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hyuckiefluff · 2 months ago

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MOONSTRUCK | p. jisung

pairing: werewolf!hufflepuff! jisung x hufflepuff!fem. reader genre: best friends to lovers, hogwarts/supernatural au, angst, smut. wc: 18.3k+ summary: after a cruel prank leaves jisung cursed, he withdraws from everyone—including you, his closest friend. but secrets can't stay hidden forever, and when a full moon pulls you into the darkness he's tried so desperately to conceal, there's no going back. content warnings: werewolf lore & transformation, drug usage, rut/mating behavior, rough sex, biting/marking, mild breeding kink, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, knotting, bulge kink, mentions of bruising & blood, mild body horror, brief medical talk (contraceptive), aftercare. lmk if i missed any! a/n: nearly a month in the making and i can finally say i’m satisfied enough to post this lol. i’m actually really happy with how it turned out—and i finally got to write about werewolves, which has been on my list forever. canonically, werewolves in the HP universe (and most lore tbh) are dangerous nocturnal creatures and primarily bloodthirsty. but for this fic, i took a step away from that and leaned into the rut aspect instead because why not ;) pls don’t judge the cover, i had picsart and a dream lol. btw moonstruck by enhypen and nda by billie eilish are two songs u should listen to while reading this!

ps: i don’t know why i was under the assumption that everyone knows hp terms but i realized that is not the case after my mark fic 😭 so even though i didn’t use too many obscure ones here, here’s a little reference guide just in case: legilimens– someone who can read minds or emotions squib– a non-magical person born into a magical family (in this fic, it’s thrown around more like calling someone useless/coward) wolfsbane– a potion that allows werewolves to keep their mind during a full moon; in hp lore they still transform, but in this fic it's not a full transformation. feel free to message me if anything else was confusing! happy reading<3

You didn’t expect your seventh year at Hogwarts to feel like grieving someone who was still alive.

Three months ago, Park Jisung was still your best friend. Now, he can’t even stand being near you.

The suddenness of this change was something you couldn’t wrap around your head. But things don’t always fall apart all at once. Sometimes they drift until you’re left staring across a room at someone who used to know everything about you and wondering when they became a stranger.

He was the very first friend you made at Hogwarts. You remember how he barely spoke to anyone, and you sat next to him in Transfiguration class just because there was an empty seat. You charmed your quill into a frog that wouldn’t stop croaking, and when he finally cracked a smile, it felt like you’d won something important.

He was awkward and soft-spoken, unsure of himself in the way most boys are before they grow into their limbs. But you liked him instantly. Probably because he liked the same books as you, or because he never made fun of you for being nervous on a broom.

He even held your hand during your first flying lesson, hovering near you the whole time so you wouldn’t be scared. Years later, you found out he was just as scared of heights as you were and only pretended not to be to make you feel safe.

By fifth year, you spent so much time together that you could finish each other’s sentences. By sixth, you were bringing blankets to the highest tower in the castle and naming stars until you both fell asleep mid conversation. There wasn’t a single version of your life in Hogwarts that didn’t include him.

You thought seventh year would be just like that….

You were wrong.

After a summer of sending each other daily letters, pages and pages of thoughts, jokes, and half-sincere promises to never grow up, you returned to school thinking nothing could change.

And at first, it didn’t.

You walked to classes together, fell asleep with your legs tangled on the same couch, pretending not to hear the way people whispered about it the next morning, and snuck out of the common room after curfew not caring that you’d get caught.

The Astronomy Tower was your favorite place, you discovered how pretty it looked at night in your third year.

It was quiet that evening, the wind tugging at your robes as you leaned over the battlement. Jisung set down the little paper packet he’d smuggled from the kitchens—honey biscuits, still warm—and nudged it toward you.

“Payment for helping with my Potions homework,” he said, trying to be casual, though the tips of his ears were already pink.

You laughed and took one, bumping his shoulder with yours. “You’d owe me a whole bakery if this were the price.”

He smiled softly. The moonlight caught in his hair, and for a second you forgot the chill entirely.

“Close your eyes,” he said suddenly.

You arched an eyebrow but obeyed. Something light, wool‑soft, was placed around your shoulders. You opened your eyes to find a black‑and‑yellow scarf wrapped there, smelling faintly of cedarwood soap and parchment ink—purely, unmistakably Jisung.

“Did you make this?” you asked, caressing the soft fabric.

“Erm… yeah, you lost yours and it’s starting to get cold outside.” He mumbled, eyes on his shoes. “I couldn’t have my star‑chart partner freeze.”

You swallowed a reply that felt too big, and instead reached for his hand where it rested on the stone ledge. Your fingers threaded with his, easy as blinking. He stiffened for a second then squeezed back. When you looked up, his gaze was already fixed on you, wide and bright, as though the whole sky were reflected there instead of above your heads.

Neither of you moved for a long while. Orion wheeled overhead, the biscuits cooled, and the castle bells tolled curfew far below. But the only thing you really noticed was the warmth of his palm against yours, and the way your heart tripped every time he glanced your way and smiled shyly.

You learned just how soft‑hearted Jisung was that day on the Astronomy Tower.

Which is why, a few weeks into seventh year, it struck you as utterly wrong when rumors reached you that he’d been seen tagging along behind Lee Seungmin. Seungmin was everything Jisung wasn’t—loud, sharp‑tongued, the sort of Slytherin who thought shoving first‑years into suits of armor was a hobby and swapping curse ingredients under the table was a joke. He hexed quills to peck at classmates and bragged about detentions like they were trophies.

Jisung, by contrast, apologized when he bumped into someone and brought extra quills for anyone who forgot theirs. He flinched at raised voices and fed the barn owls after hours because he worried they were lonely.

So hearing his name linked with Seungmin’s felt like hearing that rain was falling upward. At first you laughed it off, because surely someone must have mixed him up with another quiet Hufflepuff. But then Jisung started arriving late to meals, dodging your study sessions, mumbling vague excuses you’d never heard from him before.

That was when you realized the rumor wasn’t a mistake—and that something was very, very wrong.

Seventh Year

September settled over the castle in a bright rush of golden leaves and new parchment, and for a while everything felt the way it always had. You and Jisung were crossing the courtyard—still laughing about his theory that Professor Lockhart polished his hair with Mrs. Skower’s Extra‑Shine—when a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

“Oi, Park!”

You both turned. Lee Seungmin jogged toward you, grinning widelys. You didn’t bother hiding your sigh.

“Still on for tonight?” he asked, dropping his voice as he leaned in toward Jisung.

“I’m not sure. I’ve got a Potions essay to finish.” Jisung shifted akwardly.

Seungmin smacked him on the back, too hard to be friendly. “Come on, you’ve bailed twice already.”

You stepped forward, folding your arms. “Don’t you have that same essay, Seungmin? It’s half the term grade.”

He turned, as if noticing you for the first time and smirked “Why bother? Snape’s going to fail me anyway.”

“Typical,” you muttered.

“I’ll let you know later,” Jisung said quickly, cutting between you before another jab could leave your mouth.

Seungmin’s gaze lingered on you, faintly mocking, before he turned away with a humorless laugh. “Sure thing, Park.”

The moment he was out of earshot you exhaled. “Since when are you and Seungmin… close?”

“We’re not,” Jisung said, scratching at the back of his neck. “He just hangs around sometimes.”

You searched his face. “You two have nothing in common.”

“It isn’t a big deal,” he insisted, but the laugh that followed sounded fake.

“It is if you’re sneaking off with someone like him,” you said, sharper than you meant to, but the worry was too much to hide.

Jisung’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You just walked the rest of the way to class in silence with a sense of unease settling on your chest.

That was when the distance began to show.

First, he started seating two rows over in Charms, smiling apologetically whenever you glanced his way but never moving back. He stopped leaving crooked little jokes on the margins of your Transfiguration notes or looking at you and trying not to laugh whenever Professor Lockhart messed up a spell.

He still spoke to you, yet every conversation felt stitched together, as if he were acting out a script. One afternoon you finally asked, “Are we all right?” He nodded so quickly you had a hard time believing it.

The next time you saw him with Seungmin it was well past curfew.

You had just left the library after wrestling Arithmancy proofs and stopped short as soon as you rounded the corner near the dungeon stairs. There was Seungmin leaning against the wall and Jisung half‑turned away, both speaking in low murmurs. You caught only fragments of Seungmin’s lazy drawl and Jisung’s tight replies. Then Seungmin laughed sharply, and your best friend flinched as though struck.

Your loud footsteps made both of their heads snap up.

“Y/N,” Jisung blurted, striding toward you as if to block your view. “Why are you out so late?”

“I could ask you the same.” You said arching a brow.

Behind him, Seungmin offered a thin grin before slipping down the stairs into the darkness of the dungeons.

Jisung pressed a hand to his eyes. “I was heading back to the dorm.”

“What did he want?”

“He—” Jisung’s voice faltered and for a heartbeat you saw the words gather behind his lips but he swallowed them down. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Your voice cracked on the word. “Come on, Ji.”

“I’m just tired,” he whispered. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

Silence pooled between you, at last you forced a smile neither of you believed. “All right. Tomorrow.”

But tomorrow never arrived—at least, not the kind where he told you what was wrong.

Because the next day Jisung never came to class at all.

Two whole days slid by without a glimpse of him and you were so on edge you kept glancing over your shoulder, half‑expecting his soft voice behind you. Or hoping he might walk into the library with that shy lopsided smile, asking if you had spare parchment which he always ran out of because his handwriting was too big and messy.

But he wasn’t anywhere, and no one seemed willing to notice besides you.

By lunch on the second day you couldn’t keep silent. Renjun was halfway through a Honeydukes bar, mumbling that chocolate boosted cognitive function, when you leaned across the table and murmured, “Do you know what’s going on with Jisung?”

He froze mid‑bite. “What?”

“Renjun,” you said, low and tight, “you know he hasn’t been to class, or in the common room. He isn’t anywhere.”

“I thought he was sick,” Renjun offered with a shrug that felt rehearsed.

“He isn’t in the hospital wing, and he hasn’t answered any of my owls.”

A flicker of something, maybe guilt, crossed his face. “Maybe he just… needs space?”

Your gaze sharpened. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he blurted too fast. “No, not that I know of.”

“Renjun.”

“I swear, I don’t know.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was answer enough, but you let it drop for now.

That evening, heading back from a prefect meeting, you passed the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room and heard voices up the corridor.

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—until one word snapped you still.

“Jisung.”

“Snape got to him before—”

“—thought he was going to die, mate—”

“—Seungmin won’t shut up, keeps saying it wasn’t meant to go that far—”

A rush of blood pounded in your ears as you picked up bits of the hushed conversation. You edged closer and caught sight of Jay and Niki—Seungmin’s friends—half hidden in the shadows, whispering behind cupped hands.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. Your thoughts finally being confirmed; Something happened to Jisung and Seungmin was at the heart of it.

You didn’t sleep a minute that night. Every time you shut your eyes, the conversation replayed in your head until dawn bled through the curtains and you were already out of bed, fury keeping you upright.

You found Seungmin loitering outside the Great Hall, laughing too loudly at something Jay and Niki had said. You crossed the marble floor without a second thought.

“Where is he?”

The smile slipped from Seungmin’s face. He cocked his head, all polite confusion. “Sorry, where’s who?”

“Drop the act,” you said, stepping close enough that he had to tilt his chin to keep eye contact. “I heard your lackeys talking last night. Where’s Jisung?”

Jay and Niki exchanged a look but said nothing..

Seungmin gave a thin, brittle laugh. “You’re hearing ghosts, sweetheart. Why would I bother with Park?”

“A better question,” you started, voice cold, “is why you’ve been so attached to him lately. You don’t exactly run in the same circles, so what did you talk him into?”

Something sharpened in Seungmin’s eyes and he leaned in by a fraction. “Careful with what you’re accusing me of.”

“Or what?” You didn’t move. “You’ll do to me what you did to him?”

For a heartbeat his mask slipped, just long enough to confirm you’d scored a direct hit.

“I didn’t touch him,” he said, almost gently. “Whatever mess Park’s in? He walked into it himself”

“Liar.”

He dipped his head, a mock‑sympathetic smile curling at his mouth. “You think you know him so well, huh? Ever think that maybe he finally got tired of you shadowing him like a needy bitc—”

Your wand was at his throat before the last word finished leaving his lips. The corridor went silent except for your breathing.

“You know nothing about us,” you said, voice shaking with contained fury. “If he’s hurt, I’ll make sure everyone here knows exactly whose fault it is.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicked to the tip of your wand, then back to your face. A slow, poisonous smile spread. “Ask too many questions, Y/N, and you might choke on the answers.”

He stepped back with his hands raised in surrender, and strolled away. Jay and Niki followed in uneasy silence. You lowered your wand, fingers trembling with adrenaline.

His parting smile told you everything about his involvement. But you still didn’t have clear answers.

So you went to seek the other person allegedly involved. Snape.

When you descended into the dungeons, the silence was immediate and unnatural. No one ever came this far during free periods; only Professor Snape’s office existed at the end of this corridor, buried deep in the coldest, most isolated part of the castle.

Faint green flames floated midair along the walls, suspended in enchanted sconces that made no sound and cast no warmth. They pulsed gently, like breathing, and their glow warped the stone around them, making the shadows twist in ways that defied logic.

You hated it down here. Even now, in your seventh year, walking this corridor alone made your heart thud against your ribs like it wanted you to turn back.

But you were desperate.

Snape looked up slowly when you stepped into his office without knocking, his quill pausing mid-sentence on the parchment. His expression went from mildly irritated to coldly displeased in an instant.

“Is knocking a forgotten concept these days?” he said dryly.

“Professor,” you began quickly, not even trying to hide the urgency in your voice. “I need to talk to you.”

Snape set down his quill, arching a single eyebrow. “Then I suggest you start talking, and make it quick.”

You swallowed. “It’s about Jisung… Park Jisung. He’s been missing for days, and no one seems to know anything. Or at least, they’re pretending they don’t.”

His gaze sharpened and for a second, you thought you saw a flicker of caution behind his eyes before he quickly masked it.

“I fail to see why you’re bringing this to me,” he said coolly, leaning back in his chair. “Missing students are a matter for the headmaster.”

“Don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but you pressed forward anyway. “I overheard some students talking. They mentioned your name…said you found Jisung somewhere. Something happened to him, didn’t it?”

Snape’s eyes flashed briefly. “And you believe the idle gossip of students because…?”

“Jisung wouldn’t just disappear on his own like that. I know something happened to him,” you shot back, voice shaking. “And I believe you know exactly what.”

He watched you silently for a moment. You could feel him weighing something behind his guarded stare. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

“Miss Y/N,” he began slowly, voice heavy with thinly veiled warning, “there are things within these castle walls and beyond them that you are better off not knowing.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” you said immediately.

“On the contrary,” he replied calmly. “It is precisely my choice. And you will do well to remember that.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, frustration prickling hot behind your eyes. “Professor, please. Jisung’s my best friend. If he’s hurt… if something’s happened… I need to know.”

Something shifted in Snape’s expression at your words, almost looked like regret. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle, which frightened you more than his scorn.

“Sometimes the worst harm you can do to someone is to keep prying.”

He paused, holding your gaze steadily. “Park is alive. That is all you need to know. Now leave.”

You stood frozen for a second, his words sinking in painfully. Jisung was alive—yet somehow, that felt worse. It meant something had happened… Something terrible.

Your jaw tightened. “You can’t keep this hidden forever,” you whispered fiercely.

He leaned forward, eyes piercing yours in the darkness of the room.

“We’ll see.”

You turned away, storming from his office without looking back. Snape hadn’t denied anything which meant there’d definitely been an incident and it was serious enough that Jisung couldn’t be seen right now. He was alive, but he was hurt, and whatever happened to him was being deliberately hidden.

A few days later

The day started like any other.

You pushed cold eggs across your plate, half listening to Renjun’s gentle attempts at conversation while the Great Hall hummed as if a student hadn’t been missing for a week. But suddenly, a hush rolled through the room.

You felt Renjun touch your arm.

“Y/N.”

You looked up, and followed his gaze toward the doors. The breath caught in your throat.

Jisung was standing just inside the oak doors.

He was bent at the shoulders, eyes flicking over the Hall as if he didn’t remember ever being there before. His robes hung wrinkled and loose and there were red scratches carved along his neck and cheek. He was paler than before and the shadows beneath his eyes made him look years older than when you’d last seen him.

Without greeting anyone, he drifted to the far end of the Hufflepuff table nowhere near his usual seat beside you.

You were on your feet before the thought finished forming.

Renjun caught your wrist. “Y/N, maybe wait—”

You shook him off and crossed the hall, every step echoing in the sudden quiet.

“Jisung?”

He flinched but kept his gaze on the empty plate. “Not now, Y/N.”

“You’ve been gone a week,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I was so worried—”

“I said not now.” The snap in his voice was sharp enough to cut. He glanced up and the terror in his eyes chilled you to the bone.

You reached for him, but he stood so abruptly your balance faltered. Without another word he strode the length of the hall and disappeared through the doors, leaving a silence that seemed to bend the rafters.

You stood frozen, heat flushing your face as dozens of eyes slid away. Renjun appeared at your elbow and talked softly. “Let him breathe.”

You nodded, though the emptiness in your chest insisted otherwise.

Jisung returned to lessons, but only in body. He answered professors in one‑word murmurs and offered classmates strained smiles that meant please don’t talk to me. At meals he sat alone, two yards of empty bench marking the space where laughter used to live.

He moved faster when he saw you in the corridors. He no longer waited outside classrooms or drifted toward your chair in the library. His robes hung loose as if he’d lost weight along with sleep, and his hands shook whenever he raised his wand. Sometimes you caught him staring through stone walls at something only he could see.

You tried with soft hellos in the common room, and owls folded with careful questions but every attempt slid off the wall he’d built overnight. The harder you reached, the farther he retreated, until all that remained between you was silence and the memory of how easily you’d once shared the same breath.

2 days later

Jisung sat on the edge of his bed, head buried in his shaking hands. His palms were marked with crescent-shaped indentations from how hard he was clenching his fists.

He kept hearing it.

The snap of branches in pitch-black darkness. The sickening crunch of claws sinking into damp earth. The guttural snarl vibrating through his bones moments before razor-sharp teeth pierced his shoulder. The thick warmth of blood soaking through his robes.

Sometimes it came to him in dreams. Other times, he’d be awake, in class, or walking down the corridor. A sound, or a smell and he was back in the forest.

Snape had said the wolfsbane would help and it had in a way. At least, it kept the full transformation at bay. But it didn’t stop the memories, it didn’t quiet the noise in his head.

His senses were too sharp now, every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of candlelight, every rustle of parchment felt louder. Sometimes he thought he could hear people’s heartbeats, smell their sweat before they entered a room. His insides constantly felt overwhelmed with unbearable energy. He felt trapped in his own skin, moments away from tearing free of himself. Sometimes he felt too much, and other times… he felt nothing at all.

Worst of all, though, was you.

He couldn't stand to be near you anymore. Not because he didn't want to, but because your scent now stirred something dangerous within him. It made his chest ache unbearably, tightened his throat with longing and thirst.

A part of him urged him to get far away from you. But another darker, more primal part whispered the opposite… to scent you, to sink into you, to lose control entirely. But he refused to drag you into his nightmare. He wouldn't allow it, no matter how much it tore at him.

He could remember most of what led him into the forest, up to a certain point.

He remembers Seungmin saying he wanted to hang out and they met near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where one of the slytherins handed out something called shadeleaf. It was an iridescent petal folded into itself like a capsule. Illegal, of course. Banned by the ministry for its hallucinogenic properties and its tendency to react differently based on magical affinity.

Jisung didn't even know why he was there. This wasn’t his scene at all. The guys were drinking something out of a flask that smelled like burnt sugar and smoke. Jay was lighting up a rolled spell-scroll with charmed embers. Niki already looked half out of it, eyes glazed.

When Seungmin started showing an interest in him a few weeks ago, Jisung had been flattered. He'd only ever made two close friends at Hogwarts, so someone new noticing him felt good. That was the only reason he went along with him. He wanted to be accepted.

“Is it safe?” Jisung asked nervously.

“Come on, park,” Niki chuckled, placing a shimmering petal on his tongue. “Don’t be a Squib.”

“What's the worst that could happen?” Seungmin grinned, handing one to him. “You trip a bit? See some weird shit? Wake up with a headache?”

Jisung hesitated, staring at the thing in his palm. It pulsed faintly with a color he didn’t have a name for.

He didn't want to do it, but they were all watching him. So he took it.

The effects hit almost instantly. His vision went fuzzy first; he could only see edges warping and light bending at impossible angles. Then his tongue tingled and throbbed, and his body felt too hot.

“Shit, this is strong,” Jay laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” Seungmin said, puffing from the smoldering scroll between his fingers.

None of them looked as affected as Jisung.

"Come on, Park," Seungmin said, draping an arm casually yet firmly around Jisung’s shoulders. "There’s a spot a little deeper in. We hang out there all the time."

Jisung couldn’t hear properly anymore, everything sounded underwater. He followed anyway.

He couldn’t say how long they walked. It felt like hours, though in reality it was probably mere minutes before his knees gave out, sending him sprawling onto the cold forest floor. His head spun violently, vision fractured.

He tried to speak, to call out but his voice didn't work, the forest blurring darker and darker until only silence and blackness swallowed him whole. He didn’t know when they left him. Just that at some point, he was alone.

The last thing he remembers was seeing bright, yellow eyes and feeling immense pain…

He woke up choking on his own blood.

His body jerked violently, lungs burning as he struggled to take in air. He felt strong hands grip his shoulders, pulling him upright with urgency. Through blurry, half-open eyes, he caught the outline of a wand glowing faintly in the dark. He barely recognized the familiar cadence of Professor Snape’s voice echoing through the haze.

“Park… Can you hear me?” Snape’s voice was clipped, edged with tension he’d never heard before.

Jisung managed only a strangled groan. He couldn’t speak, his throat was raw, filled with the metallic tang of blood. Breathing felt impossible, each gasp shallow and painful, as if his lungs were full of lead. He felt wetness soaking through his clothes and pooling beneath him. He didn't know if it was sweat or blood. Probably both, his clouded mind whispered darkly.

He was certain of only one thing—he was going to die here.

“You’ve been attacked,” Snape explained urgently, casting quick charms that rippled warmly across Jisung’s battered body. “I need you to remain as still as possible while I attempt to slow the bleeding.”

The word attacked echoed faintly in Jisung’s mind. Attacked by what? His thoughts swirled sluggishly. He couldn’t focus enough to piece anything together.

Snape pressed a small vial to his lips. The Hufflepuff hesitated, eyes flickering up weakly, his question dying soundlessly on cracked lips.

Snape seemed to understand instantly. “It’s Wolfsbane.”

The word crashed over Jisung with crushing weight, his mind snapping painfully back to clarity. Wolfsbane. A potion for…

His stomach twisted violently, nausea gripping him as realization cut sharply through the fog in his mind.

He’d been attacked by a werewolf.

It felt impossible. He wanted to deny it, wanted to believe it was just some twisted nightmare brought on by the drugs he’d foolishly taken. But the pain burning through his shoulder and the dark, grim expression on Snape’s face all made denial impossible.

With trembling lips, Jisung allowed Snape to tip the bitter potion into his mouth, grimacing weakly as he forced himself to swallow it down. It tasted vile but he had no energy left to protest.

He collapsed back against the cold forest floor, limbs heavy, vision fading once more as Snape continued muttering charms, trying to keep him tethered to consciousness.

“Stay with me, Park,” Snape’s voice commanded, sharp but oddly comforting. “You’re not going to die tonight.”

