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★ SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⋆ 01. THE REAPING.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

★ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader ★ tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: alcohol consumption, profanity, death & violence, blood. ★ word count: 6.2k

ao3 ⋆ series masterlist

District Four didn’t have much to offer, but there was always the beach, and the sun, and the sand. Satoru could collect seashells if he wished—he had a pile of them already, in the corner of his bedroom. He didn’t have to work. The Capitol provided him that luxury, at the expense of twenty-three lives.

He could spend his days ambling over the soft, golden sand of the strip of coast right outside the Victor’s Village and drink himself to oblivion. If Satoru lived alone in the Victor’s Village, he might’ve.

Small joys in such a cruel, cold world.

He wasn’t the only victor District Four had to its name. There was you, who won the Hunger Games right after he did. He had mentored you, taught you all the right ways to play the Capitol crowd and win favours. He had honed your cunningness and cleverness, and helped you survive in the arena. You weren’t his favourite tribute—the twelve districts had to send one boy and one girl, each; he had favoured your fellow tribute—and truth be told, Satoru had had no idea what he was doing. It was his first time being a mentor, after all.

Your victory was a fluke.

It had been five years since your Hunger Games, and six years since his. This year marked the 75th Hunger Games—a grim anniversary draped in spectacle. Seventy-five years since the thirteen districts of Panem had dared to rise against the Capitol. Seventy-five years since the thirteenth had been razed to ash and silence. The thought was droll, in a bleak, bitter sort of way. Nothing in Panem ever changed. Only the methods of punishment grew more inventive.

On the morning of the Reaping, Satoru rose before the sun did and made his way to the beach.

He could’ve slept in. Reaping Day was the one day the people of the districts were granted a few extra hours of sleep—if they could manage it. The ceremony itself wouldn’t begin until the afternoon, when the Capitol’s cameras were in position in the district square and the selection of the tributes was broadcast live to all of Panem. But Satoru knew that sleep rarely came to anyone on this day. Not to the children. Not to the families who might lose them. And not to the victors who knew exactly what it meant.

He walked barefoot down to the shoreline, sand still cool against his feet. The sea stretched endlessly before him, indifferent and eternal, like it had been watching all this time and simply chose not to intervene. He envied it, sometimes—the sea’s freedom. Its refusal to care.

The Victor’s Village sat far enough from the rest of District Four that the sounds of waking life didn’t reach him here. Satoru could almost believe, if only for a moment, that there were no Hunger Games; no Capitol; no Reaping. Just the salt air, the breeze tugging at his shirt, and the slow pull of the waves crashing onto the shore.

He was crouched in the sand, fiddling absently with a broken piece of sea glass when he heard footsteps.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked dryly, not looking up.

Your voice came from just behind him. “Didn’t even try.”

He stood slowly, brushing the sand from his hands and tucking the sea glass into his pocket. The two of you hadn’t spoken much in recent months—not since the last Games. He didn’t like you much, though it was a stupid thought to entertain. You’d done what you did to survive, the same as he had, and yet, every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was his best friend lying prone on the arena’s ground, while you stood over his dead body.

You stepped closer, the crunch of sand underfoot sounding louder than it should’ve in the morning hush. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, tangling through your hair and tugging at the hem of your jacket. You stopped beside him, arms crossed. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked older than he remembered, but so did he. The Hunger Games did that to a person.

“I ran into Pearl last week,” you said. “The new Peacemaker whose husband works for the Gamemakers.”

Satoru resisted the urge to snort. A Peacemaker, in charge of maintaining discipline in the districts, married to a Gamemaker who lived in the Capitol and worked on creating the Hunger Games, was an odd pair, at least by his standards.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, dragging a tired hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to be more specific. This new batch of Peacemakers is nothing more than a bunch of rich bastards with too many opinions.”

“She was drunk,” you continued, ignoring his jab. “I think she told me something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the Quarter Quell—”

“I know that,” Satoru snapped.

The Quarter Quell, held every twenty-five years, was a special edition of the Hunger Games. This year would be the third Quarter Quell. In the words of President Snow, they were designed specially to keep the memory of the districts’ rebellion fresh in each generation’s mind.

“Just get to the damn point,” he said.

“She said that the Quarter Quell would be different this year. Something symbolic.” Your lips curled into a sneer at that. “A return to the Games’ original purpose. A reminder that no one’s truly safe—not even us. She said that this time, they’d be reaping from the pool of victors.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s just Capitol talk. They love theatrics.”

“Do you really think the Capitol would joke about this?”

Yes, he wanted to say, but truthfully, it was hard to decipher between what was true and what was a lie when it came to the Hunger Games. Like trying to differentiate between poison and nectar when both looked the same and smelled sweet.

Satoru finally turned to face you, the morning light catching the pale glint in his eyes. You didn’t flinch—or perhaps, didn’t allow yourself to—but he suspected that it had always unsettled you, the way he looked at people like he was trying to peel back their skin just to see what was underneath.

“So you think it’s real,” he said.

“I think the Capitol would never waste a good opportunity for cruelty,” you said.

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to find a lie in your face. He wouldn’t. Not about this, at least. A gull cried overhead, its shadow skating across the sand. You shifted your weight, arms tightening around your frame. The breeze whipped your hair into your face, but you made no move to push it away.

You both knew the rules. District Four had only two victors. If the Capitol wanted a show—wanted irony, cruelty, symmetry—then of course they’d make you two fight. Mentor and tribute. Killer and survivor. The boy who taught you how to win, and the girl who used it to kill the person he loved most.

“You should’ve let me die,” you murmured, turning to the sea. Your eyes scanned the horizon like the ocean might offer a different reality. Foolish, Satoru thought. The sea was unforgiving, no matter how adept you were at staying afloat.

“I tried,” Satoru said.

“Not hard enough,” you said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t worth the effort.”

But the venom in his voice wasn’t convincing. You both knew what it was: guilt, calcified into something meaner over time.

The sun rose higher, casting everything in amber. Soon, the district would stir. Faces would fill the square. Two names would be drawn, and for once, no children would be volunteered as tributes.

Satoru didn’t often indulge in alcohol during the day. The numbing haze it offered was tempting—too tempting, most days—but he liked his senses sharp. A victor inebriated was about as useful as a tribute dead. And dead was something he still wasn’t ready to be.

He’d left the beach not long after you’d spoken. The words still sat heavy on his chest, like water in his lungs, refusing to drain. That was three hours ago.

Now, he sat in one of the Victor’s Village’s garishly upholstered armchairs—Capitol chic, which was to say it was both uncomfortable and absurd. Deep maroon with golden trim, stiff in the wrong places, and far too elaborate for a man who still slept on the left side of the bed, because the right side used to be occupied by somebody else.

Shoko dropped a packet of nicotine patches onto the glass coffee table between them. The foil crinkled; it landed beside his half-finished glass of dark liquor, casting a warped reflection in the amber. Their ritual was familiar: Capitol alcohol for black market medicine. She never asked why he drank. He never asked who she was patching up in the alleys near the docks.

He also didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t have any use for her exchanged goods after today.

“You should be getting ready,” Shoko said, pulling back her brown hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“For what? A glorified roll call?” he said.

“For someone who’s about to be paraded in front of the entire district, you’re unusually morose.”

He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. “Must be the company.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” said Shoko, deadpan.

They were. Or, at least, they were what passed for friends after the Games: two people bound not by warmth or laughter, but by the quiet understanding of what survival cost. Shoko hadn’t set foot in an arena, but she had pieced enough broken bodies back together to know the rules didn’t end when the cannon fired. If anything, they only got worse. She was the last thread tying him to who he was before—before the arena, before the fame that stank of blood and nightmares, before he lost his best friend.

Satoru, for all his evasions and sardonic grins, hadn’t dared cut that thread yet.

He didn’t respond, just leaned forward to pour another finger of liquor into his glass. The liquid sloshed slightly, but his hand wasn’t trembling. He couldn’t allow it to. Shoko’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the cobbled streets of Victor’s Village gleamed under the Capitol-mandated maintenance—fresh flowers, freshly-polished plaques, marble clean enough to reflect light. An illusion of peace, gilded and enforced.

“Where’s the victor girl?” she asked.

“Do I look like her babysitter?” he snarked.

“I’ll never understand why you can’t forgive her,” Shoko said slowly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Satoru stayed quiet. If he said something now, it would be only out of anger, and he didn’t want his last words to Shoko to be something he didn’t mean. He lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp, then stood up just as the first of the district bells began to toll.

“You ought to go,” he told her, “or they’ll punish you for being late.”

“And they won’t punish you?”

He smiled faintly. “Victor’s privilege.”

Shoko didn’t move. She stared at him with the same expression she wore when inspecting a wound she knew she couldn’t stitch closed—measured, resigned, maybe even a little angry at the fact that she cared at all.

“You keep hiding behind that title like it protects you,” she said.

“It does,” Satoru replied.

The second bell rang, lower than the first, echoing across the district. Outside, the shadows of Peacekeepers could be seen filing into position, lining the walkways between the manicured hedges. It was a parade for the Capitol cameras, all pageantry and propaganda. The returning victors, the new tributes, and, hidden underneath them all, the reminder: you can survive the Games, but you’ll never leave them.

Shoko stepped around the coffee table, retrieving the nicotine patches. She tore one open and handed it to him, hesitating only a little. “Here. In case you decide you want to live a little longer.”

He took it without a word and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes met once, briefly, the tiniest amount of affection they would allow themselves to show to each other.

“Don’t let them twist her into you,” she said quietly, turning around to the door.

Satoru didn’t reply.

He waited until the door shut behind her, until her footsteps disappeared down the pristine path. Then, slowly, he turned toward the tall mirror by the fireplace. The Capitol had commissioned it, of course—tall and ornate, trimmed with a frame of curling leaves and thorns dipped in gold. His reflection looked out of place in it. Older than he should be. Less victorious than they claimed.

He tugged at the collar of his jacket and stared himself down.

Forgive you? No, not yet.

The third bell chimed, sharp and final.

Satoru Gojo stepped out the door with a smile plastered on his face.

The streets of District Four were deceptively beautiful.

Stone-paved and sun-warmed, they twisted lazily along the coastline, lined with whitewashed cottages and storefronts draped in netting and dried coral. Bougainvillea climbed the walls, fuchsia and silver-white against the salt-stained brick. Wind chimes made of driftwood and shell danced in the breeze, their soft clatter mingling with the distant crash of waves. Wooden boats bobbed in the harbour, their sails furled tight, hulls painted in colours once bright but long faded by the sun. If someone passed through the district quickly enough, they might even call it peaceful.

Satoru knew better.

Every flower was trimmed for the Capitol’s cameras. Every cottage window was scrubbed clean; every storefront was made to look quaint but never poor. It was curated beauty, scrubbed clean of anything that might offend the Capitol’s delicate sensibilities.

Every child was trained for the sea, and then—inevitably—for war. District 4 was a district of fishermen, yes, but it was also a district of Careers. A place where kids learned to wield spears before they learned to read, where swimming and fighting were taught in the same breath, and discipline came in the form of bruises and bent knees.

There was pride here—too much, perhaps. Pride in strength. Pride in surviving. Somewhere along the line, that pride in survival had turned into pride in bloodshed, and now it was hard to tell one from the other.

And yet, for all their training and tradition, District 4 had only two victors to its name. Two, in over seventy years of Games. It was a quiet disgrace, a smudge against the reputation they’d worked so hard to polish. The Capitol never said it aloud, but the resentment was there, simmering beneath their sugar-sweet praise. Their tributes were supposed to be killers, paragons of grace and brutality, but most died with their throats slit in the first few days.

