Cloud

The silence that rang loudest, however? Their sovereignty. Unlike the other clans—the ones who flaunted their power in an effort to gain others’ favor, such as the Zen’in Clan—, the Gojo Clan ruled over the Jujutsu world with quiet control, holding everyone by a leash.

It was uncommon for Gojo Clan’s leaders to lose their tempers. They wouldn’t engage in extreme political battles until they deemed the situation necessary, which was very unlikely. They had a habit of letting a situation simmer until they could swoop in and take what they wanted; they’d release curses and their strongest sorcerers—their strongest. No one wanted to waste their time for a futile thing. No one wanted to waste their time trying to rebel against them. Why would they? Even the most vile of humanity valued their lives far too much for any brutal death the clan could offer.

It was concerning, to say the least. The idea that a single clan could hold so much authority over those who considered themselves on the same level wasn’t one people could easily wrap their heads around. Being treated like animals wasn’t something those fools could comprehend.

You were only a kid when you entered the clan; to them, you had the potential to be a lovely, devoteful servant. To be led along like a lamb to the slaughter and serve.

Maybe that’s what made you easy. You were a child: naive and ignorant. You didn’t know what it meant when they dragged you by a chain into the melancholy clan. You just obeyed, and the clan liked that. If only…

Oh, well. Your compliance is what led you here—a simple servant among the Gojo family—, and you’d rather have a purpose here than none. The Gojo Clan didn’t take lightly to slackers working for them. You carried your weight and then some.

You were a servant. A lesser-being in the presence of deities.

And you were content with that.

It was monotonous, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You woke up, got dressed, groomed yourself (and bathed yourself, if you were lucky), and went along with your daily chores. You’d occasionally chat with your colleagues about mundane things such as the weather before the conversation slowly fizzled out. But this life was better than nothing. They told you that. You believed it. They gave you no reason to believe otherwise.

As much as you’d hate to admit it, the clan probably saved you from a mundane, agonizing life filled with sorrow. At least here, you were worth something.

You are worth something.

Years went by. You weren’t the same naive seven-year-old boy who never questioned why all the ‘games’ you played with the adults were bowing to the elders and sweeping floors. Now, you are aware of your purpose. You are okay with it.

You are.

“Servant.”

You perked up at the call. No one knows the names of the servants, so why would they know yours? It was always the people beckoning ‘servant’, and the nearest one would respond.

You’re alone here.

Politely, oh-so-politely, you bowed in the direction of the voice, your hands tucked down. Looking up isn’t allowed, as it’s disrespectful. “Yes?” You question, your voice laced with an exhaustion that was noticed in every servant.

“The audience hall needs attending,” they respond. The voice was stern and gravelly, yet weary and stoic. It’s definitely Nakano. Only his voice is so distinct and defined. “Second floor.”

“Right away.” You don’t lift your body from the bow until you hear him walk past you, his footsteps thudding against the wooden floorboards until you can’t distinguish them with the occasional creaks of the walls.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted yourself with a straight back.

Your steps were even and measured as you walked to the audience hall. This hall was a small one, though you heard from murmurs that there was a gathering occurring in that room. You weren’t too concerned, however. If you blend into the background, then no one would care for your presence.

Your hands adjusted the mask on your head, ensuring it wouldn’t slip off as you went through with your duties. All servants adorned them on their faces to keep anonymity. You never questioned why the servants would need to retain their anonymous personas as servants. It’s not like they were ever needed. Still, you wore it without complaints. It was a standard protocol, you told yourself. Part of the uniform.

The masks of all the servants were wooden and painted white. From a distance, one could mistake a servant for a cryptid under the guise of a human. You couldn’t blame them. You thought so, too. When you were younger, the other servants who took care of you also wore them. Their masks made them appear sickly and pale. You imagined their faces underneath to be the same: hollowed cheeks with drooping eyes and no emotion. With the masks, you could never read how they were feeling. Their body language was limited except for the stiff bow and polite nod given to authority figures as they passed through the halls.

How ironic that you do the same. Maybe that’s why they wore them.

So no one would know what they were thinking. Why would they need to know?

You reached the audience hall.

With tentative hands, you opened the doors with intricate designs, slipping inside and closing it behind you. You took in your surroundings immediately. It’s a habit you’ve gained over the years. You wouldn’t want to interrupt something important, would you? That’s not befitting of a servant. Especially one of your status amongst them.

A few important figures of the clan’s leadership were standing in an organized manner around the elevated portion of the stage. A figure was on the elevated floor, speaking while sitting languidly on a pillow. You didn’t spare him a second glance, but his voice was loud and clear. He sounds arrogant, you thought, though you quickly pushed the thought away. You can’t think of such things towards people above you. It’s rude and, frankly, out of character for you.

Still, you couldn’t deny how… demeaning he was. You were barely listening, as you didn’t have any right to, but occasional words and phrases slipped through your wooden mask. Trashy, he said. Stupid, old, idiots, selfish, weak…

He was right, of course. Most of the people here are manipulative for their own personal gain, but why would everyone bother listening to someone like him? He’s just insulting everyone.

You decided you didn’t care enough to think about it any longer.

‘Attending,’ Nakano said. Honestly, you didn’t know what that entailed. But by the looks of the few other servants offering snacks to the crowd, you had a feeling ‘attending’ was synonymous with ‘serve’.

Or ‘deal with’.

Being as calm as you could be, you walked to the back of the room. The sound of the man talking was muffled. Your mask blocked out a majority of the noise around you except for the sound of your soft breathing hitting the wood. You were calm. There were trays of food in the back, each placed with intent. Too perfect and symmetrical. Mimicking a few of the other servants, you gathered a tray with a few appetizers.

Your footsteps felt heavy. You were unsure as to why you felt so nervous. You’ve done this before. But the atmosphere was too tense and heavy for a regular meeting. The way the figure on the stage was talking, the way the nobles in the crowd looked angry yet refused to do anything, simply clutching their fists…

You were calm.

You maneuvered through different people in the crowd, arms stretched out to offer with your head bowed to display your humility. You’d occasionally stop by a person. Either they’d pluck a morsel from the tray and eat it without sparing a glance, or they’d pretend like they didn’t see you, focusing on the figure on stage, leaving you to wait like a dog for their attention before walking away when realizing it was futile, your tail tucked between your legs.

How embarrassing.

You continued this until the man on the stage stopped talking. When he sighed dramatically, everyone took it as a sign to leave. Some muttered curses under their breath, others blatantly insulted the speaker’s crass language. Maybe they didn’t want to be here.

The moment the last person left, the servants—you included—relaxed their arms, letting the trays drop to their waist-level. Everyone felt limp and dead.

The other servants walked back to set the trays down and clear everything out. It was time to clear the room for its next use. The tablecloths needed to be folded, the tables needed to be moved and rearranged to their proper spots. Some were already clearing off empty trays with only crumbles.

You took a step, ready to do the same. After all, you’ve spent years climbing the ranks to become head servant. It’s best to set a good example for the new people who only joined—

“Hey, servant.”

The voice was casual. Teasing, almost, if you really strained your ear.

A few of the other servants turned to the call. You did, too. Instinct. Like dogs trained for years. How pathetic.

Through the holes of your white mask, you could see him: the speaker.

White hair was the first thing you noticed. It was stark against the rich brown takamakura he rested his head on—white hair was an unnatural color, even in a place as marvelous as the Gojo Clan. He was sprawled flat on his back, one leg propped up.

His teeth were bared in a smile. Lazy and sly like a fox.

“Yeah, you. C’mere.” He barely lifted his hand from the ground to beckon you forward.

Oh, he was referring to you specifically. How interesting.

You were nothing but obedient. Rearranging the tray on your body, you stepped closer. Your shadow cast against his pale, smooth skin. He had no blemishes, which wasn’t entirely uncommon among people the Gojo Clan considered worth protecting more than others. While some of the sorcerers had prominent scarring on their bodies, a testament to their power, others looked like porcelain dolls without a crack. Shielded more than others, you supposed. Important.

“Feed me,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing. His smile never wavered. “I want those sweet tarts on your tray.”

He was just as impolite as before.

But oh, his eyes.

They held the ocean inside of them. You were grateful for the mask resting upon your face. You looked foolish, with your own eyes wide in awe, your lips pulled apart in a quiet gasp that was a disgrace to your station.

They were vibrant and full of a life you wish you could’ve had. The waves of the East Sea crashed against his pupils like the tide giving the shore a fleeting kiss before receding with haunting memories of something far too important. The clouds swirled like watercolor’s white; an angel’s wings glowing uncomfortably bright, overwhelming yet not nearly enough.

He was beautiful.

And you just openly stared.

Foolish.

“I ain’t got all day. I get it, I’m pretty, but multitask.”

You blinked and shook your head slightly. Ah, he was still waiting. Right. You need to do your job. As intended. As your purpose. Despite how weird the request was. Especially despite how weird his request was.

He was definitely around your age, perhaps a bit older. You’ve only fed children, not arrogant brats like him.

You sighed internally. You really needed to get yourself together.

