elif

You kick off your shoes and shuffle down the hallway, already pulling your hair out of the bun you'd done up that morning, now mostly falling out on its own. The bedroom door is cracked open, and when you push it wider, you find exactly what you were hoping for.

Satoru is sprawled across the bed like a starfish, still wearing his teaching clothes—black pants and a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blindfold is tossed carelessly on the nightstand, and his white hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been running his hands through it all day. His eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face.

He looks as exhausted as you feel.

"Rough day?" you ask, and he groans without moving.

"The first years tried to fight a curse three grades above their level because Yuji said it 'looked easy,'" he mumbles into his arm. "I had to bail them out. Again. Then Megumi and Nobara got into an argument about mission protocol that somehow turned into a full-blown screaming match about who ate whose leftovers from the fridge. I had to separate them like they were toddlers."

Despite your exhaustion, you snort. "Sounds about right."

"And then," he continues, finally moving his arm to peek at you with one brilliant blue eye, "Yaga cornered me about paperwork I was supposed to file last week. Do you know how much I hate paperwork?"

"I'm aware." You're already moving toward the bed, unbuttoning your work pants. "You complain about it literally every time."

"Because it's the worst. I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. I shouldn't have to file incident reports."

"Mm-hmm, very tragic." You shimmy out of your pants and leave them in a heap on the floor—a problem for future you. Your blouse follows, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. "My day was also shit, for the record."

"Yeah?" He's watching you now with lazy interest, too tired to even sit up but still tracking your movements.

"My boss is an idiot, the coffee machine broke, I had to sit through a two-hour meeting that could've been an email, and Janet from accounting passive-aggressively cc'd the entire department on an email about someone stealing her lunch. Which, for the record, I didn't do, but she definitely thinks I did based on the way she was glaring at me."

"Want me to hollow purple Janet from accounting?" he offers, completely serious.

"Tempting, but no." You crawl onto the bed and without ceremony, flop directly on top of him, your full weight pressing him into the mattress. You bury your face in his chest with a long, dramatic groan. "I'm dead. This is me, dead."

"Hi, dead. I'm also dead." His arms come around you automatically, wrapping you up even though you're both too tired to really move. "We're both corpses now. This is our life."

"Our death," you correct, muffled against his shirt.

"Our death," he agrees solemnly.

For a moment, you just lie there, breathing in sync. He smells like his cologne mixed with the faint scent of the training grounds—sweat and grass and something distinctly him. It's comforting in a way you can't quite articulate. This exhausted, collapsed-together moment feels like home.

His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle, rubbing up and down your spine. It feels incredible, and you make an embarrassing sound of contentment that you'll deny later.

"You're tense as hell," he murmurs, fingers working at a knot between your shoulder blades.

"You try dealing with Janet's accusatory emails and see how relaxed you are," you mumble, but you're already melting into his touch.

"I'd just block her."

"You can't block coworkers, Satoru."

"You can if you're powerful enough." His hand slides lower, still rubbing your back, and you feel some of the day's tension starting to ease. "This okay?"

"It's perfect. You're my favorite human pillow."

"Just human pillow? Not devastatingly handsome boyfriend who you're lucky to have?"

"That's implied," you say, but you're smiling against his chest.

His other hand joins the first, both of them working at your tired muscles, and you honest-to-god almost start purring. This is exactly what you needed. Just this—him, the quiet apartment, his hands on you, the weight of the day slowly lifting.

But then his hands start to wander.

It's subtle at first. His fingers drift from your back to your sides, tracing the curve of your waist. Then lower, skimming over your hips. And then—

He grabs your ass. Both hands, full handfuls, squeezing appreciatively.

"Really?" you ask, lifting your head to look at him. "We're both dead, remember? Corpses don't grope."

"I'm a very motivated corpse." He squeezes again, shameless, and there's a grin tugging at his lips now. "Can't help it. You're lying on top of me in your underwear. What did you expect?"

"Self-control? Restraint? Basic human decency?"

"Baby, you know me better than that." His hands are still kneading your ass, and despite your sass, you can feel heat starting to pool low in your belly. "Besides, you love it."

"I love that you can't even wait until we've recovered from our respective terrible days before getting handsy?"

"Exactly." He's fully grinning now, that cocky, insufferable grin that makes you want to kiss him and smack him at the same time. "Your ass is the best stress relief. It's science."

"That's not science, you idiot."

"It's my science."

You snort, but you're not moving away. His hands are warm and familiar, and honestly, after the day you've had, this isn't the worst thing in the world. You let your head drop back to his chest, eyes drifting closed.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice softer now.

"Mmm," you hum in agreement. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it."

For a while, it's just quiet. His hands keep moving—sometimes squeezing, sometimes just resting there, thumbs drawing lazy circles. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong. The tension in your shoulders is almost completely gone now, replaced by a different kind of warmth, something slower and heavier.

You're half-asleep when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against your hip.

"Satoru," you mumble, not even opening your eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Are you seriously getting hard right now?"

There's a pause. Then he says, "...Maybe."

You lift your head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He has the decency to look slightly sheepish, but there's heat in his eyes now, that familiar hunger that never really goes away when it comes to you.

"We were having a nice moment."

"We still are."

"You've got a boner."

"I do…That doesn't cancel the nice moment."

You stare at him for another second before letting out a laugh.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"I come home exhausted, use you as a human mattress for ten minutes, and somehow I'm the problem?"

"You are absolutely the problem."

"I literally haven't done anything."

"You climbed on top of me, got all comfy, made that little happy humming noise, and then fell asleep on my chest."

"I hummed?"

"You hummed."

"I don't hum."

"You do when you're really comfortable."

You narrow your eyes. "I've never noticed that."

"I have."

You glare at him.

"…Baby." He exhales dramatically, like he's carrying the weight of the world. "You're makin' me so hard."

You snort. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm trying to be respectful."

"Are you?"

Silence.

"…No." He grins without an ounce of shame. "Not really."

Despite yourself, you laugh again, dropping your forehead back against his shoulder.

"You're ridiculous."

"I know."

His arms tighten around you just a little. "But you look so comfortable."

His voice is quieter now. "So happy."

You burrow your face further into his shoulder.

"…I like when you're like this."

You feel yourself smile before you can stop it. "You're such a sap."

"Only for you."

There's a comfortable silence. Then his hands drift just a little bit lower again.

"…Okay," you mumble. "Now you're definitely not being respectful."

"No." He gives your ass another shameless squeeze. "I'm definitely not."

Before you can respond, he's sitting up, keeping you in his lap, and capturing your mouth in a kiss that's hungry and demanding. You can taste his desperation, feel it in the way his hands grip you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

When he pulls back, his lips are already swollen, his eyes are dark with want. "I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "Get up here."

"Up where—"

But he's already moving, sliding down the bed and pulling you with him. "On my face. Come on."

"Satoru—"

"Please." And there it is, that needy edge that makes your stomach flip. "I've been thinking about this all day. About you sitting on my face, riding my tongue until you come. Please, baby. I need it."

How are you supposed to say no to that?

"You're ridiculous," you say, but you're already moving, letting him position you. He's lying flat on his back now, looking up at you with such raw want that it makes you shiver.

"Not ridiculous. Desperate." His hands come up to grip your thighs, pulling you forward. "Now stop stalling and sit on my face."

"Bossy," you mutter, but you're lowering yourself down, and then—

"Oh fuck," you gasp as his tongue makes contact, sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke.

He groans under you, the vibration going straight to your core, and his hands tighten on your thighs. "That's it," he mumbles against you. "Right there. Don't move."

But you're already moving, you can't help it, grinding down against his mouth as he licks and sucks and devours you like a man starving. His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to lift up, worried about suffocating him, about being too much—he just pulls you back down harder.

"Satoru—"

"Stay," he demands, voice muffled. He pulls his face back to look up at you. "Fuck my face. Come on, baby, I can take it. Give it to me." Then he lowers his mouth to you again.

It's obscene, the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the way he's completely lost in it. His tongue circles your clit, then dips inside you, then back to your clit, and you're already shaking, already so close.

"That's it," he encourages, and you can hear the smugness in his voice even now. "You're dripping, baby. such a mess on my face."

"Shut—up," you gasp, but there's no heat in it because he's right—you can feel how wet you are, can feel it on his chin, his lips, and it should be embarrassing but it's just hot.

"Make me," he challenges, and then he's sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and you cry out.

Your hands fly to the headboard, gripping the edge to steady yourself as the pleasure intensifies. You start to really move now, riding his face with purpose, and he moans underneath you like this is exactly what he wanted all along.

"Fuck, yes," he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Just like that. Use me, baby. Take what you need."

His hands guide your hips, encouraging the rhythm, and his tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, pressing flat against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. You can feel yourself getting closer, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"Satoru, I'm—fuck—"

"Do it," he demands, voice rough. "Come on my face.”

His tongue flicks rapidly over your clit, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure rolling through your entire body. You're grinding down against his mouth, riding it out, and he's groaning underneath you like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

When you finally come down, shaking and oversensitive, you try to move off him, but his hands tighten on your thighs.

"Not yet," he mumbles, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. "Just—give me a second. You taste so fucking good."

"You're gonna kill me," you pant, but you're smiling.

But he's already diving back in, and you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again. Your whole body jolts at the sensitivity, but he doesn't let up—he's relentless, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he works you over. The pleasure is almost too much, bordering on overwhelming, and you're already moaning his name.

"Satoru—fuck—it's too much—"

"I know, baby," he groans against you, the vibration sending another wave through you. "But you can take it."

He's eating you out like he's starving, like he can't get enough, and your whole body is shaking. Your hands grip the headboard tighter, your hips moving against his mouth almost involuntarily. The pleasure is building again, impossibly fast, and you're gasping and moaning as he works you toward another orgasm.

"Oh god—Satoru—I'm gonna—"

"That's it," he encourages, his tongue flicking faster. 

Your second orgasm hits you like a wave, even more intense than the first, and you're crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up, and he's groaning underneath you, clearly getting off on how much he's affecting you.

When you finally collapse, completely spent and oversensitive, he finally releases you, and you fall onto the bed next to him, breathing hard and trembling.

"And I'm dramatic?" He's grinning like he just won the lottery, his face wet, his hair a complete disaster. "That was—fuck. I love you, baby."

"You're insane," you say, but you're pulling him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

"About you? Absolutely." His hands are already roaming again, cupping your face, then sliding down your sides. "But I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh really?"

"Really." He's kissing you again, slower this time, deeper. When he pulls back, there's something vulnerable in his expression beneath all the confidence. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you challenge, and his eyes darken.

"Oh, baby."

He's fumbling with his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers, and his cock springs free—flushed and hard and already leaking. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, and he hisses.

"Fuck, baby—"

"What?" You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and he's already trembling.

"Your hands—shit—they're so much smaller than mine. Look so good wrapped around my cock."

"Yeah?" you tease, giving him another slow stroke.

"Yeah." His voice is strained. 

He gently removes your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, and then he's pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip possessively. You can feel him, hard and hot against your thigh, and he's just... holding you there.

"Satoru—"

"Give me a second," he murmurs, his voice already rough. His breathing is uneven against your neck, and you can feel the tension in his body—the way he's trying to maintain control. "Just—fuck—you feel so good.”

His hips shift slightly, and you feel the length of him drag against you—not entering, just the pressure of him sliding through your wetness. The friction makes you gasp, and he groans.

"There it is," he breathes. "That sound. The little gasp you make when I—" He does it again, a slow roll of his hips, grinding against you. "When I touch you just right."

"Satoru, please—"

"Please what?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. "Tell me what you want, baby."

"You know what I want."

"I do." Another slow grind, and you can feel how wet you are, how easily he slides against you. "But I wanna hear you say it. Love the way your voice gets all breathy when you're desperate for me."

"You're killing me—"

"Good." He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point. "You've been killing me all day. All week. Every time you look at me with those eyes, every time you smile at me like I'm the only person in the world—fuck, baby, you have no idea."

His voice is shaking now, and you realize he's not teasing anymore—he's barely holding on. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.

"I can't—" His forehead drops to your shoulder. "I can't think straight around you. Can't control myself. You just—you exist, and I'm gone."

"Then stop trying to control it," you whisper, and you feel him shudder.

"Fuck." He shifts, lining himself up properly, and then he's pushing in—slowly, so slowly. The stretch is intense, pleasure edged with the sweetest hint of pressure as he fills you inch by inch. "Fuck, baby. You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."

"Satoru—"

"I know. I've got you." He's only halfway in, taking his time, letting you adjust. His forehead is still pressed to your shoulder, and you can feel how much restraint this is taking him—the way his muscles are tense, the way his breath comes in short gasps. "You're taking me so well. You always take me so well."

Finally, finally, he's fully seated inside you, and you both just breathe for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of being completely connected.

"Okay?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you.

"Yes baby," you manage. "You can move.”

"Thank fuck." He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in. The drag of his cock against your walls makes you gasp, and he groans. "That sound. Fuck, I love that sound."

He sets a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate, each thrust making you feel impossibly full. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips—like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, watching your face. "All flushed and breathless. The way your eyes get all hazy when I'm inside you—fuck, it drives me crazy."

"Satoru—"

"I love you so much." His voice is rough with emotion now, not just desire. "Love everything about you. The way you feel, the way you look at me, the way you let me have you like this—"

"I love you too," you gasp, and his hips stutter.

His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, there's something raw there.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Fuck." His pace falters, becomes less controlled. "You can't—you can't just say it like that when I'm inside you. You're gonna—shit—"

"You feel so good," you tell him, cupping his face. "So perfect. You always make me feel so good."

His breath catches, and suddenly he's kissing you desperately, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, less measured.

"You're everything," he gasps against your mouth. "Everything to me. The way you trust me, the way you look at me like I'm—fuck, baby, I can't—"

"You are," you insist, and his composure cracks completely.

"Fuck—" He's moving faster now, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love how you fit around me. Like you were made for me. Like we were made for each other."

"We were," you gasp, and his eyes flash with something fierce and possessive.

"Damn right we were." He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust is devastating. "There it is. That's the spot, isn't it?"

"Yes—fuck—right there—"

"I know, baby. I know." His voice is breaking now, emotion and desire tangled together. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna watch your face when you—fuck—when you come because of me."

The pleasure is building so quickly you can barely breathe. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, his back, trying to anchor yourself as he drives into you again and again.

"That's it," he encourages, watching your face like he's memorizing it. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? So fucking close."

"Don't stop—"

"Never." One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see you."

The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot and his thumb on your clit is too much. Your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your whole body tense and shake. You're clenching around him, and he groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, yes," he breathes, still moving, fucking you through it. "That's it. That's my girl. You're so good. So beautiful. Fuck, I love you so much."

When you finally start to come down, gasping and trembling, you expect him to follow you over the edge. But instead, he slows his movements, pressing soft kisses to your face.

"Satoru—"

"Not done with you yet," he murmurs against your lips.

Before you can respond, he's pulling out and lifting your legs, draping them over his shoulders. The new position opens you up completely, and when he pushes back in, he's somehow even deeper than before.

"Oh fuck—" you gasp, and he groans.

"There we go." He starts moving again, and this angle is devastating. Every thrust feels impossibly deep, hitting places that make your toes curl. "How's that, baby? That good?"

"Yes—fuck—Satoru—"

"I love you so much," he says, his voice rough. "You know that? I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Always gonna be mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly, and something in his expression goes even more intense.

"That's right." His thrusts are harder now, more purposeful. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna love you for the rest of my life."

His hand moves to your stomach, pressing down, and suddenly his eyes go wide. He can feel himself inside you, the bulge of his cock with each thrust, and something feral takes over his expression.

"Holy shit," he breathes, completely mesmerized. His hand traces the outline, feeling himself move in and out of you, and he starts fucking you even harder, unable to look away. "Look at that. Look at you taking me so deep."

You're already building toward another orgasm, the intensity of this angle and his words and the way he's looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen—it's all too much.

He's transfixed, watching his cock disappear inside you again and again, feeling the movement under his palm. His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming more frantic.

"Can you feel that, baby?" he asks breathlessly, his voice completely wrecked. "Fuck—I'm so fucking deep—you feel that?"

You look up at him with half-shut glazed eyes, your mouth parted open, completely fucked out. "Yes—fuck—yes, Satoru, I feel it—"

He groans at the sight of you—at how thoroughly wrecked you look, at the way you're falling apart beneath him. "You're so hot. So fucking hot. The way you look right now—fuck—I'm obsessed with you."

He's fucking you harder now, more urgently, his hand still on your stomach feeling himself move inside you with each thrust. The visual seems to drive him wild, and his movements become almost desperate.

"Come for me again," he demands, his other hand finding your oversensitive clit. "I know you can. I know you've got one more in you. Come on, baby. Give it to me."

"Satoru—I can't—it's too much—"

"You can." His thumb presses harder, circling your clit. "You can, baby. I need you to.”

The pleasure is building impossibly fast, almost painful in its intensity. You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that every thrust, every touch feels magnified.

"That's it," he encourages, watching your face. "I can see it. You're right there. Just let go, baby.”

His voice is breaking, his control completely shattered, and then something raw escapes from him. 

"I want you—" His hips snap forward harder. "Fuck—want all of you.”

His composure finally snaps.

"They've been on my ass my whole life about the bloodline. About heirs. About duty." Another hard thrust, his voice is cracking. "And I never—fuck—never wanted it."

He's breathing hard, almost gasping between words.

"Not until you."

His forehead drops closer to yours, his movements becoming more frantic.

"Only you. Want to marry you—want to wake up to you every day—want to call you my wife and—ah—know you're mine—"

Your orgasm crashes through you even harder, triggered by his words, by the desperation in his voice, by the sight of him completely undone above you. You're clenching around him so tight he gasps, your whole body shaking with the intensity.

"Fuck, yes—" He's just… staring at you, still moving, still feeling himself inside you. "So beautiful—The way your face—the way you sound—fuck—"

The sight of you completely wrecked under him, the feeling of you clenching around him, the way you gasp his name—it pushes him over the edge.

"Ah—fuck—fuck—fuuckk—" He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you in hot pulses. His whole body shudders with the intensity of it, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel the warmth spreading.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you but clearly boneless. For a while, you just breathe together, sweaty and satisfied.

"Holy shit," you mumble.

"Yeah." He's pressing kisses all over your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. He can’t seem to stop touching you, his hands running over your skin like he needs the contact. "You're amazing. Incredible. Best girlfriend in the entire world."

"Best girlfriend, or best pussy?" you tease, and he pulls back to look at you with mock offense.

"Both. Definitely both." He's grinning now, that soft, genuine smile that he only gives you. "But mostly you. I love you. Like, so much. An embarrassing amount."

"I love you too, you needy disaster."

"Your needy disaster," he corrects, and he's still touching you, hands running over your skin like he can't bear to stop. "Mine now. No takebacks."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you say softly, and you mean it.

He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow. The exhaustion from earlier is creeping back in, but it's different now—satisfied, content, the good kind of tired.

"We should probably shower," you murmur, but you're already half-asleep.

"Later," he mumbles into your hair. "Right now I just wanna hold you."

"Clingy."

"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."

"I think I can manage," you say, smiling against his chest.

Satoru smirks at that, laughing and shaking his head. “I think she harbors some sort of fondness still, not love just…”

“Of the past?”

“Yes, I think she’d be upset if I killed him. Unfortunately.” Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, propping a foot on the wall now, peering across the way to see you walking through the gardens. “I’d love to bury him six feet under, where no one finds him, yet I don’t want to hurt her any more than everyone already does.”

“You’ve grown up a lot lately,” Satoru peers at him, blue eyes narrowing. “Since she’s been here.”

“I just want to be the man she deserves, and this fucking country isn’t allowing me to be.”

“She loves you,” Satoru’s cheeks heat up. “She truly does.”

“I know,” he starts walking again, nodding a bit as several servants curtsey toward him, his sandals quietly clicking against the wood of the trail towards the gardens. “She told me that last night.”

“Ah, last night,” Kiyotaka blushes, pushing up his monocle a bit. “I heard you all made quite a loud spectacle.”

“Mmhmm, sure did,” Satoru’s grinning far too big, his hands behind his head as he approaches you, your eyes glitter all fucking pretty when you see him, clutching to your gowns. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t sound so wistful Kiyo,” he shoves him and Kiyo sighs, rolling his eyes, you cross your arms now.

“Don’t you be mean to Ijichi!”

“Thank you my lady,” he kisses your hand and you giggle all cute, Satoru is glad you’re married to him, he doesn’t trust that Kiyotaka isn’t some pussy eating prodigy after he got out of that brothel free of charge. “I should leave you to talk to the Emperor, I’ll convene with you both later.”

“Satoru,” you lean up and he cups your face, bending down to kiss you for all to see as they walk by and whisper, smiling against your lips. “I missed you and it’s only been a morning.”

“Is your cunt aching?” You snort and shove at him playfully, for him to catch your wrist and kiss the inside of it, but then he frowns a bit, taking your hand and walking you both away from prying eyes and gossip, until you’re well into the pretty maze he’d had built years ago.

“What’s wrong?” You ask softly, he turns you toward him, tilting your chin up, his lips set in a terse line unlike his usual parted lips. “Toru…”

“I love when you call me that,” he admits softly, hand brushing your lower back, tugging you close. “I love you.”

You blink back emotion, last night was so intense you didn’t know if he was in the moment, but now in the light of day you feel it – his love. You kiss his chin, hands placed on his chest, feeling his heart thud steadily underneath your palm. “I love you, Satoru Gojo.”

“God,” he’s kissing you now, desperately, hardly able to pull himself back. “Fuck I have to tell you something before I throw you down on the grass and rail your cunt.”

“Oh god!” He’s dead serious, there’s no mirth or teasing, just a raised brow. “You’re a mad emperor.”

“Yes I’m aware,” he brushes your hair back and sighs. “Well, I’m apparently needed for riots breaking out – just four days time, but this is a precarious fucking time right now.”

“It certainly is,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I wish I could go with you.”

“That would be far too dangerous, I would never risk you,” his hand comes to your tummy now. “And our future baby.”

“So I hope,” your voice is wistful, he can just see how badly you want this. “Still no period but I want to give it a little longer, sometimes it’s just late.”

“I hope you are, and not for the empire, for me.” You blink tears now, burning your eyes, making your vision swim.

“I hope I am too,” both of your lips press together, melding as the warmth of the sun casts heat across both of your skin. Satoru presses your back against the tree sat right in the middle of that maze. “I know you’ll be a good father.”

He pauses now, sighing and brushing his thumb over a flushed cheek, kissing it softly. “I want to be a good father. Have I told you I want a girl?”

“What?” You blink in surprise, tears swiped off by a flick of his thumbs. “You’d want a girl? But don’t you need a son?”

“Need this, need that,” he shakes his head, swallowing now nervously, emotions caught in his throat. “I want a daughter, I want a little mini you running around, demanding everything – probably will want her own kingdom, and I’ll give it all to her.”

“Satoru…” You can’t stop the tears that fall, lips pressing on his over and over, as he holds you so close. “You want a girl even if the entire country wants us to have a boy, and all that pressure, you still want it?”

“I do, but I’ll love any baby, boy or girl,” he whispers, the love for him making your heart shatter then.

This is love.

The pure, undying devotion in Satoru’s words, the love in his eyes, the careful way he holds you and says he wants a daughter. You can see it all unfolding, see her wrapping him around her finger, so vivid this image that you can’t stop crying, can’t stop kissing him, needing him – endless.

“Oh Toru I want that too,” you’re a mess, trembling, tears salty against his lips – your nose sniffling as he tilts your chin up higher. “I swear I can see it already.”

“Me too, god me too,” he’s grinning so big now, so bright it eclipses the very sun overhead. “I had a dream about it.”

“I wish for such dreams,” you sigh now, frowning a bit. “Mine were rather much like nightmares.”

“I forbid you to have nightmares while I’m gone.”

You laugh, even through your tears. “Forbid me hmm?”

“Only lewd sex dreams about me,” you smack at him and he picks you up, thighs around his hips, weight pushing the bark against the silk of your dress. “Have I told you how pretty you are crying?”

“You perverted man, mmm,” you love it, he knows you do – kissing you breathless, pressing his clothed cock against where you’re constantly throbbing. “I hope this never goes away, this need.”

“It won’t,” he exhales against your neck as he kisses up it. “I’ll fuck you even when my bones are old and frail, I’ll still lift your ass and fuck you right on this tree.”

“When we’re ninety!?”

“Yep,” you grin, hands entangled in his white hair. “It’s how I’ll die, trying to fuck you on this very tree, and you’ll die with me.”

“I certainly will, an orgasm from you when I’m ninety? I fear we’ll both have to be buried underneath this very tree,” he nips at your neck, making your eyes roll back. “Suguru was so wrong, you’ll love me even when I’m a relic.”

“He couldn’t be more fucking wrong,” he sighs and leans back a bit, nose brushing yours. “There’s no ‘shiny and new’ that could catch my eye, I want you until my last breath.”

“Satoru…” You desperately cling to him, ready to let him fuck you right out here – when you both hear voices, whispers. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” he eases you down, wincing and adjusting his throbbing cock. “I have to leave in a couple hours, I’m so sorry I have to leave you here.”

“Please don’t apologize for your duty,” you press little kisses all along his jawline now. “I will be here waiting, and yes, I'll touch myself in your bed.”

“Please mess up my sheets,” you giggle at his lewd whisper, until his mood grows serious.

“What is it?”

“Kiyo will stay to keep an eye on you, but I don’t trust that dumb knight,” you nod, his voice is just a breath, careful so only you hear. “I have a lawyer coming to help get rid of those girls, you will meet with him tonight discreetly with Kiyo. All right?”

“Yes of course,” you nod eagerly, Satoru snatches up your hand and walks right past some of the girls who are taking to the gardens, ignoring every single one of them, his eyes on your hand in his. “I hope we’re able to be alone together, just us.”

“I’ll make it happen sweetheart,” he smiles and melts your heart. “Just please be careful, stick to Kiyo, mama and Miwa please.”

“You sound very worried,” you turn and look at him as you all walk towards the front palace now. “Is everything all right?”

“I just have a feeling something’s off,” he looks around, making sure no one is within ear shot. “I can’t explain but please listen to me. Don’t be a stubborn brat.”

“I am not the brat in this relationship.”

“Excuse me!?”

You’re giggling again. “I will stay to myself and be careful, I don’t want to be around Suguru anymore than you want me to.”

“And stay away from the concubines,” you tilt your head curiously. “Promise me, I don’t know what this feeling is but anyone who could hurt you right now I need you to avoid.”

“All right Toru,” he sighs in relief, kissing your forehead. “I’ll stick with Mama, Miwa and Kiyo and if I’m not with them I’ll be in my chambers.”

“Good girl,” you heat up at that, and he knows it too with his smirk. “I hope you’re good and pregnant when I’m back.”

*****

“My lady,” the barrister and Kiyotaka both bow when you enter Kiyotaka’s office after a teary eyed departure with your husband, he shuts the door behind you as the dark haired man takes your hand. “Higuruma.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, truly,” you say softly, instantly at ease with the man, much like how Kiyotaka makes you feel, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, making you just a bit flustered. “It was so kind of you to come on such notice.”

“I must admit usually my proceedings are impossible divorces that require the utmost attention,” he lets your hand down and smiles, a tired little smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “To hear of a ruler who wants to only be with his wife rather than leave her and marry a mistress? A fucking delight. I was so bored.”

You laugh softly, fiddling a bit with your hands in front of you. “I am very lucky Satoru is so devoted, truly yet…”

You trail off and sigh, shutting your eyes.

“I feel it’s all my fault for being terribly jealous, and quite… how do I word this properly…”

“Posessive?” Kiyotaka says, you giggle again, peeking at him. “I’m so sorry my lady I…”

“No, I am possessive I’m afraid,” you sigh and sit in the chair that he pulls out for you. “Thank you very much.”

“Of course,” Higuruma sits on the desk rather than the seat, peeking at the stack of papers. “So Lola is the one who raised a hand to you, correct?”

“She did try to smack me.”

“Smacking an Empress is insane work,” Hiromi frowns, his dark brows drawing together now. “And nonstop antagonizing of you it seems from several accounts I was able to pull.”

“Oh yes they constantly do,” you murmur, settling into the seat a bit. “I think it’s a little excessive because Satoru ignores them.”

“Well who would blame him,” you blush and he curses. “I’m sorry…”

“No that’s sweet, thank you Sir,” he blushes just a bit, walking around to sit in his chair now, pulling a pen out. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”

“I have heard from many sources you two are a lovely match,” Hiromi smiles at Kiyotaka. “Especially from him.”

“Well of course, Ijichi loves the emperor.”

“I’ve heard more about you,” it’s Ijichi’s turn to blush, you’re giggling at him.

“Empress, please…”

“I’m sorry it’s so cute,” you stand now and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here while Satoru is gone.”

“I shall keep you safe,” you smile and then look back at the lawyer who’s yawning.

“Sir please rest.”

“Not yet.”

“Have a meal and relax a bit,” you say firmly. “Do you think there’s a possibility to… grant Satoru his freedom?”

“I do, it may be rather complicated, but using the girls ill intent towards you – especially that banished maid? That could make things much easier.”

“I really hope so,” you close your eyes now. What are your other options, really? Deal with them forever or do what Satoru suggests and run off to the mountains somewhere? Where would that leave the country? His family?

“We will make it work.” Hiromi assures you. “I will take you up on the meal and the rest, hmm?”

“Good! I should rest as well. We’ll talk more when Satoru gets back.”

“I’ll be gathering evidence until then,” he walks by and bows just a bit at the waist, leaving you and Ijichi alone.

“You really love me, hmm?”

“Empress! Don’t do that to me,” you’re a giggling mess now, he flicks you on the forehead. “You are becoming just like him, what a terrible influence!”

“You love us,” you loop your arm through his now. “All right you said you’re not to leave my side, walk me up to my room please?”

He sighs, patting your hand. “Of course Empress.”

You want to say you say super strong, but when you lay in Satoru’s – well you both share this bed now – bed you feel an overwhelming emptiness, so much so it steals your breath. When it’s quiet and it’s just you, the only light the candle flickering on the table next to you, casting shadows of your silhouette on the wall, just waiting for him to come home, knowing it’ll be days.

Tears spill as you inhale his scent on the blue satin pillow, hugging it tightly and crying against it, you’ve been through time without Satoru before but you feel as if you just got him back home. Just to have him leave again, and not knowing if he’s safe or all right keeps you up with worry, until the candle wanes and you get so exhausted you crash, but it’s already dawn.

*****

Satoru hates going away from you – that time he had to leave for almost an entire month was horrible, and it was really before your relationship had developed this deeply, before you two spoke of love. Tentative and new then, and it hurt to be away from you, he ached for you.

Yet this time felt worse – like a piece of his heart was missing. You were his heart though – of course it was ripped out of his chest any time he had to leave, and in such a precarious position.

Why can’t he shake this feeling he has? This ominous one that’s crushing him? It’s been two days and he’s hoping to cut it short as negotiations were going smoothly, but even that felt not soon enough. He’s laying down in the bed they set up for him inside the tent, staring up at the ceiling and picturing you here next to him.

Would you snuggle to his side and kiss his neck?

Or would you be the needy girl you are and climb on top of him, kissing down his chest, his abdomen – pressing little ones on every single battle scar you could find, your hand slipping even lower. Would you take him right down your pretty throat and touch yourself because you get so wet?

The thoughts ruin him – are you in his bed right now touching yourself, thinking of him like he asked you to? Are you sliding your fingers in your messy little cunt and getting all frustrated that it doesn’t work? Satoru pictures it as he wraps his hand around his own cock, sucking in a breath at the sensation – he’d jerked it many times while he was gone, imagining filling you up.

He was never a man to before, but you drive him so fucking insane, how can he not? When thoughts of you constantly flood his mind to the point of insanity? He knows you would make him feel better, knows you’d swallow him devotedly, picturing your pretty mouth and that throat contracting around his length instead of his big ass hands is maddening.

He’s stroking and whispering your name – mixed with ‘sweetheart, my empress, w-wife’ as he stutters, jerking it faster with his eyes fluttering closed, picturing just how you’d look when you swallowed all his cum down your throat. How you wouldn’t leave a single drop, would you? No you’re too thirsty for it, you need all of it.

“That’s it baby, take all of it – mnh,” Satoru’s moaning as he makes a mess of his hand, white ropes that should be buried in your tummy instead streaking his hand with white. “Fuck…”

He can’t stand another day without you.

He meant every word he said by that tree, Satoru would never get over you, never tire of how you make him feel, the love he has. You would be beautiful at any age, after however many children you have – he wants to make sure you’ll know that too, especially with Suguru trying to get in your head. It’s just all you he sees, especially as he sleeps.

Yet it’s a nightmare again, of you dying in his arms.

Satoru’s had them two nights in a row, this time his entire body is in chills and broken out in a sweat, heart hammering in his chest. He tugs on his clothes quickly and rushes out – surely it’s nonsense, surely it’s his nerves, but he can’t take another night like this. No, he marches right out and snags up a carriage, and lets everyone know they can finish without him.

He needs to go home.

*****

Satoru will be home tomorrow some time – and god you can’t wait to see him again. You’ve missed him so much you’re sick from it, the thoughts of if he’s all right, not being able to know whatsoever. He’s not gone long enough for letters, but even when he was gone the month it was terrible on your very heart and soul.

The good news was that over the past days with the barrister Hiromi Higuruma, you’ve been feeling much better about a world where it’s just the two of you. He seems utterly knowledgeable and for the first time you’re… hopeful.

You’re so hopeful, especially since you still haven’t had your monthlies, your breasts and nipples are so tender. To think you could have Satoru Gojo’s baby inside your tummy makes you realize how this is your dream, what you thought was rushing off to marry a knight ended up being brought to the emperor.

You bite your lower lip, looking down at the pen and paper on the vanity – you’ve been writing Gojo every single day he’s been gone, as he asked you to before he left. His own love letters, and you make sure to pour every bit these past few days, all of the words you struggle sometimes to say the right way.

Knock knock knock.

“Oh hello,” you blink curiously at the new maid – you’ve seen her only once before. “Where is Miwa?”

“She was feeling ill, your majesty, she asked if I could step in and offer you tea and treats for the night,” you smile gratefully, the maid sets the tray down. “Should I help you brush your hair?”

“Yes please,” you turn and peer at your paper where you’re writing Satoru of all the things you want to say when he returns.

That you want a daughter too, you want to see the all mighty Emperor Gojo just sipping tea with a little girl that looks like you both – maybe she’d have that white hair, and your eyes. Or she would have pretty blue eyes like the Gojos did, and take after your hair coloring, you could see her in so many ways, giggling as he sips from some teeny ceramic tea cup.

You want to let him know you are dreaming of it, that you adore every moment you get with him.

That you’re so very glad you were sent here – no matter the rocky start, and that you will never hold a thing against him in the beginning. That it all means so much, everything he’s going through to change his entire world for you and all that entails, all the risk involved because he loves you that much. Your hands tremble just a bit as the maid brushes hard, pricking pain on your scalp.

“Ah!”

“So sorry,” she mumbles, you smile at her.

“No, please, it looks so pretty already, thank you,” you stand and take the brush from her hand gently. “I’ve only seen you once, what’s your name?”

“It’s Tian, your excellence”

“Thank you, Tian…” you sit down on the little chaise lounge by the foot of your bed, taking the tea and pouring in a little milk, stirring it. “It’s so kind of you to help Miwa, truly.”

“It is no problem,” she smiles then and something…

Seems familiar?

But you’d remember those freckles and thick brows, surely if you knew her. It must be some resemblance?

“I hear you may be with child, is that too bold to say?” She asks, you are just a bit surprised, but you’re sure they are speculating.

“No, no,” you rub your tummy and smile. “I think I may be, but I’m keeping it under wraps until we know for certain. Gossip travels, hmm?”

“Indeed, well I hope that you are,” she curtseys as you sip the tea, wincing just a bit at the bitter flavor. “Something wrong, your excellence?”

“What’s in this, Tian?”

“Oh it’s actually a tea from my town, it’s special and it can help with fertility – in case you are not. Perhaps a little more syrup and sugar?”

“That’s so kind,” you lean back and pour more sugar in it. “Oh, so good now! Thank you Tian, I shall rest I think.”

“Of course, your majesty,” ‘Tian’ or – former concubine Lola – curtseys once more, shutting your door and grinning, turning and running right into Suguru’s hard body. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Lola simply shrugs at the big glaring knight, brushing herself off. “Aren’t you supposed to be seducing the emperor?”

“How, when he’s out of town? I just stopped to give her tea, all right? You should save yourself the trouble, she doesn’t want to see you. She’s…” Lola laughs then. “Pregnant for the moment.”

“For the moment?” She leans up and kisses Suguru on the lips, he pulls back, glaring down at her. “What are you on about?”

“Time for me to wait for Satoru, he’s returning this morning, isn’t he? Well, I must look my best, these shitty maid clothes won’t do.”

“What the fuck are you…” She rushes off, leaving Suguru to blink in confusion, before glaring at the note in his hand.

Something’s not right.

Suguru heads toward your chambers – he knows he fucking shouldn’t, he knows for all the reasons you hate him, that he sent you away, that it all was a fucking lie. Yet Suguru does have feelings, strong feelings that eat him up inside, and thinking of you pregnant with Satoru Gojo’s baby has him so envious he’s sick.

You wanted to run away with him – a simple knight, you tried, you truly did and he never gave you the chance. Now with your letter you wrote having been intercepted at a post and brought to him here, he can’t help but feel fucking horrible. The love you poured, the way your heart was broken, how deeply you were hurt at first clearly by leaving here.

Did you feel any of that?

He opens your door and you look up, gasping, standing straight up in a night gown that covers nothing, so sheer he can see your pretty body. “Suguru you can’t be up here!”

“I just came to talk, please,” you scowl and shut the door quickly, shoving at him until he’s pressed into the door.

“You could have me ruined if anyone saw you!” You hiss angrily, heart hammering in your chest – anger, regret, this past love you had that has hurt you so bad it’s physically painful.

