danicareadssmut

[danicareadssmut]

࿐ vows of duty ── part 1

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.

࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — involves a 7 yr time skip, from both reader and satoru's pov. satoru's a little shit. he's arrogant and gives no fucks. suguru defects. sexual content. fingering, handjob, orgasms, male ejaculation on tits, lots of dirty talk】

࿐wc. 16.4k (suuuurprise.... heh)

࿐a/n. hiiii. it's finally here—the full fic of this drabble. you can expect this fic to be multiple parts, i'm just not sure how many yet. anyways, i had fun writing a canon version of satoru. i love my canon pookie. even if he's emotionally constipated here. enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/_3aem on X )

Your mother had always told you—there were four great clans in jujutsu society. Four names that shaped history, wielding power that stretched back for centuries.

The Zenin Clan, ruthless in tradition, where strength dictated worth and weakness was met with exile.

The Kamo Clan, a relic of the past, clinging desperately to their once-unshakable influence, willing to spill whatever blood necessary to remain relevant.

The Gojo Clan, untouchable, revered—the bloodline of gods. A name so powerful it stood above all others, their very existence defined by the Six Eyes and Limitless, abilities so rare they might as well have been myth.

And then, there was your clan.

A family as old as Kyoto itself, a bloodline sharpened by centuries of discipline and technique. The fourth great clan, standing alongside these names not as a rival, but as an equal. You were always told that your family had not built its legacy on brute force or deception, nor had it relied on a singular, overwhelming ability to dominate the battlefield.

No—your clan thrived on precision. Strategy. Control.

Respected. Feared. Established.

Yes, let it be known that your family produced some of the finest jujutsu sorcerers Kyoto had ever seen—that alone secured your place among the elite. And so, you had spent your life walking the delicate line between tradition and expectation, power and obedience. You were raised to be precise, to be measured—a perfect reflection of the strength your family stood for.

And that was why you were here tonight.

Because power, recognized power.

And tonight, the most powerful clan of them all was crowning a new king.

Tonight—December 7th—on his eighteenth birthday, Gojo Satoru would be proclaimed Clan Head of the Gojo family. The invitation had been sent to only the most respected and esteemed. This was more than a celebration; it was a display. A reminder.

All of Japan had known for years that the next ruler of the strongest clan had been chosen. Ever since the moment Gojo Satoru was born, it had been inevitable. But tonight, it would become official.

Inhaling deeply, you forced stillness into your spine—your expression smoothing into something unreadable.

You were no stranger to moving through halls filled with power—no, you had been raised for moments like these. You knew how to hold yourself, how to command respect, how to navigate a room full of Kyoto’s most dangerous and influential figures.

And yet…

There was something about tonight that felt… different.

Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, you would stand in the same room as him. The prodigy. The untouchable. The strongest sorcerer of his generation—a living legend before he was ever grown, a force of nature wrapped in a human body.

You had heard his name more times than you could count, but you had never seen him.

Not in person. Not until tonight.

"Fix your kimono.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp and precise as ever.

She didn’t look at you as she said it—she never had to. The flick of her gaze toward your reflection in the window was enough. Cool, assessing. She expected perfection.

You didn’t argue. You never argued.

Instead, your hands moved instinctively, smoothing the silk draped over your lap. Midnight blue, embroidered with delicate silver cranes in flight—a symbol of strength, of longevity, of duty. A reminder of the life you were bound to.

The obi at your waist had been tied flawlessly earlier that evening, its silken folds pressed into place with meticulous care—yet you still adjusted it. Not because it was imperfect, but because she had told you to.

Exhaling softly, your mother’s eyes swept over you briefly—as though the smallest flaw in your presentation might tarnish the family name.

"Appearances matter," she murmured, smoothing the folds of her own ivory kimono, embroidered with peonies and bamboo—symbols of wealth and resilience. Even in the dim light of the car, she radiated elegance, flawless as always.

"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."

She spoke as if you didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent years molding you into a perfect reflection of the family’s strength.

Across from you, your father shifted, stretching his legs slightly as he leaned back into his seat. The glow of his phone screen flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. As his fingers tapped idly against the side of the device, the screen was angled just enough that neither you nor your mother could see it.

Yeah… that was a habit of his. One you had learned not to acknowledge.

Your mother never acknowledged it either. Not in words, at least.

But you saw it in the way her fingers tensed against her sleeve, in the subtle shift of her posture, as if willing herself to ignore the obvious.

"You put too much weight on these things," your father muttered, carrying an air of finality. "The Gojo Clan already knows who we are. No amount of perfect posture is going to change their minds."

The silence that followed was familiar.

A subtle tension seeped into the space between them—the kind that had no beginning and no resolution. Something ever-present, like a thread woven too tightly through the fabric of their marriage.

Lowering her gaze slightly, your mother adjusted the folds of her sleeve with slow, deliberate care.

"Power is not always displayed through strength alone," she said, softer now. "It is seen in the way others perceive you. The moment you allow someone to look down on you, you have already lost."

Exhaling through his nose, a quiet sound rumbles through your father’s chest—neither agreement nor disagreement. He wasn’t listening. Not really.

"Depends," he sighs dismissively. "There are worse things than being looked down on."

Your mother’s hands froze for just a moment, before she recovered, smoothing out her sleeve with a quiet nod.

"Of course…" she murmured, conceding with practiced ease.

She would not challenge him. She never did.

Turning yourself toward the window, you felt the weight of their silence settle into your ribs.

You had seen this scene too many times before. So you looked away. Focusing on the world outside, rather than the quiet battlefield inside the car. Then, finally, it came into view.

The Gojo Estate.

It did not sit among the rest of Kyoto. It stood above it.

Carved into the mountainside, the estate loomed over the landscape like something untouched by time. Its outer walls stretched endlessly into the dark, built of aged wood and blackened stone, reinforced not just with craftsmanship but with sorcery itself. A silent warning. A declaration of power—this was not a place where outsiders were welcome.

Beyond the towering gates, the estate unfurled like a painting.

The courtyard was vast, an expanse of raked gravel and polished stone pathways that twisted through pruned bonsai, moss-covered lanterns, and koi-filled ponds shimmering beneath the moonlight. Each element was a silent testament to a clan that valued not just power, but control—as if even the earth beneath the Gojos’ feet bowed to their authority.

A long row of cherry blossom trees lined the outer garden, their pale petals quivering in the night breeze. Winter had stolen the color from Kyoto’s streets, but here, the blossoms remained in eternal bloom—preserved unnaturally, suspended in time by the lingering touch of sorcery. As the wind passed through them, petals drifted down in soft flurries, catching in the air like falling snow.

Your breath stilled slightly.

Even for someone raised in a powerful clan, the sight of the Gojo estate was enough to humble.

The car slowed to a stop, just before the entrance, and your gaze flickered toward the attendants waiting outside before shifting upward, toward the main hall that loomed beyond the courtyard.

It was not a home.

It was a throne.

And tonight, the man who would rule it was waiting inside.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Y’know, I really don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Satoru drawls, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robes with a dramatic grimace. “They’ve known I’m the strongest since birth. Feels a little redundant, don’t y’think?”

Across the room, Suguru lets out a slow exhale, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wooden frame of the window. Beyond him, Kyoto stretches into the night—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, the glow of distant lanterns flickering like dying embers. But he isn’t looking at the view. His gaze flickers toward Satoru through the mirror’s reflection, watching as his friend fussed with the layers of fine silk draped over his shoulders, like it’s a burden rather than an honor.

