were prepared, but there’s only so much you can do against an expert marksman.”

Bakugo took a long breath, holding his chin, eyes fixed in the dirt. Thunder growled.

“He took the bullet meant for me. The sniper was far away, and my vision was blocked, but Kirishima saw it. I was pinned, but he got free - got in the way. I keep telling him to lay off the heroics, but,” he turned to you, “when he wakes, I’ll make sure he never does anything like that again.”

“I don’t think you’ll succeed.” You said. Torn nylon scrubbed your skin when you picked up Bakugo’s hand. All your handywork had been damaged in one mission.

Dynamight burned the commissioner in the flames of his gaze when he spoke to him. “You can’t get mad at him, sir. He did what he had to. If that bullet had gotten me instead. . . I’d have leveled the city, and killed a lotta people doing it, too. Kirishima’s quirk is much more containable, being a transformation type. He knew the bullet would only affect him, and no one else would get hurt. He saved a lot of people,” he finished, then, after meeting your eyes, added, “myself included.”

—

Eijiro didn’t wake in the way you’d hoped. Consciousness came to him in a rush, full of pain. He gargled around the breathing tube shoved down his throat and he ripped his hand from yours in his struggle. He would have yanked his breathing tube out of his mouth had you not rushed to hold down his shoulders and ease his unintelligible cries.

“Easy, Red, it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay, just try and relax.” You urged despite the weight on your ribs. All at once you tried all his favorite comforts: kissing the pinch between his brows, stroking his chin with your thumbs, caressing the top of his ear. He stilled, afraid to move, but the quick exhales wouldn’t ease.

You continued to soothe when his pupils remained engorged even under the bright light. He had become hard to recognize, but not because of the juts and ridges still transforming his skin. Even hours later, they hadn’t gone away. “They said until your lungs are back to normal, you’ll have to be on a ventilator. Is the tube bothering you? I can get the nurse?”

He shook his head, a wet wheeze coming from his mouth, and he swallowed, groaned, whimpered, a broken kind of sound, and reached for your face. You cocooned his hand between two of yours and your cheek, kissing the stony skin and carefully evading any juts or ridges.

He looked at your hands holding his, at the cuts on your face and arms he knew he caused, and began to cry. His pulled his hand from yours slowly, carefully, until he could touch the cut on your cheek and neck with one of his knuckles that was normal. A whimper pulled your chest in two. He promised he’d never hurt you. The ring on your hand said as much.

“You barely broke the skin, Red, it’s okay.” You brushed his hair back and thumbed at the freckles on his nose. “You tried so hard not to hurt me, and you didn’t. You were so brave, taking that bullet. I can’t imagine how scary that was - they said your whole body was solidifying - but we’re gonna take care of you.”

He looked at his hands, then at you. Throughout his whole body he still felt the patches of toughened skin. It brought back the fear he felt when it began to harden against his will. Eijiro had felt himself turn unrecognizable.

“They’re really optimistic,” you continued, “it might take some time, but your body’s already doing so much better. Your organs are mostly back to normal and they don’t think there’ll be any permanent damage.”

Eijiro tried to swallow the tears but the breathing tube made it impossible. All he could do was choke. Beyond his hands, he could see ridges of his skin tenting the bedding. Dangerous. Disgusting.

“It was really scary there for a minute,” you said, “but Bakugo and I know how strong you are. You’ll be okay.”

He scared you. His career could be over. He’d hurt you. Who would look after Bakugo now? What if this was permanent? What if he couldn’t be with you anymore? Eijiro wiped at his eyes - after all you were doing for him, he couldn’t have you see this. He gripped at the hospital gown laying over his chest.

You fought back your own tears, watching his plight. “No, don’t be sorry. You don’t have to be strong, right now. I’ve got us.”

Eijiro gargled again, reaching for the breathing tube before stopping, and the EKG quickened, voicing his struggle. You pressed the remote on his morphine drip, shushing him until the heart monitor quieted and his body stilled. He looked at you, half-open eyes held by teary lids. You reached for his hand but he pulled back just as you were about to touch. He lolled his head side to side, pulling his arms under the sheets as best he could.

“I promise I’ll be careful. I just wanna touch you, okay? I thought I was gonna lose you.”

Again he denied.

“Please.”

Kirishima looked at the space between your hands for the long time. The buzz of the overhead light, the pungent stench of rubbing alcohol, the taste of regret stinging his throat, it all muddied in the wave of drugs settling in his blood. All he could gather was that you needed him, and who was he to deny you? He eased his hand back out and inched it across the bedding so it was in your reach. You took it and began to litter every soft spot with kisses. You didn’t stop until his eyes crinkled at the edges.

The scuff of heavy boots came from the door. Bakugo stood, fixing his gauntlet in place.

“Get better soon, alright? We gotta get after whoever manufactured those bullets before anyone else has to experience this. The wrong person gets hit with one of those and they‘ll destroy a city.”

He nodded even as the sedatives consumed him until he could no longer stay awake.

[icyowl]

Love and Deepspace

Caleb

Rafayel

Sylus

you discover dragon!sylus

Zayne

[icyowl]

Hey anyone have any suggestions for fics or blogs that write about geto as a good guy? Like, a sorcerer who never went dark side rather than a curse user? I don’t even know what to type in the search bar - I’m sure there’s a tag for it like “goodguygeto” or “sorcerer!geto” but I can’t find it. if anyone has suggestions send them my way. Who he was before he became a curse user is like perfect boyfriend material (for me). Thank you!

[icyowl]

You discover Dragon!Sylus

Pairing: Dragon!Sylus x reader

Request: none

A/N: not proofread. LADS is my current obsession, however I don't have the game so forgive me if it's not lore-accurate. Thank you for being so patient with me :). 2k.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

He always knew you’d be his undoing, he just didn’t think it would be so literal. Perhaps it was one too many resonances, or maybe the depth of your bond had reached some sort of fever pitch.

It began with a headache. Nothing noticeable - given his line of work, headaches were too common - but devolved into a skull-wrenching migraine. Candlelight was too bright, the needle of the recordplayer was too loud, the continuous air conditioning couldn’t keep him cool, even the scratch of the softest silk dress shirt nagged at his irritability.

No hospital would see him, and no doctor could help him given his physiology. The only thing to do was wait it out in the dark cave of his bedroom and hope it didn’t kill him.

It looked like it well might.

The phone on his nightstand screamed, but he used one hand to keep his head from splitting open and used the other to reach for it anyways. He’d permitted only your calls - you soothed the gouge behind his eyes and eased the booms in his chest. Sylus was soothing you before you had a chance to speak.

“I’m alright,” he grimaced at the pain in his throat and the gruff in his voice, “just a cold.”

“Sylus, what’s going on with you? You’ve never asked me to stay away and you sound like you’re really sick.”

“I’m fine, sweetie, i’m sorry if it’s made you upset.”

You paused, gathering strength, then whispered, “did I do something wrong?”

“No. Fuck,” he flexed his jaw through a groan when his head throbbed, “never.”

The ache in his chest ignited, expanding and pressing against his ribs and biting into his sternum. Was the great leader really going to be done in by a heartattack?

“Sylus?!” You called. His voice had turned into something unrecognizable.

The truth was worse. His eyes were open but his vision was little more than vague swaths of browns, blacks, and reds. Fire singed his nerves until it was all he could do to keep from shouting. A slow heartbeat plugged his ears. His fist gripped the sheets, ripping it under his nails. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“It’s too late!”

“I need to go.” He swallowed though saliva was impossible to find. “I’ll call you when it passes, promise.”

A harsh crash berated your ears just before the line cut out. Keys were in your hand, shoes in your feet, and jacket forgotten even before the screen timed out.

—

Sylus’s estate loomed dark and massive even against the pitch of night. Whistling wind, thunder, and rain broke up the perfect quiet. Shivers broke out across your skin. Still, you paused. The burgundy front door was wide open, tilting back and forth amidst the occasional gust. Nothing else dared make itself known.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Luke:

GET OUT OF THERE NOW

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t. Worry strangled the survival instinct clawing around under your skin, allowing you the courage to ease the door wider. Sylus’s entryway looked mostly normal, with only the rug slightly off kilter and the lights out, save for the wood panel near the door sheered off its hinges, exposing the house’s raw flesh underneath. Wires were tangled, mangled, or missing. The few that remained crackled and arced.

Someone had destroyed the electrical box.

You crept farther into the lair. With each room, the carnage got worse. Furniture lay overturned, paintings were thrown on the floor, broken glass from vases, windows, and tables forced you to zigzag, even a marble statue the size of you had been thrown through a wall.

You braced yourself on the wall only to hiss and jerk back when a splinter dug into your palm.

A crack of lightning jerked your head up. Though fleeting, the new light let you grasp the details of your surroundings.

Blood.

Smearing the rich wood floor, spattering the walls and ceilings, dripping off a chair’s broken arm. Blood everywhere.

You swallowed the cry of his name. Speaking would only alert your presence to the enemy, perhaps distract Sylus, and kill the element of surprise you still had. The intruders hadn’t seen you yet, and the lack of bodies meant Sylus was still fighting them. He could take care of himself.

Another bright flash glinted off the wall of guns adjecent to you. Who would break in and leave the weapons alone?

Avoiding more glass, you hustled to the last remaining room: Sylus’s bedroom. Blood continued, as did damage to the walls. Something sinister skittered up your neck when the cuts in the wall arced in a ragged quintet. . . claw marks.

The thing in here with Sylus wasn’t a person, but a monster.

You ran to him room, restraint evaporating, throwing yourself through the doorway and crying his name. . .

“Stay back!” Someone yelled, freezing you. A moment later your mind caught up and whispered to you where a double-toned voice had roared. That was Sylus.

The bed was mostly intact, though the sheets laid on the floor in a shredded heap and the gossamer canopy had been ripped off the ceiling. Your heart wilted in your chest - he’d never yelled at you like that. A shift in the shadows on the far side of the bed drew your attention.

“Sorry, my love.” Sylus tried again, this time more normal. It still sounded like a ghost lived in his throat, but now it resembled your Sylus. “I don’t mean to scare you but. . . I need you to listen to me.”

“O-okay. I will, but. . . I want to help you. The wanderer-”

“There is no wanderer.”

“Then-”

“Yes. Everything you saw was me.”

Silence impregnated the space between you and the shadow on the other side of the bed. What could you say? What should you do? Sweat shimmered on your upper lip in the flash of a lightning strike and the canon shot of thunder made you flinch.