Gently, you set the tray down next to his head and crouched down, your knees popping. Your body ached, and your muscles were sore, but you’d be able to rest soon. Or so you’ve been told many times before. You let yourself believe it like an idiot every time.

Your legs relaxed against the wooden floor when they finally had support. You don’t sit on the elevated part of the floor; that’s forbidden for servants. You’re beneath him, and you should show it in every way possible, when possible. (Not if possible, because it’s always possible.)

You plucked a tart from the tray and held it out, letting it hover over his mouth. He didn’t open it at first, just stared at the sweet treat above him, observing it. Then he opened his mouth wide.

You placed the tart into his mouth and pulled it away.

He closed. Chewed deliberately. Paused, as if contemplating whether or not the tarts were worth his time. Then opened his mouth again. I want another one, he seemed to say silently, looking at you expectantly. Like hesitating for a second was outrageous behavior when it came to feeding him like a cat.

How rude.

Both of you continued this for a while. It was a peculiar scene. You’d grab a treat, hold it above his mouth, and he’d eventually open his mouth and let you plop it in. He’d chew—this time with more haste, as now he knew they were to his liking—and open his mouth wide again.

His eyes were always on you. It was unnerving to say the least, but you did your job nonetheless until the tray was empty.

He didn’t notice at first, just staring at you without blinking. Then he processed that you weren’t feeding him and glanced at the now-empty tray, his head lifting barely.

“Get more,” he ordered, his neck relaxing again.

You looked around. The other servants from earlier were still there, cleaning the room. They hadn’t glanced towards the two of you: the head servant feeding an important figure of the Gojo Clan. But the tension felt high for some reason. It always was in the clan.

Some more platters were still on the table, but there weren’t any of the same sweets you fed him earlier. They were already cleared out by the other servants, and this was the last tray you grabbed.

You turned back to the figure and shook your head.

He huffed. “Hah?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you could tell he was starting to get annoyed. “I said get more, or are ya’ pretending to be deaf?” His lips jutted out slightly in a pout, and you couldn’t keep a grin from creeping onto your face. You caught yourself and pursed them. What are you doing, smiling at his reaction?

You weren’t permitted to speak. You haven’t spoken more than a few words in three days. So you just shook your head again, pointed to the tray, pointed to the table at the far end of the room, and shook your head again.

He still didn’t get it. You could tell with the way his head angled more towards you, the way he squinted as if that’d help him figure out your signals. He muttered, “god, do I still have to do this?” under his breath, agitated. He cleared his throat too loudly. “Speak,” he commanded, but it sounded more like a request. Like you were given a choice. But you know better.

“There aren’t any of the same sweets you wanted at the table,” you answered immediately, clearing your throat as well. You needed water. Your voice was hoarse. “Would you like me to request the kitchen to make you more?” you offered. It was a common rule in the daimyo castle: don’t refuse without offering an alternative solution.

He stuck his tongue out childishly and made a “blah” sound as he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. ‘S too much effort.” You already felt like you had an idea on what this guy was like. Lazy, arrogant, cocky, and got everything in life on a platter. Sweets included.

Just like everyone else here.

You nodded. You were finished talking.

Now you just need him to dismiss—

“You a guy?”

You focused on him again. Huh?

“Most of the servants here are girls,” he commented casually, his eyes still on you. How long has he been staring? Has he even blinked? “Not many guys, considering the patriarchy.”

“Oh.” You hummed. He was making conversation? “Yes, I’m a guy.”

“Weird.”

No shame.

“You’re pretty lame,” he observed, his eyes travelling up and down your body with a calculating gaze, yet his mouth kept that lazy grin. “And quiet.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t allowed to. You were earlier, but not now.

He waited a few seconds, the quiet enveloping the two of you before he groaned, lifting his arms to rub his face. “You can talk, geez. I don’t want to keep repeating that command over and over again like some record.”

This was… new.

“Forgive me.” You bowed your head.

He groaned again. “Stop apologizing. It’s making you more lame.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. Then closed it. Hm.

Sighing dramatically, he used his arms to push himself upright. Your gaze followed his face, which was contorted into what can only be described as boredom. “How boring…” he mumbled, proving your earlier thought. His slender hands reached and rubbed his eyes. He looked agitated.

You were still sitting on the floor, your knees aching against the wood, waiting for him to dismiss you.

“Massage my head.”

You didn’t sigh. You wished you could. But you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Instead of pondering on what you would do later, your thoughts traveled to how to approach the command given to you. You’re not permitted on the elevated portion of the room, yet that’s where he is.

Perhaps you were thinking too long, because he groaned, albeit this time louder in a way meant to grab attention. He liked attention, you assumed, even if you knew you weren’t supposed to assume. “Are you slow? What’s the holdup?”

“I’m not allowed on that portion of the room—“

“I don’t care. Get up here and massage my head.”

You did as you were told. You always do.

As you crawled onto the higher floor, he sat up and swatted the takamakura away, letting it slide and clatter before bumping into a wall. It was expensive; he doesn’t have to worry about money, you concluded.

You sat behind him, your legs pressed together neatly. He was tall, even when he leaned back with his arms propping himself upright. Just massage him even if it’s weird, you told yourself. Just massage—

He pulled his arms back and plopped his head into your lap.

Well.

“Mm…” he whined and nuzzled into your thigh, and for the second time, your breathing hitched, and you let yourself freeze instead of listening to the commands given to you. “You’re oddly warm. It’s usually freezing here.”

“U-Uhm…” you stammered. Actually stammered instead of giving a straight answer. You hesitated. You’re not supposed to hesitate.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the mask’s old wood. “I have been told I have a naturally warm body temperature.” You spoke without adding anything meaningful to the exchange. It’s unlike you. It’s strange. It’s not normal. Why are you talking?

But he just laughed and sighed with content. Too comfortable, resting his head on a servant’s lap in the Gojo Clan—a man, no less. “Massage, please,” he asked again, but he didn’t sound upset with having to repeat himself. “Scalp,” he clarified.

Your hands, rough with calluses—all from chores and housework—began to work themselves through his hair, scratching the crown before working downwards. His hair felt like the silk many adorned themselves with. The position was awkward for your hands, but you could work with it. You always do.

He sighed, a faint smile slowly growing on his face. It was a bit embarrassing, actually. A few of the remaining servants barely glanced at the scene; the masks made it hard to tell, thank goodness. But if they were looking, you know they’d be uncomfortable with the situation. Not that they’d voice it out loud.

“Your hands’re… good at this,” he slurred. His eyes that held the sky closed. He was relaxed. His speech was still informal, you noticed. It’s been like that throughout the entire interaction, but you found yourself focusing on it more than you should’ve. More than what was appropriate.

“More,” he begged. Begged. Maybe he was begging. But why would anyone beg for something from you? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe his words were just getting to you.

The heat underneath the mask was unbearable. Were you seriously this flushed over a man finding your massage good?

You’ve massaged others before when you were still training under the other servants. They were considered lower-class assignments, often given to the inexperienced ones; seniority still applied among servants (because the irony was bitter, how unimportant figures could continue to divide themselves). You shouldn’t be this affected by someone saying your massage was good, not mentioning the fact that he shouldn’t be complimenting you in the first place.

Maybe he wanted you to be offended because this task was supposed to be given to new servants. Maybe that’s why.

But god, you really didn’t feel offended. That’s probably worse.

His eyes snapped open, yanking you out of your curiosity regarding his demeanor, and he seemed to stare through your mask. He grinned, like he could see how flustered you were through the pale wood that concealed everything it was meant to conceal. “Why don’t you do this more often?” He questioned. “Your hands are great for this.”

You didn’t respond. Not because you weren’t told to. He said you could talk whenever.

No, you just didn’t know how.

At your prolonged silence—that was entirely out of character, considering all servants should respond when spoken to—, he laughed again. It was unguarded and unfiltered: just a light chuckle that sounded like the clouds. “So good… perfect.” The way he purred the last word was filthy.

Your hands never stopped moving. You wouldn’t let them. Because you were ordered to, you told yourself. No ulterior motive. Not because the praise made you feel something you haven’t felt in years.

It was strange how the world seemed to have come to this. First, Nakano ordered you to serve small platters to a few people. Now you were massaging a man’s head while he whined and furrowed his head into your lap. He was definitely messing with you.

“You can stop now.”

You pulled away like his snow-white hair burned you.

He didn’t get off your lap, though. Just stared at your mask. He was observing you. “You should take it off,” he said, a slender finger pointing to your mask, and you could’ve sworn his fingertips brushed the grainy texture. “I don’t like it.”

You faltered. “That’s not allowed,” you said calmly. Your heart rang like a caged dove. “I would be punished.” You instinctively reached and adjusted your mask against your face.

“Are you ugly?” Too blunt.

“That’s an opinion; I don’t know.”

“That is—“ he finally poked the mask, right where your forehead would be— “what an ugly person would say.” No one’s ever touched you so brazenly before, even if it was just your mask.

Then again, this guy is resting his head on your lap.

“I suppose so,” you replied. What else was there to say?

