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#tbc
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splashtqil · 2 months
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warrior cats make interesting characters challenge (POSSIBLE!!!)
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madbrake · 5 months
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Experimental Bristlefrost piece. This cat made me cry so hard :,)
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justapigeonn · 4 months
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the way the authors portray bramble and squilf’s reaction to trauma is so odd to me cause while bramble is an absolute shell of a man after tbc (and honestly who wouldn’t be) after going though near equally harrowing experiences squilf is… almost entirely unbothered by it?? doing fantastic even??
like having your body possessed and spending a few months as a wandering ghost sounds horrifying don’t get me wrong but let me reiterate that squirrelflight’s deranged stalker ex boyfriend who tries to kill 4 of her family members while he was still alive and publically humiliate her came back from the dead to possess her husband’s body to use and deceive her in the creepiest way imaginable before throwing her (literally) to the dogs after she learns the truth before cornering her at the moonpool and dragging her down to hell with him, THEN taking possession of bramble’s spirit and using it to attack her before they both finally manage to escape and she’s just?? completely unphased by this by the next arc??
WHY is there so much emphasis on poor broken bramble who was so traumatised by the fact that he was forced to attack squilf and nothing on poor broken squirrelstar who was attacked by her possessed husband (thrice) or whatever it’s so weird to me
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jaxlightstairs · 1 month
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Some people say "I love you." Magnus Bane says "Loving you made me believe in eternity"
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Art from the graphic novel by Cassandra Jean
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artaintfart · 3 months
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I am the Angel sent down from above / I am the Cancer swimming deep in your blood
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the-owl-tree · 2 months
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ended up getting inspired by the discussion and wanted to draw the tbc trio!
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emilylorange · 1 year
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Some favorite speedpaints from Burning Crusade
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this was fun to do
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dstmaxwell · 10 months
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empty promise, empty apology and empty stomach
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henrybelly · 6 months
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(from The Place of No Stars)
I'm a firm believer that Mousewhisker is the one who suggested himself as leader. "Yeah, Mousewhisker! ...Who said that 🤐"
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artaintfartwarriors · 2 months
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could we see a maggottail? 👀
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shadowtruthsandashes · 7 months
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I have a dreamling prompt if you're interested! It's been a while since I read a Hob rescues Dream from the fishbowl fic. So maybe BAMF!Hob finding out where Dream is being held after he doesn't show up for their 1989 meeting and rushing to rescue him. Some Dream whump will also be nice so that we get to see feral, angry Hob, who is injured too, but keeps going till he destroys all the guards and brings Dream home safe. Hob hasn't forgotten his mercenary days, but modern day Hob is also domestic and takes care of Dream till he regains his strength and heals. There's of course mutual pining and it all ends happily for them.
"I'm here, it's alright, you're safe now."
"You're bleeding too."
"It's fine. I'm immortal, remember?"
Hello! Thanks for this- took me a while to rev up to it but now you'll be pleased to know it'll be a two parter! I changed it a little so he is rescuing Dream just after the end of WWII, for reasons which will become apparent in the next part.
Carving Through the Dark
Pairing: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling
Rating: Mature/Explicit for violence (possibly NSFW later)
Warnings: physical violence, distressing scenes, and an allusion to sexual assault
*
Hob’s necktie feels like a noose as he turns the heavy wheel of the Pilot, his gloves squeaking against the leather. The Wars haven’t been good to him, per se, but they at least let him die; start afresh.
If he’s using that opportunity to pretend to be his own father, then hell, it won’t be the first time. Growing in his beard had only been the work of his couple of days’ travel, and he’s let some spectacles, a cane, and a rather old-fashioned wardrobe – his, from forty years previous – do the rest of the ageing, to make him a feasible candidate for Roderick Pissant Burgess.
Now, he takes care to pull the car round to face the gravel driveway before putting the breaks on and killing the headlights. Looking up at the dimly lit exterior of the stately manor house, he absently counts the amber-lit floor level windows he can see out of habit. Plenty.
“All right,” he mutters. From his vantage, he sees the front door open, and a young, nervous-looking valet emerge from the dark, crossing the path to open the driver door for him. At this time of night, the grass lawns look dark blue, the pale walkways like a silver river.
“Mister Gadlen, I presume?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Thank you. You’re Mister-?”
“Alex. Call me Alex.” He proffers a hand, and Hob takes it, using his cane excessively to lever himself out of the seat.
“Thank you, young man. Is Mister Burgess expecting me?”