“They have to make a big deal out of it,” Suguru murmurs, quiet, almost bored. “Otherwise, what’s left for them?”

Satoru scoffs, shifting his weight as he tugs at the sash around his waist, loosening it just to tighten it again.

“Yeah, well. If this keeps ‘em busy, maybe they’ll hold off on nagging me about marriage for another year.”

Suguru hums, pushing off the window frame. Taking a slow step forward, his hands slip into the wide sleeves of his yukata as he watches Satoru wrestle against his robes like they were shackles.

“You say that like they won’t have a new excuse next week.”

Catching Suguru’s gaze in the mirror, Satoru’s lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin.

“Think they’ll get creative?”

“They always do.”

Clicking his tongue, an exaggerated sigh slips from Satoru’s lips as he finally turns from the mirror to grab the ceremonial overcoat folded on the edge of the lacquered table. The fabric is rich and regal—deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, the threads gleaming under the dim candlelight.

“Tch… I swear…” he barely spares the elegant silk a glance before throwing it over his shoulders, the heavy material settling like a crown he never asked for. “Maybe I should start charging for every goddamn time they waste my time.”

Suguru hums, tilting his head.

“You’d make a fortune.”

“Please,” Satoru scoffs, flicking at the intricate gold trim on his sleeve, grin sharp and self-satisfied. “I’m already loaded.”

Suguru lets out a quiet breath, one hand slipping into his sleeve before pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.

“And yet…” he muses, placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter, “all that money, and you’re still stuck wearing that ridiculous thing.”

Satoru let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the overcoat, shifting slightly—like he could somehow make it sit lighter on him.

“Right?” He turns back toward the mirror, tugging at the stiff collar with an annoyed pull. “I look like I belong in a fucking museum.”

Suguru says nothing at first. The metal flicks, a sharp scratch of sound, flame briefly illuminating his face as he lights the cigarette. The glow reflects in his violet eyes for half a second as he takes a slow drag.

“Or on a wedding altar,” he exhales smoke in a measured breath.

Satoru’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His head snaps up, and through the mirror, he shoots Suguru a flat look.

“Not funny.”

Suguru smirks, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as smoke curls through the air. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Wouldn’t put it past them to slip an engagement announcement into tonight’s festivities. You know how they like their surprises.”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, deliberately messing it up again.

“Yeah, well… first sign of trouble and I’m teleporting the hell out of there.”

A quiet chuckle slips through Suguru’s lips, but there’s no humor in it.

“And then what?” his voice softens, but the words weigh heavier. “You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?”

Satoru shrugs. “If I have to.” He’s grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

With quiet consideration, Suguru exhales, watching Satoru with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. But this time, it’s not his reflection he’s looking at. It’s him—standing there in those ceremonial robes, draping over him like chains, wearing arrogance like armor.

“You… really think it’s that simple?”

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His grin sharpens, flashing white teeth like a blade.

“Of course it is. I’m Satoru fucking Gojo.”

Though Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift, his gaze darkens, something quiet and knowing creeping into his features.

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”

“C’mon, you think they actually care?” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru through the mirror. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the name. The bloodline. Hell, they’d be throwing this same party for a rock if it had the Six Eyes.”

There’s a lingering silence.

Through the mirror, Satoru sees Suguru’s expression shift—his posture still loose but somehow weighted, as if each breath he takes is heavier with words unspoken. Suguru’s long raven hair falls slightly into his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the quiet strain pulling at his features.

“Damn…” Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “You look like shit, man.”

Suguru blinks, briefly startled, before scoffing, rolling his eyes as he flicks ash into the tray beside him.

“Gee, thanks.”

But Satoru doesn’t let up. His gaze lingers, cutting through pretenses like a blade.

“No, seriously. Have you slept at all this week? ‘Cause from here, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle, but it’s weak, hollow—gone before it ever really forms.

“Yeah…” he lifts the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag. “I dunno. ‘m just tired.”

The ember burns bright for a moment, casting sharper shadows along his best friend’s face—deepening the lines of exhaustion—a quiet weight that Satoru’s been too busy to address. Then, clicking his tongue, Satoru focuses back to the mirror, dragging a hand through his hair with careless ease.

“You’re thinking too much again…” he mutters. “Always a bad sign.”

“Yeah, well...” Suguru exhales, smoke curling lazily around him. “Guess someone’s gotta do it.”

Quirking a brow, Satoru turns toward him fully this time.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Suguru smirks, but it’s small, faint—the kind that barely lifts the corners of his lips before disappearing altogether. As he leans back against the wooden frame of the window, his fingers tap against his arm, holding the cigarette loosely in his grip.

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.

Suguru quirks a brow before he huffs, shaking his head slightly.

The silence sits heavier this time. There’s something distant in his expression—like his thoughts are a step ahead of him, somewhere neither of them can quite reach. Flicking the cigarette between his fingers, he taps ash into the tray with slow precision.

“I’m just wondering…” Suguru mutters, his voice quieter now, something careful in the way he says it. “If you weren’t who you are—would they still be kneeling at your feet?”

Satoru blinks.

“Uh. Duh.”

Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep.

“No, Satoru. If you weren’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose, his jaw flexing slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to. Instead, he shakes his head. “Never mind…”

Satoru’s gaze narrows.

“Um. The hell was that? You can’t just say something cryptic and then drop it.”

For a moment, there’s something unspoken between them—something lingering just beneath the surface, pressing at the space between words. Then, just as quickly, Suguru’s expression smooths over. Whatever flicker of thought had been there vanishing behind an effortless, practiced mask.

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.

But whatever it was, Suguru wasn’t going to say it.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru watches him for a second longer before rolling his shoulders—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Anyways,” he sighs, stretching his arms above his head as he strides toward the door, loose and unaffected, like he’s just heading out for a stroll instead of stepping into the weight of his legacy.

As he passes the lacquered table, his hand instinctively reaches for his sunglasses, flipping them open with a careless flick before sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

Suguru’s gaze drags back to him, eyes lingering over the contrast of expensive, embroidered silk and dark tinted glasses. He smirks. “Doesn’t really fit the robes.”

Satoru groans, shoving his sunglasses up into his hairline before letting them drop back onto his nose.

“Tch. I know, I know. Too fucking modern for their delicate sensibilities, right?”

Suguru chuckles, putting out his cigarette. “Something like that.”

With a resigned huff, Satoru tosses the sunglasses onto the table with a clatter.

“Fine fine…” he grumbles, pausing—considering. A wicked smile curls onto his lips. “Hey… what do you think—should I blindfold myself instead and pretend I can’t find the stage? Give ‘em a little show?”

Suguru barks out a short laugh, shaking his head as he exhales.

“You’re really gonna make a fucking scene on your own celebration?”

“Oh, Suguru,” Satoru’s grin is all teeth as he makes his way toward the door. “Make a scene? When have I ever done that?”

Suguru gives him a long, slow look as he follows.

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Satoru snorts. “Smartass.” He shoves the door open without hesitation. “Y’think I can piss off at least three elders before the night’s over?”

“Mm... four, if you really try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

And as Satoru steps forward—toward the weight of a legacy that meant nothing to him, Suguru lingers behind him, watching as Satoru walks ahead, carrying the world like it’s weightless.

But Suguru knows better.

He always has.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Stand up straight,” your mother murmurs quietly—so soft that only you can hear it. “And try not to stare.”

Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pressing back—but stare? Fuck. How can you not? The Gojo estate is unlike anything you have ever stepped foot in.