The man pouted, and suddenly his beauty evaporated once more into a sort of cute childishness. Cute. Him. Man, you must’ve been losing your mind. But his lips looked so… soft. Fragile.

But he didn’t get the chance to respond, as the doors to the audience hall opened abruptly.

Speak of the devil, it’s Nakano.

“Satoru,” he snapped, walking over to the stage with a presence that every servant in the vicinity noticed. They bowed.

You couldn’t stand up and do the same. You felt ashamed.

The man on your lap huffed, rolling his eyes with disrespect staining his skin. Nakano pretended not to notice, but his eyes twitched with irritation. “The elders have been looking for you. They wanted to… discuss the attitude you gave during your meeting.”

“More like scold me for being honest,” the man complained. Or Satoru, apparently. “I already know what they’ll say, so can I skip it?”

Nanako didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze traveled to you. You immediately bowed your head to ensure your eyes didn’t meet his. In an instant, you were aware of everything: the way Satoru’s head rested upon your lap—to intimately—, the way you were on the stage reserved for those of higher status, the way—

“And you, servant,” Nanako announced, his gaze pinning you to the wall like knives, “are bold to be sitting there, touching him so intimately.” It’s as if he knew what you were thinking. “Know your place, and get the hell—“

“Leave him,” Satoru said leisurely, his voice too calm for the tension. “I asked him to be here.”

“The servants shouldn’t touch you unless they’re bathing or grooming you.”

“He was massaging my hair,” Satoru argued, though the smile on his face showed that he didn’t really care about defending your actions. “That’s grooming, right?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Nanako continued, ignoring Satoru’s refute. “Especially in public where anyone could enter and see. The elders are already irritated with your behavior today; they’ll be furious.” For a second, you could’ve sworn Nanako’s voice softened at the end.

“Cease this immediately,” Nanako finished. “You’re already on thin ice.”

“Whatever,” Satoru grumbled, though he didn’t get off of you. It’s surprising to you that this Satoru hasn’t lost his head with his attitude.

“Get off.” Nanako’s definitely referring to you. “Leave to your quarters.”

You scrambled back to your feet, wincing when Satoru’s head hit the floor suddenly. He sat up and rubbed his head, but you were already scurrying out of the room in a hurry; an apology was the last thing you had in mind. The other servants could manage clearing the room. You just needed to leave.

You felt hot.

And all you could’ve focused on was the way he shifted on your lap.

God, you were fucked.

You pushed the memory out.

It was the safer option. You didn’t want to think about it.

Praise was a luxury. You don’t need it. You didn’t need it right now.

You want it, but you don’t need it.

It doesn’t mean much to you, anyways. Satoru probably forgot about you at this point. There’s no point in dwelling on the subject.

…How pitiful.

But despite what you told yourself, you put it upon yourself to do research. Not because you cared, heavens no—why would you care? The praise was nothing to you—, but because the whole interaction was too strange to ignore, even if you were above such things: a man so cocky and arrogant being allowed to give a speech saying how worthless everyone was? And they were forced to listen without complaining midway? Not only that, but he was clearly important. With the way he spoke to Nakano as if he were beneath him. And you weren’t punished on a whim when you got on the elevated floor and touched Satoru. If it were a regular day, you would’ve been struck immediately and left with bruises for days. Such instances have happened before when you were still learning. Yet Nakano left you unharmed. You had a feeling it was because of him, but you didn’t have proof.

You’d find proof.

Because you were curious. Nothing else at all. It was not because of the way he talked to you, his voice grating, yet the way he spoke—his praise—was like water against the shore. It wasn’t because his eyes were warm yet mirrored the ice that froze on rooftops during winter, a living paradox of the soul.

Of course not.

Curiosity. That’s it.

Being the head servant, you had a few privileges. That included cleaning places others can’t. ‘An honor,’ they said, but you knew what it was. Just another way to make you quiet while cleaning. Still, you never complained. You never complained when they showed you the vast library in the daimyo castle, ordering you to clean ‘every last bookshelf until this place is brand new’. Or when they led you to the basement full of rotting bodies and mold to polish up, as the smell was starting to become unbearable above.

You never complained. Not once.

In fact, right now? You were grateful.

The Archives were a series of rooms that were interconnected between themselves. Each section contained varying information, whether it be mundane objects or cursed artifacts, whether it be figures from previous bloodlines that have then since vanished, including those who have served and those who have killed. It even contained those from the Heian Era, which most considered overkill. Why would a clan as powerful as the Gojo Clan need records on members from eons ago? It was simple, really.

This is why the Gojo Clan was so powerful: one could compare different bloodlines and branches of the clan and trace lineages back before their time. It was for tactics, for strategy, for safety.

But it was restricted to everyone except for the elders of the clan.

And except you.

Lucky boy.

You waited patiently over the next few weeks. You did your duties as you were told, you bowed for three seconds before standing up when elders and nobility passed you, you washed your hands every other hour, so no one would have the right to say you were too disgusting to touch them. You did your job as you were always expected to. From the moment you were brought into the clan. You’re nothing but obedient.

Then someone asked you to clean.

You’re nothing but obedient.

Your hands trailed along the dusty paper, feeling the edges graze the pad of your fingers, as if teasing you with the mockery of a paper cut against your skin. The shelves towered over you, casting blocky shadows against the wooden floorboards. You took it all in.

The earth outside was raging in agony. The clouds’ tears plummeted down against the daimyo castle’s roofs, each echoing in the large room. Your breath was hot as it hit your face—a courtesy of the mask—, making the already stuffy room a bit hotter than before. But you’d have to bear with it.

Despite being in use for generations, they were arranged methodically to this day. The elders refused to let anything out of order, including files from before their great-grandparents were born. The top of the shelves held names lost to the passage of time from previous eras, and the names near the bottom were more recent. Left to right they were arranged alphabetically, down to the last letter.

Judging how Satoru’s name was constantly said with irritation, it was safe to assume his name wasn’t lost to the passage of time.

Walking along the edges of the shelves, you occasionally checked the first file in the row, peeling back the stained paper until you reached the ‘S’ section.

You were lucky his name started with ‘Sa’: those were in the front few, so it was an easy search from there.

You plucked his pages out. There were a lot more than you’d think. By the time you fished them all out, there were a good twenty pages. They seemed quite recent in updates compared to the others, whose papers were already starting to gain foxing stains from their old age. No doubt the elders kept track of his whereabouts more methodically, as the paper was organized with dates and notes scrawled in the margins.

You merely skimmed the pages, really, confirming that this was, in fact, Satoru Gojo.

You didn’t think he’d be much.

But, oh, he was so much more.

Full Name: Satoru Gojo

Title: Heir to Gojo Clan

Cursed Technique[s]: Six Eyes, Limitless, Lapse—

You dropped the pages, letting them scatter across the floorboards in a terrible mess like waves over the ocean’s surface; order had been broken.

First, your brain was silent, processing everything. Slowly and carefully, not missing a single detail. Letting them sink into your veins.

Then it hit you.

Oh, dear. You thought the heir to the Gojo Clan was a brat. Multiple times.

It made a lot more sense now, annoyingly so. The way everyone bowed to him out of obligation rather than respect? The way they sat through meetings and took every insult?

He was the first Six Eyes user in centuries. His presence demanded respect. He was glory sculpted from flesh and marble.

He was god.

Swallowing back your fear (and saliva), you gained enough courage to crouch—your legs were shaky, and you almost collapsed right there in the middle of the Archives—and picked the first page you could see in your view. With your trembling hands, you grasped it and held it to the dim candlelight on the walls. The light made everything clear. You needed to know.

Unable to find suitable maiden, seems uninterested

Has voiced recent intrigue in servant #19—

“Hah? Isn’t this place restricted?”

You swiveled around.

Hair as white as snow.

You stood up and bowed.

“Forgive me,” you said, feeling out of breath. The adrenaline was getting to you. He was getting to you. “I was ordered to clean this area.” He was getting into your head.

“More like snoop,” he retorted, chuckling. You could picture his irritating smile. Though, he didn’t sound upset despite you obviously looking through things you shouldn’t have been. “Those’re my files,” he commented, and you knew his gaze was taking in the scattered papers across the wooden floorboards.

Your grip on the single paper tightened. The crinkles from its weariness drowned out the patter of rain outside, awfully loud in the claustrophobic atmosphere. “Yes,” you muttered. Your mask was suffocating. “I was curious of who you were.” You cleared your throat. “Forgive me,” you begged again.

“Could’ve asked me ‘bout who I am.” Satoru smiled. You could hear it in his voice. “Instead, you’re sneaking around like a mouse.”

You didn’t argue and say you were told to clean, which was the truth, albeit stretched. You didn’t let an easy lie slip from between your cracked lips, saying the papers fell onto the floor, and you were picking them up. You’ve spoken too much. You’ve done too much.

He walked closer. His footsteps were soft against the wood. Only their creaking signaled his movement towards you. Towards you.

“I don’t know much about you, though,” he mused. “Seems unfair, huh, stalker?”

Stalker?