“It’s okay that you’re scared-”

“I’m not-”

“I can hear your heart, smell your cortisol-”

“What?” That was not one of Sylus’s abilities.

You could hear the heavy breath befor every sentence, “I know what’s happening - I’ll be fine. Go. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“No!” You exclaimed. How could he send you away?

“No?”

“I know you’re hurt.” you said, spotting more red on the ceiling. Altogether, he’d bled enough for several men. “I want to help, if I can.”

“I don’t want you to fear me.” Then, he let out a bitter, half-broken moan. It turned your heart to thorns.

“I don’t. I love you.” You said, taking a step into the room.

Unbeknownst to you, the man zeroed in on the soundless tap of your foot on the floor. His eyes glowed. You were right there, close enough to get - to hunt - to catch - to take - Sylus held a clawed hand to his face. Her voice - focus on her voice. Hear how worried she is for you. “I do too, but. . . just. . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You think you might?”

“I don’t want to, but. . . I’m not certain I can help it right now.”

“Let’s just take a breath. We’ll work this out together.”

“I don’t know.”

“I know you’d do it for me-”

“I would.” He replied without a breath. Sylus imagined you transforming as he was: scared, pained, ashamed, but still oh so beautiful, adorned in the flesh of his species. Fuck, you had him there. He’d have a difficult time containing himself if he knew you were hiding something like this from him.

“So. . .” you pressed, “what can I do.”

“Just. . . I need a moment to think.” Sylus had you right there, willing to help him amongst a bloodbath and house full of carnage. . . he couldn’t survive if he messed up such a precarious moment.

Something beastial knocked against his cage. Damn, not now. Pain skyrocketed. The inside of his eyelids turned white. If he knew the snarl he let out, he’d hate himself for it, but he didn’t bother to hear anything through the ripple of scales under his tearing flesh. Tearing, bursting, surging, the match lit behind his eyes finally caught and exploded. He felt the bone erupting from his skull, brought a hand up to shield himself from your gaze, and shouted to try and stop you but it was too late.

The massive stony tail curled on the floor between you was the first thing you saw. His entire lower body had erupted in black plates and armor, pulsing with glowing fissures of red. Feet and hands were thick, clawed, and razor sharp, like a wanderer’s. His pale chest, neck, and chin was interrupted by jagged bolts of red that all led to a swirling ruby imbedded in his chest that seemed to breathe with him. Stone even framed his face. Spearing up from atop his head were the cause of his scream: a crown of two lethal, rocky antlers. Blood stained his hair and ran down his face from the fresh wounds.

People had always called Sylus a monster.

You’d just met his eyes when he slammed them shut and cried out - roared - again. The sound more than his appearance was what pushed you back, but not far enough to miss the grotesque push of his antlers further out of his skull. The transformation must have nicked an artery, because more blood dripped from his forehead and a small spray burst out, covering your shirt. He let out a final, quiet snarl as his pain settled, showing off four large canines that turned silver in the flashing light outside.

You both stared at the blood covering each other for a long time. Sylus held a clawed hand up to his face and used the other one to shuffle away from you.

“I was never supposed to let you see this. Forgive me.”

A reply was impossible, but, being the kind heart that was still so obvious, he took your silence as disgust. A new kind of discomfort showed on the part of his face you could still see.

“There’s keys on the kitchen counter. Take whatever you want. I won’t contact you again. It’ll be like I was never there-“

“Sylus,” you whispered, moving to sit on the ground. It stopped him dead. “It’s. . . okay. Who cares what you look like. I just. . . I’m worried. You’re clearly in a lot of pain and can’t seem to stop-“

Now it was your turn to gasp. You’d closed your fist, pulling at the cut and causing your own rush of blood down your arm. Sylus gave no warning that he’d been affected by the sight of your blood, but in a single second you’d been pounced on, taken down until your back pressed into the wood floor and Sylus was over you: leg between yours, tail hugging your ankle, one clawed hand pining your good wrist to the ground while the other held your wounded palm up for intense scrutiny. Sylus’s eyes didn’t look different, but you knew he wasn’t there when he brushed his nose up the major artery on your wrist, then licked the blood rushing to greet his warm lips.

The taste of your blood engorged his pupils, but you only caught sight of it for a moment before he slammed them shut and yanked your hand down to the floor.

He’d always been good with words, but now they were a desperate rush. “My deepest apology. I didn’t mean to. I saw you were hurt and I-“

“Sylus. Breathe.” You tried. He followed your command, and a little sanity returned to him. Your blood wasn’t the only thing he could hear anymore, and it finally seemed like the transformation had subsided. Pain faded to soreness.

Even with the weight and danger of his claws, he relented when you moved your good hand from the ground to wipe some blood drying on his cheek. He took a long inhale, closing his eyes and easing into your touch. Then, Sylus’s tail caressed your calf, a gentle, unconscious kiss on his part. It was warm and kind, just like the real kiss he’d given you the day before. Despite being covered in rough, sharp armor, he’d yet to even scratch you, and his eyes hadn’t changed - they still watched you for any hint at a need or wish. Only his exterior had changed. “You’re beautiful.” You breathed.

Sylus gasped under his breath. The very notion was incomprehensible. You? Calling him that? Now? He rushed out another quiet apology when his tail slithered around your waist and pulled it flush against his. You didn’t retreat, however. All he could find was a genuine, if not sheepish, smile gazing up at him. Sylus didn’t dare breathe when he felt your fingers touch at the plates on his neck, and he heart all but stopped when you thumbed at his lip, asking for permission.

How could he say no?

“You’re certain?” He asked. You nodded. So, he eased back his lips to let you touch the fangs there, slick and waiting. Sylus, try as he might, couldn’t stop the quaky shiver nor the bone-deep rumble when your fingertip stroked the steel-like enamel. Your eyes were so curious when you saw the glow of the gem in his chest. Fcking hell if he wasn’t in love before, he sure was now, if only because the innocent look in your gaze did something to the blood in his body. His evol was ready to explode. He hoped his voice sounded normal when you took your hand away and all he could say was: “do you know how fascinating you are?”

You watched him hold your wrist, careful to keep his claws off your skin, and kiss you there. “I don’t know about fascinating. . . but. . . when you can, can I get a bandaid?”

[icyowl]

listen, look, that Leander fic has me - be still my trauma loving heart!! It was so well written and I was yelling like I was at a baseball game going “yEAHHH” and “NOOOOO” when there was that cliffhanger rejection. Great job!

Thank you!!!

Unfortunately my motivation to write lately has been -296745, but messages like this make me realize my writing brings joy to others 🥰🥰 You've given me motivation to write again, so I'm working on part 2 right now! Don't know when it'll be out, but my gratitude to you is immense.

you've brought happiness to someone going through a lot right now.

-io

[icyowl]

i am a new fan of love and deepspace and just watched the new 'tomorrow's catch-22' and i have QUESTIONS and THEORIES

spoilers below!

why do praedators wear the leather and chains and straps but little else? why the tattoos? everytime one of the LIs 'transforms' or enters a frenzy, they immediately change into their catwoman outfits. like, when caleb transformed from his counsilman outfit when he pulled mc into the closet during the party, that kind of threw me. was that under his outfit all along? do they change clothes because it feels better to them? the most logical explanation is that infold just wanted a visual cue that the LIs are now transformed/different (and to give you more time to look at the outfits) but my in-universe theory is that:

the disease/virus raises their body temp so they feel better wearing less clothing

their sense of touch is also turned up to 11, so anything besides smooth leather is itchy or uncomfortable. that would explain the... ahem, affect we have on them when we touch them

i think the copious chains and straps could either be because they're poor heat conductors and again keep the praedators cool, or the praedators that want to be chained/contained wear them to make it easier for others to restrain them and the praedators that don't wanna be caught wear them just for intimidation.

when sylus said "i'd rather not give my roommate a front row seat to my nightly horror show", does he mean he goes into a frenzy EVERY NIGHT?!

you mean to tell me xavier was kept down by some duct tape? i feel like he'd tear right through that

how come none of them use their evol when they're tied up and seemingly trying to escape? could it be the frenzy robs them of their mental faculties enough that they forget they can use it?

WHERE DID ZAYNE HAVE HIS ACTIVATOR? i really thought mc put her knee to his stomach/navel area but others think otherwise???

it didn't really seem to me that zayne returned to normal or normal-ish after mc pressed the activator. he was talking about becoming her pet or her never leaving him or something like that? it didn't seem to me like he got even some of his mental faculties back. could someone help me understand?

i'm sure i'll have more tomorrow but i just love talking about the lore in general and especially around the new content!

[icyowl]

What should I name my new cats?

Oz and Watson

Oz and Crow

Chance and Shadow

Voting ended onJan 21, 2025

This is them! Oz/Chance would be the grey and white one on the right, Crow/Watson/Shadow would be the grey one on the left. I’ve also thought about Rocky and Apollo, Duke and Mickey, and Ranger and Tonto. I’ve also thought about Benny and Jet, too. Do I go with what I think fits each individual cat or give them something that goes together because they’re brothers? They’ve been nameless way too long so I need help!

[icyowl]

help me I've discovered love and deepspace (i'm sorry) and I don't have the game but want to know the (copious, in-depth, and extensive) lore that apparently confuses its own players sometimes. Any advice on where/how to learn the lore so I can write them for y'all?

I fear Zayne already has me tight in his clutches. This illness is here to stay.

[icyowl]

Save Me

Pairing: Vampire Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Synopsis: You discover Megumi's true nature in the worst way: when he nearly devours you in a frenzy. Gojo saves your life, but Megumi is held captive under the school, starving, unable to consume any blood. Can you save him? Will you try after what he's done?

A/N: I promise i'm not dead! Sadly I keep running out of steam before I finish any WIPs, but I powered through for you on this one! Been wanting to do vampire megumi foreverrrrrrr

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The hot blood pouring from your shoulder had been reduced to an afterthought now that the vampire who nearly tore your neck open was barreling after you. There was only one thing you could do:

Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

Out the bedroom, through the hallway, down the stairs — you passed through most of the building without really taking it in. All that existed were the dank/steaming/slobbering/moist snarls behind you and the burning in your lungs. Air couldn't come fast enough.

His weapons — a pair of bloody inch-long canines and countless claws — were one bad step from having their way with you.