The ceilings stretch impossibly high, wooden beams arching overhead like the ribs of some celestial beast. Hand-painted fusuma panels line the walls, gold leaf catching the candlelight, depicting Kyoto’s landscapes in elegant brushstrokes. There is a stillness here—something ancient, untouched by time. Unshaken by war or weakness.

A faint trace of aged incense lingers in the air, blending with the clean scent of fresh tatami, wrapping around you like something sacred—a quiet reminder that tradition is absolute here.

The steady flow of guests direct you down the grand walkway, toward the main hall, and the air hums with low voices—silk robes rustling as elders and elite sorcerers file in, taking their assigned seats.

Assigned by status.

The highest-ranking families settle nearest to the center of the hall, where Gojo Satoru will take his place, while the lesser clans drift toward the outer edges, far enough to understand their place.

You barely register it.

Because just beyond the walkway, past a row of sliding doors left slightly open, something catches your eye.

A dojo.

Wide and open, its polished wooden floors gleam under the dim glow of candlelight. Tall, arched windows invite in the cool night air, carrying the rustling of bamboo from the gardens beyond. Along the walls, beautifully crafted bokken rest neatly in their racks beside long naginata and aged katana, their lacquered hilts gleaming faintly.

It is… perfect.

Unlike anything your own estate has ever had. A proper space for training—not the rigid, structured sessions dictated by the elders, but something freer. A place to move, to breathe, to fight.

God… it’s everything you’ve always wanted.

After all, your clan was built on precision, control, intelligence. Not raw combat. You have trained—mastered every movement drilled into you since childhood—but never were you allowed to spar without restraint. Never trained to be a sorcerer, never encouraged to fight in a way that would leave bruises—that would stain silk with sweat and blood.

You were raised to be a perfect reflection of your family, a perfect wife—that is all.

And yet, here it is. Fuck. A proper dojo—what a dream. So perfectly built for battle, yet it’s tucked into the halls of the most powerful clan in Jujutsu society, probably taken for granted as if it were nothing.

As your steps slow, you barely realize how long you’ve been staring, until you feel the lightest tug on your sleeve.

“Enough,” your mother mutters, grip light but firm.

Your heart jumps. Shit. It was one thing to observe. To admire. But it was another to linger.

“Eyes forward,” she lifts her chin, and you follow her deeper inside.

Moving ahead, the crowd shifts around you, elders and elite sorcerers weaving through the grand hall, settling into their assigned seats—but damn it. You’re still thinking about that damn dojo.

What must it be like to strike and be struck back, to train not just for form but for battle?

But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.

Then, with the slightest turn of her head, she murmurs, “…w-what? Where did he go…”

Your breath stills as you realize, your father is no longer beside her. Glancing around, he is nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flowing silk and quiet murmurs. But you don’t need to ask where he’s gone—you already know. And… so does she.

Despite it, she doesn’t curse. Doesn’t let her expression falter. Doesn’t break stride. But you see the way your mother’s lips press together, the way her fingers curl slightly against the sleeve of her kimono, gripping fabric like it’s the only thing she can control.

A slow, measured breath leaves her nose. Then, with a practiced ease, she smooths out the folds of her sleeve.

“Wait at your seat…” she instructs softly. “I’ll find him.”

And just like that, she is gone.

It’s not the first time.

Not the first time she’s swallowed the weight of his absence, nor the first time she’s forced herself to chase after a man who has never once stopped running. A man who dishonors her with such frequency that it no longer feels like betrayal—only expectation.

And she goes anyway. Every time.

Why?

You begin to ponder.

How many wives have had to smile through disgrace, bound by duty to men who do not see them? How many have sat in silence, enduring the quiet disintegration of a marriage, knowing their suffering is only theirs to bear?

The thought lingers as you move toward your assigned seat, your steps slow, lost in quiet contemplation. You barely register the way silk brushes against you, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the polished floors.

“You’re in my seat.”

The words are crisp. Clipped.

You barely have time to process them before the weight of who they belong to settles in your chest like stone. Glancing up, your stomach drops.

Shit.

You’ve sat in the wrong seat.

Not just any seat.

His seat.

Gojo Hajime.

An elder of the Gojo clan. A man whose presence alone commands respect and caution in equal measure. His reputation is built upon unforgiving discipline, a fierce advocate for upholding the hierarchy that governs jujutsu society. You have seen how lesser-ranked sorcerers bow deeper in his presence, how his voice alone is enough to quiet a whole fucking room.

And you—you—have just taken his seat.

You should apologize. Immediately. Stand, lower your head, bow so deeply your knees kiss the floor—but you don’t even get the chance. Because the moment your lips part, his voice cuts through the air again.

“How disgraceful.”

The murmurs start immediately. Soft at first. Rippling outward.

A misplaced seat is not just an accident—it is an insult. A disruption to the hierarchy, an unspoken challenge to status. And it is not just your mistake—it is your family’s.

Eyes begin to turn.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic coiling tight in your stomach. You can feel the weight of scrutiny, the silent condemnation pressing against your skin like needles. But just as the tension threatens to crack open, before you can even move, before you can correct your mistake—

“Damn,” a voice cuts in. “I didn’t know we had assigned seats based on grumpiness. If that’s the case, maybe we oughta scoot you a little further up, gramps.”

The murmurs die instantly. A ripple of silk as heads turn, a breath caught collectively in the throats of the room.

Because everyone knows that voice.

Gojo Satoru.

And when you finally force yourself to look, when you finally shift your gaze toward the source of your salvation, you find yourself staring into the bluest damn eyes you’ve ever seen.

They are a color not meant for this world—icy, piercing, almost otherworldly under the flickering candlelight. Not simply blue, but something deeper, something endless, like the sky when it stretches too far, too high, too unreachable.

And then, just as effortlessly, he drops into the seat beside you.

“Hope ya don’t mind if I sit here, gramps,” he sighs, propping his chin against his palm with a lazy grin. “Since, y’know… you’re already standing.”

The elder bristles.

“Gojo-sama…” he says slowly, voice strained. “Seats are assigned with purpose.”

Satoru exhales loudly, stretching his neck. “Right, right,” he drawls. “And lemme guess—some dusty old men in a room decided where everyone sits?”

“The council—”

“Right, right,” he interjects, waving a dismissive hand. “The same council that decided I needed to wear this stiff-ass robe tonight.” He tugs at the embroidered silk draped over his shoulders for emphasis before flashing a sharp grin. “Real forward thinkers, those guys.”

A flicker of disbelief passes over the elder’s face.

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Tell ya what… since I’m feeling generous tonight, how ‘bout we just let it slide? Y’know, pretend we’re not wasting all this energy over a damn seat?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head, his voice dropping to something lower, lazier. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep arguing with me in front of all these lovely guests? On my birthday, need I remind you?”

The words are spoken lightly, casually, but there’s an underlying challenge in them—something daring, something edged with amusement, as if he already knows how this will end.

And the elder does, too. Because what can he say? What will he do? It’s a battle he can’t win. Not against the strongest.

A long breath drags through his nose before he bows his head stiffly.

“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru grins, entirely pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

With that, the elder moves stiffly to another seat, the murmurs gradually settling into quiet acceptance, though you can still feel the lingering weight of curious glances thrown your way.

And finally—finally—your lungs remember how to breathe.

You should say something. Thank him. But before you can, Satoru turns his attention to you, tilting his head slightly, that easy smirk still curving his lips.