You broke your bow and stood up straight again. He loomed over you, just as the shelves that beckoned you closer with every wisp of paper. “I’m not a stalker,” you whispered. Trying to convince yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he purred. “Especially with how you're looking at me right now.” And now you knew he could see you. All of you.

“It’s polite to make eye contact while talking to someone.” The excuse falls flat to even your ears. Because you both know servants aren’t supposed to stare, they aren’t supposed to look, they aren’t supposed to think. But here you are, staring at the sky in his eyes, looking at all of him, thinking about him.

He could’ve called out your deflection right then and there, could’ve punished you severely.

But he just smiled his aggravating smile. “Maybe.” He leaned down close. Closer than what should’ve been. His eyes glowed in the dim light of the room, grabbing everything’s attention. Your attention. “But maybe not.”

The mask was suffocating. Your breath was too hot. Too hot for comfort in this stuffy, stupid—

“Concentrate on me.”

Satoru was a bold, bold man.

He took another step closer, pushing you farther and farther backwards until—

Thud!

Your back was up against the shelf. The wood groaned in protest, threatening to fall onto you. You wish it would. The shelves pushed back at you.

The devil danced in his gorgeous eyes. “For a fan, you’re a bit too scared.”

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything. You’re definitely scared.

“I-I’m not a fan—“

“Wanna massage my hair again?” He asked abruptly, changing the subject just like that. Because he controlled this conversation. He leaned down closer. Closer, closer, and closer. “I’m afraid my hair’s a bit greasy, and it could use some help.” He paused for a second. “Maybe you could bathe me?” Closer. Like he wanted to see your eyes through the holes of your mask. “Dry my hair?”

“I-I don’t—“

It’s too hot down here in the Archives.

“Your fingers were just so good on me,” he drawled. Then he laughed. Mischievous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You swallowed. Your face is hot.

“Oh, you like it when I say that?”

Damn him and his Six Eyes. Damn every Six Eyes user there was.

His arms were pinning you against the shelf. When did they get there?

“This is…” you trailed off. You didn’t know what else to say. “…wrong,” you finally finished. You didn't know what was wrong. Only that this was wrong. It was wrong, and you told him that. Even if you were just a servant to him.

His eyes narrowed. Not angrily, like you were something he needed to break. With something else in his eyes, like you were something he wanted to break up and observe. You tilted your head down to stare at the ground rather than his illuminating irises, noting the color of his kimono in the poor lighting: a color that reminded you of the moon.

His arms enclosed around you before gently resting his elbows on your shoulders, wrapped loosely around your neck. Forcing you closer to him.

Closer, closer, closer.

It was lazy, almost. The way his fingers played with your hair, mock-twirling it around his finger before grasping onto a lock and tugging it. You squeaked—embarrassingly so—before he tugged harder and forced you to look at him.

Bright eyes, you thought. That was always your first thought, even through the mask’s limited gaze. The next was beautiful.

“Do you like it when I tug here?” He questioned, his breath hitting the top of your head. He tugged again.

You whined. It was breathy against your mask.

“Good.”

THUD!

The shelves screamed again, full of torment.

You pried your eyes away from his eyes and looked up. Through the holes on your mask, you could see boxes and boxes of files tumbling down. They descended closer and closer and——

You closed your eyes and looked down, your arms—which were earlier stagnant—wrapping around your head as if to protect yourself. Satoru’s file, earlier gripped in your hand, glided across the floor to reunite with the others.

The boxes clattered around aimlessly, the sound echoing through the room.

They never hit you.

The warmth of arms was around you. It enveloped you. You felt lighter, even. Like you could feel everything and nothing at the same time. Like you were being pulled apart yet pushed together.

Satoru’s arms were warm. They enveloped you.

He snickered. “Wow, things just fall around you, huh?” His arms fell away from you, and the pulled-pushed feeling drifted with him. “You cursed or something?”

Oh god, you messed up badly. This was a violation in every sense, every rule book, every statement.

The patter of footsteps finally hit you, and barged in a few servants, no doubt drawn in by the noise. “What happened?!” one screamed, seemingly out of breath. They ran, you concluded, though you did notice their lack of respect.

You couldn’t be talking.

Satoru smiled so charmingly, you could’ve sworn they almost ignored the state of the Archives. “Just a small accident,” he declared. “We’re okay.”

You were breathing heavily, and the awful dread was slowly settling on your shoulders, just like his arms earlier. You didn’t have words that could describe all you’ve done. You lied, you snooped, and you’ve made a total mess of the—

“What happened to the Archives?!”

—the Archives.

Satoru chuckled, his teeth bared out in a way that felt comforting yet threatening. Like he was taking up too much space with his charisma. “I just said what it was: an accident.” He didn’t even bother facing the servants; that’s beneath him. However, he faced you the entire time, his eyes narrowing in your direction—a silent ‘shut up’ left unspoken between you two. His hand reached and grasped your shoulder, making you flinch, standing straighter despite the pain in your back. “He was just cleaning, and a bunch of boxes fell.” The lie was easy from his lips. You wished you did that earlier. “I came and checked if he was okay.” If you lied, you wouldn’t be here right now.

But you were here. So you nodded. You didn’t speak.

Satoru’s hand stayed on your shoulder.

The servants surveyed the damage to its full extent: there were boxes everywhere, papers everywhere, and both you and Satoru were in the center of it all like a symbolic ritual. It was hard to believe Satoru, really.

“Well…” the servant trailed off. But could they really afford to not believe him?

“Clean it up,” Satoru ordered, cutting off any chance the servants had of disobeying. The servants didn’t hesitate. Their doubt wouldn’t lead to their demise, they wouldn’t allow it.

It was pure instinct that you went to do the same—that you pulled away from Satoru with the intent of crouching to pick up the papers, to organize them in the fallen boxes, to fix your mistake from your insolence—, as that’s how you were raised since the beginning of your pitiful life, but the Six Eyes user tightened his grasp on your shoulder, his fingers wrinkling your smoothed kimono.

“Not you,” he drawled out, grinning. Sharp teeth, you noticed. “No, you still seem a bit… shaken.”

You swallowed. “Forgive me for—“

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, though adjustment danced in his gaze. “What’d I say about the apologizing?” His tone was mocking, yet playful. Too informal. You’re not used to this.

And God, you hated how he mentioned that apologizing. You wished he would never mention that day. That’s why you’re in this situation.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Satoru suggested, his hand falling from your shoulder for his finger to trail down your arm, tracing the faint patterns in the fabric. When his hand reached your wrist, his fingers encircled it. Not harshly like the other members of the Gojo clan when you disobeyed as a child. No, this was a loose grasp of only two fingers, the kind that lovers used when begging the other to stay. The kind that was clearly not intended to make you stay, but to make you want to stay.

But you felt more trapped than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

“You still look so stressed,” he noted. He leaned down, his face too close to yours. “That must’ve been scary, right?” Great, now he was baby-talking to you.

“I-I’m fine, sir,” you choked out. The mask was still too hot, too suffocating. “I’d like to help after my mistakes.” You bow stiffly; your hand is raised because he’s still holding it. You shouldn’t move your hand away because that’s not what servants do. Servants take it.

There’s the crinkle and rustle of paper that echoed in the room. The servants were cleaning up. You should’ve been cleaning up. But you weren’t.

Because Satoru wouldn’t let you leave. He just smiled at you while you remained bowing, waiting for a dismissal that would never arrive.

“I said let’s go,” he repeated, and you had a feeling he hated saying something twice. You weren’t even looking at him through your mask’s holes, but you felt afraid. Fear was a normal emotion in the Gojo Clan, but this time felt different. Like your stomach was being ripped out and torn to bits, leaving a vacant hole filled with dread.

You’re a servant; you obey.

“Of course.”

“You can rise.”

You looked up. He was still smiling. Satoru’s one hand still kept a grip on your wrist. His other hand traced along your jaw before grabbing your chin.

“My hair’s greasy. Let’s go wash it.” It was strange for him to say, as he looked at you with such endearing eyes—there was no way he meant it. You weren’t that naive.

“Let’s go.” He tugged you along, and you didn’t resist. When you and him exited the Archives, Satoru closed the doors behind him, leaving the other servants in the dark.

The bathing chambers weren’t rooms you entered often.

On the rare occasions that you were assigned to the bathing chambers, it was always for mundane things: gather items for those that refused to leave the calming water, cater to their very needs and desires before they had to ask you twice, ensure that the area was clean afterwards when everyone retired for the day.

Not to mention you’ve never even entered private bathing chambers, as they were reserved for those of the highest levels in the hierarchy and, therefore, not seen as often in the daimyo castle. Not only that, but many who did have private bath chambers in the first place had their own bathing attendants to take care of their every need. The attendants would wash their skin with the utmost care, would ensure the water was just right, and would ensure everything was perfect for someone of their status.

Head servants such as yourself did more of the organizing, the ordering, the catering and fulfilling of less personal tasks. You ensured that the servants under your section were where they were meant to be, when they were meant to be there. You took attendance of everyone, you reported servants who disobeyed and didn’t flinch when they were punished in front of you—how ironic, considering your current situation, entangled with a Six Eyes user.