“No one will come up, I was discreet,” Suguru holds up the letter you wrote when you first arrived, and your heart drops. “I saw this.”

You gasp, stepping back, tears swimming in your eyes, shaking your head quickly.

“I read it.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” you swipe at your cheeks, shaking your head, suddenly weak and dizzy – was it from seeing him? “It was under false pretenses.”

“You did love me,” he whispers, cupping your face with one hand. “You truly did, didn’t you?”

“I thought I did Suguru,” you admit, breaths coming quicker, suddenly the room is shrinking in on you, growing smaller by the moment. “Yet I know now what true love is, and not the falsehoods of a knight – who touched me to get information. Who had me cum on his fingers for a goal.”

“Princess-”

“Empress,” you correct, Suguru swallows now, the guilt of hurting you washing over him. “I’m his empress.”

His jaw sets. “You were my princess.”

“I am not anymore,” you stumble now, and Suguru frowns. “I just… Suguru I… can you just…”

“What’s wrong?” He demands, you’re almost collapsing in his arms, your eyes drooping, a drop of blood pouring from your lips. “What’s wrong!? What happened, did you… princess…!”

“S-suguru…” You fall against him, listless and limp, when Suguru sees that fucking cup of tea still steaming hot.

Did Lola…

Did she fucking poison you?

And it’s him who let her in.

“Fuck, fuck,” he picks you up in his arms and rushes down the halls, catching sight of Kiyotaka who’s scowling right at him. “Please, it wasn’t me who did this.”

“Did what!? Oh, Empress,” Kiyo’s heart shatters when he sees you just limply hanging in Sir Geto’s hold. “Speak, now.”

“Not here, she needs an apothecary, and a medic – well versed with poisons,” Ijichi snatches you up in his arms, the last thing he’s doing is letting this man hold Emperor Gojo’s wife.

“Then come and fucking explain,” he carries you through the halls that are thankfully quiet, Suguru curses.

“I can hold her better than you.”

“I hold her just fine, I won’t have you touching her,” Kiyotaka turns the corner and rushes with you cradled in his arms, not making a goddamn sound. “Who poisoned her?”

“She’s a former concubine.”

Kiyotaka stops in his tracks, jaw setting. “Lola?”

“Yes,” his hands tighten their hold around your body, cursing internally – he promised Satoru he’d protect you, he gave his word, and she’s been right under their noses? “I think at least, in her tea, she hates Satoru and I suppose resents her  – but she promised not to hurt her.”

“And you fucking believed that? She hates the Empress more than anyone,” Suguru curses, the guilt eating at him, seeing your body like this terrifying – even your color is different. “No time for this.”

Suguru follows him until they’re in the doctor’s quarters, he doesn’t bother to knock, he just juts the door open with his shoulders. “Bloody hell… oh!? What’s wrong with the Empress?”

“Poison,” Kiyotaka quickly lays you on the doctor’s own bed, scowling at Suguru now, when Dowager Empress Gojo walks by, gasping. “Thank god you’re here, my Lady.”

“What happened to her!? Kiyotaka…” She instantly sits on the bed, picking your head up and gasping out when she sees the blood dripping down your mouth. “She must be okay – she must! Her and the baby… she thinks she is…”

“I need someone familiar with poisons,” Ijichi says, while Dowager Empress holds you close, panicking clearly – and Suguru stands there in horror – not that Kiyotaka cares for him, he hates that fucking failed knight almost as much as Emperor Gojo does.

“I believe there’s a girl visiting the palace with an envoy,” Miwa says as she enters the room, she’s already been informed but to see you like this had her devastated. “Oh goodness.”

“Information please, Miwa,” Ijichi puts a hand on her shoulder, she’s already trembling. “She will be fine I swear it, I won’t let her die.”

“Oh god I just…” She closes her eyes now, taking a shaky breath for courage. “Her name is Maomao I believe? She’s a young lady and very experienced – she came along with Master Jinshi.”

“Then certainly we can trust her,” Dowager Empress Gojo says, sniffling still, rare tears on her usually stoic face. “He’s a very good judge of character.”

“Can you fetch them, Miwa?” Ijichi asks Miwa softly, she nods now, but rushes over to press a little kiss on your head, tears dripping from her eyes onto your face, but you don’t move.

“Please be all right,” she whispers, Gojo’s mother touches Miwa’s cheek as she gathers her robes up. “I will rush there straight away!”

“Thank you Miwa,” the doctor asks Gojo’s mother to move so he can attend to her, she heads straight over to Suguru now.

“Oh, so you’re that knight, huh?”

“I… yes -” She smacks him hard in the face not once – but twice, the loud clap against his skin echoing in the room.

Suguru has no words, and god help him if he did decide to speak any in that very moment.

“That’s for whatever the fuck you did to my daugher in law, I just know you did something to her,” Suguru sighs now, looking down and rubbing his cheek. “This girl was pining away so hard for you that she felt guilty loving Satoru, now you come and do this!?”

Suguru’s lips part, red mark on his cheek blossoming. “You must understand me, I didn’t do this, I’d never hurt –”

“You did something,” she shoves him once more, he clearly lets her, resigned and looking ashamed – not that Kiyotaka feels sorry for him, not when he was the idiot who let that woman back in the palace.

Gojo had wanted to kill Lola at the time but you had talked him out of it, even if you were a feisty girl you could be kind, and Ijichi knows how sweet you can be when you don’t have to be so brave. He can’t stop his own heart from hurting but he must not cry – Gojo would need him to take care of things and keep a clear head, so that’s what he does.

He starts giving orders to everyone, they all rush off as Miwa comes back with the girl in tow – a green haired girl who doesn’t look old enough to be an apothecary sweeps inside, she comes over and carefully starts examining you. Tugging your eyelids open and peering at each one to see the dilation.

“What do you think?” The doctor asks, she hums just a bit, feeling the pulse on your wrist.

“She is clearly poisoned, but her pulse is fluttering quite strong, so she’s fighting it,” she frowns and sits down on the bed next to you, assessing you carefully. “What was the method of delivering the poison to her?”

“It was… I think it must have been in her tea as it was just delivered when I saw her, I can get the teacup,” Suguru offers quietly.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ijichi orders. 

“I can tell what this is already.”

“What is it?” Ijichi asks quietly.

“Arsenic, maybe belladonna too,” the apothecary frantically starts searching in their book. “I think I have the herbs to make a tonic, but I have to gather them, please keep her stable.”

“Of course,” the guard rushes up now, and Kiyotaka addresses them. “The former concubine Lola is on the palace grounds, search every corridor until you find her, and make sure she’s apprehended.”

“Yes sir!” They rush off and Kiyotaka looks back at where you lay, so helpless in that bed, unmoving, and panic fills his heart.

You have to be okay.

*****

“God I can’t wait to see her,” Satoru’s coming home just a little early, they rode through the night so he didn’t have to spend another night without his bride. The carriage wheels come to a halt in front of the palace and he jumps out, the grin on his face dying when he sees all his guards everywhere. “What the…”

He grabs his sword, when one of the guards comes to him. “Your excellence, it’s the Empress.”

Satoru’s heart drops.

“What about my Empress? What about her!?”

“She’s… she’s been… you must come, not with us,” Satoru rushes and follows the guard, they’re all over searching every maid, making him even more confused as chaos has erupted in his palace.

“What are they searching for? Where is she!?”

“Please just come,” Satoru almost gets sick when he sees where they’re headed – the doctor’s chambers.

He falters, dread filling his fucking soul – he can’t lose the girl he just found, the love of his life, the love of all his lifetimes better goddamn be alive, or Satoru will simply kill anyone and everyone who ever fucked with their happiness. His breath is caught in his throat, seeing you in that bed now, swallowing down bile, seeing Suguru, Ijichi, Miwa, his mom, the doctor and a goddamn apothecary surrounding you.

They all look at him as he walks in, Suguru looks down and Satoru can't wait to fucking kill him. His mother is in tears and so is Miwa, they're trying to get you to sit up but you're listless, unmoving, crimson dripping from your nostrils.

Satoru can't fucking breathe.

“What. Happened. To. My fucking WIFE!?!?”

Satoru rushes and his mom moves, letting him pick you up, tears streaming down his cheeks at the sight of you like this. What would he do without you, when he just got you in his life? When he just told you he loved you – before your lives together, before children, how can any of this ever be liveable if you’re not by his side?

“Sweetheart please,” he tilts your chin up just for it to flop to the side, making dread fill him, he scowls at the doctor and apothecary. “What happened to her? Answer, one of you, now.”

“She was poisoned,” that’s the dumb fucking knight, Satoru scoffs and glares at him, ready to cut him into fucking pieces.

“By your fucking doing, isn’t it? So mad she rejected your goddamn advances?” He pulls you closer, trying to hear if you’re breathing.

“I didn’t know she would… I swear I didn’t, I wouldn’t have hurt her,” Satoru cuts him off, his tears just fucking annoying him.

“Who? Who the fuck is her?”

“Lola,” Ijichi answers, the medic comes and takes your hand, pricking it with a needle and letting drops of blood hit a little disc.

Satoru smacks his hand and the medic just bows and holds his hand out, “Care to explain why are you making my wife fucking bleed more!?”

“Blood letting-”

“That is nonsense,” the apothecary girl is mixing together some sort of odd smelling herbs in a jar, as Satoru tries to process just what the fuck happened. “What is that, kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” he rolls his eyes and she smiles just a bit, looking at how tightly Satoru is holding you. “You love her.”

“Of course I do,” he nuzzles your cheek, wrapping you in his big arms, his robes covering most of you. “She’s my wife.”

The way Satoru says ‘my wife’ breaks everyone’s heart – even Suguru if he admits it to himself, still in such shock he can’t move or speak. All he can do is see the hints of your unconscious face. Maomao is back mixing when Kiyotaka comes up to Satoru and bows at the waist.

“I’m so sorry this slipped under my nose,” Ijichi says, Satoru softens then, swallowing down his emotions and shaking his head, even if he’s furious and distraught, he knows Kiyotaka isn’t at fault. “I should have known.”

“Don’t take the blame for what’s his fault,” Satoru’s scowling at Suguru again. “You couldn’t let her be happy, huh? Mad she got rid of your fake ass counterfeit necklace, are you?”

“God no I-”

“I have it ready,” Maomao clearly works quickly, she’s already got a little mixture ready in a tiny vial, Satoru’s shaking he’s so petrified it won’t work.

“What are you giving her?”

“It’s a mix of herbs that counteract it and help purge from her system, it seems she didn’t consume too much as she’s still got strong vitals.

“She is stubborn,” Satoru almost breaks down as he looks at you, hardly able to keep it together. “Will it work quickly?”

“If the poison is strong, this may take time – but it will stabilize her,” she says, Satoru nods quickly, swiping the blood off the corner of your mouth, his stomach sinking at the sight of the crimson against your skin. “Can you get her to open? She’ll have to swallow.”

It’s quiet as Satoru helplessly sits you up, gently trying to pry open your mouth, his tears hot and burning from his eyes and spilling freely down his cheeks, heart in fucking pieces. He’s been in battles and wars and he’s never felt this terror – not knowing if you’ll wake up, and if you did and you were pregnant…

Would you lose it? That would tear you apart.

He would hurt for you – even if there could be others, but you were just so damn hopeful that day as he kissed you on the tree, and he could picture this perfect life – only to be filled with this sense of dread, with the pain deep and building. With the fear of not looking into your pretty eyes once more – he can’t fucking go on.

It sounds insane to think it, that in a couple short months you became that precious – but you have, given Satoru the meaning he always sought. All he wanted was to make you happy, and never hurt you – to kill everyone who has ever hurt you, and oh he will do that, he’ll make sure he finishes the job with Lola this time. You were too sweet, and now you’re hurt because of it.

He won’t be sweet.

Satoru opens up your mouth carefully, it’s clamped down with how tightly your teeth are clenched together, but you finally relax it, opening up for the tonic the apothecary has made. "Drink, baby. Please. You have to drink."

Satoru gently urges it down your mouth, tilting your head up so it slips down your throat, he sighs in relief albeit temporary, resting his head on yours, tears falling against your skin. He wraps you so tightly in his arms, pressing kisses over and over and over on your face, he hears the sobs of Miwa, his mom, dumb fuckin Suguru looking like his world ended.

His world will end the moment you wake up and are safe enough for him to leave your side for a moment, though he knows already he’ll need this dumb knight if he wants to get these sluts away from his pretty Empress.

“Lola did this?” Satoru asks quietly, his voice dark, Suguru sighs as the medic patches that little cut up on your finger.

“We are trying to apprehend her,” Ijichi says, Satoru’s mom puts a hand on her son’s shoulder, her other one brushing your hair back.

“She’s strong Satoru, she’ll make it,” she says softly, he cries even more with her comfort, eliciting every emotion from him. “Won’t she?”

“She likely will, we caught it early,” MaoMao says softly – as if on cue you moan then, coughing up blood, Satoru and the entire room are on edge as MaoMao carefully brushes a handkerchief on your lips. “That’s actually a very good sign, your excellence.”

You don’t open your eyes, but you’re coughing and moving, you’re sitting up against Satoru’s chest when he helps you, as you cough over and over. The guards come rushing in the room now, and pause when they see Satoru on the bed, Ijichi quickly commands them to speak.

“We’ve apprehended several servants that fit her description, we will need you to pick her out,” Ijichi nods now.

“Don’t kill her yet,” Satoru says softly to the guards. “I want to kill her myself,” he looks at Suguru then. “We can bury the two of you together.”

Suguru says nothing, crossing his arms and just staring at you in horror, as if the dumb man really cared. Maybe he does, but Satoru can’t admit that just yet – not with his hatred consuming him.

“Why haven’t you arrested me?” Suguru asks, Satoru just sighs, burying his face against you again, hearing your breathing steady and feeling such relief when your hands clutch his robe.

“I will need you to explain exactly what you did, I’ll need it against Lola…” He cries silently when you grip his arm tightly, coughing more against him – albeit still unconscious. “I’ll need the barrister to meet me, Ijichi. Can you keep this knight under watch for now?”

“Can I not stay with her-”

“NO YOU CANNOT.” Satoru’s words silence everyone, echoing in the chamber and so fucking loud half the palace hears it. “I want to be alone with her if she’s stable enough. Just me until she wakes up.”

“Toru,” he looks at his mom and sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want me here, do you need to get settled at least, you’re still in military garb.”

He’s not even noticed. “How can I leave her, mom?”

“A few moments is fine, I’ll be here,” he shuts his eyes and presses another kiss as you stir. “Surely you need a word with him, hmm?”

Satoru looks at Suguru’s reddened cheek now. “I see, did you smack him, mama?”

“I did.” Satoru grins at that.

“I do need a moment with him it’s true,” Satoru kisses you once more, sighing and brushing his thumb across your cheek that’s got just a hint of warmth. “I’ll be right back, my love.”

Everyone in the room melts aside from Suguru – why would he when he’s in this state of devastated shock?

Satoru quickly changes and comes to where Ijichi has brought Suguru, he quickly steps out and shuts the doors with a loud click, leaving the two men to stare at each other. Dark, exhausted eyes meeting ones so blue they’re hard to look at, glacial and cold, the silence echoing aside from Satoru’s footsteps on the floor.

Silence – that is until Satoru walks up and punches him in the face with a sickening crack. He winces but he takes the hit standing, not raising his own fists.

“At least you’re not a complete fucking idiot,” Satoru shoves him against the wall, a hand on his throat. “I should cut your dick off and cook it for you, make you a eunuch huh?”

“I didn’t know, she told me she wanted to hurt you, kill you I didn’t fucking care,” Suguru grips Satoru’s wrist. “I wanted to take her back with me, to have her help me take over – with a Princess the people would accept me easier.”

“So you meant to use her more than you already have,” Satoru punches his stomach now, earning a wince. “You can take a hit, you little fuck. I’ll at least give you that.”

“Lola said she hated you, and I fucking hate you, so I saw a perfect opportunity, I didn’t know she’d be blinded by your bullshit like the entire nation is.”

“Do you know how much she loved you?” Suguru pauses, Satoru punches him again, he still doesn’t move, holding his ribs which he’s sure are cracked, coughing but still standing. “Had her mind full of your nonsense about dewy fucking roses, what a fucking fool you are.”

“I am a fool,” he admits softly, taking a breath now, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t realize before that she was different from the other nobles. I didn’t know she really meant anything by her words.”

“Your bullshit is getting on my last damn nerve, if anything happens to her I swear to god I’ll-”

“You can kill me if it does,” Suguru says now, tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to live with myself if I killed her.”

“Fuck you,” he backs off now, sighing and rushing a hand through his hair, punching the wall next with already bloody knuckles, so hard books go flying off the shelves and scatter. “I swear I hate you more than I hate anyone, except that evil little whore Lola, that is. Let me guess, she sucked you stupid?”

“She’s not very good at that, actually.” Satoru shuts his eyes, sitting on his desk and grimacing. “Also, the Empress… she did turn me down. Utterly, when I kissed her she… smacked me.”

“Of course she did, that’s my girl,” his lips twitch affectionately, and Suguru steps closer, making him glare once more.

“You do love her.”

“Of course I do – stop trying to make me not want to kill you, it won’t work,” he scowls again, leaning over his desk to grab a cloth there, wrapping his fist tightly where his knuckles are throbbing. “What were Lola’s ‘plans’ then?”

The knight sighs. “She claimed she hated you for choosing the empress over her, and she wanted to poison you – and yes, I was going to let her. I fucking hate royalty, all of you, and I thought I could get her back.”

“She’d never go with you,” Suguru lowers his gaze, the note in his pocket that showed how desperately you did want to leave Satoru – but it was before you fell in love, clearly. “What are you so silent about?”

Suguru decides the last thing he should do is fucking hurt you more. “She does love you, and I’m furious she forgot about me.”

“She didn’t forget, she had to move on,” Satoru says, rolling his eyes then. “Trust me, you were the source of much fucking contention.”

“Contention?”

“Let’s say I ripped your shitty necklace off – her neck is too pretty for it, truly, but she was quite mad about it. I haven’t told her, you know, that it’s fake.”

“I… why didn’t you? To make me look horrible?”

“Tch, I wouldn’t hurt her like that,” Satoru shuts his eyes again, the trip and every emotion exhausting him. “You are a goddamn fool if you couldn’t see how much Lola hated her.”

Suguru is silent, looking down as he holds his ribcage gingerly.

“You’ll testify against her, yes?” He blinks in confusion.

“Won’t you murder me?”

“I’ll settle for you helping me rid of these goddamn concubines, and this should fucking do it – though I hate it came to this,” he shakes his head, tears forming in his eyes once more. “Yet I know she’d want me to use any method to get rid of these girls once and for all.”

“You don’t want them?”

“Why would I? I have her,” Suguru’s brows draw together.

“I saw you and…”

“I have to put on a show,” he hops down, shoving Suguru again, so hard he slams the wall and more books go flying, pinning him now. “You did enough damage, you just had to do more? What did that girl ever fucking do to you!? Huh? Love you and beg to leave with you – a broke ass knight?”

“I didn’t know she really… I never meant…”

“Never this, never that,” Satoru lets him go and scoffs. “Will you testify? I’ll keep your part out of it.”

“Yes of course,” he blinks now, looking in Satoru’s mad gaze. “What will you do with Lola?”

“Throw her off the top of a building,” Suguru snorts and Satoru raises a brow. “Something funny?”

“No that sounds like something I’d like to do as well, of course I’ll testify – but what are your plans for me?”

“I’ll let my wife decide what I should do with you,” Satoru opens the door now. “Guards, keep this man under your watch.”

He is back in the medic’s room in moments, you’re snuggling against his mother tightly, your arms wrapped around her waist, and his heart melts at the sight – of the two women he loves so much, he has cried more today than he thought he could, but he feels no shame over it like he would before. He will feel every feeling today so that he remembers what Lola did, and how much he needs you in his life.

Maomao comes up to Satoru and puts a hand on his arm. “What is it, kid?”

She sighs, rolling her eyes now. “She’s quite stable, color coming back, she’s moving around and breathing well. I have every hope she’ll wake up soon – then I’ll need to do a few more tests. I heard she…”

“Yes maybe,” their voices are quiet as people come in and out of the room. “Would you check when she’s better if…”

“Of course, I would,” he exhales in relief – he doesn’t want a man touching his damn wife, especially after all of this. “I’ll be here for at least a week, I’ll make sure to keep an eye.”

“Can she be brought to my chambers?”

*****

It’s hours later, Satoru still watches you sleep, he had Hiromi meet him up there along with Ijichi so he wouldn’t have to leave, Lola was easily identified despite her disguise and is now behind bars for just the moment – until Satoru can at least get some damn use from that woman and have her make his empire one where he only had one woman.

You.

It’s late and Maomao has already given him instructions if you wake, the doctor administered fluids to try to flush any poison out, leaving him silently just looking at you in his bed as the last person leaves – your bed. Both of you have kissed and fought, have made love and fucked, hate sex and sweet kisses, you are everything and anything all at once to him.

He sees a letter sitting there on the vanity and peeks at it curiously, when he lifts it and sees your pretty handwriting he can’t help but read it.

Satoru,

You scratched that out.

Toru,

The palace feels so much larger and emptier when you're away, I am not alone so do not fear – but without you it’s as if this home is missing, you have become my home in this short time. Once I thought there was no way you could ever care for me, could ever choose me, but you’ve shown time and time again how much you have.

I would regret every fight, every smack I gave you and every tear I shed, but how can I when that’s made us so close? When you saw parts of me the world could never see, parts that I hid under a pretense of perfection, and you let me see parts of you, ones I ache to see more of.

The man who truly cares of his subjects, the man who loves his mama to distraction (i love her too) the very same man who adores his wife enough to tell her he wants a daughter. Oh Satoru so do I – so badly do I want to see you braiding our little girls hair, teaching her to ride a pony, trying to beat her at chest competitively the moment she’s old enough to hold a pawn in her hand.

I never imagined I would be so completely, hopelessly in love with my Emperor, with this arrogant, beautiful and infuriating man. With the man who drives me as insane with love as he makes me laugh, as he brings out every competitive part of me, challenges me. Fell in love with the man who saw not just a princess standing there, but saw me.

The true me, the real me, the one who is bratty and can be hasty, who is messy and passionate, who is ever so jealous and possessive of her husband – of you. Yet you accept all of me.

I love you and I will love you till my last breath, I want to spend every day I can with you, until we are old and ninety underneath that tree.

Forever yours.

Your Empress.

“Fuck,” he’s cried so damn much he can’t produce tears, grabbing the carafe of wine on your table and pouring a glass with a shaky hand, drinking it in one gulp, looking back at you and setting down the letter.

He knew you loved him but to read it was different, so different.

“Satoru… Satoru please… Satoru…”

“Baby,” he rushes now, picking you up to sit as you thrash around, coughing more and more, weaker and weaker. “Please, please open your eyes – god please let me look upon them.”

You cough once more and then he sees it.

Your irises.

You blink just a bit when he wraps you in his arms, so tightly you can’t hardly breathe, everything in the room a faded, muted black that’s barely changing – you feel his tears on your neck and panic, but you can’t move, just stuck there. He’s crying your name, over and over, his breath warm against your neck as he buries his face in it.

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice hoarse and lips dry, you feel so weak and out of place, as if you’re in a dream rather than a reality.

“Sweetheart,” he pulls back and you see his puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks – something you’ve never seen before.

“Wh-what’s wrong… Satoru who… hurt you please…”

He shakes his head, you cup his face and he presses it tighter against his cheek, taking several breaths now. “No, they hurt you.”

“Hurt me…” You blink as you try to piece the evening together, the last thing you remember is Suguru. “Suguru had… um, a letter from me and… I’m sorry, I sent it b-before… we fell and…”

“Don’t upset yourself,” he orders softly, leaning over to grab the glass of water and bring it to your lips, you drink and just that hurts, making you wince. “You have to try to flush this out of your system.”

“Drugged?” You mumble.

“No, poisoned,” your eyes widen, hands clinging tightly around his neck when he tugs your body onto his lap. “Not Suguru, even though this is his fault too.”

“Who then? There was a maid…”

Who was that damn maid?

“Lola,” you whisper suddenly, he nods and you sigh, shutting your eyes. “I should have let you kill her.”

“Well I will, don’t worry,” he smiles so big then. “I love you, evil little empress – even poison can’t take out evil.”

“Shut it,” you’re laughing and coughing again, he brings you more water, and you brush his tears from his cheeks. “Was I out long?”

“Five hours,” you gasp just a bit. “I knew you were stable but…”

“I’m sorry you were so scared Toru,” he shakes his head, swallowing nervously, setting the glass down with a quiet click as you touch your tummy. “Oh do you think… if I am with child it… how could…”

“We will check tomorrow, all right?” He murmurs softly, a hand over yours, hating the sight of your tears falling from your pretty eyes. “We will get through it together if you’re… if there’s no babe.”

“I know we will, but I want to give you one so badly,” you’re a mess of emotions, as your husband just holds you, and lets you cry against his pretty white robes, blossoming with the dark spots of your tears. “I will give you one.”

“I know it,” he whispers, nuzzling your hair and inhaling its scent. “I dreamt of it so it must happen.”

“That makes me feel better,” he runs his hand against your hair gently, making your eyes flutter shut. “My mama did that when I was young.”

“As did mine,” he admits, realizing there is still so much to learn about you. “Do you miss them? Did you have a good relationship?”

“I did, they let me be quite a free spirit,” your tears brush his neck as you shift in his lap, and he grabs a blanket and puts it on you. “I want them to meet you some day, to meet my emperor.”

“Then we will,” you smile all pretty, ruining him utterly if it was possible to do it even moreso. “I read your letter.”

“Oh it was a rough draft,” he peers at the ten crumbled letters and you laugh just a bit. “I kept messing it all up.”

“It was perfect,” Satoru tilts your chin up now, resting his forehead on yours in a way only Satoru Gojo can. “You wrote letters, I was jerking off thinking of you.”

“Perverted, slutty emperor,” he chuckles, the sound vibrating against his chest, as you snuggle deeper against him. “Your cum is your love letters.”

“It truly is,” you laugh again and so does he, when finally he presses his lips against yours, you pull back quickly. “Can I not kiss my wife?”

“What if there’s poison on my lips!? No indeed,” he kisses you again, then again, until you are putty in his arms, boneless and aching for his love, letting his lips move over you and take you over. “Oh Toru…”

“I’m so goddamn glad you woke up, if anything… I can’t live if…”

“Shh, it’s all right, I’m alright,” you both kiss and hold each other, finally falling asleep just like that, until the morning light comes – and Satoru knows what he must do, as you’re checked to see if you are with child. The apprehension and how tense you both are only making one thing crystal clear.

Satoru would make sure Lola is dead, and that there’s never another one of these women around him again. 

ahh dw the next part will NOT take this long, I love the emperor SO DAMN MUCH.

Without warning, he flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass presents to him like an offering. His palm cracks against your cheek, the sting blooming into heat that makes you arch and whimper. "You drive me mad, you know that?" he growls, lining up his thickening cock at your entrance. He thrusts in with one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in your slick heat. You cry out, fingers clutching the pillows as he starts fucking you hard, hips slamming forward to drive his length deep, stretching your walls around his girth.

The bed creaks under the force of his pounding, your breasts bouncing with each impact. He reaches around to rub your clit in tight circles, forcing your body to respond even as you tremble from overstimulation. "Cum for me again—squirt all over my cock like the greedy slut you are for me." The command shatters you... your pussy clenches violently, gushing hot fluid that soaks his balls and drips down your thighs onto the sheets. He doesn't slow, grunting as he chases his own release, finally pulling out to paint your back with thick ropes of cum, marking you once more.

Panting, he rolls you over and pulls you into his lap, feeding you bites of ripe mango from the breakfast tray the servants left—though he steals kisses between each piece, his tongue exploring your mouth. "The court can wait," he says dismissively, his hand idly stroking your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. "Tell me, what whim shall I fulfill today? A new gown that hugs every curve, or perhaps a ride through the palace grounds where I can finger you under your skirts?"

But your eyes catch the box he brought, and curiosity sparks. He notices and opens it, revealing a choker of black pearls, each one flawless and strung with gold that matches the imperial seal. "for your neck," he says, fastening it around you himself, his fingers lingering on your pulse. "A symbol that you're mine, hidden from the world but known to us." The cool stones press against your skin as he kisses down your throat, nipping lightly before capturing a pearl between his teeth and tugging, the slight pull sending shivers straight to your core.

Emboldened, he guides your hand to his cock, already hardening again under your touch. You stroke him firmly, feeling the veins pulse as he grows to full, intimidating size. "On your knees," he orders, and you obey, kneeling before him on the bed. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you lean in to lick the pre-cum beading at the tip, savoring his flavor. He threads his fingers in your hair, pushing you down until his cock fills your mouth, the head bumping the back of your throat. You gag slightly but relax, taking him deeper, your tongue pressing flat against the underside as you bob your head.

He fucks your face with controlled thrusts, watching your eyes water and lips stretch around him. "That's my good girl— suck my cock like it belongs to you." Saliva trails from your mouth, coating his shaft as you hollow your cheeks, drawing groans from him. Just as his hips stutter, he pulls free, hauling you up to straddle his face. His tongue dives into your pussy without preamble, lapping at your clit while his hands grip your ass, spreading you open. You grind down instinctively, riding his mouth as he sucks and thrusts his tongue inside, mimicking what his cock will do soon.

He follows soon after, burying himself deep and flooding your insides with hot spurts of cum, so much it overflows, trickling out as he stays seated inside. Collapsing beside you, he pulls you close, his hand possessively on your belly. The wife? A political necessity. You? My heart, my obsession. "later, we'll escape to the garden again— I'll fuck you against the ancient oak until you can't walk." His lips brush your ear. "or is there something else you crave, my love? speak it, and it's yours"

Your orgasm builds fast, and when it crashes, you squirt directly onto his tongue, the spray making him hum in approval as he drinks you down. He doesn't let you recover, flipping positions so you're beneath him once more. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and slams his cock back into your dripping pussy. The angle lets him hit deeper, grinding against your g-spot with every plunge. "F-fuck, you're so full of me—feel how I own this cunt." You scream as another climax rips through you, walls fluttering and squirting around him, the wetness easing his brutal pace.

୨୧ Contents: family fluff

୨୧ Length: super short

୨୧ Requests: Open

“Come on baby! Come to mama!” You coo, reaching your arms out for your son. He flaps his arms happily from where he’s sitting on his blanket on the floor. Megumi has been crawling for a while now and you’ve been trying your hardest to get him up and walking.

“Mama” he babbled, reaching his arms out to you. You almost cave and go pick him up but you stay strong, gently coaxing him to come to you. He simply shakes his little hands around and lets out a giggle. You can’t help but to laugh with him.

“What’re you laughin’ about?” Your husband, Toji’s, voice startles you, making you jump. You look behind you to see the hulking man standing over you, arms crossed.

“I’m trying to get Megs to walk but he’s just so cute!” You explain. Toji rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Cmon Megumi you can do it” he encourages, waving Megumi toward him. Your eyes widen as Megumi shakily stands up.

“You can do it baby come to mama and daddy!” You say blissfully. Megumi toddles toward you only to pass you and cling onto your husbands leg. Toji looks down at him, seeing his own eyes within Megumi’s. He pats the top of megumis head and lifts him up.

“Atta boy” he says quietly, almost embarrassed to be showing so much affection. You wish you’d gotten it all on camera

Proshippers DNI

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆

aftermath shinjuku!gojo finally lets out a long, shaky breath when you pull him into your lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck because your scent is the only thing that can quiet the static still buzzing in his Six Eyes.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo lets you brush his hair for an hour, leaning into the sensation with a purr-like hum, his overthinking finally silenced by the simple, repetitive rhythm of your care.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who pulls you down onto the bed with him, wrapping his long limbs around you like a giant, needy cat.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo watches you fall asleep against his chest and feels a surge of quiet, humble pride.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who tentatively reaches out to poke your cheek while you’re reading to him, his eyes finally clearing of that dull haze, realizing with a start that you aren't looking at him like a weapon, you’re just looking at him like your favorite person. (because he is your favorite person<3)

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who falls asleep with a small, genuine smile on his face, his fingers interlaced with yours, because he’s finally learned that being the strongest doesn't mean being alone, it means having a home to come back to.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who wakes up in the middle of the night just to make sure you're still there, and when he feels you stir and pull him closer, he realizes that he didn't just survive a fight, he survived so he could have a life with you and with every people who he cares for.

🌧️📚🕯️🤎☕

The rain drums a steady, rhythmic pulse against the window, blurring the world outside into a messy colors of greys and greens. Inside, the room is warm, smelling of vanilla candles and the faint, sharp scent of the medicinal tea you brewed earlier.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who is propped up against a mountain of pillows, his legs tangled with yours under a heavy knit blanket. He’s too tired to hold a book today, his eyes still sensitive, so he just leans his head back and listens to the soft track playing from your phone.

He watches the way your thumb traces circles on the back of his hand. He’s spent so many years being the one who provides the power he has between himself and the world, but here, in the quiet of a rainy Tuesday.

Gojo Let's out a soft, contented sigh when you reach up to his temple, your fingers grazing his temple with a familiarity that grounds him more than anything ever could. He doesn't pull away, he doesn't tense up. He simply tilts his chin, seeking more of your touch like a flower leaning toward the sun.

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who breaks the silence with a voice that is finally starting to regain its honeyed warmth. "I think this is the first time I've ever actually liked the rain," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your knuckles. "Usually, it's just more noise for my head. But with you... it always sounds like peace."

aftermath shinjuku!gojo who pulls you closer until your head is resting on his chest, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm beneath your ear. He isn't overthinking the future right now. He isn't wondering if he'll ever be "the strongest" again. He’s just focused on the weight of you against him, the sound of the rain, and the fact that he is alive, he is loved, and he is home.

He eventually drifts into a light, easy sleep, his hand never once letting go of yours, his face finally smoothed of the lines of worry and exhaustion that have defined him for months.

***

Satoru becomes your Thursday regular. Same time, 2 AM. Except he never talks about wanting to die… he talks about making other people die. Contract kills, mostly. Sometimes freelance work. He’s detailed, specific, almost academic about it.

“Strangling is intimate but inefficient,” he explains one night. “You’re face to face with them, watching the light go out. Some people get off on that. But I prefer distance. Sniper shot from 800 meters. They don’t even know I exist.”

You’re taking notes now. Started a file. Not to report him…. fuck no.

Because you’re fascinated. This man kills people for money and he’s the most honest person you’ve ever talked to.

“You ever feel guilty?” you ask one night.

“Nope. I’ve got a code. Only kill people who deserve it. You hear him shift, like he’s getting comfortable.

“Who decides what ‘deserve it’ means?”

“Me, obviously. And whoever’s paying me, as long as their reasons are good.” He pauses. “You get that, right? Some people are just… better off gone.”

“That’s not really my call to make. Thats fucked up”

“Says the suicide hotline operator who lets certain callers die.” His voice shifts, gets quieter.

Your blood goes cold. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on princess” He’s definitely smiling now. “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been listening to your other calls for months.” Satoru says… like it’s nothing “Hacked into your system. And you’ve got a real interesting pattern going.””

No no no no. You can’t breathe

“That molester two weeks ago?” Satoru continues. “You told him the connection was bad and you’d call him back. You never did. He hung himself six hours later.”

“Stop…”

“I’m not judging. Actually, I think it’s hot as fuck. You’re out here playing God, deciding who deserves to live based on their moral character. We’re doing the same job, sweetheart. I just get paid better.”

The room is spinning. Because he’s right. You’ve been doing exactly that for two years now… screening calls, making split second judgments about who deserves your help.

You’ve got categories.

Category A: genuinely want help, just need someone to listen. You save these people.

Category B: attention seekers who call every week with the same shit. You’re polite but you don’t try that hard.

Category C… well. Category C are the ones who are probably better off dead. The molesters who feel guilty. The domestic abusers having a crisis of conscience. The drunk drivers who killed entire families and “can’t live with what they’ve done.”

Yeah. You don’t lose sleep over your Category C failures.

“We’re the same.” He repeats

You should be terrified. Should report this, quit, move to a different state.

Instead, you’re turned on.

“We’re not the same,” you say, but your voice is shaky. “I’m helping people…”

“Still pretending you’re a good person sweetheart?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Fuck you.”

“I’d like that, actually. You sound hot.”

You hang up and sit there shaking. Not from fear… from something worse. Because he’s right. You’ve been playing God for two years and telling yourself it’s mercy.

You don’t sleep that night.

****

Thursday comes again. You tell yourself you won’t answer if he calls.

2 AM. The phone rings.

You pick up on the first ring.

“Miss me?” Satoru asks.

“Stop stalking me.”

“Stalking is such an ugly word. I prefer ‘conducting research.’ And before you freak out… I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re like… my favorite person. Why would I hurt my favorite person?”

“What do you want?” you ask, a little annoyed.

“Honestly? I want to meet you. Grab coffee. Talk about our body counts like normal people.” His voice softens, like he’s leaning closer to the phone.

“I don’t have a body count…” your face burns

“Eighteen,” he interrupts. “Eighteen callers in two years who you deliberately failed to save. I cross referenced suicide reports with your shift logs. You’re actually more efficient than me. I’m impressed”

Your hands are shaking. “You can’t prove any of that.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I’m not gonna turn you in. I like what you’re doing”

“This conversation is over…”

“Next Thursday... 2 AM. I’ll text you an address. You can meet me or not. Your choice.” He pauses. “But I think you will.”

He hangs up.

You sit there in the dark, headset still on, heart hammering.

***

Thursday comes and you spend the entire week telling yourself you won’t do it.

Won’t meet some psycho who’s been stalking you and tracking your kills… because yeah, that’s what they are. Kills.

Then 1:47 AM hits and you’re in your car, following the GPS to some warehouse like the horror movie victim you apparently are.

The warehouse is dark except for a light in the back. You follow it on shaking legs, pepper spray in one hand, phone in the other like either will help if he decides to kill you.