“He is, he said you can go through to the study, he’s waiting for you there. He was very moved by your letter.”
“Yes, well. Suppose men united in grief can feel the echoes in words on a page, mm?” Hob examines the younger man, Alex, and notes the strangeness that crosses over his face.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “The Magus misses his son very much.”
“And you miss your brother, mm?”
Another pause. Alex pinks a bit, maybe with the shame of having his feelings acknowledged.
“He was kind,” he admits softly. Hob feels a pang of sympathy.
“Loss makes men do cruel things,” he tells him, half a warning, half an explanation.
Apparently its too much, because Alex clears his throat and looks away. “Let me take you to my father.”
“Of course.” Hob follows him down the manicured path, footsteps crunching. His eyes coast around, and he’s caught by a flash of blue and black for a moment, arresting his attention. When he follows it, he sees a large magpie perched on a windowsill, lit by its inner glow, peering back at him in turn. He frowns.
“That’s Jessamy,” Alex tells him, voice wary, “she’s always trying to get into the house. Don’t tell father you’ve seen her. He hates that bird. She’s vicious. Attacks without warning.”
Still watching her, Hob hums. “She probably remembers something he’s done. But she needn’t worry. She’s got nothing to fear from me.”
He’s not sure, but he thinks he sees the bird skip closer along the window ledge, her study of him just as earnest.
Now, they reach the door, and Alex opens it for him, succeeding him inside. The sound of it creaking closed behind him makes Hob shudder a bit, but he presses it down, and takes in the grand foyer of the house.
“The study is this way,” Alex explains, starting to lead them across the reception area.
Hob turns his head this way and that as he follows, eyes overwhelmed. It’s not exactly tasteful, the décor, running rather to the rich magician than any kind of sorcerer. Ornate to the extreme, filled to the brim with taxidermy, candles, and a huge chandelier in the centre of the space. Leather furniture, glass curios cabinets, animal pelt rugs. Hob can smell the incense already, burning lungs that haven’t yet recovered from being dosed in mustard gas.
In his observation, he notices a door at the end of the long, candlelit hallway that leads off the foyer, heavy wood, with a large, old-fashioned lock – more like a cathedral door than anything. His eyes linger there for a moment before he looks to Alex. They’ve come to a stop outside the door to the study, and Roderick Burgess’ surviving son looks reluctant to knock.
“Be a love and have a pot of tea sent to the study, will you?” Hob asks him, giving his shoulder a pat. “There’s a good lad. And then, you know what, why don’t you go and get yourself a book and get to bed? I suspect your father and I will be busy for some time.”
Alex’s eyes widen, but he nods.
“Very well, sir. Thank you.”
Hob watches him scurry away, and sighs. Poor thing can’t wait to get shot of dear old dad.
Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he takes a few steps and unlatches the closest window; pushes it up just a scant amount, and wedges his lighter under it. As he raises his eyes, the magpie is already there, perched on the nose of his Ford. He nods to her, and steps away from the window.
Finally, he knocks on the door to the study, and opens it up at a low call of, “Enter!”
Roderick Burgess was possibly a handsome man, once. He has a strong jaw and nose, and piercing blue eyes. The tall, lean gait of a man who thinks himself very important, and very intelligent, his beige linen suit making his hair look whiter, more stark. The fire behind him does nothing to quell this effect.
Hob knows that he himself cuts quite a different figure: stockier, smaller, dark haired and brown, in a sedate olive suit with tortoiseshell spectacles and a cane. Thick East London accent – exactly the kind of man that Roderick Burgess would think beneath him.
And that is rather the point.   
“From your letter, Mister Gadlen, I believe you and I have rather the same questions about life, and death,” he says, positing it as a greeting. “I was… touched by your correspondence. And, your rather large donation.”
“I believe in supporting good causes, Mister Burgess,” Hob ducks his chin, taking his hat off and holding it to his chest. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“You’re rather young, to have lost a son,” Burgess observes.
“My boy was foolish. Lied about his age. I tried to stop him, but he fled in the night to join up. He was only fourteen.”
“Heart breaking,” Burgess murmurs. “And so, that’s why you’re here.”
“It is. I have been following your career with some interest after your manifesto was circulated.”
“So I gathered. I must admit,” Burgess moves to take a seat in front of the fireplace, and gestures for Hob to do the same, “I was surprised by how much you knew about my… previous attempts at harnessing death.”
