For a couple of days now, Satoru has had the same dream. It starts simple; in a strange, underground place that in the dream he knows is called a train station, lined with white tiles and dark ceilings. It's packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, standing in the platforms and the tracks and every crevasse of the station, panicked and terrified, the air thick with fear.
He's taunting someone, his voice flat with irritation.
It's easy to pick them out of a crowd-- they're not human. One stands taller than anybody, chalk white skin threaded with black markings, a skull's grimace for a mouth and gnarled branches growing where it's eyesockets would be. The other, shorter, skin like ash, one enormous eye and a steaming volcano where its scalp should be. Blue fire is flickering around them, far stronger than it's around anyone else, and he can see the hate on their faces, but more interestingly, the fear. The fear of him.
Standing easily on a guardrail to be above the crowd, Satoru turns his head.
"You're not supposed to be here," he sing-songs to the intruder into his dream. Soon enough, he'll realize he's dreaming; his control over his own mind is too good for anything else. "But then, neither am I, right?"
ii. once upon a dream, pt ii
This dream, however, is far more easily recognizable.
He's a young boy, no more than six, his hand being held by a tall, androgynous vampire as they lead him down a path of flowering trees. In the distance is a house -- closer to a mansion -- where two people with familial resemblance stand on the final step, watching with neutral expressions.
Satoru's own young face is neutral, too, or would be, if not for the tears threatening to fall. It just makes the vampire's hand grip his own more tightly.
"I'll make it so that you don't miss them," they say, in a voice that's kind but the implication of their suggestion is anything but, though Satoru's too young to know that. "Soon, you won't even think of your family anymore. You won't need to waste your time. You have a purpose far greater."
His adult self is watching from a distance, and when he senses somebody else, his expression tightens in rarely seen irritation, lips thinning, but he says nothing.
iii. winter games!
Ice hockey, it has to be noted, is one of Satoru's favorite sports.
So here he is, clad in way too much gold for his taste, no padding or helmet to speak of because of course they don't need those things, gleefully whacking people left and right with his stick as he barges through people in chase of the puck. The score is 3-1, Gold up versus their opponents, and Satoru's goal was the first of the game, taken in a savage strike.
Shadowstepping is considered cheating, but mind control still isn't, so Satoru gleefully seizes the minds of every single one of the opposing team and makes them stand still as he sails between them, gliding gracefully toward the goal. Maybe someone might manage to break free?
On the other hand, you might catch him at a snowball fight, taking it far too seriously while cackling and pelting people with lumps of snow that are probably closer to ice than anything else.
Using some compulsion to ensure nobody can see him, he sneaks up to one of the opposing team -- or maybe the same team, he's not actually picky -- and yanks the back of their collar open, dumping snow down their backs.
gojo satoru | gold court | youngblood
For a couple of days now, Satoru has had the same dream. It starts simple; in a strange, underground place that in the dream he knows is called a train station, lined with white tiles and dark ceilings. It's packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, standing in the platforms and the tracks and every crevasse of the station, panicked and terrified, the air thick with fear.
He's taunting someone, his voice flat with irritation.
It's easy to pick them out of a crowd-- they're not human. One stands taller than anybody, chalk white skin threaded with black markings, a skull's grimace for a mouth and gnarled branches growing where it's eyesockets would be. The other, shorter, skin like ash, one enormous eye and a steaming volcano where its scalp should be. Blue fire is flickering around them, far stronger than it's around anyone else, and he can see the hate on their faces, but more interestingly, the fear. The fear of him.
Standing easily on a guardrail to be above the crowd, Satoru turns his head.
"You're not supposed to be here," he sing-songs to the intruder into his dream. Soon enough, he'll realize he's dreaming; his control over his own mind is too good for anything else. "But then, neither am I, right?"
This dream, however, is far more easily recognizable.
He's a young boy, no more than six, his hand being held by a tall, androgynous vampire as they lead him down a path of flowering trees. In the distance is a house -- closer to a mansion -- where two people with familial resemblance stand on the final step, watching with neutral expressions.
Satoru's own young face is neutral, too, or would be, if not for the tears threatening to fall. It just makes the vampire's hand grip his own more tightly.
"I'll make it so that you don't miss them," they say, in a voice that's kind but the implication of their suggestion is anything but, though Satoru's too young to know that. "Soon, you won't even think of your family anymore. You won't need to waste your time. You have a purpose far greater."
His adult self is watching from a distance, and when he senses somebody else, his expression tightens in rarely seen irritation, lips thinning, but he says nothing.
Ice hockey, it has to be noted, is one of Satoru's favorite sports.
So here he is, clad in way too much gold for his taste, no padding or helmet to speak of because of course they don't need those things, gleefully whacking people left and right with his stick as he barges through people in chase of the puck. The score is 3-1, Gold up versus their opponents, and Satoru's goal was the first of the game, taken in a savage strike.
Shadowstepping is considered cheating, but mind control still isn't, so Satoru gleefully seizes the minds of every single one of the opposing team and makes them stand still as he sails between them, gliding gracefully toward the goal. Maybe someone might manage to break free?
On the other hand, you might catch him at a snowball fight, taking it far too seriously while cackling and pelting people with lumps of snow that are probably closer to ice than anything else.
Using some compulsion to ensure nobody can see him, he sneaks up to one of the opposing team -- or maybe the same team, he's not actually picky -- and yanks the back of their collar open, dumping snow down their backs.