“There,” his fingers play idly with a tousle of your hair, letting it twirl between his grasp. “A lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, don’t y’think?”

You blink, still caught between lingering panic and something dangerously close to awe.

Because just like that, with a grin and a few well-placed words, he had made a mockery of the entire situation. Had turned the weight of expectation into something trivial, something meaningless.

Had made defiance look so damn effortless. And for the first time tonight, you wonder what it would be like to live that freely.

Satoru watches you, head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something. Amusement flickers in those ridiculously bright eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

You realize then—you haven’t said a word.

Shit.

Heat pricks at the back of your neck. You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to gather the scattered remains of your dignity before finally managing, “…oh, um… t-thank you, Gojo-sama.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Ugh. Don’t do that.”

You blink. “…do what?”

“That whole ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Bleh.” He scrunches his nose, expression twisted in exaggerated distaste. “You make me sound old.”

You hesitate, caught between confusion and amusement. “But… you’re the Clan Head now.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Your lips twitch, just barely suppressing a laugh, and his gaze flickers to you at that, something playful sparking in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, his elbows rest on the low table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.

“You wouldn’t believe how many speeches I’ve had to sit through already. I swear, they’ve been reciting my life story like I’m some kind of historical relic.”

You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “Wow. The betrayal.”

Shaking your head in amusement, you finally allow a small laugh to slip out.

“I… didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints at you in mock suspicion before his lips stretch back into an easy grin. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide, since I like you.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s nothing… right? Just the nerves. The residual stress from earlier. The weight of too many eyes lingering in the periphery.

But as he watches you—head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out—you don’t know what the hell to say. And yet… you also find yourself not wanting to look away.

Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.

He is elegance without effort, arrogance without apology, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him. His snowy-white hair is a tousled mess, catching silver beneath the candlelight, framing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbones, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

They aren’t just blue. They’re endless. A shade too sharp, too striking—like fractured gemstones, like glacial ice catching the light at just the right angle. They don’t just see, they consume, pulling you in as if the whole fucking world just disappears when he looks at you.

What the hell are you supposed to say to him?

Shit. You’re lingering again. Your mother would curse you for this. You should speak—say something, anything. But the words never come.

Luckily, you don’t have to figure it out.

Because just then, a sharp chime rings through the grand hall, signaling the start of the formal ceremony. A ripple of movement stirs through the guests as heads turn toward the center of the room, where the elders begin to take their places.

Satoru exhales, stretching his arms overhead in a lazy arc. “Guess that’s my cue.”

He rises smoothly, adjusting the heavy silk of his robes with little care, as if he’s already bored of the whole affair. But then—before stepping away—he casts you one last glance, that ever-present grin still playing at the edges of his lips.

“See ya around, sweetheart.”

And then, like this entire night is nothing more than a game to him, he waves, casting you a playful wink. Casual. Effortless. Like you’re old friends. Like this moment, fleeting as it is, belongs to just the two of you—despite the dozens of eyes still lingering in your direction.

And, without hesitation, he turns, stepping toward the center of the room, where the weight of his legacy awaits him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

The ceremony is exactly what Satoru expected—long, tedious, and filled with more self-important speeches than he cares to count. The elders take turns praising the significance of his ascension, the legacy he carries, the burden he must now bear.

As if he doesn’t already fucking know. As if the weight of the Gojo name hasn’t pressed against his spine since the moment he was born.

He stands at the center of it all, a crownless king in layered silk, his every move watched, measured, and judged by the dozens of expectant faces surrounding him.

Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.

Because at the end of the day—he is still Gojo Satoru. And they can dress him up in their finest robes, seat him at the highest throne, weigh him down with the expectations of an entire clan—but they can’t make him care.

And they know it.

So, when the speeches end and the ritual formalities dissolve into something more palatable—celebration, sake, music—the real scheming begins.

The moment the first note is played, an elder clears his throat. Satoru doesn’t even look up.

“We have taken the liberty of selecting your first dance, Gojo-sama,” the man says, hands folded neatly in his sleeves, the picture of diplomatic grace. “She is from a highly esteemed bloodline. A perfect candidate for marriage and—”

Satoru groans. Loudly.

“Oh, come on.” He drags a hand down his face, tilting his head back like this entire conversation physically pains him. “You’re really pulling the marriage card already? I just fucking turned eighteen.”

The elder’s expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t falter. They’ve played this game with him before. They know Gojo Satoru only bends when it suits him.

“We must get ahead of things. And it is tradition for the head of the Gojo Clan to take his first dance with a suitable partner—”

“Right, right.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the room for anything more interesting than this conversation. “And lemme guess—she’s got a nice lineage, proper manners, and the personality of a wet napkin?”

A pause as the elder clears his throat. Yeah. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head, fingers drumming lazily against the lacquered armrest of his chair.

“Yeah… I think I’ll pass,” he’s rising from his seat as the elder begins ushering a poised, graceful young woman towards him—clad in silk, the color of cherry blossoms.

Satoru doesn’t even look at her.

He’s looking for an escape, and as his eyes sweep the crowd, he sees you.

The girl from earlier.

And just like that, his mind is made up.

Before the elder can say another word, before the girl can step any closer, Satoru moves.

Not toward her.

Toward you.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Dance with me.”

You blink, gaze dropping to his hand, extended toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed.

It’s not a request.

It’s a decision.

A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.

And the room knows it.

The air seems to tighten, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as hushed murmurs flicker between the guests, silk rustling as heads turn. The weight of attention presses against your skin, heavier than the finest-woven kimono, heavier than the eyes of your parents, now fixed on you, unreadable.

Your lips part slightly, but no words come. Fuck. You should at least breathe. But you don’t. You can’t. Your mind is barely processing what the fuck is happening.

Then, a quiet but pointed sound—your mother clearing her throat beside you.

“She would love to.”

Her voice is soft, but firm, a smooth, graceful assertion that leaves no room for question. A response crafted not for you, but for those watching, those weighing this moment, those who will whisper about it long after the night ends. Because this is not just a dance. This is a spectacle. A shift in the script carefully written for the evening.

And your mother knows that. To refuse would be foolish. To hesitate would be disgraceful. To accept, however—

An honor.

So, when she turns toward you, offering the smallest, most practiced of smiles, you understand her meaning entirely.

You will dance with Satoru Gojo.

With a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding, you glance back toward him. He’s watching you, amusement flickering in those impossibly blue eyes, that lazy, knowing grin still curling at his lips.

“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”

You don’t know what possesses you—perhaps the weight of expectation, or perhaps something else entirely—but your hand lifts. Fingers barely brushing against his before he takes it completely, enclosing it in a grasp that is warm, steady, unwavering.

And just like that, he pulls you into the center of the room.

Into the center of everything.

His grip is firm but unhurried as he leads you, like none of this is a big deal. Like he hasn’t just overturned an entire evening’s worth of careful tradition.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, your breath barely finding its way back into your lungs as you let him guide you into position. One of his hands settles lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Relax,” he murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear. “You’re stiffer than my old kendo instructor.”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against yours. “I—this is just… unexpected.”

Exhaling dramatically, he spins you effortlessly into the first steps of dance. “Tell me about it,” he groans. “You just saved me from another goddamn elder trying to shove some proper young lady into my arms.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, twirling you smoothly before pulling you back into his grasp. “The matchmaking schemers are working overtime tonight. Bet they’re seething right now.”

You stifle a laugh. “So… you picked me out of spite?”