“I am fortunate enough to have friends in high places,” Hob says, which is an absurd understatement. “Besides, encephalitis lethargica, and the way many occultist priests have reported such an uptick in unruly dreams… it seemed to me that your efforts – though not entirely unsuccessful – had not quite the outcome you wanted. But I had an idea, on how you could… pursue your original intent.” 
“Is that so?” Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Burgess looks up at another knock on the door: Alex, with the tea. “Yes, boy, bring it and put it down, and then get out.”
“Sorry, Magus,” Alex mutters. He sets a tea tray down on the table between Burgess and Hob, and then retreats. Through the door, Hob spies the flutter of wings, and quickly looks away again as the door shuts behind the boy.
“The devil in your basement…” Hob wets his upper lip, shifting forward to be mother, pouring two cups. “He can’t bring us back our sons, can he? But… his sister can.”
“His sister.”
“Death. Your original goal.” Hob raises his cup and takes a sip. “She is the oldest. And she is protective of her little brother.”
“If that’s the case, why hasn’t she come to free him?” Burgess smirks.
“He’s bound by the laws of magic,” Hob supplies. “She cannot free him by force, not while he is within your bindings. But… I have reason to believe that bartering his freedom… would not be outside of her purview.”
The blue eyes are very intent now. Hob holds Burgess’ gaze for as long as he can, before he has to divert. Instead, his eyes fall upon a stuffed calf on the fireplace tile, its two heads raised mournfully.
“How do you know all this?” Burgess asks. “What manner of man are you?”
“I am a man who wants back what has been taken from him,” Hob prevaricates, “just like you. I just happen to know a few things about the Endless. Sort of made it my job, in recent years.”
“Because of the death of your son?”
Hob nods: it’s not entirely untrue. His son just died many millennia before Roderick Burgess ever had the audacity to be born.
“The devil in the basement,” he continues, “he has a way of calling his sister.”
“I’ve asked him before, he won’t. He just sits there.”
“He might, if an old friend were to ask him. Someone he trusts.”
He looks up now, to Burgess’ cold, pale eyes. There is a greedy light in them.
“You… know him.”
“I do. We’re friends.”
“Friends?” Burgess scoffs at that. “And you’re willing to deceive him, to get your son back?”
“I’m willing to do more than that.” Hob sips his tea again, and smiles. “I’m willing to help you trap his sister.”
“And what if he takes revenge?”
“He cannot, without his tools. He is all but powerless in the waking world. And what could he do, kill us? Not with his sister imprisoned.”
Burgess eyes him, inherently mistrustful, but clearly tempted.
“You have a plan.”
“I do, though I’d like to see your set up. Death will be tricky to hold.”
Burgess leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The firelight plays over his features, as though the shadows fight to claim him. He’s clearly deep in thought.
“Why do you think he’ll talk to you? He’s never spoken, not once, in the decades he’s been here.”
“I can imagine desperation can be temptation enough. Besides, he is prideful. He’d never submit to someone whom he didn’t respect. I might be enough of a balm to douse that pride.”
“Hm.” Burgess considers. “We’ve tried so much. Tried beating him, tried bargaining with him. I really let the guards have free reign. At first, I was… optimistic. I was enchanted by him, really, such a strange being. Naked, and perfect, and still looking at you like you were an ant he could crush under his shoe…” his lip curls, an ugly sort of smile. “I used to just go and look at him. He’s a pleasure to look at. But the silence drives you mad after a while…”
Stomach turning, Hob fights to keep his face straight.
“A pleasure to look at?”
“Mm, but that’s about it. I thought about doing more than looking, but where’s the fun in fucking something that won’t make a noise?”
Hob has never been quick to anger, but he’s been filled with rage since he learned about Roderick Burgess, a ball in his core that glows like amber; a coal. The fury that burns in him now is smouldering, white hot ash.
Still, he leashes himself fiercely.
“Perhaps he knew. Time is different to him, and his pettiness could certainly outlast any human lifespan. I doubt physical coercion would have moved him.”
“You’re right, of course.” Burgess sips his tea, then frowns at it, and gets up instead to retrieve a crystal quart from the mantlepiece, and two tumblers. “You think he needs to feel… like he is outwitting us?”
“He will doubtless be leery of deception,” Hob nods, “and presenting ourselves as under-prepared will help him feel more at ease.”