A flash of guilt had your steps slowing for a fraction of a second. You could maybe reason with him or somehow pull him out of it, so, against better judgement, you turned-

“Megu-”

The crazed animal that took his place slammed head-first into the wall next to you, missing your carotid by one flinch of your quivering muscles. Splintered wood sprayed everywhere. If your survival instinct hadn't kicked in when it did, you'd be right in his war path, and likely ripped open (again). Face still partially embedded in the wall, mouth gorging on wood fractures, one of his pulsating eyes fixed you in its wild gaze.

Red hot, with a slitted pupil constricted to a razor sharp sliver.

It wasn't simply inhuman; it was the farthest thing from human. Curses didn't compare to whatever was in those now-ruby eyes.

You gave yourself splinters trying to yank yourself out of his reach. Maybe you could have reasoned with him, maybe you should have, but you didn't trust him not to kill you if you tried. What about the movies where the monster's love interest could subdue his deadly instincts? Yeah, this wasn't a movie. Fuck that.

Every slip of your feet on the hardwood flooring sent a bolt of fear through each nerve in your body. Where could you go? Did you stay away from people and keep them safe, or try to find help? Could you manage that while keeping yourself alive? Air stung your lungs with every brash inhale and your legs began to fatigue. How much longer could you keep this up?

You exploded out of the dorm into the muggy summer air. In time, he would catch you, end you, devour you. Bad idea or not, you needed help.

A bear trap full of claws closed around your side. You screamed as they tore through your clothes and into your skin. In a fit of sheer willpower and for the second time that day, you deliberately pulled your skin from him, the ripping and tearing only worsening. It sucked, but you didn't have a choice. Could you try and lose him in the forest? Lock him in a building? Lure-

You were too busy keeping an eye on the gnashing teeth and snarling yowls of your boyfriend to stop yourself from running head-long into someone. After recovering from the initial shock of hitting the ground hard and heavy, you looked up to a moment of great stillness.

Gojo stood, one hand in his pocket, and the other outstretched to Megumi. What had once been your violent animal now floated helplessly in the air, his lashing talons catching nothing but the humid breeze. He growled deep in his chest, trying with everything he had to break the invisible chains keeping him suspended and kill you, and yet Gojo simply smirked, humored by it all.

“Megumi,” he chided, “I told you something like this would happen.”

It was almost laughable — almost — now that you were safe, alone, staring down your ordinary visage in the bathroom mirror. Three days until you could get a full night's sleep, five days until every sound didn't send your heart into overdrive, and now, one week removed from the incident, you could nearly believe it never happened. Apart from the bandages. Megumi had done a number on you and likely would have feasted on you had Gojo not happened to be in the way. His moans were pained, and when his words turned to garbled growls. . . all this time, he was so different from you, and all this time, you hardly suspected a thing. How could you not see something so important? How could he have deceived you so completely? Would he have ever told you? Was he fine with hiding so much of himself from you?

Your shoulders dipped down and forward. Megumi’s backpack was still at the foot of your bed. His cologne was on your pillow. You smelled it last night before you dreamed of him — a ballad of warmth and peace. Every time you looked at your phone screen you saw a glimmer of his grin from that trip to the carnival however long ago. Dark bruising curtesy of a healing hickey on your throat snickered at you from the mirror; he had been so gentle then.

You would have gone to him already, had Gojo not turned you away at the basement door. It probably wasn’t a good idea to go down there before you’d healed — what if you made it worse? If Megumi lost control from some kissing, what would he do when he saw the bandages or smelled the stitches digging into your skin? But it didn’t feel right to know he was locked up just a ways away while you hid like a child in your room.

Your phone’s buzzing nearly sent you through the ceiling.

Principal Yaga.

“Hello?” You asked warily. Was a week really all he’d give you before he sent you back to class? Your wounds could hardly be considered healed.

“Fushiguro needs your help. Come to the sealing chambers if you can. We're out of options.” His tone was grim (when wasn’t it?). All at once your heart galloped like you were back in the courtyard running for your life. You didn’t see your reflection in the mirror. The lack of color, slack jaw, none of it. All you saw was an image of the man who read to you at night now locked away in a dark room, bound and gagged, a starved circus animal.

At the first door of the sealing chambers it wasn’t Yaga who met you but Gojo. Even with the blindfold, you could tell he wasn’t happy. He held the door open without a word. As soon as you entered the dark hall, tortured cursed energy pressed in on your chest. Sealing tape lined the long corridor Gojo led you through, along with every staircase and every doorway. Talismans of different origins and scripts from countless religions hung from the ceiling. You’d be fearful if Gojo’s words hadn’t kept you preoccupied. Megumi had been unable to keep down any blood he’d been given since your attack, and, since he’d been starving enough by then to trigger a frenzy. . . he was in dire straights now.

“Why can’t he keep anything down?” You asked.

“It’s called taste aversion. You get food poisoning from a restaurant, you never want to go to the same company or get the same kind of food again. His goes beyond that, though. The mind is an incredibly powerful thing – the shame, self-loathing, guilt – his psychological barriers are just as real as any physical ones. Without consuming any nutrients… he’s dying.”

As soon as you walked through the next door to a long, narrow walkway with cells on one side, the shouting and thumping reached your ears.

“No! Don’t bring her in!” Megumi said from down the hall. He could smell your cozy allure, the infernal whispers beckoning the frothing beast under his skin to break through. His teeth ached.

Your stomach squeezed when you saw him; shackles held his wrists on the end of chains bolted to the ceiling. He was on his knees, covered in grime, and wearing the same clothes you’d last seen him in. Stains and a few empty bloodbags dirtied the floor.

As soon as he saw you, he shoved his head in his shoulder to the point of cricking it and slammed shut his bloodstained eyes.

“Get out!” He screamed.

You looked at Gojo who was already studying you. His message was clear: do what you think is right. No judgement. If you ran away yelling, he wouldn’t hold it against you. This was merely something he was willing to try, if you were too. You looked back at Megumi. Dried blood caked his wrists where the cuffs had dug in. His skin touching the metal puffed out smoke where the skin underneath burned. They must have chained him with silver. His skin was pale and gaunt, a sure sign of a starving man. Bits of his hair lay around his knees where it had fallen out. Around him, the walls were etched with staines, fingernail scratches, and symbols of faith.

You knelt across from him. The hard floor pushed at your knees. All you could think to do was roll up your sleeve and hold it out to him. “I’m letting you take my blood, so no more of this aversion stuff. I’m telling you it’s okay, so you can’t reject it.”

Something guttural made you flinch back. He kept his eyes shut even when he turned to say: “I’m never touching you again. I don’t want you here, understand?”

You sighed. Water flooded your mouth and eyes. “You have to eat, Megumi, or you’ll die.”

“Then let me.” He bit back.

You looked to the teacher for answers. Gojo held you in his eyes for a long moment before nodding and bringing up two fingers. Using infinity, he forced the cuffs open. Megumi’s ruby eyes shot open, looking at his hands, sharpened nails still present, to you, and to Gojo.

Megumi only had time to hiss before Gojo was behind him, wrapping an arm around Megumi’s neck and wedging his student’s chin in the crook of his elbow. Gojo’s other hand spread out on the back of Megumi’s head, forcing it forward and putting him in a suffocating headlock. Megumi lurched and growled but couldn’t budge Gojo’s insurmountable strength. He turned frantic when you approached and his noises turned to snarls, hating showing this side of you but hoping he’d reach that primal flight reflex inside you and get you to fear him, to run and leave him in his misery.

“Don’t do this.” Megumi warbled out. His voice was whimpering and tortured. It broke off with a foreign growl. His instincts tried to make him submit. Your heart pulled itself from your ribcage when his eyes watered and his canines descended against his will. Every part of his body was trying to reach for your supple skin, close the gap, find that sweet release, but his mind was fighting valiantly to resist the pull. In the middle of the war was his heart, damaged and vulnerable and begging for salvation.

“It’s okay.” You tried. You pressed your arm against his lips. Still, he wouldn’t budge. You pressed harder, until his teeth were smashed to your skin, yet he wouldn’t bite.

Gojo tightened his hold until Megumi involuntarily gasped for air, giving you a chance to dive your arm into his open mouth and impale it on his fangs. It fucking hurt, sure, you yelled and flinched in spite of yourself, no doubt making it worse for Megumi, but you were far more focused on him. Megumi clawed at Gojo’s arm, trying to pull away, but soon the sensation of your blood flowing down his throat hit his nervous system and he stilled, eyes glazing over and a tear escaping down his cheek. Audible swallows interrupted the sudden quiet and you let out a heavy breath. As scary as he might have looked, glowing eyes and snarling face and intermittent growls, the relief you felt at hearing those quiet gulps washed over you from head to toe.

His claws turned from trying to push himself out of Gojo’s hold to pulling you closer. Megumi’s grip became untamed, readjusting and tightening, not caring how he tore open your skin. Hot tears fell from your eyes. You weren’t sure how long you could keep from wailing. “How much does he need?”

“Depends.”

Sweat was breaking out over your face. “What?”

“If you can hang in until he recovers himself, he might see he can control it. That should cure the avoidance, but it won’t be fun, and it might not even work. It’s up to you.”

Your neurons turned to sludge, so all you did was nod. Against your will, your sense of balance was leaving you. To comfort Megumi, and anchor yourself, your other hand rested on his head, petting the thick, unruly strands.

“It’s okay. Even when I saw what you were. . . I trusted you. That’s why you bit me before; because I believed you wouldn’t kill me. I’m sorry I wasn’t someone you thought you could trust. I. . . I’ll be better, from now on.”

Again Megumi’s struggling changed. His eyes, previously wide open yet unseeing, slammed shut, his face pinching in a struggle. Moans of pleasure became grunts of effort. Your forehead fell against his. From here, you could smell your blood and his shampoo in the small space between you. “It’s okay, don’t fight it. I want to help you. I want this.”

Though he writhed against Gojo’s abominable strength like a predator in a bear trap, you were growing statuesque. Cold crept up your arm. Blood turned frigid in your veins. Shadows settled in your ears and eyes until the world seemed very far away. All you felt were the fine serrations on his canines as Megumi’s movements wove them deeper into your sinew. His growls took on a melodic quality, a primal war chant from a bygone era. It was a deep rumble you imagined sounded just like the thrum of the earth. This was easy. Peaceful, even.

A herculean pull yanked your arm off his canines with a squelching pop and spray of blood. Megumi’s effort made you tumble onto your back. Blood poured from the wounds on your arm. When he could finally get his eyes to focus, you were unconscious and unmoving.