“I picked you because you looked like you needed saving too.” His eyes flicker toward you, sharp but warm, like he’s seeing straight through you.

You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.

“Well… my mother was about to give me a very long lecture about decorum,” you admit quietly.

His grin widens as he hums. “Guess that makes me your knight in shining silk, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays you.

Satoru’s grip shifts slightly, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against your waist as he leads you through another step. He moves so effortlessly, like the weight of expectation never touches him, like the rules of this world bend just for him.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.

For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.

For a moment… it’s just the two of you.

As the melody slows—the last few notes stretch through the grand hall like a fading breath—you barely register the shifting of the crowd around you. It feels like the world has shrunk.

And then, stillness. The dance is over.

You should step away. You should let go.

But Satoru lingers.

His fingers remain curled lightly around yours, as if he’s forgotten to let go—or maybe he just doesn’t feel like doing so yet. His touch is warm, steady, and entirely too deliberate for someone who seems to take nothing seriously.

As his gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, his smirk deepens, something unreadable flashing in those impossible blue eyes. Then, with a casual ease—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts your hand slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Unhurried.

Barely a brush of his lips against your skin, but enough to send something fluttering wildly in your stomach.

Damn him.

You feel it everywhere—the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hold lingers a second too long before he finally lets go. When your hand drops back to your side, it’s still tingling from the contact, and you know you should say something, but your tongue feels too damn heavy in your mouth again.

Satoru, however, looks perfectly at ease, like he hadn’t just turned your world sideways with a single fleeting kiss. Still, the moment stretches—something about it feels… different. A beat too long, a silence that carries something unspoken.

But when he shifts, the moment simmers away as he turns his head slightly, his attention suddenly caught by something beyond you. Or, someone.

Geto Suguru. His best friend.

His posture loosens as he exhales through his nose, casting you a final glance. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawls lazily, taking a step back. “Hate to dance and dash, but duty calls.”

And just like before, he lifts a hand in that same casual wave, and winks—slipping back into the crowd with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.

Following his gaze, you look just past the cluster of mingling sorcerers, at the figure leaning lazily against one of the wooden pillars. His dark long hair falls across his shoulders, his arms are folded neatly into the side sleeves of his yukata, and his eyes are half-lidded, bored.

Satoru reaches him in just a few strides, and whatever the two of them exchange is lost to you beneath the hum of the room—but they’re laughing, at ease.

Exhaling slowly, you force your trembling hands to steady at your sides, your racing heart to settle, remembering where you are. Because the world moves on. The music starts anew. The guests return to their conversations.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Because this—this is something you’ll remember. The night you first met Gojo Satoru.

The night you first saw him for who he was—not just the head of the Gojo Clan, not just the strongest, but something untouchable, something defiant. Something free.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always hold onto that moment.

A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Seven years have passed since that night. Seven years since the weight of an entire clan was draped over his shoulders like a silk noose.

Gojo Satoru is still the strongest, still the untouchable ruler of the Gojo Clan, but the years have done little to change the one thing the elders have always hated about him—he refuses to be controlled.

But their patience is wearing thin.

The moment he steps into the council chamber, Satoru already knows he’s going to hate every second of this.

Same old stiff-ass room, same old stiff-ass elders. The walls lined with painted screens depicting wars won centuries ago, incense burning in the background like it’s meant to cleanse him of his sins or some shit. He exhales loudly, rolling his shoulders back, then strolls forward with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution.

Dropping lazily onto the tatami, Satoru lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Alright,” he drawls, popping his neck with a slow tilt of his head. “Let’s hear it. What crime have I committed this time?”

A tense silence follows.

Gojo Hiroshi, the eldest of the council, lets out a long, deliberate sigh, his sharp gaze steady beneath thick silver brows. “Your inappropriate conduct has reached our ears again.”

Satoru smirks. “Oh? I’ve got fans? You geezers keeping tabs on me now?”

His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.

“You mustn’t treat this as a joke,” another elder chimes in, voice lined with restrained patience. “Your recklessness is a stain upon our clan’s legacy.”

Satoru scoffs. “Recklessness? I’m pretty sure I’ve saved more lives than any of you sitting here. Y’know, by doing my actual job.”

“The strongest should not act so carelessly,” Hiroshi cuts in. “And yet, all you do is goof off. Throwing yourself around, jumping from woman to woman, acting like some common fool—”

Satoru groans loudly, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “God, is this really about me having a good time? I hate to break it to ya, old man, but I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Maybe if you all had a little fun in your youth, you wouldn’t be so damn uptight.”

The closest elder levels him with a stern glare. “We have tolerated your… indulgences long enough.”

“You speak of a ‘good time’,” another elder continues, fingers steepled together. “But you must consider the future. This—this frivolity—must end.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers lazily against his knee. “Yeah? And just where are ya gettin’ at, gramps?”

Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.

Satoru watches as they silently decide who will be the one to say it. They always do this. Always sit in their stiff little circles, acting like their words carry the weight of gods.

Finally, Hiroshi exhales, slow and measured, before speaking.

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

There it is.

Satoru lets out a slow, exaggerated breath, tilting his head back. “Man… you guys really need a new hobby.”

“We have been patient,” Hiroshi continues, ignoring him. “But the time for childish defiance is over.”

Satoru’s lips twitch. Childish? He could wipe this entire damn room off the map if he wanted. Not that he would, though—he’s mostly reasonable.

An elder shifts slightly, fingers curling over the edge of a plain, unassuming folder resting beneath his palm, and as Satoru’s gaze flicks to it, recognition flares.

Ugh. Not this bullshit again.

This isn’t new. He knows what’s inside. A folder full of names. A folder of candidates—eligible women, bloodlines deemed strong enough, clans deemed worthy. A relic of a past he never fucking asked for.

His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.

“Yeah, so… fuck this. I’m gonna stop ya right there—”

“You will sit down, Satoru.”

The words are sharp. Final. Satoru freezes mid-step, the weight behind them pressing like a blade against his spine.

The fucking audacity. A command? A fucking order?!

Exhaling through his nose, he bites back the burn of frustration clawing up his throat. “Nah,” he mutters, waving a dismissive hand as he turns on his heel. “Fuck off.”

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

Satoru stops.

A slow laugh bubbles up from his chest—sharp, humorless, before turning back to face them. Tilting his head, an icy chill threads his voice.

“Let me get this fucking straight. You dragged me all the way here, wasted my precious time, just to tell me I need to knock someone up? Wow.” He lets out a sharp whistle, slowly clapping his hands together in mock awe. “Out of all of your excuses, this one takes the fucking cake.”

“You fail to take this seriously,” Hiroshi’s voice is quieter than the others, but heavier in its own way. “You never have.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe because I don’t need to. I’m the strongest, remember?”

“And yet,” Hiroshi exhales, “even the strongest will one day fall.”

The words settle in the air like a foregone truth. Satoru doesn’t flinch. But something in his jaw ticks, barely perceptible.

Even the strongest will one day fall.

He hates the way those words burrow under his skin, clawing at something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You refuse to take a wife. You refuse to consider the future,” Hiroshi continues, voice steady. “You’ve left us no choice. And so, we have taken it upon ourselves to make the choice for you. Marriage arrangements are already in place.”

Satoru’s brow furrows—a seething rage building underneath his skin. Pulling down his blindfold in a slow, deliberate movement, he reveals the impossible, piercing blue of his Six Eyes.

“Excuse me?”

The air shifts, thickening under the weight of power, of warning—of a challenge.