“So, we will draw another circle,” Burgess posits, pouring two measures of scotch. “And we offer him a trade, this time with you there to act as the persuasion…”
Hob reaches to take the glass, and sees the instant the angle has dislodged the watchchain on Burgess’ waistcoat; the keys that hang there. They slide loose with a jangle, and before Hob can stop himself, his hand clasps around them instead of the glass.
“What the devil-”
Hob cuts the words off with a swing of the cane, knocking Burgess clean back into his chair. The lurch of his fall rips the watchchain from his waistcoat, and Hob is left holding the keys, springing up and pinning Burgess’ throat against the back of the chair with the length of his cane.
“Dream of the Endless is a friend of mine,” he seethes, “and I have no doubt he will relish in the opportunity to help you reunite with your son.”
He keeps pressing, watching Burgess’ face purple, the whites of his eyes mottling with red as Hob cuts off his air supply. This won’t kill him, it would take more than that – but it certainly feels good to choke him to unconsciousness.
As the old man slumps, a puppet with cut strings, Hob straightens and takes off his necktie. It’s useful to bind Burgess’ hands, his own for his ankles, and then Hob picks up the whiskey and takes a swig.
“Old cunt,” he mutters, and he leaves the study swiftly.
The great door at the end of the corridor is just as heavy as it looks. Hob looks around as he levers it open, but there’s no one running toward him, not yet.
“Mister Burgess?” Comes a voice from within the cellar. “Is that you?”
Hob doesn’t answer, but before he can close the door behind him, a fluttering shape lands heavy on his shoulder.
“Hello, Hob Gadling,” says Jessamy. He startles, staring at the bird.
“Did you just talk?”
“Is this the time?” she snips. “Hurry! We must help Lord Morpheus!”
“Right, yeah, that,” Hob says, suppressing his alarm. He closes the door behind him, tucking the keys away, and he and Jessamy begin their descent.
The two guards at the bottom of the stairs are, for some reason, not expecting to be attacked by a huge corvid. It gives Hob the perfect chance to unlock the iron jailing gates after she’s sailed through, swinging them open with a crash that flattens one guard, the other still wildly swiping at Jessamy. He’s holding a gun, which he’s pointing at his own head – and at her.
Using his cane, Hob hooks his hand sharply toward himself, and the shot that rings out by his ear deafens everyone in the confined space, but thankfully strikes stone. Hob reels the guard closer, then headbutts him fiercely, ignoring the exploding crack of his own nose in favour of celebrating the other man’s cry of anguish.
 That hot flood of anger he’d dammed breaks the levy now, rushing with all the force of a tidal wave. Hob kicks the gun from his hand and catches it in his own, shooting first one knee, then the other. The scream is terrible – but he’s heard worse.
“Behind you!”
Jessamy’s voice, and Hob spins before the other guard – missing a few teeth now – swings at him. Hob shoots him in the shoulder once, twice, and then brings the cane down for the final strike.
The two men, now unconscious, are silent. The room rings with it, a buzzing, tinnitus-like din that presses in on Hob for a moment like stifling hands. His eardrum feels like it’s been stabbed, and it sways him for a moment, his mouth thick with blood. He spits a wad onto the stone floor, panting, and then looks up as the wave of vertigo passes, taking some of his rage with it.
Dream is watching him. He’s cradled on his side in the concave belly of a great glass dome, clasped by iron talons. His pupils glint with nightshine in the gloaming, and he doesn’t move, not an inch.
“Old friend?” Hob moves toward the cage, trying to wipe some of the blood out of his beard. He pushes his glasses off and tucks them in his pocket. “Are you all right?”
“Lord Morpheus,” Jessamy chimes, alighting on one of the great sharp bands of metal, “we’re here to rescue you!”
Still, Dream doesn’t move. His one visible eye follows Hob as he edges around the circle, looking for a way into the trap. Seeing none, he fingers the gun he stole from the guard; snaps open the chamber to look at the bullets. One left.
“I’m going to get you out, okay?” He murmurs. “Jessamy, come here will you?”
She complies, fluttering out of the path of any errant shots as Hob takes aim. He’s worried by Dream’s stillness; the dullness in his usually starry eyes. When he squeezes the trigger, the shot writes a spiderweb into the glass with a satisfying crack, but it doesn’t cave in. Hob sees Dream’s eye flick up again.
“My lord?” Jessamy glides down to the floor to be near his face, pecking gently at the glass. “What is it?”
He focuses on her, but doesn’t speak otherwise. Hob can’t bear it any longer. With all his strength, he strikes the web of cracks with his cane, again, and again, wretchedly unsuccessful until finally the pane caves – and the whole dome falls in on Dream.