But Jisung wasn’t sure he believed him.

The darkness rushed back in, heavy and thick, pulling him under again as Snape’s frantic movements blurred and faded away.

His memory is fuzzy from then on.

One moment he was lying in the dirt, blood soaking the ground beneath him. The next, he was being levitated through narrow hallways, his body wrapped in magic and warding charms.

The room was dark, except for a wandlight hovering near the ceiling. He was placed on a dusty mattress on the floor. His skin felt stiff with blood, every muscle felt like it had been peeled apart and sewn back together with barbed wire.

He recognized the Shrieking Shack from an article he’d read once about the most haunted places on Earth. That’s where they were right now.

The shack was colder than he imagined. This was the place they used to tell ghost stories about in the common room. The place kids dared each other to peek into on Hogsmeade weekends. It smelled like old wood and dust. Snape moved through it like he’d been here before—like this was routine.

He cast a dozen silent spells before even speaking. Layers of enchantments wrapped around the rotting floorboards, the shattered furniture, the warped windows.

“You must take this Wolfsbane every day,” Snape said curtly, setting a tray on the floor beside the creaking mattress. “Or I’ll force it down your throat.”

Jisung didn’t answer. Snape paused, studying him with that unreadable stare.

“You’ll stay here until the full moon passes,” he said. “You’ll say nothing when you return.”

Jisung blinked slowly, the weight of it sinking into his bones. ‘When you return… or If’.

Then Snape turned to go but he stopped in the doorway.

“You are not the first,” he said, voice low. “It will be painful but you’ll survive.”

And with that, he was gone.

The silence was the most unbearable part of being in the Shack. Not even the pain or the way Jisung’s bones ached like they were preparing to snap apart. It was the silence that made him feel like he’d go crazy any minute.

He tried to sleep, but whenever he tried he’d blink awake to phantom sensations of fur brushing his skin, fangs pushing against his teeth, and a sweet scent of honey curling through the cracks in the floorboards.

It wasn’t the full moon yet but his body was already responding to it. The Wolfsbane kept him from changing completely, but it didn’t stop everything. His skin itched as if it was being stretched and he realized he’d grown a few inches taller overnight. His eyes were also becoming sensitive to even the faintest flickers of light, and they were a dark shade of yellow that glowed whenever the moonlight hit them.

It might’ve been on the second night or the third, he couldn’t remember well, but Snape came in and told him that the full moon would be at its peak and he would feel the effects more despite the potion.

Jisung lasted about two hours before the pain began. It wasn’t sudden. It crept in slowly, like frostbite, numbing his fingers first. Then his wrists and his legs. He thought maybe this was it—maybe he’d just fade out before anything happened. Then it spread up his spine and into his skull, where it bloomed behind his eyes like fire.

The pain was so much bigger than his body. It burned and it shredded him, as if his bones were being broken and rebuilt at the same time, like his skin wasn’t big enough to hold him anymore. He scratched at his own arms until his nails cracked and bled. It got so unbearable he slammed his head against the wall hoping he would knock himself out but he couldn’t.

He clawed at the walls, tore at the floorboards and bit into the wood until his mouth filled with splinters and blood. He howled until his throat tore raw. And still, it didn’t stop

He lost count of how many times his limbs broke and reformed. His jaw cracked open so wide he thought it might dislocate, teeth pushing through bloody gums. He was sobbing or at least, he thought he was. It was hard to tell over the sound of his own growling.

The transformation stopped halfway and started again the next day. He never fully transformed but he felt the pain of his body trying to fight against it every single time.

He stopped counting days after that.

Hunger and exhaustion tangled with grief and fear until all that was left was the throb of his body and the steady hum of magic in his blood. He didn’t think about the pain anymore. Or the bite. Or Seungmin. Or the forest.

Mostly, he thought about you.

He tried not to, but you wouldn’t leave him. Your face, your laugh, your voice, it all circled him like the moonlight through the slats in the wall.

The way the thought of you made his body burn now.The way your honeyed scent used to be comforting but now made his lungs tighten and his mouth water. He didn’t understand why he was feeling this way.

On the seventh day he woke up soaked in sweat, shivering uncontrollably. The moon had passed. He could feel it in the way the ache in his bones was retreating and his mind was clearer.

Snape arrived at dawn.

He said nothing about the mess of blood and broken furniture in the room. He just studied Jisung who was sitting slumped against the wall. He pulled out his wand and started casting diagnostic spells over his body.

“You’ll return to class tomorrow,” he said. “If anyone asks, you were ill.”

Jisung didn’t move.

Snape continued impassively. “You are not to mention the Wolfsbane, the forest, or what you’ve become. Do you understand?”

Jisung finally looked at him, barely able to lift his head properly. “That’s it? Just… go back like nothing happened?” His voice came out hoarse.

Snape’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. That is not it.”

He stepped closer.

“You will take your potion every cycle, no matter what. And you will not seek out the other boys involved, nor will you retaliate.”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. He wanted nothing more than to rip Seungmin’s throat apart, but he knew that was just the wolf thinking.

“And most importantly, you will stay away from her.” Snape said, his voice dropping at the last word.

Jisung sat up sharply, knowing exactly who he was referring to. “Why?”

The professor’s expression didn’t soften. “Because the wolf doesn’t care that she’s your friend. It doesn’t care about boundaries or guilt or decency. It responds to need.”

Jisung’s chest tightened, throat dry.

“The first few transformations are the worst,” Snape continued, pacing slowly now. “Your body hasn’t adjusted. Your instincts haven’t aligned with your mind. You will feel urges…violent, territorial, carnal urges that you can’t control. Those urges will turn into fixations... Especially for someone you already had feelings for”

“I don’t–” Jisung started.

“You don’t need to lie, Mr. Park.” Snape cut him off, “I am a very skilled Legilimens, you know? I can see your mind and I see how it’s filled with thoughts of her.”

Jisung looked away, jaw trembling slightly. Snape stopped in front of him.

“Her scent” he said quietly. “It already triggers you, doesn’t it?”

Jisung didn’t answer. That sweet scent of honey and parchment that he kept smelling through the rotting floors and the dried blood, he figured out it was you. It reminded him of that night at the Astronomy tower.The Shrieking Shack might be a few miles away from Hogwarts castle but he could still somehow smell you.

“You feel it in your chest, in your teeth, in your gut” Snape said, voice like a scalpel. “You want her.”

Jisung’s breathing picked up.

“That is the beginning of your rut.”

“Rut?” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

Snape nodded. “It’s a biological response. Wolves enter a heightened state after the full moon cycle. Some experience it more than others, especially younger ones who’ve recently turned”

Jisung’s heart was pounding now, nauseatingly fast.

“You may feel sudden impulses or worse you might want to act on those impulses.”

He felt sick. “I’m not— I would never hurt her.”

“I’m not concerned about your intentions,” Snape said coldly. “I’m concerned about your self control. A werewolf’s instincts are hard to resist and if you lose control, Mr. Park… She will pay the price.”

“So stay away from her,” Snape said with finality. “It’s the only way to keep you both safe.”

Jisung sat there shaking, the weight of what he’d become pressing down on his spine like a second body.

He couldn’t go back. Not like this.

“I’m not ready,” he said hoarsely.

Snape didn’t turn. He stood by the window, watching the last of the night dissolve into grey morning.

“You won’t ever be,” he said simply.

Jisung clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to see her. Or anyone. I—I can’t trust myself.”

“You must learn to live with your current situation.”

“Why can’t I just… stay here?”

Snape turned at that. His eyes were cold and calculating.

“Because people are already asking questions,” he said. “Students, staff. Your friend.”

Jisung’s heart stuttered at that.

“She’s worried,” Snape continued. “Rightfully so. You disappeared without warning. She’s been to my office several times. She’s even confronted the student who got you into this predicament, pulled out a wand at him. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her from endangering herself trying to find you.”

Jisung lowered his head, guilt flooding every nerve.

“Rumors are spreading, too.” Snape added. “A few students are saying they saw you with Mr. Lee that night. Some think you were injured, others that you’re in trouble. You’ve already been gone too long.”

Jisung swallowed hard. “So I just walk into the Great Hall acting like I’m normal?”

Snape didn’t blink. “Yes.”

His stomach turned. “And if someone sees the scars?”

“You’ll say you had an accident in the forest.”

“And you’ll back me up?” he asked bitterly.

“If I must.”

Jisung exhaled shakily. “And Y/N? We—we’re always together, she’ll find it weird if I suddenly cut her off”

“You’ll keep your distance regardless. If she asks questions, you deflect. If she pushes, you walk away. You’re not safe around her”

He bit his lip hard, so hard it almost bled. “She’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Then hope she’s smart enough not to get too close.”

The doors to the Great Hall had never felt so heavy. Jisung stood in front of them for nearly five minutes, staring at the carved wood. Behind them, he heard laughter, casual conversation, normalcy.

He wasn’t ready.

But Snape’s words echoed in his skull.

"You’ve already been gone too long."

He took a breath and pushed them open.

All the noise overcame him like a wave, the plates clinking, voices overlapping, owls fluttering through the rafters. It all felt loud in a way it hadn’t before, as if someone had turned the world’s volume up just to punish him.

He kept his head low and his pace steady. One foot in front of the other. Just like Snape said. Act like nothing happened.

He could feel all eyes on him almost instantly. First years stopping mid-bite and a few seventh-years whispering across the Gryffindor table. Someone, he thought maybe Jay, froze with a goblet halfway to his lips.

And then you. He didn’t have to loo, he felt the second your eyes landed on him, making something twist deep in his chest. That same unbearable tightness he’d felt in the shack whenever he let himself think about you. About your laugh echoing across the common room. About your fingers brushing his when you passed him a quill and how it used to mean nothing, and now it meant everything.

He knew you’d notice the hollow look in his eyes, the bruises blooming like violets on his neck and the bandage peeking out from beneath the collar of his robes. You’d find it weird that he didn’t sit near you, didn’t even glance your way. But he tried to ignore those thoughts and just focus on the plate in front of him even though his stomach turned at the smell of food.

You stared at him from your seat. It took you several long, painful seconds to process what you were seeing.

Jisung—your best friend, who’d been missing a week without a word—just walked into breakfast looking like he’d seen hell and barely made it back out.

His robes were loose like he’d lost weight and his eyes were ringed with dark circles, exhaustion written clearly in every line of his face. There were cuts visible, thin red marks down his jaw, a deeper scar stretching beneath his collar, fading bruises on the backs of his hands. His hair was tangled, his posture painfully tense.

You felt a sick sense of relief after seeing him, despite his appearance. But most of all you felt angry. You felt everything all at once, a hot rush of emotions almost too intense to handle.

Jisung avoided your gaze completely. He picked at the food in front of him, not really eating, just pushing it around his plate.

He felt you approaching before you spoke. Your scent hit him first, warm and familiar, yet unbearably intense. His jaw clenched tight, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. He didn’t look up even when you stood near him. He simply couldn’t trust himself to see your face and not fall apart.

You called his name quietly and he almost cried at the sound of your voice. But he didn’t move, not even when you stepped closer.

Slowly, he raised his head, gaze finally meeting yours You went still, eyes widening just slightly. He knew instantly what you saw—the darkness in his stare, the shadowed bruises, the fresh scars. The way he looked wrong.

He couldn’t bear your pained eyes, so he snapped at you. Something he’d never do before, but Snape told him to deflect. So he yelled and walked away, trying to ignore how hurt you looked.

This was what Snape meant. You’re not safe around her.

You couldn’t eat after that. Not with the way he’d looked at you.

Jisung had always been soft-spoken, a little awkward, a little shy—but never cold. And you didn’t need a Healer to tell you that whatever he’d gone through wasn’t some stomach bug or routine cold. You weren’t stupid.

You saw the tremble in his fingers when he reached for his fork. You saw the way he flinched when someone behind him dropped their goblet. You saw the bruises just under his collar and the bandages.

Something happened to him.

You sat back down but your heart was still up at the other end of the table with him.

“I need to know,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Renjun.

He sighed. “Y/N…”

“Don’t say it,” you snapped quietly. “Don’t say I should give him time. Don’t say he’ll come around. I know him, Renjun. He’s scared. You don’t just disappear for a week and come back with claw marks on you neck.”

Renjun went quiet.

That silence told you more than anything else.

“Okay, I’m tired of this… You know something, don’t you?”

He avoided your gaze. “It’s not my place to say.”

That hurt. “Is it mine to not know?”

You stood abruptly, grabbing your bag. “If no one’s going to tell me the truth, I’ll figure it out myself.”

Over the next few days, you tried to get close to Jisung in every way you could think of. You waited for him outside the greenhouses after Herbology, hoping to catch him alone. You switched seats in Charms just to be nearer, and sometimes you even loitered in the corridor after Potions, telling yourself you’d walk him back to the common room.

Despite your best efforts, he continually slipped away.

He offered awkward excuses about having somewhere to be, or sometimes said nothing at all and just walked past. Most of the time, he barely managed to look at you, as if doing so caused him physical pain. This wasn’t an icy kind of avoidance, nor was it tinged with anger. It felt worse than either of those possibilities—it was as though he found everything about you unbearable, but still couldn’t muster the energy to explain why.

Once, you nearly cornered him after lunch. He was leaning against the corridor wall outside the Great Hall, head tipped back, looking utterly exhausted. In that unguarded moment, your eyes met his, and you thought you glimpsed your old friend beneath the tension he carried. Summoning the nerve you’d been collecting all day, you stepped forward.

“Can we talk?” you asked softly.

For a split second, it seemed like he might say yes. His mouth opened as though he wanted to form the words but then Professor Snape’s voice echoed from behind you.

“Miss Y/N.”

You turned around to find Snape standing there, unruffled as always, robes hanging in sharp lines. He inclined his head in an almost polite manner yet still carried the weight of an order.

“I need you to come to the dungeons,” he said in a measured tone. “There are ingredients that require sorting. I trust your handwriting is still legible.”

You tried to protest, but as soon as you turned back, Jisung had vanished. From that moment on, it became a pattern: every time you got too close to him, Snape appeared with some new task for you—an extended office hour to discuss a mistake in an essay, a request to reorganize outdated potions, or a perfectly timed interruption just as you were about to speak with Jisung privately.

On a rational level, you knew it was ridiculous to think Snape was orchestrating this on purpose; however, it was impossible to ignore how consistently he managed to swoop in whenever you finally had a chance to approach Jisung alone. You didn’t know why your professor was so intent on calling you away, and truthfully it wasn’t the main issue gripping your mind.

All you could focus on was Jisung.

He looked so different—worn down, scared, ashamed, like he was carrying a secret that weighed on his shoulders every moment of the day. Every time you tried to reach him, he withdrew further. It broke your heart, because you weren’t trying to fix him or make him talk if he didn’t want to. You just wanted to be there, to stand by him instead of watching from a distance.

Yet no matter how hard you tried, the boy who used to seek you out for study breaks and late-night jokes now seemed determined to avoid you. And the more distance he forced, the more you wanted to find out what had really happened, because this Jisung—the one who flinched when you spoke and looked away when you caught his eye—felt like a stranger wearing your best friend’s face.

It was late, far too late for anyone else to be out of bed. So when you heard commotion up in the Astronomy Tower during one of your prefect rounds, you instinctively climbed the stairs to inspect, your wand held loosely in your fingertips.

The castle had felt too quiet lately. Ever since Jisung came back, everything had been off balance. You’d even taken extra patrols just to keep your mind busy. You weren’t expecting to find anything up there except maybe a few rowdy owls.

But when you pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Astronomy Tower, you froze at the sight.

Jisung was there, hunched against the railing, his robes half-open, hands gripping the stone balustrade so tightly you saw his knuckles pale even from across the room.

"Jisung?" you said softly, hesitant.

His head snapped up instantly, and your breath caught in your throat.

His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, irises shimmering unnaturally gold beneath the moonlight. Sweat gleamed across his pale forehead, his hair was messy and damp, sticking to his face. His breathing came harsh and fast, almost feral.

You took a cautious step forward. "Jisung, are you okay?"

"Stay back," he choked out, voice strained and rough. "Don't come closer."

But you saw the tremble in his arms, the feverish brightness in his eyes. He looked sick. He looked scared.

"What’s wrong? Let me help—"

"No." He shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut as if fighting himself. "You can't—I'm not—"

He trailed off, stumbling forward as if pulled by some invisible force toward you. He was breathing heavily, lips parted as he seemed to taste the air between you.

"Jisung—"

Your voice cut off as his gaze snapped sharply to yours again, something raw and dangerous flaring in his eyes. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, and you instinctively backed away half a step.

"Leave," he hissed, the word barely recognizable through his clenched teeth. His whole body seemed rigid with tension. "Please, leave before—"

He broke off with a gasp, doubling over as though a wave of pain had just wracked through him.

You rushed forward instinctively, panic clouding your caution. "Jisung!"

He moved faster than your eyes could track. One moment he was curled into himself and the next he had you pinned against the cold stone floor, wrists pressed tightly beside your head, his face inches from yours, breath hot and erratic against your neck.

"Ji—" Your voice cracked. "What are you—"

He inhaled deeply against your throat, his body trembling against yours. "God, you smell so—" His voice was ragged and broken, almost a sob. "I can't—I can't stop it, I—"

He pressed closer instinctively, hips pinning you hard against the floor. His lips grazed roughly against your neck, sharp teeth skimming dangerously along your pulse point. Your heart slammed against your ribs, fear tangled confusingly with something hot in your lower belly.

"Jisung, please," you whispered, half plea, half gasp. "You're scaring me."

Those words seemed to pierce through whatever haze had overtaken him. He jerked back, eyes wide, suddenly horrified at himself. His gaze flicked down to your wrists, already bruising beneath his grip, and he stumbled away as if burned.

"No," he whispered, horror and guilt bleeding openly into his expression. "I didn't—I wouldn't—"

You stayed frozen on the floor, chest heaving as you watched the agony twist across his face.

"What’s happening to you?" you breathed, sitting up slowly.

He stared at you, anguished, hands still trembling at his sides.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly. "I—I'm so sorry."

Before you could say another word, he turned sharply and bolted down the stairs, leaving you alone, shaking, and terrified.

The Hufflepuff common room was quiet when you walked in. Most students had gone to bed, but Renjun sat alone on the couch.

You didn’t give him a chance to pretend he didn’t see you coming.

“You’re going to tell me what happened.”

Renjun sighed, not looking away from the fire. “Y/N…”

“No,” you said, standing in front of him. “No more deflecting. You’ve known something since the day he came back.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know the whole story.”

“Then tell me what you know.”

Silence.

You crossed your arms. “Do you really think I’m going to stop asking? You’ve seen him. You know he’s not okay. And no one’s saying anything, and I’m losing my mind because—” your voice cracked, just slightly— “because that’s my best friend.”

Renjun’s shoulders slumped. He looked like he aged ten years in a second.

“Seungmin and his friends... they planned something,” he said quietly.

Your chest went still.

“I only heard a conversation between Professor Sprout and Professor Snape,” he continued. “But apparently they were hanging out near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Seungmin gave Jisung something. A potion or… some kind of enchanted hallucinogen.”

Renjun looked up at you, guilt heavy in his eyes even though he hadn’t been there. “They led him into the forest, Y/N… And something attacked him.”

You stared at him, voice thick with dread. “Something?”

Renjun hesitated. “Snape... Snape was the one who found him.”

You felt cold all over. “What was it?”

He looked away.

“Renjun. What was it.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“A werewolf.”

A gasp got stuck in your throat.

“I don’t know how bad it was,” Renjun said softly. “But apparently Professor Snape had to lock him up for a week while he went through the transformation.”

Tears stung behind your eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to believe it myself….”

You sank into the chair across from him, everything too heavy to stand.

“A werewolf,” you whispered.

He nodded and suddenly, so many things clicked at once. Suddenly it all made sense.

After Renjun told you, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat in your bed staring at the ceiling until the sun started bleeding through the windows, and then you slipped out of the dorms without a word. You went straight to the library and stayed there all morning.

Madam Pince gave you a curious glance when you asked to go into the Restricted Section after looking through every other possible book in the regular shelves and finding nothing of value. You dropped Professor Babbling’s name as your excuse—said you were doing independent research for an Arithmancy paper. She didn’t ask further, just handed you a list of approved titles and waved you through.

You didn’t touch a single one of them. Instead, you searched for everything you could find on werewolves.

They were mostly old, dusty books with creaking spines and brittle pages. Most seemed to be more folklore than facts but you found a text buried near the bottom of a shelf, half its title burned off the spine.

Lycanthropy and Lunar Madness: A Clinical Compendium.

The chapters were brutal. You read about the first changes, the muscle pain, the sensory overload. The way magic in the blood would flare, fight back, burn from the inside out. You read about the violence, how the mind slips away when the full moon peaks, how instincts override everything else.

But what caught your atention the most was this:

“In cases of recent infection, the afflicted may experience an attraction fixation, often triggered by proximity to a familiar person. This response is especially common in individuals whose first transformation occurs during adolescence or early adulthood.

The instinct is not always sexual, but it is always possessive. The werewolf’s senses recognize the person as a source of comfort or danger. When comfort, the fixation can lead to obsessive behavior, rut-like symptoms, and irrational aggression if the person is perceived as threatened or unattainable. When danger, it can lead to avoidance or attack. Scent is the most common anchor. Once imprinted, it is nearly impossible for the werewolf to ignore.”

Your throat tightened. You re-read the paragraph five times.

It made sense, too much sense. His distance, his flinching, the way he couldn’t look at you anymore.

Your scent.

You remembered how he looked at you that morning in the Great Hall. How he barely breathed when you stood too close and how he wouldn’t meet your eyes when you asked what happened. And last night in the Atronomy Tower, he said you smelled good and it looked like he wanted to eat you alive.

You closed the book with shaky hands and then checked out four more. You didn’t stop reading until your eyes blurred. You didn’t eat or go to class.

By the time the sky outside the window started darkening, you were sitting at a corner table, surrounded by open tomes and loose parchment covered in frantic notes—everything you could find about Wolfsbane, Snape’s potion-making reputation, the legal status of werewolves in magical Britain, and every known case of student infection in the last fifty years.

You turned the page again.

Magical Intervention

“Wolfsbane Potion, taken daily during the week of the full moon, prevents transformation but does not erase the instinctual response. It is crucial that young werewolves are supervised during their first year of turning, especially if they experience early signs of rut.

If left unmonitored, the werewolf may become a threat not only to others—but to themselves.”

You found another book next. Not on lycanthropy, but on magical trauma. It mentioned Professor Snape by name.

“A known expert in dark creatures and cursed bloodlines, Professor Severus Snape has played a role in the treatment and monitoring of several underage werewolf cases, particularly after the war.”

You sat there for a long time, staring at the page, your mind buzzing. Snape knew, he was involved and he wasn’t just keeping the secret, he was managing it.

Which meant whatever happened to Jisung—Snape had seen it before. And he’d chosen not to tell you a thing.

You sat there in silence, your hands numb on the table. Snape had told him to stay away from you, that much was obvious now. But no one had told you what being near him could do.

You weren’t afraid of him. But for the first time, you understood why he was of you.

You left the library as the sky was starting to pale with early morning light, the forbidden books still echoing in your thoughts. You didn’t bother going to class again. You went directly to Snape’s office instead and waited there. When he finally arrived, he paused mid-step at the sight of you.

“Miss Y/N,” he said flatly. “You are not scheduled to meet with me.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth, sir.”

His eyes narrowed. “I beg your par—”

“Did you know?” you cut in, voice trembling with restrained rage. “Did you know what would happen to him?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“I know that Jisung got attacked by a werewolf.”