When the Capitol looked at you and Satoru, it looked with expectation. Pressure. Hunger. You weren’t just victors; you were proof that District Four could produce something lethal. The Capitol wouldn’t let you forget it, and it was evident in the way the Peacekeepers trailed you and Satoru as you made your way to the square.

So, no. He didn’t buy the pretty picture. He’d come to loathe it and love it, in equal parts.

“Is it weird that I feel… relieved?” you asked, looking down. Your boots scuffed against the cobblestone.

“Relieved that no kid has to die this year?” Satoru said, his voice low. “No. That’s not weird.”

Last year, it was Junpei and Mai Zen’in. The year before that, the mayor’s daughter and the butcher’s son. The year before that, it had been the twins from the cliffs, Reika and Ren. They’d held hands as they climbed into the transport, matching defiant stares fixed on the cameras. Satoru may not have seen eye-to-eye with you, but in this, as the only mentors your district had to offer, you were jointly determined. It was cruel, the way the Capitol spun the twins’ narrative. There was nothing more tragic than siblings being put in a bloodbath and forced to kill each other.

You and Satoru did all you could to ensure their survival. They’d died anyway—Reika on the second day with an arrow to the heart; Ren lasted three more before he threw himself off a ledge rather than be cornered.

Ten tributes in the five years since yours, two more since his. Satoru remembered them all. Names, faces, screams. He kept them catalogued like wounds, sharp and painful. You didn’t forget your district’s dead—not when their ghosts walked the streets in the form of little siblings, grieving mothers, empty chairs at dinner tables.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes catching the tremble in your jaw. You didn’t say anything, but he could tell this wasn’t just about relief. It was guilt, too. You’d won. They hadn’t. Satoru knew perfectly what that felt like.

You exhaled. “They always look so small when they’re called. Doesn’t matter how tough they act, how many knives they’ve trained with. They always look like kids.”

“Didn’t we?” Satoru said.

He didn’t mean for it to come out as cruel as it did. You flinched, just barely, but he saw it: a crack in your composure, hairline thin, quick as lightning. Satoru looked away. The breeze picked up, bringing with it the sharp tang of brine and the distant screech of gulls. Somewhere in the harbour, a rope hit a mast with a dull clack clack clack, rhythmic and lonely.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did,” you said quietly. “But it’s fine.”

It wasn’t, not really. But what else was there to say? You had looked like kids. You’d been eighteen—too innocent, too young, bruises blooming purple down your arms after weeks of Career training. Satoru remembered seeing you on stage beside him, hands clenched into fists, mouth pressed into a line like you’d rather spit than smile. It had been his first year as a mentor, and despite his Games having left him shaken already, it was your Games that truly wiped any traces of joy from his mind.

“The twins’ mom still leaves candles by the pier,” you said. “Every month. Two. One pink, and one blue.”

“Yeah. I know,” Satoru said.

The hill began to slope downward, toward the square. The stage always felt out of place here—too polished, too clean. Like someone had taken a piece of the Capitol and dropped it into the heart of District 4 without bothering to see whether it fit. The wood was sanded smooth, gleaming under the afternoon sun, and the Capitol banners draped behind it fluttered; red silk, gold trim, all show. Two glass bowls were placed on pedestals, and normally, they’d be filled to the brim with narrow slips of paper. This time, there was only one piece of paper in each. A microphone was placed between them, tall and thin.

Children were already gathered below, arranged by age, corralled behind thick ropes like livestock awaiting auction. Girls to the left, and boys to the right. The youngest looked terrified, faces drawn tight with fear at their first ever Reaping. The older ones stood stiff-backed, trying to appear braver than they felt. To the side stood those who had outgrown the age for the Games: men and women with sunburnt faces and wind-bitten hands who stood with their arms crossed tightly.

The Peacekeepers led you and Satoru down the path, in between the girls and boys. The children looked at him, wide-eyed and stricken; the older ones stared at him with more wariness. He looked away, fingers curling into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. The Head Peacekeeper—the new one, who’d inadvertently let slip the secret about this year’s Hunger Games—nudged you both up the stage. Satoru stood with his hands behind his back, the bitter taste of judgement and expectation lodged in his mouth like rot.

The metallic clatter of heels against the stage broke the silence. The Capitol’s escort for District Four ascended with a flourish.

Coral was her name, and she’d been the conductor of the Reaping since Satoru was born. She was dressed in seafoam and pearl, hair coiled into a towering spiral that mimicked the curl of a nautilus shell, the tips dipped in shimmering silver. The strands were woven through with glinting beads and wire shaped like sea creatures—delicate crabs, jewelled anemones, and a single translucent fish pinned just above her ear. Her lipstick was the same shade of a coral reef just before it bleached. Her lashes batted with forced warmth, eyes bright beneath a mask of powder and paint.

“What a fucking clown,” he heard you mutter under your breath. Satoru snorted and disguised it as a cough. There was no love lost between you both and Coral. Your disdain for each other only seemed to multiply with each new Reaping.

The Capitol, he thought grimly, had a twisted sense of humour. A woman named Coral for the district by the ocean. It was almost funny, if it weren’t so cruel. Everything about her was an imitation of the sea—costume over understanding, performance over truth. She smiled as if she hadn’t just flown in on a private hovercraft to announce death in front of children.

“Welcome, welcome!” she trilled into the microphone, loud and obnoxious, in that strange Capitol accent of hers. “District Four, it is always a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games—and what a special occasion this year’s Reaping promises to be!”

The crowd murmured. You cursed at her quietly once more. Satoru bit back his smile; you were providing some amusement, at least, before Coral announced the inevitable.

“This year marks the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games,” she continued. “And as you all know, every twenty-five years, we celebrate a Quarter Quell—a commemorative twist designed to remind us of the sacrifices that brought us peace.”

Her voice lifted slightly on the word peace, as if it were something alive, fluttering in the air like the Capitol’s gaudy banners. Satoru fought the urge to look at you, because if he did, he might laugh, and if he laughed, he might get shot.

Coral stepped back from the microphone, flourished a glittering envelope from her sleeve, and held it up.

“With the approval of President Snow,” she announced, “it is my honour to read the card that was sealed in this envelope seventy-five years ago by the original founders of Panem, to be opened today.”

She opened the envelope with a dramatic flick of her fingers.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games,” she read, “as a reminder that not even the strongest among us can overcome the Capitol… the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

Gasps rippled through the square. Some of the children whimpered. A few of the older teenagers exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief. A boy—not even thirteen, probably—turned to the boy next to him and whispered something frantic, something like what does that mean? only to get knocked on the back of his head by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Satoru didn’t blink. The performance had begun.

Coral gave the crowd a moment to process. She nodded solemnly, as if she actually gave a shit, and spread her arms.

“As District Four has only two living victors, there will be no draw today,” she said. “No need for names. By default… our tributes for the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games will be Satoru Gojo—” she paused, smiling as though his name was something to be treasured—“and…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, and, grabbing Satoru’s hand, you stepped forward, nudging Coral out of the way.

“What are you doing—”

“People of District Four,” you said loudly, ignoring Satoru’s flabbergasted glare and Coral’s protest. “We are your victors. We survived the Hunger Games. We were supposed to look after those who were sent in after this, and in this—in this, I regret to say, we’ve failed.”

Coral’s mouth opened in shock, but no words came out. Her wide eyes flicked between you and Satoru, who still hadn’t moved, his hand slack in yours. The crowd had quieted, like someone had pulled a thread too tightly—and now, everything was still, holding its breath.

You stepped forward once more.

“We failed them,” you continued. “We smiled for the cameras and waved from our trains and made speeches written by people who never saw a child die. We survived—and then we disappeared into the Victor’s Village, and the comfort and silence it gave us.”

Satoru could feel Coral’s fury simmering behind you, the way her breath turned short and shallow. She was probably already thinking of how this would look to the Capitol. What it would cost.

He didn’t care, and neither did you.

Satoru looked out at the people of District Four—his people. He saw the girl in the front row with the callused hands and the storm-coloured eyes. He saw the old man with the limp, gripping the hand of a child too young to understand what you were saying. He saw Shoko, standing to the side, her eyes wide and her mouth parted slightly. He saw grief.

He saw fear.

“We’re not proud of what we’ve become,” you said. “We were kids when they threw us into the arena. But we came back. And I—I can’t live with pretending that what’s happening now is normal. I won’t.”

There was a rustle behind you, the shift of fabric as Satoru finally stepped up. He raised his free hand—not waving, not saluting. Just open, trembling slightly; he was unsure what gesture could ever be right here.

“I—” he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “What she said. All of it.”

Someone in the crowd let out a choked laugh, but it was the kind that came too close to crying.

“I used to think,” Satoru said, steadier now, “that surviving was enough. That if I could just get through it, I’d earn the right to be left alone. But the truth is, we’re not alone—and we never were.”

His hand squeezed yours.

“And maybe we don’t have power,” you said. “Not compared to the Capitol. But we have voices. And I think—I think we should start using them. Before it’s too late.”

It was the old man with the limp who acted first, his eyes fixed on you both. His hand, weathered by time, trembled as he brought his thumb to his lips; then, slowly, he moved his hand across his chest before lifting it outward, palm open, towards you and Satoru.

The old sailors’ farewell. Satoru remembered being a child and playing at the docks when some of the older fishermen taught him about it. It was the gesture made to those who were being sent to sea, with long voyages ahead—a gesture for them to come back, safe and sound, with tales of joy and abundance. No one had ever used it since Panem was created.

Like a stone being dropped into still water, others in the crowd began to mirror him. One by one, people raised their hands to their lips, then pressed them to their hearts, before lifting them towards you. It spread like wildfire, like the way a spark can catch in dry grass. He didn’t know if it was a sign of solidarity or defiance, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

It was a rebellion all the same.

The crack of a rifle split the air like lightning.

The old man, his back straight despite his age, crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood. His limp body collapsed as a single shot rang out from a Peacekeeper’s rifle. His grandchild, confused and scared, began to wail, covered in his grandfather’s blood.

The child’s wail cut through the stunned silence like a blade, sharp and raw and impossibly small. For a second—maybe two, maybe ten—no one moved. You were frozen behind him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just seen.

Neither could he.

The blood seeped quickly across the stone, impossibly red against the grey, reaching the child’s shoes.

Screams tore through the square. People surged backwards, pushing and tripping over one another. Mothers grabbed their children, elders stumbled, younger ones shouted in protest and disbelief. Some tried to run. Some simply stood there, lost in horror.

Satoru tried to jump off the stage, acting before he could think, arms outstretched towards the child, towards the body, but strong arms grabbed him and held him back.

“Get off me—let go—” he snarled, teeth bared like an animal. You were shouting too, your voice cracking as you fought the Peacekeeper trying to drag you away.

“You killed him! He was unarmed!” you screamed, writhing, kicking, doing everything you could to make them hurt. “He saluted us! That’s all he did!”

“Let go of her!” Satoru roared, lunging towards you, twisting violently, only for the butt of a gun to slam into his gut. He doubled over with a groan, teeth clenched, and still, they carried him away.

The Peacekeeper holding Satoru grunted, pulling his arms behind his back with bruising force. “Enough.”

“No,” Satoru spat. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me that. That was a child’s grandfather—”

“Stand down or we shoot again.”

That made Satoru freeze.