You weren’t a bathing attendant. You did not wash anyone’s skin.

You weren’t Satoru’s bathing attendant. You did not wash Satoru’s skin.

You shouldn’t even be in his presence.

Yet…

After the episode in the Archives, he led you to his private bathing chamber as requested, his hand still grasping your wrist lightly like it was a leash—which it practically was, as he’d tug on it every once in a while as you both wandered the hallways, like urging you to focus on him silently. He told you to sit near the door and wait patiently. “Like a good boy,” he said before he changed into his robe and gathered his favorite oils for his bath that you would be attending. Because you had to wash his hair specifically. According to who, exactly? To him. And you were okay with it you’re nothing but obedient.

You complained internally that he was always in your head before the Archives. Now? You preferred it when he was just in your head. He was making things too complicated, making you feel things you never thought you’d be able to feel before. He was making you feel too much. That was a problem

That was a problem.

And when he called for you to enter—there was a cheerful glint to his voice, almost like he won something—, he was already seated in the tub, his body on display and surrounded by steam and water: something meant to be worshipped.

You cursed yourself for the thought. But you let it linger like a parasite.

Your footsteps were soft against the cedar floors as you made your way to the table residing beside the tub, which was already filled with varying bottles that many would kill to have a waft of.

You’ve massaged people in the past, yes, but you’ve never bathed anyone; this was unfamiliar territory for you. Your eyes moved between different vials and containers with a sense of urgency, as Satoru was waiting for you, trying to analyze each shape and color, trying to figure out which was which and what was what. Some had labels that did little to help—they had extravagant names, like “sweet sunshine” and whatnot, making you question where they were from—, others had none at all, and some that did were engraved in its glass (and only visible when the light hit just right).

“Use that purple one for my hair,” Satoru said, noting how long your hand would hover over each vial with indecision. “The others are for the water to smell nice. There are some soaps there, too: bars and liquid.”

You looked at him. Nervous. You never had anyone correct you without there being a physical punishment. Or at the very least, a scolding. Your hands shook, as if preparing to cover your face from a slap. “I—”

“Apo—logizing,” he drawled, looking at you intently. The grin wasn’t there. That scared you. You wouldn’t tell him that because your emotions were none of his concern.

You cleared your throat before turning back to the vials. You grabbed a pink vial and a purple bottle. “Thank you,” you settled on.

He chuckled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. You looked away. Why were you noticing such simple characteristics? Since when did you?

When has anyone looked at you like that?

You stood behind him, his fluffy hair facing you. You set the vials down carefully on a small stool at your feet before untying your kimono to let it pool onto the floor, leaving you in your cream hadajuban. You spent so much money to get a good kimono, and you wouldn’t want any residue on it, would you? That would be a shame.

Satoru turned his head back to look at you once more, his gaze running up and down your body. You felt exposed. “What’re you doing? This is my bath.”

You squeaked and adjusted your mask. It was a simple habit you’ve gained over the years: adjusting your mask under the scrutiny of others. You did your best to refrain from doing so, but old habits die harder than others. “I, um… didn’t want to get my kimono wet.” You spoke informally. What’s wrong with you?

But he smiled. “It was a joke.” He shouldn’t be joking with you.

You didn’t respond.

He faced in front of him once more, and you let yourself listen to the noises around you, as many as you could focus on: servants moving outside of the doors, the sloshing of water against his skin and tub, and wood against wood as you moved a chair behind him.

It was always too quiet, eerily so.

You grabbed a bucket from the floor and filled it halfway with water from the constant stream leading into the tub. Were you doing this right? You didn’t know. But Satoru leaned forward with his eyes closed as you gently poured the water to drench his hair, so you must be doing something right.

The water cascaded down his body, contouring his skin with the rain’s gentle kiss. Why did you notice such a thing? You were losing your mind.

You were losing your fucking mind.

After setting the bucket down, you perched onto the chair and reached down to grasp the purple vial. You opened and poured it onto your hand, watching intensely as it slathered over your palm. You set the glass bottle onto the stool with a clink! before rubbing your hands together, letting it spread evenly across your skin. You hesitated—you shouldn’t make this a habit, seriously—before reaching to touch his hair.

Tentatively, you began to work through the locks. His hair was a shock against your skin, making the world around you seem suddenly colorful when put against the colorless-color of Satoru’s hair.

His shoulders, defined with muscles that spoke of intense training as a weapon, relaxed under your touch. He let out a breathy sigh before chuckling, the sound sweet and smooth.

“Your fingers are so good.” He sighed again. He paused. Then turned his head slightly; it wasn’t enough to face you, but it was enough to show he was talking to you directly. “Why aren’t you anyone’s personal attendant, huh? Surely they’d want you, right?”

You swallowed. Why did he always say that about your fingers?

“I am the head servant of the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Satoru leaned back. You never stopped moving your fingers.

Fingers.

For some reason that you’d rather not know, Satoru loved your fingers.

You didn’t wonder why. It’s safer.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

The water sloshed onto the floor as he stretched his legs out in front of him, propping them up on the wooden edges of the tub. “Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Yes,” you responded. “I did have a basic education. I understand concepts.”

“Wow.” Satoru hummed. “I didn’t know they gave servants an education.”

“They don’t,” you replied.

Satoru was quiet. Then he hummed. “Alright,” he said, and the conversation was finished, you assumed. And servants never start conversations.

The bathing chamber grew quiet, filled only with the sound of you scrubbing down Satoru’s hair. Your mind eventually tuned out everything, your hands moving on autopilot as your mind wandered.

It shouldn’t have wandered in the first place. You were meant to be focused on the current situation. You were meant to give your master all of your attention to ensure they were cared for with the utmost detail. Being distracted wasn’t something you could afford to do, not when you’ve spent so long climbing the ranks. Not when it cost you years of your life to get where you were today.

Everything went haywire the moment Nanako ordered you to attend that damned audience hall. If you were anywhere else in the building, you never would’ve met Satoru Gojo. You would’ve been doing your duties with no hesitation. There would’ve been no confusion.

But his praise.

Your saliva felt too thick to swallow.

When your fingers started to prune, it was only then, with the uncomfortable texture of your fingertips, that you realized how long you’ve been sitting, doing nothing but massaging Satoru’s hair like before.

Right. You were washing Satoru’s hair.

“May you lift your head? I need to wash the soap out of your hair.”

“Why can’t you massage it more?”

Your hands left his hair. His head leaned back to chase them, and you indulged. Your hands went back to his hair, not massaging, but present. “I am… done. Your hair is washed.” Water slid down your wrists and down your forearms.

“But why can’t you massage it more?”

“It isn’t good to overwash hair. I don’t want to damage it.”

“I work out a lot.” He leaned forward, slightly hunched, and turned his head to the side to look at you. Your hands hovered where he used to be before you let them rest against the edge of the tub. “I’m sure you could wash it more.” He was adamant.

“I still need to—”

“I don’t care.” He didn’t look angry at you per se, rather annoyed at your attempted refusals.

Refusals.

Refusals? Since when did you start refusing?

You didn’t respond immediately. “I still need to bathe the rest of you.”

He paused. His eyes flicked down at the tub, then to you. Then he grinned. That seemed to do the trick, as he didn’t argue any longer.

“Right,” he acknowledged. “I almost forgot about that.”

He turned back around. He leaned back. His hair almost grazed your mask. But you didn’t lean away from him; he didn’t permit it.

You grabbed the pink vial from the stool and popped it open. You let it pour out into the water before it disappeared with the steam.

“Please lean forward slightly,” you said, and he listened like it mattered. You grabbed the same bucket from before and filled it with water. You stood up and let it pour out, watching—with a rapt attention that you’d rather die than admit—how the water cascaded down his back.

The droplets slid down his fair skin like sweat, clinging onto him as they glided down to the water drowning the bottom portion of his body.

You tensed and set the bucket down with more force than necessary, the noise too loud to be comfortable. Get it together.

“Please wait here,” you said, as if he’d stand up and leave because he felt like it, dripping with water and not properly bathed. You were stupid, but you couldn’t shove words back into your mouth.

Along the walls were long tables, each with drawers and cabinets containing everything an attendant would require to bathe a member of the clan. There were more oils (with oddly specific names), tools for scrubbing dead skin and making it smooth, stones meant to be heated for the water, pastes and rice to whiten the skin. You didn’t know what the rest of the tools were meant for, but at least you weren’t entirely clueless.

Still, you weren’t aware of Satoru’s preferences when it came to bathing. You didn’t have the chance to ask his real attendants for advice, as Satoru made a beeline when dragging you here after the two of you left the Archives in the care of the other servants. Like he wanted you for himself only.

You hated that thought. You hated that you didn’t mind the thought.

You reached under your mask to rub your face, trying to wipe off steam and sweat that caught itself underneath. The hot water basins littered around were getting to you. That must’ve been the reason.

Your nimble fingers grasped and pulled open a drawer, revealing itself to your limited gaze. They landed on a tenugui: a flat cloth of cotton, good for absorbing water, perfect for drying up. You swung it over your shoulder; you’d use this when drying Satoru’s hair after the bath.