Snape stilled.

“I went to the restricted section,” you continued. “I know what werewolves go through. I know about the rut cycle. The way someone can trigger it just by being close… Did you know it would be me?”

He didn’t speak, and that silence was an answer.

You took another step toward him. “You told him to stay away, didn’t you?”

Still silent.

You laughed bitterly. “What, were you going to wait until I ended up on the courtyard floor with his teeth in my neck before you decided to warn me?”

“Lower your voice,” Snape said sharply, eyes flicking toward the empty corridor.

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to tell me what to do now when you left me in the dark about everything.”

“He is alive and you’re safe because of me,” he said sharply. “Do not mistake silence for neglect.”

“He’s barely alive,” you fired back. “He’s walking around like a ghost and you expect me to believe that’s your idea of help?”

“You think you want the truth but the truth is messy and dangerous. And the truth, Miss Y/N…” he stalked closer to you, almost menacingly “… is that your friend is not who he was anymore.”

“I know that!” you shouted, voice cracking. “But you made him think he was dangerous.”

“He is.”

“No,” you said fiercely. “He’s just scared and you’re feeding it.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what a werewolf in rut is capable of.”

“I do now.” You stepped closer again, voice trembling. “I’m not stupid or fragile. And I’m not going to stay away just because you think it’s better that way.”

“Miss Y/N—”

“No,” you snapped. “You can’t “protect me” by locking him away like some creature. He’s not a danger to me. What’s dangerous is isolating him, making him ashamed of something he didn’t choose.”

Snape’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“And what will you do, then?” he asked. “If he loses control?”

“I’ll help him.” You exhaled, hands trembling. “I’m not afraid of him and he needs someone who isn’t.”

There was a long pause. Snape looked at you with something like pitty. Then he spoke, carefully.

“Then you’d better learn how to handle what’s coming.”

Knowing about Jisung’s condition didn’t bring the relief you thought it would. If anything, it made everything worse. Because now you understood that there was almost nothing you could do to save him from himself. And, like Professor Snape said, the safest option was to stay far away.

And you tried, but it was so hard.

You'd find yourself turning to complain about Professor Binns's endless lectures, only to realize it wasn't Jisung beside you, but Renjun—quiet, studious Renjun who never dared utter a complaint in class.

Or when you walked toward the kitchens out of habit, thinking maybe you'd sweet-talk the elves into some pumpkin tarts, only to remember it was Jisung who always did the charming.

Or when the night sky looked especially clear and you found yourself wanting to stargaze but realizing no one else knew how to trace constellations on your palm with their fingertip. And you couldn’t even remember their names without Jisung pointing them out to you.

Renjun tried. He filled the empty seat at meals, nodded at the right moments when you rambled, even agreed to sneak out once or twice. But he wasn’t Jisung. He didn’t know your weird inside jokes, didn’t lean his head on your shoulder when he got sleepy, didn’t touch your wrist when you got nervous.

You missed him so deeply it ached.

So, when you saw him slipping out of the common room one night you followed him without a second thought.

He moved quickly across the grounds, his hooded shape skimming the moonlit grass. You jogged to keep up, keeping low behind hedges and statues until he stopped beside the Whomping Willow. Your breath caught as he pressed a knot at the roots and the tree froze mid‑sway, its branches locking in eerie stillness. Then, an entrance yawned open.

You hesitated. Every instinct screamed that going after him was a terrible idea. But the thought of him hurting or worse, hurting alone was too much to bear.

So you followed.

The tunnel led you into the Shrieking Shack. A chill raced down your spine the moment you stepped inside. Rot and mildew clung to the walls, the floorboards seemed like they would give way with each step, and it smelled like old nightmares in there. You had to bite down on your lip to keep from gagging but you kept going, following the sounds of his ragged breathing upstairs into a dusty room.

You opened the door cautiously, barely an inch—but before you could fully register what was happening, Jisung lunged. He grabbed your arm, yanking you roughly inside and pinning you to the sagging mattress with a strength that startled you.

"Jisung—!" you gasped.

He loomed over you, eyes wild, glowing gold in the darkness. His expression was pained, almost feral.

"What—are you doing here?" he growled through gritted teeth. His voice was deep and barely recognizable.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed. “I—I was worried. You missed all your classes…”

Something dark flared in his gaze, and he dropped his head, panting harshly against your throat. He inhaled deeply, shuddering as he pressed closer instinctively. Your breath hitched sharply, your body reacting involuntarily to his closeness.

"You shouldn't have come," he whispered brokenly, hands trembling where they gripped your wrists.

You swallowed, feeling his hips press involuntarily against yours and realizing exactly what was happening.

"Your rut," you whispered breathlessly, realization flooding you. "It's started, hasn't it?"

A helpless whimper slid from his throat as his hips rocked against you once more, his erection pressing unmistakably through his trousers. The desperate sound he made sent heat pooling in your stomach, despite the fear and confusion swirling inside you.

“You smell so fucking… good” He let out another ragged noise, and you reached out instinctively, resting a trembling hand against his cheek. His skin burned under your palm. He looked almost delirious, golden eyes flickering between human fear and something more feral.

You’d spent the past week reading about werewolves and their ruts, absorbing every detail you could from hidden texts and restricted tomes. You knew that once the rut hit, the urge for physical intimacy would become nearly unbearable. You also knew it was dangerous for you to be near him like this.

But as you stared at your best friend, trembling and half-broken with need, your heart clenched. You couldn’t just walk away.

“Jisung,” you said carefully, your voice shaking. “Did you take the Wolfsbane?”

He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know… I think I didn’t—” He broke off, a pained groan tearing from his throat as he rocked forward, hips searching for contact.

Swallowing hard, you remembered the passage in the book. How an afflicted werewolf needed a trusted partner to help ease the rut’s consuming effects.

It felt like your heart was in your mouth.

“You—” he gasped, voice faint. “You can’t stay. I—if I hurt you—”

You cupped his other cheek, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “You won’t,” you promised, though a part of you wasn’t entirely sure.

“Y/N,” he groaned, hips rutting forward again. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now, I swear—”

“I want to help you,” you said softly. “Please let me.”

His pupils dilated immediately and he let out a shaky breath, leaning into your touch. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming but despite your own hammering pulse, you didn’t draw away.

Because somewhere deep inside, you knew this was the only way to help him.

His grip on your waist was bruising, claws just barely retracted. His body was sweat-slicked and trembling, panting through gritted teeth as he pressed himself flush against you.

“I warned you,” he growled, voice shaky with restraint. “I told you to leave.”

You pulled him closer up and felt how he shook under your touch. “You can have me”

He didn’t wait another second. Your clothes were suddenly nothing, the fabric ripped under his desperate hands. Your skin was bare before you had time to register the sound of seams tearing. His mouth found your throat instinctively, tongue tasting your pulse before he bit.

You winced at the pain and his hips rutted against your thigh, hard and frantic, his cock felt thick and straining through his trousers. He was whining soft, broken sounds between gritted teeth, like each second without you wrapped around him was tearing him open from the inside.

“You smell—fuck, you smell so good,” he gasped into your skin, humping against you harder. “I need—i need to be inside, I need—”

You spread your legs, breathless, head spinning from the force of it all. “I’m here, Sungie.”

He didn’t prep you, didn’t pause for a second—just spit on his fingers and shoved them inside you hard and fast. Stretching you wide while whispering obscenities you couldn’t even make sense of.

“So fucking tight—fuck—gonna ruin you—fill you up, knot you, make sure no one else ever gets to—”

You didn’t even realize he’d taken his cock out until you felt him line himself up with shaking hands, barely getting the tip in before he snapped his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out and Jisung growled, slamming his hand beside your head, forehead pressed to yours, golden eyes glazed over.

“Mine,” he gasped. “Fuck… Mine. Mine. Mine—”

Suddenly, he shoved your knees up, pressing them tightly to your chest as his hips snapped forward, rough and desperate. You cried out sharply, feeling stretched too wide, overwhelmed by the rawness of him filling you again and again. His teeth dragged harshly against your throat, marking you repeatedly, as if he couldn't bear the thought of anyone mistaking you for anything but his.

You sobbed beneath him, your body caught between pain and a pleasure that blurred into something unbearable. Part of you wondered numbly if it would have changed anything if you'd told Jisung it was your first time—if it would've made him pause, slow down, be gentler. But you knew it wouldn't have mattered. He wasn't fully himself, and even if some part of him wanted to stop, he couldn't.

You felt it then, the swelling at his base. His knot beginning to expand, stretching your entrance wider with every punishing thrust. Panic mixed with need, your mind spinning as your walls spasmed around him.

“Gonna knot you,” he panted desperately, voice breaking as he slammed into you harder. “Can’t stop—fuck, you feel so perfect—gonna keep you like this forever—”

He thrust deeply one last time and locked himself inside, his knot catching and sealing him within you. You screamed, body jolting at the sudden fullness, the pressure almost too much. He shuddered violently above you, his cum flooding hot and deep, twitching through aftershocks that made your thighs quake and your vision blur.

You barely had time to gasp a breath before his knot began to soften, still pulsing faintly inside you. But Jisung didn’t stop, not even for a moment.

Before you could recover, he flipped you roughly onto your stomach, the mattress creaking sharply beneath you. He pressed into you again slowly, his breathing ragged and hot against your sweat-damp back. You trembled uncontrollably beneath him, arms shaking, barely able to keep yourself upright.

“Jisung, wait—” your voice broke, a thin plea lost beneath the rasp of his breath.

But he didn’t acknowledge your begging. One hand pinned your hip firmly, the other flattened between your shoulders, forcing you down into the sheets until you couldn’t move. You felt the ache building again as he pushed inside you once more, pushing mercilessly against your walls. Your thighs burned, your body instinctively arching to escape the overstimulation, but he wouldn’t allow you to shift away.

The moment he felt how wet and open you still were, the last shred of his restraint shattered. His rhythm turned frantic, his hips slamming into yours so fiercely the air was knocked from your lungs with every brutal stroke.

You moaned helplessly into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as your body surrendered. He wasn’t speaking now, wasn’t asking if you were okay—all you heard were harsh, ragged sounds torn from his throat, desperate noises so primal and raw they made your skin burn hot with shameful need.

His movements grew rougher, your bodies locked in a rhythm that erased any remaining thought from your mind. Your senses narrowed until all you knew was the brutal heat between your thighs and the ache of him stretching you. You took every thrust, helpless to stop, unable to do anything but accept the ruthless force of his body on yours.

His teeth bit sharply into the back of your shoulder, fangs scraping against your skin until you gasped in pain. His grip tightened, fingers bruising your hips as he pounded into you without mercy, branding you with every brutal snap of his hips.

With one final thrust, he buried himself impossibly deep, and you felt the knot swell again—filling you, stretching you beyond limits as he locked himself inside with a guttural growl.

His whole body jerked, cock throbbing violently as he spilled into you again. It was so much cum it leaked around the thick swell of his knot, your walls clenching tight, helpless to hold it all in. He held still, panting, hands trembling as he stayed buried in you, locked and pulsing.

He stayed inside you for what felt like forever, body trembling from release, your muscles fluttering weakly around him. His breath came in uneven bursts against your skin.

But even then, you could feel that he wasn’t finished.

He rutted again and let out a feral sound low in his throat, one that sounded more like a growl than a moan. And then he was moving just enough to slip free with a wet sound that made both of you shiver.

His hands moved to your waist, lifting you. He dragged you onto your back again, spread your thighs wide, and settled between them with a single-minded hunger that made your whole body pulse with anticipation.

His gaze dropped the moment he pushed back in and he groaned, eyes locked between your legs with an obsessive intensity. Your walls clenched around him as his cock slid in with zero resistance. His breath hitched, and he stopped for just a second.

His mouth parted when he saw the shape of him pushing inside you, deep enough to press against your belly, the bulge rising with every brutal thrust. He pressed his palm against it and let out a wrecked moan. The sight of his cock inside your belly driving him halfway mad.

“Fuck,” he choked. “That's me? inside you?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a gasp as he rocked into you harder.

He watched your stomach move with every stroke, how your cunt took all of him, again and again, walls fluttering around his cock like your body was desperate to keep him.

He was mesmerized. Staring with wide, hungry eyes as hips snapped forward with more force. One of his hands grabbed your thigh, the other pressing to your lower belly as he kept thrusting, rougher this time, watching the bulge disappear and return with every movement.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “you’re made for this—fuck—you’re made to take me like this—”

You could feel the knot swelling again, dragging harder against your soaked, overstretched entrance, until your legs started to shake. He braced both hands on either side of your hips, growled deep in his chest, and slammed forward. The knot forced its way in with a brutal stretch that made your eyes roll back.

His whole body jerked, head falling forward as a strangled moan left his lips. His cock twitched violently, knot fully buried, and you felt the rush of his cum flooding you again, deeper this time, deeper than anything had ever been.

His eyes were still locked on your lower stomach, wide and blown out with awe. The bulge in your belly pulsed with each twitch of his knot, round and taut with the sheer amount he’d pumped into you

“Look at that,” he whispered, almost dazed. “Look what I did to you.”

He reached out again, fingertips brushing against your stomach and the possessiveness in his voice made your body clench all over again.

“I'm inside you.”

He blinked, his eyes flickering to your face as he really looked at you for the first time.

You were trembling, bruised, and barely able to keep your legs from shaking. Your eyes were glassy, your body completely spent beneath him. And something in him seemed to return.

His hands gentled against your skin as he eased out of you slowly, knot slipping free with an aching stretch that made you whimper. You gasped at the sudden emptiness, but he didn’t leave you long. He kissed your thigh once, softly, as if in apology, and then lowered himself between your legs.

You barely had the strength to lift your head. “Ji—what are you doing…”

But he didn’t answer. Just held your thighs gently in his hands, spreading them open again but this time with reverence, not greed.

Then he licked a single, languid drag of his tongue that made your hips twitch weakly. He groaned low in his throat at the taste of you.

You whimpered, the oversensitivity almost unbearable but his hands kept you grounded. Thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, mouth moving with an aching kind of care. He sucked gently at your clit, tongue flicking in slow passes, easing the pain into something warmer.

You threaded trembling fingers through his hair, tugging gently.

His mouth grew more desperate by the second, tongue dipping lower and teasing at your entrance where his cum was still leaking out. He groaned at the taste, sucking softly, messy and slow, like he couldn’t get enough of it. Of you.

He buried himself there with his nose pressed into your skin, mouth drinking you. You let out a soft cry, hips twitching against his face, and his grip tightened just enough to hold you still as he circled your clit again, tender but insistent.

“I need to make it better,” he murmured into your skin, voice hoarse and reverent. “Let me—please…”

You didn’t answer but the way your legs shook around his head told him everything. So he stayed there—worshipping the mess he made, tongue moving slow and devoted, lips soft and endless. He lost himself in you.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the pain.

It was deep and dull at first, but the moment you shifted, it sharpened—radiating through your thighs, your lower back, your hips. Your skin felt hot, stretched too thin in some places, sore in others. You winced as you tried to sit up, limbs trembling slightly from the effort.

Jisung was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from you, his robes wrapped tightly around him. His shoulders were stiff.

You swallowed through the dryness in your throat. “Ji?”

He stood up without looking at you.

You watched him move across the room, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He picked up your clothes from the floor—torn in multiple places, seams ripped from how desperately he’d removed them the night before—and with a flick of his wand, the fabric mended itself slowly in the air.

“Get dressed,” he said flatly. “I’ll help you get back to the hospital wing.”

You blinked. “Back to the—what?”

He turned then, just slightly, just enough to look at you briefly. His eyes were guilt-ridden.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “I can see it.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

“And I’m going to Snape later,” he continued. “I’m going to ask him to relocate me during the next cycle. Somewhere far from here.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Jisung, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he snapped. “Because this—” He gestured toward you, his voice colder now. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Your heart twisted.

“I told you to stay away,” he said. “And I didn’t mean that to sound cruel. I meant it because I knew I’d lose control. And I did… and now look at you.”

He walked toward the cracked mirror, stopped a few feet in front of it, and gestured for you to come closer.

You hesitated.

“Please,” he said, quieter now. “Just… come here.”

You stood slowly, legs shaking slightly under your weight. You wrapped yourself in the blanket and stepped toward the mirror.

Your reflection made your breath hitch.

There were bruises on your neck, angry bite marks along your collarbone and shoulder. Finger-shaped welts on your hips and thighs. Your lips were still swollen from where he’d kissed you too hard. Some of the marks looked deep. Others looked like they might last days, if not longer.

“I didn’t know I was capable of this,” Jisung said behind you, voice cracking.

You looked at him through the mirror. His face was pale, jaw tight.

“I’d rather suffer the worst pain a rut could ever give me than ever touch you like that again.”

“Jisung—”

“No,” he cut you off. “You don’t understand. I didn’t even care if I was hurting you. I couldn’t think. You could’ve cried, begged, screamed, and I still would’ve—”

He stopped himself, breathing hard.

“I’m not going to let this happen again. I’ll talk to Snape. I’ll take whatever dose he gives me. I’ll lock myself somewhere no one can find me.”

You stepped forward, reaching for him, but he flinched when your fingers brushed his sleeve.

He turned his face away. “Get dressed,” he said quietly. “Please.”

There was nothing else to say.

He handed you your clothes without looking at you again. When you were dressed, he silently moved to support your weight down the stairs and back toward the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.

Your legs ached with every step. Jisung’s arm was around your waist, holding you upright as you moved slowly down the path back to the castle, your freshly repaired clothes felt stiff and uncomfortable against your bruised skin.

You hadn’t said a word since leaving the Shrieking Shack. Neither had he.

His touch wasn’t warm, or comforting. It was careful and detached. Like he was holding you not out of care, but out of obligation.

Your heart hurt more than your body. You two had been close for so long. Even after he’d changed, after he came back cold, distant, guarded you still felt more warmth than right now. Like he was reaching for you even when he didn’t realize it. So seeing him acting like this was almost unbearable.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t rejection or shame. That he was just protecting you, trying to keep you safe. But it still felt like being left behind.

You didn’t even realize how close you were to the castle until the path curved and the first archway of the courtyard came into view.

“Park.”

Professor Snape stood just beyond the arch, his arms crossed over his chest, black robes billowing faintly in the wind. His gaze flicked over the two of you quickly. His eyes dropped to the way you leaned into Jisung, to your limp. And then he saw the bruises. Even with your collar pulled tight, they peeked out, the edges of bite marks and the faint discoloration just beneath the skin.

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“Come here,” he said, voice cold.

Jisung didn’t move.

Snape stepped forward. “Now.”

You felt the panic rise in your chest immediately.

“Professor, wait. It’s not—he didn’t—” You reached for his sleeve. “He didn’t force me.”

Snape’s eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment, you almost stepped back. His expression didn’t change, but something in it darkened like your words had confirmed what he already suspected.

“I didn’t ask what he did,” he said sharply. “I asked him to come with me.”

Jisung’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful. He didn’t say a word, just let go of you carefully.

You nearly stumbled from the sudden absence of support.

“I can explain—” you tried again, but Snape raised a hand.

“This is not your responsibility,” he said, more quietly this time. “And you are in no condition to be standing here arguing.”

He turned to Jisung once more.

“Park. Now.”

And without looking back at you, Jisung walked toward him.

You stood there trembling, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill settling deeper into your bones now that he was gone.

Jisung stood in the doorway of Snape’s office with his head hung low. The potions master had stepped away to ensure you made it safely to the hospital wing and to explain the delicate situation to the healers. Minutes stretched on endlessly until finally, he heard the sharp clack of Snape's shoes approaching.

“Go in,” Snape ordered coldly, gesturing toward the open door. The Hufflepuff obeyed silently.

Snape shut the office door behind them with a flick of his wand. The room smelled of ash and damp parchment, but Jisung could still smell your scent stronger than anything else; it clung to him, saturated his senses.

“Sit,” Snape instructed curtly.

Jisung lowered himself into the hard chair opposite the desk, shoulders slumped. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Snape’s eyes.

“How is she?” he asked softly, voice raw.

“She’ll live,” Snape replied coolly, summoning a few vials and herbs onto his desk. “Madam Pomfrey is treating the bruising you saw fit to decorate her with.”

Jisung’s head snapped up, panic clear in his gaze. “I—I bit her. More than once.” The admission spilled out before he could stop himself, heavy with guilt and shame. “Does that mean—”

“No,” Snape interjected sharply. “The curse passes only when the biter is fully transformed under the full moon. You were saturated with Wolfsbane, half-shifted but not contagious.”

Jisung exhaled sharply, gripping the chair arms until his knuckles whitened. Relief flooded him, but Snape wasn't done.

“However,” Snape continued, voice lowering dangerously, “do not delude yourself into believing she was truly safe. Had you missed even one additional dose, or had the moon been at its peak, she would already share your curse, and that responsibility would lie entirely with you.”

Jisung flinched. “I know. I—I keep hurting her. I keep losing control, and no matter how much I try to stay away, something just…pulls me back. I don’t know how to stop it.”

Snape regarded him for a moment in silence before speaking, voice softer but still edged with steel. “That’s because it is no longer a matter of mere control. You've complicated things significantly, Park.”

Jisung looked up slowly, eyes wide with apprehension. “What do you mean?”

Snape folded his hands on the desk, expression severe yet composed. “By marking her during your rut, you've effectively chosen Miss Y/N as your mate.”

Jisung’s breath caught, his throat tightening painfully. "Mate? I—what does that mean?”

“It means,” Snape explained, calm and clinical, “that your wolf has identified her specifically as an anchor. Such mate-bonds occur most commonly during adolescence, particularly around a first transformation. It's why you find yourself physically unable to stay away for long.”

Jisung swallowed, panic bubbling up again. “Is it dangerous? Will I hurt her more?”

“Not inherently,” Snape said evenly. “But the bond is permanent, Park. Your wolf will always crave her presence—most intensely near the full moon or during rut. Ignoring it will only worsen your aggression.”

“Then…what can I do?” Jisung asked desperately. “How do I keep her safe?”

“You must never skip your Wolfsbane. Take it every evening at sundown and report to me regularly so we can adjust dosage accordingly. Furthermore, and pay attention to this, you must manage your bond carefully. You cannot fight it entirely so stay close to her but with awareness, not indulgence. ”

Jisung flushed deeply. “But… after everything I've done, how can I risk being close to her again?”

Snape leaned forward slightly. “The greater risk lies in distance, your instincts will spiral. Proximity is crucial but do not confuse instinct for entitlement.”

Jisung nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling heavily onto his shoulders. “Does she…know?”

“She soon will,” Snape replied quietly. “But it is essential she hears it clearly from you. Be honest and thorough. Do you understand me, Park?”

“Yes, sir,” Jisung whispered. “I won't fail her again.”

Snape regarded him a moment longer, then produced a fresh vial of Wolfsbane, setting it decisively on the desk. “Good. Now leave before I decide silence is insufficient punishment.”

Jisung rose unsteadily, clutching the vial to his chest. He walked slowly to the threshold, feeling every step heavy with responsibility. Just as he reached the door, Snape spoke once more.

“Park, if you truly care for the girl, learn how to live with the wolf without letting it consume her.”

The door sealed shut behind him, and Jisung stood for a long moment in the corridor, the potion trembling slightly in his grip.

You lay on one of the hospital wing beds, half-covered by a sterile white blanket, the curtains drawn tightly around you. The air was too quiet, every sound outside muted by the silencing charm Madam Pomfrey had casted when she left you there.