You were still thrashing behind him, a wild thing burning in the sunlight, but when he said your name—just once, low and urgent—you met his eyes, and you stilled. Not because you were afraid, but because you understood.

They would kill someone else. A child. You. Him.

“Take them,” the Head Peacekeeper barked.

They dragged him from the platform. Somewhere in the distance, someone cried for help. Somewhere else, someone shouted murderer.

But he wasn’t allowed to look. He wasn’t allowed to stop. Your feet caught on the steps as the Peacekeepers forced you down them. Satoru was only a few feet behind you, but it still felt like miles. His hair was falling into his eyes, his back bent slightly where the rifle butt poked into him. Still, he fought against every hand that tried to hold him still, even if it was more subdued now.

The child’s sobs followed him like a phantom.

The doors of the Justice Building yawned open before him, all pale marble and clean lines and hollow promises. The air inside was colder than it had any right to be, and it swallowed the sunlight in an instant.

You were shoved into a corridor, Satoru beside you now, guards on either side. You looked at him. Your lip was split where one of the Peacekeepers had hit you in your struggle. Satoru was sure he didn’t look any better; the scratches nicked on his cheeks stung.

“I saw it,” he said, hoarse. “I saw his hand.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “So did I.”

“He was saying goodbye.”

“He was hoping we’d come back.”

The guards didn’t care. They didn’t speak; they merely kept moving you forward, step after step, deeper into the building, deeper into the Capitol’s grasp.

Satoru closed his eyes and imagined the frail, lifeless body of that old man. He was going to be sick. He thought about the years they’d all lived through, about everything that had brought them to this point. All those people who had died before them, who had given up their lives just for the chance of a better one.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You and he weren’t supposed to be this.

He turned to look at you again, and for the first time in five years, he felt that familiar feeling creeping in—the feeling that no matter how much he wanted to fix things, he couldn’t.

“You’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than you. But it felt like a lie. He didn’t know what was happening anymore.

The Peacekeepers shoved you inside a room. “Sit,” one of them ordered gruffly. “We’re receiving orders from the Capitol soon.”

Satoru had forgotten that the Reaping was always being broadcast live to everyone in the country. His head hurt. Numbly, he moved to the nearest chair—some old, stiff wooden thing—and collapsed onto it.

Did you know what you’d done?

You didn’t sit. Your arms were still trembling, and the moment the door clicked shut behind the last guard, it was like all of it—everything he’d swallowed down to keep from screaming—came clawing its way back up.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Satoru said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have said anything about using our voices, or—” He was staring at the floor, hands pressed against his mouth like he was trying to physically hold back everything he wanted to say. “We should’ve just let the Reaping happen like it always does.”

“He was shot in front of us. He saluted us, and they shot him—”

“Because of us!” Satoru exploded, finally looking up at you, eyes wild and bloodshot. “We incited this! You think President Snow won’t twist this into some Capitol propaganda? You think he won’t use that child’s face?”

You shook your head. “So you’d rather we be their good little Victors again? Keep our heads down while they murder people in the square?”

“I’d rather you stay alive!” he snapped. “I’d rather not be left alone, all over again.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly. He dropped his gaze again, chest heaving like the fight had drained him of all the air in the room.

The door opened once more.

“What an entertaining little lover’s spat,” a voice sang out mockingly, clapping slow, deliberate hands. “Really, I should’ve brought popcorn.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped up.

Coral pouted, sickly sweet, leaning against the doorframe. “Unfortunately for you both, the fun’s over. We must leave immediately. President Snow wants to see you.”

Neither of you needed to ask why. Both of you already knew.

Satoru rose slowly from his chair, his shoulders stiff and aching. You walked out first, following Coral out of the Justice Building.

“Chin up, darlings!” Coral tossed a cruel smile over her shoulder. “After all, it’s not every day you start a rebellion on live television.”

After the Reaping—if it could even be called that—the crowds had emptied. What remained were scorch marks on the stone, drops of blood already dying in the last light of the day, and the haunting echo of that child’s sobs still ringing in Satoru’s ears.

You walked ahead of him, shoulders squared, back straight, silent. Peacekeepers flanked you both, rifles in hand, boots smacking against the concrete.

The train that would take you to the Capitol loomed just ahead, lacquered ink-black. It wouldn’t be his first time boarding this very train, but, with his pulse pounding in his throat, Satoru desperately hoped it’d be his last.

“Satoru!”

He turned instinctively. He knew that voice. It had raised him, fed him, scolded him. He’d known it since he was a boy too small to reach the docks without running.

Reiko and Ren’s mother, Midori, was pushing her way through the barrier, eyes glassy. A Peacekeeper stepped forward to stop her, but she ducked under his arm and threw herself in front of Satoru.

She looked older now, greyer and more wrinkled than he remembered. The toll of losing both her children at the same time had not failed to leave its scar on her. Satoru felt a lump form in his throat; he’d been too ashamed to look her in the eye, ever since he had broken his promise of keeping her children safe. But her hands were still strong when they grabbed his, shoving something into his palm, curling his fingers around it before anyone could see.

“You listen to me,” she hissed, close enough that only he could hear. “This was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Satoru opened his fist. A golden pin, drawn in the shape of a mockingjay—a muttation created by the Capitol—rested in his palm, warm from her hands.

“I kept it hidden all these years,” she whispered. “Don’t let them take you too.”

A Peacekeeper barked something unintelligible and shoved her backward. Before Satoru could react, the Peacekeeper who’d tried to stop her from reaching Satoru stepped forward and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The sound echoed down the platform like thunder.

She crumpled to the ground, blood at the corner of her mouth.

“No—” Satoru lunged forward, but two Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him towards the train. “Let me go! She didn’t do anything!”

You were screaming now, too, struggling against the grip on your arm, reaching for him.

The doors were already sliding open.

The last thing Satoru saw before he was shoved into the train was Midori’s body being dragged away, her feet scraping against the concrete. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Fuck!” Satoru twisted away from the Peacekeepers holding him, chest heaving, eyes fixed to the window. His hands were shaking. He tucked the pin into his pocket, trembling. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—”

You wrenched him by his shoulders, forcing him to face you instead. Your lip was bleeding again. “Look at me.”

“They—”

“Get your fucking act together, Satoru,” you said.

He nodded once. Again. Closed his eyes, and hid the shaking of his hands by fisting his fingers together in his jacket pockets.

The Capitol was waiting. Satoru found himself hoping—perhaps foolishly—that the odds, no matter how bleak, would be in his favour.

a/n: thanks for reading! sorry for such a short first chapter, but i wanted to use this as a prologue of sorts. rest assured that all the future chapters will be much, much longer :) thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her ♡

art credit: _3aem

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #looove

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toruforuu · 1 month ago

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★ SOFT AS IT BEGAN.

★ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader ★ genres & contains: romance, angst, smut, action, hurt/comfort, slow burn. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. violence, gore, character death, injuries, blood, misogyny, class differences, mentions of non-consensual sex work, profanity, alcohol consumption. basically anything you’d expect in a typical hunger games au. individual warnings will be placed before each chapter. ★ word count: — ★ credits: art by _3aem. beta read by @mahowaga.

“The poem ends, Soft as it began— I loved my friend.” — “Poem”, Langston Hughes

☆ PART I. 01. The Reaping. 02. The Capitol. 03. The Victors. 04. The Arena. 05. The Cannon.

☆ PART II. 06. The Beach. 07. The Plan. 08. The Games. 09. The District. 10. The Mockingjay.

#jjk #i am a sucker for anything concerning the hunger games

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toruforuu · 2 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall chp.8 wings of invisibility and uncertainty

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 13k

✼chapter: 8/?

a/n: was supposed to post yesterday, but i was too tired to edit so here it is now. it’s the longest chapter so far and it’s kinda angsty. lmaooo, hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway. i was supper busy the past few weeks and i will be till the end of may, monday was also my last day of high-school. shit feels weird:d

based on this // previous chapter // next chapter (pending…)

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to vision-board

Hogwarts, the place of your comfort, was never really the same after you returned back from your two week spiralling. It wasn’t something which you took notice of immediately due to your overpowering grief, it was rather a slow process of picking out the changes in your routine. Your schedule became loose as you dropped out of the quidditch team, it cleared out — leaving you with a great amount of free time you always longed for. Months ago it’d sound like dream, however, that impression seems to have perished. Instead, it’s more like a spiteful nightmare. And there you were, drowning in your sorrows, and with so much time on your hands, you had no clue what to do with it nor with yourself. That’s precisely when you started to become aware of the changes in your environment.

A handful of professors were fired along with the headmaster, charged guilty in the same way he was.

For plotting against the government.

Nobody was hundred percent sure of where the evidence for their plotting came from, it remains a mystery till now. It left you curious, because what if the resignation of your mother was the first step towards the worse?

The change of staff was painfully noticeable, your favourites were amongst those who were forced to take their leave. So school work became a chore, rather than something you enjoyed. And with the work pilling up for your graduating, you found yourself falling into your old habits. Into the hole you had managed to dig yourself up from, it feels dehumanising.

And due to all the new rules and assets of the headmaster, it feels good to be send off for personally picked out internship.

You had obviously chosen a two week internship at the ministry, getting easy access to it because of your mother’s position. Perks you’ll miss. It was her idea to have you by her side though, seizing the last opportunity to walk you through what you will be applying for later on, before her term is definitively over and so is her dedication to the ministry.

Plus, you knew being with her would ease the stinging pain you carry with yourself.

With your mother’s resignation, a sense of calmness washed over the usually busy departments of the ministry.

There doesn’t need to be a process of electing anymore with your mother out of the game. The future Head Auror of Magical Enforcement is named already. The paperwork is done, hanging at each corner of the hallway like a painful reminder — printed in all newspapers, the information leaking quicker than spilled ink.

Sato Gojo is to take upon your mother’s place.

The second you were told, your world shattered. It makes sense the head of the Gojo family is up to take upon your-mother’s role, however, you can’t help to not feel betrayed. Gojo’s father always kept to his social circle, refusing to involve himself in politics and rather focus on his family.

So what drove to a shift in his behaviour?

There’s many questions to which you have no answer to, but it certainly doesn’t fail to wake your previous suspicions back to life. All of this simply looks like too much of a coincidence, and no matter how my times you open yourself up to your mother about it, she always finds a way to brush it off, or reassure you it’s all in your head.

Overall, the head of the Gojo family becoming an Auror working for the ministry pleased the conservative community. Bringing them a period of harmony and peace.

For how long before they’re hungry for more power is an unknown fact.

“You’re packing already, huh?” you call out, eyeing the boxes in the corner of your mother’s office. Some of them empty, some half filled up with stacks of folders and trinkets she gathered during her many terms.

“Yes, my love. My term ends in two weeks, I better get the stuff out of here now,” your mother chuckles calmly while she browses through one of her last stacks of forms she has to fill in.

“Can I see?” you carefully point at the cardboard, requesting permission to peak and see what’s inside.

She hums in response, which sparks a wave of joy. You’ve always been fond of her position, admiring her for her strength to withstand such pressures. It’s no easy job, and the fact she as a woman managed to win over countless others candidates left you feeling proud. Making her someone you looked up to since long before you got your letter of acceptance into Hogwarts.

Therefore, it’s no wonder to feel sad as you scan all of the boxes carrying her story.

You kneel before the stack of worn cardboard, the brownish sides of the boxes are labeled in your mother’s tidy handwriting. The air smells faintly of parchment, dust, and something oddly comforting. She only just resigned, and yet this already feels like an artefact of archaeology.

