#object gojo

submission for @madamechrissy's object!gojo event hehe - congrats on 50k followers & happiest of birthdays to one of the first jjk authors i became obsessed with (wdym we are mutuals!!!! I'M NOT WORTHYYY)

characters: yukata obi!gojo (emperor!gojo) x childhood friend/servant!fem reader

veiled secrets is by far one of my fave works by chrissy - if you have yet to read it, please do!!!!

tags(s): angst, mention of character death, reincarnation, crack, inanimate but sentient gojo, references to chrissy's emperor gojo, perspective switch, yearning&pining, asshole gojo (some redemption?), japanese legend, flower language

word count: 2.5k

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines... But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Emperor Gojo was transcendent. Ephemeral. A beast in battle, and an even more feral one in bed. His bright blue eyes always reminded you of summer – the glistening pond and the vast skies.

Compared to summer though, Emperor Gojo was far more beautiful, and by far more temperate.

Like a fleeting firework display. Burning bright and brilliant, but untouchable up close. Ever since his enthronement ceremony when he came of age, he was lost to you.

Yes, he had gained immense power, stepping into the role he had been destined for: the nation’s Weapon.

But he also finally recognised that you were far beneath his station.

Years of frolicking as bosom buddies, cheeky flirting just… gone.

You knew it was never going to go anywhere, but your traitorous heart loved that white-haired miscreant for years anyway.

Each time he stuck his tongue out at you, each time he skipped his lessons to play with you in the fields, each time he held your hand like he wasn’t put off by your calluses and weathered skin… hope bloomed you in. Dangerous, treacherous hope.

You would have loved him no matter which lifetime, you thought. Even if he weren’t Emperor. Perhaps especially so.

That title burned your tongue and clawed at your heart.

Emperor.

One of the many privileges of being Emperor was the honour of having concubines. Being slighted by the love of your life was already a difficult pill to swallow, but knowing that his gender granted his indiscretion legitimacy, while you were relegated to a life of perpetual servitude and shadows…

You could only bend and kiss the ground, watch the boy you loved grow into a god you resent. Resentment aside, he was still a god you worshipped devoutly.

But what choice did you have?

You've sworn yourself to him, at his altar. You were a willing participant, and a heartbroken one at that.

"Nah, I'd win," he boasted to his gaggle of concubines, as you prepared their teas and robes. 

Steam from the opulent bath swirled and rosewater permeated the air. The scent from the oils was pleasantly saccharine, but it did little to tamp down the nausea from seeing Gojo entwined in a tangle of limbs and breasts.

Resolutely averting your eyes, you focused on the task at hand. Methodically folding robes and pouring sweet tea in delicate china while the most esteemed Emperor continued with his bravado.

The Gojo state, for all their folly, had decided to lead the charge against their longest enemy, the barbaric Ryomen clan, without waiting for allies or support. This foolhardy battle plan was spearheaded by the one and only Six Eyes, a revered war title bestowed upon Emperor Gojo after his legacy of going undefeated and unmatched for hundreds of battles.

Six Eyes, they called him – for his foresight, his vision, his ability to see through deception and stealth.

Of course, those piercing eyes never once saw your devotion, never saw you, you’d think bitterly.

In an ironic twist, Emperor Gojo had insisted that you were to be his personal servant, dishing up his nightly dessert. A great honour, he had claimed, which he could entrust to no one but you. 

A younger version of yourself many moons ago would have swooned and sighed, relishing the task. After all, this was the only way two star-crossed lovers of different stations could ever be together – through stolen seconds and engineered moments alone.

You know now, or rather, finally could admit it to yourself, that it was because Gojo knew you’d never have the audacity or malice to poison him. 

He never had to call for the poison checker if it were you. He’d get his dessert much quicker that way.

It seemed that all you were to this man was what you could offer; what you could do for him.

The syrupy glaze would waft into your nose, but it did little to disguise the dry sand that filled your mouth each time you laid eyes on his Majesty and beloved concubine of the week.

You were never one to be bold or daring, so you never once dreamt of being awarded the title of a concubine. Someone of your background could never.

So what were you expecting?

That your beloved Satoru would swear off other women, renounce his title, and run away with you to live happily ever after in a small cottage?

Scoffing, you shook your head lightly. Even as a child, Gojo was driven by ambition and power. 