You closed the drawer, letting the echo fill the room. It was awfully loud. It filled the space between you and Satoru like a barrier he was desperate to claw at, to tease you with the thought of letting him close to you.

You walked along the edge, and you had a sense of deja vu—this was just like when you were walking along the shelves of the Archives. Both times you were doing it for Satoru. You walked into the Archives and risked everything you worked for out of curiosity regarding him. You were walking along the edges of a private bathing hall to find the appropriate tools for Satoru, to serve him.

Satoru.

Satoru Satoru Satoru.

He was already in your head. It was too late to debate it. You needed to get him out.

You didn’t want his praise. You didn’t want his sultry words. You didn’t want them. You swore under your breath. Nauseous.

You grabbed the nearest clean tawashi that lingered on the edges of the table. You returned to Satoru’s side.

“You took forever,” he groaned, slumping back in the water so he was almost submerged. Not that it would work, considering he was huge and barely fit in the tub while sitting upright, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You bit your tongue. He didn’t want you apologizing. He reiterated that many times, and you’d rather stay on his good side.

“Which soap would you prefer?” you asked, your fingers grazing over the many assorted bottles on the cart. You tried and kept your language formal, even if his was… less than formal.

“Whichever smells the best.”

You hated it when people did this.

“I trust your judgement, stalker.”

You didn’t make decisions for others. You executed their orders with precision. You listened and obeyed.

You didn’t think. You’re a servant.

“Forgive me, but I cannot smell these without taking off my mask.” You grabbed a few bottles and shook them, gauging how much product was really inside. “I could hold them out to you, perhaps, and you could tell me which you prefer.” You always provided and offered alternative options.

“Take off your mask, then.” Satoru turned to you. Lazily, with his arms slung off the wooden tub. “I don’t want to smell them.”

Your grip tightened. You needed to control yourself. You couldn’t be having this conversation again. It was inappropriate between a servant and their ward. “I am not permitted—”

“You said the same thing ‘bout being on the stage,” he reminded. “When I asked you to feed me.” He laughed heartily at the memory, then he looked up at you for once. Like the hierarchy of the Gojo Clan was beneath him, like looking up at a servant wasn’t an issue. “But you did it when I asked.” Amusement was the ocean-blue of his eyes, and you were drowning. “I think you enjoyed it, too.”

You quickly averted your gaze, ashamed of yourself. Just like you were when you scurried out of the audience hall, your breath warm and wet against your mask.

Just like you were after you ran to your quarters and took off your clothes because of the heat his words ignited inside of you. Just like you were when your hand drifted lower, even if you didn’t know what you were doing.

Just like you were when you were murmuring praises out loud against your arm.

You were only human when you touched yourself. Now you felt like something less than man because you couldn’t control yourself.

His praise.

“And—” he continued— “you know you’re not allowed in here. But here you are.”

“You ordered me to do both.” I’m not arguing, you told yourself. I’m above that. “I’m meant to serve.”

“I’m giving you the chance to refuse. I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He was lying. He had to have been. Because if you could refuse, then you would—you were. “I’m offering you a solution. Unless you WANT me to order you: take off your mask. Would that be better?” He pouted like this conversation was hurting him more than it was making you uncomfortable. “Don’t make me the bad guy.”

Vulnerable.

That’s what you felt.

Exposed.

In a way you haven’t felt until he rested his head on your lap with no such innocence.

And Satoru? He was not vulnerable. He wasn’t exposed in a way that made him feel anything but pleasure from your torment.

“I would be punished.”

“I won’t let them.”

“I don’t trust that.” You were disobeying. Refusing. Trying to find a flaw in his logic.

“I’m Satoru Gojo.” He announced his name like it held meaning—it did. “I can do whatever the hell I want.” He tilted his head like a puppy, but you felt like the inferior mutt under his penetrating gaze. “Even protect cute servants like you.”

“You don’t know what I look like,” you whispered. Since when have you talked so informally? No, you shouldn’t have. You should’ve been referring to him as ‘sir’. As ‘Gojo-Sama’ or not using his name at all, as his title shouldn’t bless your lips. You shouldn’t have been arguing with his very demands. He was above you.

“Then show me by taking off your mask.”

Your fingers twitched. What if you did want to show him your face?

The tawashi dropped to the floor a long time ago, and it barely made a sound through the tense air.

You didn’t respond, even when you lifted your gaze to meet his own once more through the holes of your mask. You didn’t respond, even when he looked at you with his piercing gaze that consumed you from the inside.

“I think you’re confused,” he commented. He thought you were stupid, no doubt about it. “I have the Six Eyes. I already know what you look like.” He leaned against the tub, his arms hanging out carelessly. Water was dripping off of him and onto the floorboards, but all of his attention was on you.

You weren’t used to this feeling. You weren’t sure if you hated it. You should’ve hated it.

“I just want to know what you look like without a piece of wood between us.” His teeth were bared out in a smirk. It was hideously-beautiful. “Skin looks different to me with materials between. There’s nothing for you to hide at this point, servant.”

You didn’t respond.

He raised his hand. His fingers were long and slender, foul and gorgeous. Pale as the rest of him with faint red.

He beckoned you towards him with a single finger.

Your feet moved on their own. There was no point in him using his cursed technique. Your feet moved on their own.

Your legs—shaky, weak, unsure, and hesitant—collapsed onto the floor. You caught yourself in such an unrefined position and mentally cursed yourself out; your discomfort shouldn’t cause your standards for yourself to lower. You pushed your knees together in a proper seiza with your hands in your lap. You were numb, but you were a servant.

His face was right in front of you, yet you couldn’t see him at all. He could see all of you.

The water from his hands dripped onto your hadajuban, darkening the cloth. Thank goodness you removed your kimono earlier.

His finger, earlier alluring as they pulled you towards him, reached to touch your mask. He didn’t remove it from your face, not yet.

Not yet.

No, his finger hooked underneath the mask before tracing its edges, contouring your face in the process. His skin brushed yours ever so slightly—a fleeting kiss of the body’s barrier—, and you gasped lightly. He was touching you. Not the other way around, where you’d massage him or wash him. He was touching you.

His infinity was off. And he knew you wouldn’t dare try anything.

The look in his eyes made it seem like he wanted you to try something, but that would be absurd.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured, his gaze remaining on you. You squeezed your legs tighter together; you felt hot. “I can see your eyes from here. It’s good, right?” You’re hot. You could see his sharp teeth. “Not being at a distance.”

You should’ve remained at a distance.

“I’m asking you to speak.”

He was asking you. He wasn’t demanding you. He was asking you. He was making you feel safe. Safer than you should’ve felt.

He didn’t bother waiting for you to answer. “You’re so soft.” Yet he was barely touching you. Just tracing your mask as if it were your face. As if he could pretend and imagine what your face felt like. As if he could dig his fingers in and feel your flesh before he tore it out. “So utterly beautiful.”

“Th—thank you,” you stammered, feeling compelled to respond after your prolonged silence. And he gave you permission earlier.

“You’re so much prettier on your knees.”

Your throat dried up.

“I was tempted to shove you down there in the Archives when I saw you.” He snickered. “Would’ve been funny, huh? Especially when the servants ran in.”

“I—“

“Would you like that? Or are you not into that type of stuff?”

“No.” You were too direct. Everything was wrong.

His finger trailed down the mask, his nail tracing the grooves of wood before he grasped your chin. “Good boy, answering me properly.” He wasn’t upset with your answer. You didn’t know someone like him could be so… okay with someone like you. Someone just like everyone else.

He hummed. “You like being called that, huh? Stop trying to hide it.”

You tensed.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“Go—Gojo-Sama—“

“You got something to hide?” His grip on you tightened as he looked shamelessly at your legs. “You’re this turned on?”

Your hands didn’t move to cover yourself. The stayed rested against your thighs, even if your fingers were itching to claw at the thin fabric of your hadajuban.

You cleared your throat. “I…” you trailed off immediately, your mouth zipping shut. It was pointless to respond, as your arousal was clearly noticeable.

Damn it.

“No, no.” His fingers—once around your chin—slipped under the mask. You didn’t dare to move a muscle under his touch, to flinch from the smooth skin that dared to defy the hierarchy and kiss your face. “I wanted you to answer me.”

His fingertips grazed your lips, and you grew subconscious about their current state: chapped and cracked with a lack of moisture. Water was a luxury for servants, even those with a high sub-status among their class.

He didn’t say anything, though. He just leaned over the tub, water dripping down his body and onto the floor—as if mocking you with moisture—as his fingers slowly wiggled into the expanse of your mouth.

At first, you resisted, pressing your lips together tightly, but then he laughed.

“Don’t be shy, baby. Open wide.” His voice.

You obeyed.

His fingers shoved forward, and you choked. Coughed as his fingers coated themselves in your saliva.

“Daw, don’t choke,” he cooed. You were clearly an adorable sight to him, and that confused you.

What confused you more is that you were liking this; you wouldn’t say it out loud. He already knew.

“Suck,” he commanded.