For a moment, all he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. And then, just beneath the suffocating weight of his own fury, another voice cuts through.

‘You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?’

A memory. A voice.

Suguru.

The words hit him like a hammer, striking something raw, something he thought he buried a long time ago.

Geto Suguru.

His best friend. His brother. The one person who had ever truly understood him. The only person who could ever match him step for step, thought for thought.

The person he lost. A man who had abandoned all right or reason. Who had turned his back on everything. On Jujutsu High. On their ideals. On him.

And suddenly, the weight of it all presses heavier on Satoru’s shoulders. It feels suffocating. Because for the first time in years, something inside him wavers. And damnit… that pisses him off.

With a sharp step forward, Satoru’s hand snatches the folder from the table in one swift motion, the rustle of paper slicing through the silence like a blade.

The room tenses as he flips it open, eyes scanning the pages, the names, the faces—the future they’ve decided for him.

As he goes through its contents, a folder he’s seen often but never truly looked into, he realizes it’s exactly what he expected—polished profiles, lists of pedigreed women, hand-selected for their bloodlines, their breeding, their usefulness.

Every file reads the same.

Perfect posture. Proper etiquette. Skilled in traditional arts. Fluent in tea ceremonies. Raised to serve, obey, bear children.

Gross.

His brow furrows in irritation as he skims through the neatly cataloged qualities, as if he’s browsing a fucking menu.

Expert in tea ceremonies. Elegant calligraphy. Well-versed in ikebana.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he flips to the next file with a flick of his wrist.

Gentle temperament. Raised to uphold family honor. Culinary excellence.

Jesus.

It’s all the same.

Not a single original thought, not a single fucking thing that isn’t meant to mold them into perfect little wives and mothers.

Satoru’s fingers twitch as disgust curls up his throat.

What? Is he supposed to just pick one, put a ring on her, fuck her like some obligation? Breed an heir with a woman whose only defining trait is knowing how to arrange flowers?

Tch.

He’s already itching to slam the folder shut and walk out of this room, consequences be damned.

But then—he halts. His gaze briefly catching on a familiar face.

You.

A picture clipped neatly to your file, just like all the others, but something about it makes him pause.

He knows you… right?

Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.

Satoru has slept with countless women, but he’s pretty damn sure he’d remember if you were one of them. Plus… you’re a virgin, according to your file, so… that can’t be it.

He scans the page with mild curiosity, barely reading at first—and low and behold, it’s another list of fucking perfect traits designed to impress him.

Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.

Right. Of course. Same as the rest.

But then, his eyes flick lower.

Martial arts.

His brow lifts.

Huh. Now that’s new.

Shifting his weight, his gaze lingers on that one detail.You practice martial arts? Interesting.

The corner of his lips twitch, intrigue curling at the edges of his amusement as he flips through the rest of your file—skimming for anything else that isn’t some prim manufactured selling point.

Not much stands out amongst the crowd, expect that, yeah, you’re hot too. That certainly doesn’t hurt.

If they’re really forcing him to do this shit—if he really has to fuck a woman and produce an heir—he’s at least going to pick someone who can actually hold his attention. Hell, if he has to fuck her, she better be someone who can at least get his dick up.

Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker back up to the elders, their bated breaths held with anticipation.

“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”

A ripple of movement shifts immediately—a murmur of approval.

“But.” His voice cuts through their satisfaction like a knife. “Cancel whatever bullshit arrangement you had planned.” His Six Eyes gleam as his gaze flickers up, sharp, glacial. “If I’m doing this,” he exhales, voice smooth as glass, “I’m doing it my way.”

And with that, he slams the folder down, open with a photo of you.

“I at least want a say in who the fuck I’m picking,” he mutters, voice cool, final. Then, his gaze flickers up. A smirk—sharp and defiant—curls at the corner of his lips. “So… there ya have it. I pick her.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

Satoru watches as the elders’ expressions shift as they take in your photo, their brows knitting together, their lips pressing into thin, disapproving lines. There’s something unspoken between them—hesitation. Uncertainty.

Jesus Christ... what now?

His fingers tap idly against the table, impatience curling at the edges of his composure. Rolling his eyes, he exhales sharply before plopping back down onto the tatami. 

“What?”  his irritation spikes, gaze flickering between the stiff-ass old men. “You gonna tell me she’s not good enough? That her tea ceremony etiquette isn’t up to your impossible fucking standards? She was in your folder!”

Silence.

Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.

“There is… history.” His words are careful, measured. “With her clan.”

Satoru lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Okay… and?”

A flicker of unease passes between the elders.

“Satoru,” another speaks, voice steady, placating. “Clan politics are not so simple—”

He scoffs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You think I give a shit about clan politics?”

More exchanged glances. More unreadable expressions. But Hiroshi remains still.

“It is not just politics…” he finally says, gaze unwavering. “There was a… scandal.”

Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.

God, he fucking hates when people beat around the bush. His patience is wearing thin. He agreed, didn’t he? What the hell more do they want?

“Scandal?” he echoes, voice flat, uninterested. “Oh, let me guess. Daddy lost a business deal? Mommy hosted the wrong kind of dinner party? Spare me.”

A slow breath.

“…her family has been outcasted.”

A pause.

“Disgraced,” another adds. “Stripped of their status. They have nothing. They live in ruin.”

Arching a brow, Satoru lets the silence linger—lets them wait for him to grasp the supposed severity of the situation.

But he doesn’t give a shit about status.

He just wants these crusty old men off his back, and your folder was the least boring in that entire damn stack.

“…and?” his voice is flat. “I fail to see what the fuck any of this has to do with me. She was in your folder. That’s who I pick.”

The tension thickens as the air feels heavier. The elders remain silent, exchanging glances, waiting for him to finally understand—to realize what he’s signing up for.

Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.

“She comes with nothing now, Satoru,” his tone’s heavier now. “She was a suitable candidate… yes. But now? She has no wealth. No influence. Her mother is drowning in debt. If you choose her, you will be marrying into ruin.”

Satoru groans, loudly, dragging a hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired of this conversation. With a sigh, he rises, reaching into his pocket for his blindfold.

“You old geezers really think I give a shit about money?” he mutters, shaking out the fabric before sliding it over his eyes slowly—like he’s already disengaging from the conversation. “God, you’re all so dramatic. I’m loaded. Who fucking cares.”

“Satoru—”

“I said I’d marry. It’s her or nothing,” his voice is final, unwavering.

The folder snaps shut in his hands, the sharp sound slicing through the hushed tension. A flick of his wrist sends it skidding back across the polished table.

“So, there you have it. Call her mother, we’ll draft an arrangement.”

A ripple of unease shifts through the council, their stiff expressions unreadable. Hiroshi’s brow knits. “An arrangement?”

Satoru exhales, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms overhead like this entire conversation has physically exhausted him.

“Yup.” His fingers splay lazily as he waves a hand through the air, tone entirely too casual. “I’ll pay off their debts. In return, she marries me. Win-win. There. Easy.”

Then, that smirk—cocky, taunting—pulls at his lips as he leans back, tipping his chin up in mock amusement.

“Anyways. Good talk.” He pauses. “Sooo… uh. We done?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eat.”

The command is soft but firm, breaking the silence that has stretched too long across the small table before you.

Your mother sits across from you, poised as ever, lifting her chopsticks with careful precision, plucking a small piece of tofu from her bowl. The once-pristine silk of her kimono has dulled with time, its ivory threads faded from wear, from struggle. But she wears it the same way she always has—with quiet dignity, spine straight, hands resting carefully in her lap, an image of control that nothing—not scandal, not exile—has managed to break.