“Lord Morpheus!” Jessamy flutters in panic, but her beak can only retrieve so many pieces.
Heart pounding, Hob rips his jacket off and wraps it around his hands, doing what he can to grab the biggest pieces, getting to Dream as fast as he can. The shards slit through the fabric, making him cry out, but he can’t stop, not even in deference to hands slippery with blood.
Finally, he gets hands on the slender shoulder, and he pulls Dream free, gasping at the wounds that he’s inadvertently dealt him. “Dream, Dream-”
He’s limp, eyes half closed, glass crusting his hair. When Hob hauls him close, he grabs his chin with bloody hands and lifts his face to his own.
“Dream, please say something,” he whispers, “it’s me, Hob.”
Finally, a distant light, and Dream blinks. There’s a great gash down his cheek, and the blood that runs down is not crimson, like Hob’s, but silver ichor.
“Hob,” he whispers, “Hob…”
Just the sound of his voice is enough. Hob scoops him up hurriedly, leaving lurid red prints on him that smear with the silver. He kicks through the yellow mark on the floor that would snatch Dream from him, if he crossed it uninterrupted. He still feels the threads of it grab at them both as he crosses into the open space of the basement. “Jessamy, he needs clothes.”
“I saw a robe upstairs, I’ll bring it.”
“Great, meet me at the door.” Shifting to hold him more securely, Hob rushes toward the stairs, climbing them at a frantic clip. At the top of the stairs, he stops short at the sight of a blonde woman, who looks from him, his bloodied face and hands, to the slumped figure of Dream in his arms.
“I was just heading out,” she says quickly. “If – if you tell him, not to come after me. I’ll tell them I never saw anything. That I was already gone.”
“I would be… much obliged,” Hob breathes, “and if I hear that you talked, I’ll know exactly who to point him to, won’t I?”
She swallows, her jade eyes bright with fear, and nods.
“Thank you, Ethel,” Hob murmurs. He skirts round her, and runs the last few metres to the foyer, where Jessamy holds a black satin robe, perched on the open door. She drapes it over Dream as soon as Hob draws level, and between them, they tuck it round him.
“Ever been in a car before, Jessamy?” Hob asks, footsteps deafeningly loud in the dark as he crunches across the path to his car. He manoeuvres Dream’s weight to one arm to open the passenger door, propping him gently in the seat and pulling another coat from the back to cover him.
“Never.” She eyes it nervously.
“Hop in,” Hob says, gesturing to Dream’s lap, “quicker this way.”
She does, and soon, Hob is revving the engine and peeling off down the drive, spraying grit behind him. The moon overhead lights the path until Hob switches on his headlamps, and when they illuminate the iron gate, he swears.
A figure in the beams startles him, and he watches in astonishment as Alex Burgess runs in front of the gate. At first, Hob thinks he must be trying to stop him, but he realises soon that Alex is opening it up for him.
He doesn’t stop to thank him, just floors the gas and speeds out into the night, the untamed roads jostling his precious cargo beside him. He needs to get Dream as far away as possible, as fast as he can.
*
Here's Part Two!
Note: if you've got questions... good. All will be revealed in the next part! Also - Hob can save Jessamy, as a treat.
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plushmon · 3 months
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do you see my vision
basically TBC is my favorite arc and I've been thinking about drawing tim with Shadowsight for awhile but then I contemplated everything cause I'm about to reread TBC and I'm rewatching MH again and yeah.
Rootspring is Brian but I didnt have space to draw him or anyone else. Something something Root was kinda friends with Shadow and I think shadowroot is cute when I see it. Him seeing Bramble's ghost being a good set up for some Totheark things. I'm juggling this a bit cause i have to change MH's story alot but Squrrielflight is in Jessica's role, Leafpool in Amy's. Probably with alot of changes I need to contemplate more
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I love Bristlefrost and Shadowsight and since Bristle is destined to die badly I just think alot fits. Bramble in this au of course being the imposter, making the 7 month period arc parallel the books more.
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sixeyescurseuser · 3 months
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hidden inventory a/b/o
Alpha Gojo grew up in a very traditional household. Of course he’s going to have questionable ideologies for how one’s assigned status should influence their behavior. 
Omega Geto hides his status because it makes him vulnerable. At least, Yaga-sensei had given him an earful about how dangerous it would be as a known omegan sorcerer. So Geto poses as a beta.
Everyone is supposed to wear scent blockers anyway.