You open the top box and are greeted by layers of folded robes, the fabric scuffed at the edges. Beneath them lies a cracked leather notebook with marks at the corners. Inside it, her handwriting flows steadily across the pages like deliberate poetry. It’s full of case notes, sketches of spell patterns, details of hexes encountered in the field. And so much more, it grips you in amusement. Some bylines are even scattered with personal remarks.

“Don’t trust Proudfoot with back up again,”

“Found the locket. It’s burning stronger this time.”

In another box, you find photos. Some still moving, others faded. There’s one of her where she’s much younger. It must be way before she had you. Her wand is raised mid-battle, hair wild with wind and adrenaline. Her eyes are alive in a way you haven’t seen lately. Another photo shows her, and two colleagues clinking mugs in the Auror Office, grinning in the way people do when they’ve survived something that should have strip them of their life.

A smaller box at the bottom holds her wand cases, a broken Time-Turner and a tiny box with a picture of you. You appear to be around six, perhaps seven. A lock of your hair is attached to the back of it — labeled with your name and birthdate. There's a small scribbled note under it as well, barely readable as it seems to have vanished with passing time.

She carried your picture with her into battles.

You sit back, hands in your lap, surrounded by the cardboard boxes. It’s a strange thing, learning who your mother was through what she gathered over the years. This woman in the photos is one you rarely got to meet, and you silently wish you knew more of her, not just from the pictures.

A hero to society, yes. But also just a woman who wanted to get back to her family the most at the end of each day.

You lift another folder from the depths of the box, thinner and more delicate than the rest. It isn't labeled like the others, just sealed with a faded string tie. Inside, tucked carefully between pieces of parchment, are photographs. Not official ones like the rest, but personal. Private.

The first photo shows two girls in Hogwarts robes standing near the Black Lake, grinning madly as the wind whips at their hair and ruins their photo. You recognize your mother instantly. Her coloured hair is put together into a braid, the slight squint in her eyes radiates a warm atmosphere. Perhaps due to the fact you know it only occurs when she genuinely smiles. Something which you don’t see much of these days.

But it’s the girl beside her that makes you pause.

She’s luminous.

Her hair is gold — like actual sunlight, and her eyes are a vivid emerald green that gleams even in the aging photograph. Comparable to the depths of the Forbidden Forest. There’s a joy in her expression as well, like she was on the verge of laughter. She’s got an arm slung around your mother’s shoulders, wand tucked behind one ear.

You can’t help but question who’s the girl, and why you never heard of her.

You find more photographs of them together: the two of them studying in the common room, caught mid-laugh in the library. There’s even one of them dancing at what looks like the Yule Ball —your mother is in deep blue robes, the other girl in green silk, spinning with such jubilation it blurs the image.

Then you find a letter tucked into the sleeve of one of the albums. The parchment is soft with age, but the ink is crisp and still bold enough to read properly.

You sit with your back facing your mother, afraid she might snap these out of your sight if she sees.

And right now, you’re desperate to get to know the girl she has once been.

You look back at the girl in the photo, this “Y.” Whoever she was, she mattered. Not just to your mother’s school days, but maybe to who she became when she joined the ministry, when she became an Auror, when she became your mother and a wife to your father.

She must matter a great deal to your mother still, for she has kept her letter all these years.

You wonder where she is now.

You wonder if your mother ever contacted her again.

You return the letter from "Y." carefully to its sleeve, your fingers trembling slightly, not from fear but from the heavy tenderness of it all. They’re not your memories, but it doesn’t really matter. Nostalgia welcomes you with open arms anyway. The box has become more than a collection of artefacts — it’s a map of your mother’s life, kept in parchment and photographs.

Looking into the boxes makes you realise that you might never actually get to know your mother in a way you wish you could.

There must be other countless things which remain unsaid.

And will stay that way for evermore.

Near the bottom of the cardboard, under a stack of old Daily Prophets folded, you find another set of photographs. These are different — crisper, more static and completely motionless. Photographs taken in the human world. The magic may not move them, but they hum with a different kind of atmosphere.

Your father is in them.

He stands next to your mother in a bright, sun-washed park, one hand resting over hers on the handle of a stroller. Where you’re presumably hidden under a blanket. His smile is cracked open and unguarded, nothing like the haunted eyes of Aurors in postwar photos. Your mother’s hair is loose in this one, curling over her shoulders and her work attire is traded for a simple trench coat. There’s another of your father lifting your toddler self into the air, while your mother laughs beside him. There are numbers of others as well, dating back to before you were brought into the world.

You sit with those for a while. They make the quiet around you feel significantly louder. Hot and heavy tears prickle the corners of your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. You’re quick to wipe them away, one by one, however, they keep coming back for some strange reason. You swallow the sobs bubbling in your throat, not wanting to alarm your mother of your discovery.

You hide the pictures back into the bottom of the box, away from the world and your eyes.

For a moment you thought about informing your mother of what you’ve stumbled upon and then it hit you. Your father’s no longer amongst the living, and it rips your soul to pieces all over again. As if no time has actually passed, causing you to nearly choke on the sobs you desperately try to push back beneath the surface.

You recall Arabella’s saying, that the time will pass anyway. Trying to comfort yourself, but failing miserably.

You simply miss him. And you can’t phantom how your mother must feel, losing both her best friend and life long partner in one.

And then, as you try to gather the things back into the box, something else falls out.

A letter. Unsent.

The handwriting is your mother’s, unmistakably — sharp, hurried, always pressing forward like she couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with herself.

Somehow, it feels like you’re overstepping the boundaries of her privacy, but you can’t bring yourself to put these memories of her away.

You still sit on the floor with your legs crossed, the letter open in your lap. For a long while, the only sound is the soft ticking of the old clock on the table and the sound of your mother’s scribbling ink-pen. The pieces click into place. The fierce girl in green, perhaps a Slytherin. The woman your mother was. The deep and unfinished friendship she shared.

It all shaped her into the woman sitting at the desk right now.

“Mom, I know you’re strictly against sharing any sort of information with me, but do tell me why you resigned. The people need you more than ever now,” you dare to speak up after cleaning your throat, rotating your body towards her. Your cheeks still wet, fingers brushing the remains away with your sleeve.

“They’d eventually force me out of here one way or another. And it might seem I hold majority of the power here, nonetheless, it’s quite the opposite. Despite my position, I’d be powerless here. Due to the conservative’s power rising,” she explains.

She’s right, you know it. Though you wish she still fought more and didn’t give in as easily, you wanted her to at least try in the elections. Instead, she gave in. She cleared the way for them, gave them easy access.

“And then there’s the petition,” you furrow your brows with confusion, still resting at the floor.

“A petition? For what?” you question, not piecing it together.

“For my resignation, dear. Countless of people working for the ministry signed it, it’s the conservatives doing,” she informs you calmly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the word and you’re just being dramatic.

“Why though? You’re incredible at your job,” you huff out, empathising the word incredible.

A long pause hangs in between you, your mother waits for you to come to a conclusion on your own.

“Right, dad,” you sigh out, a sting envelopes your chest as you recall the photographs kept in the boxes beside you. And the fact there’s enough hatred in the world to force your mother out of the office for such a stupid reason boils your blood.

“There’s other things involved, things I own,” she adds, her voice dropping a whole octave as her gaze remains focused on the folders. Her statement swirls a weird sensation within your stomach, an instinct begs you to persuade the topic, but you drop it. It’d do no good.

“Mom, if you ever need me, I’ll do anything,” you respond, supporting her instead of prying information out of her. You deem it to be better, given your situation.

“You’re sweet, but this isn’t your battle,” your mother chuckles warmly, lifting her gaze from the paperwork to look down at where you’re sitting — surrounded by cardboard.

“It is, it concerns me and my friends as well,” you plea, maintaining eye contact with her. Trying to be a shoulder for her to lean on once, just as she was always one for you.

“The one thing you should do now is to lay low,”

“Don’t we need to do something though? Stop the corruption, start before it’s too late?” your patience slips, casting out hopeless ideas to encourage the fire which once sparked in your mother, but now only lives in you.

“That’s the opposite of what we need right now, we will let them think they won and when the time’s right, we’ll strike,” she keeps on going with her idea of the situation, one which you’re not so fond of.

“Mom, I don’t know,” you object, looking to the side.

“Trust me, once you finish school, we’ll properly look into it, alright?” her voice isn’t pressuring, neither is her gaze. She’s truly simply trying her best to best to keep you safe and unscathed.

That only leaves you to give into her pleas.

“Okay, I’ll keep to myself,” you vow quietly, even though something’s telling you it’s not right.

Then another silence sets as she goes back to her paperwork.

Shortly after, knock cuts through the quiet lingering in the air like a misfired spell. You continue to sit cross-legged on the office floor, your hands resting on the boxes as you put everything back in place. The letter addressed to “Y.” once again lie at the bottom of the cardboard. Your mother sits by her desk, arms folded with eyes distant as she charms the papers away. She hasn’t said a word since your little promise.

The knock comes again. Three brushes of knuckles. Not urgent, but deliberate. Your mother doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t need to. You can sense the shift in her expression, the air around her goes still with tension. Her voice calls out loud enough for the other person to hear and move inside the office.

Soon enough, there’s three of you in the room.

The man entering is tall, easily over six feet, with a long and lean frame. He’s dressed in navy tailored suit. A black coat hangs open from his shoulders, lined with silk that catches the hallway light. His hair is a familiar shade of white — not the soft, aged kind. But the striking one, like freshly fallen snow on a chilly winter day. It's swept back loosely with gel, a few misbehaving strands falling across his forehead. His skin is pale, almost flawless in the dim light and his cheekbones cut sharp beneath the fall of his hair. You can feel the weight of his gaze, familiar pair of orbs staring down at your sitting form after acknowledging your mother.

He steps further inside before anyone says anything, while you watch him like someone staring at a ghost — the sight of the older man nearly makes you choke on your own saliva.

Your mother did briefly mention that Gojo’s father studied at Hogwarts around the same time as her, and if he was anything like his son — you felt sorry for her. You also stumbled across him multiple times in the newspapers, it’s possible you saw him at the train platform over the years too, and it’s simply been forgotten by you. Seeing him now though, in person, is completely something else. You didn’t expect their appearances to be as similar. It’s like your eyes are taking in the carbon copy of the younger version which pesters you in the castle.

“Ah, Sato. I’ve been expecting you,” your mother is fast to stand up, walking over to him to offer a handshake as a greeting gesture. You’re snapped back to reality and decide that getting on your feet is a better idea than lingering near the floor with such a honourable visit. Your hands brush away the dust from your trousers and then you straighten your back.

“M/N, always such a warm welcome from you,” Gojo’s father returns the offered handshake, adding a small charming smile out of politeness. The motion jabs at your ribs, the voice and the smile — it seems all too familiar. To the point where you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“My wife will be here shortly, she has some errands to run,” he announces a second later as all three of you stand near the centre of the room, you inches behind your mother. And you swear you almost flinch, when the older man’s piercing blue eyes land on you. It’s a well known fact that those born into the Gojo family carry these extraordinary features, but seeing more than one member of the lineage in your life seems to knock the wind out of your lungs — wondering how it’s possible.

“And you must be Miss Y/N. I don’t believe we had the pleasure to meet officially,” the white haired man’s voice is honey like, welcoming you without any doubts as his hand reaches for yours. Waiting for you to take it. You swallow the lump building in your throat, the resemblance scaring and amusing you at the same time.

“No, sir. We haven’t, the pleasures all mine,” you of course mimic his gesture, lightly shaking his hand. You force out a smile, unsure of what else there’s to do.