“I’m going to be the strongest!” His pitchy adolescent voice belied his skill and prowess. You never once doubted him. It was evident in the way he wielded his sword, and moved in combat. Watching with stars in your eyes, you’d gasp at the effortless way he dominated his trainers and challengers.

A true hero, you used to think. The saviour of our land. 

There was no one on earth who would rival him as a teenager. What more when Gojo was crowned and at his prime?

GOJO SATORU HAS BEEN DEFEATED. HE HAS FALLEN IN BATTLE. SURRENDER NOW AND WE WILL SHOW YOUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN MERCY. GOJO SATORU HAS B-

Gojo was having a bad week. Not only did he have to fight Sukuna (ugh), but he was made to leave the castle before he could say goodbye to you in person. 

Yes, you were probably busy with chores or whatever you had to finish before your lunch break, but he knew seeing his face would make your day. You were sweet like that.

Worst of all though, he freaking died. 

That distinct, unforgettable moment of being severed – that was only second to his regret and guilt. 

Third on the list of grievances was probably how his first and only true defeat was broadcast throughout his kingdom by enemy knights on horseback, trying to undermine his nation from within. 

Could one feel such an intense turmoil of emotions even when dead?

Perhaps it was his punishment for his crimes while living. Whilst he was a fine leader and merciful fighter on the battlefield, he was ultimately just a cruel boy. 

A boy who flirted unabashedly with a girl who kissed the ground he walked. A boy with no intentions of actually ever communicating maturely or being the bigger man.

A boy who let down the only real thing in his life time and time and time again.

You were the only thing on his mind at the end; fittingly so. After all the times he dismissed you or snubbed you… if anyone had the right to haunt him for all of time, it was you.

He loved you. In his own stupid, selfish way. He did really love you.

He loved the way your eyes crinkled, the way your hands were rough from use. Despite your flaming blush each time he grabbed them, he never let you pull away.

You saw him for him. As Satoru. Not a weapon, not the future Imperial leader. Just a boy who loved sweets and pranks.

You saw him. Could he say the same?

God, he was a fool. Propelled by some unknown drive, perhaps a part of him knew his end was imminent, he had attempted to make amends before his battle.

The right approach, the proper approach would be to actually speak to you, and begin his litany of apologies, and to try to rekindle whatever relationship he could salvage.

Of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t take the easy route. That would mean he wasn’t a fool.

No, he decided to commission a yukata, with a blue obi (for no reason, definitely not to match his eyes), despite it being winter.

The royal tailor was momentarily perplexed by the odd request, but still familiar enough with Emperor Gojo’s whims that he compiled readily.

He had the garment wrapped pristinely in a heavy box, and ordered another servant to send it to your room when he left for battle.

Now, once again, the right and easy thing to do would have been to give it himself. To explain why he did it, and perhaps even extend an invitation to you for both of you to attend a summer festival together in said matching yukata. 

That would have been the right thing to do.

But now Gojo found himself fucking sealed in that very box, awaiting summer’s arrival, praying that you’d decide to open his (first and) final gift.

Perhaps it was the fact that you filled his mind in his final moments, and that this was his divine retribution - but he found himself as the obi he had commissioned for you.

Cursed with sentience and reflection but unable to speak; to be reborn without a mouth though he was aching to scream.

In darkness over the next few months, he came to learn that his nation had prevailed from hushed whispers and gossip. That his student and distant relative, the prodigy Okkotsu Yuta, was able to defeat Sukuna and take control of the Gojo state.

The pride he felt for Yuta warred viciously with his own shame and guilt, though what emerged triumphantly was actually his sense of relief.

Tragically, it was only as an obi that he was finally free of his responsibilities and burdens. 

At least, he still had you. His one consolation. He could finally be with you as just Satoru.

However, sealed away in the gift box, he was utterly helpless when he heard your gentle weeping in the dead of night.

He did not deserve your love, much less your grief. 

Each time you mourned him, Gojo was made to relive his death, and more painfully, his failure in life when it came to you. 

It seemed so unfair that both of you would be punished for his folly and sin.

Stiffly, as best as he could as a starched piece of fabric, Gojo prayed for your release and freedom.

He prayed that you’d find peace, that you could let go of him, something he should have done for you when he was alive.

Time as an obi… felt neither here nor there. Eventually, Gojo surmised that it was indeed summer.