Some sort of hissing moan escaped him. The fresh blood in his belly threatened to come up. “No. . . no.” He groaned around his fangs. His words were unintelligible. Gojo could sense his cursed energy - the guilt within - and let him go. Megumi crept to you, and stopped with his hand just above your arm. He strained over the sound of his tears to barely catch the whoosh of your breaths. Alive. Still alive.

Something gripped his muscles - not hunger or thirst, but a different kind of insatiable desire. A feeling to have you, not as food, but as. . . something necessary all the same. He had to draw you to him or risk some kind of death; he could feel it in his bones. At the edge of your consciousness, your latched into his grimy shirt, right where the lurch in his stomach had begun to calm. Megumi worried about his claws on your skin - he’d hurt you so many times with them already - but nevertheless couldn’t let go.

“That’s pretty cute, like a dog growling over its bowl.” Gojo remarked, smirking at the glare his student was giving him. Megumi didn’t even notice the hisses leaving him or the baring of his sharp fangs. “Tell me, do you feel sick?”

Fire or love tinged his vision an opaque red. His teacher, the prison, even you were reduced to a slurry of wavering shapes and twisted movement. The blood had begun to settle in his stomach, and with it came the grip of shame. Fck, what had he done? He was such a monster he couldn’t even see that carnage he left behind, but he smelled the blood mixing with the dirt on the ground under you, could feel it coagulating between his fingers and cooling under his nails, heard the weak rasp of your lungs fighting for every inhale. He had ruined you.

Something gnawed at his stomach. His hand rushed to his mouth. The blood roiled in his belly and began digging its way up his esophagus. How could he have done this to you?

Still blind, he felt your chest tense, heard your hand push through the air, but nevertheless flinched when your wobbling fingers brushed at the blood and tears drying on his cheek. Your thumb pushed away his upper lip to caress the flat of his fangs. “Please,” you whispered, “don’t stop me from helping you. Don’t keep me from loving you. It’s what I want more than anything.”

And more than his desire to protect you was his need to fulfill you.

Megumi swallowed the tears and the blood at the back of his throat. If this was what you wanted, then he had to try. If he was good for anything, let it be this. He pressed his forehead to yours, staining your face and filling your nose with the stench of dirt and blood. Who knew love was so vile.

“Not that this isn’t cute, in a teen angst sorta way,” Gojo chimed, “but she needs a transfusion. You need to let go.”

Megumi’s eyes cleared. The first thing he saw was your gaze, glassy and sluggish, but unwavering from his own. He smelled the oxytocin wafting from you.

“No,” he shook his head while his fingers kissed your face, “she only needs me.” His hand dove into his mouth and with a silent snarl he burrowed his fangs deep in his wrist. You tried to stop him, but weren’t fast enough. The sound of it should have made you flinch, but the gleam of his scarlet eyes and the slitted pupils had you fascinated. He pulled his mouth away with a wet schlop and held it against your lips.

You pulled your lips around the wound and began to suck. To be fair, you didn’t expect to feel different right away, but as soon as you swallowed, a warmth spread out from your core - knitting the cuts, curing the bruises, and healing the puncture wounds. The pounding in your head, the adrenaline dumped in your veins, it all dissipated in the gentle heat of a morning sun. After a couple of gulps Megumi’s own bite mark had closed, leaving nothing but a pleasant aftertaste under your tongue. Even his own blood didn’t want to harm you by tasting bad.

Megumi’s head lurched towards the door, seeing past Gojo, hearing something far away.

“Who’s coming?” Gojo asked.

“Yaga. Nanami and Ieiri, too. They’re not happy.”

A rush of hurried steps followed some time after. Yaga was sweaty and livid.

“Gojo,” he roared, “she was meant to comfort him, not feed him!”

Gojo rose to stand in front of him. “I wasn’t gonna let anything bad happen.”

“This,” he threw a hand at the two of you, “doesn’t count as bad?! You’ve endangered your own students!”

Gojo was having none of that. His playful tone evaporated. “If I thought for a second he might kill her, I’d have stopped him instantly.”

The bickering continued in your peripheral. All you concerned yourself with was brushing the dirt off his face while he watched, listening to the ever-stronger beats of your steady heart.

[icyowl]

Gang Orca and Fear of the Ocean

Pairing: Kugo "Gang Orca" Sakamata x reader

Request: none

Synopsis: What better way to overcome Thalasaphobia than in the arms of an orca? 2.6k

Part of the Fear Series

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

“We can stop anytime you want. I won't be mad or disappointed.” Kugo's deep timbre broke apart the sound of the waves sliding over the sand and your feet. The ebb and flow of the water was too fast, too unpredictable for your liking, but your rationale tried to bring comfort: the sky is clear, and the water is calm, these little waves aren't even anything to be worried about compared to a storm.

“I'm good, just. . .” don't let me drown, please, was what you wanted to finish with, but guilt kept you quiet. He'd picked out a private part of the shoreline so no one was there to embarrass you, held your hand patiently while you eased into the water, and soothed every one of your worries with a patient calmness. “You won't let go, right?”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

You edged in a few more feet. The water was cold where it kissed at your shins.

“Thank you for doing this with me.”

“The ocean is very important to me -- I want to show you how enjoyable it can be, even if you won't ever like it like I do.”

Guilt clawed deeply into your chest. How did Kugo see his future in you when you couldn't share in his most quintessential aspect? This was worse than opposites attracting, this was an incompatibility you weren't sure the two of you could overcome. Would he have to sacrifice his joy, his pastimes, and his comfort, for your own? You hoped not (its why you were here, now), but the obstacle seemed possibly insurmountable. And yet you wanted to wade through the crushing fear to be with him. That had to account for something.

Sensing how your mind turned against you and attempted to drown you in its own way, Kugo broke your absent thoughts with a careful brush of his thumb over your knuckles. “Do you want to stop for today? This is already a lot of progress.”

"No." You rushed, then, "god, this is embarrassing."

"How?"

"You're having to hush me like a child! Little kids jump in, toddlers swim, and I'm here, shaking, wasting your time and--"

"How is this wasting my time?"

"I shouldn't be scared of water, Kugo! You should be swimming or fishing or relaxing. Anything other than taking an adult to a swim class."

"But I'm spending time with you."

He said it so simply. To him, spending time with you made it worth it, no matter what it was you were doing. The endless patience and care finally broke through your shame enough to focus on the kind gaze in his ruby eyes. Right. You were overcoming a silly fear. He was there to do it with you and make you feel safe (which he did). This could be fun.

You shuffled farther, digging deep treads into the sand and feeling it ooze around your ankles. This was the fastest you'd moved and Kugo worried you'd get ahead of yourself. “Don't push yourself. If you go until you panic, you'll fear it more next time.”

With his advanced senses, Kugo could hear your heart skitter and throb. He felt like he was at fault - this all came from a desire to be with him. As scared as you were, as much as it gripped you irrationally, your affection for him was equal. It made his own heart speed.

"I told you. I wanna tread water."

"It doesn't have to be today, sweetheart."

"I want it to."

You gasped loudly when the water raised to your chest. Now the buoyancy was lifting your feet from the seafloor and the cold gripped your lungs in a chilly grasp, making it hard to breathe. That part deep in your brain that had been moaning now began to scream. It would have bubbled out of your throat if Kugo hadn't put his hands securely around your torso and lifted you out and up to his chest.

"Breathe, little one." He whispered. You shivered, from the cold air kissing your wet skin or from his warm breath on your tight throat, you didn't know and didn't have the mental faculties to care. He was so tall and strong that he'd simply plucked you from the waves and brought you level to his eyes with strong arms linked under you, letting your legs pinch snugly around his hips. Now the water barely touched your waist, loosening the suffocating hold of fear in your chest and allowing you to focus on the heat of Kugo's body.

You inhaled as requested. It cleared your mind enough to realize your nails were digging into his back; if he didn't have a shirt on, you'd probably have broken skin. You relaxed your fingers with a rushed apology.

"Don't be." He replied. "I quite like it when you do that."

Very few people had desired him physically. To feel you latch on, to know you relied on him for security. . . his chest began to hurt.

You took the time to breathe through the remaining panic. Kugo's private beach was nestled in a cove, meaning, on a windless day like today, there were barely any waves to speak of. No rip currents or rogue waves. Just you and him, under the crisp brightness of the sun and the far-off warbles of gulls. Water gurgled in the little space between you two, rising up your belly and back down, small and harmless. Your forehead rested against his chest while you watched the sunlight turn parts of the water white as it danced up and down and back again. There was almost a gentle ebb to it, a sort of heartbeat.

Kugo felt your muscles slacken against him. Little did you know that, in your trance, you'd relaxed considerably. If he'd let go now, you'd fall into the water.

He finally spoke up after basking in your trust for some time. "You could just do this much for the rest of our lives and I'd be very happy."

"I wanna keep going."

Slowly, smoothly, he backed farther from the shoreline. When the water got to your chest again, your fierce grip returned, but Kugo fought through the sting. "Breathe when I do."

You hadn't even realized how fast and tight it'd become. Your mind struggled to prioritize the fear of dreadful possibilities in the water's unforgiving depths with the desire of your lover. In time, the latter won out. Sure, there could be an enormous and horrendous monster swimming up right now to swallow you both whole, with huge teeth, or maybe whipping tentacles, or perhaps a poisonous stinger or dozens of eyes, but you were confident that your lover wouldn't let any harm come to you. So you breathed. For minutes or years you matched his slow inhales and strong exhales. You felt their warmth as they wrapped around your neck and chest. You brought a finger up to touch the breaks in black and white on his skin, traced them as an artist would, full of reverence and care. You enjoyed how his chest pushed you back with every expansion and let you closer with every contraction. You focused on him more than anything else. Before you knew it, the water was at your chin, and you had to look up from his sublime midsection to avoid getting a face full of water.

His eyes were pale with tranquility as he looked at you, at ease in his arms. "You're treading water." He spoke quietly.

"No. I'm holding you, and you're treading water."

"I don't care for your semantics."

You merely hummed, burying into the soft skin on his shoulder and nosing against the spot that changed from a clean white to a mysterious black. Kugo felt his eyes dilating. How was he supposed to be on the lookout for danger when you did these things to him? Against his will, a gentle chuffing sound reverberated from his chest and enveloped you. A noise he only reserved for you and only in the most private of circumstances.