Satoru’s leaning against a table, spinning a knife between his fingers.

He’s younger than you expected… late twenties, stupidly hot, with white hair and these unsettling blue eyes that lock onto you immediately.

“You came,” he says.. Grinning. “Told you that you would.”

“This is stupid. I’m leaving….”

“No you’re not.” He pushes off the table, he’s tall, and there’s something predatory in the way he moves. “You’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks. About what it would be like to meet someone who actually understands the fucked up shit in your head.”

“You don’t know me…” you scoff

“I know you touch yourself after the Category C failures because the guilt gets you off just enough to come.” He’s closer now. Close enough to touch. You can see the knife still balanced in his hand. “I know you drove across town at 2 AM to meet a contract killer in an abandoned warehouse. That says plenty.”

Your back hits the wall. When did you start retreating?

“What do you want?” you ask.

“I want to see if you’re brave enough to do it for real.” He sets the knife on the table beside you. “Letting them die is easy… safe. But actually getting your hands dirty? That takes commitment.”

“I’m not a killer…”

“You are. You’re just a coward about it.” His hand comes up, fingers trailing down your jaw. “But I could teach you. Show you what it feels like to watch the light go out. To take instead of just… withholding.”

Your instincts are screaming to run… to call the cops.

And yet, you grab his shirt and pull him down into a kiss.

It’s desperate and everything you’ve been choking down for two years. His hands are in your hair, your teeth catch his lip hard enough to draw blood.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing hard and smiling like fucking maniacs.

“So?” he asks. “You in?”

A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻✨

Not proofread. I’m sorry

The words snap you from your daze. You blink up, and Maki’s already halfway across the flowerbed—hands shoved into her jacket pockets, brow arched in flat disbelief.

“Oh…” you murmur. “Hey.”

She slows when she reaches you—green ponytail swinging behind her, eyeing you through her glasses from head to toe before landing on the comb. A long sigh pulls from her, like it’s a conversation she’s already exhausted by.

“I told you to toss that thing.”

Your hand rises instinctively, brushing over the gem-encrusted metal nestled in your hair. Still warm from the sun. Perfectly centered.

“Yeah… you did.”

And you meant to. You meant to do a lot of things. But somehow, each morning, it finds its way back to you. Like clockwork. Like ritual. As if it might mean something—if only you hold onto it long enough.

“So… what?” Maki grumbles, dropping onto the bench beside you with a grunt. “Did they glue it to your damn skull when I wasn’t looking?”

A faint smile touches your lips, but it fades quick. Your eyes drop to your lap, smoothing your kimono like the fabric might offer clarity you haven’t found in weeks.

“I… well…”

…why do you keep wearing it?

“I’m expected to wear it. Mother says it would be disrespectful not to.”

It’s not a lie—but it isn’t the truth, either.

Maki scoffs. “Yeah. Right. Because he’s such a shining example of respect…”

The wind shifts. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze drifting past the koi pond, toward the ivy-wrapped wall. It all looks the same. That’s the strange part. This portion of the estate remained untouched by time. But you haven’t been here in years—not since your clan shut you out. Not since you stopped believing they’d ever let you back in.

A bird takes off, wings beating sharply against the quiet as Maki leans back on her hands, eyes fixed on the garden.

“It’s bullshit…” she mutters. “You’re always the one who has to look composed. Smile, bow, act grateful. If the roles were flipped, he wouldn’t think twice about disrespecting you. You know that, right?”

She’s right.

…isn’t she?

You don’t know what to make of things. Because every time you believe you’ve mapped Satoru Gojo out, he flips the entire picture. Turns the world on its back. And perhaps that is what you keep thinking about—what draws you to this quiet, this pain. Not the gift. Not the absence. But the look in his eyes—after the ring, after the applause.

Like… he was mourning something you couldn’t see.

“I’m… supposed to meet him tonight…” you murmur, barely above the breeze. But the words feel hollow. Unbelievable, even now.

Because it’s been weeks. Weeks of silence. Weeks without him. Each meeting was canceled before starting, reduced to clipped apologies that never came from his mouth.

| ‘Gojo-sama has been called away on urgent clan business.’

| ‘Gojo-sama sends his regrets—something came up.’

| ‘Gojo-sama will reschedule.’

| ‘Gojo-sama…’ this. ‘Gojo-sama…’ that.

Always the same excuses. Never his voice.

Maki turns. “Supposed to…” she echoes flatly. “If he ghosts you again, I’m clockin’ him in the face.”

That actually pulls a laugh from your chest—real and sudden, surprising even you.

“Maki…”

“What?” she huffs. “I’m serious. Right in that smug-ass smile of his.” And you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Sure… okay. But how exactly are you planning to get past Infinity?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, reclining lazily against the bench. “I’ll find a way…” She looks up toward the sky, squinting at the sun. “Hmm… maybe I’ll trip him. Or—oh! I’ll insult his taste. That’ll drop his guard.”

“Mm… wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, probably not,” she sighs, lips quirking. Then she nudges your arm. “But you…? You could put him on his ass.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Pfft. Don’t act innocent.” Her eyes gleam. “That move your dad drilled into you a hundred times. What was it again? You nailed me with it when I was twelve.”

The memory creeps in, and you hesitate.

“…aiki otoshi?”

“Yeah. That one!” she snorts. “Thought I broke my elbow that day. Rude.”

“Okay, first of all, you fell wrong,” you say automatically—soft, amused. But then, your voice lowers, quieter now. “And second… well. There’s more to it…”

Pausing, your eyes flick to the path ahead, tracing the faded grooves in the stone with your gaze—weathered lines from years of footsteps. The place where the moss grows thick in the cracks. The corner where the old plum tree leans a little too far, as if it’s listening in.

You remember the sound of your father’s sandals there.

‘Lower, little crane. Bend your knees, not your pride. Feel the weight of things before you move them.’

He always spoke like that. Riddles. Soft warnings. You didn’t always understand them. Because he made it sound so simple. But it wasn’t.

‘You’ll know it’s time… because you’ll feel it. The pressure. The shift. And when you do… you must act. Don’t hesitate.’

A breath catches in your chest. You hadn’t thought of that lesson in years.

“My father used to say… it’s not just how they fall, but why. Because the body doesn’t lie. It reveals… everything. Where you carry your pride… where you bury your fear.” Your fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your kimono.

“And that’s what makes the technique work best,” you finish quietly. “Especially on the ones who think they can’t be moved.”

Maki grins. “So it was literally made for Gojo.”

You huff—barely a laugh—and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The light’s shifted; sinking low across the courtyard, brushing the edges of the stone walk in amber. Cicadas hum in the hedges. A wind chime stirs in the distance. It should be peaceful. But all it does is press the silence in deeper.

Until, a soft vibration cuts through your stillness. You blink, pulling your phone from your pocket—your thumb automatically unlocking the device.

    | Good evening. Gojo-sama will arrive shortly. You may proceed to the Gojo estate. Please meet him at the northern hall.

One of the Gojo household attendants.

You stare.

No postponement. No apology. No last-minute excuse. Simply… confirmation?

The message sits on your screen like a foreign object. You read it again and again, half-expecting it to disappear, to correct itself, to vanish before you can stand. But it doesn’t.

Maki eyes you. “What?” she mutters. “Did he finally grow a pair and text you himself?”

“…no. Not him. But… look.”

You angle the device, her eyes skim the text, squinting through the fading light—and when she looks over at you, the skepticism is soft, but certain.

“So… what?” she pulls back, scoffing. “He’s actually showing up?”

You stare down at the message again, not answering.

…is he?

You’ve learned not to believe it until he’s there—until his voice is in the room, until his shadow hits the floor. Until the very idea of him stops feeling like a goddamn ghost.

With a slow breath, you tuck the phone away and rise. The comb stirs in your hair, catching the last kiss of sunlight like it’s waving goodbye. As your fingers find your sleeves, you smooth them with quiet precision, more out of ritual than need.

“Well… I guess I should get going.”

But Maki doesn’t stand. Her weight stays sunk into the bench; arms draped across the backrest. Her gaze lingers on you—serious now. Quiet. The teasing edge in her voice gone.

“Um… you don’t have to, you know,” she says after a moment. “Maybe… just… let him wait for once.”

Your eyes flick toward the garden path. The same path you used to race down barefoot, kimono hem clutched in one hand, laughter tucked behind your teeth. When things were simpler. When you didn’t know how far you’d have to bend to fit inside a name that was never meant for you.

It’s strange, how familiar it all feels—and how removed you are from it now.

“No…” you say at last. “There’s no avoiding the inevitable.”

But even as you speak it, your feet are heavy. And you are left wondering if you’re walking toward a reunion, or another silence.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Mother?” you call, slipping off your sandals. “I’m heading off. And I’ll probably be home late.”

No reply.

But… you don’t really expect one. Ever since the clan welcomed you back—welcomed her back—it’s been like this. Quiet. Formal. Like someone drew a line through her, and the part that belonged to you got left behind. You’ve barely seen her after the yuino ceremony.

But still—like clockwork—you make her dinner. Pack her a bento. Leave it on the counter without a word. And every morning, it’s gone. No note. No comment. But the box is always empty. And somehow… that’s enough to keep you doing it.

Your feet pad across the tatami as you drift toward the kitchen, the scent of miso hanging in the air. The soup’s been simmering since dawn—seaweed curling at the edges. And clicking off the burner, you pack her meal.

Pickled daikon, tamagoyaki, a few slices of grilled fish. You fold the furoshiki with care, placing it where she’ll find it without a word. But as your gaze falls to the rest of the meal—the food you prepared for yourself, more out of habit than hunger—you pause. Because whatever tonight holds… it won’t be soft. Will it?

This isn’t some… romantic dinner.

You’re not expecting a meal. Or warmth. Or anything, really. Not from a ghost of a man.

So, without thinking, you pack another—for yourself. Rice. A little kinpira gobo. A plum tucked against the edge. Enough to see you through the night. But as you seal the cover, your hand lingers.

…

Would it be strange to bring one for yourself and not… him?

You stare at the lacquered lid, fingers hovering like they’re waiting for permission. Like maybe, if you stall long enough, your better judgment will intervene. Because this is ridiculous. You know better. You shouldn’t be thinking about this. Thinking about him.

And yet… you reach for the larger box anyway.

With a gentle tug, you tuck both bentos into your bag—yours, and his. Better to keep your hands busy than let your thoughts wander too far. Because it’s nothing. Simply food. A meaningless gesture. But… damnit. Your fingers won’t stop shaking.

Why are your hands trembling?

Nothing makes sense anymore. You haven’t a clue what the fuck you want. Because he’s made it impossible to understand—showing up one moment, disappearing the next. Feeding you silence like it’s something you’re supposed to be grateful for.

…are you grateful? Is this better?

No. It can’t be. Not when the clan has already begun whispering again. Not when your mother has purpose again. That’s why you must fulfill yours.

You can’t fuck this up.

The door slides shut behind you as you step out into the lazy afternoon, the sun dipping low past the tiled rooftops. Your sandals move soundlessly over the stone path—the bento bag hanging at your side. But then, you smell it.

Smoke.

Sharp. Bitter. The kind of smoke that used to slip through the shoji during clan meetings. That curled beneath doors when voices dropped to whispers. That clung to your sleeves long after the men stopped talking.

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

Your mother always reminded you, every time the elders gathered, pipe stems between their fingers like they were carved from bone. And sure enough, as you round the corner, you see him.

Councilman Daigo.

He’s perched on the edge of the engawa step beneath the old camellia tree—back straight, gaze steady, a kiseru nestled in his grasp as if an extension of his breath. You’ve spent your whole life reading the air between men like him. Because it isn’t about what’s said. It never was.

“Ah.” The pipe taps once against its dish. He doesn’t look up. “The daughter returns.”

The daughter.

Never your name. Not even your role. Only the title that binds you to the man they erased. You bow, but it feels mechanical. Your spine bends, but your thoughts do not.

"Good evening, Councilman."

"Off to the northern hall, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

A plume of smoke blooms from his lips as a ghost of a smile pulls at the corners. “That’s wonderful,” he hums, tapping the kiseru once again. “We were beginning to wonder when things would move forward.”

You force your shoulders to stay level, your breath even.

They’ve noticed. Noticed Satoru’s absence. Noticed yours. You’re the test they never stop administering—the girl with the wrong name, the wrong bloodline, the father no one speaks of, and now… the groom who doesn’t show.

“Yes… well. I should go—”

Click!

Each tap of his pipe on the dish is a clock ticking towards your unavoidable fall to failure, to shame.

"Of course," he smiles serenely, smoke curling upward in a lazy spiral, spilling out like a second language. "Don’t let me delay your duties. It’s good your bloodline has found some… renewed value. Better to be reclaimed than forgotten entirely, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s no polite answer to that. So you say nothing. Because what he’s really saying is:

You’re lucky we let you back in.

You’re lucky we didn’t bury your father’s name with him.

Don’t make us regret it.

Your second chance is still conditional. And you’ve yet to move in with Satoru.

He shifts, brushing ash from the rim of the dish with the edge of his pipe.

“I trust you’ll handle things with care.”

“Of course…” you murmur, hand tightening on the bento bag. “I won’t let the clan down.”

“Mm. That’s what your father said, too…” he scoffs, almost lazily, drawing in another long breath from the pipe. “The problem wasn’t that we didn’t stop him… it was that we trusted him in the first place.”

Your breath catches. Your eyes flick to his face.

Because—wait. It's the most direct this man has ever been with you. Not cloaked in smoke or couched in implication. Not one of those offhanded remarks meant to sound like nothing and sting like hell three days later.

No. It seems like the nearest you’ve ever gotten to the truth. Because all your life, they’ve only ever spoken of your father in fragments. A disappointment. A shadow. A shame.

A scandal… but never a story.

And no one ever tells you why.

Not your mother—who goes quiet every time his name is mentioned, who changes the subject or leaves the room. Not the clan—who speaks of him like a blemish on a blade, a weapon too flawed to be remade. Only that he betrayed them. And that you—his daughter—are what remains.

A legacy of shame.

You’ve carried that weight in silence—wearing it like silk. But a scandal with no name is more dangerous than one with a face. A curse with no shape festers. Expands. You've been living your entire life inside the silhouette of something unspeakable. And now—now—he’s handed you a thread.

You shouldn’t ask. You know better. But—

“What… do you mean? What did he do?”

You don’t even realize you’ve spoken it until the silence returns. The elder’s pipe stills, and for the first time since this conversation began, he looks at you. Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

And whatever he sees there… makes his expression harden.

“You’ve been given a second chance. I suggest you don’t waste it on questions with no rightful answers.”

His voice is cold as stone.

That thread?

Gone.

Snapped clean in two.

“Yes… of course. Apologies Councilman.”

“Tch… a man like your father… what a disgrace. It was only a matter of time before he scorched everything he touched.” He inhales deeply, dragging a large breath from his pipe, eyeing you with contempt. “Strange, how some bridges only burn halfway.”

Half-burnt.

That’s what you are, aren’t you? All you ever are. A daughter of ash and almosts. Not banished. But not embraced. Not quite reclaimed. But useful enough to keep.

For your clan… and for Satoru.

“But… alas,” he sighs, tapping the pipe against the rim of the dish, “we all owe our gratitude to Gojo-sama, don’t we? Which is why you shouldn’t leave him waiting. Yes?”

The smile he gives you is thin. Practiced. Meaningless. But the message beneath the smoke lands heavy as stone:

You’re not here because you belong.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You were still a young girl when your father left, but not so young that you don’t remember the way he laughed. The way he held your hand when you walked to the shrine together. The way he said your name.

You remember the man. But… everyone else remembers the mistake.

It’s strange, right? How memories soften at the edges. How warmth fades faster than truth. Because near the end, something in him changed. His voice, his gaze, his touch—resembling someone else entirely.

Like… a stranger had taken his place.

And you wish—god, you wish—you could ask him. Could look him in the eye and demand to know if any of it had ever been real. If the love you thought he gave you was yours to begin with. Or only a trick of the smoke. Because despite what your mind insists, your heart remembers differently.

…like it does with Satoru.

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

The words rise once again; your mother’s voice echoing where it doesn’t belong. And as your sandals crunch down the gravel path—you stop before you realize what you’re doing, what you’re standing in front of.

Your father’s shrine.

…what are you doing here?

There’s no avoiding the inevitable—you said so yourself. But… you veered right off the main trail, past the crooked pines, the leaning stone lanterns. Not toward the Gojo estate. Not toward Satoru. No. The opposite direction you should be going.

And here it is. Hidden, almost—tucked deep in the wooded edge of your estate, because he preferred it that way. Removed from ceremony. Removed from… your mother.

Your eyes drag across the structure, and the air changes, your heart aching. Because it’s not frozen in time like your clan’s garden—in fact, the roof sags more than you remember—with wooden beams, weather-beaten and tired—ivy climbing along the edges like it’s trying to pull the whole thing back into the earth.

Your father tended to this place as though it mattered. And now, it’s just… abandoned. Not looked after like before—not without him here to sweep the steps every morning, pruning the ivy. Igniting the incense…

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

Incense…

‘Do you know why we light three sticks, little crane?’

You shook your head, crouched beside this very altar, your small hand pressed into his palm.

‘The past teaches. The present asks. The future… listens. That’s why we light all three. So that nothing goes unheard.’

Your father always talked about the core of time, and how in Buddhism, time wasn’t a straight line, but a circle. He insisted that prayer didn’t only go outward—it entered something timeless. A loop. A thread that wound through all things.

‘We light incense to find our place in it…’ he murmured; gaze fixed on the curling wisps above the altar. ‘And sometimes… it says what we’re too afraid to.’

…it says what we’re too afraid to?

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight, your kimono whispering with each gentle step. A matchbox sits at the altar—dust clinging to the lacquered tray where an incense box rests. The bento bag slides off your shoulder with a quiet thud.

Right. Perhaps this will give you the clarity you’re searching for.

If smoke speaks in ways we can’t… perhaps it’ll finally say something worth hearing. Something that will straighten the knot in your chest. Something that will tell you what to do with all of this—this ache, this silence, this fucking confusion that no one else seems to see.

But as you wipe the box clean with your thumb, setting three sticks into the grooves with practiced hands, you wonder what the hell you’re even asking for.

Still, you light the initial match, holding it steadily to the stick.

Past.

The smoke curls up like a memory, drifting up, shapeless. And you let yourself follow its path, head tilted slightly, watching it disappear into the stillness above.

…

Nothing.

No answer. No clarity.

Fine. It's possible that the past isn’t where your answer lives.

Present.

This one doesn’t take immediately. You have to breathe on it once—soft, coaxing—and when it flares, the scent rises sharper. The smoke curls into the space between the other—twisting, twinning—before drifting up, up, out of reach.

…

Nothing.

No meaning. Simply a ritual. The same emptiness dressed up in ceremony.

And god, you hate it.

Hate that you keep doing this—looking at objects like they’re going to give you something Satoru won’t. That your clan won’t. Your father won’t. Like the smoke will spell it out. Like the ring will hum some truth into your bones. Like the fucking comb in your hair will whisper: he cares, he just doesn’t know how to say it.

And more so, you hate that you’re here again, in this shrine, searching for meaning in a pile of ash and tradition. Hate that part of you still waits for something. Still wants something. From him.

What the fuck do you even want?

An apology…? Possibly. A reason? Sure. For him to sit beside you and ask if you’re okay? Like it would matter? Like he would mean it?

No. That can’t be right. That’s not it, either.

Then what?

What do you want?

Your breath catches. You don’t want to answer that. You were hoping the smoke would do it for you. Hoping it would grant you permission to feel something before you had to name it yourself.

Your hand reaches for the last match, trembling, and with a shaky inhale, you steady it towards the box.

The future.

But… as you strike—

Snap!

The head breaks clean off, dropping to the floor. And you blink—once, twice—staring at the now-useless sliver of wood in your fingers. At the now empty matchbox below you. And of course. Of fucking course. At the unlit stick of incense. Because the future just sits there. Mockingly. Refusing to catch.

With a hissed breath, you toss the spent match at your feet—eyes cutting toward the storage tucked behind the altar, where forgotten things gather dust. And like that, you’re already rising. Because there has to be another match. Has to be an answer. Anything to ease the knot in your chest.

The hollow floorboards creak as you approach, and the shelf greets you in its usual state of quiet disarray—dried herbs wrapped in string, a collapsed lantern, a splintered tray. You nudge things aside, shuffling through its contents.

“Come on…” you mutter, “I know they’re here…” and dust clouds the air, until—tucked near the back, you spot a glimpse of cardboard.

A matchbox.

Breath catching, you stretch up, up, up—up on your tippy toes. But as your fingertips brush the edge, just shy, just barely out of grasp, you feel your eyes begin to water. Because… why? Why is everything like this? Always half a step out of reach. Slipping through your fingers—the answers you seek, your father, your place in all this. Satoru.

“Please…” you whisper, voice cracking. “Simply this… grant me this…”

And like Buddha himself heard your desperate plea, your fingertips close around it. Your heart flutters as you slide it open, finding one match. One. Sitting at the bottom. Like fate.

Finally. An answer.

But as you spin on your heel—

Crash!

“Whoa there…”

You gasp, stumbling as firm hands catch you. One steadies your elbow, the other presses gently to your waist.

“Easy now… that was a close one.”

The voice rumbles near your shoulder, and with a blink, your gaze settles on the blue kimono before you, silk gentle and delicate, woven with coiling designs of green and gold.

A man.

You collided into… a man?

“I-I..”

Your words tangle in your mouth as your eyes climbs higher. He’s tall. Broad in the shoulders, but… elegant. Not the stiff, lacquered kind of elegance your clan parades around in. No—his is effortless. Worn loose. Soft. Even the gauges in his ears make it seem he’s only half playing the part.

His violet eyes are studying you, and his raven hair is tied back in a half-knot—most of it falling past his shoulders, loose and untamed, with a few strands slipping free to frame a face you swear you’ve never seen before. And yet… something about it feels familiar.

“Oh—thank you,” you manage, stepping back. His hold lingers, then drops. “Sorry. I didn’t realize someone else was here, I was just—”

But as you lift your hand, the words die on your lips. Because your match—it’s snapped clean in half, broken right down the middle.

Again.

“I… I was just…” You try again. “Just—um…” you sniffle. “I-I was…”

But the sentence unravels before it’s ever whole, and suddenly your throat is tight, your eyes sting, and—god. It’s happening.

Stupidly—inevitably—the tears come.

Too fast. Too late to stop.

“Oh—shit. Shit.” His brows draw together, words tumbling like instinct, hands lifting cautiously. “Hey. I didn’t mean to scare you. That one’s on me.”

Great.

That’s great.

You’re crying. In front of a total stranger. In your father’s half-forgotten shrine.

Get it together.

“No, I’m—god, I’m fine…” you mumble, swiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Sorry,” you add, breath catching on an awkward laugh. “I don’t usually… I’m not usually like this.”

“Yeah, well… grief’s a bitch. Doesn’t exactly RSVP.”

You let out a shaky laugh—caught somewhere between breath and break. It startles you, the way it slips out so easily. That’s the sort of comment your father would have said; wry, dry, but not unkind.

“Tell me about it…” you murmur, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm. “Grief and I are on a first-name basis at this point.”

“Mmm,” his lips twitch into a faint grin. “Mine’s been living rent-free in my head for years. Real moody, never shuts up. Terrible roommate.”

This time, your laugh comes softer. Thinner. The kind that escapes when you’ve been holding everything in for too long. It lingers, even as silence reclaims the space between you.

He’s… easy to talk to. 

And familiar? No. Perhaps it’s just since he reminds you of your father.

Your eyes drop, fingers curling tighter around the broken match in your palm. Something twists low in your chest. Because here you are, left bearing a future without closure—again. 

So much for your answers.

“So, uh. Bad day?”

You blink, glancing up. Oh, shit. He’s watching you. And not in the way you’re used to—not the distant, speculative glance of someone weighing your worth. No. He’s just… looking. Present.

“…kinda?” you manage. “I mean… it wasn’t awful or anything. I’ve had worse. Way worse. But…” Your grip tightens around the match again, and gazing down, it mocks you.

How can something so small feel so heavy?

“I guess…” you exhale. “Sorry. It’s stupid. But I just needed one thing to go right today.”

“Ah.” His eyes flick to your grasp. “That was your last one?”

“Yeah…”

His gaze shifts to the altar, where two sticks still burn—smoke curling slowly toward the eaves. It clicks into place—a long breath escaping his nose.

“The future’s always stubborn…” he mutters, hand slipping into the inner fold of his robe. When it reappears, it carries something small—sleek, worn around the edges like it’s been thumbed too many times.

A lighter.

“Here. Need a light?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your stranger had a gentle, mysterious ease to his presence. 

The kind of stillness that doesn’t press silence onto you, but shares it. With him, silence was allowed. You were allowed. You watched as a small flame flickered to life in his hand, catching the final stick of incense with quiet grace. Smoke curled upward in slow, lazy ribbons, joining the other two as he settled beside you.

And now, the two of you wait. For what, you weren’t sure. A sign? A memory? A whisper of something lost in the smoke?

But still… nothing came. No weight lifted. No truth revealed. Only the same dull ache where clarity was supposed to be. Only the sting in your eyes you could no longer blame on the smoke. And the more you sit with it, the more certain you become that, perhaps it’s not the ritual that’s broken. 

Perhaps… it’s you.

You’re the one that’s broken. Too far gone to hear whatever wisdom the smoke is supposed to carry. And you hate it.

Glancing down, your fingers curl around the broken matchstick still caught in your palm that you hadn’t realized you were still holding.

“I keep lighting these sticks like they’ll tell me something…” you admit. “Bring clarity. Or peace. Or… I don’t know.” You exhale, eyes tracking the lazy swirls. “All I ever see is just smoke.”

He hums, not unkind. “Maybe that’s the point,” he says, following your gaze. “Clarity isn’t always something you see. Sometimes it’s what’s left behind when the smoke clears.”

“It never clears,” you scoff, lips pursing. “Or maybe it does—and I’ve just forgotten how to see without the blur. Because even when it fades, I can’t tell what’s clarity and what’s just the same old haze, coming back to haunt me.”

He tilts his head, considering you. “Did you know incense wasn’t always about peace?” he murmurs. “It was meant to ward off spirits. Smoke as a barrier. A warning.”

“…really?”

Your eyes meet his, and you sit with that.

Ghosts.

How ironic. You’ve spent so long trying to reach them. To make them speak. Your father, Satoru—both of them swallowed by silence. And you’ve been taught to return it—swallowing your questions like ash.

“I think…” your voice trails before catching again. “I’m tired of chasing ghosts.” He hums in agreement. “Funny thing about ghosts is they only linger if we let them.” And you exhale slowly.

“If I let them go… I think I’d be more alone than I already am.”

As the words tumble out, you blink—startled by your own honesty. The ache behind your eyes sharpens, and you rub your temple, groaning softly.

“Oh my god... I swear I’m not usually this depressing.”

He chuckles as he rises, dusting off his kimono with easy grace. “Trust me,” he grins. “I’ve heard worse confessions in places holier than this.” And glancing up, your lips twitch into a smile.

Well… that’s intriguing. What kind of confessions has he heard? You don’t ask. But somehow, the thought makes you feel a little less pathetic.

You shift, easing the bento bag into your lap.

“I can’t believe I just trauma-dumped on a total stranger,” you murmur with a soft laugh, your voice rounding into something warmer, looser.

But your gaze lingers on him—longer this time. Because there’s something in the way he moves, the quiet strength, the deliberate grace, the way the moonlight threads through his dark hair like it belongs there. 

Familiar…

“Or… maybe not,” you add, slower now. “I haven’t seen you around the clan before, but… do I know you?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Because suddenly, it’s like a door closed within him. Like the temperature dropped a single, imperceptible degree.

His violet eyes harden, gaze shifting toward the far corner of the room, like you’re invisible. Passing over your father’s altar, the stone, the shelves left empty all these years. Like… he expected something to be there.

Exhaling, he looks back to you—and a shiver runs up your spine.

“Maybe I’m just another ghost,” he says, smiling serenely. “Rest assured… you don’t know me. I’m just passing through.”

Your stomach tightens, and suddenly, you feel small beneath him—in that haunting way that happens when you realize: you’ve missed something. Because his smile comes slow. And soft. But something inside it is… off.

“…right,” you murmur, unsure. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—um… I just thought—well. You just seemed familiar, that’s all.”

With a faint hum, he slides one hand into the fold of his kimono, drawing out his phone—thumb brushing the screen.

“Well,” he says, slipping it back. “I should be off.” His gaze flicks toward the door. “Promised my girls crepes in the city. Can’t be late—they’ve got a sixth sense for strawberry syrup.”

The sentence hangs there, soft and strange and jarring in its normalcy.

Girls?

“Oh,” you manage. “That’s… sweet. I hope they enjoy it.”

“They always do,” that same smile pulls at his lips. “Anyways… take care. And good luck with your ghosts.” 

He tosses you a wave, and the moment he’s gone, you’re left sitting there—still a little thrown—watching the doorway he passed through like it might offer you a clue.

Stranger. Ghost. Something in between.

You don’t know what he was, only that something shifted when he left. Like the silence he carried took a piece of yours with it. Because as you glance towards the altar, where the incense is fizzling out, for once, it no longer feels like a question you’re desperate to hear the answer to.

Huh…

What was your answer then?

You’re not even sure, but perhaps… being heard was enough.

Bzzt!

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

 | Gojo-sama is waiting. Will you be arriving shortly?

Shit.

You scramble upright, hoisting the bento bag across your shoulder, rushing down the path. Your sandals tap quickly against the stone, the scent of incense clinging to your sleeves—and just as the world begins to blur around you, the smoke behind you finally begins to clear.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

By the time you’d reached the estate, an attendant greeted you just past the gates—young, wide-eyed, bowing quickly with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.

“Gojo-sama’s getting cleaned up,” she advised politely. “Said he got tired of waiting. But he’ll be out shortly—you can meet him in the north room. Down the hall, second left.”

The halls are quieter than you remembered. Weeks ago, they pulsed with ceremony—elders drifting past in brocade, councilmen murmuring in corners, incense clouding the air. Now, it’s just you. Just the hush of your own footsteps across the tatami.

The edge of the corridor comes into view, and your eyes land on a familiar opening—the dojo. It’s just as beautiful as you remember, with shoji panels pushed ajar, the evening air slipping through, rustling the bamboo just outside the courtyard. Your gaze lifts, peaking inside, and that’s when you see it.

…a three-pronged staff?

It’s centered neatly on the wall, ordinary to anyone else—but not to you. Because you know that shape, that grain, that worn curve along the middle joint, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

…can it be?

You don’t even remember setting the bento bag down; you’re already halfway inside—searching the grooves with your eyes, trying to memorize it all at once. But as you approach, disappointment immediately floods you.

…no.

It isn’t your father’s weapon. Not the one you gave away. Not the one you sold. It’s just a lookalike—a ghost of it—like everything else you’ve tried to forget.

“What are you doing?”

The bite in his voice slices through stillness. You stiffen, turning slowly to face him, and you don’t know what you were expecting—but it wasn’t this.

Satoru’s standing in the doorway; barefoot and shirtless, snowy hair damp and disheveled from the shower, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. But it’s those eyes that pin you—they’re like fractured ice, cold in a way that burns.

It’s… unsettling.

Despite how the hallway lantern casts a gentle glow, haloing his frame in gold, there’s nothing angelic in the way he’s looking at you.

“…I was heading to the northern hall,” you murmur, taking a hesitant step away from the wall. “I didn’t mean to touch anything. I just—”

“Right,” he cuts, low and cold. “Lemme guess, just like how you didn’t mean to touch him.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. Because it takes a second to even register what he said.

“W-What?”

“Don’t fuckin’ play dumb,” he scoffs, hands shoving into his pockets. “My eyes don’t lie. I can see it. See his cursed residuals all over you.”

Residuals? Him?

Your brows draw together in confusion as your brain tries to make sense of what he’s saying. All you know is he’s upset—because those eyes are cutting through you like a goddamn curse. The weight of his stare makes you feel pinned—slicing you with a precision that leaves nowhere to hide.

…is he talking about the man at your shrine? But… you hadn’t even gotten his name, hadn’t thought twice about him.

You try to swallow. “Satoru—wait. I went to my father’s shrine and—”

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mumbles, shifting his weight like he’s already bored of the excuse he thinks you’re about to give. His eyes cut back to you, voice rising. “Seriously? I don’t have the patience to hear whatever story you’re about to spin. Don’t bullshit me.”

“What?” You blink, stunned. “I-I’m not. Listen, this guy was there and—"

He huffs a disbelieving laugh, bitter. “Ah… there it is,” and leaning against the doorway, he’s already decided—already branded you guilty. “Residuals cling two ways, sweetheart—domain exposure… or contact.”

The condensation in his voice makes you recoil. His eyes flick to you, surveying you with disregard.

“And you’re wearing his residuals like fuckin’ perfume,” his expression hardens. “So… what? What happened to your perfect little act, huh? Did you sit in his lap? Pray there like an offering? That it?”

Your mouth drops, and you’re fucking speechless.

Because what the fuck? Of all people—he has the nerve? The audacity? The sheer fucking audacity? This man, who has given you nothing but silence for weeks?! Who was ready to fuck another woman on your fucking engagement ceremony?? The air goes tight in your lungs.

“I went there to honor my father,” you say, slower now. Firmer. “Not to be accused of… this.”

“Honor…” he mutters, rolling his eyes, head tipping back. “So fuckin’ tired of that word. Don’t feed me that word like it absolves you.”

“Excuse me?!” The heat tears out of you—raw, jagged, a sound you’ve never let yourself make. But you don’t reel it back. “You have no right! Not after weeks of silence! Not after I’ve given everything I could—everything I had—” your throat tightens, eyes stinging, and for a split second his widen in surprise. But you’re not finished.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve had to give up? I’ve bent myself into knots trying to be what’s expected, what’s demanded—smile when I’m told, bow when I’m told, hold my tongue when I want to scream. I’ve tried to do everything right—all my life. And still, still I see you in that bathroom with—!”

The rest sears your tongue. Your lips snap shut, your eyes fall closed, cutting it off before it can spill out and scorch the space between you.

Because you can’t. You won’t.

You won’t hand him that memory. Won’t let him know how many nights it’s replayed in your head—the way he touched you, the way you let him, the way it left you hollow and restless after.

No.

To say it now would make it sound like proof of something you’re not ready to name. And this man does not love you, does not want you.

‘If the roles were flipped, he wouldn’t think twice about disrespecting you. You know that, right?’

Your breath stutters, your ribs aching as you try to reset—try to count the way your lungs expand. God, what are you doing? This is not how you were raised to be. Pretend you’re fine, even if you’re not. This man holds your future, your fate. Come on now… you never expected warmth tonight, so get it together and face him.

But… despite not expecting warmth, you’re not ready. You’re certain that cruelty is carved into his eyes—a seething anger, a blame you don’t even understand. The words still burn on your tongue, too jagged to swallow back, and you don’t know how to mend them. How do you patch something that was never meant to tear? You’ve never let the sharp edge of your temper slip before, and those eyes will surely slice through you like glass.

Your lashes flutter open, and the sight of him cleaves through the breath you’ve been trying to hold steady. He’s still there, blue eyes watching you, chest heaving like he’s holding something back. And… no.

Nonono.

Oh god. Not this again. It’s that look. That same look that tied your stomach in knots then, and still does now. Like he sees you in a way you don’t want to be seen, in a way you can’t even stand under. Like he knows every thought you’re trying to choke down before you can even form it.

And it hurts.

Because anger, you can fight. Hatred you can meet head-on. But this? This silent recognition that says everything and nothing at once—it’s all you’ve ever known, and it’s crawling up your ribs, crowding your throat until you swear it’s going to split you open, raw.

“I’m not doing this…” you whisper.

He doesn’t move as you turn across the tatami, reaching for the bento bag that remains where you dropped it. The strap digs into your palm when you lift it, and as your fingers rummage through its contents, Satoru observes your movements—gaze landing on the comb nestled in your hair, the gems shimmering underneath the lantern glow.

The air shifts; something tightening low in his chest that he cannot name. Though all he says is—

“Where are you going…?”

“Home.” You answer, setting his meal on the low table. “I brought dinner. I’ll leave it here. Eat it… or don’t.”

The silence stretches. You sense him moving before you hear him—steps slow but certain as he crosses the threshold into the dojo.

“…running away already?”

“…I’m not running,” you murmur, smoothing the strap of your bag, hoisting it on your shoulder. “Just going home. I’m tired. Have your attendants call for me another day.”

He huffs. “You’re tired? Tch…what the hell do you think I am?”

You purse your lips together, biting your tongue.

“…then I suppose you should rest as well. Goodnight, Gojo-sama.”

With that, you turn—intent on slipping past him—but his hand shoots out, closing firmly around your wrist. And your body doesn’t think; it remembers.

Rather than pulling away, you pivot, folding into his momentum. His arm becomes the lever, your shoulder the hinge, and as your knees sink, his strength only feeds the fall. Before he can register it, the tatami is shuddering beneath his back, and you’re left kneeling beside him—breath sharp, his wrist still caught in your hand.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. You blink, stunned—taking in how he’s sprawled on the floor, white hair mussed against the mat, blue eyes wide, blinking like he can’t believe you dropped him.

And that realization hits you. Hard. You—flipping Gojo Satoru.

You can already hear the verdict in your mother’s voice, in your clans’ whispers.

Reckless. Shameful. Disgraceful.

“I—I…” your lips part, the beginnings of an apology fumbling out. “I’m… oh god… I didn’t mean to—"

But he’s gripping you before the words can form. You yelp, tumbling down against his chest one moment, twisting against his body the next as he pins you beneath his weight. His hands are on both sides of your face, his knee pressed to the floor between yours, and his breathing is loud in the space between your lips.

“…who taught you aiki otoshi?”

You’re lost in the blue of his eyes, because his face is so close it blurs—mouth hovering just a breath away, snowy hair spilling forward, brushing your temple.