You obeyed.

Best you could; you were too eager.

You whined against his fingers. When you heard yourself—your voice echoed against the mask and vibrated around his fingers—, you jerked back out of sheer mortification. But his fingers followed you back, never letting you retreat from your service. “Don’t back out now,” he said. “You can moan. I won’t judge.” He paused, his lips pursed while thinking. Then he smiled again. “I like hearing you.”

You were wary, but you continued to suck his fingers, your whimpers slowly growing louder each time. You were getting bolder. You let your eyes droop. Why did you enjoy this? You have no idea.

But throughout everything, you didn’t dare touch yourself.

Satoru, however, had no problems with that.

First you heard the muffled moans. They were drowned out by the squelching of your saliva coating his digits, the way you slobbered like a dog just because he ordered you to. But then your eyes snapped open when a surge of water cascaded out of the wooden tub: an immediate reaction to the jerk of his hips.

You saw the crease of his eyebrows, the way his dazed, cloudy eyes were focused on you—even with the mask concealing you, his Six Eyes was ignorant to the idea of privacy.

“Fuck—“ he muttered.

His other hand was below the water. He was fucking into his fist.

Because of you.

That made you feel good.

Freak.

Your nails dug into your skin through the fabric. You needed to touch yourself, you needed to be good. He didn’t give you permission yet. Squeezing your thighs together did nothing. You needed friction.

“So good—“ he whispered, breathy and broken with grunts, his eyes half-lidded and focused on you. Water sloshed out of the tub, dampening the wooden floors, but no one could pay attention. He certainly couldn’t, and your mouth was too busy.

“Good boy, such a good boy,” he praised, and you moaned again, your eyes rolling back. “So pretty sucking on these. You wanna suck on something else, huh?”

Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes; you felt disgusting, getting off on from a superior’s words. It’s all because of the praise, you told yourself. The praise—

“If you stay this good, I’ll give you such a good treat,” he offered, panting with a lazy grin on his face. “Because your mouth is just as good as your fingers. Need it on s’mthin’ else.”

You needed to please him. You were pleasing him. It felt great—amazing.

“Such a pretty mouth. You need to talk more.”

His fingers pulled out, saliva coating them in a thin layer, a string connecting them and your mouth before it broke.

Your hands moved up to wipe your mouth. He felt good.

“P-please—“

“Shit, just keep talking—“ he was getting off on your voice.”

You stared at your thighs. “I-I want to please you,” you choked out. “Please, let me serve you—” you let out a sob. Disgusting. But you loved it so much, it was killing you. You’ve never wanted something this much before; you felt loved.

And painfully horny.

“I—I’ll be a good boy, Gojo-Sama,” you whispered, the nickname unfamiliar on your hung tongue. “I’ll be good, I swear—”

Satoru let out a drawled moan, and you looked up: the most beautiful noise you’ve ever heard, the way he looked picturesque when he reached his climax, his eyes closed in bliss with his back arched.

Silence except for the water.

He panted, his tongue sticking out as he caught his breath. He slumped over the tub’s side, hair still damp from the water.

His gaze trailed up your knees to your… noticeable problem.

He smirked. But other than that, he didn’t acknowledge it. But he acknowledged it nonetheless.

“You were so cute,” he said, slowly recovering his breath. He reached out—the same hand that touched his cock—and poked your mask. Then gently traced the contour of your face with the back of his hand. So gently that you almost didn’t notice or care for his fingers grasping the edge of your mask and slowly peeling it off—

You snatched it and held it in place despite knowing his strength was superior. “Sir—“

“I jerked off to you,” he recalled bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You got off to this. My fingers were in your mouth.”

Your hands shook. He was right, of course. The whole time you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you were still the ‘good servant’ who obeyed and never questioned. That ‘one head servant’ who executed his tasks with precision and never faltered.

Yet here you were. In a bathroom with Satoru. And the dread—the realization that you were in an intimate situation with the heir of the clan—began to settle in your chest.

“I think I’ve earned the right to see you WITHOUT the whole…” he gestured to his face, referring to the mask with a hint of disgust. “…mask.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

“Again. I jerked off to you.” You flinched at his crass wording despite his honesty.

You could feel the judgement radiating off of his wet skin. He was dissecting every part of you, every layer of flesh until he reached your core.

He sighed wearily. It was tired. Exasperated, even.

Dramatic.

“Listen, baby boy,” he started. Good, that nickname itself was making you so—

“You don’t like this whole… intimate thing because you like the idea of yourself being good.” He looked you over once before glancing up to your eyes through the mask—the thing he wanted to rip off.

“But I don’t care, and really, you shouldn’t either. You already fucked up so many times: you snuck into the Archives, you’re bathing me, you’re…” he trailed off, pondering for a moment. Then he smiled. “Well, you essentially helped me jerk off.”

You squeaked. God, could he be any more shameless?

You started to stammer a protest—to deny, deny, deny—, but he kept talking. “Truth is, you’re a pretty shitty person who gets off on this praise.”

Your mouth slammed shut.

“That’s the only reason you haven’t left yet: you like this. You like being what I’m thinking about when I’m fisting my cock, right?” His laugh echoed in your mask.

“Do you really care if I see what you look like?” he wondered out loud. “Or are you just scared to reveal how much you want this, too?”

Your ragged breathing slowly drowned out his words. Tears were spilling from your face; you liked this too much. You freak.

You loved this too much.

You freak.

You were hard. You were untouched. You wanted to be touched.

But he didn’t give you permission yet.

You were listening to him. Even after anything. Why were you doing that?

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispered adoringly.

You freak.

You finished bathing him in silence.

You finished drying him in silence.

Both times, you focused on your breathing. On the smell of the mask pressed against your face. On the singular grooves carved into the wooden planks by nature herself.

Not on your bare skin on his wet body. Not on the dips of his body, on the muscles of his defined back, on the strength in his legs.

Not at all. You were right in the head.

Painfully hard while caressing his hands, scrubbing off dirt, wondering what he would feel like on you.

As if he read your mind—after he was dressed in robes and you dried his hair (which is softer than you thought)—, he offered to take you somewhere.

Stupidly, you didn’t think much of it. If anything, you thought this was your punishment. Maybe he’d report you for sexual harassment, and he’d get away with it despite initiating it—though, you should’ve refused him harder, yet it’s not in your nature. The situation was a living paradox. Were you meant to refuse him and go against the unspoken motto of servants, or were you to obey him and fracture every code of conduct in the Gojo Clan? Hard to say at this point, but the damage has already been done.

Maybe you’d be demoted for good, and all those years you spent training would be futile. Maybe they’d execute you. Or worse, banish you without a name for yourself, leaving you to rot until the maggots had their way with you.

He saw right through you. He saw how you reacted to his praise with that look in his eyes. He saw how you reacted to anything positive, every degrading nickname that made you feel too much.

But no, there was no meeting with the elders. There wasn’t a chamber full of decaying bodies waiting for you. There weren’t clan members restraining you before they killed you in front of everyone as a lesson.

He led you to his private chambers.

Out of the hundred head servants. Out of the thousands of servants as a whole.

He led you to his private chambers.

He led you to his private chambers.

The doors were irritatingly extravagant. Dyed colors, soft and muted, bleeding on the door’s material as they slid open at Satoru’s push.

His hand was on your kimono. He tugged, and you followed his lead.

He shoved you inside and closed the doors behind him, letting you scramble to recompose yourself. Your hands, pruned from the water in the bathing chambers, shakily smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in your kimono—Satoru insisted on helping you put on because you seemed “too out of it” to dress yourself. Whatever that meant, though you believed him anyway. It didn’t matter how you shivered from his cold touch.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he reassured, though his gaze on you was anything but. “It’ll be torn off, anyways.”

You gasped. Huh?

He took a step closer to you before his hands grazed your waist, encircling around your body. You tensed when he pulled you close.

You were still… awfully hard.

The bastard knew it, too. The way he was rolling his hips against yours, watching with a lidded gaze as you arched your back. Watching the way you threw your head back with a slight hitch in your breathing, revealing a sliver of your real face and a tantalizing view of your throat.

“G-Gojo—“

“It’s Satoru, baby boy.” Satoru fell into temptation, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the column of your throat. You choked and tried to pull away, your hands pushing at his chest, but he kissed again… and again…

It felt good. Better than that. You’ve never been kissed before.

When did you stop resisting?

More importantly, when did the hands pushing him away slowly grip onto his hair? Almost like you wanted to keep him close. How absurd.

His lips were cold and delicate, but warmth blossomed against your neck. It was a God’s kiss; there was nothing human in the way the opposing temperatures clashed.

The sheer wrongness of it—the difference in status, the intimacy shared before and in the present—melted away, embarrassingly easy. Like it never mattered in the first place.

He never stopped grinding against you, and you never stopped whining.

You’ve only touched yourself a few times before; you never had time to indulge in such pleasures, doing so when the emotions clouding your head were too strong and bothersome. And, well, including the time after you massaged Satoru. It was simply a lapse in judgment.

You’ve never had someone to do it with. Was Satoru… going to be your first?