He let you enjoy his sounds of pleasure for a while before continuing the exercise. "Do you want to try on your own now?"

The fear swiftly returned to your eyes. "Uhhh."

"I won't let go."

You swallowed through the dryness in your mouth. A shame there was all this water around and no way to drink it. "Okay."

You tried to move your legs from their perch on his hips, you really did, but eventually, he had to help urge them off with a gentle hold around your knee. When they slipped into the water, you thought your heart would jump right out of your mouth.

Your feet now kicked freely through the cobalt-colored water, and though the cool temperature and gentle resistance of the water should have felt good, you couldn't bare to lessen the steely grip on Kugo's shoulders. It was a bad idea, you should have known, but you looked down at the clear water. So pure that you could see your toes dancing through the rays of sunlight, and the endless expanse of blue under them almost had you yelling.

Just as your legs tried to make their way back up Kugo's waist, he took one clawed finger and nudged your chin up in his direction. "Look up at me, little one."

You did as told. It felt like starting all over again with your breathing, but you refused to look from the garnet eyes carefully holding you in their grasp. If you looked long and hard enough then maybe you'd comprehend nothing other than their kindness. Maybe you'd get lost and forget about the fathomless blue reaching all around you.

He spoke again, a smile in his voice when you weren't present enough for your own words. "You're doing it."

You only nodded. If you contemplated what you were doing, you wouldn't be able to do it anymore.

Your nerves began to get the better of you - even Kugo's reassuring gaze couldn't hold you forever - and he pulled you back to him when he felt the shaking begin to worsen. His warmth and security were a welcome break. You fisted his shirt tightly enough to force all the blood from your knuckles. "Just give me a minute and I'll-"

"Let's try something else."

Something else? This was all you wanted to do, and you did it. What else was there?

He continued. "I want to do more than just push you away from me." All the while he guided your hips up until your legs were around him again, and your hands were on his shoulders, only for him to lean back. You startled at the change in balance but before you could protest his face emerged from the water.

Now he was floating leisurely on his back, you on his stomach like a makeshift kayaker. His hands covered the entire expanse of your thighs with room to spare, but he cared for little other than stroking your skin with his fingers and enjoying the feel.

Your hands settled on his chest. He was lucky he couldn't blush.

Kugo refused to open his eyes. If he did, he worried your picturesque visage - backlit by the sun's light and set against a perfect summer sky - would drive him mad. He brought you here to help you with your fear and have a private moment, not to turn into a hormonal school kid.

He could do nothing but release a steady clicking sound from the bottom of his chest when you rested your body against his. How could someone like you choose to be with something like him?

Far-off underwater whistles drew his attention, though he didn't make any show of it. Based on the noise, they were no threat to you. Simply passerbys.

You didn't know that though. After minutes of letting the sun gradually warm your back to a borderline uncomfortable level, simply feeling his heartbeat and trying to focus on taking level breaths (after all, your feet dangled over a watery nothingness and you knew it), you were drawn by the sound of something breaking the surface of the water and looked over to see a dark fin going beneath the waves.

You almost fell off Kugo's stomach with a scream, but he kept you still. "Easy, they're orcas."

"Still-"

"They won't hurt you. They know you're with me."

The gentle puff of a blowhole brought your eyes back to the newcomers. It looked like two females (you'd learned, during the lessons he'd given you over time, at least the basics).

"H. . . hi." You said for lack of anything else. It made Kugo chuckle.

One of the females breached the waves with her head, one earth-colored eye fixing you still. It wasn't because it made you fearful; it was the realization that someone was there.

These weren't fish eyes - the orca showed an inexplicable level of intelligence. Without realizing, you leaned closer. Her gaze betrayed a thinking, feeling, learning creature.

Human. She looked so very human. You were so entranced by the emotion that you didn't even notice her size. She even dwarfed Kugo and his indomitable stature, yet you only wondered what lie within her round iris.

Your moment was interrupted by another shadow breaking the surface, this one much smaller and clearly a calf that you hadn't noticed before. You could hear its high-pitched whistles as it nudged its mother. They continued to look at the two of you, the mother letting you gaze at her precious co-pilot. Kugo, completely unbothered, did little more than crack one eye to enjoy the interaction. He knew you'd be a natural; you always did have a way with cetaceans.

Another puff of air and mother and baby delved beneath the water together. You watched three dorsal fins rise and dip from the water as they made their way elsewhere. Only a stroke on your hip drew your attention back to the man under you. His eyes were closed, but you knew he was listening, observing, feeling.

You never would have guessed in a million years that you'd feel gratitude today, and yet here you were. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

To Kugo's surprise, it wasn't lust that gripped his body when you laid back down on him. He felt every inch of you, not a modicum of space between you two, and yet the part that captivated him the most was the thump thump thump thump of your heart. There were many things he lacked that made him different from normal people. What he knew he had, however, were tear ducts. He knew because they began to fill against his wishes. Kugo battled the emotion burning the back of his throat so he could speak and try to sound somewhat normal. The last thing he wanted was to worry you. "My pleasure."

[what-iz-life]

I confuse people. i have a happy personality and a sad soul. i'm bold but shy. i love deeply but sometimes i feel heartless. i'm healing and hurting at the same time. i'm dedicated to growth, but i self sabotage

[icyowl]

JUNGLE JUICE

Oh the curse of being in a fandom of, like, six people. I'm positively obsessed with this comic. Talk to me about it, please.

Haemin Kwon

Hansung Lee

Hyeseong Cha

You Discover His Secret

Junhyeong Lee

Suchan Jang

[icyowl]

I loved the gojo x reader sm need more writers fr🫴❤️

Thank you!! We do need more writers! And more fics...more gojo....more six eyes....just.....moarrrr

But yeah, feral gojo and the problems his six eyes must give him but no one talks about just has me climbing the walls and chewing on my couch

[icyowl]

The Eyes Tell Many Stories

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Synopsis: Six eyes wouldn't be what it is without you / Six eyes hasn't always been a blessing. The many times you helped Gojo master his eyes. 5k.

A/N: There might be some canon discrepencies, and that's okay. I have a thing for Gojo's eyes.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

FOUR

You were the one who found him missing from a clan dinner at the age of four. The adults were busy drinking ancient and expensive alcohol, but who didn't care when a four-year-old wandered off? He was at the pond, head down and back to you, watching the koi dance and shimmer in the setting sun. Thoughts of sneaking up on him or pushing him in the water disappeared when your outstretched hand was snatched in a second's fraction and his tumultuous eyes clashed with yours, declared battle, and won the war, all in under a second.

"Satoru, stop it!" You yelled, failing to pull away from the beastly eyes and steely grip betraying the strength of a mere child. His gaze shone like the sunset hitting the water behind him. Bright and untamed. The sight had you yanking your arm until there were bruises. "Let go!"

That seemed to get through to him. He released you in favor of digging his palms into his eyes, crouching down on shaky feet.

"It hurts." He bit out from behind his arms. His mouth was contorted into a painful grimace. All you knew at the time was the desire to help someone in pain. Now you know you'd been the one to awaken the six eyes with your lame attempt to sneak up behind him, and now his life would never be the same. His eyes would have eventually stirred without you, but even now, any time you saw him get lost in the euphoria of submitting to the monster behind his eyes, guilt bit at your heart.

NINE

You were the one who took a baseball bat to the back of a bounty hunter's head who had nine-year-old Satoru's throat in his hands and was shoving his pristine hair into the mud, your screams akin to a snarred animal. The wet crunch of bone was nearly as nasty as the blood the stranger puked onto Satoru's horrified face before he collapsed, wheezing and dying. Satoru's choked screams and the fear in his wide eyes kept you both up for days. The unimaginable price (at least, to nine-year-olds) on his head and all the other shit that came with being a Gojo meant games of tag were replaced with sparring and meetings and getting his eyes to activate at will.

Migraines interrupted the various funerals he had to attend until there were no more Gojos to mourn.

It was that night, after the last funeral, when you offered to stay up and watch movies or spar and got turned down for everything, that infinity kicked in for the first time. All you were trying to do was hug him from behind -- give him the chance to know someone was still there -- but when you looked down between your shirt and his and saw a gap that wouldn't close in spite of your efforts.

"Sa-"

"Just leave!" And, as if the air could follow the command, a sudden force pushed you across the room and into the wall with enough strength to split the wood at your back and make plaster fall from the ceiling. Satoru's eyes widened when he saw what he'd done and rushed to pull you from the crater. A couple of stitches in the back of your head was the price to pay for awakening the rest of his technique.

ELEVEN

You were the one who disagreed when someone said Satoru's Six Eyes were getting 'better'. The migraines became so bad at one point you were left yanking some random sunglasses from a rack when his mind betrayed him in the middle of a store. Flickering lights made the other patrons glance around warily. All you focused on was the boy trying to crush his head between his hands. The groan of pain was torturous.

Your fingers skimming his temples helped distract him some, but the hug of glasses on the bridge of his nose was downright confusing. Warily he risked a peek with one eye, and now your look of concern was a little darker, a little less painful. "Is it helping?" You whispered.

Satoru chanced a look around. The gouge of pain in his head was still there -- did it ever leave? -- but the cursed energy around the room didn't assault him nearly as much as before. "How did you come up with that?"

"It's bright in here; I read that makes things worse."

He caught sight of himself in a mirror. With a squint, he scrutinzed his reflection, turning this way and that. Count on the sight of his own face to distract him from his pain. "What kind of glasses did you pick? Am I some rock band member?"

Now your head was beginning to hurt. "They were the first I grabbed, shut up."

THIRTEEN

You were the one sitting under the massive cherry tree in the Gojo estate courtyard (one of them, anyway), enjoying the gentle breeze ruffling the leaves above you, trying to ignore the turmoil happening just a few feet away. Days had gone by this way, with a scroll delicately held between your fingers, your neck sore from looking down for so long, and the various groans and grumbles of the teenager opposite you. He swiped away some sweat on his cheek.

"Does it say anything else?"

You squinted. "I think it says to focus your cursed energy into a single point, like the tip of your finger."

"What do you mean, 'you think'?"

"It's 500 years old! The inks all faded."

Satoru glared at the tip of his pointer and middle fingers. His eyes blazed. The air warbled, rippled, and sparked, but returned to normal.

He threw his hands into his hair, swore vehemently, and trudged over to the bag by your knee, "this is stupid! We're getting food," he ground out, ripping the cap off his water bottle and jamming his glasses back on his face.