“Ravenclaw, is it, young lady?” both of you retrieve your hands by the time he asks you the next question. It grabs you by surprise as you thought he’d simply sway the conversation back to your mother.

The gleam on older man’s face is undistinguishable, one you were convinced you’d see in no one else but his son.

“Indeed, it is,” you chuckle appropriately, nodding your head in agreement.

“Mhm, thought so, taking after your mother,” he responds with a hint of a laugh, sending shivers down your spine. Small part of you was convinced your Gojo the younger version of his father mentioned you, but then again, why would he?

“I presume that’s a compliment,” you hum, glancing at your mother who appears to be in the grasp of tension.

“You’d be right to think that,” Gojo’s father laughs louder this time, a hint of smirk decorating his lips.

And you thought they couldn’t be more alike.

“Y/N, dear, will you excuse us for a moment?” your mother’s voice breaks the trance you’ve been put to by your own wandering of mind.

“Of course,” is all you utter before you bid both of them a proper see you later kind of goodbye, closing the door shut after you.

You’ve been so baffled by the appearance of Gojo’s father, the resemblance he portrays to his son, to even question what it is that he went in there for. And his wife, the Slytherin’s mother, is on her way as well.

Strange.

What could possibly be of such importance for the both of them to come?

Surely, they aren’t here to pat your mother on the back for what a great job she has done.

Other things involved, things your mother owns — you debrief on your earlier conversation, the words settling in the pit of your stomach and creating a wrenching sensation.

You fully step out of your mother’s office, the weight of the conversation still clinging to your shoulders like a heavy burden. The hallway stretching out in front of you is its usual blend of dull marble. You move cautiously as you’re very aware of the fact you’re a mere intern — confident enough to walk without hesitating due to the badge pinned to your shirt, but aware of every polished shoe that echoes louder than it should.

Then, just as you round the corner past the auror division, you collide softly with someone. A breath, a scent like wild jasmine and clean peppermint — scent so expensive it leaves you breathless.

The woman you bumped into has golden hair, not blonde in the common way, but the color of sunlight reflecting against golden jewels. Her eyes stop you, leaving you cold. Green, like the forests in old paintings, full of calculations and surprises as she gazes back at you. There's something unnervingly excellent about her. The curve of her jaw, the tilt of her mouth. The paleness of her skin.

She’s ethereal looking.

It clicks slower than it should’ve.

You've seen her before.

In the photographs nestled in your mother’s boxes. The ones half-forgotten under folders of paperwork, labeled with a name that was no name at all. A nickname at best, perhaps a simple initial.

She smiles slowly and knowingly, as if she recognizes you too.

“An internship, young lady?” her voice is just as soft as you thought it to be, embroidered with a natural sweet tone — regardless of her sharp gaze and the suspicion in her practiced smile. Her appearance is meant to deceive. You sense your chest tightening as there’s something sorrowfully familiar to her as well. Not simply because of the pictures.

“Yes, an internship,” you breathe out unsteadily, like your breath got caught up somewhere on its way.

“I’m very sorry for bumping into you,” your apology is fast to follow as you regain your consciousness.

“I’ve seen you before, you’re in my son’s year if I’m not mistaken,” she chooses to discard your apology, focusing her energy elsewhere. Her expression is just as sweet, just as corrupted with a flash of cunningness. Her words connect your missing dots, the familiarities making sense now.

Right, she must be the wife.

You’re quick to recall your mother’s unsent letter as well — given who you married.

It all comes together like puzzle pieces, and you feel sort of stupid for not putting them together sooner.

“That would be correct,” you confirm her words, lightly nodding your head as you fidget with your fingers, unbeknownst to you. Her presence stirs nervousness within you, and the way her smile widens at your confirmation doesn’t seem to lighten it.

“You look quite awfully lot like your mother,” she hums, lost in deep thought as her globes survey your entire being.

“I get that a lot, thank you,”

“You have that kind of fire in you, I can tell,” she goes on, measuring you and ticking boxes in her head. You’re left unsure of what to do, whether to brush her off and get rid of the pit in your lower abdomen or engage in an interaction with her. To attempt at pulling some information out of her. But with that glint in her eyes, you doubt you’d be able.

Merlin’s beard, it’s as if she sees right through you and what you’re thinking.

That seems to run in their family.

“You know my mother?” you act as if you never heard of her, and you truly haven’t until today, only to see the shocked expression on her face.

It’s quick to flicker away.

“Briefly,” she slightly pouts, something which would go unnoticed by you if it weren’t for the letters and old photographs.

“Well, she’s inside with your husband. They’re waiting for you,” you look over your shoulder, eyeing out the office door you can barely see from around the corner. You offer her a kind smile, despite the fact she terrifies you.

“Thank you, have a nice day, dear,” her voice becomes even more delicate as she brushes past you, hand gently patting your shoulder In gratitude.

“You as well, Miss Gojo,” you manage to mumble out before she completely slips past you.

And what you don’t properly notice is the way she tilts her head to the side, sneaking one last look at you.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The greenhouse at Hogwarts in winter feels like a world apart from the cold stone corridors and snow-dusted grounds outside. The thick glass panels are frosted at the edges, softening the outlook winter gives. The patterns are delicate and detailed, unlike anything which could be drawn by hand. Inside, it's surprisingly humid and the air smells earthy. Warmth coming from the enchanted heaters mixes with the scent of soil and leaves. The atmosphere is strange, but nowhere near unpleasant — the magical plants rustle faintly on their own, their leaves twitch and bloom despite the season. Due to all the phenomenal spells of your Herbology professor.

You sit on a low bench near a row of puffapods, their pale purple buds pulsate with a gentle light. Your breath creates fog in the slight chill that still lingers, regardless of the heating, as you tap your fingers anxiously against your robes. The glass creaks faintly as wind blows into it. Every time a shadow passes outside, your heart jumps.

Is she finally coming?

When the door finally opens, the warmth rushes out in a wave, and Arabella steps inside. She pauses, taking in the humid haze to the contrast of the chilly weather outside. She’s enveloped in a thick blue scarf with white stripes and your house’s crest, her hands are set with gloves and a hat sits on top of her. All in the same colours. You’re actually looking the same, wrapped into thick layers of clothing that keep you safe from the creeping cold. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose is red, leaving you to wonder if your pink tint of rushing blood has passed already. And as Arabella’s eyes latch onto yours, the unspoken tension between you speaks louder. Even though it’s quiet enough to hear the subtle muffling of vines above your heads.

You don’t speak right away.

And neither does she.

When she does, her voice sounds smaller than you expected in the vast silence.

“I hate to do this given your… situation, but I’m afraid I have to. Did you tell anyone about me and Margaret?” the second she speaks out, it’s clear to you what this is about. This dates back to that godforsaken party you’ve managed to completely dissociate yourself from. Though she clearly didn’t, and you understand. The secret of her and Margaret’s relationship didn’t plague the school grounds, only selected ones accessed the information, but it’s fatal anyway. Most of the who know are Slytherins, which do shoot disgusted glances. It might have not ruined either of their reputation, nonetheless, their relationship on the other hand seems to be forever doomed. And you do feel somewhat responsible, for both not telling them upright to prepare them and for not correcting Gojo back at the world cup to avoid this miscalculation.

This is why you’re here, after all. To address the situation and put an end to the peculiar behaviour stretching in between you two.

All seems to have crumbled even more by the time you lost to gravity and fell off your broomstick, quitting quidditch.

“Of course not, I’d never do that to neither of you,” you utter, stomach twisting with guilt even though it’s not exactly a lie. But it’s definitely not the truth either. And seeing your best friend stand on the opposite side of the greenhouse, a table with plants separating you, creates an ache in your already hollow chest.

“I’m not entirely sure if I believe you, because Margaret’s brother knows about our relationship,” Arabella doesn’t let it go as easily as she usually would and she’s not to blame, you’d press for answers as well. Part of you wants to come out with the truth, but a bigger part of you is simply too terrified of the thought she could hate you for it.

For how you’ve left the situation to escalate.

“I figured, but it wasn’t me,” you remain seated, eyes glued to hers. Smiling lightly at how couple of her strawberry blonde locks poke out from under her hat, it’s a passing moment. The next second, you’re back to the guilt eating you from inside out.

“You promise?” she whispers, her words hanging above your head like a guillotine.

“I do,” the simple words taste bitter at the tip of your tongue as you speak them.

Outside, winter presses against the glass walls of the greenhouse. The sky is grey, smudged with heavy clouds. Some bare branches tap gently in the wind, ghosting over the greenhouse. Cold light filters through in weak gleams, throwing a gloomy atmosphere to your situation. The warmth in the greenhouse seems to have thinned, like it’s leaving too.

She stands across the table, her breath faintly caressing the air as she leans over the magical plants. They look tired too, their strange glows are dimming, their leaves are a little limp and their colours have dulled. Her hands move with kind and fragile grace, as if she’s going through the motions out of memory, mindlessly.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just watch her, this person you’ve known through every season and through all the years here at Hogwarts. And you can sense the distance between you like a blockage that wasn’t there before. The silence isn't gentle now. It lingers like the frost on the foggy windows. It’s heavy and cold, and you can feel it settling into the cracks.

You want to reach out, say something that will pull her back, keep her here. But she doesn’t look at you anymore. She just keeps tending the plants, like this is the last time, like she already knows where this is going.

And you just stand there now, rooted in place like the plants. Afraid that if you move, it will make it all that more real.

“Why have you been so distant, Arabella? I know I’m a wreck, but when we came back from the internships — you ditched me,” you suddenly gather last bits of courage to speak up, not wanting to risk losing her. So you try to communicate it, despite your own sense of heartache.

“It’s not like that, Y/N. You’re my best friend,” her voice is shaky and careful, but she doesn’t gaze up at you. Instead, she continues working and planting. Her tone brings you some sort of ease at least, it’s just as desperate as yours — indicating she doesn’t want to lose you either.

“Lately it doesn’t feel like it,” you voice what you’ve been thinking the whole time.

This makes her lift her eyes to meet yours.

“My head’s a mess too, believe it or not,” she objects, growing more defensive which isn’t at all where you were heading with the conversation.

“What’s bothering you? I’m still here to listen, even if it doesn’t seem like it,” you lean into the windowsill of the greenhouse, taking a second before talking further. This time your voice is softer as you offer, filled with concern. Hoping she’ll see how much she still matters to you.

Partially praying she feels the same way.

“That’s the trouble, I don’t know what or why I’m feeling the way I’m. It just feels like something’s missing and it’s hard to put into words,”

For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re finally acknowledging each other.

Seeing one another, bare and vulnerablez

“I think I understand,” you reassure, and you truly think you have it all figured out until she speaks up again, bringing more stirring conspiracies.

“It’s like there’s this haze clouding my mind ever since the headmaster-“ Arabella stops mid sentence, leaving you at a cliffhanger. Which earns her your blinking of puzzlement, mouth opening to encourage her to keep on with what she was about to say, but the sound of shoes crunching in the snow outside put your motions to a stop.

“Did you invite anyone else?”

“I might’ve told Margaret,” she whispers, nervous and smiling.

“Arabella!” you scold her quietly, reminding her of the fact this was supposed to be a two on two meeting.

Nonetheless, you can’t really be mad at her, can you now?

The greenhouse holds its breath and so do you as you impatiently await the arrival of Margaret. The faint rattle of the heater hums beneath the silence as you and your best friend stand, surrounded by the scent of soil and dirt. Your bodies are still, the warm blur of your intimate moment left behind. You’re close enough to feel each other’s presence, the unspoken suspended tension between you continues to tickle both.