She doesn’t look up as she speaks to you once more.

“You’re staring at your food again.”

You don’t remember the last time dinner felt this quiet.

Well, at least not this kind of quiet. This quiet is… different.

It’s not the quiet like when your father was still here—sitting where your mother is now, tapping idly at his phone, barely listening as you spoke about your day. Not like the quiet nights when he would come home late—smelling of perfume that didn’t belong to your mother.

Not like the quiet night he left—walking out the door, taking everything with him.

A soft clink pulls you back—the sound of your mother setting her chopsticks down with slow, deliberate care. When you lift your eyes, she is already watching you, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“You must eat.”

Picking up the chopsticks, your fingers feel stiff against the smooth wood. The miso soup in front of you has gone lukewarm, its thin broth barely fragrant, stretched with water to make it last longer. A meal meant to sustain, not satisfy.

“I’m… not hungry.”

Your mother doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t frown. She simply takes another bite of her meal, chewing with quiet deliberation before dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“A weakened body leads to a weakened mind,” she murmurs. “You cannot afford to be careless with your health.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but damnit, the urge is there.

Even now, she speaks in lessons, in discipline. As if you still had a name to uphold, a family to represent. As if any of that mattered anymore.

Frustration coils in your stomach, tight and twisting, but you don’t let it show. Because she won’t. She never has.

Not even the night he left.

You still remember it—the way your mother stood there, unmoving, as your father walked out the door. No screaming. No pleading. No chasing after the man who had stolen everything from her, from you.

Just stillness. A quiet that swallowed everything—a quiet that never fucking leaves.

And then, the fallout.

The scandal that burned through the clan like wildfire. The disgrace. The exile. The slow, agonizing unraveling of everything you once knew.

You swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, lifting your chopsticks to take a bite.

Because your mother doesn’t dwell on the past. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

And so, neither do you.

Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.

Your mother stills—her gaze lingering on the telephone for a moment before she moves, rising to her feet with effortless grace, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

As she silently listens to whoever’s on the other line, her shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, but you see it. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curl around the receiver, gripping it just a fraction tighter than necessary.

“I see…”

Another pause.

“Yes. Understood.”

The quiet click of the receiver settling into its cradle echoes through the small room, and you study your mother for a moment as she remains still—motionless.

“…mother?”

When she turns, something flickers in her eyes. Not worry. Not resignation. Something else. Something you haven’t seen in years.

Hope.

“…we have been summoned.”

Smoothing down the fabric of her kimono, she settles back at the table—smiling serenely.

You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

A familiar weight settles over your shoulders as you step past the towering gates of the Gojo estate. It’s been so long since you last walked these halls, and yet you still remember the first time, seven years ago—the grand ceilings stretching impossibly high, the golden glow of lantern light against hand-painted fusuma panels, the hushed murmurs of Kyoto’s elite.

Now, as you pass through the inner courtyard, it is just as intimidating as you remember.

Just as breathtaking.

A servant bows low, silently ushering you toward the tea room, leading both you and your mother in graceful step. As the entrance nears, her voice breaks the silence.

“You will be on your best behavior,” she murmurs, not unkind, but firm.

Right… as if you needed the reminder.

Stepping inside, the tatami mats barely creak under your careful steps, and the scent of incense greets you first—rich, woody, cloying. A low table sits at its center, the lacquered wood polished to perfection, a ceremonial tea set already in place. And across from it, seated with an unmistakable air of ease, is him.

Gojo Satoru.

Even draped in expensive silk—his robes stitched with the distinguished colors of his clan—he carries himself with an irreverence that clashes against the rigid atmosphere of the room. One arm rests against the table, the other draped carelessly over his knee. His blindfold is absent, and for the first time in seven years, you once again meet those impossibly blue eyes head-on.

“Ah, there she is,” he hums, lips curling into a lazy grin. “Thought I was getting stood up.”

Your mother clears her throat pointedly, bowing in greeting. You quickly follow suit, the practiced motion ingrained in you.

“Gojo-sama,” she says smoothly, “it is an honor to be welcomed into your home.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. Big honor. Let’s skip the formalities, huh?”

Seated around the table, the elders watch the exchange in silence, their presence heavy, suffocating. You recognize Gojo Hiroshi among them—his sharp, assessing gaze narrowing on you briefly.

Oh… awkward.

Is he still mad about his seat?

Hiroshi exhales, dragging his gaze to your mother. “We will discuss the terms of the arrangement in the study,” he says, voice calm, measured. “In the meantime, Gojo-sama and his intended should use this opportunity to… familiarize themselves.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Satoru sighs—stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “Right. Tea ceremonies. My favorite.”

Placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, your mother gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder—behave.

And then, with a final bow, she follows the elders as they shuffle toward the adjoining room, their hushed voices retreating beyond the sliding doors. The quiet click of wood sliding echoes in the stillness, leaving just the two of you.

Alone with Gojo Satoru.

A familiar weight settles in your chest, something tight, uncertain. His gaze lingers—not scrutinizing, not cold, but assessing. And God, he’s just as beautiful as you remember him. Too beautiful. The same easy confidence. The same impossibly blue eyes that seem to pierce through everything.

You’ve always held onto that feeling from the first time you met him—what was it, exactly? Admiration?

“Well,” Satoru exhales, stretching his legs slightly beneath the table. “Guess it’s just us now.”

Something about the way he says it makes your tummy clench. Is that the admiration? Fuck, whatever. You know what this meeting is supposed to be. A display of grace, a demonstration of propriety. A wife’s first duty to her husband-to-be.

And so, you inhale, slow and controlled—reaching for the tea set.

“Care for some tea?” you murmur, lifting the delicate porcelain into your fingertips, moving through the familiar, measured motions of ceremony. Of tradition.

Lifting the teapot with both hands, you tilt it just so, allowing the warm liquid to pour in an elegant arc, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The way you were taught. The way it has always been.

Then, with just as much care, you offer it to him, your gaze respectfully lowered.

“Please… enjoy.”

With an unreadable expression, Satoru’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the cup from your hands. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker down at the tea, before taking a slow sip.

There is an unnerving silence.

“Is it… to your liking?”

“Uh…” he shrugs, flashing a boyish grin. “Tastes like tea?”

You blink.

What are you supposed to say to that?

A growing nervousness flutters in your chest. Your mother is depending on you—don’t fuck this up. Nodding, your hands fold neatly in your lap as you recite the lines of tradition.

“It is an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama. May this tea be a reflection of the harmony I hope to uphold in our union.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then—Satoru laughs. Not a small chuckle. Not polite amusement. Full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter.

It startles you, your body tensing at the sound as he sets his cup onto the table and doubles over, catching his breath between chuckles.

You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?

“…did I say something amusing?” you ask carefully.

Satoru waves a hand, shaking his head as he wipes beneath his eyes. “No, no. It’s just… wow. You really went full perfect wife mode, huh?”

Your brows pull together slightly. “Yes… well. It is only proper to conduct myself with—”

“Yeeeah… let’s not,” he waves a hand, leaning forward slightly, arms folding over the table. “You don’t have to do that with me, y’know.”

You hesitate. “Do… what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at you, expression amused but pointed. “The stiff politeness, the whole ‘it is an honor to serve you’ thing. Jeez… feels like I’m at another meeting with the elders.”

You blink, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sleeve. “But… this is a formal arrangement.”