You picked at your cuticles absently, barely noticing the sting where skin peeled back. Your hospital gown gaped at the shoulders, revealing the bruises along your arms in the shape of fingers. Jisung’s fingers. You should’ve been horrified and maybe you were a little bit but there was something strangely comforting about them. His hands had held you through something painful, but they had held you. It made you feel... needed. Like you mattered to him again.

Your thoughts scattered when the curtain parted and Madam Pomfrey stepped through, her face tight with concern. Behind her came Professor Sprout, head of Hufflepuff house. And just before the curtain fell shut again, you caught the edge of black robes retreating down the ward—Snape. He’d definitely told them everything.

You bit your lip and dropped your gaze.

“Hello, dear,” Pomfrey said gently. When you didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “To begin with, I’d like to offer you a calming draught for the pain.”

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, though your whole body ached. You didn’t want to take anything that would fog your thoughts. You needed to stay alert to explain the situation.

“Well…” she murmured, unconvinced. “Then I’ll start with the surface wounds.”

She gestured toward the scratches and crescent-shaped bites along your shoulders and collarbone. You stayed still while she worked.

Professor Sprout stepped closer, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Miss Y/LN,” she began carefully. “There’s no need to be guarded with us. We’re not here to punish you… but there are a few matters that need to be addressed.”

You nodded wordlessly, eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the bedsheet.

“Madam Pomfrey will heal what she can,” she continued. “But the bite marks will take several days to fade. Magical injuries of this nature are… stubborn.”

“I understand,” you murmured. The marks didn’t bother you.

Professor Sprout hesitated, color rising faintly in her cheeks. “We also understand that Mr. Park was… in a heightened state when you were intimate.”

You saw her flinch slightly at her own words and you almost pitied her. There was no elegant way to discuss something like this. You nodded once.

“Am I correct to assume no contraceptive charms were cast beforehand?”

Your brows pulled together. You’d never studied contraceptive spells properly. You knew they were meant to be used before any intimacy though and given how everything had happened there hadn’t been time for anything like that. You shook your head slowly.

Professor Sprout exchanged a brief look with Pomfrey before exhaling slowly. “Very well. Madam Pomfrey will now perform a diagnostic charm to ensure no unintended consequences arise from your… encounter.”

You nodded again, tending slight when Madam Pomfrey raised her wand and murmured a spell. A pale lavender glow swept across your lower abdomen then faded without a flicker.

“No conception,” she announced softly. “Everything is normal.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped out and you noticed Professor Sprout’s shoulders ease a fraction.

Pomfrey lowered her wand, relief softening the stern set of her mouth. Then she hesitated, studying you over the rims of her spectacles.

“Dear, may I give you some practical advice?”

You nodded, cheeks still furiously warm.

She lifted her wand again. “There are several reliable contraceptive charms you can use. The simplest is Praeventa Conceptum. It’s quick, painless, and lasts a whole day.”

Professor Sprout cleared her throat delicately but said nothing.

Pomfrey demonstrated. She pointed her wand at her own midsection. “Circle once, clockwise, like so.” A pale halo of light traced the motion. “Then speak Prae‑ven‑ta Con‑cep‑tum. Stress on the second syllable of each word. The charm settles just beneath the skin and it’s a mild warming sensation, nothing more.”

You mimicked the motion in the air, whispering the incantation under your breath. A faint peach‑colored glow sparked at your wand tip and faded.

“Good,” Madam Pomfrey said, satisfied. “Remember, the charm must be renewed daily, and it is far more reliable when cast prior to any sexual activity.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, both grateful and faintly embarrassed.

Professor Sprout offered a small, reassuring nod. “Better to learn here than under far less ideal circumstances.”

Pomfrey tucked her wand away. “Knowledge is its own protection.”

“Again, you are not at fault for any of this,” Sprout added, voice firm. “Last night’s events were influenced by circumstances far beyond your control.”

“Is he okay?” you asked softly.

A shadow crossed the professor’s eyes. “Mr. Park is with Professor Snape now, discussing the seriousness of missing future doses of Wolfsbane.” Her tone suggested ‘discussion’ meant something closer to a dressing‑down. “He’ll be monitored closely.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” you said, fingers worrying the edge of the sheet. “I followed him there, fully aware of the consequences. I just wanted to help… and I don’t regret it.”

Madam Pomfrey’s brows knit, but it was Professor Sprout who spoke first. “Miss Y/L/N, no one here is assigning blame. What matters now is that both of you are safe, and that Mr. Park remains diligent with his potion.” Her gaze softened. “Your loyalty is commendable, but your well‑being is equally important.”

You nodded, swallowing the dryness in your throat. “I know.”

Pomfrey dabbed a final line of salve across the deepest bite mark. “You’ll be sore,” she said gently, “but you’ll heal. Rest here tonight, at least until breakfast.”

The curtain swayed gently as they left you alone, and you stared ahead thinking only of the warmth of his breath, the panic in his voice, and the way he’d whispered “you shouldn’t have come” like it had broken him to see you there.

But you would do it all again.

Madam Pomfrey cleared you for release just after sunrise. You dressed in silence, fingers brushing over the gauze she’d left on the deepest bite. She offered one last vial of bruise balm and a faint smile before sending you off.

It was Saturday, thank Merlin. There were no classes so most students were still sleeping. You were relieved as you stepped out of the hospital wing, and saw nothing but an empty corridor.

Though still a strange, hollow pressure settled in your chest. You missed Jisung.

You weren’t sure if it was the residual ache in your muscles, or the fading imprints he’d left on your body, but you felt the absence of him like it was stitched into your skin. You needed to see him.

And then, as if your thoughts conjured him, he appeared.

Jisung was standing at the other end of the hallway, just beyond the shaft of sunlight spilling in from the tall windows. He looked stunned to see you, like he hadn’t meant to be here, like his feet had brought him without his permission.

You hesitated.

Snape had surely warned him again—more strictly this time—to stay away from you. But still, Jisung took a step forward and you followed.

You met in the middle of the hallway, stopping close enough that your chests nearly touched. It wasn’t until you were standing in front of him that you realized how much he’d changed. He was taller now, just slightly, but it was enough to notice. His shoulders were broader, his presence heavier, like the wolf was still there beneath the surface.

He stared at the bruises along your collarbone, what little was visible through the open neck of your shirt. You saw the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered with guilt.

“Are you—?”

“I’m okay, Ji,” you cut in gently, offering him a small smile. “Perfectly fine.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He exhaled shakily, and his hand reached for yours tentatively. You almost gasped at the contact. It had been so long since he touched you first. His fingers threaded through yours like they were remembering how easily he did this all the time before.

“You don’t have to be,” you whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your other hand rose instinctively, brushing against his cheek. He leaned into the touch immediately, eyes fluttering closed.

“Did Snape scold you too badly?” you asked, voice soft and teasing.

Jisung cracked a smile. “Yeah, I have to clean the Quidditch stands every day this winter without magic.”

Your eyes widened. “Seriously?”

He laughed. “I’m joking.” He paused, eyes searching yours. “Though honestly… I think I deserved one.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “You’ve been punished enough.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at you like he was still trying to figure out if this moment was real.

The corridor felt suddenly too small, so without speaking, you guided Jisung toward the nearest side door that opened onto the courtyard. The November air was sharp, but sunlight spilled across damp flagstones and carried the faint scent of wet leaves.

You walked side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then. After a long stretch of silence, Jisung spoke in a quiet voice. “Do you remember fifth year… when we hid in Greenhouse Three during that thunderstorm?”

You smiled. “And you spent the whole time pretending not to be scared of lightning.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I kept thinking about that last night. How you held my hand and told me storms always pass.” He glanced at you, guilt and wonder warring in his eyes. “I wanted to go there initially. But then I smelled you, and I went to the Shack instead, thinking you wouldn’t follow me into a place like that.” He laughed bitterly. “I should’ve known better.”

The admission loosened something tight inside you. “Storms pass, Ji,” you said. “Even the ones inside us.”

He stopped, turning to face you fully. “Does this one? Because I can still feel it.” His gaze flicked to your neck where a bruise peeked above your collar. “I feel every mark I left on you like they’re on my body, too.”

You lifted a hand to his chest, just over his heartbeat. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He looked at you, like he almost believed it, but the tension in his jaw said otherwise. “Snape told me… the biting… it wasn’t random.” he dropped his gaze and bit his lip nervously “I… marked you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t interrupt.

“He said you’re my mate now,” he said quietly. “That the wolf chose you. That’s why I can’t stay away. Why I can’t stop smelling you, hearing you even when you’re not around. Why it feels like something’s ripping open in my chest when I try to stay away.”

You stood still, eyes locked on his.

“He said I shouldn’t fight it. That if I try to pretend the bond doesn’t exist, it’ll make it worse. That I just have to be… careful and gentle with it. With you.” He exhaled, voice tight. “He said if I really want to protect you, I have to learn how to live with the wolf, not push it down.”

“What did you say?” you finally asked.

“I told him I’d do anything to keep you safe,” Jisung said. “And I meant it.”

You reached for his hand and he let you take it, though his fingers twitched.

“The bond… is that why you came to the Hospital Wing corridor?”

He nodded, shame creasing his brow. “I woke up and… I was already walking there. I didn’t think.”

“Then next time, think and tell me,” you said. “We’ll handle the need together. On our terms.”

He swallowed. “Snape says if I miss a potion… you’ll be in danger first.”

“Then you won’t miss it.” Your tone brooked no argument. “Even if I have to brew it myself.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips. “You’d sit through that smell?”

“I’d sit through worse.” Your thumb stroked over his knuckles.

He exhaled shakily, some of the tension easing, though the gold still flickered behind his eyes like embers. “I’m not safe yet,” he warned.

“That’s okay,” you answered, stepping close until your foreheads touched. “I’m not scared.”

For a while you simply stood in the sunlight, listening to the distant chatter of students who knew nothing about storms or wolves or the way a heartbeat could echo in someone else’s chest. His hand tightened around yours, and instinctively you looked up, meeting his gaze.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, hesitation clear in the tense line of his jaw. Before he could withdraw, before he could overthink it, you stepped on your tippy toes and pressed your mouth gently to his.

It began softly, a cautious brush of lips but it escalated quickly. His mouth opened hungrily, tongue sliding against your teeth, and you gave in with a low sigh. His hand found your waist first, pulling you closer, then slid up to cup the back of your neck, angling your head so he could deepen the kiss. Your fingers tangled through his messy hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing forward instinctively until you were pinned softly against the rough stone wall.

“I can’t lose control again,” he murmured urgently against your lips but still he kissed you harder, as if he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to.

“You won’t,” you promised breathlessly. “This is fine.”

His hips snapped forward again, pressing you tighter to the stone behind you. You knew you were out in the open—anyone could pass by and see—but caution melted beneath the heat of his mouth trailing down your neck. The dull soreness from the previous night faded to a faint pulse, replaced by something hungrier, as he sucked gently at your throat.

“Ji—” your voice shook softly, hands gripping his robes tighter. “You’re… you’re not still in rut, right?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “No. No, I don’t think so,” he panted roughly, almost like he was convincing himself too. “It doesn’t feel the same as last night, but—” He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to yours “I want you. Fuck, I want you so bad—I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you.”

A helpless moan escaped you at the raw admission, your pulse quickening under his mouth when he kissed you again—softer now, more controlled, as if he was proving to himself he could do this without falling apart.

“I won’t let myself hurt you again,” he breathed, lips brushing your skin between each whispered word. “But you need to tell me if it’s too much”

You shook your head slightly, pulling him closer still, holding him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. “Ji, nothing’s ever too much with you. Just stay here… stay with me.”

He shivered, his breath hitching as he kissed you again, trying to ground himself in the feeling of you rather than the wild instinct still whispering beneath his skin.

Someone laughed nearby, close enough to remind you exactly where you were.

Jisung froze against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a soft groan. “We need to move,” he muttered “If anyone sees—”

“Then come on,” you said grabbing his hand.

He followed without another word.

You tugged him along a narrow side-corridor, the secret path behind the Herbology wing that only upper years and rule-breakers bothered with. Past the old broom cupboard, beyond the faded tapestry of a witch laughing drunkenly into her wine goblet, your footsteps were quiet, your pulse anything but. It hammered through your veins, in your fingertips, your throat—everywhere Jisung’s hand stayed locked in yours.

Soon you stood outside Greenhouse Three, abandoned since the storm in your fifth year shattered half its glass panes. Now, ivy and moss crawled along the cracked glass walls, and no one had bothered to repair it, leaving the space forgotten and overgrown.

You slipped through the splintered wooden door, pulling him gently behind you.

Inside, sunlight spilled across broken tables and tangled greenery. Plants had grown wild, illing the air with the scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and something faintly sweet. You felt your chest tighten from the memory of your younger selves hiding here together.

Jisung remembered it too, you could see it in the softening of his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed slightly. He caught your lips again, slow at first, but deepening fast, pulling a moan from your throat. Your hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him in until you tasted him fully.

“I want you inside me,” you whispered against his mouth, fingers trembling as you tugged at his clothes again.

He groaned softly, forehead pressing to yours. “Say it again.”

Your breath shuddered. “I want you to fuck me, Ji. Right now.”

He kissed you once more, messy and desperate, before stepping back just enough to undo his belt. His hands shook slightly, desire evident as he freed his cock—already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip as he positioned himself between your thighs. You lay back on one of the old greenhouse tables, cool beneath your skin but sturdy enough for this.

Jisung dragged the head of his cock through your folds, groaning openly at how wet you were, coating him perfectly. He pressed gently against your entrance, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip, thumb stroking tenderly.

He met your gaze, eyes filled with heated care. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, voice thick with want but edged with concern.

You cupped his cheek softly, eyes locked on his. “It’s perfect. It’s always perfect with you…Just fuck me, Ji.”

And he did.

The first thrust was slow, a deep stretch that pulled a gasp straight from your lungs. His cock slid in inch by inch until he bottomed out, and then he just held there, buried inside, groaning like he’d finally found home.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You’re so tight, you feel so—shit—you feel like you were made for me.”

You clenched around him involuntarily and he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder as he fought the urge to move too fast.

But control didn’t last long. His hips started to roll into yours, picking up a rhythm that got harder with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping echoed off the glass, mixed with your breathy moans and the desperate groans breaking in his throat.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, dragging him deeper.

“Yes, yes—right there—don’t stop,” you gasped.

“I won’t,” he growled. “I can’t.”

He drove into you harder, the table creaking beneath you as he pounded into your soaked cunt like he was trying to carve the shape of himself into your body. You arched under him, nails raking down his back through his shirt, gasping every time he bottomed out and hit that spot that made your toes curl.

He pulled out just enough to watch his cock slide back in.

“Look at this,” he breathed, one hand dragging down to your stomach, pressing just above your pubic bone. “Can feel myself right here.”

You could tell Jisung was obsessed with seeing himself inside you, it made his thrusts hit deeper just so he could feel himself in your lower belly. You moaned brokenly, the pressure making it worse, the angle driving you insane.

“Fuck, fuck—I’m gonna come,” you choked. “Don’t stop—please, don’t—”

“I want to feel it,” he growled. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

Your body clamped down around him, walls spasming hard enough to make Jisung curse violently. He fucked you through it, rough thrusts stuttering until his own orgasm took him.

With a strangled groan, he slammed into you one last time and came hard, cock twitching deep inside you as he filled you again with thick spurts that made your pussy slicker than before.

He collapsed over you, forehead buried in your neck, both of you panting like you’d run for miles. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching with aftershocks.

You dragged your fingers through his hair gently, voice hoarse. “That didn’t feel like your rut.”

He laughed, breathless. “No. That was just me.”

“Are you okay?” he whispered into your neck, voice raw and reverent. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head slowly. “You didn’t. You were perfect.”

He sighed against your skin, relief loosening his shoulders. Then, gently—so, so gently—he pulled out, groaning as his cock slipped free from your cunt. The mess between your legs was immediate, warmth spilling down your thighs, and you whimpered at the sensitivity.

“I got you,” he murmured, already reaching for his wand.

He muttered a quiet cleaning charm, careful not to touch you until you nodded. His hand brushed your knee, then your thigh, his fingers trembling as he whispered the incantation again and wiped away the rest with his robe sleeve.

When he was finished, he kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your stomach like it was part of some silent apology only your skin could understand.

“I’m gonna help you down,” he said, voice soft.

You nodded, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you slowly from the table and holding you close while your legs adjusted. You swayed once, but he caught you instantly.

“You’re shaky,” he murmured.

“You fucked my legs numb, Park,” you whispered, trying to smile, and he let out a breathy laugh, burying his face in your neck.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he mumbled. “Not even if Snape drags me out of your bed himself.”

You held onto him tighter, forehead pressed to his collarbone. “You better keep that promise.”

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I will,” he said. “Forever.”

He helped you sit on the edge of the table while he redressed—pulling his trousers back up, refastening his belt with one hand while the other stayed on your knee like he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching you. When he was done, he reached for your discarded panties, blushing faintly as he held them out to you.

“I should’ve asked first,” he said quietly. “Back then. In the shack.”

You looked up at him, heart aching. “You couldn’t. And I already told you… I don’t regret it.”

He nodded, but the guilt lingered behind his eyes. So you took his hand and laced your fingers through his again.

“We’ll be okay,” you said. “You and me.”

“We will,” he whispered.

You dressed in silence together, stealing soft glances and touches, letting the heat cool but not disappear. And when you finally stepped out of the greenhouse, blinking into the pale afternoon light, Jisung’s arm was already around your shoulders holding you close and as steady as the heartbeat you’d heard pounding through his chest not long ago.

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was quiet and certain.

Like a promise kept.

eeeeek feedback is greatly appreciated! i love reading ur comments and anons <3

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nanamiskentos · 7 months ago

Text

CREAM SODA — gojo satoru minors dni

prologue. → you've always known that gojo satoru is a real piece of work. arrogant, haughty. definitely has a praise kink for when people always call him 'the strongest.' but you're not even friends anymore, so this isn't any of your business...right?

what you didn't know is just how nasty he is, caging you in front of a mirror to lick away blood that he spilled from the veins of another man, one who dared to touch you.

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. secondary love interest in the form of a random oc, jjk lore being mildly twisted, history around the world, in-jujutsu universe (not an au), gojo going feral and batshit bonkers, rough séx, créampíe, INSANE glass-shattering jealousy, hate séx but only a bit, brééding, oràl (f. receiving). enemies to lovers, former friends, PLOT AND WORLD BUILDING BTW this isn't pẃp, éxhibitionísm, mirror séx, overstímulàtion, bratty reader but with a reason to be a hater, working together on a mission, mentions of alcohol and the crime underworld, DEFINITELY a bit dark because reader goes through emotional whiplash, descriptions of a fight and heavy injury, biting because i always somehow write gojo as a vampire type of freak?? the PRIME example of the miscommunication tropes and a case where neither person is in the right...nuance is your friend here, fake bodyguard!gojo, reader wears a dress + makeup for a formal event, angst, hurt, lashing out, some comfort and fluff

excerpt: part of you knows that you just aren't seeing those pearly gates of heaven.

you know there's going to be a bouncer at the doors, with your face printed on a photo titled: dni! fraud! liar! the world's most incompetent jujutsu sorcerer! would bounce into a criminal's bed at first chance!

word count. 22k!!!!!!! AURKAY!! song inspiration. cream soda — exo, is there someone else — the weeknd

a/n. spent way too long trying to learn ps for the header 😭 wrote this only because of the new grey suit gojo art <3 there's a secondary love interest in this for the ✨ plot ✨ but he's just a character i made up for this story. i would have used one of the other jjk men but it would made it into an au that i didn't feel like expanding on 😭

mp3.. feel that tinglin', that silky smooth cream, each swirl deepens the flavor, babe. baby, go dumb dumb!

"f-fuck, if i had known it felt like this, would've stuck my fingers in h-her a long time ago," gojo unfurls his fingers that only just separated from your fluttering pussy, and you can only watch.

equally mesmerised as his slender fingers are coated in strands of your slick, clinging to the curves of his short nails and coating them in a mirror sheen.

"have some c-class, gojo! you've lost your fuckin' mind -"

smack!

the dewy pads of his fingers have come down in a harsh arc, slapping right at your throbbing clit, and the jolt sends such an incredible crack of lightning down your spine that you're bucking your hips back up into his hand, back for more.

"some class? hah, 'm not able to do that now, baby," and you can feel gojo shudder under your touch, as you paw at the linen of his black dress shirt, raking your nails over his pectorals, "not when it f-feels like your pussy is about to, fuck, vacuum my fingers off."

"i swear to god, gojo. never say that corny shit a-again."

but it's hard to convey any sense of righteous fury like this. not when he's back to pushing the tapered ends of his long fingers in and out of your tight heat. each brush from the pads of his fingertips leaves you squealing, tugging at the snowy strands on the back of his head.

but gojo's teeth are sharp as they sink into the damp skin of your neck with an almost reverent press, easily snapping through the delicate flesh.

and you're squealing, shocked at how fucking bold gojo satoru has become, whining at how a sharp hiss pulses through you, and you can feel the warmth of blood beginning to bloom and pool over your collarbone.

"shit, 'm sorry, baby. so sorry. but i'm gonna need to see you l-like this," and suddenly gojo snaps away the pussydrunk babble falling from his candied mouth, and he's pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, and the air becomes hazy with the scent of an insanely expensive cologne, cedar and something...sweet, like cardamom.

still, there's hardly time to dissect that.

not when his thick arm is around your waist, handling you until you're smack bang between his legs, right between dark slacks. and gojo has shifted, so your back is flat against the hard planes of his chest, and your knuckles can only grip at the vanity sink. so your eyes can only see your naked torso twisting in the mirror.

"keep your eyes h-here, sweets. on us."

wait. you need to pause this tape, and do a little rewind.

how did you end up here, getting finger-fucked in a luxury five star suite? by the one man on earth that you swore that you could never stand?