You couldn’t think of anything else, because Satoru nibbled on your throat, moaning against the skin—the vibrations were, strangely enough, soft and gentle—as he sucked on it, cherishing your skin as he slowly worked his way down. The movement of his hips slowed, his attention strictly on your body underneath his lips. His hair teased your neck, caressing while his fingers trailed up the side of your body to your kimono. He peeled it back, then your hadajuban, and your bare skin met the room’s soft light.

A startled gasp strangled past your lips when Satoru’s teeth clamped down on your shoulder. Pearly white and sharp as bones.

His hands grasped your waist again, tighter as his teeth stayed on that spot. You winced and tried to pull him off, but his hands remained.

He slowly started to grind his clothed cock against yours once more, drawing the moment out.

“Agh—.. fuck—“ you mumbled before letting out an embarrassing, cracked moan. Why was he going faster?

Satoru didn’t care when your hands started to tighten their grasp on his hair; he seemed to enjoy it, letting his eyes roll back as his jaw released its hold on your skin. He licked it with care before sealing it with a kiss: a bow to a gift.

His head furrowed in your shoulder as he just rutted into you, letting your voice ring out in the room while he let his own vibrate against your body, quiet prayers of lust. His arms hugged you close, pulling you deeper into the abyss of desire.

“God,” he mumbled, “you’re perfect.”

You didn’t respond; you were too busy trying to grind against him in time with his own.

“You like that?” He nuzzled against your cheek before letting go of your waist and grabbing your hair. “I think you liked this last time, too.” He tugged lightly, smiling against your shoulder when your movements faltered. “I got permission, baby?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“It’ll be like a fucking leash, huh?” He chuckled.

When he yanked your head back, your mouth slipped out a strangle moan of pain. Satoru—he wasn’t just in your head; he was in front of you, teasing you—laughed with a glint of adoration in his eyes.

Adoration? Couldn’t be.

“Get on your knees, pretty?”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

It was stupid, how fast you fell to your knees with your kimono mostly undone. A servant shouldn’t have been doing this with someone like him, shouldn’t have been so messy and unrefined in the presence of a superior, but you were so eager. And duty was thrown out the window the moment you touched yourself with his image in mind.

Clearly, Satoru enjoyed this just as much as you did.

His hands cupped your face best he could with the mask, slipping underneath it. “You’ll pleasure me.” He didn’t ask you, yet the command was sweet. You nodded dumbly. “Good boy.”

You need to cum. You need to cum so bad.

Satoru’s fingers were slender and long, teasing your covered face with another glimpse of his body. You needed to worship him like a statue.

You let yourself think something sacrilegious: you hated the mask right now, and you wanted to see Satoru without it. You wanted to see his true beauty despite everything.

His body, now dry and clean, was revealed to be more on display until it slipped down entirely. His undergarments were peeled off with little haste, but you pushed back the impatience. Your eyes were blown wide with curiosity and arousal as he teased you with unhurried motions. Until his slender hands pulled everything down, and…

He was… big.

You didn’t know what defined a big cock. You’ve only ever seen yours.

But he was big.

God… were you drooling? So stupid.

“Ever jerked off?” Satoru asked, tilting his head down at you. You looked up, and felt like he enjoyed the view of looking down on you. He was before, considering his status was much higher than yours, but something about the look in his eyes said he preferred this much more.

You nodded despite your embarrassment concealed by the mask, and he laughed. It was dangerous and low. “I doubt you’ve done it with anyone else.” You shook your head. “Ever had sex at all?” You paused, hesitant. You shook your head.

He hummed and pondered, though you doubted he was thinking anything meaningful. “Well, virgins are always cuter,” he commented; you were right. It wasn’t anything meaningful.

You were still turned on nonetheless.

It was a bit lithe with a few veins. It was a bit hard, but not too much considering that he jerked off not too long ago. It was hardening—because of you? Ha, you love that thought. The color: a bit pink, a bit pale. Pretty with a bit of cum spilling out.

“You’ve jerked yourself off,” he said. “Just do the same with me.”

It sounded simple enough, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a daunting task you didn’t know how to approach.

You’d do it the same way you did with yourself. And you’d pray it was good enough to please him, because that’s your job as his personal…

…servant?

Your hands raised until they brushed against his cock. You could feel Satoru shiver from your feathery touch, and the idea that you were pleasuring him made you feel accomplished. You were being good. Good for him.

You took a deep breath before wrapping your hands around it entirely. He shuddered and let his back arch slightly, his hips pushing towards your touch. If his body wanted more, then at least you were doing something right at least.

It felt cold from the shower, uncomfortable. But you didn’t mind; you wouldn’t mind.

“Ha…” you breathed out softly, in awe of how he was reacting to you. You leaned closer, your hands tightening before sliding down to his base. He grunted, and his hips thrusted in your hands. This was dirty of you.

Doesn’t mean you would stop. You would serve him.

Without really noticing, as all your attention was on worshiping his body and cock like he wanted you to, you started rolling your hips on the ground. You were chasing the same pleasure you were giving him—how scandalous! As you’re a servant, and servants aren’t meant to get the same treatment they give their superiors. Then again, you’re currently—

Let’s not think about it.

Satoru’s moans didn’t echo in the room, yet the undeniable pleasure and lust coming from his mouth was trapped in your mask. Your hands never stopped moving against the skin; when they did, Satoru’s hands would cover your own and force them to move.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice cracked. You obeyed, your hands resuming their movements eagerly.

You let him thrust into your hands, and you let yourself grope and worship his cock with your hands. You let yourself forget about your status just for a moment.

“A—Am I doing this right, Gojo-Sama?” You asked tentatively, barely raising your voice above the squelching noise of Satoru’s cock and his cum slowly coating it.

“Fu—uck,” he drawled out, his head tossed back just like earlier. “You’re being so good,” he muttered. “Just like that…” he trailed off, then laughed lightly. “You’re such a fast learner.”

You whined and stroked harder. You were being good for him. You were being so good.

One hand of yours let go of him, letting you put it on your own torturously clothed cock. Your hips stuttered their own movement at your sudden contact; even you were surprised at your own motion. Especially since Satoru didn’t give you permission. But he was right. You’ve already broken so many rules, there was no harm in pleasuring yourself when you were doing so for Satoru! Right?

But you were meant to put all of your attention on him, and him alone.

But you needed to cum so badly.

Maybe Satoru noticed and pretended not to care. Maybe that’s why you could’ve sworn he laughed lightly under his moans and grunts. But you didn’t bother trying to distinguish between what was your fault and what was his. You were just palming yourself through your kimono while the hand around Satoru’s cock stuttered. Your servant-mind wanted to do two things at once: pleasure yourself and pleasure Satoru.

You could feel his hand on your wrist, guiding your motions along his length. It was a calming presence, the firm grasp he held on you. “Don’t falter,” he murmured between his delicious moans. You didn’t listen, your movements stiff when your other hand squeezed at your erection. You needed to cum; you would die if you waited a second longer. You threw your head back when you felt you were close.

He groaned before his hands trailed up your arms. Then your shoulders…

You squeaked when his fingers tousled your hair.

The gesture was out of character, even more so for the intimate situation you found yourself in with him. Still, regardless of what was going on in his head, you leaned into his touch. It reminded you of when the elder servants would praise you for your accomplishments when you were younger, their touch cold. Satoru was warm with heat.

“So cute,” he cooed. “Baby.”

Your hands slowly stroked his cock, caught up in the sensation of his touch and your own pleasure. Too slow for him, apparently, because—

YANK!

You let out a strangled moan of pleasure swirled with pain. “I never said stop, did I?” He asked sweetly, pulling your hair back, forcing you to confront his gaze. It was cold; it was attention.

You stammered. “I-I’m so sorry—“

“We need to get rid of that habit of yours, baby.”

Fuck. You apologized.

He sighed before his hands came to the one on his cock and pulled them off. You whined, letting both of your hands meet at your own hard length. It felt so good; his gaze made you feel terrible.

“You’re so disappointing,” he said, and you let out a choked sob. Your hands never stopped moving against yourself. Maybe it was because you were so painfully hard that you needed to release yourself. Maybe it was because Satoru looked at you with a hunger that made you feel seen and a distaste that you needed to fix. That was your job. You needed to please him, you needed to please yourself.

He crouched down, and the rest of his undone kimono fell to the ground around him like a shadow. His irritation faded into a soft look of—you don’t know. His hand, still in your hair, slithered down to cup your chin underneath your mask. “Here’s a deal. Make me cum, then we can deal with that…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to your own hands before darting back to the holes of your mask, seeing right through it and into your eyes. “...problem of yours.”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

I am so sorry if the smut wasn't to your standard! this is my first time writing content like that, and I had nowhere to start except for looking at other writers (ᵕ—ᴗ—). i'm also sorry it took me so long to update this! I had a really busy month- nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed!

I will probably make this a series thing. i'm not too sure about how that will go, but I will definitely try! and I will DEFINITELY make a better smut scene! if you... have any tips on how to write smut scenes, it will be greatly appreciated-