Then, the door slams open like a gunshot.

A burst of icy wind punches through the space, scattering leaves and rattling the glass panels. The temperature drops. Snow swirls in behind Margaret’s frame. She stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the pale storm behind her. Her jaw is lightly clenched and her eyes burn with something unknown, while her chest rises and falls with depict-able fury. Her boots hit the floor hard, scattering melting snow around. The sound slices through the heavy stillness.

She storms forward, her presence cutting through the heat, dragging cold and chaos inside. The plants tremble on their stems along with you. Arabella draws in a soft breath, but doesn’t turn to face her past lover.

You feel Margaret’s anger before she even reaches you — it’s almost electric.

The quiet sacred moment is gone.

Now, it’s a battleground.

“Did you tell Gojo, Y/N?” she circles the point, straightforward. Not putting on any act to soften the blows.

“And don’t even try to lie your way out, my brother told me it was him who spoke of it,” Margaret cuts you off when she takes notice of your lips parting, ready to speak. Her actions shutting them closed again. From the look on her face and her attacking demeanour, it’s clear to you that you’re not walking out of here unscathed. She isn’t going to be as understanding as your redheaded best friend. Your palms become sweaty with anticipation as Margaret continues to burn holes through your figure, tapping her foot against the floor.

“No, listen,” you finally start, lifting your clothed hands in a defensive manner. Sadly, before you get to drag your point across, you’re abruptly put to a stop by the sound of her voice yet again.

“I want a straight and an honest answer,” she demands, your eyes briefly fleeting to Arabella who’s simply watching it unfold. Her gaze avoids yours when you sneak a glance her way, the motion causing a small flicker of pain.

“It’s worth more than just one word,” your voice is a calm contrast to the one of your friend’s beloved.

“Yes or no, it’s that simple,” Margaret doesn’t smooth down her antics, she does the exact opposite. Her words growing more threatening and harsh, on the verge of unleashing an avalanche you might get seriously caught up in.

“I didn’t, he figured on his own,” you admit after a haze of silence, your brows twitching along with the frantic beating of your heart.

This isn’t going to be easy. Telling the truth never is.

“Look, it was at the world cup. While you two were inside the tent, he kind of stumbled my way and he said he noticed,” you remain assertive, which sparks more anger in the Slytherin girl. One whom used to share laughs with you not so long ago.

“And it didn’t tick you to lie?” her sarcastic laugh coming along with her words cuts through you, causing your own irritation to build up.

“He promised he wouldn’t tell,” you respond slowly, eyes flickering between the two of them.

You don’t know why, but you thought Arabella would take your side. At the same time, this must be new information for her, so perhaps she’s learning how to hate you instead.

“And you believed that, could you be more naive? You out of all people should know what he’s capable of. He’s a Gojo,” she raises her voice, half yelling at you. Her labels of you waking up the crackling fire of anger within your chest, matching her own. The rotation of the white haired wizard in this conversation irks you, so much it drives you wild.

“I don’t need for you to remind me, Margaret. And he didn’t blow your cover on purpose, that’s what this is about,” you try to clear out the confusion, because there seems to be a misunderstanding involving her fellow Slytherin starlet.

“Oh, I think you do, because to me, it feels like you’re defending him,”

It’s a jarring moment. And it hits harder than you expect. Not because it’s utterly wrong, but because it might not be. Because deep down, there’s a sliver of truth in it you don’t want to acknowledge. Your instinct is to deflect, maybe even lash out. You tell yourself you’re just being fair. Using logic and objective thinking — anything but sympathising with him. However, it lingers. That uneasy awareness that you’ve might have stated something unnecessary and unrelated. It bothers you, so you double down to convince her and yourself as well.

“Then you clearly must be blind. I don’t know who here ghosted their friends and girlfriend,” you sent a hurtful arrow straight at her, launching with the intention to cause harm.

“Let it go, both of you,” Arabella steps in between you, waving her hands in a desperate attempt to pull you from each other’s necks.

“I was about to tell you all of the things that happened,” you add, looking at Arabella who’s shielding Margaret first. You depict the disappointment in her gaze, along with the hint of understanding.

“Yet you didn’t,” Margaret bites back, pushing past your friend’s body to face you fully.

This makes the swirl of emotions hanging on a thin rope snap, letting them loose.

“Well sorry that I was too busy with my father dying,” the loud declaration seems to put a stop to the whole shift of the planet, silence drumming through the greenhouse — Margaret’s anger easing up.

“Y/N,” is what breaks the silence.

A call out of your name, doused with empathy.

“Don’t Y/N me. What you did was unfair as well, I’m not saying I don’t understand, but you didn’t see the way you hurt all four of us. The way you hurt Arabella,” you continue to shoot, kicking and throwing hands in response to her previous aggression. Your words seem to hit a nerve, regret fleeting past her expression for a fraction of a moment. Meanwhile Arabella steps away, looking to the side.

It makes you feel good.

“What about your brother knowing is so bad if you’re not together anymore anyway? It’s not like he’d go against his own blood,” you go on with your attacks, knowing exactly which words to let out into the open to cut her open.

“This is a low blow, Y/N,” she manages barely, holding her emotions at bay.

“Whatever you did before was just as bad, if not worse,” is the last thing you voice out before you storm in the direction of the door.

You slam the greenhouse door open with a sharp crack, rattling the frame as you burst through it. Behind you, voices still echo — calling out your name in raised voices. The sounds familiar but suddenly distant. You don’t care what they have to say now. The fight had already sunk its teeth too deep.

The moment you step outside, winter hits you like a slap. Frigid cold slicing through the lingering warmth clinging to your robes. Snow drifts down in lazy spirals from the sky, settling in your hair and on your shoulders. The castle looms far ahead of you, dark stones blurred behind the falling duvet of snow, but you don’t head that way at first. You just walk, fast and without a picked out direction — needing distance more than shelter.

The snow crunches under your feet as your boots sink into it with each step. Your chest burns, not from the cold, but from the fight which had just occurred. Every word still rings in your mind, every look of betrayal carved into your memory. Your hands are clenched, nails digging into the flesh of your palms. The only thing grounding you as you head into the unknown, the falling snow disorienting you.

The anger begins to falter.

It always comes like this. Hot at first. Consuming your whole being and forcing you to channel it out, and then suddenly, you become cold. Hollow.

Your footsteps slow down. The fire behind your ribs hesitantly dying out, leaving behind a quiet ache, as if your body experiences something your heart hasn’t caught up to yet. The wind picks up, tugging at your robes, curling around you like another presence — making your now soaked hair a mess.

You stop near the edge of the lake, where the ice stretches out like cracked glass. The world around you is utterly still, the kind of silence that only comes with snow. No footsteps rushing after you. No voices calling your name. Just the soft hush of snow falling and the raw throb of emotion you can’t outrun no matter what you do.

Your shoulders shake with the upcoming tears that come without permission. They well up your eyes. Warm and blinding, streaming silently and staining your cheeks. You hug yourself with your arms, the snow soaking through the fabric of your robes as you stand in the eye of the snow storm. The whiteness in the air bites at your cheeks, numbing them as you spill your overwhelming emotions.

Your fury melts into something far more fragile. The kind of pain that doesn't roar, but lingers.

Needing to be felt.

And it’s not just the fight weighing you down, it’s all at once.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The castle is quieter than you’ve heard in a while. It’s right before curfew, and the air in the corridors is heavy, almost syrupy with stillness. You push open the great oak doors of the Hogwarts library, the scent of parchment and ink pushing through your nose for the last time. Your eyes are incredibly heavy with hours of studying for your upcoming graduation exams. Centuries of history still echoing faintly in your head, laced with a dry tone of Professor Binns’ lecture while your consciousness drifts.

You walk with slow, lazy steps — too tired to focus, barely aware of where your feet are taking you. Still too aware of the fight you experienced yesterday evening, the wound raw. Head filled with arguments you could’ve used instead, or the reason behind of Arabella’s behaviour. The sentence she didn’t get to finish. The dim candlelight lines the walls, their flames low and flickering. The halls stretch endlessly in both directions, twisted and familiar, even in the lucent light.

You distantly think to yourself that you must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere near the staircase in spite of the exhaustion, because you’re out of your usual path.

You take a turn around the corner and pause.

Where there was only bare wall a moment ago, now stands a larger door. It’s tall, framed with a wooden arch. The wood is aged, not as polished. An odd feeling stirs within your insides, for a moment you consider if this is a mere dream or if your mind is playing tricks on you. However, it’s like the hallway itself is holding its breath with you. You notice carvings embroidering the doorframe, shifting ever so slightly as you stare, never settling on one shape. You recognize some of the symbols from your studies — protection symbols, things old and powerful.

You didn’t summon it.

At least, you don’t think you did.

Though something buried in the depths of your being feels drawn towards it. You reach out, fingers grazing the cool metallic handle. The moment you come to contact with it, the door creaks open with a soft whisper, like a sigh escaping into the night. Your breathing hitches with doubt, wand ready at your side as you try to make out a reasonable explanation to this.

It might be The Room Of Requirement which appears when a student is in need pf something — the room providing whatever is fit for the situation.

Why you, out of all people?

The chamber beyond radiates warmth, and is inviting, nearly comforting. The stone floor is gone, replaced by soft rugs that would muffle your footsteps. Cushioned chairs sit in a half-circle around a low crackling fire. The shelves are filled with books. You have to blink to adjust your vision, to convince yourself what you’re seeing is true.

Before you allow yourself to step inside, the heavy entrance falls shut and the wooden door melts back into a stone wall. You stare at the wall with confusion for a few moments, completely baffled by the gesture. Until something alters the air. It’s subtle at first. A sudden gust of breeze that seems to come from nowhere, causing goosebumps to appear all over your body. You straighten, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

You’re alone when you rotate your body to glance at the laid out hallway, or well not quite. The atmosphere casts a strange glow. The surroundings appear to be heavier and much colder, while your head turns slowly, listening to the looming silence — gut screaming that something’s up.

“Who’s there?” you whisper out, more quietly than you anticipated as your breathing catches in your throat, wave of conspiracy seizing you.

You’re met with no answer, despite your acknowledgment of the gnarling sensation. You begin to consider yourself paranoid.

Just as you’re about to shake everything off, a sound echoes through the space, which puts you back in your spot, freezing you.

“I know someone’s there,” you voice out, loudly this time and with more confidence. You’re prepared to be met with yet another ripple of nothingness. However, you’re mistaken. As the sound of your voice jumps from wall to wall, a mop of white locks emerges from nowhere. Spilling into space, moulding from emptiness. Your jaw hangs ajar at the image, you see Gojo Satoru’s head floating in the air with no other body parts.

No limbs, no torso.

Just his head.

“Caught me redhanded,” he spills out meanwhile snickering, as if this was a normal situation to be caught up in, though his ways don’t really surprise you any longer. Knowing him for as long as you do, it’s not shocking news he’d lower himself to this level. He’s fast to strip himself of the invisibility shielding him, revealing his grand trick to be a piece of clothing.

So that must be what provided him with invisibility.

You wonder how many times he might have lurked along without your knowledge. Hell, he could’ve done anything with that cloak of his. The memory of the conversation you overheard at the party weeks back in time comes flooding back to you, laced with bitting suspicion.

Could this cloak be a part of their plan?