(earlier that day)

the chandeliers had been shimmering overhead like stars, each fine crystal caught the golden light and scattered it across the grand lobby, and it was making your eyes flare and twitch.

this entire hotel felt frozen in time, some opulent relic of the roaring twenties, translated straight into tokyo's beating heart.

it was all so...pristine, and gaudy. and even the air carried that faint scent of hefty chanel no.5 and furniture polish.

but hey, this cheque wasn't coming out of your pocket, so who were you to complain?

that's how you rationalised it to yourself, right after a smartly-dressed waiter had floated past with a tray of shimmering champagne, one that you had easily helped yourself to.

ah, fuck it.

let the bill rack up on yaga's card. the least he could do after volunteering you to the higher ups for this mission.

a thick folder rested in your lap, clipped papers inside threatening to spill over from the sheer volume of information, that made your head spin.

of course, it was all courtesy of the jujutsu administration's obsession with drowning sorcerers in needless bureaucracy. and so you leafed through it idly, your thumb skimming over the crisp edges.

names, places, dates, all laid out in haphazard detail.

what a mess, it was a lot, but not enough to fill in the gaps that gnawed at you. the higher ups never gave you everything, fuck, they hated making it easy. still, your eyes caught onto key phrases.

urgent recall of cursed object. yes, that's why you were here. and not enjoying your saturday afternoon at home.

declaration of most expenses covered, in the instances of losing a limb. fair enough, insurance was honestly hell these days.

gain access to the auction being held by the voiceless. find their leader, naoki sato.

you knew of the voiceless, most higher grade jujutsu sorcerers did. a crime syndicate so shrouded in mystery. operating overseas for decades without so much as a cloudy whisper to the general public.

you made an unimpressed face as you kept reading, crinkling sheets under your fingers. smuggling, extortion, and a great deal of unexplained murders that would leave the cast of criminal minds scratching their heads.

how tasteless. still, you weren't the law, each to their own.

however, something made this case different. it made it your apparent problem.

for the voiceless were not your usual ragtag team of ruffian criminals, intent on scamming the vulnerable and sad.

their ranks comprised of wayward jujutsu sorcerers, with a hearty appetite for special artefacts, including cursed objects.

and now here they were, back on tokyo's soil, their hands covered with more than just the regular mundane crimes that could land a man behind bars for life.

you shifted in the plush, sinking seat. flipped to a page that had been practically painted in the most unforgiving shade of neon yellow highlighter.

ah, so this was the cursed object. raijin's amulet.

there was a grainy, slightly off-centre photograph clipped to the top of the document. the image was not much to look out, all washed colours and shadows that clearly didn't speak highly of the skills of whoever was behind the camera.

a circular pendant, a darkened forged creation of bronze and jade, covered in the soot of the ages gone by. spiralled with intricate carvings that reminded you of swirling storm clouds on a summer's evening.

and at it's centre sat a jagged shard of some precious golden stone, rough-hewn at the edges.

you were certain that this was the cause behind the distorted photography, for a modern camera was simply just not meant to capture such high levels of cursed energy.

there was even a faint shape of a dragon coiled around the pendant's edges, with its claws gripping the frame as if guarding it...or imprisoning it.

you weren't sure which. you're not sure you wanted to know which.

the accompanying notes were sparse, filled with frustrated gaps that left you squinting.

believed to be an ancient relic of the heian era. captured from the treasure hoard of the early medieval sorcerer, ryōmen sukuna, after his death.

huh, you hadn't heard that name since your school-days, back when you had poured over fraying history tomes, trying to pen the perfect essay to beat out suguru's flawless grades.

said to be imbued with the power of the lightning deity, raijin. capable of summoning and manipulating thunder, and disrupting various veils and curtains. last known location: the british museum, 1982. current location: unconfirmed.

clearly not an artefact meant to sit behind public museum glass.

dangerous in the wrong hands, and priceless in the hands of all. this must have been at least leagues above your current pay grade.

your thumb hovered over the corner of the page, bruising the white paper underneath as you scanned over the rest of the text, hoping and looking for a section that would be titled: and here's how to track raijin's amulet down and find it, with no bloodshed, and just in time for dinner!

no such luck.

"figures," you muttered under your breath, shoving the folder shut with a disgusted sigh.

this entire mission reeked of playing politics. for years, the voiceless had operated under the radar of other nations, disguising the tell-tale jujutsu as unexplained natural disasters and accidents.

there had been no intervention. they had been untouchable because no-one had the foreign jurisdiction, nor the guts to intervene.

but now, with the voiceless back on home soil, it seemed the higher ups wanted to make a statement. something like 'hey, we're actually useful at our jobs of protecting the jujutsu world!' and who better to clean up their mess than you and...

gojo satoru.

speak of the devil. you glanced up towards the grand entrance of the hotel lobby, as an unfortunate doorman stood by revolving, glass doors.

your...partner strode in, with dark sunglasses perched on his nose, and you scrunched your nose, taking in his appearance.

despite gojo's striking features that could render anyone speechless, he always looked like an odd bird of prey to you.

hawkish with creepy eyes, like a big snowy owl that had been hit by a curse, transforming him and forcing him to assimilate into the world of humans.

"i wasn't sure if you would come," you called, hoping that you masked the bitterness well that he had arrived, and significantly decreased the quality of your day.

"you wouldn't say that in bed," was gojo's snarky, automated reply, before he gave you a mildly embarrassed look, as if his immature mouth moved faster than his common sense did.

"still, sorry to keep you waiting," and gojo was crushing the heel of his boot into the cream marble of the floor, tapping it, all ridiculously long legs in the same uniform dress pants that you also donned, "traffic was hell."

"you don't even have a license," you grouched with a glare that you hoped was sharp enough to cleave time and space, but you stood up all the same, "and i wasn't waiting, i was working."

click! click!

gojo snapped his fingers, reaching for the folder stacked in your arms, "yes, of course you were, sweets," and he clicked his tongue, "now, why don't you hand that to me, and go check us in? i can look over what i need to do, let's get this done before night falls."

the audacity. the absolute nerve. how so typically gojo. swooping in at the last minute for kill shot, as usual, while others poured through all the paperwork, and did all the mental heavy lifting.

"you mean what we need to do, gojo," you snapped, your scowl deepening, "you're the late one. you go check us in."

gojo arched a pale brow, and the corner of his mouth twitched as though he wished he could just unwalk through those doors now, caught between amusement and exasperation. "you used to be so nice. what happened?"

"tsk! i think you happened, gojo. didn't ask to be stuck here with you."

"ah, so you do think about me, at least. but now you're jus' so difficult all the time."

"fuck off, i'm not difficult!" you shot back, before shrinking at the foul look that an elderly couple had directed your way, muttering something about how youth just didn't know how to act indoors, "i'm just saying it's not fair -"

"fine, whatever. don't care, sweets," gojo interrupted, already rolling big, blue eyes and turning away, "i'll go do it. you just stay nice and comfortable here."

and just like that, after comfortably raising your blood pressure (and heart rate), gojo satoru strode off towards the vast front desk, hands shoved lazily into his pockets, as though the two of you weren't on the clock to hunt down and find a dangerous criminal, his syndicate and a cursed object.

you trailed behind him, resisting the violent urge to grab his stupid sunglasses and fling them across the lobby. or stomp on them.

or just sit on them.

meanwhile, your eyes landed on the last and final page of the file, where a bright pink sticky note stood out sharply against the dull black and white of the case file.

final task: retrieve artefact. execute naoki sato on site. alternatively, bring in for execution.

the words were scrawled in thick, impatient strokes of a black marker. the kind that spoke more of efficiency, than humanity.

typical. there was just nothing that higher ups of the jujutsu world loved more than lopping the head off anyone that they deemed inconvenient. quick, clean and final.

still, this decision wasn't your business, not really.

you looked up to see gojo casually leaning against the counter, and his entire demeanour radiated smooth confidence as he spoke to the receptionist.

the sweet-looking woman had fumbled her worlds almost immediately, and she had dropped her pen twice. and he had caught it with an easy smile and wink that would have made you roll your eyes clean out of your skull.

you wanted to gag.

in less than a minute, gojo had the black keycard in his hand, spinning it between his fingers like some trophy as he sauntered towards the elevators.

you sighed as he stopped in front of you, extending the card with a flourish, like a knight presenting a courtier with a wreath of fresh-cut flowers.

"we're here for a mission, gojo. not to get it wet."

the tips of his ears flushed a bright, vibrant red. but his grin didn't falter as he huffed, and snatched the keycard back. leaving your arm floundering in the air before you dropped it.

"how crude. that's not even what i asked her. but still, you're welcome, sweets," he had said, stepping into the elevator and holding the door open for you with an exaggerated stretch of his arm.

"i didn't say thank you."

gojo smiled, tilting his head in that distracting, no. what? in that irritating manner of his, "no need. i could feel the gratitude radiating off you," and he's crossing his arms against his broad chest in a way that made the tailored uniform seem unfairly snug, "warms my heart."

"what if you don't have a heart?

for a fleeting moment, something unreadable flashed in gojo's eyes, irritation easily — but something unrecognisable, but he must have smoothed it away with practised ease. for that same cocky grin returned like clockwork, infuriatingly charming and just as insincere.

"what if it only beats for you?" he shot back, wiggling his fingers dramatically, and the motion was so over-the-top that it leaned closer to sleazy than heartstopping.

"now i'm worried, you need to get shoko to check that out. sounds like a serious health issue."

"your tender concern for my well-being is what keeps my blood pumping," and you know that gojo has little regard for the personal space for others, the way that the distance between you is closing once more, in a way that makes your own pulse flicker.

"please," and you take a deliberate step back to reclaim your own space, "if i wanted you gone, i wouldn't waste my time hoping for a heart attack. i'd do it myself."

gojo shrugs, tilting his head like you had just told him a sweet joke, "you're cute when you're homicidal, y'know that?"

"and you're insufferable all the time. we all have our talents."

gojo's barked out a laugh, and the sound is annoyingly genuine. it has you grinding your teeth together, making your jaw tight.

"hey, gojo," you swivel back to the towering bean-pole behind you, leaning against a steel bar.

"mhm, what?"

"i'll give you a hundred thousand yen if you keep your mouth shut during the entire elevator ride," you mutter, staring at the ground floor map, and up to where your suite was meant to be, hands fiddling over the buttons.

"deal."

you glance back, "that easy? clan money running low, gojo?"

gojo sighs, shaking his (ridiculous) snow-cone hair, "you have no idea. spent it all on a sweet talkin' girl who kicked me to the curb. even took the dog with her. who takes the fucking dog?"

despite yourself and your iron-clad resolution to not validate gojo satoru in anything, you snort, the first genuine laugh he's pulled out of you.

you choose not to notice how his eyes suddenly seem a shade brighter, as you snicker, "you're so ridiculous."

he doesn't reply as you press an index finger into the cool metal of the elevator button, and you turn around to see him sadly miming out his broke plight, with a sack of imaginary things over his shoulder, jingling the few coins he has.

tsk. you bite your lip to stop the corners of your lips lifting up to match gojo's own, wrinkling your nose in faux distaste as you spin back around, with gritted teeth. away from the mild bane of your existence.

true to his word, and shockingly so, gojo stayed silent through the elevator ride. mostly.

you caught his restless sighs, the shuffle of his ridiculously polished boots, and the occasional sharp intake of breath like he was simply dying to say something, but kept biting it back.

good. for once, it was nice to make gojo satoru stew.

the elevator dinged, and you had already stepped out, planning to ditch him in the suite, but clearly, gojo had other ideas.

"alright, sweets," he said, hand extended, "i won the bet. hundred thousand yen, i can take a cheque too."

you stopped short, glaring at his outstretched (sculpted) hand.

"right now? just as we're gonna plan how to catch a criminal? can't we do a pay later type of thing?"

gojo's responding grin was wolfish, and his voice dropped enough to make you bristle, "sure. pay later, with a kiss."

your groan must have echoed down the hall, and without thinking, you shoved past him. your shoulder colliding with his chest in a way that was deeply satisfying.

"my kisses," you snapped, refusing to look back at him, "are worth way more than a hundred thousand yen."

gojo didn't reply immediately, no. and for a second, you thought had finally managed to shut him up enough for a moment's peace to gather the thoughts that the white-haired man always managed to unravel.

but when you dared to glance back over your shoulder, his sharp gaze was fixed on you, and his lips were pressed together oddly — the faintest dusting of cherry pink peeking out underneath his sunglasses, and falling over his cheeks.

nary a peep from gojo then, save for him rushing past you to slot the keycard into the door. but holy fuck, the sheer luxury of this suite almost made you forget that gojo satoru even existed.

sleek dark woods, glowing orange accents, and a massive window that offered a panoramic view of tokyo's skyline. and then, there was the bed.

ridiculous in its decadence. a king-sized masterpiece, draped in plush linens that looked softer than the clouds dotting the afternoon sky. framed by polished ebony bedposts that gleamed in the warm light of the suite. the mattress was practically calling out to you, to sink your back into it.

wait, where was the other bed?

"nope! absolutely not," you blurted, spinning on your heel to face gojo who had sauntered in after you, pausing mid-step and clearly, equally caught off-guard with a stunned expression on his face — before morphing into something maddeningly smug.

"what?" gojo said, leaning casually against the doorframe, "it's a bed. you've seen one before, right?"

you tried to speak in a way that wouldn't quite make it show that you felt like your tongue was lead, jabbing a finger at the bed as though it had personally offended you, "there's only one!"

gojo's lips quirked upwards, his blue eyes gleaming with that irritating mix of amusement and mischief, most likely derived from your displeasure, "now look at that, we can count to ten. baby steps."

"don't start with me," you snapped, "i'm not crashing out there. i'd rather sleep in the hallway."

gojo tilted his head, the white tufts of his hair falling around his face, as though he were considering the suggestion seriously, "not sure the hotel staff would appreciate you loitering in their five-star corridors. won't stop you though, sweets."

"you can sleep on the couch," you try to offer helpfully, relishing in how it's his turn to scowl at you.

gojo's glancing towards the sleek leather sofa in the corner, most likely worth more than your monthly rent, "tempting," he drawls, "but i don't think that thing was designed for someone with legs this long," and he's slapping his hands on his thighs, and you do your very best to not track your stare down.

"then curl up like the overgrown house cat you are -"

"fuck you mean by that?"

"or sleep on the floor!"

"i'm liking these options less and less."

but then gojo straightens, and you're starting to see a small tick reach to the corner of his bright eyes, the faintest hint of irritation seeping through his drawl, "you know, for someone so desperate to avoid me, you spend a lot of time wondering where i'm gonna sleep."

you hate the traitorous flush heating up your face, "i'm thinking about it because you're my problem."

"well i hope i'm at least your favourite problem," gojo murmurs, brushing past you to toss his dark bag onto the bed.

"so, what's it gonna be?" gojo's voice was a lazy purr, patting the mattress beside him with a grin that could have launched a thousand arguments, "join me, or keep fighting a losing battle? because -" he faked a yawn, "i think i'm starting to get a bit sleepy."

"sleepy? you're a grown man, and it's barely three in the afternoon."

gojo arches a pale brow, and you have to force yourself to stop staring at the pink curve of his lips, "and? scared you won't be able to resist me in the middle of the night?"

"you should be scared you'll wake up with a pillow smothering your face."

gojo sighs, melodramatic and loud, rolling over onto his back, "i'd rather be smothered by -"

"gojo!"

his laugh is low and rich, and it vibrates in the air in a way that make your teeth itch, and your eyes roll, desparate to change the subject and actually get back on track.

you shove the hefty file in his direction, letting him flounder to grab a hold of it, "last page. naoki sato."

gojo's entire demeanor shifts, and falls under the mention of the name, eyes a touch darker, and suddenly serious in a way that almost makes you regret being on the clock. but he's pushed himself up from the bed, his legs dangling off the edge.

"what about him?"

you frowned, still turning over the situation in your mind, "well, he's supposedly working out of this district right, i mean, even this hotel? but why? i always thought crime bosses had creepy lairs in dark alleyways or something. and not," you gesture to the five-star architecture around you, "this."

gojo's broad shoulders shrug in that lazy way of his, like everything was beneath him, but there was something else flickering behind his perched sunglasses, "i've never even met him. just heard of him," but gojo seems to be chewing each word, as if choosing them carefully, "but what i've heard? not your typical criminal? he flies high, lives the wild life out in the open, rich and shameless."

you privately held back any biting comment that came to you as easy as breathing, about gojo also being the epitome of rich...and shameless. time and place, yeah?

gojo, thank the lucky stars, had not noticed you fighting demons to keep a straight face, "but then every so often sato vanishes off the radar, and then, bam!" your partner splayed his fingers, "he strikes again. always showing in a different place. the united states, france, england, egypt..."

you raise an eyebrow, tapping at your phone, "egypt?"

"egyptian artefacts are ridiculously powerful, sweets. i mean, on a whole other level. they aren't linked with y'know...jujutsu," he gestures vaguely between the two of you, "but whatever they've got is ancient and ridiculously potent. last the higher ups heard, naoki sato managed to get his hands on an old obelisk."

you shake your head at the prospect, humouring gojo, "whatever for?"

"whatever twisted things he does in his free time, fuck if i know. but of course, he couldn't control it. instead, it summoned the spirit of a massive serpent, killed a bunch of innocent civilians."

you have the faintest collection of the mythos surrounding an ancient serpent, and the thought makes you shudder, "wouldn't the local authorities have arrested him for that?"

gojo pushes his sunglasses up his head, so you're now looking back at unblinking blue eyes ringed by white lashes, "how do you arrest a guy who's practically a ghost? they couldn't even find him after all that shit. besides, his technique is something else. enhance. practically has control over every cell in your body."

you nod slowly, hoping that you're piercing it all together correctly, "so this auction is because he's got more of these artefacts? like raijin's amulet?"

gojo nods sharply, and you're struck by the intensity of big blue eyes with whorls of storm clouds lingering between his gaze, "i guess even villainous criminals want to make profit. but we can get a front row seat to whatever he's planning next."

"and stop him before that."

"right. that's what i said."

your frown deepens, "how the fuck does an entire auction stay hidden from the public?"

after all, you had scoured the floorplan of this hotel from base to rooftop, and not a single room or corner would accomodate naoki sato, and the voiceless that follow him.

gojo shrugs with infuriating nonchalance, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the bed, "there's jujutsu that can create entire illusions. beneath this very hotel lies an entrance to a hidden ballroom, but it's been in and out of use for decades. we jus' need to slip in, find sato, and maybe shake him a few times until he spills the amulet's location."

you cross your arms, and the unfortunate truth lingers on your tongue, "if it were that easy, the higher ups wouldn't have sent you with me as backup."

"was that a compliment for me? careful, you might actually start liking me now."

and at your affronted expression, laugher is spilling out gojo satoru, sharp and cocky and awfully infectious.

you hated the sound, not because it wasn't nice, but because it was. too rich, too easy. the kind of laugh, from the strongest sorcerer to walk the earth, that made you wonder if ever took a damn thing seriously. with the unfortunate side effect of questioning why it was so annoyingly attractive at the same time.

nobody should get to look that good while being such an unbearable ass. it was unfortunate, you thought grimly, how much you liked seeing him laugh though.

"i don't think i'd ever like you at all, gojo."

but alas, the world has a cruel way of making you wish that the earth swallowed you whole. and your heart and mind certainly aren't on speaking terms with each other to coordinate properly. for the barb flies out of your mouth like an uncontrolled reflex, a rogue arrow hitting its mark.

and you're left grimacing as gojo's smile stills. not vanishing completely, but frozen while something cooler and sharper slips into his gaze. the awkward silence that follows is loud enough to make you wince and pray that a lightning bolt strikes you down right now.

gojo gives a quiet cough, and you're wondering just how much of his nonchalant facade he has left intact. fuck, you were a bit of an ass yourself.

"ah, gojo. i didn't mean -" you started, stumbling over the words, desperate to backpedal, if only for the sake of the mission. right?

"don't strain yourself pretending," gojo cuts you off, and you're mildly stung by the smooth edge of venom coating his voice, despite his relaxed smile, "let's just get this job done, yeah? it's just us two here because no-one else could put up with you. i was the only one left who actually wanted to try."

well. ouch, that was a low blow. motherfucker.

your jaw tighten, and for a moment, all you can do is stare into vibrant blue eyes. surely, that wasn't true...right? and how awful that the sharp look in his eyes softened into a smug satisfaction as he registered how his own barb had found his mark.

now, gojo satoru is leaning back with an air of victory, crossing his arms as if to bask in it. talk about drawing more blood from a wound than necessary.

"you're awful, gojo," you bit out, praying that whatever tremor lives in your throat is not enough to appear in your voice.

"yes, i know. you say that all the time."

it was almost tragic, you thought bitterly, how in those fleeting few minutes, you had found gojo satoru bearable. likeable even. insightful, in his own smug way.

but now, the two of you were back to square one, staring each other down with walls firmly back in place.

sure, your quip had been mildly unnecessary, but it wasn't like he hadn't heard your blithe and bland comments by now?

but still, gojo's words gnawed at you. the idea that no one else wanted to put up with you, except him, of all people, burrowed deeper than it had any right to.

maybe it was petty, but you weren't about to let gojo satoru have the last word.

"remember that the higher ups want naoki sato executed," you said, breaking the terse silence.

gojo didn't even glance up from the file he'd been pretending to skim, his long fingers casually flipping a page. and that nonchalance made your stomach churn with irritation.

when he finally looked up, his expression was a mix of curiosity, and disdain, as if you had become a particularly stubborn puzzle that he'd decided was not worth solving, "yes, i know that too. so what?"

"you and i both know you've had trouble executing criminals in the past."

a calculated jab, sharper than they needed to be. and you saw the impact hit almost immediately. gojo's jaw tightened, and the glint in his frosty blue eyes disappeared, replaced by something darker, furious even.

suguru geto was still well and alive, often appearing on television as a friendly priest who would cure one of all their ails such as lower back pain or bad headaches, for the low price of joining the ranks of his organisation (read: cult). but he still remained a sore point for...everyone. you, included.

gojo, especially.

and now the air between you shifted, chilling like a winter draft had snuck into the room. your eyes fell on gojo's knuckles as they tightened around the file, his expression stony.

you shouldn't have felt proud of yourself for getting under his skin, for pulling a genuine reaction from him. but you did. you'd found a crack in his flawless armour, without needing to bypass infinity.

and it was satisfying.

"f-fuck you," gojo said finally, the razor edge in his voice was matched only by the glare he pinned on you.

you crossed your arms, doing your best to feign indifference despite the adrenaline surging through you. ignoring how you felt an awful pit in your stomach sprout, rendering you rather nauseous, and quoting his previous words, "don't strain yourself pretending it's not true."

gojo satoru's glower could have melted steel, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd gone too far. but he stood, slowly, his movements deliberate as he slammed the file shut with a resounding snap.

you watched as he snatched up his smaller bag, and swung the door open with enough force that you were surprised that it didn't fall off its hinges, "just be ready by the time i get back. 'm gonna take a walk."

and you were left, alone, in a room that suddenly felt so much more suffocating.

you weren't sure how long it had been since gojo had stormed out, leaving the room icy in his absence. you hadn't moved from your spot by the door, though you told yourself that you were entirely fine.

arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, defiant line. but even as you stared at the dark panels of the door, the lie began to unravel.

you told yourself that you just didn't care for gojo satoru. that you didn't like how he was too loud, too reckless, too overwhelming, a force that just didn't fit into the neat confines of your world.

the heat rising to your cheeks must have betrayed you, as did the tight knot in your chest. it had been...not your wisest choice to lash out at him, or to even bring up his name. suguru geto, a wound that would never close for anyone.

but more than that, you hated the memory of his expression just before he left. hurt, and anger. and something far more raw.

he would come back, you knew that much. gojo was much too dutiful to leave a mission and abandon a chance to do some good in this world. it should have been a comfort, but it did little to ease you. instead, that certainty only twisted the guilt tighter in between your ribcage.

finally, you yanked the door open, fuelled by an impulse you didn't care to name. you wanted to catch him outside, mid-pace and brooding. just so you could say...something. anything.

but the hallway was empty, stark and silent, with only the dim flicker of warm light as your witness. you bit your tongue as your stomach churned sourly with disappointment.

and instead, you just slammed the door shut, letting the sound reveberate with just as much force that gojo had slammed the door with, on his way out. you leaned against the wood, closing your eyes as you did your level best to swallow that lump of regret making a home in your throat.

pacing helped for about...three minutes. shuffling through the case files on the table did nothing but remind you of why you were here, why you had both been sent. after all, was this mission not bigger than you, or him? was this not about bringing naoki sato to justice?

it didn't feel that way.

your gaze landed on the garment bag handing from the chair, untouched from when you had pulled it out earlier, back when gojo had been inviting you...to bed.

sort of.

you unzipped the bag with (mildly) trembling hands, letting the fabric spill into your grasp. no doubt that the dress was beautiful, a masterpiece of icy, powder blue and shimmering sequins that caught the light like scattered stars.

well, this had certainly been worth half your paycheck.

your fingers brushed over the delicate embroidery, and for a moment, you felt a mild sting of your own hypocrisy and yearning heart. you accused gojo of being cold, distant and unfeeling, and yet here you were, holding a dress that reminded you of him in every way. the pale blue of the fabric, like the frost in his storm-eyes when they rested on you for too long.

if you ever came face to face with cupid, you would beat him with a baseball bat.

you sighed, dropping the dress onto the bed before gingerly stepping out of your uniform, as cool air stung your skin.

what had you been thinking, treating gojo like that? he didn't deserve your anger, not truly. you knew how much your former classmate carried, how much he gave himself to this cursed and thankless world.

but of course, the little pronged-devil on your shoulder whispered around the shell of your ear. he often drew equal blood from stinging cuts, no-one wanted to put up with you, anyway.

still, there was no use in showing up to a gathering of some of the world's most rich, wealthy and seedy looking like a hollow and shaken ghost. and this mission was just not about gojo, it was about the greater good of the jujutsu world, and that's what you repeated in your head like a mantra, as you swiped plush-red across your cheeks and lips.

a diamond necklace around your throat was the final touch. well, you say diamond, but the truth was more...cheap. still, the strand shone in linked chains of pretty crystals. and that had still been a minor fortune for one who lived on a jujutsu paycheck.

the hours had stretched the afternoon into evening, settling a fragile calm over the suite that made you ache to stretch your limbs out, and take in some fresh air.

but the silence was shattered by a sharp knock at the door, purposeful and deliberate. and it made you freeze, hands still resting on the straps of your glitzy shoes, a frown knitting your brows.

gojo had the keycard, did he not? but who else would be banging your door down?

with a sigh, you stood and lifted the hem of your dress as you crossed the room. opening the door with every intention of scolding him for whatever drama he was dragging in this time.

instead the words just about died a sad and lonely death on your tongue.

gojo satoru.

for a brief second, your thoughts emptied entirely, as though he had cast infinite void right over you, leaving you staring with a heart that hammered like a caged bird.

gone was his usual, drab uniform. instead, he had swapped the dull fabric for a sleek, black dress shirt that clung just right, paired with a crisp, grey jacket that framed his broad shoulders.

you tried to not let your gaze linger on the open gap right under the white tie that hung slightly loosened from his neck, where silk kissed creamy skin.

but gojo’s face was unreadable, distant and cool. you hated how his mere presence always seemed to tilt the world off its axis.

and you blinked, forcing your mouth to close, and you stepped back to let him in.