As long as Geto’s scent doesn’t bleed through, he can bury the truth. 
Thus, their class consists of two alphas - Shoko and Gojo - while Geto is a self-proclaimed beta. 
During their first year, Gojo and Geto still bicker a lot despite always being assigned missions together. Geto is very protective about his room space (this ensures his scent is kept a secret) so the trio hangs out in either Gojo or Shoko’s room. 
By the end of their first year, Gojo realizes that he actually really enjoys Geto’s company. Geto treats him normally without fearing how Gojo’s alpha might react. It feels like he’s earned Geto’s tolerance and eventual respect too. 
And-
“Thank god none of us are omegas. That would’ve made shit ten times more complicated,” Gojo sighs. The three of them had just finished exercising their first special grade. 
Geto looks off to the side while Shoko cocks her head. 
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, sounding like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“Don’t you know that omegas are more sensitive to cursed energy? It messes with their hormonal balance,” Gojo says casually, naturally matching his gait with Geto. “That’s the main reason that there aren’t many omega sorcerers. They’re highly susceptible to cursed energy and can be sent into states of toxic shock, or even heat.”
Geto stares off into space while Gojo rambles. It’s like being thrown back to when he’d just joined Jujutsu High, Yaga-sensei had warned him about every risk factor of his status.
Shoko sighs from the other side.
“While that’s been true in some cases, it doesn’t mean every sorcerer who happens to be an omega will struggle with that. There’s methods to help build tolerance against cursed energy too,” Shoko rebuttals, casting a side glance at Geto. 
“Sure, but when exorcizing special grades, even first grades, an omega would only drag us down,” Gojo concludes. Wrapping an arm around Geto’s shoulders, he smiles widely. “Besides, we’re already the strongest!”
Geto only manages a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
***
Shoko can’t confirm her suspicions, but Geto had been uncharacteristically quiet for that conversation.
But she does have suspicions. Like that one time Geto was bedridden with a dangerously high fever, and demonstrated other symptoms that were suspiciously like a heat.The only thing that had worked was a suppressant shot that Shoko used as a final resort.
Another thing is that Geto purrs a lot but at a very low frequency, which isn’t typical of alphas. 
She is willing to bet that if they were allowed in Geto’s room, on his bed would be a semblance of a nest.
It gets even more obvious when they’re second years and Geto welcomes the new first years with a kind smile and warm-hearted words. Geto doesn’t feel threatened by the younger alphas at all. 
The same cannot be said for Gojo.
One of the dumb hierarchical things traditional families practice is the alphas on the lower ranks must answer to the higher-ranked alphas, aka only speak when spoken to.
Most of the time, Gojo won’t even speak so when it’s just him and the younger classmen, it’s both quiet and awkward.
Meanwhile, Geto is the most accommodating and considerate senpai. He praises his kouhai plenty, particularly Haibara, and invites them on all the second-year food outings.  
If Shoko is ultimately wrong in her guess, then their class is lucky that they have such a placid and balanced presence on the team. 
***
After a mission gone wrong that results in him losing a leg, it is revealed that Haibara had been an omega in hiding. Everyone is in shock, some more about his true status instead of the fact that he had nearly died had the second-years not been called for backup. 
Gojo’s comment of, “This is proof that it’s too dangerous for omegas to be in this field” sets Geto the fuck off. 
Geto is downright pissed.
“He should’ve known better, now he’s suffering the consequences,” Gojo tries arguing. He doesn’t expect that the next thing to happen is Geto’s fist colliding with his cheek. 
Gojo sputters. “Suguru, what the fuck!?”
Geto is breathing heavily himself, fingers twitching as he struggles to contain his temper. 
“You’re being so rude- no, you’re being worse than rude. That was terrible, Satoru. Even for you.”
“I-“
“You were what, just saying the truth?” Geto snarkily finishes Gojo’s sentence. “Well not everyone wants to hear the “truth” right now. Have some fucking decency because we almost lost one of our kouhai, omega or not. So if you’re not going to say anything nice, just fucking shut it.”
Geto stalks away before Gojo can say something to fix his statement. Geto then proceeds to ignore Gojo for the next twenty-four hours, basically avoids him like the plague, right before his solo mission at an abandoned temple.
It’s whatever, Satoru says shit like that all the time, Geto tells himself. 
He’s more than adamant enough to keep his own secret safe.
(2)
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splashtqil · 4 months
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bros been an old man since he came out of the womb
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