“Were you sneaking up on me?” you place your palm on the swell of your hip, demanding a clear response as you suspiciously look him up and down. A dark burgundy fabric set with tiny constellations and starts resting in his grip.

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it sneaking,” his eyes roll in a playful manner, careless, which isn’t uncommon for him.

“Don’t you know it’s sort of – I don’t know – creepy?” you point out, turning the corners of your lips downward. Pouting faintly at his smugness while you try to piece together the information, thinking of all the times he could’ve been there. And you wouldn’t know.

At least your friend’s accusations of your crazy behaviour weren’t true — you did capture his white hair in the hallway late at night countless of times.

He was there.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know you were here, so relax,”

“Right, as if that changes anything,” you scoff, your mind racing with conspiracies.

“Were you expecting someone else?” you decide to prob, his expression growing more serious. However, you don’t entirely trust it, nor him.

“Doesn’t concern you,” he objects before you eye him one more time, and with that you turn on your heel — leaving him hanging without any further notice. Though a sense tugs at your heartstrings, an urge to speak out the ideas turmoiling in your mind.

With his cloak, you could slip into the headmaster’s office without being spotted and turn it inside out. Who knows what sort of information you could get your hands on. Perhaps it’d be able to explain Arabella’s strange behaviour, as well as her zoning out. She did mention the headmaster. But for that to happen, you’d have to bite down your pride and ask the Slytherin for his help. You tighten your fist, innerly debating if it’s worth it to you.

“Gojo?” you call out, a tryout — just in case he’s not on his way or draped in his invisibility already.

“Mhmm?” and he isn’t.

“I could use your help,” you breathe out, soft and laced with surrender — wholeheartedly prepared for his acts, and the possibility of being rejected.

“My, I thought I wouldn’t live long enough to see you asking me for help,” his voice seeps out with pure satisfaction, his tone scraping your nerves and skyrocketing your blood pressure. And as you finally turn to face him, his arrogant grin doesn’t ease you.

You decide to bear it instead of lashing out.

“I just need to borrow whatever you’re holding,” your hand points to the cloak thrown over his forearm, eyes scanning it.

“My invisibility cloak? Are you up for some mischief?” his palm slides over to his chest and your gaze follows, watching as his long digits spread across his robes.

As if he’s proud you’re suggesting something so forbidden.

“If so, I certainly am interested,” he adds, nodding his head.

“It doesn’t concern you,” you reply with the same indifference, giving him taste of his own medicine. Which he doesn’t seem be fond of, because the corners of his lips turn into a frown and his brows furrow lightly.

“No cloak for you then,” he huffs, turning his head to the side, keeping his nose high up.

Prideful bastard.

“Seriously?” your voice is full of disbelief while you absorb his words, thinking he surely must be joking.

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly, lips pouting. Eyes half-lidded.

Your blood boils at the action of his behaviour, however, you’re well aware you need his cloak for your plotting to work out. And if you share one simple information, he won’t be able to use it against you. As long as he isn’t aware of all the circumstances, he wouldn’t be able to turn you in, because at the end of the day it’d be his cloak you’d be wearing.

And you’re hundred percent sure things like these aren’t allowed on the school grounds.

“Fine,” you state, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at his pretentious antics, “I need to break into the headmaster’s office,”

As soon as those words fly out your mouth, his smirk is quick to return. And you mentally prepare for another set of his picking.

You remind yourself it’s for the greater good.

“And here I was thinking you’re too goody shoes to even consider such a thing,” the white haired menace teases and you loathe it, beyond explanation. Especially the way he’s slightly hinting at your label of the Head girl. It drives you insane, so much you wonder if what lies in the office is even that important, but you refuse to back down from the conversation now that you’ve actually asked. Though it’s safe to say if nothing new awaits you in there, you’ll be irritated for going such lengths to figure no information out.

“Will you lend me the cloak or not, Gojo?” you demand, not pacing around it and getting straight to the topic.

“Under what condition,” he lifts his point finger in the air, holding it in front of you as he drags his words out — painfully slow.

“Name it,” you declare, pushing down the need to snap.

“I’m coming too,” he cheekily announces, smiling from ear to ear.

It seems to knock the wind out of your sails again.

“What? Absolutely not,” you laugh out, shaking your head in both disagreement and shock at his audacity.

“Shame for you,” he shrugs, waving the cloak in your face to rile you up even more.

And it certainly seems to work on you.

Your heart drums against your ribs, anticipation flows through your veins like a drug intoxicating you. Your inner strength fails to withstand its demand as the need for a douse of what lies within the stone walls of the office devours you. No price seems big enough to not be paid, and you instantly scold yourself for even thinking about submitting to his condition. You take in deep breaths, staring at the young wizard in front you who’s quietly watching you back — not saying anything and waiting, because he can tell from the look on your face that you’re considering his offer.

Oh, you’re so going to regret this later on.

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you come,” you finally exhale, the action takes a lot of effort as there’s nothing you despise more than relying on him out of all people. And shamefully, you find yourself in these types of situations with him quite often.

More than you’d like.

You’re not met with an answer, only a chuckle, which speaks more than anything else at the moment.

Knew you would cave, that’s what it sounds like to you.

Gojo proceeds to spread out the cloak, throwing it over his broad shoulders and leaves his arm stretched out — inviting you to join him. In that moment you realise what you’ve truly gotten yourself into.

“What do you need in the office anyway?” he questions curiously, keeping his globes — the colour of water depths — intently peeled on your frame, which is closing the distance between you. It doesn’t slip your attention, and neither does the way they glow in the dark, the light of the moon casts reflections that are similar to sea foam in his dangerously iridescent eyes.

“Something of Arabella’s,” you mumble and it’s not entirely the truth, though it’s more than he deserves to know and you figured it’d speed things up if you’re somewhat co-working. Your body slides next to his, tucked safely under the blanket granting a power you never knew you needed. His fingers brush against yours as he hands you the end of the cloak for you to hold.

“Sure,” he hums, and you know he doesn’t completely trust you either.

The castle is a maze of silence by this hour. It’s little past curfew, past the hour when even the portraits begin to drift off to sleep. The walls are with no shadow of your reflection as you pass, the floor groaning ever so lightly beneath your careful steps. Each of them feels like small earthquakes due to your overconsuming anxiety. You know no one can see, yet it’s still there.

But that’s only your mind playing tricks on you, you’re safe beneath the thin layer of the cloak that provides you with an advantage.

There's barely any room for the two of beneath it as you clumsily walk, so close that your bodies are practically fitted together. Every shift, every breath, every brush of cloth or skin is shared between you. The closeness is unavoidable. Hip gently pressing into the length of his body, arm brushing against his as you motion forward. His shoulder bumping yours every few steps, but neither of you mention it to one another. It’s intimate and impossible to fight as there’s no space to distance yourself. And even though you know he feels your warmth and breathes the same air, he remains indifferent.

The silence between you is charged with everything that hasn’t been said and everything that perhaps never should be. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be risking getting yourself expelled.

Nonetheless, here you are. Together. Covered by a cloak that hides you from everyone sights, but not from each other.

Your mind throws non audible insults your way, wondering how you managed to wind yourself up with him once more, when you exactly know what kind of a person he is.

A pretentious jerk who seems to find you annoying just much as you find him.

It’s all worth it in the end if it’s for your best friend, right?

His scent envelopes your senses — something which you’re weirdly familiar with, something that unmistakably screams him — and with every step toward the Headmaster’s office, it becomes harder to focus on why you're going there in the first place. His hand brushes past yours again, this time it lingering for half a heartbeat too long. Your heart rings in your ears, thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to be heard by him, while your senses are clouded with his proximity. You’re not sure if he can feel it, but it wouldn’t surprise you. That’s how close you are.

A stair creaks beneath your feet, urging you to both freeze, instinctively holding your breath. You notice his chest rising and falling back in its place before he leans in, whispering something barely audible

“Left, quickly,” his breath hits your ear, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

You move together, carefully and silently. Your movements seem to be more in synchrony now than when you marched forward for the first step, like dancers who’ve done this before countless of times.

Both of you are okay with taking a risk involving this sort of adrenaline, nonetheless, your closeness is alien. The feeling of being wrapped up in a piece of magic fabric with him, just on the edge of doing something wrong is unlike anything.

And as you near the stone spiral staircase that leads to the Headmaster’s office, your mind should be on the goal, the reason you’re sneaking through the halls. But all you can think about is the weight of his body pressed along yours, the way your knees crash when you pause at the top of the stairs, the way the cloak drapes around you — protecting you like a sacred mystery.

You’re almost there now, part of you can’t wait to arrive. Can’t wait to break the spell thrown at you, can’t wait to forget how the press of his body feels against yours. It’s a forbidden action to be so near him without anyone else’s presence, by you and everyone else due to your backgrounds and oh so many other things.

And tucked under the cloak, hidden from the world, you dare to hope he’s thinking the same thing.

“I’ll take the watch, you do whatever you need inside,” the white haired wizard declares with ease, his breathing a little heavier because of the stairs you had just climbed. You shoot to look up at him, nodding your head in confirmation.

Then you slip from the embrace of the cloak, feeling vulnerable. And when you look over your shoulder, you’re met with a simple image of the stairs. You know he’s still there, at least you hope he’s, nevertheless — it leaves you crippling with adrenaline.

You focus what’s ahead of you, meanwhile the pounding of your primer organ swallows you, it seems like there’s a second heartbeat in your chest as you face the door of the headmaster’s office made out of dark oak. There lies a little nameplate with letters carved into it, in bold letters. Your fingers eagerly raise your wand into the air, prepared to charm your way inside.

“Alohomora,” you faintly mumble, the tip of your wand sparkling with a ripple of silver light. The sound of it is sharp and heavy, meaning the lock gave away smoother than you had expected it’d. You hesitate then, it’s almost too easy.

With taking a last glance at the corridor, you push the door open just enough to sneak inside without letting it scrape. The air inside is dry, the kind that settles in rooms filled with too many books. It smells of old parchment, candle wax, and some burnt herbs. Arabella could surely decipher which herbs, a thought crosses your mind amidst your entrance. You quietly shut the door behind you with a soft thud.

Bookshelves tower along the walls, some overstuffed with dusty grimoires and overused scrolls, others perfectly organised — magical theory, forbidden transfigurations, ancient bloodlines and spells. Sorts of books you don’t get your hands on everyday, but that’s not why you’re here. Behind the desk stands an average sized cabinet of drawers, some hazily hanging half opened. And lastly, a wide desk dominates the center of the room — its surface a battlefield of papers, crystal vials, and half-burned candles.

You trace around the desk quietly, fingers grazing the surface as you search. Notes are scribbled in an unfamiliar handwriting, covered by opened books. Maps of the school grounds lay spread out, marked with strange, shifting ink. You can’t tell what it is for, so your gaze shifts directions, catching something out of place. A sheet of parchment half-buried under a pile of herbology formulas. You slid it free, mapping out the deep crimson wax its sealed in with your fingers. It’s stamped with a sigil you don’t recognise. Its curved lines form a circle, a serpent wrapped around a stylized eye. Not the school crest. Something remotely similar to Death Eaters.

Could it be Gojo’s family crest?

You examine the letter in all possible angles, cursing under your breath, because it’s still sealed and there’s no way you can just rip it open without anyone taking action. With frustrating blooming in your core, you place it where it was. Forcing yourself to browse further, even though seeing the crest already filled you with enough of worries.

We have a plan to follow, Robin’s words play in head once more.

A plan for what?