“My father…” you whisper, swallowing. “I-It was just instinct. I didn’t mean to…”

His tongue clicks mockingly gentle. “Bad girl…” he mutters, eyes landing on your lips. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Lashes flutter, and your breath stutters as your fingers bury between damp hair. He’s not tender. He’s desperate—and shit, it’s addicting, the way his breath spills between broken kisses, panting, groaning—every exhale trembling against your mouth before he swallows it.

“Satoru…” you mumble, but he cuts you off, rasping, “Enough…” and his mouth crashes back onto yours before you can form another word—devouring, drowning.

The kiss consumes you, his hands trembling, unable to keep still. One drags down your throat, pressing against the hollow, and you whimper, pulse fluttering. The other grips your waist, tugging your kimono, sliding lower as he hauls your hips against him.

“O-oh—fuck…” The thick heat of his cock presses through his sweats, slotting perfectly between your thighs, and you gasp.

“Haaa… that’s it…” he groans, head dipping to your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as his hips rut hard, shameless, chasing friction like a man starved. “…mnh—fuck,” he pants, grinding again, harder this time, hot breath fanning your throat.

And god help you, your body arches up to meet him.

The nerve of this man! But worse—the betrayal of your own body. Heat’s curling low, your hips are tilting into his, and you hate it—hate that you want this. Because you shouldn’t. Not after weeks of silence, not after the bathroom, not after everything he’s put you through.

His thrust drags another moan from you. “Asshole—” you gasp, hands shoving at his shoulders. But a groan pulls from his chest when your nails bite into his skin, making you scowl.

“You don’t get to act like this, not after—mnh!”

Your words break into a whine as teeth catch your lips in another bruising kiss. He’s consumed, rolling his length harder, ruthless. Fabric rustles, him fumbling with your sash with trembling fingers—tugging the knot like it’s personally offended him.

When the cool air grazes your skin, his breath stutters in anticipation, mouth breaking from yours with another groan.

“God…” his lips trail fire down your jaw, your throat, your breasts. “Shit…” he mutters, tonguing at your nipple, sucking, groping greedy handfuls. “So fuckin’ perfect… can’t believe I wasted weeks—"

Weeks?

The word burns, because whose fault is that?! But his hand distracts you before you can question it—sliding down your stomach with possessive intent. Dropping lower, he cups your heat, and you shudder, biting your lip as he holds your cunt.

“—fuck yes… can’t believe I kept myself from this… my slutty little wife.”

The title drips from his lips like filth, and you can’t help the laugh bubbling out of you—breathless, brittle, trying to scorn.

The fucking audacity of this man.

“You don’t get to call me that!” you snap, heat flaring beneath your skin. “Not after you disappear for weeks, leave me with nothing but silence, nothing but—ahn!”

Damn him. Your defiance cracks. His fingers are already dragging through your soaked panties, pussy dripping from the mess between your legs.

“Oh?” he taunts, smirking, pushing the wet fabric against your slit. “Then what’s this, hm? Say what you want, sweetheart. Your sweet little cunt’s already beggin’ for me.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate the way your hips twitch into his hand. The tatami rustles beneath his shifting weight as he settles between your legs, fingers curling at the waistband of your panties.

“Gonna strip these off…” his breath fans your cunt. “Fuckin’ make you mine all over the tatami and—”

“No.”

Before you can think, your hand flies up, pressing hard against his forehead. The sudden stop jolts him. Damp strands of hair spill into your palm, soft against your trembling fingers, and his blue eyes flash wide, startled.

For a beat, neither of you move. Your breath is shaky, ragged, while he’s laying against the tatami, face between your legs, shocked. Tears are threatening to spill over, your eyes burning, because now you’re even more confused. It’s not fair. He’s not fair.

“You don’t get to use me…”

The whisper scrapes out of you raw, cracked at the edges, and he’s looking at you like the very thought of you denying him doesn’t compute. Guilt, hurt, something else—all flashing quick across his face, dimming the usual gleam in his eyes. His brows pull tight, and the look on him is almost lost.

“What if…” his throat bobs with a swallow, blue eyes searching yours. “…you don’t have to touch me.”

You blink, looking down at this man, dazed, your fingers still tangled in snowy hair. His voice is hoarse, pleading in a way that doesn’t sound like him, and his forehead presses harder into your hand, as if leaning into your rejection, desperate to stay connected to you.

“…what?” you whisper, head shaking in disbelief. “You’re not making sense—”

“I know,” he cuts in, lips parting on a shuddering breath. His chest rises and falls against the tatami, fast and uneven. “Just… let me taste you. You don’t need to touch me. I don’t need anything else. I just… need you on my tongue. Please.”

Please.

That word doesn’t sound real, doesn’t belong on his mouth. Gojo Satoru doesn’t ask—he owns, he takes. Yet here he is, head bowed between your thighs, looking up at you like he’d starve if you told him no.

This man keeps confusing the hell out of you.

He’s supposed to be cruel, indifferent, cold. And yet… right now he feels terrifyingly close.

What if letting him do this means you’re handing him power you’ll never get back? The thought terrifies you. Because you don’t know what this means—don’t know if this is desperation or devotion or just another game. And you can’t risk being wrong. Can’t risk being ruined.

So… maybe you close the door? Give—whatever this is—a label that protects your fragile heart. But… can you really draw that line when your thighs are already trembling open for him?

“…all right,” you murmur finally, and his eyes brighten immediately, unbearably blue. “But…” your eyes narrow, lips pursing. “I’m only doing this because… it’s expected of me. My duty. I’m not touching you, and I’m not giving you the rest. Not until the wedding. Understood?”

He smirks, gaze dropping to your cunt. “Yeah… sure. But once my tongue is buried inside that little pussy, doubt you’ll be thinkin’ about duty, babe.”

Heat crawls up your neck from his sheer filth. “God—how can you just—say shit like tha—ah!” but the protest rips into a gasp as cool air hits your skin—Satoru tugging your panties down in shameless urgency.

“Finally…” his cock jerks up, twitching from the sight of your tiny hole. “Look at you… fuckin’ perfect. Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

God—your face is molten. Snowy hair is tickling your thighs, his breath warms your slick, and you feel flayed open—exposed in ways you never imagined. Like he can see every piece of you, every thought you’re trying not to have.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea…

Tremors wrack your body as nerves take over. He notices, eyes lifting, and he’s instantly cooing. “Shh…” Thumbs stroke lazy circles into your trembling thighs. “S’okay baby… gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”

That sweetness—softness laced with filth—it confuses you way more than his cruelty ever did. Why does it hurt worse when he’s gentle? Why does it threaten the one wall you swore you’d keep up?

Duty, you remind yourself. Just duty.

Your lashes lower. “O-Okay…” His grin spreads up, unholy. “That’s it, baby…” Strong hands push your legs apart, cunt glistening for him. “Now… be a good girl yeah? Open up for me. Wanna enjoy my meal.”

This wasn’t your idea of a romantic dinner.

Satoru’s tongue hits you, dragging from your soaked little hole to your sensitive clit, and you gasp. “Ohmygod—” It’s wetter than you expected. Sloppier. “S-Satoru—” you’re squirming, trembling beneath him, unsure if you want to run or pull him deeper.

He decides for you, hands yanking your ass, burying himself into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ffffuck…” he slurs, sliding through your folds, groaning through the mess. “Better than I fuckin’ dreamed… you taste so sweet… mnh…”

Each swipe of his tongue leaves you raw, overstimulated—making you whimper as his mouth works through your folds with ruthless devotion, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

But… this is just duty.

The thought wavers when his nose nudges your slick and he licks a messy stripe through you, sloppy and relentless.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this, baby…” He pulls back just far enough to press his thumb into your clit, lazy circles that snap your back into an arch. Those vivid blue eyes flick up, watching you, and he rasps.  “Mmm… soaked for me already. Gonna fuckin’ cum on my face, huh sweetheart?”

Heat sears your neck. “Satoru, I—” But he shifts, sliding one hand under your thigh, tilting your hips higher. The other pins your belly, holding you open while his tongue plunges back into your cunt. “O-oh… fuck—” Your cry pitches high.

“Wanna eat you every night…” he pants, rutting against the floor, cock oozing at the tip. “Mnh… fuck you full every morning… keep this tiny pussy stuffed till you’re too dumb to walk…”

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You chant it like a prayer while your hips buck, chasing every flick of his tongue. Too good—god, too good. He’s gorgeous like this, ruined between your thighs, and it would be so easy—too easy—to just let go, give in—cum all over his perfect face. Drench him in you.

“Doin’ so good f’me, baby…” His voice vibrates against your clit, tongue circling before grazing you with his teeth. The ring on your finger shimmers as your hands fist in his hair, tugging, making him groan “Fuck… that’s it…” he mumbles into your cunt, devouring again. “Such a good girl. Such a needy girl, aren’t you?”

“I—”

I want you.

A tremor rolls through, your throat tightening with the threat of tears. Fuck. You’re losing your resolve.

Get it together.

“I can’t… I can’t think when you talk like that—” you shudder, thighs trembling. “—can’t think when you look at me like that…”

Low laughter rumbles against your skin, his warm breath fanning you. “Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking your clit, slow and deliberate, before circling again in a wet brand of torture. “Then stop thinkin’…”

A long finger slips inside, and the sound you make is half-gasp, half-cry.

“Mmm… tight little thing,” he groans, pumping slow and deep. “Slutty little pussy misses me already. Fuck… so fuckin’ wet, so fuckin’ sweet. She’s mine. Knows who she belongs to.”

His…?

Blue eyes cut up to you—impossibly dark, half-lidded, utterly gone. The look of him hits harder than his words, and your heart jerks painfully. You want it—want it too much—and that’s exactly why it burns. He doesn’t want you. He only wants this.

Tears bead at your lashes before you even realize they’re there, cooling as they slide back toward your temples. And that’s when it crashes in.

This was a mistake.

You’d told yourself you could split your body from your heart and stay whole. That you could call it duty and survive it. That you could handle giving him this part of you if he didn’t reach for more. But here you are, shaking under his mouth, coming apart anyway. And… he’s not even fucking you yet.

What happens when he does? What pieces of yourself will be left then?

How are you supposed to navigate this arrangement? How the hell did your mother do it for so many years? How did she learn to shut out the part of herself that still longed for softness, for gentleness?

…is that what strength looks like? A slow suffocation? A steady starvation?

And if that’s the cost, are you willing to pay it?

The thought lodges sharp in your chest, bitter, because you already know the answer. You must. You’ve been paying it all your life.

And your hands are already moving, pressing at his forehead. “Satoru—stop,” you tremble, pushing him off, scrambling for your robes. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He jerks up at once, watching you fumble with the fabric, confusion sliding in with panic. “Wait—what?” he breathes, ragged, eyes searching you. “What is it? What’s goin’ on?”

But you’re already rising, reaching for the bento bag like it’s the only thing tethering you. “I just…” with a shuddering breath, your head shakes, lashes wet. “Sorry. I need to leave.”

“Leave?”

The word feels foreign on his tongue. He sinks back on his knees, unable to make sense of it, while you’re fumbling with your kimono, putting yourself back together before he can see how undone you really are.

As you turn, the comb he gave you slips loose in your hair, the jewels catching faint light before settling crooked. His gaze snags on it, and

Damnit…

There’s that ache blooming low in his chest again—an ache he doesn’t understand.

“Babe, just—” his lips press together, a frustrated breath pushing through his nose as he stands. “Fuckin’… wait,” his hand grabs your wrist. “Slow down and tell me what—”

“Let go,” you say, sliding the strap over your shoulder, your voice too small to hide the crack in it. You don’t pull away, but you don’t look at him. “I’m going home,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I just… can’t do this right now, Satoru. Please… just let me go.”

And with that, his mouth shuts. He lingers too long, fingers still circling your wrist, his gaze catching on the ring that glints faintly against your delicate hand—his gift, his burden, the tether neither of you asked for. Whatever protest was forming dies in his throat, swallowed by the silence stretching between you. At last, his grip falls away, leaving the air thrumming, swollen with everything unsaid.

You don’t look back. You can’t. If you do, you’ll shatter completely.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

For Satoru, sex was supposed to make him feel better. So why does he feel like shit?

It had never failed before; a warm body, a quick fuck, that sweet, fleeting rush that burned everything else quiet. Because Satoru Gojo hates noise—always has. And sex is his reset button. His switch. Feelings? They’re meant to be buried.

But lately… it’s like they’ve been burying him.

You’re gone now, and he’s left standing in the empty dojo with all this shit in his head—thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull, louder than ever. And he has no fucking clue what to do with any of it. No way to drown out this stupid, fucking noise.

Why did you leave? Was it something he said? Too much? Too fast? He tried being gentle—wasn’t that what you wanted?

Noise.

Why didn’t he stop you? Why does he care? Why the fuck can’t he stop seeing your face—that night, in the bathroom—shocked, hurt, hollow. Why does it haunt him like this? Why does it piss him off?

Is he angry at you? Or himself?

Noise. Noise. Noise.

What now? What if you don’t come back? What if you call it off, tell him this whole thing was a mistake? Is he that easy to walk away from? Does he push everyone away? Is that why Suguru—

CRASH!

The tension snaps, his arm swinging blindly, knocking a ceramic vase off the low ledge by the wall. It shatters violently on the floor, jagged pieces splintering, water seeping into the tatami as blossoms scatter, bruised and broken.

But the noise of the vase isn’t enough to drown out the noise in his head—because the crash fades, leaving only silence, and he’s standing there for a moment, staring at the wreckage, chest heaving.

…what the fuck is wrong with him?

Hands drag through his hair, tugging the roots in frustration until his legs give, slumping against the wall like his body’s too heavy to carry. With a shuddering breath, his face buries in his hands and he has no choice but to sit with the noise.

Fuck…

He can’t even remember the last time he felt this. Doesn’t want to. And when his eyes open, blinking through the sting, he’s left staring down at the tent in his sweats—still hard, still aching, a dark patch of pre-cum slicking through the fabric.

Pathetic.

Groaning, his head knocks back against the wall with a dull thud. Who the fuck even is he? He literally almost came in his pants, eating you out. Because it’s been weeks—weeks—since he’s fucked anyone.

And not for lack of trying.

Every time someone offered—brushed up against him, pressed a hand to his chest, whispered something filthy in his ear—there you were. That same fucking face flashing through his mind, haunting him.

Sex had always worked for him. So… he thought—hoped—it might work for you, too. That he could fuck the pain off your expression, wipe it clean with his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Drag you into that quiet, mindless place where nothing hurts.

And for a second—god, for a second—it looked like he had. You were trembling beneath him, gasping, clinging. Falling apart in all the right ways. You looked so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.

Until… you didn’t. Until that look shifted, and suddenly you were slipping through his fingers again, all water and ache and tears he still doesn’t understand, leaving his chest hollow with something he can’t fucking name.

He scrubs a hand over his face, harder this time, hoping he can wipe that image of you away.

…what the hell is he supposed to do with himself if even this—the one thing that’s always worked—doesn’t work anymore?

As the thought ruminates in his head, the shoji slides open.

“I heard a crash.”

The voice is crisp, stern. Satoru’s eyes flick up just long enough to catch sight of Gojo Hajime, standing at the threshold of the dojo, robes pristine, mouth tight.

Great. Just fucking great.

“Yeah?” Satoru mutters, eyes rolling back toward the floor. “No shit.”

Hajime doesn’t move. But his eyes narrow as Satoru shifts, glass crunching beneath him, elbows resting to his knees. Water creeps across the tatami in slow, quiet veins, while the vase lies in ruin—just like everything else.

“…where is she?” he presses, and Satoru’s head tilts back against the wall with an annoyed huff, staring blankly at the ceiling beams. “Home.”

Home?

That gets the old man to move.

“She left?” he echoes, voice tightening with disbelief. The tatami creaks under his weight, arms folding into his yukata. “Inconceivable. On today of all days?”

“Yup.”

Satoru doesn’t bother to elaborate. Doesn’t even spare the man a glance. If Hajime wants drama, he can dig through the damn broken glass himself for it.

The elder’s eyes scrutinize, stopping a few paces away. “And what of duty?” he huffs, voice sharpening, turning brittle, formal. “What of ceremony? This marriage is not some dalliance, Gojo-sama. It is the cornerstone of our future. A convergence of bloodlines. Responsibility. Honor—”

Blah, fucking blah.

Satoru exhales through his nose, checking out entirely. More useless noise—words he’s heard a thousand times, could recite in his sleep if he cared enough to try. And tonight, of all nights? He’s even less inclined to play along. Not with the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. Not while he’s sitting in the wreckage of his own silence, surrounded by the shards of everything he never said.

“This is no small offense,” Hajime intones, rigid with judgment. “You see now, don’t you? That girl was never fit for this role. Your schedules finally coincide after endless delay, and she has the audacity to walk away? How deeply unbecoming. That woman is a disgrace.”

Disgrace?

At that, Satoru’s eyes flick up, brow furrowing.

…the hell did he just say?

And why the fuck does hearing it—hearing him say it about you—make his fingers twitch?

“It appears she follows in the footsteps of her father,” Hajime continues. “Shameful. Disrespectful of hierarchy, dismissive of ceremony. It’s bred into her. That woman has no sense of place and—"

“Don’t.”

It leaves his mouth before he even knows what it is, and Hajime’s gaze shifts back to him—back to Satoru, who’s no longer slouched or half-listening. The glow of his Six Eyes is sharp now, cutting, lit with a quiet simmer that borders on dangerous.

He doesn’t know what line just got crossed—only that it did.

“Say another word about her,” he warns, the edge of his voice honed to steel, “or about her father, and we’ll have a different kind of problem.”

For a moment, the room is silent—eerily so. Not even the wind breathes. Just that tight, taut stillness that always comes before something breaks. Hajime’s lips seal, jaw ticking beneath the skin. Because no matter how old, how honored, how steeped in hierarchy he may be… even he knows the difference between authority and power.

Hajime wears the robes of authority.

But… Gojo Satoru wears power.

Still, he presses carefully. “With respect… Gojo-sama. The council will not look kindly on a bride who walks away before the rites are even complete. It is not her place to decide when—"

“I sent her home.” The lie leaves his mouth easily. “She didn’t walk out. I saw she was tired and told her to leave. End of story.”

He doesn’t know why he says it—only that it lands before he has time to second-guess it.

Maybe it’s the fact that Hajime kept using words like disgrace and shame, as if you haven’t spent your whole life trying to survive their expectations. Maybe he’s tired of watching people walk into fire for tradition while the old men stay seated.

Or maybe… it’s the look on your face when you turned away from him.

Either way, the lie sticks.

Hajime’s mouth tightens further. “You’d best be ready to explain yourself at the next council gathering.” But Satoru doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah, I’m not explaining shit,” he says, flicking his hand like the conversation’s already beneath him. “And I’m done for tonight. So… uh. Do me a favor, Hajime?”

A flicker of cursed energy coils beneath the surface, and that stare—cold, crystalline—locks in, like lightning waiting for a reason.

“Get the fuck out of my estate.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?’

Satoru still doesn’t know how to answer that question. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Because the older he gets, the more that voice—Suguru’s voice—sounds less like philosophy and more like a trap; a snare meant to make him pause—stop and think. Look inward in a way he’s spent years avoiding, because nothing worthwhile ever came from staring into that pit.

It’s easier to be the strongest. Easier to be a weapon, a title, a consequence. Something for the world to worship or hate or fear. People expect less that way. There’s no room for tenderness or doubt.

No room for just… him.

With a frustrated exhale, Satoru kneels in the dim light of the dojo, limbs heavy as he sweeps the broken pieces of the vase into his palm, one by one—the tatami creaking under his knees. They clink together hollowly as he drops them onto the low table, and his gaze drifts—landing inevitably, to the bento box you left behind.

You made it for him. After everything went to shit, and well before it went into even deeper shit—knowing he might not deserve it. And he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better, or worse.

He pops the lid open, almost absently, and grabs the chopsticks. Steam clings faintly to the rice, the grilled fish glistens under the lantern glow, a wedge of pickled radish tucked neatly in the corner beside tamagoyaki cut into even squares.

'So… what? What happened to your perfect little act, huh? Did you sit in his lap? Pray there like an offering? That it?'

The image of your face flashes back—hurt, shocked, furious—and he groans, shutting his eyes as he shovels in a bite. 

God, he’s such a fucking asshole. What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he being so possessive over a girl he barely knows—a girl who, by all rights, should hate him after everything he’s done? After everything he hasn’t said?

He takes another bite, chewing mechanically, the food settling on his tongue.

It doesn’t make any sense to him, but ever since this engagement started, you’ve been getting under his skin in ways that make no sense.

Exhibit A: The sunglasses.

His free hand slips into the pocket of his sweats, fingers closing around the familiar weight, turning them over in his palm. He balances them against his knee, staring like they might offer an answer.

They’re just… sunglasses.

Right?

He’s had a dozen pairs, broken twice as many. It pisses him off a little, that something so stupid carries weight. That he can’t slip them on without thinking of you. And yet… he can’t bring himself to throw them away. The thought of doing that would piss him off even more.

He shovels in another mouthful of rice, jaw tight. Which brings him straight into—

Exhibit B: He doesn’t want a wife.

For fucks sake, he hates that word. It’s loaded with tradition and expectation and a thousand eyes watching, waiting, molding him into something he never asked to be. And yet, every time he calls you it while you’re falling apart underneath him—some fucked-up part of him likes the sound of it.

Huh… maybe he’s developed a new kink.

Satoru blinks.

Oh. Fuck.

That must be it… the only possible explanation, right?? Why else would he fantasize about the thought of fucking you so deep the only thing you remember is his name. Of filling you with his cum, creamy and thick, watching it spill out of you just to fuck it back in.

The idea hits him like a punch to the gut, and now—great—his dick’s joined the conversation again, throbbing against the inside of his sweats while he’s sitting here among broken glass and grilled mackerel like an idiot.

God, that’s so fucking deranged.

He stuffs another bite in his mouth—chews like it’ll grind the thought out of his skull. But it lingers; because the truth is, he wanted to fuck the pain he caused you right off your beautiful face—right there, on the goddamn dojo floor. Wanted to kiss the anger from your mouth, to pull your thighs apart and fuck every trace of Suguru off your skin until there was nothing left but him.

His jaw ticks.

… why the hell were his cursed residuals on you?

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, appetite curdling by the second.

It’s been years—years since he’s felt it, but he’d know it anywhere. He’s felt it laced through battlefields, curled around corpses, stitched into silence—and once, long ago, wrapped around a friend who stood beside him when they believed in the same world.

It’s changed since then—muted, frayed at the edges—but it still clings like memory.

And tonight, it clung to you.

He sets the chopsticks down. Just for a moment. The food sours on his tongue, heavy in his gut. And he doesn’t know if it’s jealousy or fear or something darker—something uglier—but it gnaws at him all the same. Because if Suguru’s cursed energy was on you… then Suguru had been close.

Too close.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Proximity. The reminder that no matter how far he’s tried to keep it buried, their paths will always curve back toward each other. Sooner or later. Like gravity. Like fate.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. That’s his duty. One he’s managed to stave off with excuses and avoidance, with silence and denial. But the truth presses at the edges of his mind, sharp and merciless.

It’s only a matter of time.

He knows what it will demand of him. What he’s going to have to do.

a/n. hello my darlings! i hope you enjoyed this part. i intended it to be longer but i couldn't do another 20k one lol, i think i would have died. so i'm splitting it. like i said, i really want this growth to feel earned and realistic. reader is starting to stand up for herself, satoru is having to sit with his own shame - something this man NEVER feels. this is just the beginning. our couple has a lot to work through. there are still a LOT of messy feelings going on. but as you can see, satoru is clueless. utterly, completely clueless. this man is so emotionally constipated and incapable 🙂‍↕️ he thinks sex fixes everything. bruh. i wish it did. gosh there is prob more i could yap about. there are lots of clues i dropped, i wonder if you can pick up on them. BUT... as i'm typing this ya'll are waiting for me to post it so i'm gonna post it now, hehe. anyways - would love to hear your thoughts and i love you all! thanks for reading and supporting this fic 🥹 mwah!

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Looming over you, he plants a palm on the sheets by your head. The other traces down your thigh, slow and certain, spreading you open like you’re delicate. Like you’re special. Making your heart ache more.

“Gonna tell me what you want?” he pants, dragging himself back through your slick. “C’mon…” he hums, earning your gasp—hips lifting as he teases you. “Lemme hear it, pretty girl. Don’t be shy now.”

Your voice slips from your lips before your shame can catch it. Because right now, you feel like you could spill your entire heart to this man. Why?

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” he croons, abs tensing with every lazy rut of his cock. “Aww… what do you want, hm?”

And oh, it’s humiliating how badly you want him while the fat head of his dick rubs your clit. You ache for him in places you didn’t even know could ache. But the heat between your legs is nothing compared to the heat in your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

“I want you,” you whisper, heart cracking open. “Want you so bad…”

And how could you not?

He makes you feel like nothing else matters. Like no one’s watching. Like you’re allowed to want. To crave. To be touched. To take.

Free of expectation. Free of tradition.

And still—still there’s that voice in the back of your mind. The part that remembers the time in his private villa. The silence after. The way he didn’t hold you. Didn’t stay.

I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?

You try not to think about it. Try not to let it matter. Because he said it like it meant nothing. But… this has to mean something. It has to. Right? Because how could someone touch you like this and not mean it? You’ve never felt like this before. Never even imagined you could feel this. Like you’ve always belonged here—under him, wrapped around him, lost in him.

His.

Exhaling, he cups your cheek—thumb brushing tenderly over your skin, like he doesn’t notice the war you’re losing beneath it. “That so?” he breathes, mouth so close it feels like a secret. “You want this cock, sweetheart?”

You nod. So hard it almost hurts.

“Want you to fuck me… please…” and that earns his groan. “Oh, you pretty thing…” and pressing forward—he’s lining himself up with a smirk and a low whisper. “Gonna make a mess of you…”

And then he’s pushing every inch of that flushed, angry cock into your tight little cunt. Slow. So slow it feels like it’s never going to end. Like he wants you to feel every inch as it splits you open, stretching you in a way you could only dream.

“Oh, fuuuuck…” his voice splinters as your legs fall open wider. “Shit… just fuckin’ meltin’ around me…” and your body gives, like it’s been waiting for this. Made for him.

“Satoru—” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders like you might fall through the floor. “Shhh…” his forehead falls to yours, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there. Inside you. Wrapped in your heat, your walls fluttering around him like you’re not sure if you’re ready or begging for more.

And that’s the thing—you don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. Just that it’s him. That it’s this. And it’s yours. A dream come true.

“You feel like a dream,” he whispers, hips twitching once, slow and deep. “Like I’ve waited forever for this…”

Dream.

Maybe you are dreaming. Are you? Is that why this feels so good? No, maybe it’s just him. Because suddenly he’s moving. A rhythm that starts with reverence—measured, deep, like he wants to memorize you. Every breath. Every arch. Every sound you make.

“Look at me,” he pants, lips brushing yours as he rocks languidly. “Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you, yeah?”

Your lashes flutter—dazed, drunk on him. And you do. You look. You stare into those vivid blue eyes like they’re the last thing tethering you to this goddamn earth. Eyes that are endless. Limitless.

A dream?

Yeah. That’s what this is. A dream come true. A dream spun from every ache you’ve buried—pulled from the softest, dirtiest corners of your aching little heart—where no one ever told you what to want, only that you shouldn’t. And now he’s here.

The man of your dreams, giving you everything you thought was out of reach.

Freedom. Pleasure. Love.

Love?

Love’s a strange thing. You’ve never been in love—never trusted it. And how could you if you’ve never seen it done right—watching your parents gut it and wear it like a lie. But one thing’s for sure—this is what it feels like to be wanted. Right?

So, you’ll be his. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Always. If this is how he’ll make you feel—god, you’ll be his forever.

“Feels s’good,” you whisper, head tilting back as he fucks you deeper. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, dragging his cock out slow, then driving it back in with a wet slap. “You hear that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Whining under him, your cunt coats his dick, wet and warm, dripping between your legs. His muscles tense above you, hands sliding down your body, gripping your hips.

“God, baby… greedy little pussy’s grippin’ me… shit,” he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Fine… take it—” and with a hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

“Ahh! W-Wait—” you jolt, but the protest melts into a stream of filthy moans as he finds his rhythm—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass.

“Mmm… that’s my girl…” he pants, cooing against your ear as he kisses the side of your neck. Slick, wet sounds echo through the room as he fucks your cunt in sharp, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, Satoru—" you gasp, choking on his name. And he groans—filthy, low—panting in your ear, lost in your heat as your pussy grips him just right.

“Shit… look at you,” he breathes, grinding deeper, breath hot against your cheek. “Yes… fuck yes… you gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

Your cunt is fluttering around him—soaking, tight. He's rolling every inch of that flushed cock in slow, devastating thrusts.

“So pretty… so fuckin’ pretty…” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, fixed on your face. He's drinking every gasp straight from your lungs. “Gonna let me fuck this pussy every goddamn day, hm?” his cock drags out, only to slam it back in. “Nnngh… have you drippin’ down my cock, making a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me?”

God, you will. You’d do anything for him. You moan as his mouth finds your throat again—kisses that turn to bites, soft lips followed by sharp teeth. Gentle, then greedy as he continues to pump deeper.

“Let ‘em see,” he growls against your skin. “Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you—just take it.”

His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, meaner. Each thrust crashes into you with a wet slap, your cunt gushing around him. You’re gasping, breath breaking into ragged whimpers as the dripping head of his cock kisses your cervix—over and over again.

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—you’re just moaning, gasping, breaking.

“Well?” he snarls, pounding you harder. “C’mon… who do you belong to, sweetheart?”

He fucks you so hard the floor seems to shake. Your body’s sliding helpless beneath him, your mind scattering like shards of glass. You sob, "Y-You," and your fingers curl into his hair, clinging like you'll fall about without him. Because you will. “Yours—’toru—m’yours…”

That encourages him, he’s gasping, thrusting, moaning—wet slaps echoing.

“Good fuckin’ girl… f-fuck…” he groans, voice cracking as his cock pulses deep inside you, cum spilling hot. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum…”

And wrapping your legs around him, you feel him shudder. Warmth spills from your cunt, slick and slow, while your pussy flutters around him, milking every drop. His thrusts don't stop. They just slow—grinding in lazy, possessive circles. Rolling deeper, messier, like he wants to keep it all inside you. Like he needs you full.

“Mine,” he breathes, dick twitching inside you. “Fuck… all mine… my pretty wife…” he pants, teeth grazing your shoulder, “…my messy little slut—mine… mine…”

The words tumble from him in broken, breathless threads—a litany, hot and reverent—branding you from the inside out.

Mine.

Again.

Mine.

You’re gasping, falling. Everything blurs; his body wrapping around you, filling you, flooding every aching, empty part of you. And the room—it starts to feel…

Mine….

Soft?

Mine…

The kind of warmth that doesn’t feel real.

Almost like…

Mine…

Like a dream.

Mine…

Get up.

You blink.

Get. Up.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“You’re still in bed?”

That voice. No warmth. Just clipped syllables slicing through the remnants of your dream.

“Get up.”

And just like that, the weight of him vanishes. The heat. The stretch. The sweetness. Gone.

Jolting up, your silk robe slips off your shoulder, and light stings your eyes as your lashes flutter open. But it’s not his breath you feel, it’s the bite of morning air against your sweat-slick skin—and your mother’s cold stare.

Oh. Right. A dream.

“Well?” Her voice cuts again, brisk and unforgiving. “You think the entire Gojo clan is going to wait for you to collect yourself?”

She’s already at the window, fingers ghosting over the wood frame. The shoji groans as it slides open, letting in a wash of cold that rushes over the tatami and blooms across your bare collarbone.

Flinching, you instinctively draw your robe tighter—but it’s too late. The ache between your legs is still slick, still pulsing like a secret you can’t scrub off. Shame burns hot in your chest.

A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream.

Over him.

Cheeks burning, your knees lock tight. And by the curl of your mother’s lip—you must look exactly how you feel.

Filthy.

“You’re flushed,” she remarks, arching a brow. “And you’re shaking.”

“Oh… sorry,” you whisper, shutting your eyes like that might make you disappear. “I… didn’t sleep well.”

There’s a pause.

You brace for a reprimand. A sharp lesson, a stern lecture. But it doesn’t come—only the soft rustle of silk.

“Why? Are… you nervous about today?”

When your eyes flutter open, she’s kneeling before you. Her expression has softened, and there’s something quieter in her hands as they reach for your robe, brushing your collar with practiced care.

“That color suits you…” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric where it’s slipped from your shoulder, “…Ivory always did.”

You blink, lips parting, startled by the shift in her tone.

“You used to wear it constantly…” she adds, softer now. “Said it made you feel like a princess. Wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else.”

Adjusting the fold near your shoulder, her fingers linger, smoothing it flat with quiet care.

“I swear…” glancing up at you, her lips twitch, like the memory tastes bitter and sweet at once. “I hid that white yukata more times than I can count.”

Your own mouth curves, matching her smile.

“Yeah… but I always found it.”

“Tch. And stained it before noon!” She huffs, smiling, shaking her head. “Grass. Dirt. Ink from your calligraphy kit. You’d tear through the garden like a storm. Always barefoot. Always chasing your father, trying to mimic his stances.”

You still.

Because she said it—his name. And she never does. Not anymore. Not since the night he left.

Her hands move slower now, but her gaze drifts somewhere far beyond the room.

“Your father…” she echoes quietly, straightening a crease, “…he used to call you his little crane. Said you looked too delicate for martial arts… until you bloodied his lip.”

Her fingers hover at the fold of your robe, and for the first time in years, the silence between you feels fragile. Sacred. As if something hidden might surface—something she’s almost ready to hand you.

But the moment doesn’t last.

Drawing back, she stands in one fluid motion, sleeves whispering against her sides.

“Regardless… you’re not a child anymore,” her voice sharpens. “And we don’t get the luxury of mistakes, understood?”

You nod, and whatever had cracked in her seals shut again—her tenderness slipping away, folded back inside like silk tucked into a drawer.

“You have fifteen minutes before the stylists arrive…”

Then, the door slides shut with a soft click.

And you’re left alone with the scent of sandalwood fading in the air, a chill still clinging to your skin, a heat between your legs, and the ache of a mother’s love that always pulls back before it ever reaches your hands.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Gentle fingers tilt your chin.

“Hold still, sweetheart. I don’t want to poke your eye out before the ceremony.”

The powder brush sweeps across your cheek in soft, fluttering strokes—light as breath, enough to chase the nerves from your skin.

“You really are a vision,” one of the stylists insists, a small, reverent sigh slipping past her lips. “He won’t be able to look away.”

“I doubt that…” you murmur, trying to smile—though it barely touches your eyes.

But the reflection staring back at you says otherwise. The perfect bride-to-be, composed and radiant.

Your kimono wraps tight around your ribs, layers of pale ivory and blooming crimson spreading like a painted fan across your body. Embroidered cranes glide up your sleeves in gold and silver threads—regal, serene. Their necks curve skyward, as though chasing something you can’t see.

“This must feel surreal,” the older stylist adds, stepping back to admire her work. She tilts your chin higher, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The yuino ceremony… such an elegant tradition.”

You blink slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The yuino—an engagement ritual where two families exchange gifts to formalize a union. Every offering means something: thread for longevity, sake for harmony, kelp for joy. It’s less about the couple, more about the bloodlines. A promise not just between people, but legacies.

“It’s definitely… traditional,” you admit.

“More like transactional…” the youngest mumbles, tugging at your obi with sharp, precise hands.

The elder hushes her with a look—not harsh, but warning—then turns back to you.

“My dear… tradition isn’t meant to trap us,” she assures, low and sincere. “It’s meant to carry us.”

Reaching up to adjust a pin in your hair, her touch is slow, almost motherly.

“All of this—the layers, the ritual—it’s not just for show. It’s a blessing. A beginning.” Her fingers pause at the side of your head before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And if you let it… it can be something beautiful.”

Glancing at your reflection, there’s a quiet ache behind her words. Because you were raised to follow. To perform. To marry. And yet, somehow… her words echo, soft as silk.

It’s startling. Strange, even.

It should feel like a cage. Shouldn’t it? Every fold, every knot, every ornament arranged to present someone else’s idea of who you are. After all, with your family, marriage was always the destination. And yet, the weight pressing down on your shoulders feels lighter than it should.

Maybe it’s the way she said it. Or… maybe it’s because of him.

Satoru Gojo, with his messy grin and reckless freedom—he doesn’t bow to tradition. He lives like nothing owns him. Not his clan. Not his duty. Not even his legacy. He rewrites every rule with a smirk.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him.

The wet dream had only sharpened it, made it vivid—too vivid. That stretch, that heat. It felt real. It felt like it mattered. Because despite everything—despite duty and expectation—you want him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you fall apart in that villa.

You want him to see you through all of this.

You want to be his.

Because maybe, as strange as it sounds, the stylist is right. Maybe this can be more than duty. Maybe this is a beginning. Not of obedience—but of something else. Something fragile and full of possibility.

God, you wish it to be so. You need it to be so.

The older stylist gives your shoulder a final pat, stepping back to admire you once more.

“I wonder what he’ll give you,” the youngest muses, voice airy, almost starstruck. “Someone like Gojo Satoru…” she hums. “I bet it’s something extravagant.”

“He’s like a storm in silk,” another sighs dreamily. “Whatever it is, it’ll be unforgettable.”

The eldest smiles, something softer flickering in her eyes. “Glamour fades,” she remarks. “But a gift that knows who you are… now that’s something you carry for life.”

A gift that knows who you are.

The words echo, soft and lingering. And suddenly, you’re not sure—does yours? Is it enough? Will he appreciate it?

Glancing towards the vanity, your gaze drops to the small black box, half-hidden among the combs and lacquered trays like a secret.

“Ah!” One of the stylists perks up, catching the direction of your eyes. “That’s for him?” she asks, nodding toward the box.