The air in the box felt especially musty and damp, though he need not concern himself with the high humidity levels anymore since he had no locks to maintain or sweat glands to perspire.

How many months has it been? Or had it been years? 

You never once opened the box, and Gojo did not feel like he wanted to compel you to. His final act of what he deemed generosity, was probably just an additional burden weighing you down. 

What good is an expensive gift when you would never come to learn of its significance and his intention? It was just like his past self to throw money at a problem, but never to actually open up and be vulnerable.

Being an obi seems to only further compound his long list of regrets, but that was probably the point of his reincarnation into this form. To learn, to grow, to change – even though it was too little too late. 

Summer rolled around again. How many summers it had been since his death, he knew not. 

The tedious doldrums of life as an obi was frankly, quite bearable. Routinely, he’d wait patiently, until you returned to your quarters after a day’s work.

In the evening, he relished your quiet tears and companionable silence as you washed up, read, and got ready for bed. 

In another life, this would be his nightly routine. Coming back to you after a long day of meetings with the higher-ups and council, after walks around town and polite smiles directed to his people. 

You’d be there, waiting for him at home. Would you have a pair of children together? A boy with his hair; a girl with your smile?

If he had a heart, it’d break a second, third, forth, fifth time over and over and over again. In the light of day when you left to perform your imperial duties, Gojo counted down the seconds for your return.

Was this what it was like for you when he was alive? Waiting tirelessly for someone who never spared a thought for you?

Fortunately, your grief mellowed with time. And in time, you stopped weeping at night. Gojo had once thought that the worst thing in life was to be forgotten, but he realised he didn’t care if he was remembered anymore. 

He just wanted you to stop hurting.

He supposes he’s finally got his wish as an obi.

Watching you get dressed, finally unboxing his gift now that enough time (years?) has passed. 

Methodically, you slipped on the yukata, adjusting the front panels, before reaching for the obi.

Oddly, Gojo comes to find, being pulled and tugged and stretched did not hurt. Maybe it was the designated purpose of an obi, so being wrapped tautly and filled with tension felt surprisingly natural for him.

Or maybe it was because you were the one wearing him.

Unexpectedly, the pain came a little later, after you were done getting dressed.

It pierced him like a lance, an agony so sharp and so visceral. To his horror, it even paled in comparison to his actual death.

You were dolled up, and strolling around the local festival hand in hand with someone else. Increasingly sensitive to each movement and touch, Gojo became hyper aware of each time you leaned into the other man’s larger frame and wrapped your arm around his bicep.

Was this what it was like for you? Dying a thousand deaths each time wordlessly? Watching from the shadows, unable to interject?

At least, Gojo comforts himself, he would never truly forget you. 

It was his turn to watch over you silently, steadily. Cling to you like second skin, literally. And there was no one to stop him this time round.

It seems, he tells himself, that you would never forget him either. The love and grief might have faded, but you care for Emperor Gojo still. 

As the fireworks sizzle to an end, you and your lover take a detour before heading back to the servant quarters. 

You stop by the royal mausoleum, leaving behind a bouquet of blue hydrangeas, as your fingers trace over the golden letters etched in smooth stone, 五条悟. Emperor Gojo Satoru.

It’d be funny, if it weren’t so damn tragic. 

The tale of the Ajisai, 紫陽花, had been passed down from generations: the story of an emperor who gave his neglected lover a bouquet of blue hydrangeas as a sign of contrition and remorse. 

It ought to have been him who offered these flowers to you, not the other way round, Gojo thinks desperately. Overwhelmed with the need to speak, to say something, anything, Gojo would be driven to tears if he could cry.

Worst of all, he notices that they match his eyes, and your obi.

He supposes the flowers have to do all the talking for him now. All he can do now is feel how you intertwine your fingers with another man’s, walking hand in hand, leaving his gilded tomb behind.

Until another lifetime.

big shoutout to @madamechrissy once again!!! big love & lots of kisses to u angel

this was also not the usual object!crack fic but i hope you like it! i'd love to try my hand at sillier fics in the future hehe but the angst bug got me this round

gojo art is official gege akutami, edited on canva by me // others are stock image/free use on procreate // divider by the lovely @/saradika-graphics

Reblogs, comments, likes would be greatly appreciated! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟthank you taking the time to read!