"But the principal-"

"I don't care. You coming or not?"

The shoppe was busy, but Satoru's beguiling words got you a table by the window, only big enough for two though, and you hid the giggle behind your drink as he methodically folded his spindly legs under the table.

It all seemed like an okay idea at the time; the weather was nice, the crowds weren't bad, and Satoru's jaw finally relaxed after a batch of desserts was laid out in front of you both. His insistence.

"Satoru, I'm serious. You need to try harder to activate Blue-"

"Why? So the adults can start sending me after curses? No way."

"You need to be able to protect people. . ."

He was in the midst of instigating a powdered sugar fight when the warm sunlight was abruptly blocked. Three burly high schoolers scorned you both, drinks in hand and eyes pinched when they saw you sitting comfortably.

"This is our table." One bit.

"Move," added another.

Satoru, to his credit - or his ego - leisurely peaked at them over the rim of his glasses. His fork clattered against his plate. Then, he began looking around, first on the table, then under it, then at the back of his chair. When he met their eyes again, his were alight, hidden behind dark lenses but obvious from your angle. The hair on your arms rose.

"Funny," he lied, "I don't see your names anywhere."

The third guy was too oblivious to feel the sinister twist in the air. Instead he snickered and pointed. "This one's wearing sunglasses inside. Albino freak."

You put a hand up to Satoru, attempting to keep his leash tight. This wouldn't end well if he got serious in front of civilians. "We're just trying to enjoy our day, please just leave us alone-"

"Ain't talking to you, bitch!"

You yelped at the searing scorch of coffee dumped on your chest, writhing in a vain attempt to keep your hot clothing off your skin. Satoru clocked the assault, and his eyes burned hot with rage. He stood, years younger than the goons but already taller, and finally they saw the azure inferno kindling when he removed his glasses. They cowered while the air crackled.

You felt a change in the atmosphere. Your heart convulsed. Something was wrong.

"Sator-"

"Blue."

Every window exploded. The shoppe door erupted off its hinges and flew across the street. The walls split in every directions, chunks of ceiling fell to the floor, and picture frames shattered. Patrons and the tables they occupied were tossed violently. You shrunk when glass and wood pelted your skin. A cacophony of sound almost immediately gave way to complete silence. The only thing you heard was the kid Satoru had launched across the room into the opposite wall, gargling on blood. Alive, but damaged beyond recognition.

Satoru pulled you by the hand out of the rubble and onto the street. Onlookers gasped while Satoru merely grinned at them.

"They deserved it."

"No, they didn't!"

"They were weak."

"It doesn't matter!" You continued to chase the gangly silhouette. Three of your strides for every one of his. "You're strong, crazy strong, but I don't treat you any different. Am I beneath you, too?"

"I don't know, are you?"

His sentence ended with your scream. Your hand pulled from his, and when he turned, you were sitting on the rough cobblestone, cringing at the glass shards and wood splinters poking grotesquely from your palms and arms. Blood seeped from the growing wounds. A spike of wood stood up inches from its place in your thigh. Taunting him. Harming him, too, if only mentally.

"Crap," he swore, falling in front of you, "how'd you not notice this sooner?"

"A-Adrenaline, I guess." You sniffled. "You didn-n't give me much time to realize. . ." Words grew more difficult as the pain rose to a boil. His hurried inspection - turning your arms this way and that - made you whimper and flinch. Still, you managed to meet his eyes in a heavy stare; he needed to hear this. "Any of us can be more than what we were born to be. . . made to be."

He stared back, mute, for many seconds. His eyes changed shades of blue like waves in the deep ocean. Your cursed energy had always been eye-catching, but now, in the continuous onslaught of cursed energy from a city full of people (a mix of anxious, happy, depressed, infatuated, sick), it glowed soft, warm, and affectionate. It beckoned to him, begging for attention, a drug for his eyes. Looking at you, even with his level of perception, was always easy.

The rest of world had to intrude, though. A space behind his eyes grew teeth and bit at the nerve endings there. He flinched, groaned, and pinched his temples in a useless attempt to ease the pain. It did nothing. Only the graze of your knuckles on his forehead quieted the storm in his head. He watched as you diligently smoothed the lines in his brow. Satoru couldn't really see the color of your eyes anymore - one of the many 'blessings' of his technique - but nevertheless he stared at them for an unknown time, a man lost at sea using the sun for direction.

Something in his heart gave a fierce kick.

"It'll take a while for new glasses to come in." You mentioned.

He grabbed your hands and held them in his own. Azure sparks crackled between his fingers and yours. "That's what you're worried about?" He asked.

"Don't be dramatic-hey!" You exclaimed when he suddenly fell forward, head slumped on your shoulder. He was dangerously close to falling over had your hands not rushed to keep him upright.

"Sorry, just. . ." he whispered into your collar, "little tired."

"Yeah, well," you struggled to hold your phone on his back without bothering your cuts. His bulk made seeing the screen almost impossible. "Just close your eyes. I'll get us a ride."

You were the first to see Blue. In hindsight, you wished you hadn't.

SEVENTEEN

You were the one left to pick up the pieces when Geto left; it was like Gojo's own body was defending itself. Even you didn't know the extent until you ran into the gym some weeks later to escape a sudden downpour and saw Satoru, back to you, forehead pressed to the wall and shoulders hunched in discomfort. Something was horribly wrong. That much became apparent when you walked right up behind him and he seemed completely unaware. It would be one of the only times he'd let anyone sneak up on him, but it hurt so damn much-

"Satoru?" You called quietly. He flinched and quivered, but didn't turn.

"I can't get it to turn off, I can't, I. . ." he choked out between gasps. Overhead lights flickered and arcs of blue, red, and purple light traveled around him. The air buzzed, a warning of impending danger. Like the pause right before a lightning strike.

You pushed through the chill that had broken out over your skin. "It's alright, I'm here-"

"You need to go," he rushed, "it's not-"

"I'm not leaving you," you tried to touch him only to be stopped by an invisible force, "Satoru, turn off Infinity-"

"I can't!" Lightbulbs in the ceiling burst. You could feel your hair lift with static electricity.

A foreboding weight fell over your body. Infinity pressed on you form all directions, a dominating force, threatening to throw you back at best and crush your bones at worst. "Okay! Okay, just. . . just breathe. I'm not going anywhere."

All you could see was his back. Tall, lean, towering up between you. "I should have seen it," Satoru rambled, "stopped him, I have to save the world - I can't save my friend, I'm cursed-"

"Breathe, Satoru." You said with volume. Finally, his shoulders heaved and you heard a muffled, ragged exhale. The invisible barrier between your hand and the back of his shirt shrunk. "I know you're not used to hearing it, but there's nothing you could have done, and. . . I'd never let you be cursed." Your added with a thunderstorm in your chest. Too much. You'd said too much.

The gap between your hand and his back closed entirely. Sparks of static tingled where your fingertips grazed the fabric of his shirt. He was damp with sweat.

Satoru's chilling eyes - still activated - peaked at you over his shoulder. He knew what you meant.

You pulled your hand to your chest. Eye contact was impossible. "Look, it's going slower than I thought, but I'm getting stronger. Soon I'll be able to help you more, so you won't have to do so much by yourself."

He faced you. "Don't make me laugh." He replied bitterly. Unfortunately for him, you saw right through the facade. Your other hand reached to graze over the stress line in his forehead, and his eyes fell closed involuntarily.

"When was the last time you slept?" You asked.

"Last night." He said, eyes still closed.

"More than a couple hours."

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to."

His eyes opened again. This time they were dim, calm.

"Where are your glasses?"

"Broke." Satoru had you follow his gaze to where they lay a few feet away, frame twisted beyond repair and lenses nothing but a mess of shards. You delved into your backpack and revealed a crisp roll of white wrap. He shied away when you attempted to cover his eyes with it. "What are you doing?"

"You're eyes are getting stronger. I thought something like this would happen so," you held up the roll like it was its own answer, "sealing bandages to keep your eyes from bothering you as much - see?" You proved your point when his eyes began to flicker against his will. Satoru pinched them shut, hissing. He let you bring his face down to your level, mumbling childishly while you fiddled to get the bandages under his unruly hair.

"Least I don't get tired anymore."

Yes. How could you forget Toji's attempted murder and Satoru's new 'awakening'. Just thinking of the memory burned a pit into your stomach, but you words remained casual. "Only you would learn reversed technique on the brink of death."

Satoru frowned. Your cursed energy became tainted with worry. He nestled into your shoulder, enjoying the subtle skitter of your heart in response. "Like to keep you guessing."

"It's been a while. Do you still like temple massages?" You asked, your thumb rubbing the scar on his forehead.

He sighed, putting a little more weight on you. "I won't stop you."

TWENTY

Apparently, you didn't learn your lesson the first time Satoru's technique almost killed you. Where Blue took out a building, Purple took out a whole forest. You were in the hospital for days and Satoru barely left your room to shower. His six eyes never quit assessing you, and sensed you were waking a full hour before your eyes opened. Even with all that time to prepare, he still lost his breath when your hazy gaze finally - finally - set itself on his. It felt like he was able to use both lungs again.

"S'toru?" You garbled. How was it a chore to breathe?

His hands couldn't stay away from you. Cheeks, hair, eyelids, jawline, lips, every touch feathery, nearly soothing you back to sleep. Satoru's smile was blurry, but his voice was clear. "Took you long enough."

You would have brought him closer if your arms would cooperate. "Your eyes."

"Gotta see when you're waking up. You got pretty messed up."

"No," you denied, "they're bloodshot. . . got bags." As ethereal as they were, it wasn't the activation of the six eyes itself you were concerned with. His skin was ashen. He looked. . . normal. Human.

"Barely awake two minutes and already dishing it out." He smirked. It didn't reach the rest of his sunken face. Was it possible he lost weight?

"How long. . .?"

"Have you been here? Eight days." Satoru plucked a loose strand of hair and laid it behind your ear. "You lost a lot of blood, but Shoko said nothing should be permanent. That curse user won't touch you ever again. I made sure of it."

Oh. Like he didn't have enough to do already. Satoru never had help, even in the midst of his own death after fighting Toji. Sudden thoughts of mortality, grieving, love, and the torture you experienced looking at the reserved, melancholy look in Satoru's eyes were forcing tears onto your lashes before you realized what was happening. A soggy exhale was all you could do to keep calm. Your hands struggled to lift off the bed. "C-Can I ho-old you?"