You hesitate for a breath, then nod. “It is,” and reaching for it, your fingers smooth over the velvet before curling around the edges. “It’s my gift.”

In the yuino, it’s customary for the groom’s family to present gifts first—then comes the bride’s turn. Something of worth. Something of value.

That part was never easy. Not when you had nothing to give but what little you could scrape together. Money is short, but you did it. Somehow. And you wonder—would he see that? Would he know what it cost you—the quiet sacrifices, the things you were forced to let go of—just to place something in his hands that felt like truth?

Your fingers slide beneath the satin ribbon, loosening it slowly, letting it fall open.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a pair of sunglasses. Sleek. Rectangular. Matte black with thin platinum accents at the temples. Understated, but undeniably expensive—a limited designer release you spent weeks searching for.

“Um…” the elder tilts her head, “…sunglasses?”

“Modern,” another hesitates, as if afraid to offend. “Not exactly… traditional.”

You watch the way the lenses catch the light—dark, smooth, almost defiant.

“No…” you admit, lips curving faintly. “But neither is he.”

“Tch.” A voice from the doorway cuts in. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Looking up, you already know who’s interrupted before setting eyes on her—the dry bite in her voice is unmistakable.

Maki Zenin.

Leaning against the doorway, green hair pulled back into a ponytail, there she is. Your sister in arms. The closest thing you have to a friend. Or maybe… a younger sister, if life had been kinder.

“Ah…” one of the stylists clears her throat, taking a careful step back. “And… you are…?”

“Relax,” she huffs. “I’m just the disgraced friend. I promise not to stain the upholstery.”

The eldest arches a brow, and you jump in quickly.

“She’s with me.”

The two of you go back years—back when your families still tolerated one another. Her clan managed stock, yours specialized in cursed weapon refinement. While the adults buried themselves in trade negotiations and formalities, you both were left to your own devices. Two girls, too young to matter, yet old enough to know it.

She was brash even back then—calling you “old” and “boring.” Daring you to sneak into the armory, challenging you to out-duel her with weapons twice her size. You were quieter, more reserved, raised on obedience and grace. But when Maki handed you a dull blade and grinned, your blood had thrummed with something you never had words for.

You were raised to bow. She was raised to bite. And somehow, you met in the middle. Now, years later, you still find her at your side. The only one who never abandoned you, never flinched when the world turned cold and your clan shut you out. Like hers did for her.

“I see,” the stylist straightens politely, smoothing her sleeves. “We’ll give you two a moment, then. I’ll prepare the fan offering for the ceremony.”

“And I’ll fetch the lacquer box!” Another chirps, already gathering her things.

They exit with soft murmurs and a shuffle of silk, bows and slippers brushing over tatami. The door slides shut behind them, sealing the room in a quieter hush.

Exhaling, your shoulders ease as your eyes meet Maki’s in the mirror.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, well… I said I’d come, didn’t I?” she sighs, pushing off the doorframe with the kind of casual bravado that’s always been second nature to her. Her eyes sweep the room—to the silk shimmering across your collarbones, the ceremonial stillness. “So…” her brow lifts, “…you’re really going through with it, huh?”

“Yup. But don’t sound so surprised,” you hum, smoothing your kimono with a teasing lilt. “After all, one of us had to make it out of exile first.”

“Pfft.” Maki rolls her eyes, but her grin flickers with something almost proud. “I don’t want out. Fuck the Zenins. I’m not crawling back just to prove a point.”

You smile faintly.

“Still stubborn.”

“And you’re still too soft,” she quips, striding towards the vanity.  

Leaning against it, her arms fold, eyes narrowing in a way that only pretends to be judgmental. But you know. Beneath it: worry. Loyalty. That particular kind of protectiveness that only someone who’s exiled knows how to wear.

“You… really want to do this?”

“Maybe…” you meet her eyes in the glass, hesitating. “He’s not like them, Maki…” you shrug, looking down, fidgeting with the sleeve of your kimono. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe it could be… different?”

She doesn’t answer right away. You’re older, but she’s always looked out for you in her own prickly way. And the fact that you didn’t volunteer for this, more like you were voluntold—it annoys the hell out of her.

Still, she huffs out a breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah…” she admits finally, like it costs her. “I guess he’s not.”

Glancing at her sideways, she drops her hands into her pockets, mouth twitching into a grin.

“Y’know… he let me train in the middle of the damn courtyard,” she mutters. “Didn’t even ask what I was doing there. Just tossed me a staff and went, ‘don’t embarrass yourself.’”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Yup.” She shrugs, almost smug. “Snuck into Jujutsu High last week. Through the garden wall. Figured I’d get thrown out before I even touched a weapon. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell the higher-ups either. Just… let me stay.”

Your lips part, but no words come right away. The thought of Gojo Satoru—maddening, brilliant, impossible Gojo Satoru—doing something so quietly kind? To someone you care for so deeply? It makes your chest warm. Maki’s been trying to get into Jujutsu High for months, but the system’s written her off like she’s disposable. Unfit. A mistake. But she’s more capable than half the sorcerers they’ve accepted. You’ve always known that.

And the fact that Satoru saw it too…

You feel it then—slow and steady—that hum beneath your skin. That ache of something soft unraveling inside you.

“I mean, damn,” Maki stretches, cracking her knuckles behind her head with a yawn. “You’d think someone that powerful would care about rules, right?”

“Yeah… he doesn’t,” you huff a breath, the smile pulling at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s the problem.”

Or maybe… it’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Meanwhile, Satoru’s head is spinning—with you. His pretty little wife-to-be, the one who’ll keep the elders quiet and his cock wet.

He’s been in the shower far too long. Steam clings to the cedar walls, fogging the glass panels while the overhead spout hisses steadily against his skin. Water beads down his spine—but it’s not the heat that has him breathless. His hand pumps steadily over his sensitive dick—gliding and rolling over his fat heat as it drips messily onto the stone tile.

He should be getting ready for the ceremony, but here he is, fapping his stiff cock while milky drops spill down his pretty pink tip.

“Fffuck…” he groans, panting with each filthy slap of his fist, “Unngh… that’s it…”

Lewd images flash through his mind—'cause this is easier. Just muscle and heat. No feelings. No expectations. Just the illusion of your trembling thighs, your sweet little cunt sucking him in, soaking his fat dick as he slams into you, over and over.

He bites down a moan, head tipping back, soft white bangs soaked to his forehead. Those impossible eyes—half-lidded beneath snow-damp lashes—burn in the haze, glassy and low. Water rivulets track the slope of his abdomen, glinting over taut skin as his hand works faster, more desperate.

“Shit—yeah… jus’ like that…”

Breath hitching, his hand jerks harder, crude sounds echoing with the hiss of water while his thick shaft pulses in his grip. He can’t stop. Can’t help it. The image sharpens in his mind—your tits bouncing with every thrust, the soft slide of your sleeves slipping off your shoulders. He'd drive into you from behind, hand fisted in your hair.

God, he doesn’t want to be married. But he’d love to fuck the pretty little wife they’ve handed him—make you cry for it, ruin you slow, watch your sweet face twist when his cock drags deep through your dripping cunt.

“Mnh—take it…” he growls, one palm braced against the slick cedar wall, the other pumping hard and fast. His hips stutter, rocking into the heat of his fist, chest heaving as steam curls like breath around his ankles.

Fuck, he’s desperate for relief, and your name’s on the tip of his tongue—not that he’d say it. ‘Cause that’s not how this works. He needs relief. He needs a distraction. Just a little more. So close. So—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Flinching, Satoru’s hand stills as the voice slams through his pleasure like a slap. The water beats down, dazed eyes fluttering open as he pants—and the moment he glances at the room’s wooden door, an agitated scowl curls across his lips. That voice is muffled, but unmistakable.

Fucking Megumi.

“Dude. You’re taking forever,” the kid gripes, banging again. “I mean… for fuck’s sake—at this rate you’re gonna be late to your own damn engagement party!”

Engagement party.

Right. The yuino.

“Oh, fuck me…” Satoru mutters under his breath, grip falling away with a wet, dejected slap. His cock bobs, still red, swollen—leaking in desperation.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Even this—this one private moment—can’t fucking belong to him. The mood’s gone; sucked dry by the obligation pounding at his door.

Great. Now he’s annoyed. Because he was supposed to be getting off, not thinking. But of fucking course, Megumi’s words are that lovely, blaring reminder that he’s about to become officially tied down tonight. About to lose whatever little bit of freedom he was barely clinging onto.

Sure, you’re pretty, you’re tempting—but you’re also part of this now, aren’t you? Part of the problem—despite how good you make his dick feel.

Marriage?

Duty?

He never wanted that shit.

Another knock breaks through the water pounding around him—and with a groan, Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Kid, do you mind?!” he snaps, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking hell—some of us are trying to have a crisis in peace!”

“Yeah, well, your ‘crisis’ is way behind schedule.” Megumi fires back, tone dry as dust. “Get your shit together, old man.”

Oh, like it’s so simple. Sure. That’s what everyone expects of him.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back under the stream. His cock twitches again, stubborn and sensitive, but already softening, the ache still lingering in his groin like a cruel echo.

Wait… why is he even fantasizing about you?! Great. Now he’s even more annoyed at himself. And as his irritation begins to simmer, another insistent knock breaks through the wooden door.

“Jesus Christ… Megumi!” Satoru grits, low and bitter, finally lifting his head. “Unless someone’s dying, just… walk the fuck away!”

“Well, I’m dying. From boredom. Hurry the fuck up.”

With a growl, Satoru twists the water off—steam hissing in protest while a silence finally settles—save for the drip of condensation tapping down the glass. His hands brace against the wall; muscles tense, breath ragged, cock twitching but neglected.

The moment’s gone. Stolen. Per usual.

And now he’s pissed the fuck off. Why the fuck does he keep thinking about your face when you cum?

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eight minutes late,” Megumi notes. “Again.”

Strolling in barefoot, Satoru glides across the tatami, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. His inner kimono hangs loose over his frame, belt tied lazily at his hips, sleeves pushed up in carelessness.

“Oh?” he blinks, feigning surprise, raking the towel through his hair. “What’s this, hm? You timing me now?”

“Yaga is,” Megumi sighs, already looking back down at his phone. “Says you’re always late. Just not late enough to chastise.”

That earns a slow, smug grin from Satoru—crooked and boyish, like a secret he’s not going to share. Clicking his tongue, he tosses the towel over the back of the chair, reaching for the next layer of silk.

“Aww,” he hums, slipping into his outer kimono with an almost bored ease. “He’s still using that line? Sentimental old man.”

The linen is rich and textured, dark indigo, finely woven. Near the collar, stitched in silver so pale it borders on illusion, lies the Gojo family crest: Two dragonflies—wings outspread in mirror flight.

Curious creatures, dragonflies are. They say dragonflies can’t fly backward. Only forward. Relentlessly, instinctively—like time, or fate. No turning back.

…much like him after tonight.

Letting out a low breath, Satoru brushes the crest once over with his knuckles. Until—

Thunk!

He blinks, glancing toward the sound. Across the room, Yuji curses under his breath, a lacquered box falling to the floor, skittering across the tatami and landing near Megumi’s foot. As a silk ribbon flutters in Yuji’s hand like a white flag, Satoru immediately realizes what it is.

His gift—for you.

“Oi,” he calls, brow arching. “Is that my gift? Be careful with that.”

Freezing mid-reach, Yuji flinches—caught red-handed.

“Oh—shit. Sorry, Sensei!” he blurts, grabbing the box, fumbling quickly. Steadying it, his eyes flick up sheepishly.  “I, um… didn’t mean to—uh—drop it.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, gaze dragging slowly over the box.

“Mmm… Yuji,” he drawls, tilting his head. “The ribbon’s untied.”

“Right. Uh…” Yuji hesitates, holding the ruined bow like it might defend him. “…it was already like that. Probably.”

Satoru snorts, fiddling with his kimono. “Uh-huh. Right. And I was born on a rice farm.”

Groaning in defeat, Yuji drops his shoulders.

“Okay—fine. But I didn’t mean to untie it. I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Got curious.”

“Curious,” Satoru echoes, unimpressed.

“Yeah…” Yuji mutters, guilt settling in. “Wanted to see what you’re giving the future Mrs. Gojo.”

Pausing mid-adjustment, that title hangs in the air.

Mrs. Gojo.

How strange. Satoru’s called you his wife already… but why does it sound kinda weird hearing it out loud from someone else. Especially someone as pure as Yuji. Huh… maybe it’s easier to call you that when your legs are spread open for him.

Humming low in his throat, he smooths his sleeve with more tension than before.

“Mm.”

But Yuji brightens anyway, as if the mood hasn’t shifted.

“Don’t worry, Gojo-sensei!” he declares, lifting the ribbon like he’s already halfway redeemed. “I can fix it!”

Satoru lifts a brow. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

Megumi doesn’t even look up. “No, he can’t.”

And just like that, the pink haired boy’s hunched over the low table again, brows drawn in tight concentration, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as Yuji—bless his heart—tries his best; wrestling that ceremonial silk into submission.

Megumi sighs. “It’s a box, Itadori. Not a curse.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Yuji grumbles. “Tch.” He gives the ribbon a final tug, and the knot bunches in on itself like it’s mocking him. A frustrated exhale pulls through his nose. “Kay, but… like, why is this harder than cursed energy manipulation?”

Strolling over, an amused expression pulls from Satoru’s face as he ties his sash with one hand carelessly. Then, peering over Yuji’s shoulder, his gaze drops to the disaster unfolding under the young boy’s hands.

“Eh?” he hums, cocking his head. “You’ve come a long way with your cursed energy control. But clearly, we skipped basic knot tying, Yuji.”

“Okay, but Sensei, this ribbon is cursed,” Yuji deadpans. “It’s mocking me. I swear. I just—ughhh!” He flops back onto the tatami with a groan, arms spread wide like a fallen soldier. “The hell? I’m not even the one getting married, and I’m sweating over this.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching with an easy grace. He plucks the lacquered box from the table with two fingers and spins it once in his palm.

“It’s ‘cause tradition is allergic to convenience,” he drawls, deftly untying the clumsy knot with a flick of his wrist. “It exists purely to make our lives harder.”

“Hey!” Yuji bolts upright, looking betrayed. “I almost had it, Gojo-sensei—!”

“Mhm.” Satoru ruffles his hair in passing, already walking back toward the mirror with the box in hand. “Sure, ya did~”

And then, without even looking, he smooths the ribbon out, looping and tucking it back into a clean, symmetrical knot—annoyingly perfect in a matter of seconds.

Yuji gapes. “How’d you do that so fast?”

A smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips. “Talent,” he sighs simply, setting the box down and reaching for his hakama pants.

Huffing, Yuji groans, flopping back on his elbows. “Y’know, Gojo-sensei—”

“Yuji,” Megumi cuts in, tone clipped. “That’s the fourth time. Watch yourself.”

Mid-gesture, Yuji blinks. “Huh?”

Glancing up at the mirror, Satoru doesn’t say anything—he’s stepping into his pants, folding the kimono in with quiet ease. Megumi just exhales—slow and tired, like he’s said this a dozen times before.

“Don’t forget where we’re going tonight.”

“Uh…” Yuji squints.  “What, the party? What about it?”

“Seriously…?” Megumi finally looks up, brow arching with something between irritation and warning. “There’ll be elders. Councilmen. Clanheads,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his phone. “Just… don’t slip and call him ‘sensei’ in front of them.”

“Oh...” realization hits fast—Yuji’s hand lowering, his grin slipping with it. “Right… sorry… I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…still don’t get why it has to be a secret though,” he grumbles under his breath.

Across the room, Satoru’s hands go still—fingers curling around the edge of his obi. In the mirror’s reflection, his gaze flicks to Yuji, lingering a second too long. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—like he’s caught in the gravity of a memory he doesn’t want to chase, standing on the edge of a thought he might not survive. But if he says nothing, maybe it will pass.

“I mean… it’s dumb, right?” Yuji tries, voice soft but sincere, gathering his courage. “You’re already doing it. Teaching us. So… why can’t it just be official?”

The question hangs there, light but pointed—too honest to brush off. Too direct to ignore. Just honest.

Young.

Satoru could say it; could say it’s not that simple—that some doors don’t open without closing others behind you. That some names come with chains no one sees. That the one thing they’d make him do to earn the title of sensei would leave a scar too deep to walk back from.

But what would be the point?

Yuji means well. Of course he does. That’s not the problem.

The issue is the world they live in.

There are rules older than all of them, and games played by ghosts who never left the table. But they’re too young to understand. And they shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids—holding the weight of things they shouldn’t have to carry.

And Satoru—he has no intention of handing them more. He’s good at pretending. He’s been doing it since before either of them were born. So, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t let the shadows stretch across the room. He only laughs—low, dismissive, breezy in a way that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Oh, Yuji…” he exhales, feigning exasperation. “C’mon now. You really think I wanna sit through boring faculty meetings?” he deflects, reaching for his haori—the final layer of silk—and slides it on like armor. Easy. Fluid. Just another layer to keep the truth out. “I mean… please. Wear a tie? Take attendance? Bleh. I’ve got enough on my plate keeping you dummies alive.”

Stretching his arms overhead, a lazy grunt slips from his throat as if that settles it—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Becoming Nanami is not on my bingo card.” He drawls, a smirk returning—lazy, lopsided, familiar. “I mean, being tied down’s not my thing, y’know?”

Scoffing from the floor, Yuji shoots him a look.

“Yeah, sure. Says the guy giving her that.”

Satoru blinks, following Yuji’s nod to the lacquered box that cradles your gift.

“Uh… what’s that supposed to mean?”

“No offense, Gojo-sensei, but it’s kinda… romantic. For you.”

Satoru scowls, adjusting the fold of his sleeve.

“It’s a formality, Yuji.”

“Yup, we know,” Megumi mutters, not bothering to look up from his phone. “The custom-cut sapphire gave that away.”

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, jaw ticking as a simmering heat lingers, creeping up the back of his neck.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” he mutters, adjusting the collar like it suddenly doesn’t sit right on his shoulders.

“Whoa,” Yuji blinks, sitting up straighter. “Heirloom tier?”

“Yeah… anyways,” Clearing his throat, Satoru slips the box into the inner fold of his robe with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You’re literally making it a big deal,” Megumi deadpans.

Something about that makes him snap—hot, brief, and immediate.

“I’m not!”  

It comes out sharper than intended. Both boys blink, freezing—and Satoru’s hand tightens briefly around the edge of his haori.

Shit.

He didn’t mean to snap.  Not like that. Not over a box. Not over you. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he suddenly so on edge? Is it ‘cause he didn’t get his release? Couldn’t finish what he started in the shower?

Yeah… must be. Get your shit together Satoru. This is what happens when he lets himself start thinking again. Lets himself linger too long on what tonight means.

Exhaling through his nose, he forces it all back down. Smooths his expression. Rebuilds the wall. Plays the part.

“Right then… anyways” he scoffs, reaching up to adjust his sleeves again, brushing away at nothing. “You’re the ones turning sapphires and heirlooms into some fairy tale proposal.”

The smirk that pulls at his lips is forced—thin, crooked, but convincing enough. He turns away from the mirror, shoulders squared like he’s fine. Like everything’s fine.

“It’s just a box,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Just a fucking formality.”

There’s a brief, weighty silence—the tension in the air saying enough. The kind of quiet where everything feels a little too loud.

Fucking hell Satoru…

These kids? They’re not supposed to see him come apart. He has to get it together. So, he exhales—loud and exaggerated this time—exploding into motion.

“Alright, alright,” he declares loudly, a sudden brightness that feels almost theatrical. “Enough dramatics. I’m polished. I’m present. I’m fucking dazzling. Yeah?”

He spins on his heel like a performer hitting the cue. A shift so abrupt it somehow works.

Because yeah—the ensemble’s perfect. Layers of rich indigo, the silver-threaded cuffs gleaming faintly under the warm overhead light. The cut is sharp, the fit immaculate. The Gojo crest near the collar flashes like a brand. The fabric whispers against his skin—luxury draped like armor.

Inherited. Not chosen. But he wears it like it fits.

Behind him, Yuji elbows Megumi with a grin. “Wow… Gojo-sensei cleans up scary fast.”

Megumi sighs, dry as ever. “Still late, though.”

And leaning back on his hands, Yuji tilts his head, eyes following the sweep of Satoru’s robes. “Let’s see… I think…” he hums pondering. “Hmm… Gojo-sensei looks like he belongs on money. Or maybe… oh! A museum!!”

Those words are said with a laugh—a spark of awe, but they hit something deeper.

Because… Satoru remembers that line.

Not from Yuji—but from himself. Eighteen years old and ascending to power, tossing the joke to Suguru as they stood side-by-side in this very same room.

His eyes lift to the mirror—pale lashes framing a vivid, electric blue. And for a moment—just a blink—his reflection looks… tired.

Shit… was that the same tired expression Suguru wore that very night? Showing subtle signs of…

No.

No thinking.

The boys are laughing, Megumi rolling his eyes as he mutters to Yuji, “Itadori… you’re feeding his ego.”

And just like that, Satoru’s mask slips back on.

“Oi,” he smirks. “You two done narrating my life?”

And turning towards them in a sweep of silk and silver, the fabric settles around his shoulders like a mantle.

“Besides, Megumi” he drawls, slinging an arm around both boys with exaggerated flair, “m’not late enough to get chastised. That’s the trick, remember?”

Groaning, Megumi shoves him off with a well-placed elbow as Yuji laughs—bright, boyish, easy.

And Satoru?

Satoru walks forward like he isn’t about to hand over the last piece of himself. Like this isn’t the beginning of the end of the only freedom he ever had.

Like this is just another night. And you’re just another girl.

“C’mon, kids,” he hums, stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go crash a party, yeah?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Why’s everyone looking at me like that…?” Yuji mutters, tugging at the collar of his formalwear. His steps hitch as they move through the main hall, voices dimming just enough to be noticeable.

Satoru doesn’t need to look to know what he means. He feels it too—eyes following, sticking like burrs, veiled judgment behind brittle smiles.

“Probably ‘cause you weren’t technically on my guest list,” he remarks casually, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his haori.

Yuji blinks. “Wait, what?!”

Satoru huffs a laugh, soft and unbothered. “You’ve got a mass-murdering curse king riding shotgun in your gut, kid. Hard to ignore,” he hums, half amused. “I’d say it’s definitely a conversation starter.”

Yuji gapes, only for a beat. “Man, seriously?” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Jeez, they could’ve led with literally anything else…”

But Satoru’s attention is already drifting, sweeping the halls without really turning his head. This place is all muscle memory now. He could walk it blind. He knows every floorboard, every creak.

He’s bled in these corridors—trained, limped, laughed barefoot with split knuckles and scraped knees. He’s thrown punches, broken rules, kissed a girl for the first time just past the east wing when he was still dumb enough to think that means something.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t hate the Gojo estate. Not when it’s empty. Not when it’s quiet. But tonight, it’s anything but—it doesn’t belong to him right now.

It belongs to them.

Shifting closer, Yuji’s shoulders tense, gaze flickering—not quite shrinking, but unsure. He knows he doesn’t belong, and he’s just now realizing how many eyes are on him.

Satoru glances sidelong at him, catching the flicker of discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Yuji’s eye. A slow, casual smirk curls at his lips. “I wanted you here,” he says simply, like it costs him nothing. “Relax. They can fuck off.”

Yuji blinks at him, uncertain. “You’re not worried?”

“About them?” Satoru scoffs, shaking off the thought entirely. “Please. They’ve been giving me dirty looks since I learned how to walk. You think I give a shit what they think now?”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Megumi’s voice trails from behind. “I think you managed to piss off half the room, and we just got here.”

Satoru hums, pleased. “Off to a good start, then.”

As they round the corner, the corridor widens—washed in warm lamplight, paper lanterns strung overhead like soft stars. The ceiling arches high, beams lacquered and dark with age, polished to a quiet shine. Satoru remembers tracing them as a kid, flat on his back after getting knocked on his ass. Sparring with Suguru. Laughing through the bruises.

Now, guests linger in quiet clusters, murmurs woven through the hush. Silk hems whisper across tatami. And just ahead, the ceremonial platform waits—elevated like a stage, dressed in folds of indigo and silver. Scrolls line the walls in sharp calligraphy. But it’s just dead men’s words. Legacy bullshit.

At the center, a single katana rests on black lacquer, gleaming under the lights. And there it is: two cushions sitting beneath it.

Right. Two.

Satoru steps up without pause, dropping onto his cushion with a pointed exhale. One knee bends, arm draped over it. His sleeves settle in loose, elegant folds—like he couldn’t be bothered to care, like this platform’s just another bench in Shibuya Station.

A throne he never asked for. So fuck it—if they’re going to put him here, he’ll make sure they choke on the view.

Yuji lingers at the bottom of the step—gaze drifting, distracted. Then, stopping, something catches his attention. Or rather, someone.

“Eh?!” he blurts, face lighting up. “Nanamin~!”

Heads turn at once—a few elders visibly stiffening from the outburst. One exhales sharply, another murmurs beneath their breath.

Across the room, Nanami Kento straightens in his seat, blinking like he’s already exhausted. Shoko, seated lazily beside him, lifts two fingers in a languid wave, unfazed.

“Yo!!” Yuji waves both arms like he’s hailing a taxi, practically glowing. “Na-na-min!! Na-na-min!! Over here!!”

Rolling his eyes, Megumi delivers a quick smack to the back of Yuji’s head.

“Oi. Inside voices, idiot.”

“Ow!” Yuji winces, rubbing the spot. “Rude!”

But Satoru only chuckles, cheek resting against his palm—watching Yuji bound across the floor with all the grace of a golden retriever. He makes his way towards both sorcerers as Megumi follows behind, and the elders start whispering again.

Eh. Let ‘em. He’s stopped caring a long time ago.

But then—something shifts in the room, murmurs bending, redirecting. One by one, heads turn. Not toward Yuji, nor towards him, but towards the entrance—landing on a figure stepping into view, directly beside an elder woman in plum silk.

You.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your steps are measured, your breath careful, but your heart won’t cooperate. It stutters, hummingbird-fast beneath the layered weight of your formalwear as you follow your mother into the hall.

But damnit, it’s not the room that makes you nervous.

It’s him.

His eyes lift, glacier-blue and impossibly clear. And for a moment, that sharp, unreadable stare softens, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—subtle, slow. Like he knows something you don’t. And maybe he does.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, heat blooms beneath your skin. It coils up your spine, floods your chest, burns in your cheeks. Like dry kindling catching flame. Like a dirty secret you can’t ignore.

Your body—your treacherous, filthy body—remembers everything. Too fucking well. God. Who even are you? Thinking such things. Here?? Now?!

He’s just sitting there, and your mind is dragging you back to the villa—laying under him in your unraveled kimono, pretty blue eyes watching you, lips whispering filth. He read your body like a fucking scripture. And worse—

Your dream. That fucking wet dream.

A rustle of silk breaks your spiral, and suddenly—

Thwack!

Jolting forward, you gasp as your mother’s hand clamps firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into a deep bow before the platform.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, voice tight and low. “Do not stand there gawking like a child.”

Flushed with embarrassment, you dip lower—automatically, like a switch had been flipped. Hands fold neatly over your lap, forehead hovering just above the tatami. You’re molten with shame and still shamefully warm in other places.

Wonderful.

First the dream, now this. What’s next—toppling into the ceremonial blade? A full descent into disgrace? Honestly, being swallowed by the floor wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Get it together.

Be poised. Be graceful. Good.

Inhaling, you peek up through the veil of your lashes, and of course—he’s watching. A lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, quiet and sure.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he drawls, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”

Goddamn him.

Your mother’s glare is burning into the side of your skull, and so, you move. Carefully. Rising from your bow, stepping onto the platform with quiet precision. As you watch your mother drift back towards the elders, her presence fades like incense—but the heat in your chest doesn’t. Especially not when Satoru leans in, close enough to stir the fine hairs at your nape.

“Made quite the entrance,” he murmurs.

You exhale through your nose. “That obvious, huh?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he shrugs, voice dipping low, curling at the edges. “Afterall… a lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, right?”

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, drawn to his like a thread pulled taut. Those shimmering blue eyes meet yours—bright, unreadable—a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Déjà vu.

Those words pull up memories like water from a well: his ascension, his 18th birthday—the night you first met, pulling you up from disgrace without blinking. You hadn’t known what to make of him then. You still don’t. But this time, the seat beside him isn’t offered as a favor. It’s yours. And that is what terrifies you most.

“I… shouldn’t have hesitated,” you whisper. “I can’t believe I forgot to bow…”

He clicks his tongue, mockingly gentle. “You really think I give a shit whether you bowed or not?”

You blink, startled.

“All this performance,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, “makes me want to claw my own fuckin’ eyes out.”

A small breath huffs from your nose—reluctant amusement warming you from the inside out. Because he doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds bored. Comfortable, even. Like none of this means anything at all. And for a moment, that loosens something in you. Your shoulders fall just slightly. Your heartbeat slows.

“If you lost those eyes,” you whisper, lips twitching, “they’d probably call it a national emergency…”

He scoffs. “Please. They’d just stuff me in a box and mourn the waste. Whispering prayers to what could’ve been.”

You giggle before you can stop yourself—an actual giggle, bubbling in your throat. It doesn’t belong in a room so silent and serious, and Satoru’s grin spreads instantly, smug with satisfaction.

Though just as warmth starts to bloom in your chest, your gaze strays.

Across the room, your mother sits poised, chin lifted, hands resting just so atop her knees. Her eyes are on you. Steady. Judgmental. And like that, your smile dims. Your hands return to your lap, fingers folding neatly—that old pressure settling heavy in your lungs again.

“…still,” you murmur, “I should’ve bowed. I’m to be your wife. I should carry myself with… grace.”

Satoru hums. “Grace, huh?” When you glance at him, his eyes are already on you. The blue of them softer now. Curious. “You don’t need to try for that, sweetheart. You’ve already got it. Beauty. Poise. The kind of elegance they spend their whole fucking lives faking.”

Blinking, you’re startled. Not just by the compliment but the way he says it. Like he means it. But just as a heat prickles up the base of your neck, he’s shifting, leaning in closer.

“But…” he whispers, voice dipping into something dark and amused, “if I’m being honest… you looked real fuckin’ pretty down there on your knees. M’sure I can think of a much better reason to put you there.”

You choke on air—something between a gasp and a whimper as your legs push together. He smirks immediately, and you’re blinking, glancing toward the elders, toward your mother.

They’re watching.

“I… um. I—” you start, but nothing coherent follows. Satoru’s voice is curling around you like smoke. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” Then, glancing at your mother again, you see her shift. Watching. Always watching. “I’m… not,” you whisper, eyes fixing forward.

“Mmm.” His voice dips, smile sharpening. “You are.”

Drawing in a breath, you try to steady the riot in your chest—trying to focus on the hum of mingling conversation, the scent of incense. Literally, anything but the man beside you.

“…it’s just… hot,” you mumble. And his chuckle is low and dangerous. You feel it. Not just in your ears, but under your skin. “Aw… don’t be shy,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear now. “You were a lot louder at the villa, baby.”

Your head jerks slightly. “S-Satoru—” you hiss, mortified.

But he’s already looking away, perfectly unbothered, grinning smugly. His eyes are half-lidded, watching guests mingle and bow in front of you, and his hand rests across one knee, fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. Relaxed, elegant—like he has all the time in the world.

Though his voice is wicked.

“Those pretty little gasps,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, “moaning my name like a good girl…” Your skin burns. “…all wet for me, yeah? So needy. So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your stomach flips. Your vision swims. The crowd moves like a dream around you—elders offering bows, dignitaries gliding in. And your mother—Still. Fucking. Watching.

Do they know?

Leaning in again, his breath tickles your ear.

“Though… next time,” he whispers, “I want that pretty little cunt in my mouth. Want you drippin’ for me. Want you shaking when you cum.”

You snap. “J-Just… shut up!” and the words are out before you even hear them leave you, making your blood run cold.

Because you said it. You told him—Satoru fucking Gojo—to shut up. The strongest sorcerer alive. The head of your clan. The man your entire life now orbitally depends on. You’ve never dared speak like that to anyone. Not your instructors. Not your elders. Certainly not to someone like him.

Eyes wide, panic swells in your chest.

“I mean—” you scramble, desperate to rewind. “I didn’t—um—I wasn’t—” But he’s fully looking at you now, already grinning. Slowly. Like a cat catching a bird mid-flutter. “Whoa,” he drawls, sounding delighted. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

Yup. You want the floor to swallow you whole. No—burn you alive first, then bury the ashes beneath the floorboards. You want to disappear completely. Maybe reincarnate as a koi in the garden pond. Something small. Quiet. Unseen. Unhumiliated.

“I-I didn’t mean it like—” but he’s leaning in before you can finish, knuckle brushing your cheek in a touch far too soft for how much heat it sparks beneath your skin. “Mmm…” His eyes flick to your mouth—brief, but enough. “And here I thought you were the perfect little girl. The perfect little wife,” he muses, slow and silken. “Maybe I ought to punish you for that. Hm?”

Your breath stalls.

Because he says it like it’s a joke—but it lands like it’s half a threat, half a promise, and somehow, entirely an invitation. And the worst part? Your mind skips ahead before you can stop it, imagining exactly what kind of punishment he means. 

No. Nope. Not today. Not when your thoughts are betraying you so loudly, you’re half-convinced he can hear them. You’re in formalwear. Surrounded by elders. With your mother somewhere in the crowd, probably chanting clan law in her head like a fucking Buddhist mantra.

“Ahem,” a throat clears—sharp, judgmental. “Gojo-sama,” an elder approaches.

Oh god. No. Someone heard. Everyone probably heard. You’re going to die here. Combust in real time. As panic swirls in your eyes, Satoru deflates, huffing an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling as a stiff man draped in a stone gray kimono towers over you.

“Mm?” he hums, reclining back slightly. “What is it now?”

“There are those present,” the elder continues, tone brittle, “who feel certain guests might cast… an unfortunate shadow over the ceremony.”

You blink, confused, glancing toward the back of the hall where the elder’s gaze lands on a young boy with pink hair. So… it’s not about you.?

“And?”

Satoru’s expression is eerily cold, and the elder’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. A weapon. The boy’s presence is dangerous—insulting, even. You’ve seated him in a place of honor and—”

“That vessel,” Satoru cuts, “has a name. And I invited him.”

“With respect—”

“Oh, don’t bother.” He scoffs, rising to his feet with slow, liquid grace. “You people keep saying that like you mean it.”

Before you can move or think or brace yourself, his fingers are curling around your wrist—pulling you smoothly to your feet beside him.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, already guiding you away from the dais, towards the estate’s garden. “We’re done here.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Stepping into the garden feels like slipping into a dream—your sandals clicking lightly along the stone path as Satoru pulls you through lantern-lit trees and hedges glazed with moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime stirs in the breeze, delicate as breath.

The world feels hushed. As you approach the pond glimmering ahead, koi ripple through the water in lazy spirals, their pale scales flashing like ghost light beneath the surface.

Satoru is dragging you insistently, fingers wrapped around your wrist, loose but unwavering. And though you barely know this man, it’s obvious there’s something simmering beneath that silence. Something sharp.

“Um… Satoru…?” you murmur, uncertain.

“Mm?”

“Are you… okay?”

“Yup,” he trudges forward, eyes ahead. “M’fine.”

“Oh… alright.”

But he doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s trying not to snap. Not angry exactly—just… shut down. Like he’s closed a door inside himself, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Still, he doesn’t let go. Trailing behind—cherry blossom petals drift through the air like fallen wishes as he leads you to a wooden bench—nestled beside the pond’s edge, encompassed by flowering branches.

“Right then…” he sighs, dropping onto the bench. “Where were we?” And you stumble as he’s pulling you directly into his lap, catching yourself on his shoulders. “S-Satoru—!” he grins, “Shhh…”

And that’s the only warning you get. Because then he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all heat and breath and teeth, like something’s been splintering in his chest all night, and he’s trying to silence the whole fucking world with the shape of your mouth.

“Mnh…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his hand slides low, gripping your ass, yanking you flush to his thigh. “’t-toru…” you whine as he forces you down onto the hard muscle of his leg, right against your wet, aching cunt.

“Fuck,” he groans, panting between each messy kiss. “There’s my little slut…” he palms your ass, squeezes your tit. “Mnh… tellin’ me to shut up in front of all those fuckin’ people…”

As his lips trail down your jaw, you whimper—shuddering. Your body begins. to move on its own.

“O-oh… fuck,” you whisper a moan, hips stuttering, rutting softly, shamefully against him. That delicious friction is too much and not enough, and you feel Satoru’s lips curl against your neck, grinning. “S’wrong, baby?” he croons, rocking your hips harder, the bench creaking beneath you. “Can’t help yourself?”

And God, you can’t. You don’t even recognize your own body. Everything is heat. Everything is him. He palms your ass with both hands now, guiding your hips with filthy easy, and you can feel it—your slick spreading, warm and messy, soaking through your delicate silk with every shameless roll of your hips.

“God, look at you…” he hisses, leaning back to watch, blue eyes hooded, glowing in the moonlight, “—so fuckin’ wet. So needy. This pussy’s soakin’ through your pretty little kimono.”

You choke on a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. Like it might muffle the shame—the filthy sounds of your own body. But nothing hides the mess between your legs. He’s right. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.

“F-Fuck… m’sorry…” you whine, cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. “Sorry?” he huffs a breathless laugh. “Shit… you’re not sorry. S’okay baby,” he purrs, rocking you again. “I know you wanted this. Little pussy missed me, hm?”

Fingers twisting into his hair, you nod—tugging, anchoring yourself. Honestly, you’re not sure if it’s shame or truth that’s guiding you anymore. “I want—” your voice cracks, words tangling, grinding down again, the sensation almost too much. “I want… I—fuck—”

“Hm?” he pants, nosing along your jaw, cocky and breathless. “Speak up, sweetheart. What do you want?”