Your eyes sweep the room again, this time with organisation — steps leading you towards the tall bookshelves that lem the office walls. Looking for any irregularities. Most of the spines reveal expected titles of standard magical texts of history, but one stands out more than the others. A thin book with no title, kept between two enormous grimoires. It slides out due to your force and one flip through the book is enough to figure the pages are blank. Your nostrils are attacked with a sharp tinging.

It’s enchanted.

You tuck it under your arm with care and head back toward the average sized cabinet which is planted with rows of locked drawers. A soft whisper is all it takes to preform the unlocking charm once more, forcing the highest drawer open. This one resisted at first, but it eventually opened with a reluctant sigh.

Inside are documents sorted into neat folders, each labeled with a name. Some you recognise — professors, students, even a few graduates working for the ministry. Handful of the names are marked with a red underlining. You pick these out, browsing throughout them to look for any clues. It wasn’t hard to put together their similarities, all the students come from a muggle family. One of the names decorated with the red underlining belongs to Arabella.

Your heart sinks at the sight, not sure why as there’s no real reason to worry yet.

You flip it open, and the first page instantly has you in a chokehold.

“Caught near The Astronomy tower. First abomination. Memory charm applied to witnesses."

Something is happening at this school and whatever it is, the headmaster is not just aware of it. He’s involved in it. You swallow hard, frantically skimming over the bylines on other pages with your wand in hand — casting a bright light, but there’s no more trace of what occurred.

“Someone’s coming, hurry,” a warming comes from the direction of the door, Gojo’s hushed voice snapping you back to reality.

Panic seeps over you, choking you and pushing you to fly to your feet and close the drawer with all the folders, quickly mumbling a spell to lock it. The thin book tucked under your arm is a painful reminder that you’re nowhere near the finish of your investigation. You’re not stupid enough to keep it, steal it with you. So you place it back between the thick grimoires at the top shelf.

Your wide eyed gaze flickers in between the strange map and Gojo’s figure poking out of the cloak as he holds it high in the air, welcoming you to join him.

Conflict boils within you, take it? Don’t take it?

You can’t wait any longer as the footsteps coming down the stairs dangerously take upon volume, so you swiftly grab it and proceed it to slide into the waistband of your uniform while the Slytherin watches — growing with fear he’ll never let bubble to the surface.

Your mother must be turning in her sleep, because this certainly isn’t what she meant by keeping a low profile.

Both of you now stand by the doorway, wrapped in the protective layer and pressed close against each other’s side. The situation barely under your control.

The two of stand frozen, afraid to let the door fall closed.

You can feel his heartbeat, pounding in rhythm with yours. The gesture soothing you, knowing you’re not the only one affected by this.

“Flinch,” you mouth under the safety of the cloak, judging by the additional four legs tapping against the stairs.

Gojo’s the one to close the door with silent precision, charming the door to lock — you note he works calm, regardless of the pressuring nature of the situation.

The first sliver of lantern light spills from the stairs leading upwards. And you don’t look back as the two of you rush down the other direction. Not a full sprint, not with Flinch so close. Your feet nearly step on the cloak several times, almost tripping. That’s probably why your footsteps echo too much through the staircase. You wince silently with every step, sensing just how loud the two of you are in such a hurry.

Meanwhile behind you, Flinch's muttering turns sharper and more audible.

“Who's there?” he barks out, overflowing with suspicious.

“I heard you,” his raspy voice is followed by a scratching meow of his cat.

As soon as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you head left — pulling your partner in crime with you. Ducking down a narrow corridor which rests off the main hall. It’s one of the older, less-patrolled routes.

“Quick,” you hiss under your breath, the white haired wizard barely making your words out.

You grab his hand out of habit, mindlessly dragging him along with you. And together, you stumble through the side passage, turning randomly at each split hallway. Each turn feels too loud, every breath too sharp. You can basically sense Flinch being not far behind, you hear the wheezing effort of him moving faster than he’s fit for. You round the last corner and threw yourself against a wall — your bodies latching onto to it like lizards, gripping for dear life.

Footsteps close the distance between you, passing by your invisible frames just as quickly.

Flinch grunts while his lantern sways in the air. And then he moves on.

Silence.

Your limbs shake with adrenaline, letting go of his hand without any further up-due. And finally, it feels like you’re able to breathe freely again. The Slytherin looks at you from the corner of his eyes, which are wide. The fabric of the cloak shifts and creates a shimmer shared only between the two of you.

“That,” you whisper “was too close,”

“It was rather fun,” he jokes, breathing out heavily as if in relief. The gesture doesn’t rile you up, instead, you find it amusingly refreshing after what you’ve been through together. Huff of your laugh pierces the loud silence, taking him by a surprise as this is your way of actually agreeing with him on something.

It’s definitely the adrenaline talking out of you.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the Slytherin draws out, and you’re certain he saw you showing the unknown map into your uniform. You feel it pressed against your skin, the material made you uncomfortable throughout your escape.

“Mostly, yeah,” you confirm, not thinking much about it and simply resting with back leaned into the wall.

You barely register the motion of his movement before he’s right in front of you, close.

Too close.

His hand comes up, resting itself firmly against the wall just beside your head. His fingers splay wide, veins visible beneath the fair shade of his skin. A second later, his other hand joins the other one on the opposite side — locking you in. Your mind ceases to function, the unexpected unfolding situation brings you shock. Not sure whether to push him away or to let it happen.

Your back presses into the wall even further, and you can feel the coolness of it chilling you through your robes. It anchors you in place while his body, just inches from yours, radiates a heat that prickles across your skin. Every breath you take feels shorter, more shallow.

Gojo’s face is close now, close enough that you can count his lashes if you dared to look long enough. His breath ghosts over the swell of your cheek, landing where it sends a racing shiver down your spine. You can’t move — not because of his proximity, but because his presence is so magnetising — it’s as if the very air around you bends to his will.

And his orbs are the worst of all, piercing and merciless. Seeing past your set up walls of protection, leaving you bare under his vision which is the last thing you need him to do.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” is all he brings himself to speak out loud, baffling you even more as your eyes don’t know where to stop first. At how his strands of hair curl upward — resting near his sides, at how the bridge of his nose beams with the reflection of the moonlight. Or at the way his lashes kiss his cheeks each time he blinks. Perhaps at the slight twitch of his eyebrows due to his fleeting gaze, or at his lips. The way they’re parted while he stares down at you, his tongue sweeping over the bottom part.

So many options, so little time.

“At the party,” he mumbles gently to add precision, which is a rare sight. But you don’t appreciate the subtle reminder of the night, the last night where all felt like it should. Nonetheless, you phantom far too quickly what he means. It’s not something you could easily forget, no matter of your current life could wash away the pit of swirling emotions he caused to rise to life at the party.

And it hits you, this is the boy who swore to make your life a living hell. The one whom your friends loathe. Most of all, he has a girlfriend too.

Just exactly what are you letting him do?

Why?

And suddenly, while waiting for you to speak up, he puts his finger to his lips — signalling for you to be quiet.

A second later you understand what it means.

Flinch strolls the corridor again, your eyes following his movement. Gojo’s alerted frame blocking your full view. As your eyes follow Flinch walking right past you, you meet his iridescent globes which don’t leap away from yours.

“I’ll walk you to your dorm,” he mumbles under his nose when Flinch is at a reasonable distance. Away from where you stand. His hands falling back to his sides, freeing you.

You don’t answer, you chose to not address the awkwardness the question he asked earlier stired.

The journey to your dorm room is quiet, unspoken tension lingering in the air as you guide him to your house’s safe space. As you walk, close to each other as ever, it’s clear you’re both hanging onto what just went on. Busy with recalling the fleeting moment.

And when you part ways, briefly sparing one another a nod of acknowledgement and whispered farewell — you’re feeling even more odd.

You curl up under your bed covers after you slip past Arabella’s bed, knees pulled tight to your chest with heart thumping in your ears. The room is still, occasional snoring coming from Arabella spreads through your shared room. Everything is dark, expect for the glow of your wand which lightens up your space beneath the covers of your bed.

"Lumos,” is all it takes to conjure up light for you.

In your hands lies something old, something curious. The worn piece of parchment, folded so many times the edges are soft. With a breath held in your chest, you spread it open to be met with lines blooming across its surface like spiderwebs made out of ink. It depicts rooms, corridors, and tiny moving footprints. Names scribbled beside them. Flinch walks, pauses, turns and so on and on.

It’s alive, and suddenly the castle isn’t just stone.

You’re not alone in a way. In this small tent of bedsheets and wandlight, feeling like the map chose you because of the strong pull you feel towards it. Like the secrets it holds have waited patiently for your arrival.

You’ve never heard or seen anything of the sort, it’s extraordinary.

Your eyes trace Flinch’s footsteps before scanning the map further. There’s not many people wandering around, and it’s no wonder since the time is close to midnight by now.

Your breath catches just then.

There, just above the Great Hall, a name you never expected to see at this hour as you thought he returned to his room like you did. The tiny inked footsteps of him haunt the corridors you explored together moments ago. You blink once, twice, as if the name might change. Smallest part of you hoping it will, or that he’s taking a longer route to reach his dorm.

But it doesn’t disappear. It stays in place, impossibly real.

Your heart beats louder beneath the covers of your blanket now, closely watching him pause by the staircase leading to the west tower.

What’s he doing there?

You don’t know why you’re still watching, but wonder and dread fuel your curiosity so you keep on observing. Tips of your fingers shaking lightly at the thought of what you might figure out.

The glow from your wand casts long, trembling shadows as you watch the Slytherin’s footsteps finally stop — reaching his destination.

Astronomy tower.

He reachs the top. And he stands there, perhaps waiting. Not moving. Not pacing. Simply waiting.

You don’t know what you’re watching unfolding, but you can’t look away as your heart instantly sinks to the bottom when two other names appear on the map.

Satoru Gojo is at the tower.

In company of his father. And… your mother?

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

taglist: [ @k-kkiana @cuffiescariche @sylustoru @hyori2 @ethereal-moonlit @crankyarchives @jjklover365daysayear @cailliz @kaisenkalogathia @urthem00n @katsukiseyebrows @poopooindamouf @heiejdhdh @tessasweet @sa-yuuki @moomoov ]

#jjk #gojo x you #enemies to lovers #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk gojo #hogwarts au #slow burn #eventual smut #smut #angst #jjk fluff

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toruforuu · 2 months ago

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Hiya guys, I just wanted to pop in and say that I won’t be able to post until late May due to my schedule being basically just studying with breaks for my upcoming four oral exams aka the last part of graduation, finally

(I’m a really anxious person when it comes to exams even tho I studied the material prior lol, so I’m drinking three coffees a day and running on processed food yikes😭)

#juju yaps #juju announces while panicking #istg im gonna scream #studying is gonna drive me crazy #can’t wait for my euro summer

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toruforuu · 2 months ago

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#writer things #juju yaps #so many idea so little capacity to write it down

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toruforuu · 2 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall masterlist

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags:hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings:hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 64.7k (so far)

✼chapters: 8/? (so far)

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the vision-board

comment if you wanna be in the taglist!:)

prequel

chp.1 dusk of intrigues

chp.2 two can play the game

chp.3 summer’s passing

chp.4 receding youth

chp.5 incandescent glow

chp.6 unravelling whispers

chp.7 golden eulogies

chp.8 wings of invisibility and uncertainity

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

#slow burn #satoru jjk #hogwarts au #enemies to lovers #forbidden love #angst #eventual smut #jjk fluff #jjk x y/n #jjk fanfic #gojou satoru x reader

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