"you’re late. again," you snapped, but your voice lacked its usual venom, tempered by the sharp edges of minor guilt that refused to settle in you.

"whatever. ‘m here now, aren’t i?" gojo’s tone was casual, but his eyes lingered a second too long, leaving your skin prickling with self-conscious awareness.

it seemed that the universe needed to hit you with some karmic intervention, and you decided to take the rare moral high ground, "about earlier," you began, trying to steady yourself, "i shouldn’t have said -"

"forget it, sweets," gojo interrupted with a shrug, though his jaw was tight, "i’m not keen on hearing excuses. i get it."

you bristled, biting back the immense urge to shove him, an urge that becoming disturbingly frequent, "i wasn’t making excuses," sounding out each word slow and deliberate. anger simmering under the surface at his holier-than-thou attitude, "that was an apology."

that made gojo pause, and now he fully turned to you, expression shifting. though it was hard to read, caught between painful acknowledgement and absurd pride that would include him admitting that he was affected by what you said.

"tch, they’re not even real," you blurted, then immediately regretted it, what was wrong with you today? you reached up, fingers grazing the cool crystals as if to shield them from his bemused scrutiny, "just thought i needed something to fit in."

gojo slid a pair of tinted sunglasses from his pocket, sliding them up his nose, smooth and practised, "in a room full of the filthy rich and tastelessly overdressed?" his pink mouth twitched, "you’ll fit in perfectly."

gojo was right. this was just…tacky.

the ground floor of the building had been nothing but a sleek, cold lifeless maze of marble, and now he had led you down into what could only be described as a scene for criminals with bad taste. an abandoned parking lot stretched out in front of you, a grimy stretch of concrete that left you expecting a quiet dead end.

until gojo waved his hand, and the illusion clearly met for non-sorcerer eyes shattered.

before you, a set of massive double doors emerged, seemingly from nowhere, and the lifting of the veil had left you disoriented, nauseous. but when the doors swung open, you almost felt like you were stepping into a warped fever dream.

this room inside was the most bizarre mixture of garish opulence that you had ever seen. gold…everything. the walls plastered in a deep red, like someone had dipped the entire place in velvet swathes and then covered it with more gold leaf.

plush, overstuffed settees sat like soft, jewel-toned thrones in every corner, and glass boxes lined the walls, each holding what looked like nothing more than expensive junk, tacky figurines and diamond-encrusted trinkets.

it was the kind of place you’d absolutely expect a mob boss to call home after a particularly long, indulgent afternoon making questionable life choices.

the hall reeked of wealth, the kind that demanded to be seen. opulence dripped from every corner — gilded fixtures, crystalline chandeliers, and glass displays showcasing treasures that screamed money but whispered nothing of taste. you twitched as you passed a goblet encrusted with enough jewels to buy a small city-state. the thought of how much it probably cost made your stomach twist.

"focus," gojo muttered at your side, his tone clipped. he squinted slightly, his sunglasses doing little to shield his six eyes from the garish light that spilled over the room like liquid gold., and you could tell it was a bit...much for his senses, making him blink rapidly. "we’ll sweep the displays, see if the amulet’s here."

you tilted your head, gesturing toward his snowy mop of hair, the unruly strands falling messily over his face and grazing the edge of his glasses. "and you’re sure they won’t recognise you, in this whole...circus?"

gojo's responding glance was sharp, flat, and utterly devoid of humour.

"most of these people wouldn’t recognise a threat if it was biting them in the ass," he said, voice low and laced with disdain. "they’re not sorcerers. just your garden-variety rich and bored — criminals, trust fund brats, maybe a politician trying to look cultured. the kind of people who buy antiques because they match their curtains and makes them look good for their friends."

the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward at his cutting dismissal of the glittering nonsense around you. he had hit the nail on the head, making contempt seem like an art form.

and worse, you hated how there was something almost…sexy about it.

the thought hit you like a slap, and you forced it down immediately. gojo and sexy didn’t belong in the same sentence. not in the same universe. fuck, not even as a passing joke.

"charmed as i am by your high opinion of humanity," you said dryly, trying to ground yourself in sarcasm, "maybe don’t make it obvious you hate everyone here. we're not here to arrest every person in this room."

gojo snorted softly, his lips curving into what might have been a smirk — or at least the ghost of one. "you think so little of me. i don’t hate everyone." his eyes flicked toward you, just for a second, before returning to the vast hall ahead.

it wasn’t much. barely a glance of electric blue. but it was enough to send your pulse into a sprint, and fuck him, he had to know it. you turned your attention to the nearest display, praying he didn’t notice the warmth blooming in your cheeks.

traitorous.

"let’s just find the amulet, and sato. and get out of here," you said briskly, your voice a shade too sharp.

"mhm," gojo's voice was infuriatingly calm, but when you looked up, his gaze wasn’t on the displays. it was on you.

"you look lost."

a voice, smooth and low, slid over you like silk, stopping you cold in your tracks. it hadn't come from gojo by your side, thank the heavens above, but it didn't make your heart any steadier. you turned towards the source, and your stomach did a three-point flip.

well. hello, gorgeous.

the type of good-looking that just felt unfair. the type that made you forget your name for half a second, and then hate yourself for it. the strnger stood out against the room of puffed-up men in overpriced suits, glittering with real diamonds of their cuff-links, and rolled cigars in their hands.

your eyes fell on dark auburn strands that fell in perfectly tousled strands over his forehead, and a tailored black suit that hugged a slender waist.

"i hope you didn't wander into the wrong hall," the stranger said, curling his lips into a faint smile, fraught with suspicion as it was.

you forced yourself not to stare — at an absurdly sharp jawline, at big brown eyes. but words were a different matter entirely. you struggled to conjure them, grasping for anything remotely coherent.

you settled on an appropriate response.

"um. no, we didn’t."

not your finest moment. not even close.

before you could mentally regroup with a few brain cells, a sharp jolt yanked you back to reality. you sucked in a sharp breath as gojo's long fingers pinched the underside of your arm, a deliberate sting that left you glaring at him.

he didn’t even bother to meet your eyes.

his entire focus was fixed on the stranger, his posture taut with unspoken tension, gojo's jaw clenched so tight you thought he might crack a perfect tooth.

the air shifted subtly, a faint hum of energy emanating from gojo. you knew that hum. it meant trouble. gojo, ever the master of simmering hostility, was gearing up for something, and he was looking weirdly agitated.

and you found it tasteless to jump the first person you had run into here.

"i usually know most of the guests at my events," the stranger continued, his voice calm, unbothered — but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer to the question he hadn’t asked.

oh.

you felt your stomach plummet as recognition dawned.

naoki sato.

no wonder gojo looked ready to snap someone in half. naoki wasn’t just anyone — he was the head of the voiceless. the host of this auction. the man whose fortune was built on enough shady dealings to fill a large library. the one who had more blood on his hands than those who had been dealt life sentences.

one of the most wanted jujutsu criminals in the world.

"you've — " gojo started, his voice sharp, but you cut him off with a forced, almost too-bright smile.

"you've thrown quite the party," you said, your words tripping over themselves as you elbowed gojo subtly, hoping to god he’d take the hint. "i’m actually quite new to the area. just exploring, hoping to find something good tonight."

gojo let out a low grunt, a sound that promised retribution later. you ignored him and plastered on a wider smile, one you hoped would distract from your partner's upcoming reversal: red.

"and, ah. this is my bodyguard...genji," you added, giving gojo's arm a firm retributive pinch through the fabric of his jacket.

the look he shot you could've melted steel, but you held your ground, determined not to let him ruin this.

if for once, he could take your plan into account, a great deal of bloodshed could be avoided.

naoki's faint cherry smile widened, bemused, "your…bodyguard?" he echoed, gaze flickering to gojo satoru.

gojo who stood like a coiled spring, gojo who certainly was no method actor. his icy glare practically speaking volumes of 'i will burn this room down.'

"well," naoki drawled, his tone almost playful now, and you flushed, "i hope you find what you’re looking for here."

behind him, his entourage, a cadre of hulking men stuffed into suits barely containing their bulk, followed with synchronised precision. they looked more like walking fortresses than bodyguards, with their cold and suspicious eyes cutting through the room as they passed.

one of them shot you an odd look, and you forced yourself to feign interest in a nearby display of sapphire-encrusted forks.

the moment the criminal was out of earshot, gojo leaned down, "genji? really?"

you shrugged, ignoring how you felt your nerves fray. and refusing to meet him half-way, "what? okay, i panicked. it was the first name i thought of."

"yeah, that was so convincing," gojo muttered darkly beside you, and you caught some bitten off words about how he was never going on a mission with you again, how yaga should never have roped him into this.

all things you blithely ignored.

you didn’t need to look at him to know he was furious. it rolled off him in waves, the tension in his posture, the barely audible hum of cursed energy still crackling under the surface.

"we don't even know where the amulet is. and imagine if we show up in front of yaga without it. you can do whatever you like with him after we get our hands on the cursed object," you whispered back, pretending to study the ridiculous cutlery with exaggerated focus.

gojo lowered his head, as though he suddenly saw the worth in gemstones embedded in cutlery, but just enough so he could glower at you. "you're flirting," he hissed, "i could have blasted through half this room, and just finished the job by now."

you coughed and hackled, "not all of us think effective battles are fought with a hollow purple."

"and not all of us,” gojo bit back, "feel the need to blush like schoolgirls the second someone bats an eyelash at us."

heat shot through you, part anger, part something you didn’t want to name. "blush?” you snapped. "i wasn’t blushing."

"you just wanted to jump his bones. thought we weren't here to get it wet."

"i'm not entertaining this conversation," but your voice was mildly higher pitched, drawing attention, "is that why you were there? standing like an idiot, or a jealous ex-boyfriend?"

gojo's sneer faltered, just for a split second, but it was enough to make your heart lurch with a strange, vindictive triumph.

"i wasn’t jealous," he said, "i was doing my job. y'know, being a jujutsu sorcerer. bringing a criminal to justice."

you opened your mouth, ready to retort, but no words came. because he wasn’t entirely wrong, and that infuriated you more than anything.

so instead, you lifted your hand, placing it firmly on his shoulder, onto the crisp and fine fabric of his jacket. you didn't miss the way he stiffened, briefly disarmed.

"look, i've got this. just stay close."

gojo's jaw tightened, and you could feel the unspoken protest simmering there. before he could get a word in, you turned away and called out.

"hey! naoki!"

the red-haired man stopped mid-stride, turning his head back toward you with a quizzical look. the confident words you’d planned evaporated the moment his sharp, brown eyes pinned you in place.

"i mean, naoki sato. mr. sato," you fumbled, mentally kicking yourself.

brilliant start. truly one of jujutsu tech's finest.

naoki raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from confusion to faint amusement. his gaze flicked to gojo, who had crossed his arms like a fortress of disdain and immense ill-will.

"found something you like?" naoki asked smoothly.

you ignored the huff that escaped the white-haired man next to you, and forced a smile, "actually, i was hoping you could help me choose something out. i'm not an expert here, and there's just so much to see."

naoki's bodyguards shifted, their expressions darkening as if you’d committed some unspoken faux pas. but the crime boss merely tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

"ah, well," he said, drawing the word out lazily, "i don’t usually get this forward with my clients, but i suppose i'll make an exception."

his eyes slid once again to gojo, who was now glowering at a waiter hovering too close to his personal space, on the edges of infinity. "your bodyguard," naoki added helpfully, "can walk behind you. perhaps he'd like a drink to keep him occupied."

gojo's snarl could have peeled garish paint off the walls, "i don't want it."

you resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the stubborn ass.

instead, you pasted on a smile, tight and sweet, and shot gojo a look that could cut glass, "our host is offering you something. you want that drink, genji."

"i don’t want cream soda," gojo muttered, all mulish in his six foot three glory.

gritting your teeth, you flashed naoki a helpless look, like what can you do? bodyguards, am i right?

and you reached for the waiter's tray, grabbing a tall glass of the offending soda and thrusting it into gojo's warm hand. then you leaned in, your voice a whisper, "take it. smile and act normal. ten minutes, that’s all i need."

for a moment, his blue eyes locked on yours, a storm of irritation twirling in them. you were now close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to notice the faintest hitch in his breath.

but gojo, for once, didn’t argue. with a final glare, he downed half the glass in one long, defiant gulp, his adam’s apple bobbing as he drank.

naoki laughed, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement, "you're very kind to the help. shall we?"

you shot gojo satoru one last look — a mix of triumph and warning —before stepping forward.

but your partner, predictably, looked like he'd rather swallow glass than stand a moment longer here. still, bodyguard is as bodyguard does, and he trailed after you like a reluctant shadow.

"i must admit," naoki began, his brown eyes catching the glittering lights as they swept over you, "it's rare to see someone so beautiful at these things. i think i would have remembered seeing you before, too. i'm usually stuck with old men trying to swindle me out of my fortune."

a flush climbed up your neck, unwelcome and irritating at what must have been calculated words, enough to flatter and also to disarm.

behind you, gojo audibly scoffed, clearly abandoning all manner of proper etiquette. you glanced over your shoulder to see him gripping the stem of a champagne flute, his knuckles white. the empty glass of cream soda had been abandoned in favour of something stronger.

he caught your eye and rolled his, making a slicing gesture at his neck followed by a pointed hurry up motion.

"ignore him," you murmured to naoki, pushing forward.

naoki’s eyes gleamed with amusement, easily unbothered as he gestured for you to continue walking. "does your bodyguard always look like he’s seconds away from murder, or is this special treatment for me?"

you didn’t dare look back at gojo, “he’s just protective," you said carefully.

naoki chuckled, "protective, sure. but of his job...or you?"

the words struck a nerve you refused to acknowledge, so you pressed the conversation forward. ignoring the jitter that erupted in your stomach.

"can i ask...," you said, tilting your head just enough to feign casual curiosity, "are these all cursed objects? or just pretty trinkets?"

naoki's amusement didn’t falter, but his gaze sharpened, assessing you like you were a puzzle he was only now beginning to piece together.

"why?” he asked smoothly, "are you interested in jujutsu? i thought you were here to...browse."

fuck, caught, but not completely.

you played it off with a small shrug. "some members of my family dabble in jujutsu," you said, letting a sliver of truth escape, but letting the rest of your words drip with lies, "i can only see curses, i'm not a sorcerer. but most of my family still hates me for how i was born."

behind you, gojo shifted, his movements a touch sharper than before. he hadn’t known that, hadn't known the small truth that you had snuck into your words.

but naoki's expression softened, his smile more thoughtful now. "that’s rare. and often not appreciated, i imagine.”

you hesitated, cautiously, but nodded. "not by them, no."

"i understand. my parents hated jujutsu. thought it was unnatural, and against the way of the world. my grandfather...he was the only one who didn't," and there's a quiet sincerity threading naoki sato's words, "he raised me when my parents refused to. at least, until he passed."

something in his story tugged at you — a familiarity you hadn’t expected. your family’s disdain for your own jujutsu, their rejection, mirrored in his words. it was unsettling, but oddly not unwelcome.

"i’m sorry about your grandfather," you said softly.

"and i, about your family,” naoki replied, a calm mask settling over his features once more, reminding you so painfully of the sorcerer who trailed behind you, "no-one should be made to feel lesser, sorcerer or not."

you caught your lip between your teeth, hoping the red stain didn't catch onto your teeth, "i thought most sorcerers hated humans."

naoki shrugged, "we aren't all that different. all flesh and blood with temporary lives."

oddly wise words from a mass murderer, thief and criminal.

you glanced over at gojo again, and just as you predicted, his scowl deepened and the glass looked like it was about a shatter in his hands. if looks could kill, naoki sato would be the first to go, no questions asked, followed by you.

naoki snickered, "your shadow grows restless."

"ignore him, please," you muttered, stepping closer to a glass case to distract yourself, "what’s this?"

naoki followed, stepping closer so you could catch the scent of expensive almond and saffron, "ah," he said, gesturing at the artefact inside, "a blade, from ming dynasty china. the jade serpent on the hilt grants its wearer the ability to control minds. some say it can even raise the dead."

the claim sent a shiver down your spine, but you masked it with feigned interest, nodding as naoki moved on.

"and here," he continued, pointing to a golden ring, with an oddly boyish grin for someone dealing in murderous items, "the lion's eyes. said to see through any veil, any curse. the last treasure of the dynasty of the pharoahs."

you tried to listen, but gojo's presence loomed larger with every word. his disdain for naoki sato, his barely concealed anger at the stolen objects— it was all too palpable. when you glanced back, his scowl had deepened, and the champagne glass in his hand looked on the verge of shattering.

if looks could kill, naoki sato would already be six feet under. you would be next on the list.

you swallowed hard, turning back to naoki sato and pointing at the next display. "and this?"

naoki pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, "the broken english crown. apparently worn by the last king to die on the battlefield, and i haven't tried it on," he shares this with you, with a conspiratorial smile, "but legends say it fractures the bones of anyone deemed not powerful enough to wear it."

this criminal was not what you had expected at all. it was hard to reconcile the image of a hardened criminal with years of ruthless ambition, with this effortless charm and disarming way of making you lose the blurred line of correct propriety. you tried not to stare at how the warm light caught his auburn hair, like the autumn leaves in the dappled sun.

and yet, it wasn’t just his looks that threw you off. it was the way he carried himself — like he had nothing to prove and everything to hide. dangerous in a different way, one that was far harder to guard against.

it reminded you of gojo satoru.

"you know, i have to admit," naoki said, gesturing to the gilded displays around him, "most of this stuff? tacky as hell. but then, you would be surprised what most people would pay for tacky."

from a swindler, fraud and scammer? you were quite sure.

"funny, coming from someone whose livelihood depends on it. isn't that gaudy by association?"

naoki winked, and you averted your gaze from long brown lashes fluttering against soft skin, "touché. but people don't want to just buy the artefact, or the cursed object. they want the story. that shit's priceless."

you swallowed, focusing on how gojo was trying to draw your attention to a glass case hidden by all the others, and you hoped you weren't squinting, "so, you're just a storyteller then?"

but beside you, naoki sato tilted his head, "you could say that."

you thought of the clipped photos printed into the file. some in black and white, and some in raging shades of colour. where naoki sato's hands had painted entire buildings in shades of sticky red, and heads rolled on the floor. where his enhance technique could burst arteries and lungs, leaving people in pieces on the floor.

"sounds dramatic," you said, though your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"life's dramatic, and too short to not take what i want," naoki replied with a faint smile, his hand lightly brushing your waist as he guided you further past long tables.

you leaned into it without thinking, a tiny movement that made a creamy, berry flush paint over naoki's features. and the sorcerer's laugh was warm, low, like he’d already won something you didn’t realise was at stake.

behind you, a sharp cough broke the moment.

gojo.

you let your lips curl into a faint smile and leaned into naoki's just a fraction more, with a very deliberate look, one that spoke of triumph and having tamed a beast.

gojo's scowl deepened, his shoulders taut with barely restrained frustration, and he started mouthing at you, silent as his lips parted. if you read his mouth carefully, well...

he was calling you rather unflattering names.

"what's that?" but it was gojo's voice that roughly cut through the air, like gravel grinding underfoot. his shaded eyes were fixed on the glass case tucked in the corner.

you followed his gaze, past his outstretched arm, and your stomach twisted.

raijin's amulet.

the cursed object you’d been hunting, the one you’d sworn to protect at all costs, gleamed innocently behind its protective glass. you could recognise the serpentine dragon coiled protectively around the stone at its centre, its intricate carving daring anyone to claim it.

your frantic eyes met gojo's. his were sharp, seething. then, both your gazes flicked to naoki.

naoki, of course, noticed nothing — or pretended not to. he let out a soft hum, following gojo's pointed stare.

"the bodyguard's interested too?"

you coughed, cutting through the rising tension before gojo could turn that look into something explosive. the glass case between them might as well have been kindling for the fire brewing.

"it's mainly for academics," you said, feigning an air of curiosity. then, with practiced innocence, you tilted your head and smiled at the dangerous special grade cursed object as if it were nothing more than an ordinary trinket.

"but it’s so pretty. what is it, really?"

naoki's hand tightened subtly on your waist, and you tried to ignore the guilt that bubbled up in your chest when his sharp features softened at your feigned interest.

"it’s just an old thing," he said, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret meant only for you, "did you know it once belonged to ryomen sukuna?"

your mouth was dry, but you kept your face blank, tilting your head as though you’d never heard the name before, "sukuna?"

naoki pressed his palm to the glass case, his expression shifting into something darker, more reverent.

"the king of curses," he murmured. "lived over a thousand years ago. ruthless. when he died, most of his treasures were plundered by clans too greedy for their own good. but this..." he tapped the glass softly. "this one? it wasn't easy to get my hands on."

you leaned closer, feigning fascination while calculating your next move, trying to figure out how you could get close enough to that glass case without shattering the illusion cast on naoki sato, "what does it do?"

for a moment, naoki's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in their depths. but just as quickly, his expression smoothed out, and he chuckled.