The garden is too quiet. The moonlight too soft. The breeze shifts through the trees, rustling branches above you, and the soft ring of the wind chime cuts like a bell through fog. It all feels wrong for what’s spilling out of you—for how filthy you feel, how good you feel.

“Want you…” you whine, face burning, lashes fluttering shut. “Dreamt about you fucking me… woke up so wet.”

You don’t even know how you’re still speaking, but the words are tumbling out of your mouth while your hips move. As your pour out your filthy truth, a shameful slick drips from your cunt down the sharp line of his leg. You feel Satoru tense underneath you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “Bad fuckin’ girl,” and you squeal as he’s suddenly lifting you like you’re nothing, repositioning, pulling you down onto the thick, swollen ridge of his cock, tenting beneath his robes. “There,” he mutters, breath ragged, rolling you against it, “That what you wanted?”

You nod, moaning again, hips already moving, cunt grinding slowly over the shape of him. Even through the silk, you can feel everything. The size. The heat. The pulse. He’s panting against your lips, vibrant blue eyes lidded, soft white hair slipping through your fingers as you eagerly roll needy circles over his length.

“I’ve been fuckin’ hard all day,” he growls, dick leaking at the tip, twitching, wetting the fabric right against your cunt. “Had to fuck my fist this mornin’, thinkin’ about pounding your sweet little pussy…”

His mouth is on yours again—teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue swallowing your whimper as you continue to rock insistently. The kiss is filthy. Frantic. He spreads your thighs wider, grinding you down. Harder, deeper—cock throbbing beneath you, soaked with your slick, straining for friction. You’re right there; body flushed, rhythm building. But then—

Crunch

Footsteps on the gravel. The sound doesn’t register until the breeze stops. Until the wind chime stills. Until every nerve in your body suddenly goes entirely fucking cold.

“Oi!” You freeze. Everything freezes. “There you are. The elders are wondering where you—”

As your head slowly turns, you catch sight of a young boy with black hair, backlit by the faint lantern glow. Your eyes meet, and he blinks—seeing you, perched on Satoru’s lap, kimono askew, hitched around your waist, slick dripping down your thighs while his cock is under you. Somewhere in the distance, a koi splashes lazily in the pond, completely unbothered by your descent into personal hell.

“Oh…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Oh fuck.”

You feel your face turn fever-hot, and burying yourself forward, a strangled whimper escapes you, muffled in Satoru’s neck. Yup. You want to disappear. But Satoru just exhales, exhausted, head falling back against the bench.

“Megumi,” he says flatly. “…what the actual fuck.”

“W-What?” Megumi clears his throat, face visibly blanking. “I—” He blinks hard. Swallows. Then abruptly turns on his heel. “I didn’t see anything!” his voice cracks, already retreating. “Nope. Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Please, kill me…” you whimper again, but Satoru huffs. “Tch. I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbles, slumping back against the bench. His hand drags down his face. “Swear to fuckin’ god… this kid’s got a sixth sense for cockblocking.”

“Um… huh?” you peek up, still dazed.

But Megumi’s voice is already fading down the path. “For the record, Nanami sent me!” he shouts. “If you’re gonna kill someone, start with him!” And just like that, he’s gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Yo!! There you are!” Yuji’s voice rings out the second you and Satoru round the bend, loud and bright as he throws both hands in the air. “We were about to send a search party!”

You follow after Satoru, half a step behind, eyes flicking to him in quiet search. Maybe for a smile. A glance. Some thread of reassurance to hold onto. But he gives you nothing—just keeps walking, calm and composed, like you’re not unraveling quietly beside him.

“Mmm… Megumi beat you to it,” he hums, nodding toward the boy in question as you approach the group. You feel it before you even look—Megumi goes stiff like he’s just been yanked into a spotlight, his shoulders pulling tight.

“Huh?” Yuji turns, blinking at him. “You didn’t mention finding them.”

“I didn’t find anything,” Megumi mutters, clipped and quick—the tips of his ears blooming red. But Satoru just clicks his tongue and grins.

“Didn’t find anything, huh? Funny. Your face said otherwise.”

Scoffing, Megumi turns away sharply, already done with this conversation, while Yuji blinks between them, still trying to piece it together.

“Wait—what?”

“Ahhh… I see. That why you looked like you saw a ghost, Fushiguro?” a new voice chimes in as Shoko exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. “Makes sense now. You were white as a sheet,” she hums, ash tapping into a nearby tray.

“Can we not,” Megumi grumbles, glaring at a spot on the wall like he can will it to swallow him whole.

You get it. God, do you get it.

Megumi hasn’t looked at you once. Won’t even acknowledge you—and maybe that should make things easier. Maybe it’s a kindness. But still… something inside you prickles. Like if someone were painting this moment, you wouldn’t be in the frame. Just a blur in the background—a misplaced brushstroke someone meant to wipe away. Because the group is moving in sync around you—falling into a rhythm; a rhythm without you.

“Awww, that bad?” Satoru hums, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Reminds me of Sapporo.”

Megumi stiffens. “Don’t.” But Satoru’s already grinning, eyes lit with mischief.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls. “That curse with the split-face, in the middle of a snowstorm, remember? You tried to give it directions—”

“Oh my god,” Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you sometimes.”

Yuji perks up like he’s just been handed popcorn. “Wait, what? What happened in Sapporo?”

“It was beautiful,” Satoru deadpans, mock-serious. “Megumi thought the curse was just some lost old man. Actually bowed to it.”

Megumi snaps. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Ahhh… I remember now,” Shoko adds with a drag of her cigarette. “You were pale for a week.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Seriously?!”

“You should’ve seen his face when it hissed at him,” Satoru snickers. “I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot.”

They’re all laughing now, but you’re still sitting on the outside. Because they know each other—really know each other. There’s a shared language here; shorthand glances and stories etched into muscle memory. But you? You can’t fake your way into that.

Without thinking, you drift a little closer, just enough to feel the illusion of proximity. Maybe you’re hoping for Satoru to ground you. Introduce you. Anything. A gesture. A glance. A sign that you’re not entirely invisible to him.

But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t reach for you.

“If this comedy set is over,” Nanami sighs dryly, adjusting the sleeves of his kimono, “I’d like to suggest we return to the schedule.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Nanamin.” Satoru tips back on his heels, grin curling. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of the elders. You sure you’re not secretly fifty?”

“At least I act my age,” Nanami deadpans.

Satoru scoffs, teeth flashing. “Can’t all be born with a stick up our ass, huh?” Then he turns toward Shoko, mock concern softening his voice. “Might need to get a medic to check that. You still licensed?”

She exhales, bored. “Only if it’s for your ego.”

They laugh again. You try to smile, to stay present, but it’s like watching the world through a window you’re not allowed to open. Their rhythm is effortless. You don’t even know the tempo.

Should you say something? Laugh along with them? Introduce yourself? Satoru hasn’t even spared you a glance. And though you’ve been trained your whole life to show up perfect, polished, gracious—there’s a difference between knowing how to perform and knowing where you belong.

And right now, you don’t belong.

Until Shoko’s eyes cut to you. Then back to Satoru.

“Uh… you gonna introduce us?” she murmurs, smoke curling from her mouth. “Or should we keep pretending we didn’t all clock the lipstick on your neck?”

The words hit like a slap—snapping you out of your haze before you even realize it. Because suddenly, you’re not invisible.

All eyes shift.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or crawl under the nearest tatami mat. Shifting subtly, you straighten your kimono, tugging at the hem like it can somehow undo the fact that Satoru Gojo just made you grind your dripping cunt on his lap under the moonlight.

But Satoru just casually wipes his neck, lazily smearing the lipstick away with the pad of his thumb. “I was getting there…” he hums, rolling his shoulders. “This is…” he pauses, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

You glance up, confused. His grin is hitching, and though he’s finally looking at you again, why does it seem like he’s…

Hesitating?

“Uh…” he blinks, looking away from you and shrugging. “Her.”

Her?

Your stomach sinks. Heat creeps up your neck.

What does that even mean?

The silence stretches a second too long—enough for it to sting.

Nanami raises a brow. “…her?”

“Uhh… yeah?” Satoru clicks his tongue, like that’s clarification enough. “You know.”

More silence.

Finally, he huffs. “Jesus, the one who—”

“His wife!” Yuji cuts in brightly, grinning at you like you’re already one of them.

You blink, caught off guard by this boy now beaming at you—all wide-eyed sincerity, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s something so disarmingly genuine in the way he says it. The tightness in your chest loosens, and the nerves that were building low in your stomach begin to simmer away.

“Well—technically, future wife,” Yuji amends with a sheepish grin, arms folding behind his head like it’s no big deal.

“Right,” Satoru mutters beside you, jaw ticking. “Guess that’s the word we’re using now…”

You shift, startled by the way it’s said. Glancing at him, he doesn’t meet your eye, but before you can sit with the sting of it, Yuji is already pulling your attention back to him. “

“I’m Itadori Yuji, by the way!” he beams, all sunshine. “It’s super nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You bow, instinctive and polite, still trying to catch up with the feeling that’s been curling in your gut—but Yuji isn’t finished. “You’re really pretty, by the way!”

Blinking, a surprised smile tugs at your lips. This boy says it so plainly, so innocently, it catches you off guard.

“Oh—um… thank you?”

“Sure thing!” he nods, then adds seriously, “I mean—not that I thought you’d be ugly or anything, just—"

“Okaaaay…” Megumi interjects, already regretting the entire direction of the conversation. “We get it, Itadori.”

You glance Megumi’s way, half-expecting him to look annoyed, or maybe still mortified from earlier—but his arms are crossed and his expression is just… guarded, not unfriendly. Just Megumi.

“Name’s Fushiguro,” he says, giving a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” The words come easier now. There’s a pause, a breath of quiet that—for once—doesn’t feel strained. Yuji tips his head, eyes curious. “Y’know… you’ve got a calm, almost graceful presence. It’s kinda… grounding?”

“Oh?” you tilt your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Definitely good,” he replies without hesitation. “You seem like the type who’ll balance Gojo out.”

You smile, and for a moment, you don’t feel like a stranger. You feel… included. Until Satoru cuts in.

“Kay. Cool,” he says, coldly. “Glad everyone’s caught up. We done?”

It’s tossed out like a joke—but it doesn’t land like one. It lands with the dull thud of something meant to bruise. Glancing over, you see he’s already looking away, as if the moment wasn’t meant to include you at all. As if your presence is just something to get past.

Shoko raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Ignore him,” she exhales. “I’m Shoko. I do most of the patchwork when Satoru gets his dumb ass injured.”

He rolls his eyes. “Once. That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Nanami interjects mildly. “And you nearly bled out the second time.”

Satoru scoffs. “I healed myself that time.” But Nanami doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turns to you, dipping his head with calm precision.

“Kento Nanami. A pleasure.” You bow, a bit deeper this time. “Likewise. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Nanami straightens, and for a second, you think that’s all. But then his gaze flicks briefly to Satoru, who’s practically glaring, staring ahead—annoyed. Then Nanami’s eyes drag back to you. 

“He’s a difficult man,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“Dude,” Satoru mutters. “I’m standing right here.”

“That you are.”

“Y’know I can hear you, yeah?”

“Yup. You were meant to.”

Glancing between them, you’re not quite sure if they’re joking or actually irritated with each other. It’s hard to tell. Because the mood has shifted again—warmer around the others, colder beside Satoru. There’s something else behind his smile now. Not amusement. Not ease. Something… distant.

“So…” Shoko drawls, attention shifting to you as she exhales another lazy plume of smoke. “You from one of the Kyoto clans?”

“Yes,” you nod, and despite everything, there’s a quiet thread of pride in your voice. “My family served in the western region for generations, mostly specializing in—”

“Excuse me.”

You blink—body stiffening instantly. The interruption is soft, but cutting. It silences you mid-sentence. And at the edge of the group, your mother steps into view. Elegant as ever in her perfectly pressed kimono. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Apologies, Gojo-sama,” she murmurs with a delicate bow. “I hope I’m not… interrupting.”

“Mm?” Satoru glances at her, then flicks his fingers lazily through the air. “S’fine,” he hums, as if it doesn’t matter either way. His gaze doesn’t follow you. Not once. And as your mother turns to you next, your stomach immediately drops.

“May I have a word?”

It’s not really a question.

You nod, feet already moving—trailing after her with the kind of obedience that was taught to you before you were ever allowed to speak your own name. The warmth you’d been tentatively gathering seems to drain from your chest instantly, bleeding out of you like ink in water. Because as the circle closes behind you, following her away—it’s like… you were never really part of it to begin with.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” your mother begins, low, clipped, “that your appearance reflects not just on yourself—but on your family. On me.”

Behind her shoulder, the group still lingers in a loose semi-circle—smiling, relaxed, unreachable. A world you crave. A world where they belong. Satoru’s laughing at something Shoko says—head tipped back, fingers raking through his hair like the last twenty minutes never happened.

“They’re all watching,” she continues, scanning the room for witnesses, not even sparing you a glance. “And this is how you present yourself?”

“I…” you start, lips parting—but the words never quite come.

Because it did happen. Right? You’re so confused. You remember every second; his hands on your hips, his mouth on your skin, dragging you against him like he wanted you, needed you. And yet, here he is—making you feel like none of that meant anything. Like the second you stepped into his real world, the spell broke.

“Look at you,” your mother cuts back, finally turning that sharp, assessing gaze onto you. “Your lipstick is smudged. Your collar’s uneven. Your obi…” she clicks her tongue. “What were you doing?”

Your gaze snaps back at that question, eyes widening.

What were you doing?

You open your mouth to respond but, what the fuck are you supposed to say? That he touched you? That you let him? That you wanted it to mean something?

“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your place?” her eyes are sharp but her voice is maddeningly calm. “And you walk in here looking like you’ve just rolled out of someone’s bed. Like you’re begging to be replaced.”

Replaced.

The word lands like a slap. You blink, but the burn behind your eyes rises too quickly, no matter how tightly you try to hold it back. Your mother’s lectures are nothing new, but this one? It pulls at something that’s already been festering in your chest since after you left the garden with Satoru. No. Maybe even before. Perhaps since the villa.

Does he truly want you?

The moments you’ve shared, has he moved past them? Was it just heat and impulse? Maybe you were never anything more than a passing indulgence.

Just over your mother’s shoulder, you catch a last glimpse of his white hair before a wave of guests shuffle between you, blocking your view completely. You lose sight of him. And with it, any illusion of being tethered.

“I asked you a question.”

Your mother’s voice slices through your spiral like a blade. Blinking hard, you will the tears to not fall.

“W-What?”

She sighs. “Are you even listening?”

“I-I am,” you rush out, voice thinner than you want it to be. “I just… I’m sorry mother. I didn’t realize my appearance was that bad.”

Her gaze flattens, disappointed. “Didn’t realize,” she echoes, like the words offend her. “That’s not good enough.”

You try to hold her stare, but everything in you feels like it’s caving inward. You want to disappear. You want her to stop. You want to cry, but damnit, you know better.

“This world won’t make room for uncertainty,” she continues. “Not for someone standing beside him. If you look fragile, they’ll use it. If you look lost, they’ll pick you apart. You give them even an inch of doubt—” she narrows her eyes, “they’ll rip you to pieces.”

You swallow hard, gaze flicking to the crowd again, searching for his face. But he’s gone. Though you can’t get the sound of his laughter out of your head—a joy that you didn’t bring him.

“They are watching,” your mother murmurs, stepping in closer, voice lowering. “They’re whispering. Wondering what kind of girl the Gojo clan allowed through their gates.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped your eyes until her hand lifts your chin—gentle, but firm. The way she’s always done. Like control dressed up as care.

“You want their respect?” her eyes narrow. “Then look like someone worth respecting. The Gojo name already eclipses your own. Don’t give them more reason to ask why you’re wearing it at all. The very least you can do is look like you belong.”

Belong.

You don’t even know what that means anymore.

Not when the people behind her were laughing like you’re not there. Not when Satoru won’t look at you. Not when your mother’s voice makes your chest feel hollow. Not when every inch of you feels like it’s wearing something borrowed.

“Go. Clean yourself up.”

Barely trusting your voice, you nod, shifting toward the estate’s restroom.

“Fix your collar,” she adds, turning slightly. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Hold your stance, my little crane. Even when you feel small. Especially then.’

Hearing your father’s voice echo in your mind, the burn behind your eyes sharpens. Don’t cry. Damnit. Don’t cry.

You can’t. Not here.

You just need a second. A moment alone. To gather yourself—pull all the unraveling parts back into something whole. Something worthy. The shape of a girl who belongs.

So, you’ll do just that. You’ll fix your collar. Reapply your lipstick. Walk back with your chin high, like none of it touched you. Like you deserve to stand beside Gojo Satoru and not shrink in his shadow.

Slipping down the hallway, your steps brisk. The paper screens cast soft shadows against the wooden floors, muffling the noise from the party behind you. As you reach the bathroom’s sliding door, it’s barely cracked, and without thinking to knock, you immediately slide it open and enter.

But your eyes blink as you see two figures, seated at the lacquered bench in the bathing room. At first, all you see is silk. Fabric gathered over pale skin. A shoulder bare where it shouldn’t be. The gentle creak of a bench as someone shifts. A low, languid sigh.

But then—white hair.

Satoru.

A girl is straddling him, her kimono hiked high along her thighs, her chest pressed against his. One hand in his hair. The other curled loosely around his shoulder.

“Mnh… missed you…” she’s murmuring between kisses. “You always make me wait too long…” and you hear his satisfied hum against her lips before breaking it. His hand slides slowly up the back of her thigh, fingers splayed. “You like it when I make you wait,” he breathes, lips grazing hers—teasing, not quite touching.

Giggling, her mouth chases his again. “I like it more when you follow through,” she whispers, hips shifting as she rolls into his lap in a slow, practiced grind. “C’mon, Gojo…” she whines, “don’t you ever miss me?”

He huffs—half-laugh, half-sigh—eyes still closed. “Miss your timing…” he mutters, the curve of a smirk playing at his lips. “You always know when to crawl into my lap.”

“Mmh, asshole,” she breathes, catching his mouth again—sloppier this time. Hungrier. “You never called me back…” she pouts, tugging his hair between kisses. “Thought maybe you forgot about me…”

“Been busy,” he murmurs, muffled between kisses, hands tightening along her waist. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The air in your lungs lock up.

Because for a second, you think you must be mistaken. That this can’t be real. That your eyes are lying. That this is some sick trick of the lighting, the stress, the way your stomach’s been twisted into knots since you left the garden.

But no. It’s him. It’s her. It’s his hand curling over her thigh the same way it held your waist not even an hour ago. Satoru’s mouth finds hers with slow, practiced rhythm, and when he exhales against her skin, you feel it like a slap.

Not noticing you, she shifts in his lap, kissing down the line of his jaw, whispering something in his ear that makes him huff out a small, amused breath. His eyes open, heavy-lidded at first, then wider—startled.

Because now, he sees you.

Standing there in the doorway like an idiot—like some ghost caught between floors—here, at your fucking engagement ceremony. Still wearing the lipstick he smudged. Still tasting him on your tongue.

He’s blinking at you like he’s unsure you’re real, not moving, not stopping the girl as she continues to kiss the place where your mouth had just been.

“You’re so tense, baby…” she purrs, grinding slowly into him. “Need me to relax you?”

God, you want to run away.

The edge of your heel catches the corner of a decorative vase, perched on a stand beside the door. It wobbles, then—

Crash!

The ceramic splatters against the floor, immediately getting the girls’ attention, slicing through the room like a whip. She startles, glancing over her shoulder, lips pink and flushed, hair falling loose from her pin.

“Oh,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand down her skirt. “Shit—um, sorry. Did we forget to lock the door?”

You’re not sure who breaks first—your voice, or your heart.

“…I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves you. Like it’s you’re mistake. Like you’re the one intruding—you’re the one who doesn’t belong. Shifting, your eyes glance to the mirror, catching the way your lipstick’s smeared, the way your collars still crooked.

“Was just going to fix this…” you murmur, brushing at your mouth like it matters. Then a bitter laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, “…didn’t realize it had already been replaced.”

You feel so fucking stupid. So fucking naïve.

Satoru is looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s caused, but you refuse to look at him. The girl on his lap blinks, putting the pieces together.

“Wait… is she—?” she starts, glancing back at Satoru, confused, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Shit—um, is this—?”

“Hey. I—” he starts, ignoring her, sitting up straighter—but whatever he means to say dies on his tongue. Because you’re already backing away.

“I…uh… just needed a minute to breathe,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “Not to walk in and lose everything.”

Gripping the edge of the doorframe, you catch a glimpse of his brows knitting together, but you don’t wait for whatever comes next.

You’re already gone.

Because if you don’t get away now, you’ll fall apart in the middle of the hallway. And if there’s anything your mother taught you—it’s that you don’t let them see you fall.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You don’t even feel your feet beneath you. Just grass brushing your ankles. The soft hush of wind threading through bamboo. You blink, not even remembering walking here, only remembering that the hallway swallowed you whole and your legs moved on their own, carrying you deeper into silence until it opened into starlight.

The garden.

Of course, it’s the garden—spilling out in front of you like a memory you weren’t ready to return to. You never chose this path, and yet… here you are. The one place you’d felt wanted tonight. The one place that now feels tainted.

The koi pond shimmers under the low lantern light, its surface undisturbed. Serene. Like it doesn’t remember how he kissed you here. Koi are sliding beneath the surface—flashes of copper and cream, rippling the water slightly.

Collapsing to your knees, you drop beside the pond’s edge, and looking down, your own reflection waves through their movements.

A mess.

Red-rimmed eyes. Your hair a disarray. Crooked collar. Lipstick smeared across your cheek like a fucking brand. A girl trying too hard to look like someone worth choosing.

‘You know why koi are special, little crane? Because they swim against the current. They never stop, no matter how long the river runs against them.’

Your father.

You used to love that story. Because while your mother’s discipline was perfection, his was protection. If you held your ground, no one could move you. But here you are. On the ground. Shaking. And though you did everything he said—still, you weren’t enough. Because, how could he abandon your mother? Abandon you? You’ll never be enough. Not for him, not for your mother, not for Satoru.

With trembling hands, you cover your mouth, but the sound pushes out anyway—soft, ugly, raw.

You cry like a child who never measured up. Like a girl who waited for her father to come home. Like a girl who was told to carry legacy on her back and make it look effortless. You cry for the silence you endured. For the weight of being perfect. For the softness he kissed and discarded like it didn’t matter.

For the fact that, deep down,you don’t even know who you are without trying to be what everyone wants.

The sound of footsteps doesn’t register at first. Just the soft press of soles against grass, slow and careful, stepping around you slowly. You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But the hem of her kimono drifts into view—embroidered cranes glinting gold in the lantern light, silk so pristine it seems untouched by the night.

She stops just across from you, and for a long moment, you stare at her feet. At the way her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs before folding neatly in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks softly.

It’s such a simple question. And it destroys you. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might hold it in—but the tears keep spilling. Quiet, stubborn, relentless.

Though much to your surprise, she doesn’t scold. Doesn’t press her lips thin or huff with disappointment. She just watches. And then, without a word, she’s reaching forward—fixing the edge of your collar with gentle fingers, straightening the fabric, brushing a smudge from your cheek with her thumb. A small breath leaves her.

“…did he hurt you?”

Lips trembling, you nod. Just once. There’s a long pause—her gaze shifting to the pond beside you; watching the koi slide beneath the surface, silent ribbons of color weaving through dark water.

“I see…” she murmurs. “What happened?”

Where do you even begin? And how much should you really tell her?

“I… was just going to fix my lipstick,” the words come out thin and unsteady. You try to laugh, but it buckles halfway, folding into a sob. “God—I was so stupid,” and finally looking up, you blink past the blur of tears. “He looked me in the eye and let her keep kissing him.”

Your mother’s face remains still, unreadable—but her eyes flick once toward the garden gate. A flicker of caution. As if weighing how much time you have before someone else finds you like this. Then, without moving from her place, she reaches up again—adjusting your hair where it’s come undone, tucking strands behind your ear with a care she once gave you as a child.

“My dear… you are not stupid. Now you know,” Her eyes don’t flinch. “He is your husband in name. Not in heart. So, you act accordingly.”

“I… what?”

Blinking, the words barely leave your lips. Because her words don’t make sense—at least… not in the way you want them to. Or maybe they make too much sense. Either way, you’re left speechless.

As your mother’s eyes flick toward the garden’s edge again—faint footsteps pass just beyond the screen, reminding her, and you, that this world is always watching.

“Fate and tradition shape us,” she says quietly. “It isn’t always fair. But it is ours to uphold.”

There’s no sharpness in her tone. No heat. Just a calm, settled truth. And somehow, that makes it worse. It feels like a life sentence said with a lullaby. Like the ending has already been written—and you were the only one foolish enough to think you might rewrite it.

“I—” you try, but your throat catches. You shake your head once, like it might shake the grief loose. “I thought… I…” but you falter.

What is there to say?

That you believed this could be different? That you wouldn’t be tethered to the same quiet resignation you’ve watched around you your entire life. That you weren’t walking into a legacy of endurance, but something else—something that chose you back?

A breath trembles through you.

“I thought… being chosen meant I was wanted.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. “…I’m sure you did,” she replies. And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d scolded you. “But he is a man. A powerful one. And you are a woman of duty.”

The words carve through you—not for their cruelty, but because they were always waiting. Tucked into every lesson she ever gave you. Spoken or not, this was where it always led. A script she memorized long before you were old enough to understand.

“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined this would be,” she murmurs, reaching up, brushing her fingers through your hair, smoothing it gently. “But that man will not carry your dignity for you. If you don’t learn to do it yourself… no one will.”

So… that’s it then?

It’s like she’s repeating something she once told herself. But, living a life like that? Standing tall—though remaining complacent? Silent? What kind of life is that to live? You’ve never once spoken against her. Never even thought to. But now—

“Mother… I…” the words break before they’re even formed. “…I don’t know if I can do this.”

Her brow tightens.

“You can.”

“No—I…”

“You must…” she hushes, smoothing a wrinkle from your sleeve, as if she’s wrapping your words before they unravel too far, “…there is no future for us without this. Without this arrangement, we remain exiled. Forgotten. Disgraced. You understand that, don’t you?”

Your gaze drops. Because you do. You always have. That truth has lived in your bones since the day your father left. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Your duty to him isn’t about love,” she continues, eyes sweeping your face. “It is about what is… necessary,” then, hesitating, you catch sight of her eyes, lifting just over your shoulder.

And that’s when you hear it. The grass bending beneath soft footsteps. The quiet hush of a new presence behind you. You tense, glancing over your shoulder, but of course, you already know who's there. And catching that glimpse of white hair through the dark confirms it.

Satoru.

“Hey… the ceremony’s starting,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting.”

It lands somewhere between casual and cautious. No apology. No explanation. Just a line dropped into the stillness like a stone. And when your mother speaks again, her voice is smooth, seamless—like he was always meant to hear it.

“Right then…” she smiles serenely, gripping your hands in a comforting squeeze. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Now that everything’s settled, come. You will walk beside him with grace, and you will fulfill your role as his wife—as the mother of his children.”

Blinking at her, you don’t find any words. Because you can’t believe that your own mother is really forcing you to go through with this. That you’re just supposed to pretend the bathroom didn’t just happen—pretend everything is fine? And of course, Satoru isn’t going to say anything of this, is he? Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Stepping closer, Satoru extends his hand to you.

“I suppose… mother knows best, hm?”

The words cut.

Déjà vu.

Except… it feels like betrayal now.

Your eyes sting. Not just from the tears, but from how easily you were made the fool, and with a trembling breath, you lift your sleeve and dab at your cheeks, quick and practiced, erasing the worst of it.

Not because the tears are gone—but because they are no longer allowed to be seen. You refuse to go in there looking like a girl who begged to be loved and was told it wasn’t part of the arrangement.

“Of course,” you murmur—voice steadier, taking his hand, not looking at his expression. “I just need a minute. To fix my face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Uh… you hunting something?”

Satoru quietly exhales, amused as you slip around the estate corners like you’re trespassing—even though you aren’t. Even though you’re the fucking bride-to-be. Even though this entire ceremony is built around you and him.

But you look like a mess, and damnit, you’re not going to let anyone know what the fuck happened tonight.

“I need a mirror…” you mutter, tugging open another shoji door. It glides back to reveal the usual: tatami floors, a low lacquered table, a delicate calligraphy scroll inked in stillness. Tranquil. Elegant.

Useless.

“There’s a perfectly good one in the bathroom,” he states flatly behind you.

Right. Of course there is. Like fucking hell you’re going back in that room.

Ignoring him, you keep moving, turning sharply down the next corridor. His footsteps follow—steady, unhurried; the soft whisper of his kimono a shadow just behind yours.

“…do you even know where you’re going?” he asks as you peer into another room. “Nope…” you exhale, letting the door fall shut with a quiet snap.

But you don’t stop. You can’t. Maybe because, if you keep going—room to room, door to door—this frantic motion will somehow piece your composure back together. That’s the only logic fueling you now. Though unfortunately, the next room is no better. Incense. Silk cushions. A painted folding screen.

No reflection. No relief.

“Huh,” Satoru muses dryly. “How many tea rooms does one clan really need. This has to be… what? Number six?”

“Yup…” you mutter dismissively, brushing past him with clipped breath. “You’d think a place this massive could spare at least one goddamn mirror…”

He only hums, content to trail behind like this is some game. Asshole. He probably knows where one is. He’s probably waiting for you to ask. But you won’t. Maybe out of pride. Maybe out of spite.

Or perhaps because… if you stop—if you look at him—you’ll break for real this time.

So, you press on—because the last thing you need is another pair of eyes watching you fall apart—which is exactly why it drives you fucking mad that you can feel his on you. That heavy blue gaze hasn’t left you since the moment he stepped into that garden. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

You’re too terrified to look at him. Not after what he did to your heart. What expression is he even wearing?

Pity?

Amusement?

…nothing at all?

“…you’re not gonna find a mirror in a broom cupboard,” he adds as you slide open yet another useless door.

For a second, you truly consider slamming it shut—hard. Right in his fucking face. Just to hear it echo down the hallway and maybe shut him out with it.

“I’m well aware…” you grit, sliding it closed, fingers trembling at the seam. Then, shifting down the corridor, another door comes into view. Your hand lifts, reaching for it—before suddenly, you freeze—body stilling.

Because voices linger… muffled through paper-thin walls.

“…wonder what’s the hold up,” a woman sighs, bored.

“She’s still not out?”

“Nope. They’re stalling.”

“Think she’ll even show her face before the ceremony starts?” another muses.

“Honestly? Who knows. At this point, it’s just embarrassing.”

Blinking, your hand hovers inches from the handle. You feel Satoru still behind you.

“Mm. Not a great look for a bride, is it?”

“Well…” another voice drawls—sweet, venomous, “…her father cracked under pressure too, didn’t he?”

“Cracked?” another snorts. “More like he fucking shattered.”

Laughter.

It shivers through the paper like a breeze, but it hits you like a slap. Because that’s all it takes, isn’t it? To turn your life into a punchline. A passing footnote to joke about.

“Rumor has it that she ran off crying,” one whispers covertly.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” someone adds breezily—footsteps shifting closer. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone from that family bailed when things got hard.”

A giggle. “Guess falling apart runs in their blood.”

You don’t even realize that you’re shaking until your hand falls away from the door—like your  name, your shame, your father, your tears—is just something for them to stir into their tea.

Stumbling, you shuffle back, retreating from the hurt, the anguish. But your back immediately collides with something solid, or rather, someone.

Satoru.

His arms catch you before your mind can catch up—steadying you as your breath stutters out. You blink back more tears as your fingers curl into the sleeve of his kimono, curling into it like a lifeline.

He doesn’t speak, you don’t look at him. Their footsteps are drawing near—the tatami whispering beneath them, and with it, your panic only builds.

Oh god.

If they slide the door open and see your face like this—they’ll know they were right. You’re unraveling.

The shoji begins to slide open.

And in and instant—you’re gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your feet hit the polished floor with a soft scuff, hands still fisted in silk. And when you open your eyes, it’s there. Right in front of you.

A mirror.

That fucking mirror.

And behind you—arms still around you like he has any right—is the man who broke your heart in this very room.

“I didn’t want this mirror,” you snap, shoving him off, voice breaking halfway through. Satoru lets go, taking a single step back as you brace your hands on the sink. “A mirror’s a mirror,” he mutters, hands raising in lazy surrender. “Bathroom seemed like an upgrade, all things considered.”

You glare at the sink instead of answering, trying to breathe past the mess inside you.

…is this guy for real? Does he really not get it?

Is he that clueless to the hurt he caused you?

Clearly, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. And despite how clueless he may be, you know he heard what those girls were saying out there—heard every word about you, your family. They laid your shame out for everyone like a fucking dinner course.

Shaking the thoughts away, you twist the faucet on, splashing cold water over your face. One handful. Then Another. Like it’ll rinse off their voices. Like it could strip away the sting of their laughter.

Like it could cleanse the memory of him from your skin.

You turn the water off with trembling fingers, gripping the counter tightly as you breathe. Because your reality is that you have to face him. Face this. Walk your ass back out there and smile. This is your life now.

Lifting your head, you look up into the mirror, and there he is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you through the reflection like you’re some unsolvable thing. And that expression on his face is… strange.

Not pitying. Not cruel. But it’s not comfort either.

Just there.

Like… he sees you.

And for a moment, you almost wish he didn’t. Because that quiet—whatever it is—is worse. It’s the same kind of silence you’ve known your whole fucking life. The kind that says everything without saying a word. Cold meals. Cold rooms. Cold people. Conversations that never really started, let alone ended.

With a shuddering breath, you’re the one who looks away first. Because if you keep looking, you’re going to cry again. And you’re so fucking tired of crying. So instead, you reach for the compact hidden in your sleeve and snap it open.

Finally. Something to control. Powder. Liner. Blush.

Each motion is practiced, mechanical—building your face back up to dull the damage—stroke by stroke, until you look more like a bride and less like a breakdown.

“Hey…” Satoru mumbles, tilting his head. “That shit they said… about your family…”

Your fingers pause, hovering over the powder.

Of all the things to talk about, that’s what he chooses.

“Doesn’t matter,” you murmur, reflection hardening. As you reach for your lip color, he watches you smooth it on like war paint. “…you’re really gonna go back out there?” he asks, almost to himself. And capping the lipstick, you slide it back into your sleeve.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“…do I?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. Briefly. Long enough to see the truth of it—that he knows what he’s saying isn’t fair. That he’s not offering you one.

And yet… he still says it.

That look on his face… it’s not indifference. But it’s not enough either. Just this frustrating stillness. That quiet, complicated way he’s always looked at you.

You almost wish he’d laugh. Or sneer. Or leave. Anything to make it easier. It would be easier if he acted cruel—acted like you meant nothing.

Instead, he says nothing at all.

“Come,” you say, turning from the sink. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. “They’re waiting.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Today, we gather not only to honor a union between clans, but to witness the seat at Gojo-sama's side finally be filled.”

While you and Satoru ascend the dais, the hush of the hall is thick around you. You step with grace—smooth, poised—a perfect pace beside the man you’re meant to call husband. The man who doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t reach for you.

At the edge of the platform, Gojo Hajime is droning about lineage and honor—the union of households, the promise of an heir. The words blur into each other—because you’ve heard them all before.

Still, you smile. You bow. You perform.

Settling on the cushions laid before you, you lower yourself with care, but the platform is narrow, and Satoru takes up space like it’s owed to him. As you adjust, your thigh brushes his.

“Might wanna scoot…” he mutters under his breath, amused. His eyes flick to the seat just behind you both—Gojo Hajime’s cushion, looming in quiet judgment. “I mean… not that I’m complaining. But Hajime hates when people steal his precious throne.”

“Yes,” you murmur, smoothing your sleeve as you shift subtly away. Your eyes stay forward. “I remember.” And that earns the faintest shift in Satoru beside you. “…oh?” he hums. “What’s there to remember?”

Glancing at him, you see the lazy coolness still etched into every line of his body, but those blue eyes are fixed on you.

Focused. Curious.

You hate how much those eyes unravel you. How, despite everything, they still make your heart stutter.

“…how could I forget?” you shake the unease away, exhaling. “You made space for me that day. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.”

He shifts again. “…huh?” and you raise a brow—exhausted with him, exhausted with this conversation. “…what do you mean huh?”

You’re trying to pay attention to the ceremony. To perform. But Satoru keeps whispering above the hush of the hall while Hajime continues without pause—speaking like his words are carved into stone.

“For nearly a decade, the strongest has stood alone,” he declares. “But even power must be accompanied. The strongest must not only protect blood—but create it. A legacy. An heir. She will nurture the future of this clan. And with this duty, she will take her place not behind him, but beside him.”

Right… more like beneath him, it seems. Beneath his name. Beneath his body. And the worst part? Some small, broken part of you still aches for it. For him. For the feeling of being wanted, of being seen—even if only in the dark. Even if only for a moment.

“No fair,” Satoru mutters suddenly, like he’s trying to break the weight in the air. A slow smirk curls at his lips. “You pissed him off without me. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

“…you did see it,” your gaze flicks to him briefly. Flat. “The way he nearly took my head off with a single glance.”

Your eyes lock, and Satoru’s blinking—looking at you with bewilderment. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he tries to play it off. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. A crack in the cool.

“Uh… the fuck are you talking about?”

Inhaling, your spine straightens, and you don’t turn this time. Instead, your gaze stays trained on the gift tray being carried forward—on the servant kneeling before it, hands delicate and practiced.

“Seven years ago…” you mutter. “When I sat in his seat by accident. During your ascension.”

…what?

Satoru’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should, your words slotting into place with a quiet click that echoes—like a key turning into a lock he didn’t even know was there. That itch—that nagging sense of familiarity when he saw your photo in the dossier—he brushed it off. Didn’t connect it. Didn’t care to.

Well—shit.

It rushes back with startling clarity, like a memory pulled from fog: a girl in formal wear too heavy for her frame. Beautiful, but young. Sitting where she shouldn’t have, swallowing her fear like glass. And him—half-bored, half-amused—tilting his head and letting you stay.