"Of course," he said, pulling your arms up until they locked behind his neck. Poor thing, your cursed energy was a mess. "You're on a lot of medication right now, just breathe." He added before he pressed a long kiss to your forehead. Then your eyelids. Then your nose.

"Don't stop." You pleaded. It wasn't enough.

His lips finally fell to yours. Again and again he delivered you from life and to a euphoric heaven.

"Never."

A steady grip on your chin forced your head up and Satoru began to lovingly reacquaint himself with your neck. There was little else you could do than clutch his shirt in your fingers until your knuckles creaked and your breath ran away. Slow kisses, gentle lavs of his tongue, and the occasional rub of his canines over your artery were an intoxicating insanity. One of your hands had to cover your mouth to prevent the whole floor from hearing you, but judging by the wet, heaving breaths Satoru was gasping into your throat, you weren't the only one losing composure.

His own hand moved to the back of your head while the other delved under your body and crushed your chest to his. The bed barely contained his height, with one foot bracing him on the floor and the other hanging off the end of the mattress. Even then his shoulders were taller than yours and broad enough to cover both sides of the bed.

Between his weight and the mattress, you thought you'd get engulfed by heat and a dazed kind of insanity quickly drowning your brain.

The pressure on your throat mounted. Satoru rushed his words like he couldn't bear to be away from your neck longer than a moment at a time. "Thought I'd never kiss this neck again, you have no idea how much I missed this."

Teeth pinched at your skin.

"S-Satoru-"

He prayed into your neck, "so damn sorry. . ."

Crackles of electricity arced between him, you, and the bed, the very air growing excited, too. First blue, then red, and finally purple. The flourescent light bars swayed and jostled in an invisible torrent and the various machines flickered until they died or were simply forced away from the bed, skidding on their wheels.

His bites became more aggressive. Before, you worried about bruising, and now you felt like blood would stream down your skin and stain sheets. The softness of his hair tickling your chin was a stark contrast to the sharp points digging into your neck.

"Satoru. . . you. . . calm down," you barely managed with the static in your head. At this point, you were beginning not to care what he did as long as it meant he didn't let go. Public safety be damned.

A knee knocked its way between your legs. You yelped, and the sound of pain helped finally knock some sense into him. The EKG screen returned to normal, albeit with a few busted pixels, and read a heartrate close to exploding.

Satoru didn't look much better, though. When he could finally separate from you, finally lay you back on the bed so he could sit up himself, his eyes were pulsating and he sluggishly wiped a smear of spit from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. When his eyes saw the mark he'd left behind, they drooped, satisfied and quelled, if temporarily.

He was still out of breath when he found some words to string together, "I got a little. . . carried away."

TWENTY-TWO

You were dying. The curses foot-long claws in your stomach told you as much. Was the cold in your body from the loss of blood or from the nighttime rain soaking you to the bone? Now you couldn't be sure.

The darkness made the blue so much brighter.

Satoru appeared out of nowhere, cerulean electricity dancing on his clothes. Later, he'd tell you he somehow felt a change in the air even from a hundred miles away, and teleported without knowing he could.

His eyes blazed unnaturally bright - even for him - when he saw the curse's claws slowly pulling out of your body. The air turned purple, lightning in the clouds overhead brightened the forest for a moment, wind tossing your hair with a wild gust.

The next second, Satoru was beside you, and the curse's neck was in his hand. His grin was strange, but his laugh scared you the most. Usually he could never stop talking, but right now you'd prefer anything over the wheezy, broken cackle he couldn't help but release.

He squeezed his fingers just to enjoy the strangled garbles from the monster. "You? You thought you could hurt her?" Satoru rambled amidst his chuckles. Then he and the curse disappeared.

Next, the curse still in hand, he reappeared a ways away, several feet in the air, and let the curse fall to the earth. Satoru teleported under it, letting its back fall into his fist where he catapulted it back up. Again he moved in an instant, above it now, and kicked it back to the ground hard enough to open up a crater and blow you back to the treeline with the shockwave. The indomitable force of cursed energy crushing you to the ground made it impossible to get us or run away.

Satoru stepped in the crater with the grace of a dancer. "You know what? Do it."

The monster screamed when he held it up by its jaw and squeezed until the bone crumpled and gushed blood all over him. He dropped it freely, allowing it the chance to run. The curse scrambled for footing, made it out of the crater, and galloped towards you before Satoru teleported next to it and stopped it with one long leg pinning it down.

He kicked the thing several yards until it stilled a few feet away from you, gasping and writhing.

Satoru stalked towards you both. Each long stride was slow, meandering, barely disturbing the wet grass beneath his shoes. His head was down, and his hair covered his eyes. All you heard was a dark tone come from the shadow. "Try to kill her again. Try to defeat me by going after my one weakness. I'll even give you a hand, here."

He grabbed it by the scruff and threw it over your shoes. "Everything else has been taken from me, why stop? Come on. Try harder. What, spine broken? That's a pathetic excuse. Get up."

The stranger in front of you kicked the creature. It let out a feeble whine. "Get up." He said again with another kick. And another. And another. "Get up. Getup getup getup getup getupgetupgetupgetupgetup!!"

Satoru bludgeoned the creature with his heel again and again and again. Sickening crunches and squelches had you covering your mouth to try and keep from vomiting. Each stomp of his foot distorted the creature until it was little more than a carcass.

"Satoru, stop!"

Thunder growled in the sky. An ominous pause filled the air.

His eyes peeked sideways at you, then, he cocked his head in your direction. The tiny, calculated movement had your heart hitting the ground. He had assessed you and deemed you unworthy as a threat in the same second.

"You think you can stop me?" A fierce wind lashed at you. "Tell me - tell me how you'd stop me!"

Even the shouts of Nanami and Shoko and Utahime in the distance couldn't reach him.

He was losing himself. Perhaps forever.

Rain turned sideways in the accelerating torrent. Satoru tilted his head skyward, arms out and palms up, embracing the storm. "I can see everything, hear everything, be anywhere at anytime. With my thoughts, I make the universe."

Then, his gaze fell on you.

"Watch." He snickered.

With a roar from the ground, chasms carved open the earth all around you. A patch of dirt fell from under his feet but Satoru hovered above it, completely dry despite the downpour soaking you to the bone. He giggled, carefree, maniacal, and foreign. This wasn't the person who had stolen your first kiss.

A shadow erupted from him, blocking out all surroundings - the wind and rain and cold - until it was just you and him, alone in an imaginary world. Nebulae and galaxies filled the darkness until it was bright with starlight. Sound disappeared until you could hear your own blood in your veins.

Domain expansion.

Satoru was giggling while tears fell off his cheeks. For all his eyes could see, they seemed to be looking at nothing. Your heart felt the impending demise. This was it. No way you'd survive the domain of Satoru Gojo. You tried to remember the scared little boy by the pond 18 years ago. He was much happier then.

You almost enjoyed the tears falling down your own cheeks. Perhaps it was fate that you'd end up dying at Satoru's hand after all the close calls. You only hoped he wouldn't blame himself for this later, or that someone would call for his extermination.

With one remaining moment, you did the only thing you could think of.

"I love you." You said, and you closed your eyes.

The chaotic buzz in your body stopped. The fear quieted. You felt a gentle breeze, and the soft rustle of tree leaves came back.

A raindrop fell on your cheek.

You opened your eyes, seeing the normal world around you in a wave of relief, but feeling fear all over again when you saw Satoru, his hands holding his head, shouting at the power warring within his mind.

"Make it stop!" He yelled.

"It's okay, Satoru," you gasped, holding your stomach and swallowing the grunt of pain, "just breathe, it'll pass."

Your body gave out. Without a choice you fell back into the grass. The dark, rolling clouds flickered with occasional lightning. You don't know how long you watched, but it was beautiful.

Satoru crouched over you, eyes downcast but still bright with his technique. A reptilian fear response kicked in a rush of adrenaline allowed you to scramble back. His hand hovered, outstretched, reaching for you. Satoru's eyes showed shock and hurt.

"You're afraid of me." He called across the vast space between you.

"I'm - I'm sorry." You said. You tried to crawl back to him but the injuries finally became too much and you collapsed just as he ran to close the gap, pulling you into his lap and trying to staunch the hole in your belly. You moaned at the pressure.

"F-Fuck, I can't remember, what'd I do-"

Your voice was quiet. He hardly heard you over the pounding storm. "You saved me. I'm fi-ine."

"No you're not. Your cursed energy's all over the place, damn it." Satoru smushed his forehead to yours, taking a massive inhale. "Don't you leave me, too."

"Hey," you called, raising a thumb to massage the worry line between his brows, "remember when I said I'd try to - heh - get better? So you wouldn't. . . have to worry."

"Yeah?"

"Well. . ." you added, putting your hand over your stomach. Slowly, a faint white orb covered your wound, and Satoru watched your cursed energy glow and the injury begin to gradually sew itself shut. "You're not the only strong one."

He watched in awe, a little smile on his lips. This time a familiar, genuine one. He held you softly in his gaze in a way that warmed you without touch. You nestled against his shoulder and prepared for the long recovery and the impending clinginess of the man holding you. Satoru's eyes always gave him away.

[nezuscribe]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: yes, there is going to be a part two. yes, it'll probably come out later this week. thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real. 

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend. 

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom. 

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort. 

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.” 

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were. 

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.” 

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class. 

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time. 

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses. 

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect. 

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of. 

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden. 

At least for you, anyways. 

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?” 

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.” 

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers. 

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake. 

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble. 

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words. 

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own. 

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy. 

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk. 

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end. 

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with, 

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up. 

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you. 

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name. 

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly. 

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it. 

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse. 

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace. 

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person. 

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood. 

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.” 

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self. 

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes. 

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for. 

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down. 

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him. 

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years. 

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam. 

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has. 

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further. 

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought. 

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod. 

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.” 

Mudblood  

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise. 

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to. 

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did. 

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions. 

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be. 

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion. 

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something. 

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself. 

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black. 

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do. 

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat. 

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head. 

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,” 

You try to hide your surprise. 

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage. 

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong. 

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be. 

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration. 

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points. 

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over. 

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave. 

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish. 

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off. 

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.” 

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer. 

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?” 

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering. 

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were. 

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion. 

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now. 

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being. 

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly. 

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else. 

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night. 

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as. 

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear. 

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see. 

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors. 

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly. 

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month. 