"trust me, beautiful," he said, his voice like silk with an edge of warning. "you don’t want to wear that thing. i could get you something far more...safe."

you forced a smile, ignoring the chill that ran down your spine. instead, you threw a quick, desperate glance at gojo — a silent plea for the strongest to listen to you: i'll distract him. you get the amulet.

gojo's expression tightened, but his head snapped once, briefly, in the faintest hint of acknowledgement.

time to move.

you let out a soft, breathy laugh and tugged naoki toward a table, your hand brushing his arm with casual ease. "let’s sit," you suggested, leaning into his toned chest just enough to sell the act. "all this walking is making me tired."

naoki's laughter was warm, a touch too easy, and he let you guide him without resistance, "tsk, whatever you want," he murmured.

now you're trusting gojo satoru, simply because you had no other choice. he had to get the amulet out of the glass before alarms began to blare, and before needless blood was spilt over the glimmering floor.

and so you sat, letting naoki have his back to gojo, oblivious to the white-haired shadow slipping closer to the case. your eyes lingered on gojo, pulse racing each time he disappeared behind one of naoki's own burly guards.

but then naoki sato's gaze locked onto you, drawing your attention back with a searing warmth that caught you off guard.

"so," he asked, eyes glinting, "what do you think of all...this?"

"it's impressive," and you're surprised at how the truth has found a home in your mouth, "i didn't ever think of different sorcerers, around the world."

naoki leaned closer, with his elbows on his thighs, propping his face upon his hands, "most people don't. here, it's all about jujutsu. tokyo, this. kyoto, that. the higher ups are so narrow-minded. stuck in their ways, obsessed with tradition. they don't know anything about the world out there."

for a moment, his words startled you. they weren’t the boastful musings of a crime boss but something else. they reminded you of how gojo spoke about the rigidity of the old ways, about why he fought so hard to change things, to create a better world for jujutsu sorcerers.

ah, focus.

"hey," naoki suddenly said, pulling you out of your thoughts. his gaze was sharper now, more intense. and over his shouder, you caught the faintest blur of white hair in the background, gojo's movements.

but it was hard to focus on anything but naoki sato's face — the sharp lines softened by his proximity, the warmth in his dark eyes that you didn’t want to admit was almost magnetic.

he was a man marked for execution, and the warrant must have been burning a hole through your suite on the highest floor.

yet here he was, looking at you like you were something worth risking everything for.

and suddenly, you weren’t sure you wanted to see autumn's locks matted with rusted blood. to see eyes go dull and lifeless.

you felt like you had the moral spine of a sponge.

"can i kiss you?"

the question hit like a punch to the gut. your lips parted, but no sound came out. and suddenly, the steps in the background stopped too.

naoki's hand came up to your jaw, his touch unexpectedly reverent, and all you could think was: distraction. right. distract him for gojo. what the fuck is taking him so long?

so you closed the distance.

naoki's lips captured yours with a softness that disarmed you, but the kiss was anything but tentative, and you could taste a sweet tang like lemons and sugar. but you let his large hands pull you closer and his touch was warm and intoxicating.

the kind that made you forget, just for a moment, that this was all a ruse.

his lips moved against yours with a heat that made everything else fade to black, and his hands slid down your waist and back, tracing lines that felt dangerously real.

when you finally pulled away for air, your lips tingled, and your breath came in short bursts. you couldn’t help yourself — you reached up, your fingers brushing against his now-flushed lips, glossy under your touch, and you hated the way your stomach twisted from the way naoki sato melted under your touch.

focus, again.

you hoped, prayed, that gojo was doing his part, taking advantage of the way you had naoki sato, one of the most dangerous men in the entire world, wrapped around your finger, and bruising his tongue into your mouth.

but your gaze flicked upwards, past his shoulder and collided with something that stopped your heart cold.

electric blue. devastatingly vibrant, crackling with a fury that hit the air like a thunderstorm.

gojo's eyes pinned you in place, shadows pooling in sharp cerulean, from shades that had slipped just a touch down his nose. no mask to shield whatever expression gojo had clearly painted across his face.

hurt? anger? what the fuck, was that betrayal?

your throat tightened, and you resisted the urge to dig your nails into naoki's tailored jacket, to hiss at gojo to get a move on. to stop standing there like he had been hit with a shovel.

but the words didn't quite form, didn't pull at the corners of your mouth to silently shape them. his expression just held you captive, no. shamed you.

and that made you angrier. he had no right to look at you like that, like you had just crossed a line that you didn't even know was there.

but under you, naoki shifted, tilted your chip up to meet his lips again, and you let him. you...wanted him to. but the heat of his lips didn't drown out the chill of gojo's stare. your own body betrayed you with a shiver, one that you couldn't quite place yourself.

nerves, or desire.

the kiss was firmer this time, insistent, as if naoki sato was staking his claim in front of an invisible audience. his hand cupped the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw with maddening ease, over the pulse of your neck.

and for a second, it was too easy to fall into the lie. but you felt it: the searing weight of gojo's glower burning into you, not far away.

naoki pulled back just slightly, his breath fanning your lips, "hey, you're distracted," he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his eyes scanning your face as though he wanted to read every thought. "should i be offended?"

"no," you said quickly, almost too quickly, "just a lot to take in."

naoki smiles, all coy and glazed lips, clearly pleased by what he thought was pure flattery, and not the glowering six-eyes shining behind him. "good. i think 'm gonna like leaving you speechless."

part of you knows that you just aren't seeing those pearly gates of heaven.

naoki's warm thumb lingers against your jaw, and your breath hitches just enough for the sorcerer to notice. you don't miss how his eyes darken, a hint of triumph gleaming in them.

you risked a glance past his shoulder again, and gojo was still there, stony-faced as naoki's own guards. but there's something else broiling in his eyes, rolling over his face like a thunderstorm cracks over a grassy plain. the fury in his eyes hadn't lessened, but now it was laced with something sharper, something that you can finally read.

jealousy. absolute glass-shattering, world-stopping levels of envy paint over gojo satoru's face.

the realisation hits you like a punch to the gut.

was he jealous of naoki sato? of you? of this entire charade that you both had agreed to? or rather, the one you had roped him into.

the idea shouldn’t have thrilled you, but it did. and it terrified you just as much.

you let naoki kiss you again, forcing yourself to deepen it this time, your hands coming up to rest against his hard chest. you don't miss how he suddenly parts from your lips, panting softly into your mouth, and suddenly you're hit with the most awful wave of longing for a man who cannot have.

naoki’s large hands, however, weren’t idle. one brushed the edge of your dress, under the shoulder strap of your powder-blue gown, his thumb grazing against the fabric, and your breath hitched.

you shift, your breath stuttering as naoki's other hand slides higher, his fingers brushing against the flesh of your thigh, pushing your dress higher, and his hand brushes against the silver details on the side, scratching your skin. it's maddening how cool air meets the heat of your now exposed skin, and naoki's mouth crushes against yours, as if he's equally savouring the taste of you.

"t-there are people here," you gasp, your voice a fractured whisper, trembling at the edge of composure, "what if they can see or watch?"

gojo satoru is here. gojo is watching. you know your partner is close enough to hear every breathless sound you make, every treasonous whine that slips past your lips.

but naoki sato's mouth is curved into a plush, wicked smile, "let them look," and his teeth are grazing against the curve enough in a way that makes you arch your back into him, he who is now leaning over you, as if he's the one trying to capture you, "who cares - hah?"

any reasonable thought of your duty. of honour, of a mission flees from your head.

the sight of gojo's softly parted mouth and darkened eyes as he watches you in another man's arms spurs you on, and you let naoki sato press his lips against the hollow of his throat.

naoki's long fingers are blazing as they reach the very apex of your thighs. as they press two rough pads into the sopping slick that's gathered in your panties, as they run themselves along dampened fabric in a way that has you openly keening.

"can i?" and your eyes meet the mahogany gaze of the man above you. it's electrifying. you should be ashamed, furious at how you're just being taken like this, on display. but this is a room of the seven deadly sins, where each corner of the room is a lesson in hedonism, and obscene wealth.

"please."

but your eyes are only on gojo satoru behind him. on how he catches the pale-pink of his bottom lip between his teeth, and his face is seething. how his darkened eyes drop to naoki's hand working its way between your legs, and you wantonly roll your hips up to meet him there.

you let writhing fingers slip under the waistband of your pale-blue underwear, dipping into glossy, thick arousal. but you also don't miss the tent in gojo satoru's grey slacks, only metres away, and the frenzied look making him look pained.

you would be lying if you said you didn't enjoy moaning openly, spreading your legs just a bit wider, so gojo could get a glimpse of your drooling cunt.

"fuck, 's good. so good, naoki."

a finger travels up, away from your winking entrance to press a soft flick against your throbbing clit, "yeah?"

and the beautiful man in between your legs all but purrs. pleased beyond measure at how you've apparently been captured, heart and soul by him. and your attention snaps back to how he suddenly draws his fingers off your soaked cunt, and brings them up to his mouth.

"sweetest thing i've ever tasted, i think 'm gonna have -"

and then, it hit you.

a hot, sticky spray of liquid.

the scent of iron slammed into your senses as fresh blood splattered across your face, your chest, and stained the delicate blue of your dress into a deep and damning red. it clung to your skin, to your lips as you pressed your mouth shut, fighting the bile rising in your throat.

reversal: red crackled in the air, cursed energy humming sharp, and it had sliced through the hall like a whip. naoki's arm had been torn from your waist, wrenched away as he staggered back with a guttural hiss, and you avert your eyes from the blood that paints the space between you.

"that's enough."

gojo satoru's voice is like a thunderclap, reverberating around your ears, and when you finally meet his gaze, you're met with unbridled fury. you're not sure where his shades have gone, but you're met with the full weight of six-eyes, blazing and unrelenting.

naoki stumbles ahead of you, clutching his shoulder where blood seeps through his fingers, torn between shock and raw rage. his cherry-lips are curled back into a snarl, flush with indignation.

"hah, you're a sorcerer?," and naoki sato's voice drips with venom, heavy with disbelief.

you're not quite sure gojo satoru needs to answer. not when his presence alone sends waves of cold through the hall, cutting the air precisely, cleaving it.

but there's a man running towards the commotion, a guard encumbered by a hefty black suit, and there's a cold shock that runs through you as your eyes fall on the gun at his side.

"we think that's gojo satoru," the guard wheezes, breathless.

"you're telling me this now? i gave you fuckwits one job," naoki snarls, shaking the man, with his nails dug into the guard's shoulder.

and you're quickly pushing your dress down, letting the fabric spill over your legs once more, fighting back the hot sparks that sting at your eyes.

it's enough to snap naoki's attention back to you. and for a moment, for the briefest of moment, he wasn't the hardened criminal you had been playing this dangerous game with. a boy your age, wild and beautiful, and utterly undone.

and it heaves your stomach at how the fury in his gaze trembles slightly, just enough to reveal betrayal underneath that strikes you harder than any limitless could.and it struck you harder than any whip of magic ever could.

"i must be stupid, fuck," naoki's voice cracks as he spits the words, his expression twisted with something raw, something painfully human, "you’re a jujutsu sorcerer too, aren't you?"

the accusation was a dagger, his voice trembling with disbelief but its wholly true, and your head wavers in a half-shake, half-nod.

"you’re with him, aren't you? just another one of the higher up's lapdogs?"

the words weren’t a question — they were a condemnation.

naoki's lips are curled, and his bloodied arm is now trembling but steady, defiance burning through the pain.

and a whisper in your mind tells you to smash the glass case holding the amulet, to push through it with your bare hands, just so you can bleed alongside him.

but naoki sato's bitter scoff shatters that thought, and his gaze must have followed yours, sharp and knowing, for his hand has moved faster, pulling the gun from the guard's holster.

the blast came before you could even think, loud and jarring.

but you never saw the bullet's path, only gojo.

gojo, whose arm has snapped in front of you like a barrier, impossibly fast, and well within the bounds of his infinity. as if he had tore through space itself.

the bullet collides with infinity, ricocheting into the chaos of the panicking crowd.

naoki’s gaze didn’t waver. it slices back to gojo, sharp, calculating, and darkly amused. he must have seen it now, everything.

the truth was etched in the way gojo had positioned himself, the way his blazing blue eyes never left you, the unspoken claim humming in the air like a second heartbeat.

naoki sato's laugh is lower, bitter, and you watch the mesmerising plink! of crimson on the floor.

"he's protecting you, isn’t he?" his voice dripped with venom, each word striking like a dagger, "how sweet.”

and just like that, something broke. gojo's restraint, most likely.

you can see how his fingers are flexing, his hands lifting and cursed energy is coiling at his fingertips. his thumb and index finger brush, a telltale sign of an impending blast. hollow purple.

you clench your eyes shut, bracing for the devastation of the impact —

but naoki sato was faster.

his arms snapped outward, a surge of his own jujutsu ripping through the space between you. the bodyguards around you crumpled like ragdolls, their bodies bursting under the pressure. blood sprayed in thick, sticky waves, painting the walls, the floor — against the edges of infinity.

you opened your eyes in time to see gojo falter, his hands trembling as he stared at the carnage. even he, the unflinching sorcerer, the strongest, looked shaken by the sheer brutality of what cursed technique: enhance was capable of.

and in the heartbeat of his hesitation, naoki was gone.

"fuck's sake! s-satoru! let go of me!" you snap, voice cracking with fury as you fight against gojo's tight grasp.

his vivid focus shoots back to you, his expression a storm of anger and disbelief, "what?" and gojo's voice is razer-sharp, "if you think i'm letting you go after that stunt you pulled -"

"shut up!" and you can feel your own desperation cut through the air, "you go after him, i'll go after the amulet."

you toss your head to the shattered glass and the chaos erupting all around you, "if that thing gets lost in the mess, we've done this all for nothing!"

gojo's jaw is clenched, his mouth pressed into a hard and furious line. for a moment, you think he's going to argue with you again, but then you're dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

pain shoots through your knees as you land, but you're soon hauling yourself up.

"go!" you hiss, shoving at his shoulder, "i'll come find you when i have it."

gojo hesitates for a fraction of a second longer, then he's gone — a blur of movement faster than your eyes could track, leaving you alone in the chaos.

your hands tremble as you grab a heavy steel bar from the wreckage, swinging it with all your strength at the glass case. the sound of shattering glass barely registers as you reach inside, your fingers curling around the cold, smooth surface of the amulet.

wild shocks run through you, and you almost keel over, feeling the rush and pulse of such a cursed object against your skin. but it's safe. you have it now.

with it clutched tightly in your hand, you turned and run.

by now, you can't find it within yourself to stop the hot tears from running down your cheeks, streaming freely as you tear through the blood-soaked scene.

you run, the air sharp and cold against your skin, your heartbeat an unrelenting drum in your ears. the thump! making your head pound.

you can follow the residuals of gojo's cursed energy, lingering like a sickly beacon, drawing you back to the dull parking lot. you pushed open the doors with both hands, red smudging onto the concrete as you ignored the sting of your palms

and then you saw it. saw it all.

the scene hits you like a wrecking ball, knocking the breath clean from your lungs.

a body lies crumpled on the ground, its lifelessness more harrowing than the carnage that surrounds it. blood, thick and sticky, smears across the concrete. massive pillars, toppled like a child's toys in the wake of a clear explosion.

your gaze snags on a limp hand sprawled on the floor, and you feel your stomach twist. instinctively, your tongue slides against the back of your teeth, and the metallic tang of iron is already sleeping into your senses.

and then, there was gojo satoru.

he stands amid the wreckage, like a figure carved from shadows, and ice. and fury. his chest softly rises and falls, as though he had been running for miles, his hair disheveled and darkened with sweat.

the sight of him might have almost been human, almost comforting. if not for the gore streaked across his hands, and the thing he drops onto the concrete with a hollow thud.

you don't look at it. you don't think you can. your stomach knows the truth before your mind catches up, bile heaving within you once more.

the head of naoki sato. he would never have stood a chance against the strongest sorcerer in modern history.

final task: retrieve artefact. execute naoki sato on site. alternatively, bring in for execution.

you mind flashes back to that dastardly pink sticky note, still stuck to the case file.

what did you feel now? anger? sadness?

maybe both. maybe neither.

the blood pooling in front of gojo is already congealing, its sickly shine dimming in the cold, fluorescent light of the lot.

you were tired of seeing blood, of tasting it on your tongue, of breathing it in like the very air you needed to survive.

you’d thought there would be relief in the end. but instead, disappointment had rooted itself deep inside you, twisting itself.

naoki sato, for all his crimes and cruetly, had been...something. somewhere beneath the sly smirks and sharp words, there had been glimpses of something that almost looked like hope. he had said he wanted better — for everyone. for you. was it a lie? or had you twisted his words into something more comforting than the truth, desparate to see light where there was none?

your throat burns, but no tears come. just a hollow ache that matches the cold weight of raijin's amulet in your hand. you looked at it now, the thing you’d fought so hard to win, its edges biting into your skin, the dragon leaving its mark.

gojo's voice cut through the silence, low and ragged, and tired, "don’t look."

you hadn’t even realised you were staring, your eyes hovering dangerously close to the lifeless hand on the ground.

"i'm sorry," he had continued, his tone strangely neutral, as if apologising for a cracked glass rather than the irrevocable violence around him, that seemed to trail after him, "i had to do it."

you laughed then, short and bitter, the sound cracking like a whip against the cold air. "had to, gojo?" your voice trembled, not with fear, but something darker. something far more raw.

his gaze had snapped to you, and there it was — the thing that always churned between you two. a storm of emotions, tangled so tightly you could no longer tell where hate ended and yearning began.

"you think this is the resolution i wanted?" gojo shot back, his voice laced with something too jagged to be regret. "you think i enjoyed that?"

and in the most twisted, perverse theatre of your mind's eye, you see gojo's open-mouthed stare, focused on how another man touched you, made you his.

"i don’t know what you enjoy anymore," you take a step closer, your grip tightening on amulet until your knuckles whitened. but the air pushed from your lungs, "but - god, gojo. forget it. i-i don't even know. 'm sorry, too."

gojo sighs, and you see the exhaustion hanging over him too, "we'll go back tomorrow morning."

the walk back to your room is…suffocating. the air is thick with everything that you just cannot say, words that you can't even bring your heavy tongue to shape.

gojo is beind you, and you can feel the weight of his presence pressing between your shoulder blades, but you just can't turn around. you don't dare to. raijin's amulet is still clenched in your hand, and its edges are cutting into your palm, a form of self-flagellation you suppose.

you push the door open, and your breath catches and hitches as you slip inside, slamming it shut after he follows. locking it with shaking hands.

in the suite, the moonlight now slices through the half-drawn curtains, as the tokyo skyline glimmers underneath you. it's painting silver lines across gojo's spectral frame, and he strides to the amenities sink, a smaller outlet near the door.

you watch, as though you're holding a sacred vigil.

your gaze doesn't leave gojo's figure as he throws his jacket off his sharp torso with a disgusted sigh, leaving him in his black dress shirt and a loosened tie.

still watching as his movements are tense, restless as he cups water from the faucet in his hands, splashing it onto his face.

when he finally looks up, gojo's white is hair dripping, his tie slightly askew, and his tired eyes catch yours like a snare.

for a moment, you’re frozen. neither of you say a word. the air feels too thin to breathe, and his gaze is too much — too piercing, too relentless, too him.

you can’t take it.

with a sharp motion, you slam the amulet onto the table, the sound echoing through the quiet room. you spin on your heel and lock yourself in the bathroom, shutting him out.

inside, the luxurious space feels surreal. marble floors gleam under the soft glow of recessed lighting, gold fixtures glinting and stinging your eyes. it smells faintly of jasmine and mint, too perfect for the mess you're about to create.

you grip the edge of the sink as the first sob wrenches its way out of your chest, hot and raw.

tears spill over, cascading down your cheeks in waves you can’t control. they come faster, harder, until you’re gasping, choking on gulps of air that burn in your throat.

you sink onto the cool floor tiles, your knees pulled to your chest as the sobs wrack your body. the weight of everything, what you did, gojo's eyes gleaming, naoki sato's hands on you, the smell of blood, it all crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s too much for a human heart to bear in one night.

but your hands are shaking as you reach for the hem of your once beautiful dress, peeling it off with clumsy, desperate motions. the air is cool against your skin, you who is now left in undergarments.

and you stare blankly at the blood that smears your arms and legs, before grabbing a small towel, dampening it under the sink and wiping crimson stains away.

small cuts sting on your skin, faint patches where glass struck you, and you hiss.

a knock rattles the bathroom door, sharp and unrelenting, dragging you back to reality.

you close your eyes and exhale through gritted teeth, your voice brittle, "not now, gojo."

silence follows, stretching out long enough to offer the illusion of peace. but then it breaks. another knock, louder, more insistent this time.

"satoru, i swear to god," you snap, your exhaustion fraying into something sharp, laced with more venom now.

there’s a sigh from the other side, audible even through the thick wood, "don't make me blast this door down."

you groan, rolling your eyes as you toss the bloodied towel onto the counter, "you wouldn't dare."

"try me. just open the door, would'you?"

you don’t have the energy to argue, and something in his tone tells you that gojo isn’t bluffing. and so you dragged yourself upright, swinging the door open with more force than necessary.

gojo stands there, with damp hair still clinging to his forehead, beads of water trailing down his templates. and his sleeves are rolled up now, revealing thick forearms flecked with rust and crimson. it wouldn't be his. no, gojo hasn't bled in over a decade.

you straighten, aware of your own state right now. in your undergarments, only shielding you from being entirely bare under his gaze. but the only clothes in this room with you are now crumpled on the floor, in a heap of ice-blue and dark red.

let him look. he's seen more than enough now.

and so you lean back against the sink, crossing your arms as your eyes meet blue, "what do you want?"

gojo hesitates, his jaw tightening as he braces himself. when he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough around the edges, "just...asking if you're alright."

the laugh that escapes you is sharp and hollow, devoid of any humour, "why wouldn't i be?"

gojo's faze flickers, his expression unreadable, but his eyes linger a moment too long. you let him trace the dried blood smeared across your collarbone, the faint scratches on your skin.

"after all of that tonight..." he starts, but the words hang in the air between the two of you, unfinished. his voice suddenly falters, and you're struck by how gojo's razor-sharp confidence has dulled into something weaker, more conflicted.

you know exactly what he means. the stunt he's referring to, in his own earlier words. you wonder what exactly is eating at him now. is it honest concern, pride? residual envy?

"please, trust me. i'm fine, we managed to do what was asked of us, anyway," you clip curtly, hoping your tone is final enough.

gojo looks at you like he doesn't believe a single syllable that slips from your bitten lips, but then his shoulders sag and he exhales sharply, "fine," he mutters, turning on his heel as if he's the one that can't stand to be near you any longer.