It was a brief moment. You were a brief moment; a moment he let pass, a flicker.

But…

‘You made space for me. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.’

He’s confused. You say it like it should matter. Why is he unsettled? Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel unsettled. Hell, Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel—period. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has a job. A clan.

Okay… fine. Maybe people assume he doesn’t give a fuck about everything—but the truth is, feelings complicate things. Make you vulnerable. Weak. Unpredictable. All he needs is strength. Strength should be enough… shouldn’t it?

Because he has hopes and dreams too. To teach. To raise something better. To burn the whole damn system down and rebuild it from the bones. And feelings? Those get in the way. That’s why the elders made their conditions clear. He knows what he has to do. If he wants to teach he—

No. Don’t think about it.             

His eyes flick sideways, catching your profile in the corner of his vision as Hajime drones on. You sit with your spine poised, your expression perfectly arranged. But he remembers what you looked like a moment ago—that gloss in your eyes, silence stretching tight across your face.

He was a dick. He knows that. But so what? You’re not even married yet. Why does it matter? And even if you were…

His lips press into a thin line. He’s getting real fucking tired of questioning his morals over someone he barely knows. But for whatever fucking reason, you’re stirring something in him that should’ve been long dead—guilt, confusion, the dull ache of something dangerously close to remorse. Feelings he buried the day Suguru walked away from Jujutsu High.

Why?

“Let us begin with the gifts,” Hajime intones, and Satoru blinks—snapping out of his thoughts. You’re already looking at him, expression unreadable while Hajime waits. Everyone in this damn hall is waiting—watching.

Anyways. Right.

No feeling.

“So… uh…” he tilts his head slightly, slipping back into his usual nonchalance, shoulders loosening. “…I go first?”

Hajime nods. “It is customary for the groom to present his offerings to the bride.”

“Right…” Satoru mutters, dragging a breath through his nose. “Customs.”

There’s an easy tone in his voice, but tension pulls beneath it as his hand slips into the inner folds of his kimono. The silk rustles as he draws a small black box from the depths of his sleeve—catching faintly in the hush, wrapped in a silk bow.

It almost seems like he’s holding his breath as he unties it—for his hands are far too careful for someone who mocks tradition. Popping the box open, he sets it on the tray in front of you gently.

“For you.”

Inside: a kanzashi comb shaped like a dragonfly. Platinum, fine as breath. The wings unfurl in delicate filigree—spiraling patterns so precise they seem to shimmer when caught by the light. Along the slender body, deep-blue sapphires glint like midnight stars. The craftsmanship is meticulous. Elegant. And yet, the edges are gently worn—not from neglect, but from time. From touch. From memory. Places where fingers must’ve lingered, again and again.

It looks… loved.

Blinking, your breath stills as you stare at the comb. Of all things… especially after tonight, you’d been expecting money. Something impersonal. That’s what most men offer in these ceremonies—clean, transactional, easy to forget. A sum to be tallied, tossed across a lacquered tray without thought.

But an heirloom?

It feels like a contradiction: a man who mocks tradition, honoring it. A man who avoids meaning, offering something that feels like reverence. It’s almost like part of him understood what this gesture was—and still did it anyway.

“It’s… beautiful,” you manage softly, “Thank you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You’ll look good in it.”

Your smile cracks, but you pull it back into place. This man confuses the hell out of you. You try not to linger on it too long, because you know—this man does not love you, does not want you. That much is clear. But something about that comb… makes you wonder if clarity is ever that simple.

Clearing your throat, you shift, sliding your hand into your sleeve. “I know your technique can be a little… draining,” and pulling out your gift to him, you begin unravelling the ribbon. “So, I figured these might help. And… well… they suit you.”

With careful hands, you lift the box open—setting it on the tray between you. Satoru blinks down at the sunglasses, then back at you, unreadable.

There’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But you can feel Hajime shift beside you. An observer in the crowd coughs in the audience. The air sharpens with awkward expectation.

Yup. You’re already regretting getting him this gift entirely. What the fuck were you thinking?

“This gift…” Hajime starts, tone already tight with disapproval. “It is—”

“Huh. You got me shades,” Satoru cuts in flatly, like saying it aloud will make it make sense.

Still, his hand moves toward them—lifting them from the box—turning them over slowly as he examines the weight, the curve, the ridiculous sincerity behind him.

No one ever sees him. Not really. Or rather, they see him for his purpose, not for who he is. And the fact that someone bothered to think of him not as a symbol, but as a man?

Great, now he feels… unsettled. Again.

So, he does what he’s always done. Deflects—sliding them on with a cocky grin. Hajime clears his throat, and Satoru looks up at him unapologetically.

“What?” he drawls. “She’s right, they suit me.”

A ripple of faint laughter stirs at the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t reach the dais. You exhale slowly, heart pounding. Thank God. That’s probably the most untraditional gesture you’ve ever made. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you in the crowd—cutting, sharp—but you don’t look. You just sit straighter.

“Besides…” Satoru murmurs, vivid blue eyes glancing over the rim to you, “…she’s got good taste.”

Your breath catches, and the sunglasses certainly don’t help you make out that still unreadable expression he wears. Great. Now you’re guessing again. Reading between lines he never bothers to draw.

“Anyways…” he takes them off, folding them back into the box. “Uh… thanks…” he mumbles. “Sure…” you echo.

And with it, the tray rests between you, holding its mismatched offerings.

One comb.

One pair of sunglasses.

One tradition honored. One broken.

There’s a moment of stillness. Then—

“Come!” Hajime intones, rising from his cushion with all the slow gravity of ceremony. “Let us present the final offering. A token worn in promise—a symbol of union, where it may be seen, and remembered.”

The air shifts, and the change in Satoru is immediate. You feel it; something solemn threading back through the moment, like a red string of fate.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru shifts his weight, reaching into his sleeve yet again—pulling out a small, lacquered ring box. You blink as he opens it.

Inside: a platinum engagement ring. The band curves in an elegant infinity twist, looping seamlessly between twin rows of diamonds and deep, midnight sapphires.

“Hand…” Satoru mumbles, barely above a whisper, his palm open in silent ask. “Oh—of course,” you breathe, hesitation flickering, then fading as you slip your hand into his.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm, steady. And when he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits like it was always meant to be there. Looking down at the flickers of silver, white and blue, your breath catches as it glitters softly—like stars trapped in metal. It’s gorgeously elegant, and the sapphires remind you of his eyes.

Though as your gaze lifts, his eyes hold the weight of something unspoken. He’s staring at the ring, and that vivid blue is suddenly… dimmed. Like something caught between elegance and meaning. Between promise and prison.

For the first time, it strikes you. The man beside you—who always seemed untouchable, unfazed, immune to the binds of tradition—is kneeling here, completing the ritual, bound by the same rules.

Maybe… he isn’t as free as he looks.

“Let it be seen,” Hajime declares, voice rising through the hush, “and remembered by all. Arise!”

The tray is lifted. The offering complete. And as Satoru straightens, you follow; shifting towards the crowd. Then—

Applause.

First a few. Then dozens. Then more.

Clapping…

Too loud. Too sharp.

Clapping…

Clapping…

Clapping…

It echoes off the walls like a warning—faces blurring in motion, smiles stretching too wide. The sound closes in like smoke—like something choking and hollow. Though, somewhere near the farthest end of the hall, lingering in the shadows, someone does not clap. They watch.

Because far from the estate, on the grounds of a forgotten shrine, ash stirs in the wind.

A candle gutters.

Another catches.

The world holds its breath.

And with the tilt of a match—

A curse begins to stir.

a/n. hello lovelies, i hope you enjoyed pt 2! 🥹💕 we're cooked. bc this was 20k and they aren't even married yet LOL. i kept telling myself that this fic wasn't going to be THIS long, but alas. i write what my heart tells me and my heart was yappin. i feel like a lot of arranged marriage fics jump straight to the marriage and i wanted to try something different and set some groundwork instead. plus, since tradition is a heavy theme in this fic, so bc of that, the traditional engagement ceremony just seemed right. there were a lot of callbacks i did with certain scenes from jjk, i wonder how many you can spot 🤔 both reader and satoru still have a lot of growing to do. anyways, there's more i could say but i am sleepy and posting this super late 🫠 so i'll leave it at that, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter 🥰 thanks for reading. MUAH! -aly

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Tonight—December 7th—on his eighteenth birthday, Gojo Satoru would be proclaimed Clan Head of the Gojo family. The invitation had been sent to only the most respected and esteemed. This was more than a celebration; it was a display. A reminder.

All of Japan had known for years that the next ruler of the strongest clan had been chosen. Ever since the moment Gojo Satoru was born, it had been inevitable. But tonight, it would become official.

Inhaling deeply, you forced stillness into your spine—your expression smoothing into something unreadable.

You were no stranger to moving through halls filled with power—no, you had been raised for moments like these. You knew how to hold yourself, how to command respect, how to navigate a room full of Kyoto’s most dangerous and influential figures.

And yet…

There was something about tonight that felt… different.

Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, you would stand in the same room as him. The prodigy. The untouchable. The strongest sorcerer of his generation—a living legend before he was ever grown, a force of nature wrapped in a human body.

You had heard his name more times than you could count, but you had never seen him.

Not in person. Not until tonight.

"Fix your kimono.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp and precise as ever.

She didn’t look at you as she said it—she never had to. The flick of her gaze toward your reflection in the window was enough. Cool, assessing. She expected perfection.

You didn’t argue. You never argued.

Instead, your hands moved instinctively, smoothing the silk draped over your lap. Midnight blue, embroidered with delicate silver cranes in flight—a symbol of strength, of longevity, of duty. A reminder of the life you were bound to.

The obi at your waist had been tied flawlessly earlier that evening, its silken folds pressed into place with meticulous care—yet you still adjusted it. Not because it was imperfect, but because she had told you to.

Exhaling softly, your mother’s eyes swept over you briefly—as though the smallest flaw in your presentation might tarnish the family name.

"Appearances matter," she murmured, smoothing the folds of her own ivory kimono, embroidered with peonies and bamboo—symbols of wealth and resilience. Even in the dim light of the car, she radiated elegance, flawless as always.

"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."

She spoke as if you didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent years molding you into a perfect reflection of the family’s strength.

Across from you, your father shifted, stretching his legs slightly as he leaned back into his seat. The glow of his phone screen flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. As his fingers tapped idly against the side of the device, the screen was angled just enough that neither you nor your mother could see it.

Yeah… that was a habit of his. One you had learned not to acknowledge.

Your mother never acknowledged it either. Not in words, at least.

But you saw it in the way her fingers tensed against her sleeve, in the subtle shift of her posture, as if willing herself to ignore the obvious.

"You put too much weight on these things," your father muttered, carrying an air of finality. "The Gojo Clan already knows who we are. No amount of perfect posture is going to change their minds."

The silence that followed was familiar.

A subtle tension seeped into the space between them—the kind that had no beginning and no resolution. Something ever-present, like a thread woven too tightly through the fabric of their marriage.

Lowering her gaze slightly, your mother adjusted the folds of her sleeve with slow, deliberate care.

"Power is not always displayed through strength alone," she said, softer now. "It is seen in the way others perceive you. The moment you allow someone to look down on you, you have already lost."

Exhaling through his nose, a quiet sound rumbles through your father’s chest—neither agreement nor disagreement. He wasn’t listening. Not really.

"Depends," he sighs dismissively. "There are worse things than being looked down on."

Your mother’s hands froze for just a moment, before she recovered, smoothing out her sleeve with a quiet nod.

"Of course…" she murmured, conceding with practiced ease.

She would not challenge him. She never did.

Turning yourself toward the window, you felt the weight of their silence settle into your ribs.

You had seen this scene too many times before. So you looked away. Focusing on the world outside, rather than the quiet battlefield inside the car. Then, finally, it came into view.

The Gojo Estate.

It did not sit among the rest of Kyoto. It stood above it.

Carved into the mountainside, the estate loomed over the landscape like something untouched by time. Its outer walls stretched endlessly into the dark, built of aged wood and blackened stone, reinforced not just with craftsmanship but with sorcery itself. A silent warning. A declaration of power—this was not a place where outsiders were welcome.

Beyond the towering gates, the estate unfurled like a painting.

The courtyard was vast, an expanse of raked gravel and polished stone pathways that twisted through pruned bonsai, moss-covered lanterns, and koi-filled ponds shimmering beneath the moonlight. Each element was a silent testament to a clan that valued not just power, but control—as if even the earth beneath the Gojos’ feet bowed to their authority.

A long row of cherry blossom trees lined the outer garden, their pale petals quivering in the night breeze. Winter had stolen the color from Kyoto’s streets, but here, the blossoms remained in eternal bloom—preserved unnaturally, suspended in time by the lingering touch of sorcery. As the wind passed through them, petals drifted down in soft flurries, catching in the air like falling snow.

Your breath stilled slightly.

Even for someone raised in a powerful clan, the sight of the Gojo estate was enough to humble.

The car slowed to a stop, just before the entrance, and your gaze flickered toward the attendants waiting outside before shifting upward, toward the main hall that loomed beyond the courtyard.

It was not a home.

It was a throne.

And tonight, the man who would rule it was waiting inside.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Y’know, I really don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Satoru drawls, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robes with a dramatic grimace. “They’ve known I’m the strongest since birth. Feels a little redundant, don’t y’think?”

Across the room, Suguru lets out a slow exhale, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wooden frame of the window. Beyond him, Kyoto stretches into the night—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, the glow of distant lanterns flickering like dying embers. But he isn’t looking at the view. His gaze flickers toward Satoru through the mirror’s reflection, watching as his friend fussed with the layers of fine silk draped over his shoulders, like it’s a burden rather than an honor.

“They have to make a big deal out of it,” Suguru murmurs, quiet, almost bored. “Otherwise, what’s left for them?”

Satoru scoffs, shifting his weight as he tugs at the sash around his waist, loosening it just to tighten it again.

“Yeah, well. If this keeps ‘em busy, maybe they’ll hold off on nagging me about marriage for another year.”

Suguru hums, pushing off the window frame. Taking a slow step forward, his hands slip into the wide sleeves of his yukata as he watches Satoru wrestle against his robes like they were shackles.

“You say that like they won’t have a new excuse next week.”

Catching Suguru’s gaze in the mirror, Satoru’s lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin.

“Think they’ll get creative?”

“They always do.”

Clicking his tongue, an exaggerated sigh slips from Satoru’s lips as he finally turns from the mirror to grab the ceremonial overcoat folded on the edge of the lacquered table. The fabric is rich and regal—deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, the threads gleaming under the dim candlelight.

“Tch… I swear…” he barely spares the elegant silk a glance before throwing it over his shoulders, the heavy material settling like a crown he never asked for. “Maybe I should start charging for every goddamn time they waste my time.”

Suguru hums, tilting his head.

“You’d make a fortune.”

“Please,” Satoru scoffs, flicking at the intricate gold trim on his sleeve, grin sharp and self-satisfied. “I’m already loaded.”

Suguru lets out a quiet breath, one hand slipping into his sleeve before pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.

“And yet…” he muses, placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter, “all that money, and you’re still stuck wearing that ridiculous thing.”

Satoru let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the overcoat, shifting slightly—like he could somehow make it sit lighter on him.

“Right?” He turns back toward the mirror, tugging at the stiff collar with an annoyed pull. “I look like I belong in a fucking museum.”

Suguru says nothing at first. The metal flicks, a sharp scratch of sound, flame briefly illuminating his face as he lights the cigarette. The glow reflects in his violet eyes for half a second as he takes a slow drag.

“Or on a wedding altar,” he exhales smoke in a measured breath.

Satoru’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His head snaps up, and through the mirror, he shoots Suguru a flat look.

“Not funny.”

Suguru smirks, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as smoke curls through the air. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Wouldn’t put it past them to slip an engagement announcement into tonight’s festivities. You know how they like their surprises.”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, deliberately messing it up again.

“Yeah, well… first sign of trouble and I’m teleporting the hell out of there.”

A quiet chuckle slips through Suguru’s lips, but there’s no humor in it.

“And then what?” his voice softens, but the words weigh heavier. “You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?”

Satoru shrugs. “If I have to.” He’s grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

With quiet consideration, Suguru exhales, watching Satoru with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. But this time, it’s not his reflection he’s looking at. It’s him—standing there in those ceremonial robes, draping over him like chains, wearing arrogance like armor.

“You… really think it’s that simple?”

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His grin sharpens, flashing white teeth like a blade.

“Of course it is. I’m Satoru fucking Gojo.”

Though Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift, his gaze darkens, something quiet and knowing creeping into his features.

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”

“C’mon, you think they actually care?” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru through the mirror. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the name. The bloodline. Hell, they’d be throwing this same party for a rock if it had the Six Eyes.”

There’s a lingering silence.

Through the mirror, Satoru sees Suguru’s expression shift—his posture still loose but somehow weighted, as if each breath he takes is heavier with words unspoken. Suguru’s long raven hair falls slightly into his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the quiet strain pulling at his features.

“Damn…” Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “You look like shit, man.”

Suguru blinks, briefly startled, before scoffing, rolling his eyes as he flicks ash into the tray beside him.

“Gee, thanks.”

But Satoru doesn’t let up. His gaze lingers, cutting through pretenses like a blade.

“No, seriously. Have you slept at all this week? ‘Cause from here, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle, but it’s weak, hollow—gone before it ever really forms.

“Yeah…” he lifts the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag. “I dunno. ‘m just tired.”

The ember burns bright for a moment, casting sharper shadows along his best friend’s face—deepening the lines of exhaustion—a quiet weight that Satoru’s been too busy to address. Then, clicking his tongue, Satoru focuses back to the mirror, dragging a hand through his hair with careless ease.

“You’re thinking too much again…” he mutters. “Always a bad sign.”

“Yeah, well...” Suguru exhales, smoke curling lazily around him. “Guess someone’s gotta do it.”

Quirking a brow, Satoru turns toward him fully this time.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Suguru smirks, but it’s small, faint—the kind that barely lifts the corners of his lips before disappearing altogether. As he leans back against the wooden frame of the window, his fingers tap against his arm, holding the cigarette loosely in his grip.

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.

Suguru quirks a brow before he huffs, shaking his head slightly.

The silence sits heavier this time. There’s something distant in his expression—like his thoughts are a step ahead of him, somewhere neither of them can quite reach. Flicking the cigarette between his fingers, he taps ash into the tray with slow precision.

“I’m just wondering…” Suguru mutters, his voice quieter now, something careful in the way he says it. “If you weren’t who you are—would they still be kneeling at your feet?”

Satoru blinks.

“Uh. Duh.”

Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep.

“No, Satoru. If you weren’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose, his jaw flexing slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to. Instead, he shakes his head. “Never mind…”

Satoru’s gaze narrows.

“Um. The hell was that? You can’t just say something cryptic and then drop it.”

For a moment, there’s something unspoken between them—something lingering just beneath the surface, pressing at the space between words. Then, just as quickly, Suguru’s expression smooths over. Whatever flicker of thought had been there vanishing behind an effortless, practiced mask.

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.

But whatever it was, Suguru wasn’t going to say it.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru watches him for a second longer before rolling his shoulders—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Anyways,” he sighs, stretching his arms above his head as he strides toward the door, loose and unaffected, like he’s just heading out for a stroll instead of stepping into the weight of his legacy.

As he passes the lacquered table, his hand instinctively reaches for his sunglasses, flipping them open with a careless flick before sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

Suguru’s gaze drags back to him, eyes lingering over the contrast of expensive, embroidered silk and dark tinted glasses. He smirks. “Doesn’t really fit the robes.”

Satoru groans, shoving his sunglasses up into his hairline before letting them drop back onto his nose.

“Tch. I know, I know. Too fucking modern for their delicate sensibilities, right?”

Suguru chuckles, putting out his cigarette. “Something like that.”

With a resigned huff, Satoru tosses the sunglasses onto the table with a clatter.

“Fine fine…” he grumbles, pausing—considering. A wicked smile curls onto his lips. “Hey… what do you think—should I blindfold myself instead and pretend I can’t find the stage? Give ‘em a little show?”

Suguru barks out a short laugh, shaking his head as he exhales.

“You’re really gonna make a fucking scene on your own celebration?”

“Oh, Suguru,” Satoru’s grin is all teeth as he makes his way toward the door. “Make a scene? When have I ever done that?”

Suguru gives him a long, slow look as he follows.

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Satoru snorts. “Smartass.” He shoves the door open without hesitation. “Y’think I can piss off at least three elders before the night’s over?”

“Mm... four, if you really try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

And as Satoru steps forward—toward the weight of a legacy that meant nothing to him, Suguru lingers behind him, watching as Satoru walks ahead, carrying the world like it’s weightless.

But Suguru knows better.

He always has.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Stand up straight,” your mother murmurs quietly—so soft that only you can hear it. “And try not to stare.”

Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pressing back—but stare? Fuck. How can you not? The Gojo estate is unlike anything you have ever stepped foot in.

The ceilings stretch impossibly high, wooden beams arching overhead like the ribs of some celestial beast. Hand-painted fusuma panels line the walls, gold leaf catching the candlelight, depicting Kyoto’s landscapes in elegant brushstrokes. There is a stillness here—something ancient, untouched by time. Unshaken by war or weakness.

A faint trace of aged incense lingers in the air, blending with the clean scent of fresh tatami, wrapping around you like something sacred—a quiet reminder that tradition is absolute here.

The steady flow of guests direct you down the grand walkway, toward the main hall, and the air hums with low voices—silk robes rustling as elders and elite sorcerers file in, taking their assigned seats.

Assigned by status.

The highest-ranking families settle nearest to the center of the hall, where Gojo Satoru will take his place, while the lesser clans drift toward the outer edges, far enough to understand their place.

You barely register it.

Because just beyond the walkway, past a row of sliding doors left slightly open, something catches your eye.

A dojo.

Wide and open, its polished wooden floors gleam under the dim glow of candlelight. Tall, arched windows invite in the cool night air, carrying the rustling of bamboo from the gardens beyond. Along the walls, beautifully crafted bokken rest neatly in their racks beside long naginata and aged katana, their lacquered hilts gleaming faintly.

It is… perfect.

Unlike anything your own estate has ever had. A proper space for training—not the rigid, structured sessions dictated by the elders, but something freer. A place to move, to breathe, to fight.

God… it’s everything you’ve always wanted.

After all, your clan was built on precision, control, intelligence. Not raw combat. You have trained—mastered every movement drilled into you since childhood—but never were you allowed to spar without restraint. Never trained to be a sorcerer, never encouraged to fight in a way that would leave bruises—that would stain silk with sweat and blood.

You were raised to be a perfect reflection of your family, a perfect wife—that is all.

And yet, here it is. Fuck. A proper dojo—what a dream. So perfectly built for battle, yet it’s tucked into the halls of the most powerful clan in Jujutsu society, probably taken for granted as if it were nothing.

As your steps slow, you barely realize how long you’ve been staring, until you feel the lightest tug on your sleeve.

“Enough,” your mother mutters, grip light but firm.

Your heart jumps. Shit. It was one thing to observe. To admire. But it was another to linger.

“Eyes forward,” she lifts her chin, and you follow her deeper inside.

Moving ahead, the crowd shifts around you, elders and elite sorcerers weaving through the grand hall, settling into their assigned seats—but damn it. You’re still thinking about that damn dojo.

What must it be like to strike and be struck back, to train not just for form but for battle?

But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.

Then, with the slightest turn of her head, she murmurs, “…w-what? Where did he go…”

Your breath stills as you realize, your father is no longer beside her. Glancing around, he is nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flowing silk and quiet murmurs. But you don’t need to ask where he’s gone—you already know. And… so does she.

Despite it, she doesn’t curse. Doesn’t let her expression falter. Doesn’t break stride. But you see the way your mother’s lips press together, the way her fingers curl slightly against the sleeve of her kimono, gripping fabric like it’s the only thing she can control.

A slow, measured breath leaves her nose. Then, with a practiced ease, she smooths out the folds of her sleeve.

“Wait at your seat…” she instructs softly. “I’ll find him.”

And just like that, she is gone.

It’s not the first time.

Not the first time she’s swallowed the weight of his absence, nor the first time she’s forced herself to chase after a man who has never once stopped running. A man who dishonors her with such frequency that it no longer feels like betrayal—only expectation.

And she goes anyway. Every time.

Why?

You begin to ponder.

How many wives have had to smile through disgrace, bound by duty to men who do not see them? How many have sat in silence, enduring the quiet disintegration of a marriage, knowing their suffering is only theirs to bear?

The thought lingers as you move toward your assigned seat, your steps slow, lost in quiet contemplation. You barely register the way silk brushes against you, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the polished floors.

“You’re in my seat.”

The words are crisp. Clipped.

You barely have time to process them before the weight of who they belong to settles in your chest like stone. Glancing up, your stomach drops.

Shit.

You’ve sat in the wrong seat.

Not just any seat.

His seat.

Gojo Hajime.

An elder of the Gojo clan. A man whose presence alone commands respect and caution in equal measure. His reputation is built upon unforgiving discipline, a fierce advocate for upholding the hierarchy that governs jujutsu society. You have seen how lesser-ranked sorcerers bow deeper in his presence, how his voice alone is enough to quiet a whole fucking room.

And you—you—have just taken his seat.

You should apologize. Immediately. Stand, lower your head, bow so deeply your knees kiss the floor—but you don’t even get the chance. Because the moment your lips part, his voice cuts through the air again.

“How disgraceful.”

The murmurs start immediately. Soft at first. Rippling outward.

A misplaced seat is not just an accident—it is an insult. A disruption to the hierarchy, an unspoken challenge to status. And it is not just your mistake—it is your family’s.

Eyes begin to turn.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic coiling tight in your stomach. You can feel the weight of scrutiny, the silent condemnation pressing against your skin like needles. But just as the tension threatens to crack open, before you can even move, before you can correct your mistake—

“Damn,” a voice cuts in. “I didn’t know we had assigned seats based on grumpiness. If that’s the case, maybe we oughta scoot you a little further up, gramps.”

The murmurs die instantly. A ripple of silk as heads turn, a breath caught collectively in the throats of the room.

Because everyone knows that voice.

Gojo Satoru.

And when you finally force yourself to look, when you finally shift your gaze toward the source of your salvation, you find yourself staring into the bluest damn eyes you’ve ever seen.

They are a color not meant for this world—icy, piercing, almost otherworldly under the flickering candlelight. Not simply blue, but something deeper, something endless, like the sky when it stretches too far, too high, too unreachable.

And then, just as effortlessly, he drops into the seat beside you.

“Hope ya don’t mind if I sit here, gramps,” he sighs, propping his chin against his palm with a lazy grin. “Since, y’know… you’re already standing.”

The elder bristles.

“Gojo-sama…” he says slowly, voice strained. “Seats are assigned with purpose.”

Satoru exhales loudly, stretching his neck. “Right, right,” he drawls. “And lemme guess—some dusty old men in a room decided where everyone sits?”

“The council—”

“Right, right,” he interjects, waving a dismissive hand. “The same council that decided I needed to wear this stiff-ass robe tonight.” He tugs at the embroidered silk draped over his shoulders for emphasis before flashing a sharp grin. “Real forward thinkers, those guys.”

A flicker of disbelief passes over the elder’s face.

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Tell ya what… since I’m feeling generous tonight, how ‘bout we just let it slide? Y’know, pretend we’re not wasting all this energy over a damn seat?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head, his voice dropping to something lower, lazier. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep arguing with me in front of all these lovely guests? On my birthday, need I remind you?”

The words are spoken lightly, casually, but there’s an underlying challenge in them—something daring, something edged with amusement, as if he already knows how this will end.

And the elder does, too. Because what can he say? What will he do? It’s a battle he can’t win. Not against the strongest.

A long breath drags through his nose before he bows his head stiffly.

“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru grins, entirely pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

With that, the elder moves stiffly to another seat, the murmurs gradually settling into quiet acceptance, though you can still feel the lingering weight of curious glances thrown your way.

And finally—finally—your lungs remember how to breathe.

You should say something. Thank him. But before you can, Satoru turns his attention to you, tilting his head slightly, that easy smirk still curving his lips.

“There,” his fingers play idly with a tousle of your hair, letting it twirl between his grasp. “A lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, don’t y’think?”

You blink, still caught between lingering panic and something dangerously close to awe.

Because just like that, with a grin and a few well-placed words, he had made a mockery of the entire situation. Had turned the weight of expectation into something trivial, something meaningless.

Had made defiance look so damn effortless. And for the first time tonight, you wonder what it would be like to live that freely.

Satoru watches you, head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something. Amusement flickers in those ridiculously bright eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

You realize then—you haven’t said a word.

Shit.

Heat pricks at the back of your neck. You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to gather the scattered remains of your dignity before finally managing, “…oh, um… t-thank you, Gojo-sama.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Ugh. Don’t do that.”

You blink. “…do what?”

“That whole ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Bleh.” He scrunches his nose, expression twisted in exaggerated distaste. “You make me sound old.”

You hesitate, caught between confusion and amusement. “But… you’re the Clan Head now.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Your lips twitch, just barely suppressing a laugh, and his gaze flickers to you at that, something playful sparking in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, his elbows rest on the low table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.

“You wouldn’t believe how many speeches I’ve had to sit through already. I swear, they’ve been reciting my life story like I’m some kind of historical relic.”

You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “Wow. The betrayal.”

Shaking your head in amusement, you finally allow a small laugh to slip out.

“I… didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints at you in mock suspicion before his lips stretch back into an easy grin. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide, since I like you.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s nothing… right? Just the nerves. The residual stress from earlier. The weight of too many eyes lingering in the periphery.

But as he watches you—head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out—you don’t know what the hell to say. And yet… you also find yourself not wanting to look away.

Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.

He is elegance without effort, arrogance without apology, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him. His snowy-white hair is a tousled mess, catching silver beneath the candlelight, framing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbones, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

They aren’t just blue. They’re endless. A shade too sharp, too striking—like fractured gemstones, like glacial ice catching the light at just the right angle. They don’t just see, they consume, pulling you in as if the whole fucking world just disappears when he looks at you.

What the hell are you supposed to say to him?

Shit. You’re lingering again. Your mother would curse you for this. You should speak—say something, anything. But the words never come.

Luckily, you don’t have to figure it out.

Because just then, a sharp chime rings through the grand hall, signaling the start of the formal ceremony. A ripple of movement stirs through the guests as heads turn toward the center of the room, where the elders begin to take their places.

Satoru exhales, stretching his arms overhead in a lazy arc. “Guess that’s my cue.”

He rises smoothly, adjusting the heavy silk of his robes with little care, as if he’s already bored of the whole affair. But then—before stepping away—he casts you one last glance, that ever-present grin still playing at the edges of his lips.

“See ya around, sweetheart.”

And then, like this entire night is nothing more than a game to him, he waves, casting you a playful wink. Casual. Effortless. Like you’re old friends. Like this moment, fleeting as it is, belongs to just the two of you—despite the dozens of eyes still lingering in your direction.

And, without hesitation, he turns, stepping toward the center of the room, where the weight of his legacy awaits him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

The ceremony is exactly what Satoru expected—long, tedious, and filled with more self-important speeches than he cares to count. The elders take turns praising the significance of his ascension, the legacy he carries, the burden he must now bear.

As if he doesn’t already fucking know. As if the weight of the Gojo name hasn’t pressed against his spine since the moment he was born.

He stands at the center of it all, a crownless king in layered silk, his every move watched, measured, and judged by the dozens of expectant faces surrounding him.

Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.

Because at the end of the day—he is still Gojo Satoru. And they can dress him up in their finest robes, seat him at the highest throne, weigh him down with the expectations of an entire clan—but they can’t make him care.

And they know it.

So, when the speeches end and the ritual formalities dissolve into something more palatable—celebration, sake, music—the real scheming begins.

The moment the first note is played, an elder clears his throat. Satoru doesn’t even look up.

“We have taken the liberty of selecting your first dance, Gojo-sama,” the man says, hands folded neatly in his sleeves, the picture of diplomatic grace. “She is from a highly esteemed bloodline. A perfect candidate for marriage and—”

Satoru groans. Loudly.

“Oh, come on.” He drags a hand down his face, tilting his head back like this entire conversation physically pains him. “You’re really pulling the marriage card already? I just fucking turned eighteen.”

The elder’s expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t falter. They’ve played this game with him before. They know Gojo Satoru only bends when it suits him.

“We must get ahead of things. And it is tradition for the head of the Gojo Clan to take his first dance with a suitable partner—”

“Right, right.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the room for anything more interesting than this conversation. “And lemme guess—she’s got a nice lineage, proper manners, and the personality of a wet napkin?”

A pause as the elder clears his throat. Yeah. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head, fingers drumming lazily against the lacquered armrest of his chair.

“Yeah… I think I’ll pass,” he’s rising from his seat as the elder begins ushering a poised, graceful young woman towards him—clad in silk, the color of cherry blossoms.

Satoru doesn’t even look at her.

He’s looking for an escape, and as his eyes sweep the crowd, he sees you.

The girl from earlier.

And just like that, his mind is made up.

Before the elder can say another word, before the girl can step any closer, Satoru moves.

Not toward her.

Toward you.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Dance with me.”

You blink, gaze dropping to his hand, extended toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed.

It’s not a request.

It’s a decision.

A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.

And the room knows it.

The air seems to tighten, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as hushed murmurs flicker between the guests, silk rustling as heads turn. The weight of attention presses against your skin, heavier than the finest-woven kimono, heavier than the eyes of your parents, now fixed on you, unreadable.

Your lips part slightly, but no words come. Fuck. You should at least breathe. But you don’t. You can’t. Your mind is barely processing what the fuck is happening.

Then, a quiet but pointed sound—your mother clearing her throat beside you.

“She would love to.”

Her voice is soft, but firm, a smooth, graceful assertion that leaves no room for question. A response crafted not for you, but for those watching, those weighing this moment, those who will whisper about it long after the night ends. Because this is not just a dance. This is a spectacle. A shift in the script carefully written for the evening.

And your mother knows that. To refuse would be foolish. To hesitate would be disgraceful. To accept, however—

An honor.

So, when she turns toward you, offering the smallest, most practiced of smiles, you understand her meaning entirely.

You will dance with Satoru Gojo.

With a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding, you glance back toward him. He’s watching you, amusement flickering in those impossibly blue eyes, that lazy, knowing grin still curling at his lips.

“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”

You don’t know what possesses you—perhaps the weight of expectation, or perhaps something else entirely—but your hand lifts. Fingers barely brushing against his before he takes it completely, enclosing it in a grasp that is warm, steady, unwavering.

And just like that, he pulls you into the center of the room.

Into the center of everything.

His grip is firm but unhurried as he leads you, like none of this is a big deal. Like he hasn’t just overturned an entire evening’s worth of careful tradition.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, your breath barely finding its way back into your lungs as you let him guide you into position. One of his hands settles lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Relax,” he murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear. “You’re stiffer than my old kendo instructor.”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against yours. “I—this is just… unexpected.”

Exhaling dramatically, he spins you effortlessly into the first steps of dance. “Tell me about it,” he groans. “You just saved me from another goddamn elder trying to shove some proper young lady into my arms.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, twirling you smoothly before pulling you back into his grasp. “The matchmaking schemers are working overtime tonight. Bet they’re seething right now.”

You stifle a laugh. “So… you picked me out of spite?”

“I picked you because you looked like you needed saving too.” His eyes flicker toward you, sharp but warm, like he’s seeing straight through you.

You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.

“Well… my mother was about to give me a very long lecture about decorum,” you admit quietly.

His grin widens as he hums. “Guess that makes me your knight in shining silk, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays you.

Satoru’s grip shifts slightly, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against your waist as he leads you through another step. He moves so effortlessly, like the weight of expectation never touches him, like the rules of this world bend just for him.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.

For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.

For a moment… it’s just the two of you.

As the melody slows—the last few notes stretch through the grand hall like a fading breath—you barely register the shifting of the crowd around you. It feels like the world has shrunk.

And then, stillness. The dance is over.

You should step away. You should let go.

But Satoru lingers.

His fingers remain curled lightly around yours, as if he’s forgotten to let go—or maybe he just doesn’t feel like doing so yet. His touch is warm, steady, and entirely too deliberate for someone who seems to take nothing seriously.

As his gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, his smirk deepens, something unreadable flashing in those impossible blue eyes. Then, with a casual ease—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts your hand slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Unhurried.

Barely a brush of his lips against your skin, but enough to send something fluttering wildly in your stomach.

Damn him.

You feel it everywhere—the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hold lingers a second too long before he finally lets go. When your hand drops back to your side, it’s still tingling from the contact, and you know you should say something, but your tongue feels too damn heavy in your mouth again.

Satoru, however, looks perfectly at ease, like he hadn’t just turned your world sideways with a single fleeting kiss. Still, the moment stretches—something about it feels… different. A beat too long, a silence that carries something unspoken.

But when he shifts, the moment simmers away as he turns his head slightly, his attention suddenly caught by something beyond you. Or, someone.

Geto Suguru. His best friend.

His posture loosens as he exhales through his nose, casting you a final glance. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawls lazily, taking a step back. “Hate to dance and dash, but duty calls.”

And just like before, he lifts a hand in that same casual wave, and winks—slipping back into the crowd with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.

Following his gaze, you look just past the cluster of mingling sorcerers, at the figure leaning lazily against one of the wooden pillars. His dark long hair falls across his shoulders, his arms are folded neatly into the side sleeves of his yukata, and his eyes are half-lidded, bored.

Satoru reaches him in just a few strides, and whatever the two of them exchange is lost to you beneath the hum of the room—but they’re laughing, at ease.

Exhaling slowly, you force your trembling hands to steady at your sides, your racing heart to settle, remembering where you are. Because the world moves on. The music starts anew. The guests return to their conversations.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Because this—this is something you’ll remember. The night you first met Gojo Satoru.