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then. 

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated. 

Stupid, you repeated in your head. 

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed. 

“You’re leaving?” 

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing. 

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots. 

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.” 

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you. 

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it.  You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library. 

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic. 

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch. 

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker. 

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru. 

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion. 

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you. 

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you. 

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide. 

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.” 

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now. 

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him. 

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork. 

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had. 

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him. 

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails. 

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him. 

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up. 

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal. 

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?” 

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command. 

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him. 

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay. 

You couldn’t say the same for him, however. 

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together. 

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue. 

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.” 

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked. 

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation. 

He blinked, eyes narrowing. 

“...and?” 

Your head tilted to the side, confused. 

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further. 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid. 

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, “For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours. 

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night. 

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression. 

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?” 

You shake your head, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.” 

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you? 

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth. 

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to. 

“What if the libraries closed?” 

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you. 

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.” 

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie. 

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag. 

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine. 

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together. 

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless. 

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face. 

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh. 

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading. 

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect. 

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more. 

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be. 

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face. 

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”. 

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh. 

“…and?” 

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack. 

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you. 

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.” 

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand. 

“Right…so I’ll be here.” 

Now it was his turn to blink slowly. 

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories. 

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed. 

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it. 

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now. 

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm. 

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.” 

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked. 

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent. 

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over. 

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement. 

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger. 

He shakes his head. 

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.” 

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink. 

Strange. 

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.” 

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again. 

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently. 

“Eight. Be there.” 

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive. 

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight. 

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t. 

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be. 

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock. 

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting. 

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room. 

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair. 

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him. 

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you. 

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.” 

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes. 

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones. 

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment. 

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head. 

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound, 

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision. 

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now. 

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once. 

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done. 

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields. 

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?” 

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading. 

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth. 

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.” 

You almost trip. 

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins. 

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation. 

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything. 

Which could only mean that…? 

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing. 

“We’re going…up?” 

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move. 

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.” 

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail. 

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do. 

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts. 

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently. 

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk. 

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.” 

You nod, following along. 

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing. 

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.” 

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru. 

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod. 

“All that’s left is the seeker-” 

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point. 

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow. 

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk. 

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further. 

“You know him?” 

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed. 

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well. 

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes. 

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds. 

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow. 

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from. 

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library. 

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist. 

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo. 

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were. 

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend. 

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?” 

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice. 

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night. 

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty. 

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down. 

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you. 

Why does he care? 

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground. 

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-” 

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are. 

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from. 

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is. 

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his. 

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest. 

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth. 

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth. 

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips. 

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,” 

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him. 

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.” 

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you. 

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so. 

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further. 

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?” 

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern. 

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his. 

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use. 

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses. 

You push him away from you, and this time he moves.

You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened. 

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air. 

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief. 

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

taglist: @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

[icyowl]

going on my tag for authors' amazing fics BECAUSE THIS IS AWESOME I WISH I COULD WRITE FOR IT TOO ITS SUCH A COOL IDEA AUTHOR ITS AWESOME. you gave gojo a different personality but its so perfect and fits so well in the story and I can still see him doing the events in the fic. TRULY GOING UP IN MY TOP FAVS OF ALL TIME. i'll be sending in an ask soon!

[icyowl]

Hyeseong Cha - You Discover His Secret

Pairing: Hyeseong Cha (Jungle Juice) x reader

Synopsis: An accident reveals his inhumanity. 1.4k

A/N: This is for all the 5 people that read Jungle Juice on Webtoon and have tumblr and like Hyeseong Cha.

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This grump would rather face Dohwa’s wrath before willingly exposing his secret to you. He's always wearing long (and thick) pants, even in the dead of summer. He's so strict about cuddling, too, afraid of you touching him and feeling a difference even through the fabric. He has to constantly manage his speed and strength so he doesn't tip you off. He could crush you with a hug, or break the floor by running too fast, or — god forbid — activate the scythes on his legs and seriously hurt you. Every movement had to be managed, calculated, thoroughly planned. Through no fault of your own, being with you exhausted him.

His hesitance comes from a sincere place: not wanting to burden you with his colossal problems or his mutation. Hyeseong already knows his personality and brain power aren't the most desirable, and doesn't want this one, simple, teeny tiny itty bitty thing to push you over the edge. In time he does let slip that he has a 'skin condition' on his legs that he doesn't want you to see. That's all he'll give up.

All it took was one of your unannounced entrances, one collision, and one fall to unravel Hyeseong’s secret. He leaned harder against the wall when you tried to near him. Near his mutation. His voice was venom when he interrupted your advance. “You don't have to do this.”

You looked up from the revelation of his secret. “Do what?”

“Pity me.”

Your shoulders sagged. Something in your chest shrunk. “This isn't pity, Hyeseong, I want to talk about. . . this.” You waved between the two of you.

“No, you want to talk about this—” he gestured to his legs, “please don't draw this out. Just say whatever excuse you can think of and I'll leave.”

“You want to leave?”

The nighttime darkness in his room made his green eyes glow. “Don't you?”

“No. I want to make sure you're okay, I want to get you to trust me, I want to learn.” You dared not move. The man across from you was teetering on a precipice. One wrong word and he could bolt.

Hyeseong scoured the room for a decision. His parents still hardly looked at him the few times he'd returned home. The words of his classmates shouted: don't. It's not worth it. She won't understand. Forget it. Don't bother. Once you do it, you can't go back.

Hyeseong couldn’t face you while you processed his condition. 

A hard, black, smooth substance had replaced the skin of his legs. Sharp ridges protruded from the sides of his calves and thighs. Rather than seamless flesh, his legs were made of overlapping defensive plates. It explained the sweatpants, aversion to touch, lack of intimacy, sudden absences, the look in his eyes every time you asked him if he was okay.

“I hurt you.” He interrupted, staring at the blood coming from the scrapes on your arms. The spines on his legs were sharp enough to cut steel – and now your skin – with the barest of touches. You could see he was stone-tense, waiting for your decision. In that moment you didn't care about the cuts or his legs. . . his concern for you was stronger than his fear, and it told you everything.

You approached delicately. He was so distracted he didn’t seem to notice. “I'm okay.”

“No, you're not.” Hyeseong thoughtlessly reached for your wounds only to catch himself. “Sorry.”

You closed the last foot. His muscles hardened visibly – he dared not move while you were in reach of his spines. “Don’t be sorry,” you said, hands halting just before touching his face. Without words, you waited for his answer.

Hyeseong will never know what possessed him to nod, but he was glad he did. His heart seemed to burst, release some great pull of tension, when you held his jaw. Buzzing tingles erupted in his skin. He didn’t even know he’d shut his eyes until they opened moments later. You were still there, smiling just as you had the first time you’d met. He could feel his heart squeeze tight enough to cramp. His hands covered your own and laced your fingers together tightly. “You’re not grossed out?”

“Not at all,” you rushed, “I’m only sad you thought you had to keep this from me.”

He brought your foreheads together and inhaled your scent. “It’s not you. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I know its weird, not human.”

“Who told you that?” Your eyes were lazer sharp and focused. Hyeseong trepidatiously watched you look at his legs and felt the air leave his lungs all over again, but when your eyes returned to his, all he saw was gentle compassion no matter how hard he looked. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must have been for you.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with a reply. His chest still felt two sizes too small. “Let’s take care of these cuts.” He said instead, carefully taking hold of your arms. Blessedly, they weren’t too deep. He could have done serious, permanent damage. You gave into his worries, yet determined to unpack his shame another time. Hyeseong was silent when he led you to the bathroom, sat you on the counter, and flicked on the light, knowing you would see his legs without the comfort of darkness. You kept your eyes on his hands while they riffled through the med kit he pulled from under the sink.

“Do they hurt?”

Eyes the color of a summer forest and just as lively flitted to yours for a moment. He swallowed. “Not anymore. My professors keep me in plenty of training.” One by one Hyeseong set out rubbing alcohol, bandages, tape, and a couple of hand towels that would probably be thrown out after this. Your heart squeezed when he stood between your legs, but when he took your hands in his, brought them up for scrutiny, it was impossible to hide the flinches every time he pulled the skin or brushed the tender wounds. Most weren’t deep, but the row of slashes – perfect matches to the thorns lining his legs – hated the touch of air or anything else. He cussed, visibly upset when he saw the extent of damage, and you startled again. Hyeseong threw a towel over your lap to catch the occasional drips of blood.

You tried to descelate. “It’s okay–”

“It’s not,” he bit back, twisting the cap off the rubbing alcohol, covering it with a towel, and tipping it. “Look what I did to you.” In one move he turned your arm over and placed the rag straight on the wounds. You choked on a yelp, free hand fisting the hem of his jacket. Hyeseong’s eyes softened when he saw your lip pulled tight between your teeth. “Sorry.”

He deftly set about cleaning the cuts. Antiseptic. Gauze. Bandage. Antiseptic. Gauze. Bandage. Fast and efficient. Too good. Added to the fitness, caution, and occasional injury he never fully explained, it began to paint a very clear and disheartening picture. Hyeseong wasn’t just doing homework and taking tests at that school. Your hand stopped his with a gentle grasp. His eyes widened a fraction as they continued to stare at the wound you now blocked from his sight. You got close enough to feel his bangs tickle your forehead. “What do they have you doing at that school?”

A muscle in his cheek tightened. “Don’t worry about it.”

It was apparent when Hyeseong wanted to drop something. He had just revealed his biggest secret to you – maybe that was enough for tonight. After a begrudging sigh, you sat back again. Time passed, punctuated by the occasional disapproving growl when blood trickled from a cut or you shied away at the dab of alcohol. You spent much of it admiring the color in his eyes and cheeks. Minutes or hours later your arms were expertly mummified in many layers of wrappings and Hyeseong was tidying up. “Can I meet your friends now?” You tactlessly blurted.

His nose pinched. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Your back lost some rigidity. It was probably for the best; what would some superhumans want with you? They probably all had cool, shiny exoskeletons and straight A’s at the special superhuman school. It was a miracle Hyeseong hung out with you – “Wait, that’s not. . . I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just – they’re kind of a lot.”

You looked from your lap. “I still want to.”

Hyeseong held you delicately in his eyes. The bandages to the little jut of your lips. A tiny smile relaxed the bulge of muscle between his brows. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”