"wait."

the word slips out before you can stop it, and gojo pauses, and his eyes are narrowed with suspicion.

you swallow hard, suddenly unsure of yourself, and lift a clean towel from the counter, helping yourself to another one of the hotel's free amenities, "can you help me with this?"

an olive branch.

you gesture with a single finger, over dried blood that has streaked over your back, your neck. the hollow of your collarbone.

you can see the refusal dancing on his tongue, the hesitation in the way his throat bobs, and how gojo's eyes flicker over you once more.

but he doesn't refuse. gojo just wordlessly steps forward, taking the towel from your outstretched hand. you watch, silently, as he moves to the sink and runs it under cold water. you're sitting on the edge of the counter now so you face him, watching the warm golden glow of the overhead lights in his pale hair.

the porcelain is cold against your thighs as you angle yourself away from the mirror, facing gojo. the towel in his hand drips faintly, and you watch as he hesitates again, just for a fraction of a second before stepping closer.

at first, his movements are slow and careful. he's raising the towel, and his hand is steady as you feel the first touch of the cool fabric against your back. a shiver practically races down your spine, not from the cold, but from the way his arm snakes behind you, brushing against your bare skin.

it's subtle at first, but you notice it. the hitch in his breath, the faint tremour in his movements.

gojo, who is always so infuriatingly composed, is shaken. you hear it in the sorcerer's uneven exhale that he doesn't quite manage to suppress, the way his fingers press the towel just a little too harshly.

the suite is silent now except for the faint drip of water and the rasp of fabric against your skin. you should say something, anything, but the words don’t come. instead, your gaze fixes on him, his profile illuminated by the warm glow of the bathroom light.

gojo's features are always striking, almost ethereal: the ice-white hair that falls messily against his forehead, the long white lashes that frame those sharp, cerulean-blue eyes. there’s something softened by the warm light, as though the harshness of his presence, of a man who stands above heaven and earth, has been dulled just enough to make him seem almost...human again.

but you feel as though your heart must just give way, pounding so hard that it may burst. where the blood that fell from another man's veins had somehow drawn a line to gojo satoru instead.

an hour ago, you had been arched into another, naoki sato, one who had been a dead man walking. an hour ago, his hands were on you, his lips hot and insistent, and his eyes were warm, and now he’s gone. dead. gojo made sure of that. and that was always meant to happen.

the thought should make you furious. it should make you push gojo away, but instead, all you can do is sit there, feeling his hands —gentle now, impossibly careful, on your skin.

it's wrong. it's so deeply, fundamentally wrong, and yet the space another man left feels like it was carved out for gojo satoru all along.

gojo's touch slows as he runs the towel over your skin, tracing the line of your collarbone with a precision that feels almost tender. your eyes slip closed for a moment, the warmth of his hand lingering even as the cold water wipes away the blood.

then he moves again.

it happens fast enough that you barely register it. one second, gojo satoru is standing tall and focused on the task, and the next...he's leaning down. his breath ghosting over the hollow of your neck.

you feel your entire world tilt as his lips press softly against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, a touch so light that it feels stolen.

but now you've frozen, every breath catching as though the air was snatched from your lungs. every nerve feels as though it's on fire, hyper-aware of how soft the brush of his lips was, the faint scrape of his teeth just shy of your skin.

how gojo's lips were almost reverent, like a prayer offered in silence. how he was worshipping something he couldn't ever have.

but your eyes snap open to meet his.

gojos's cerulean eyes are molten, the usual ice cracked and melting into something deep and desperate and all-consuming. they bore into yours, wild and unguraded, and the pale lashes framing them tremble lighting as though even he's unsure of what he's just done.

but gojo's pupils are also blown wide, and electric. like a storm trapped in glass.

you swallow hard, your pulse thundering in your throat. slowly, cautiously, you dip your head, just enough to give him permission without saying a word.

the look in his eyes shifts — hunger, disbelief, and something darker all tangled together. he presses his lips to your neck again, firmer this time, lingering as though committing the feel of your skin to memory. then again, slightly higher, his breath hot and uneven against you.

"satoru…" the name slips from your lips in a whisper, trembling and unbidden.

the warmth of his tongue catches you off guard, tracing the curve of your neck in a way that sends a jolt through your entire body, heat down to your thighs. it's...unhinged, but the part of you that should push him away is nowhere to be found.

gojo pulls back just enough for you to see the faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remain dark, intense, and burning with something that feels too big for the room.

"another man got to taste you," he whispers, "now i've tasted him."

you almost laugh, sharp and bitter. the sound lodging in your throat. the absurdity of it all, the jealously lacing his words like a poison vine, the way his breath still fans against your skin.

"that's insane," you manage, your voice shaking. it does little to stop the searing heat curling low in your stomach.

for a second, gojo's breath is still hot against your neck. and then suddenly, his hands are on you.

and fuck, it's not delicate at all. there's a roughness to his touch, desparate and unrestrained, as though something inside him as finally snapped.

his palms trace along your bare shoulders, sliding down to your arms, and then to your waist. his fingers press into your skin with a heat that makes you feel like you're burning from the inside out. you don't even realise when you had opened your mouth slightly, panting as if you're trying to pull more air in.

"gojo," you manage, barely audible, and you're acutely aware of the low tense ache beginning to throb in your groin.

his hands slow for a moment, resting on your sides as if he’s trying to ground himself, or stop himself. and gojo's eyes find yours again, and they’re ablaze.

"can i keep going?"

you wonder just how you've managed to unravel this man, to leave his voice hanging by a thread in the air.

you don’t answer right away, your head swimming with confusion, slick desire, and something dangerously close to surrender. gojo satoru is watching you so intently it’s like he’s searching for every unspoken answer written on your skin.

finally, you shift — subtle, but enough. your knees part slightly, just enough for him to step between your bare thighs.

"what do you want me to do?"

you're aware of the insistent, rhythmic pulsing under your panties. of how every small shift of gojo's body against yours amplifies the soft arousal forming, as your heart pounds faster.

and so you let your fingers hook onto the pale waistband of your underwear, and you watch as his gaze follows your movements.

"i want you to touch me, there. please."

you hear the white-haired man breathe out a thankful, reverent fuck before he's following the path of your own hands, hooking a slender finger into your waistband and pulling your underwear down, and off.

and you're so painfully aware of your own arousal right now, the wet that is pooling beneath you. it feels like a relief, parting your legs so your searing heat meets cool air.

"that's perfect, look at t-that," and you're suddenly whining as gojo's fingertips begin grazing sloppy folds, raking themselves over your fluttering entrance, "she's practically been beggin' for my touch all this time, hah!"

"you - ohh, gojo!" you moan, feeling awfully faint from the rippling warmth making your cunt tighten around him, each pshh! echoing in your burning ears, "y-you wish!"

gojo's laugh is a little crazed, undone as he rolls his fingers in practiced curls, at an inhuman pace. bullying his fingers into your opening, as he rasps, "yeah, i w-wish. 'm wishing for this all the time. you never knew, huh?"

"f-fuck, if i had known it felt like this, would've stuck my fingers in h-her a long time ago," gojo unfurls his fingers that only just separated from your winking pussy, and you can only watch.

equally mesmerised as his slender fingers are coated in strands of your slick, clinging to the curves of his short nails and coating them in a mirror sheen.

"have some c-class, gojo! you've lost your fuckin' mind -"

smack!

"i swear to god, gojo. never say that corny shit a-again."

but gojo's teeth are sharp as they sink into the damp skin of your neck with an almost reverent press, easily snapping through the delicate flesh.

still, there's hardly time to dissect that.

"keep your eyes h-here, sweets. on us."

and god, that's exactly where your eyes are. falling on a tense forearm around your waist, as the other works its fierce way through the clamping, gummy walls of your leaking cunt. and you're shuddering underneath him, feeling each brush of his fingers in you.

"w-we make a pretty sight, don't we, yeah?" and the words are spilling from gojo's lips with a certain smugness, but it's rough around the edges, strained. and you just can't look away from how utterly ruined he looks, from touching you.

you watch the glossed shine of your trickling pussy twinkle in the warm lights, as gojo pushes your thighs open wider. his frame leans over yours, taut and straining. and his lips are flushed and parted, betraying the deep ache of his breath.

"go onnn, say it. c'mon," and now gojo's whining in your ear, letting his hand push further into the mess as your pussy is practically weeping onto his fingertips, "won't let you c-cum if you don't say it."

your chest heaves with each desperate, gulping breath. and you can see gojo's vision narrow on how your tits threaten to spill out from their confines, the swell of your chest rising as you try to draw air through your close orgasmic daze. where the edges of your vision blur, and your heart is pounding erratically, "ahhh, gojo! 'm gonna, i think 'm gonna, oh my god!"

but there's more, you want so much more.

and against better thought, you push and elbow back into gojo's chest, heaving as he flicks his thumb over your aching clit.

"hah, what is it now? fuck was that for?" and the man is scowling at you, seemingly irritated that you drew him away from the hypnotic pull of your pulsing walls.

you swivel, away from the mirror so you're facing him. and your eyes fall on the heavy, pitched tent in gojo's grey slacks, one that must be aching and awfully painful from the way he's running his pink tongue over his bruised mouth.

"wan' more, gojo. on the bed."

you've reached up behind your back, unhooking the clip that was holding your bra together. it falls, and you toss it into the pile where gojo had flung your clingy panties, over your gorgeous dress.

and you think gojo satoru might have just had a minor heart attack.

his expression has shifted, lips parted as he takes in your naked form. you think you hear his breath hitch, as his eyes roam over you, unblinking. you're certain that the mildly brighter light in the room has nothing to do with what's overhead, rather the bright blue of gojo's six eyes.

you snicker at his dumbstruck expression, letting your hand curl around his wrist — marvelling at how he almost whines at the sight of you pushing him out of the bathroom suite, and onto that glorious bed that the two of you had argued over earlier in the day.

"n-not so opposed to sharing a bed with me now, sweets? oh, fuck," you don't let him get any more words out, since you're reaching for the sleek leather belt threading through the loops of his slacks, pawing at them so you can finally undress him. have him as bare as you are now.

something in your desparate touch must have made gojo snap, because now he's shuffling the two of you around, so you're practically splayed out under his warm, large hands. thighs spread, parted so your dripping cunt is displayed to the room, as he scoots closer. his knees pressing against the carpet.

"hnnghh, f-fuck, look at her. practically cryin' on me."

and what a sight. gojo satoru, the most powerful man to walk this earth in centuries is slumped beneath your thighs, close enough to your clit that when he breathes, he knocks his nose right over the sensitive bud, coating his face in that syrupy glaze.

and then its slow, painful. how his long tongue descends onto your weeping pussy, writhing flat in wide, broad strokes that leave you whining out his name.

you spread your legs even wider, fighting against gojo's tight grip on the flesh of your thighs. the thighs that are trembling as he brings his teeth up to graze your clit, and your arousal drips from his lips. making candied pink lips look like they've been glazed and dipped in sugar.

briefly, in the back of your mind, you wonder how you're going to continue to function tomorrow. how you're going to even be able to walk after gojo satoru has rendered you boneless.

you also wonder if there's a cosmic deity out there, looking at an invisible and heavenly camera with a dull look on their face. something like what can you do?

"mmhph, y'know i l-like this a lot better than that drink from earlier," and he's cooing at how you squeal and moan, "hah, what was that s-shit called? a cream soda."

you pull at the white strands of his hair, yanking gojo's head back from where his tongue had been lolling around your clit, ignoring his whine, "if y-you make a stupid, fuckin' joke about creaming, i'm g-gonna leave."

gojo rolls his eyes, but this time? this time, there's no malice in it, no irritation. his expression is almost fond, if not shadowed by the enormity of his own lust, "leaving before the main event is dumb choice, sweets."

"tch! get to i-it then, oh! what the fuck, gojo!"

he's found the right place to prod, to roll his fingers over the hood of your clit, occasionally propping his mouth down to suck at it lightly. your mouth is clamped shut, so you don't release an absurd amount of babble, wordless and airless about how good he's devouring you.

"hah," gojo huffs, pressing three flat fingers against your entrance, letting them curl into your walls, enough to tease you, "i can feel her beating for me. 's pulsing all over."

"c-can't you jus' make me cum?" your hands are desparate for some friction, running past your perked tits, down to his hair again. now clamping your thighs around his head, and the soft, snowy hair of his head tickles at your skin.

"can' believe you're talking shit when i'm e-eating you out," gojo chuckles, but you're just too mesmerised by the glint of your slick lighting a beacon over the lower half of his face, strands of slick as he pulls away from your pussy, "y'not that patient, huh?"

he's practically attached to your clit now, kissing it with a tender and yet firm press of his lips, seemingly aware of just how sensitive you are to that type of pressure.

you whimper and mewl as gojo's head disappeared back between your legs, deeper and lower as his tongue pushes into your pussy, flicking shallow thrusts that makes you breathe out gasps of his name.

"now i think 'm gonna cum, so close, satoru," with your hand firmly lodged in his platinum strands, you're rocking your hips messily, sloppily against his awaiting mouth.

"y-yeah? go on, sweets," he's moaning now too, and you don't miss how the edge of the bed rocks just a bit from him grinding the frame for some release on his own erection.

your orgasm makes your mind foggy, and you practically quake in gojo's large, warm hands. with a sharp cry of his name, followed by an endless chant of praise for the unearthly man between your legs, lapping at you as though you are his last drink, his last meal on this earth before he ascends elsewhere.

the hard streaks of white shoot through your vision, even as you come down from the incredible high, and you realise gojo has not stopped.

gojo's jaw is still locked as your slick dribbles down your folds, into his open mouth and onto his waiting tongue. the extra stimulation makes you deliriously cry out, "fuck, s-satoru! 's too much, holy fuck!"

you were still shaking, and a second orgam blurred your sight into an incredible spectrum of colours, white hot starlight and streaks of blue. that cascade of vivid tints flood your vision, each one jerking your hips and cunt forward until you felt your legs give way.

until gojo finally separated himself from your thighs, satisfied at how he had pulled two climaxes from you.

he's absolutely lost it, lost in that daze of being pussywhipped, and his eyes gleam with a feverish intensity. and when he crashes pink, glossy lips down on your mouth, you can feel him shake under your touch.

you moan, loud, as he nips at your lower lip. at how you can taste yourself on his tongue, syrup strands falling into your mouth as gojo suddenly twitches.

"i think 'm gonna have to be in you right now, otherwise i'll literally fuckin' die."

a breathy laugh falls from your lips as your partner pulls himself up, heavy limbs finally extracting themselves away from your naked body, reaching up to hook his fingers over the black crinkle of his rumpled dress shirt, pulling the fabric off.

leaving your mouth dry.

the moonlight spills over gojo's torso, and you track your eyes over his broad chest, rising and falling and flushed from his own arousal.

you follow the faint dusting of pale white hair as it disappeared past the waistband of his slacks that he's quickly making short work of, and you feel your pussy clench thinking about how badly you need to jump gojo satoru's bones.

but you're too transfixed by him, by the sculpted figure of a supposedly cold and arrogant bastard you've spent months and years rolling your eyes at.

he's real. all hot flesh and blood, and stunning. not that sneering, and infuriating man who's always one step ahead, always one callous word away from making your blood boil.

for a different heat has settled in you now, as your eyes fall on his throbbing cock that has sprung forth, up over his stomach. the tip is an angry, and furious berry-pink and you wonder just how you're going to make these inches fit.

"hah, didn’t think you'd be this shy, you know,” he says, voice a low, husky tease, as if he’s been watching your struggle. gojo's eyes glint with amusement, but there’s something deeper beneath it, something that you hope with lead him to take mercy on you.

"n-no. no," you repeat yourself more firmly, but it's far too breathless to be convincing, "no, 'm not shy."

but it's hard to form coherent thoughts when gojo satoru is towering over you, and his absurdly long and girthy shaft is twitching in between your slick folds.

"fuck you, s-satoru," you're whimpering, feeling the pulsing, rounded head of his flushed tip brush past your sensitive, drooling slit, "taking too long. jus' put it in already."

"mhmm, sweets," and gojo's bustling at your thighs now, pinching the soft and tender skin in retaliation for your touch undoing him so easily, "she can't even be patient, hah, trus' me. just lay back."

you comply, just this once. just because gojo satoru's cock looks so big, you think you need to gather all your thoughts so you'll be able to form coherent sentences later.

resting your head back on plush sheets, with the skyline twinkling in your peripheral vision as gojo's aligning himself with your cunt. he's gasping in low, shuddering breaths as his tip teases and hooks onto your inner walls.

"look at thaaat, oh! baby, fuck, wasn' even joking before, just sucking me up so fuckin' good!"

you don't reply, just mewling as he pushes inch after veiny inch into your dribbling walls, gasping as his large hands rest on the back of your thighs, pushing them further up so he can slot his torso in between your legs.

"oh my god, satoru! s-satoru, hnnhgh, it's too much — i don' think it's gon' fit," you always thought you would be embarrassed to lose composure like this in front of gojo, but you find yourself panting into the crook of his neck, raking nails down his flushed neck.

he's big, and you can feel every vein of his tapered curve hitting the right spots within you, as you shift your hips, desperate to let his sinuous cock kiss every inch of your pussy lovingly.

"gon' dumb already?" gojo's huffing, but you can see that he's not unaffected. his eyes are glazed over, hazy as he slowly draws his hips back just an inch, before scooting them forward already, "jus' gonna have to make this pussy learn from now on. don' worry, sweets. it'll fit."

the 'from now on' makes something in your pounding heart flutter.

but you have little time to focus on it as he bottoms out in your drenched cunt, as though you're hearing the slosh of your pussy coat him entirely, right up to the wiry, white hairs on his groin.

"hahh, there we go! the w-wonders of a positive attitude, don'tcha think?" and you're left with your eyes rolling to the back of your head, as he begins to pick up the pace. a steady staccato that has you jostling underneath his ministrations.

you let his mouth chase yours, capturing glossy lips with your own bite, letting him pant, and whine and praise the heavens above for how tight you're snatching him right now.

"she's p-perfect, isn't she? t-thought about it so much, y'got no idea, got no c-clue about how much i thought about you under me like this n' how you'd f-feel!"

gojo satoru is absolutely drunk from a nectar that he has tasted once. the same nectar that coats his cock in frothy, filthy rings as he pistons his hips out of your pussy.

"happy for y-you, satoru," and you're letting your nails scratch over the shell of his ear as he twitches and shudders, "but fuck, y'talk too much! jus' focus on fucking me!"

gojo's mouth quirks upwards, that knowing smirk playing on his lips as he looks at you bemused, and so hazy.

"god, a lot of that attitude now, hahh?" and he's drawling the words out, and you don't miss how he shudders when you clench around his shaft, on purpose. he's leaning in closer, barely brushing past your lips, and you wonder briefly for a split-second, gojo satoru might just really love you.

and then, without warning, his hand comes down to your side, just underneath the fat of your tits, pinching lightly at the abdomen. causing you to take a sharp intake of breath, and a dizzy huff of his name.

if you ever believed that gojo satoru was malicious in the workplace, a bane on your sanity, you had not been prepared for how he was stretching you out in all the right places.

that inhumane pace of the strongest had him snapping his hips sharply, over and over until he's hitting the spongy patch, deep within your walls.

"clamped around me like, ohh, like a fuckin' vice," gojo's grunting now, each breath coming out short puffs that match the timing of the slap! each whack of his cock delivers, pressing your hips together and coating his hips in sweet slick.

"mmph, feels so good, satoru!" you squeal, pressing a hand over your mouth so you don't wake up the entire top floor of the hotel, tits jostling with each shuffle and movement.

it's all coming down on you too quick, that electric haze shooting down your spine. made all the worse by gojo groaning and slipping his hand between his jackhammering hips, down to where your clit is practically throbbing for his touch.

he's running tight circles, before pressing the flat of his thumb under the hood of your clit, ripping a raw cry from the back of your throat, rolling your eyes to the back of your head as gojo's lips are leaving blooming marks over your neck.

"satoru, i t-think 'm gonna c-cum again," you moan, fluttering your lashes against your skin, rolling your hips up into gojo's quick fingers and brutal cock. but it feels different this time, nothing like your past two orgasms. you feel something draw its claws further into your groin, like you're going to burst and the breath will be stolen away from your lungs.

you hear gojo say something, snarky but tender as he laughs into your collarbone, as he's slapping his fingers down quickly over your clit, making you jolt. but you don't hear his words as blood roars in your eears, gushing all over his cock with a clear, sticky sheen that coats him deliciously.

makes gojo satoru groan out filthy praises over your marked skin, "didn' know you were that nasty? hahh, squirtin' over me on your first go, yeah? it's gettin' too much for me too, s-sweets. think 'm gonna hafta maaa -"

you have no inkling as to what gojo was aiming to groan out, fluttering his own blue eyes shut as his orgasm catches up to him, pumping you insanely full of thick, stringy seed. practically painting your inner walls a translucent white as you huff and whine.

but in the back of your mind, you think he wanted to marry you. a bridge you'll cross when you get to it.

"fillin' you up, good, aren't i?" and he's lost in a daze, and you watch as his muscles ripple in the light of the moon, pectorals gleaming as he stuffs you further, as if plugging his seed to stay in you, making you squirm from the delicious stimulation.

you should have paid a little more attention to your surroundings. less attention to the thick veins of his cock drilling a home in you. or less attention to how his lips curl up into a sweeter smile as he presses soft, happy kisses to your cheek while you lay exhausted, caged by his thick arms.

then, you might have noticed the lights flicker and then shatter for half the hotel's rooms.

the morning sun peeks through the curtains like an overenthusiastic alarm clock, dragging you out of sleep with its gentle warmth. you stretch lazily, limbs still heavy and sticky from the weight of...the previous night's activities.

the sheets feel ridiculous soft, kudos to the insanely over-priced hotel. and for a second, you entertain the thought of just staying here. forever.

that is, until your eyes fall on raijin's amulet over on the wooden table.

and the fact that gojo is nowhere to be found.

you blink, squinting at the empty space beside you. your first instinct is to check besides the bed, and then under it, for fear that the six-foot three man has simply fallen off.

but your gaze falls on a tiny pink sticky-note on the nightstand. one that you suspect was pilfered from the scattered case file on the couch. you peer at looping cursive, scrawled in a blue marker.

don't eat anything yet! gone to get a proper breakfast!

you can't help the soft huff that leaves you, fond in its escape. you feel this sudden urge to don some proper clothes, to go down and join him in the warm sunlight.

but then you pause. perhaps, you ought not to. it would be fun to let him miss you just a bit. the thought of the gojo satoru standing there, waiting in line for entirely average pancakes is amusement enough for you.

but before you can pull the crisp sheets over your head, your eyes catch a glimpse of something else by the bed. a small, satin-blue box that didn't exist yesterday, in the world of cruel choices and...semi-successful missions.

the memory of yesterday pulls a frown from you, but you shake your head, determined to clear your thoughts.

you reach for it, letting your fingers run over the smooth surface, before tugging at the silver ribbon cautiously. half-expecting to find something weird like gojo's usual idea of a joke like a half-naked framed photo of him with a lipstick print.

ah!

but instead, inside the box lies a thin necklace. you've stared longingly enough at shop windows to know that these are real diamonds. not the cheap kind either, a well-cut carat that makes you gasp to yourself, a flush running over your cheeks.

for a moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched unbearably heavy. but then gojo’s ice-gaze dropped to the necklace scattered over your throat, and he tilted his head, "not too bad," a flicker of a scoff curling at his lips. "tch, they’re not even real," you blurted, then immediately regretted it, what was wrong with you today? you reached up, fingers grazing the cool crystals as if to shield them from his bemused scrutiny, "just thought i needed something to fit in."

you pick it up, feeling the cold weight of it in your hand. what is this, romance? a necklace? gojo satoru doesn’t even do romance. at least, not in the way anyone would expect.

he’s the kind of guy who would absolutely get you diamonds just to throw you off balance. mission accomplished.

you glance at the sticky note again, then back at the necklace. this is way too much for your sleep-addled brain. and yet, there’s this funny little thing inside you, a warm spark that you don’t know what to do with.

fuck, when did he even have the time to get this gorgeous gift?

you’re definitely not soft, but gojo does this thing to you — he has a way of turning your whole world upside down, and now…apparently, he’s gone and done it again.

your cheeks warm, but you don't admit to it. not yet. but there's no denying the softer spot that's growing in you, the urge to have gojo satoru in your arms in this very moment so you can run your hands through soft, white hair to watch him purr. to see his cheeks flush from a sweet blush as his blue eyes flutter shut.

your eyes fall on his crumpled uniform jacket from yesterday, his discarded clothes. perhaps, you could just join him. after all, you feel words threatening to spill from your mouth and you want him to hear them.

a surprise of your own? you think you want to see gojo satoru speechless for once.

do not plagiarise or repost! likes and reblogs appreciated. btw, this jenny packham was the dress i envisioned for reader but imagine whatever you like!

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