The night you first saw him for who he was—not just the head of the Gojo Clan, not just the strongest, but something untouchable, something defiant. Something free.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always hold onto that moment.

A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Seven years have passed since that night. Seven years since the weight of an entire clan was draped over his shoulders like a silk noose.

Gojo Satoru is still the strongest, still the untouchable ruler of the Gojo Clan, but the years have done little to change the one thing the elders have always hated about him—he refuses to be controlled.

But their patience is wearing thin.

The moment he steps into the council chamber, Satoru already knows he’s going to hate every second of this.

Same old stiff-ass room, same old stiff-ass elders. The walls lined with painted screens depicting wars won centuries ago, incense burning in the background like it’s meant to cleanse him of his sins or some shit. He exhales loudly, rolling his shoulders back, then strolls forward with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution.

Dropping lazily onto the tatami, Satoru lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Alright,” he drawls, popping his neck with a slow tilt of his head. “Let’s hear it. What crime have I committed this time?”

A tense silence follows.

Gojo Hiroshi, the eldest of the council, lets out a long, deliberate sigh, his sharp gaze steady beneath thick silver brows. “Your inappropriate conduct has reached our ears again.”

Satoru smirks. “Oh? I’ve got fans? You geezers keeping tabs on me now?”

His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.

“You mustn’t treat this as a joke,” another elder chimes in, voice lined with restrained patience. “Your recklessness is a stain upon our clan’s legacy.”

Satoru scoffs. “Recklessness? I’m pretty sure I’ve saved more lives than any of you sitting here. Y’know, by doing my actual job.”

“The strongest should not act so carelessly,” Hiroshi cuts in. “And yet, all you do is goof off. Throwing yourself around, jumping from woman to woman, acting like some common fool—”

Satoru groans loudly, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “God, is this really about me having a good time? I hate to break it to ya, old man, but I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Maybe if you all had a little fun in your youth, you wouldn’t be so damn uptight.”

The closest elder levels him with a stern glare. “We have tolerated your… indulgences long enough.”

“You speak of a ‘good time’,” another elder continues, fingers steepled together. “But you must consider the future. This—this frivolity—must end.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers lazily against his knee. “Yeah? And just where are ya gettin’ at, gramps?”

Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.

Satoru watches as they silently decide who will be the one to say it. They always do this. Always sit in their stiff little circles, acting like their words carry the weight of gods.

Finally, Hiroshi exhales, slow and measured, before speaking.

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

There it is.

Satoru lets out a slow, exaggerated breath, tilting his head back. “Man… you guys really need a new hobby.”

“We have been patient,” Hiroshi continues, ignoring him. “But the time for childish defiance is over.”

Satoru’s lips twitch. Childish? He could wipe this entire damn room off the map if he wanted. Not that he would, though—he’s mostly reasonable.

An elder shifts slightly, fingers curling over the edge of a plain, unassuming folder resting beneath his palm, and as Satoru’s gaze flicks to it, recognition flares.

Ugh. Not this bullshit again.

This isn’t new. He knows what’s inside. A folder full of names. A folder of candidates—eligible women, bloodlines deemed strong enough, clans deemed worthy. A relic of a past he never fucking asked for.

His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.

“Yeah, so… fuck this. I’m gonna stop ya right there—”

“You will sit down, Satoru.”

The words are sharp. Final. Satoru freezes mid-step, the weight behind them pressing like a blade against his spine.

The fucking audacity. A command? A fucking order?!

Exhaling through his nose, he bites back the burn of frustration clawing up his throat. “Nah,” he mutters, waving a dismissive hand as he turns on his heel. “Fuck off.”

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

Satoru stops.

A slow laugh bubbles up from his chest—sharp, humorless, before turning back to face them. Tilting his head, an icy chill threads his voice.

“Let me get this fucking straight. You dragged me all the way here, wasted my precious time, just to tell me I need to knock someone up? Wow.” He lets out a sharp whistle, slowly clapping his hands together in mock awe. “Out of all of your excuses, this one takes the fucking cake.”

“You fail to take this seriously,” Hiroshi’s voice is quieter than the others, but heavier in its own way. “You never have.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe because I don’t need to. I’m the strongest, remember?”

“And yet,” Hiroshi exhales, “even the strongest will one day fall.”

The words settle in the air like a foregone truth. Satoru doesn’t flinch. But something in his jaw ticks, barely perceptible.

Even the strongest will one day fall.

He hates the way those words burrow under his skin, clawing at something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You refuse to take a wife. You refuse to consider the future,” Hiroshi continues, voice steady. “You’ve left us no choice. And so, we have taken it upon ourselves to make the choice for you. Marriage arrangements are already in place.”

Satoru’s brow furrows—a seething rage building underneath his skin. Pulling down his blindfold in a slow, deliberate movement, he reveals the impossible, piercing blue of his Six Eyes.

“Excuse me?”

The air shifts, thickening under the weight of power, of warning—of a challenge.

For a moment, all he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. And then, just beneath the suffocating weight of his own fury, another voice cuts through.

‘You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?’

A memory. A voice.

Suguru.

The words hit him like a hammer, striking something raw, something he thought he buried a long time ago.

Geto Suguru.

His best friend. His brother. The one person who had ever truly understood him. The only person who could ever match him step for step, thought for thought.

The person he lost. A man who had abandoned all right or reason. Who had turned his back on everything. On Jujutsu High. On their ideals. On him.

And suddenly, the weight of it all presses heavier on Satoru’s shoulders. It feels suffocating. Because for the first time in years, something inside him wavers. And damnit… that pisses him off.

With a sharp step forward, Satoru’s hand snatches the folder from the table in one swift motion, the rustle of paper slicing through the silence like a blade.

The room tenses as he flips it open, eyes scanning the pages, the names, the faces—the future they’ve decided for him.

As he goes through its contents, a folder he’s seen often but never truly looked into, he realizes it’s exactly what he expected—polished profiles, lists of pedigreed women, hand-selected for their bloodlines, their breeding, their usefulness.

Every file reads the same.

Perfect posture. Proper etiquette. Skilled in traditional arts. Fluent in tea ceremonies. Raised to serve, obey, bear children.

Gross.

His brow furrows in irritation as he skims through the neatly cataloged qualities, as if he’s browsing a fucking menu.

Expert in tea ceremonies. Elegant calligraphy. Well-versed in ikebana.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he flips to the next file with a flick of his wrist.

Gentle temperament. Raised to uphold family honor. Culinary excellence.

Jesus.

It’s all the same.

Not a single original thought, not a single fucking thing that isn’t meant to mold them into perfect little wives and mothers.

Satoru’s fingers twitch as disgust curls up his throat.

What? Is he supposed to just pick one, put a ring on her, fuck her like some obligation? Breed an heir with a woman whose only defining trait is knowing how to arrange flowers?

Tch.

He’s already itching to slam the folder shut and walk out of this room, consequences be damned.

But then—he halts. His gaze briefly catching on a familiar face.

You.

A picture clipped neatly to your file, just like all the others, but something about it makes him pause.

He knows you… right?

Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.

Satoru has slept with countless women, but he’s pretty damn sure he’d remember if you were one of them. Plus… you’re a virgin, according to your file, so… that can’t be it.

He scans the page with mild curiosity, barely reading at first—and low and behold, it’s another list of fucking perfect traits designed to impress him.

Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.

Right. Of course. Same as the rest.

But then, his eyes flick lower.

Martial arts.

His brow lifts.

Huh. Now that’s new.

Shifting his weight, his gaze lingers on that one detail. You practice martial arts? Interesting.

The corner of his lips twitch, intrigue curling at the edges of his amusement as he flips through the rest of your file—skimming for anything else that isn’t some prim manufactured selling point.

Not much stands out amongst the crowd, expect that, yeah, you’re hot too. That certainly doesn’t hurt.

If they’re really forcing him to do this shit—if he really has to fuck a woman and produce an heir—he’s at least going to pick someone who can actually hold his attention. Hell, if he has to fuck her, she better be someone who can at least get his dick up.

Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker back up to the elders, their bated breaths held with anticipation.

“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”

A ripple of movement shifts immediately—a murmur of approval.

“But.” His voice cuts through their satisfaction like a knife. “Cancel whatever bullshit arrangement you had planned.” His Six Eyes gleam as his gaze flickers up, sharp, glacial. “If I’m doing this,” he exhales, voice smooth as glass, “I’m doing it my way.”

And with that, he slams the folder down, open with a photo of you.

“I at least want a say in who the fuck I’m picking,” he mutters, voice cool, final. Then, his gaze flickers up. A smirk—sharp and defiant—curls at the corner of his lips. “So… there ya have it. I pick her.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

Satoru watches as the elders’ expressions shift as they take in your photo, their brows knitting together, their lips pressing into thin, disapproving lines. There’s something unspoken between them—hesitation. Uncertainty.

Jesus Christ... what now?

His fingers tap idly against the table, impatience curling at the edges of his composure. Rolling his eyes, he exhales sharply before plopping back down onto the tatami. 

“What?”  his irritation spikes, gaze flickering between the stiff-ass old men. “You gonna tell me she’s not good enough? That her tea ceremony etiquette isn’t up to your impossible fucking standards? She was in your folder!”

Silence.

Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.

“There is… history.” His words are careful, measured. “With her clan.”

Satoru lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Okay… and?”

A flicker of unease passes between the elders.

“Satoru,” another speaks, voice steady, placating. “Clan politics are not so simple—”

He scoffs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You think I give a shit about clan politics?”

More exchanged glances. More unreadable expressions. But Hiroshi remains still.

“It is not just politics…” he finally says, gaze unwavering. “There was a… scandal.”

Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.

God, he fucking hates when people beat around the bush. His patience is wearing thin. He agreed, didn’t he? What the hell more do they want?

“Scandal?” he echoes, voice flat, uninterested. “Oh, let me guess. Daddy lost a business deal? Mommy hosted the wrong kind of dinner party? Spare me.”

A slow breath.

“…her family has been outcasted.”

A pause.

“Disgraced,” another adds. “Stripped of their status. They have nothing. They live in ruin.”

Arching a brow, Satoru lets the silence linger—lets them wait for him to grasp the supposed severity of the situation.

But he doesn’t give a shit about status.

He just wants these crusty old men off his back, and your folder was the least boring in that entire damn stack.

“…and?” his voice is flat. “I fail to see what the fuck any of this has to do with me. She was in your folder. That’s who I pick.”

The tension thickens as the air feels heavier. The elders remain silent, exchanging glances, waiting for him to finally understand—to realize what he’s signing up for.

Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.

“She comes with nothing now, Satoru,” his tone’s heavier now. “She was a suitable candidate… yes. But now? She has no wealth. No influence. Her mother is drowning in debt. If you choose her, you will be marrying into ruin.”

Satoru groans, loudly, dragging a hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired of this conversation. With a sigh, he rises, reaching into his pocket for his blindfold.

“You old geezers really think I give a shit about money?” he mutters, shaking out the fabric before sliding it over his eyes slowly—like he’s already disengaging from the conversation. “God, you’re all so dramatic. I’m loaded. Who fucking cares.”

“Satoru—”

“I said I’d marry. It’s her or nothing,” his voice is final, unwavering.

The folder snaps shut in his hands, the sharp sound slicing through the hushed tension. A flick of his wrist sends it skidding back across the polished table.

“So, there you have it. Call her mother, we’ll draft an arrangement.”

A ripple of unease shifts through the council, their stiff expressions unreadable. Hiroshi’s brow knits. “An arrangement?”

Satoru exhales, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms overhead like this entire conversation has physically exhausted him.

“Yup.” His fingers splay lazily as he waves a hand through the air, tone entirely too casual. “I’ll pay off their debts. In return, she marries me. Win-win. There. Easy.”

Then, that smirk—cocky, taunting—pulls at his lips as he leans back, tipping his chin up in mock amusement.

“Anyways. Good talk.” He pauses. “Sooo… uh. We done?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eat.”

The command is soft but firm, breaking the silence that has stretched too long across the small table before you.

Your mother sits across from you, poised as ever, lifting her chopsticks with careful precision, plucking a small piece of tofu from her bowl. The once-pristine silk of her kimono has dulled with time, its ivory threads faded from wear, from struggle. But she wears it the same way she always has—with quiet dignity, spine straight, hands resting carefully in her lap, an image of control that nothing—not scandal, not exile—has managed to break.

She doesn’t look up as she speaks to you once more.

“You’re staring at your food again.”

You don’t remember the last time dinner felt this quiet.

Well, at least not this kind of quiet. This quiet is… different.

It’s not the quiet like when your father was still here—sitting where your mother is now, tapping idly at his phone, barely listening as you spoke about your day. Not like the quiet nights when he would come home late—smelling of perfume that didn’t belong to your mother.

Not like the quiet night he left—walking out the door, taking everything with him.

A soft clink pulls you back—the sound of your mother setting her chopsticks down with slow, deliberate care. When you lift your eyes, she is already watching you, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“You must eat.”

Picking up the chopsticks, your fingers feel stiff against the smooth wood. The miso soup in front of you has gone lukewarm, its thin broth barely fragrant, stretched with water to make it last longer. A meal meant to sustain, not satisfy.

“I’m… not hungry.”

Your mother doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t frown. She simply takes another bite of her meal, chewing with quiet deliberation before dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“A weakened body leads to a weakened mind,” she murmurs. “You cannot afford to be careless with your health.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but damnit, the urge is there.

Even now, she speaks in lessons, in discipline. As if you still had a name to uphold, a family to represent. As if any of that mattered anymore.

Frustration coils in your stomach, tight and twisting, but you don’t let it show. Because she won’t. She never has.

Not even the night he left.

You still remember it—the way your mother stood there, unmoving, as your father walked out the door. No screaming. No pleading. No chasing after the man who had stolen everything from her, from you.

Just stillness. A quiet that swallowed everything—a quiet that never fucking leaves.

And then, the fallout.

The scandal that burned through the clan like wildfire. The disgrace. The exile. The slow, agonizing unraveling of everything you once knew.

You swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, lifting your chopsticks to take a bite.

Because your mother doesn’t dwell on the past. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

And so, neither do you.

Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.

Your mother stills—her gaze lingering on the telephone for a moment before she moves, rising to her feet with effortless grace, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

As she silently listens to whoever’s on the other line, her shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, but you see it. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curl around the receiver, gripping it just a fraction tighter than necessary.

“I see…”

Another pause.

“Yes. Understood.”

The quiet click of the receiver settling into its cradle echoes through the small room, and you study your mother for a moment as she remains still—motionless.

“…mother?”

When she turns, something flickers in her eyes. Not worry. Not resignation. Something else. Something you haven’t seen in years.

Hope.

“…we have been summoned.”

Smoothing down the fabric of her kimono, she settles back at the table—smiling serenely.

You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

A familiar weight settles over your shoulders as you step past the towering gates of the Gojo estate. It’s been so long since you last walked these halls, and yet you still remember the first time, seven years ago—the grand ceilings stretching impossibly high, the golden glow of lantern light against hand-painted fusuma panels, the hushed murmurs of Kyoto’s elite.

Now, as you pass through the inner courtyard, it is just as intimidating as you remember.

Just as breathtaking.

A servant bows low, silently ushering you toward the tea room, leading both you and your mother in graceful step. As the entrance nears, her voice breaks the silence.

“You will be on your best behavior,” she murmurs, not unkind, but firm.

Right… as if you needed the reminder.

Stepping inside, the tatami mats barely creak under your careful steps, and the scent of incense greets you first—rich, woody, cloying. A low table sits at its center, the lacquered wood polished to perfection, a ceremonial tea set already in place. And across from it, seated with an unmistakable air of ease, is him.

Gojo Satoru.

Even draped in expensive silk—his robes stitched with the distinguished colors of his clan—he carries himself with an irreverence that clashes against the rigid atmosphere of the room. One arm rests against the table, the other draped carelessly over his knee. His blindfold is absent, and for the first time in seven years, you once again meet those impossibly blue eyes head-on.

“Ah, there she is,” he hums, lips curling into a lazy grin. “Thought I was getting stood up.”

Your mother clears her throat pointedly, bowing in greeting. You quickly follow suit, the practiced motion ingrained in you.

“Gojo-sama,” she says smoothly, “it is an honor to be welcomed into your home.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. Big honor. Let’s skip the formalities, huh?”

Seated around the table, the elders watch the exchange in silence, their presence heavy, suffocating. You recognize Gojo Hiroshi among them—his sharp, assessing gaze narrowing on you briefly.

Oh… awkward.

Is he still mad about his seat?

Hiroshi exhales, dragging his gaze to your mother. “We will discuss the terms of the arrangement in the study,” he says, voice calm, measured. “In the meantime, Gojo-sama and his intended should use this opportunity to… familiarize themselves.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Satoru sighs—stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “Right. Tea ceremonies. My favorite.”

Placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, your mother gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder—behave.

And then, with a final bow, she follows the elders as they shuffle toward the adjoining room, their hushed voices retreating beyond the sliding doors. The quiet click of wood sliding echoes in the stillness, leaving just the two of you.

Alone with Gojo Satoru.

A familiar weight settles in your chest, something tight, uncertain. His gaze lingers—not scrutinizing, not cold, but assessing. And God, he’s just as beautiful as you remember him. Too beautiful. The same easy confidence. The same impossibly blue eyes that seem to pierce through everything.

You’ve always held onto that feeling from the first time you met him—what was it, exactly? Admiration?

“Well,” Satoru exhales, stretching his legs slightly beneath the table. “Guess it’s just us now.”

Something about the way he says it makes your tummy clench. Is that the admiration? Fuck, whatever. You know what this meeting is supposed to be. A display of grace, a demonstration of propriety. A wife’s first duty to her husband-to-be.

And so, you inhale, slow and controlled—reaching for the tea set.

“Care for some tea?” you murmur, lifting the delicate porcelain into your fingertips, moving through the familiar, measured motions of ceremony. Of tradition.

Lifting the teapot with both hands, you tilt it just so, allowing the warm liquid to pour in an elegant arc, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The way you were taught. The way it has always been.

Then, with just as much care, you offer it to him, your gaze respectfully lowered.

“Please… enjoy.”

With an unreadable expression, Satoru’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the cup from your hands. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker down at the tea, before taking a slow sip.

There is an unnerving silence.

“Is it… to your liking?”

“Uh…” he shrugs, flashing a boyish grin. “Tastes like tea?”

You blink.

What are you supposed to say to that?

A growing nervousness flutters in your chest. Your mother is depending on you—don’t fuck this up. Nodding, your hands fold neatly in your lap as you recite the lines of tradition.

“It is an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama. May this tea be a reflection of the harmony I hope to uphold in our union.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then—Satoru laughs. Not a small chuckle. Not polite amusement. Full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter.

It startles you, your body tensing at the sound as he sets his cup onto the table and doubles over, catching his breath between chuckles.

You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?

“…did I say something amusing?” you ask carefully.

Satoru waves a hand, shaking his head as he wipes beneath his eyes. “No, no. It’s just… wow. You really went full perfect wife mode, huh?”

Your brows pull together slightly. “Yes… well. It is only proper to conduct myself with—”

“Yeeeah… let’s not,” he waves a hand, leaning forward slightly, arms folding over the table. “You don’t have to do that with me, y’know.”

You hesitate. “Do… what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at you, expression amused but pointed. “The stiff politeness, the whole ‘it is an honor to serve you’ thing. Jeez… feels like I’m at another meeting with the elders.”

You blink, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sleeve. “But… this is a formal arrangement.”

He hums, tapping a long finger against the porcelain cup. “Yeah, but we’re also people… aren’t we?”

His words catch you off guard.

People.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been allowed to simply be that—just a person. Not an heiress, not a proper wife, not a disgraced daughter in need of redemption.

You glance at him, at Gojo Satoru, and suddenly… he doesn’t feel so unreachable.

Oh…

He’s the same as you remember—the man who saved you seven years ago. The one who made defiance look so effortless, so free.

Perhaps… with him, you can breathe. Live freely.

Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.

“…Very well,” you murmur. “Then how would you prefer I speak to you, Gojo-sama?”

Satoru exhales dramatically, tilting his head to the side. “Well for starters, drop the ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Hate that.”

You bite back a smile. “It’s a title of respect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand. “But every time you say it, I feel like I need to go yell at some underlings or something. I’m twenty-five, not fucking ancient.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Alright… what should I call you then?”

He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”

“…mmkay,” you hesitate for a moment. “Satoru, then.”

His smile widens, pleased.

“Perfect.” He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his palm, one long finger tapping against the table. “Now… be honest. You don’t actually like this crap, do you?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely at the tea set, the meticulously arranged porcelain, the lingering scent of incense curling in the air. “All this traditional, stiff-ass, sit-in-silence tea ceremony nonsense.”

Your fingers clench slightly in your lap. “It’s… important.”

Satoru hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. But do you like it?”

You hesitate. It’s a simple question. A stupid one, even. But for some reason, it feels… foreign. Like no one has ever asked before. You should say yes. It would be the correct answer. The proper one.

“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.

Satoru hums again, watching you closely. “That’s not a yes.”

Looking down at the tea in front of you, a quiet weight settles in your chest. Then—he leans back with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, c’mon,” he groans, tilting his head to the side like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “This is boring as hell. You don’t actually wanna sit here drinking tea all day, right?”

You lift a brow. “But… isn’t this what the elders want?”

Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.

“Yeah, and I like pissing them off,” his voice dips slightly as he shifts closer. “So… let’s try something.”

He pats his lap. Once. Twice.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily.

You stare—heat rising up your neck, your fingers gripping the fabric in your lap.

“…what?”

Satoru lifts a brow. “What?” he echoes, with a grin. Then, he pats his thigh again, nonchalant. “You heard me. C’mere. Sit.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Erm… how does… this have anything to do with ditching?”

“Hmm… maybe, it doesn’t.” Satoru shrugs, lips curling at the edges. “Maybe I just wanna see if you’ll do it.”

A pause. Your stomach flips. Your pulse skips. Your brain is screaming at you. This is improper. Completely inappropriate. Unbefitting of a proper woman, much less a bride-to-be.

And yet—

Fuck. He’s watching you with expectation, amusement, curiosity. Because this is Gojo Satoru. The man who has always done whatever the hell he wants—and somehow, that makes you feel like you can too.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you drag in a deep breath, then move—shifting onto your knees and leaning forward. With a quiet exhale, you turn, lowering yourself onto his lap, your back against his chest as your hands rest awkwardly in your lap.

The moment you settle, his arms curl around your waist. The air changes, and your heart flutters.

“…huh,” his voice is closer than expected, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze—when suddenly, the world bends.

Weightlessness seizes you—like free-falling, like slipping through space itself. Your stomach lurches as reality warps around you, fleeting, untethered—until solid ground finds you again.

A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.

Where the hell are you?

Soft lantern light flickers against dark wood and paper screens, casting shifting shadows along the floor. The air is crisp, laced with pine, and beyond the open veranda, a private onsen awaits—its surface steaming beneath the early evening sky, mist curling lazily across the mountain air like silk. The distant hum of cicadas thrums through the silence, the world around you untouched, secluded, still.

Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.

“Ahh, much better…”

Warm fingers thread through your hair. Slow, deliberate—gathering the strands to one side. You feel a brush of lips against your shoulder as he murmurs,

“…don’t you agree?”

Shit. The realization settles over you like heat—you’re still in his lap.

“Wha—” the room is hazy—you’re a bit breathless from the sudden shift in reality, and fuck, it’s mixing dangerously with the heat of his touch as his fingers slowly drag along your waist.

Hesitantly, you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. Blue. Endless. Watching you. You should look away, but you don’t.

“Um…”

“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.

Shifting slightly, you try to will away the heat in your face, slipping away from his chest as you adjust. Your thighs drape over his lap now, half-facing him. And fuck—was that a mistake?

Because now, he’s all you can see.

Snowy white hair, framing a face too perfect to be real—his mouth curving into a lazy grin that makes your tummy clench in a way you’re entirely unfamiliar with.

“Where… are we?” you manage.

Satoru hums, shifting beneath you—his fingers dancing over the silk of your obi. “Oh… y’know,” his hand drags higher, resting just below the curve of your breast. “Just somewhere no one will bother us…”

As your dizzy mind tries to recalibrate from teleporting, you blink, finally processing the position you’re in. Or rather, the position he’s in—lounging on a shikifuton.

His fingers twirl the tie of your obi, and you tense, suddenly incredibly nervous.

“G-Gojo…”

He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”

“Um…” his other hand begins to slide higher up your thigh. “S-Satoru,” you amend, barely above a whisper.

A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”

Oh. You’re fucked. A shudder rolls through you.

“This place… um…” you try to distract yourself with words. Because what the fuck are you supposed to do when he’s touching you like this?! “Its… not the estate, is it?”

“Nah,” he murmurs lazily. “One of my private villas.I’ve got property all over Japan, sweetheart. Figured I’d take you somewhere more… comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?

And shit. Just what is this heat coiling at the base of your stomach? It’s dizzying. You need to move—need space, need air. But as you shift, attempting to slip from his lap, his grip tightens.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, hands steadying you with effortless strength. “Easy there, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stammers, and for a second, you forget to breathe.

“I—I just need to—”

“Stay put.” His fingers flex against your waist. Firm. Unyielding. “We just teleported. Move too fast, and you’ll tip over.”

As your lips begin to part—a protest forming—a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. Your breath hitches as the edges of your vision blur for a fraction of a second, and you sway, balance slipping.

“Ohp. There it is.”

Satoru moves before you can even react.

One hand slips behind your back, the other finding your hand as he gently lays you back against the futon. The silk of your kimono pools around you as his palm slides back to the curve of your waist.

And suddenly, he’s everywhere.

Leaning over you, elbow propped up—half above, half beside you. A frame too broad, his snowy-white hair falling forward just slightly, strands ghosting against your forehead.

The air shifts.

Those impossibly blue eyes drink you in, framed by thick lashes that soften the sharp cut of his jaw. “Still dizzy?” he murmurs teasingly.

Inhaling shakily, your eyes flutter shut for just a second, searching for something steady, something solid. But there’s only him—his presence, his warmth, the scent of him—clean, crisp, intoxicating.

Yup. You’re fucked.

“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.

Because it’s not the teleporting that’s making your head spin anymore.

Satoru hums, knowing.

“Since we’re to be wed…” his fingers resettle just below your breast, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you deserve a sample, don’t you?”

Huh?

You should say something. Anything. Your lips part instinctively, but before you can form a thought, before hesitation can settle in—Satoru is leaning in and your brain is short circuiting.

His hand lifts, cupping your cheek as he tilts your chin just so, and with a tenderness, his lips brush against yours in a soft, lingering press.

It’s like a dream. Gojo Satoru—the man you’ve admired, so sweet, so charming, so free—kissing you? Is this real life?

When he pulls back, he studies your expression, a smug grin dragging up his lips.

“What? You want more?” his lips brush against yours, and you barely process it when he mutters, “…wanna ruin you…” kissing you again.

This time, his lips are moving—slow, languid, like he’s introducing himself to you in a way words never could, coaxing you into the unfamiliar rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He guides. Mapping out your hesitation, your breath, the way your body tenses before melting beneath him.

Is your heart going to beat out of your chest? It feels like it. Just as you ease into his movements, his tongue flicks against the seam of your lower lip—soft, teasing.

“C’mon…” he quietly demands, tongue tracing your lips again, “open up f’me…”

And God, you do. Because he feels too good not to.

“Atta girl…” he hums, tongue slipping past your lips with ease. And now, that slow, lazy exploration turns headier, more consuming, more demanding. Groaning quietly, he’s pulling you in, guiding you. Leading. Teaching.

Oh.

That heat in your tummy… it’s spreading down between your legs now. You’re simmering with an inexplainable heat, and you instinctively clutch his robes, whining involuntarily as he kisses you stupid.

He’s grinning smugly against your lips, your sound fueling him as he devours you more. As your lips crash, you feel him shift, his fingers tugging at your kimono—toying with the delicate knot of your obi.

Wait.

You freeze.

Oh god.

Are you about to lose your virginity to the man you are to marry—before your wedding night?

Noticing you tense, Satoru’s smirk gentles and his movements slow. His lips taper, trailing down your jaw with tender pecks.

“Heh… relax, sweetheart…” he purrs against your skin, caressing your body. “In case you’re wondering, ’m not taking that tonight.”

Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.

Are… you relieved? Fuck… do you want him to fuck you? He’s making your head spin, and with him, tradition feels unnecessary.

 “Oh… I-I just…” you swallow. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He raises a brow, a slow smirk pulling up his lips. “Yeah? Then I can show you, baby.” His lips graze the curve of your throat, fingers still teasing at your obi. “But I need to hear it from you first.”

You blink up at him, heat pooling between your legs at the look in his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, consuming.

“What do you want? Gonna let me play with what’s mine?”

Your heart stammers. Fuck, you should hesitate. This is entirely unbefitting of a proper lady. It’s against everything you were raised to be. But the moment his teeth graze your jaw, fuck it, you’re already nodding.

“…yes, please.”

Satoru hums. “Good girl.”

And then, with a deft tug, your kimono slips open as he pulls it apart—the cool air kissing your skin just before he does, lips trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your breast.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty… look at these tits…” His tongue flicks against your nipple, and you whine, “S-Satoru—ahhh…” shuddering as his mouth wraps around it, swirling his tongue as he sucks the peak.

Smirking, he releases your nipple with a wet pop. “Bet you’re not as prim and proper as you look…” he muses, lips dragging lower, nipping at the sensitive dip of your waist. “Bet there’s a filthy little thing hiding under all this tradition…”

His palms descend, smoothing over your thighs, coaxing them apart with ease, but you tense just a bit.

His gaze lifts, ice-blue and smoldering. “Nervous, sweetheart?” he teases, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs sweeping slow, lazy circles—soothing, patient. But there’s a tension in him, the way his breath deepens, the way his hands flex like he’s holding back.

Your lashes flutter. “I… I just… I dunno how to, I—”

“Shhh,” he coos, smirking, “relax f’me, yeah?”

You give him a little nod as your thighs part further beneath the coaxing of his hands, and fuck, fuck, the sight of you like this—open, pliant, so soft and untouched—has his cock aching.

His breath shudders, fingers dragging up your inner thigh. “Mmm… I can already tell—you’re gonna be a dream wrapped around my cock.” A choked whine escapes you, body shivering, and his smirk deepens. “Ohhh, you like that?” he chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the silk of your kimono, spreading it further open. “Like hearing how bad I wanna fuck you?”

And fuck, does he want to fuck you. The restraint it takes to not flip you over and rut into your cunt is damn near unbearable.

It’s been days since Satoru’s had someone in his bed—days of listening to those stiff-ass elders drone on about duty, responsibility, marriage. Fucking is his stress relief. His role—this position as clanhead, as the strongest. God, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit but it’s exhausting. So, he fucks who he wants, when he wants. And now? Now he’s got you beneath him, trembling and breathless, your kimono slipping from your shoulders like a perfectly wrapped gift waiting to be undone.

It’s almost enough to make him say fuck it and take you right now.

Almost.

But he’s not completely selfish—knows you’re untouched, knows he’d probably wreck you if he took you raw the way he wants to. And as much as he loves breaking pretty little things, he’s gotta prepare you. Prepare you for the worst. Because Satoru? He doesn’t make love, he fucks.

“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"

“I gotchu sweetheart,” he drawls, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton panties. “Gonna take my time. Let’s see how filthy my pretty little wife can get f’me, hm?”

You whimper as his middle finger circles the entrance of your slick cunt, teasing, testing, before pressing in an inch, feeling a small taste of your tight heat wrapped around him.

“Mnnh…” your voice wavers as your fingers grip his robes. “S-Satoru.” He groans, dragging his fingers through your slick, spreading it, making sure you feel every stroke. “Shit, baby…” his voice dips, husky, teasing. “Already soaked, hm? Just from me kissing you? Heh… see.” A wicked grin curls against your neck and you’re whining as he parts your folds, circling against your wet heat. “Knew it. You’re a naughty girl. Feels good huh?”

You nod, head tipping back as your cunt drips on the futon, hips shifting toward him.

“I-I… haaa…” you look up at him with pleading eyes as the tip of his finger sinks inside your tiny hole, then retreating just as quickly, playing with you. He groans, “God I’m gonna fucking ruin you… lemme feel how tight this little pussy is f’me…” and then he pushes his finger in fully, sinking knuckle-deep in your entrance.

“Ahhh!” you gasp, body shuddering, face burying into his neck as your cunt clenches him greedily. “Ohhh, shit,” he groans through his teeth because fuck—your tiny pussy’s already swallowing his finger like you don’t wanna let go. Satoru’s cock is twitching painfully in his hakama, leaking, straining against the fabric. He can’t wait to split you open on his thick throbbing dick.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” he coos, lips brushing against your ear. “Nice and easy, baby.” He’s moving now, curling his finger against that tender spot, and you gasp “S-Satoru…” burying further into his neck as you soak his hand, clutching his kimono as you whine, “nngh… s’too much…”

“Aww… s’okay…” he’s pressing wet open-mouthed kisses along your throat, finger slowly fucking into you, “Shit… this is only one finger sweetheart. Poor thing. M’gonna have to stretch you real good, huh?” he pumps through every word. “And you’ll take all of me, wont’cha? Take me like a good girl?”

Your lashes flutter. It’s overwhelming, but god, you love it. Stretching your hot little cunt with his long finger, the way his pretty blue eyes watch you, the way his voice drips into your ears, coaxing you further under. “I-I… nnngh…” your needy pussy’s gushing all over his knuckles, “Satoruuu…” you whimper, squirming slightly, unsure what you’re asking for.

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.

“Faster?” he croons, nipping at your earlobe, pumping you fast, and fuck, your eyes roll back. The sounds of your sopping slick mix with the hum of cicadas. “That’s it… m’gonna teach you. Show my perfect little slut of a wife how to take cock, how to be a good girl for her husband.”

He curls his finger further, sliding against your tight wet walls. “S-Satoru—ahhh…”

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, cock angry in his pants as he pumps you stupid. “Shit, you’re so wet… feel that?” his free hand splays over your stomach, feeling your tiny hole flutter around him. “Ah, fuck… you’re gonna feel so tight around my dick… can’t wait to fuckin’ pound this needy pussy.”

Your breath is stuttering as he’s stretching you faster, making your cunt drool all over him, pretty blue eyes watching you through fluttering white lashes.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby…” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep, velvety. “Hope you’re ready, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, be my little obedient, sexy toy for me to use whenever I want. Yeah?”

Your body moves on its own and you arch further into him, desperate for more of his ministrations.

“…satoru,” you pant, and his cock leaps in his pants the moment you ask, “m-more… please?”

“Shit…” he groans, slipping another finger into your sopping cunt. “Knew you’re not as innocent as you look. Gonna pump you so fucking full, paint your insides white with my hot, thick cum,” he pants, finger fucking you faster. “This want you wanted needy girl?”

“Mhmm…” you nod, eyes squeezed shut, legs squeezing around him, a whimper spilling for your lips. “Ohh, fuck yes…” he growls, licking into your mouth.

Fuck, Satoru’s cock is throbbing so much is hurts now.

The thought of fucking you raw? Of splitting you open on his cock, ruining that untouched little cunt, making you stretch around him, crying, gasping, begging? Fuck—he could cum in his pants just thinking about it.

Because that is something he doesn’t do with other women. He’s always careful. Always keeps things clean, simple. Never finishes inside—ensuring there’s something between him and whatever meaningless distraction is spread out beneath him. Because at the end of the day, Gojo Satoru has a lot of meaningless distractions, and none of them are worth that kind of indulgence.

But you? Breeding you? Filling your tiny little hole, stuffing you full, making you drip with his cum until you’re leaking, messy, begging for more? Fuck, that’s more than a perk—that’s a goddamn plus.

A plus that, at least in marrying you, he’ll have someone to fuck whenever he wants. Satoru always gets what he wants. And he loves to fuck.

That’s all this is. That’s all you’ll be. A perfect little wife, ready to spread your legs and take him like you were made for it. Why? Because Satoru hates being tied down. But if the elders want an heir?

Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.

“O-Oh… ohmygod…” you’re whimpering now, nails digging into his shoulders as he’s scissoring your dripping pussy, stretching you wider. “Ahhh!” The moment his thumb finds your clit, your body jolts, and he chuckles. “Mmm… there it is…” he’s rubbing slow circles against your swollen bud, pumping your cunt as your whimper and writhe. “That’s what I wanna see… let it take you… let it break you, baby.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—eyes hooded, lips parted, white hair falling over his gaze. Fuck, he looks ruined just watching you come apart. You’re gasping, chest rising and falling, and he smirks. “S’too much,” you whine, voice trembling, “too much, Satoru… I… ahhh!”

Leaning in, his lips brush against yours. “C’mon sweet thing,” he rasps, “Cum f’me. Lemme see how pretty you look when you fall apart…”

And fuck, you do.

Your pussy clenches, tightening around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snaps, sending pleasure crashing through you.

A choked cry slips from your lips as your body shudders violently, legs squeezing around his wrist, cunt gushing down his knuckles. He groans, feeling every pulse of your release, the hot slick dripping down his hand as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, watching you unravel beneath him. His lips curl, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s it, baby… look at you, makin’ such a mess on my fingers.” His thrusts slow, easing you down from your high, his free hand stroking up your trembling thigh as you’re panting, gripping the sleeve of his kimono as you look up at him with dewy eyes.

“Mmm… such a good girl f’me,” he murmurs.

Your lashes flutter, hazy and weak, as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your spent, fluttering hole. You whimper, body jerking slightly at the sensitivity, and a thin, glistening string of arousal connects his fingers to your soaked entrance before it snaps, slick dripping down your thighs.

Satoru hums. “Well, well…” he’s lifting his hand to the lantern light, watching you glisten on his fingers. “You really did make such a mess, sweetheart…”

Your dazed gaze meets his just as his tongue slips between his fingers, sucking them clean. “Mmm…” he groans, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back before pulling them out with a wet pop. “Can’t wait to devour your cunt properly… bury my face between those pretty thighs n’ make you cum on my tongue while I feed you my dick…”