He hums, tapping a long finger against the porcelain cup. “Yeah, but we’re also people… aren’t we?”

His words catch you off guard.

People.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been allowed to simply be that—just a person. Not an heiress, not a proper wife, not a disgraced daughter in need of redemption.

You glance at him, at Gojo Satoru, and suddenly… he doesn’t feel so unreachable.

Oh…

He’s the same as you remember—the man who saved you seven years ago. The one who made defiance look so effortless, so free.

Perhaps… with him, you can breathe. Live freely.

Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.

“…Very well,” you murmur. “Then how would you prefer I speak to you, Gojo-sama?”

Satoru exhales dramatically, tilting his head to the side. “Well for starters, drop the ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Hate that.”

You bite back a smile. “It’s a title of respect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand. “But every time you say it, I feel like I need to go yell at some underlings or something. I’m twenty-five, not fucking ancient.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Alright… what should I call you then?”

He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”

“…mmkay,” you hesitate for a moment. “Satoru, then.”

His smile widens, pleased.

“Perfect.” He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his palm, one long finger tapping against the table. “Now… be honest. You don’t actually like this crap, do you?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely at the tea set, the meticulously arranged porcelain, the lingering scent of incense curling in the air. “All this traditional, stiff-ass, sit-in-silence tea ceremony nonsense.”

Your fingers clench slightly in your lap. “It’s… important.”

Satoru hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. But do you like it?”

You hesitate. It’s a simple question. A stupid one, even. But for some reason, it feels… foreign. Like no one has ever asked before. You should say yes. It would be the correct answer. The proper one.

“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.

Satoru hums again, watching you closely. “That’s not a yes.”

Looking down at the tea in front of you, a quiet weight settles in your chest. Then—he leans back with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, c’mon,” he groans, tilting his head to the side like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “This is boring as hell. You don’t actually wanna sit here drinking tea all day, right?”

You lift a brow. “But… isn’t this what the elders want?”

Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.

“Yeah, and I like pissing them off,” his voice dips slightly as he shifts closer. “So… let’s try something.”

He pats his lap. Once. Twice.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily.

You stare—heat rising up your neck, your fingers gripping the fabric in your lap.

“…what?”

Satoru lifts a brow. “What?” he echoes, with a grin. Then, he pats his thigh again, nonchalant. “You heard me. C’mere. Sit.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Erm… how does… this have anything to do with ditching?”

“Hmm… maybe, it doesn’t.” Satoru shrugs, lips curling at the edges. “Maybe I just wanna see if you’ll do it.”

A pause. Your stomach flips. Your pulse skips. Your brain is screaming at you. This is improper. Completely inappropriate. Unbefitting of a proper woman, much less a bride-to-be.

And yet—

Fuck. He’s watching you with expectation, amusement, curiosity. Because this is Gojo Satoru. The man who has always done whatever the hell he wants—and somehow, that makes you feel like you can too.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you drag in a deep breath, then move—shifting onto your knees and leaning forward. With a quiet exhale, you turn, lowering yourself onto his lap, your back against his chest as your hands rest awkwardly in your lap.

The moment you settle, his arms curl around your waist. The air changes, and your heart flutters.

“…huh,” his voice is closer than expected, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze—when suddenly, the world bends.

Weightlessness seizes you—like free-falling, like slipping through space itself. Your stomach lurches as reality warps around you, fleeting, untethered—until solid ground finds you again.

A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.

Where the hell are you?

Soft lantern light flickers against dark wood and paper screens, casting shifting shadows along the floor. The air is crisp, laced with pine, and beyond the open veranda, a private onsen awaits—its surface steaming beneath the early evening sky, mist curling lazily across the mountain air like silk. The distant hum of cicadas thrums through the silence, the world around you untouched, secluded, still.

Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.

“Ahh, much better…”

Warm fingers thread through your hair. Slow, deliberate—gathering the strands to one side. You feel a brush of lips against your shoulder as he murmurs,

“…don’t you agree?”

Shit. The realization settles over you like heat—you’re still in his lap.

“Wha—” the room is hazy—you’re a bit breathless from the sudden shift in reality, and fuck, it’s mixing dangerously with the heat of his touch as his fingers slowly drag along your waist.

Hesitantly, you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. Blue. Endless. Watching you. You should look away, but you don’t.

“Um…”

“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.

Shifting slightly, you try to will away the heat in your face, slipping away from his chest as you adjust. Your thighs drape over his lap now, half-facing him. And fuck—was that a mistake?

Because now, he’s all you can see.

Snowy white hair, framing a face too perfect to be real—his mouth curving into a lazy grin that makes your tummy clench in a way you’re entirely unfamiliar with.

“Where… are we?” you manage.

Satoru hums, shifting beneath you—his fingers dancing over the silk of your obi. “Oh… y’know,” his hand drags higher, resting just below the curve of your breast. “Just somewhere no one will bother us…”

As your dizzy mind tries to recalibrate from teleporting, you blink, finally processing the position you’re in. Or rather, the position he’s in—lounging on a shikifuton.

His fingers twirl the tie of your obi, and you tense, suddenly incredibly nervous.

“G-Gojo…”

He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”

“Um…” his other hand begins to slide higher up your thigh. “S-Satoru,” you amend, barely above a whisper.

A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”

Oh. You’re fucked. A shudder rolls through you.

“This place… um…” you try to distract yourself with words. Because what the fuck are you supposed to do when he’s touching you like this?! “Its… not the estate, is it?”

“Nah,” he murmurs lazily. “One of my private villas.I’ve got property all over Japan, sweetheart. Figured I’d take you somewhere more… comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?

And shit. Just what is this heat coiling at the base of your stomach? It’s dizzying. You need to move—need space, need air. But as you shift, attempting to slip from his lap, his grip tightens.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, hands steadying you with effortless strength. “Easy there, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stammers, and for a second, you forget to breathe.

“I—I just need to—”

“Stay put.” His fingers flex against your waist. Firm. Unyielding. “We just teleported. Move too fast, and you’ll tip over.”

As your lips begin to part—a protest forming—a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. Your breath hitches as the edges of your vision blur for a fraction of a second, and you sway, balance slipping.

“Ohp. There it is.”

Satoru moves before you can even react.

One hand slips behind your back, the other finding your hand as he gently lays you back against the futon. The silk of your kimono pools around you as his palm slides back to the curve of your waist.

And suddenly, he’s everywhere.

Leaning over you, elbow propped up—half above, half beside you. A frame too broad, his snowy-white hair falling forward just slightly, strands ghosting against your forehead.

The air shifts.

Those impossibly blue eyes drink you in, framed by thick lashes that soften the sharp cut of his jaw. “Still dizzy?” he murmurs teasingly.

Inhaling shakily, your eyes flutter shut for just a second, searching for something steady, something solid. But there’s only him—his presence, his warmth, the scent of him—clean, crisp, intoxicating.

Yup. You’re fucked.

“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.

Because it’s not the teleporting that’s making your head spin anymore.

Satoru hums, knowing.

“Since we’re to be wed…” his fingers resettle just below your breast, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you deserve a sample, don’t you?”

Huh?

You should say something. Anything. Your lips part instinctively, but before you can form a thought, before hesitation can settle in—Satoru is leaning in and your brain is short circuiting.

His hand lifts, cupping your cheek as he tilts your chin just so, and with a tenderness, his lips brush against yours in a soft, lingering press.

It’s like a dream. Gojo Satoru—the man you’ve admired, so sweet, so charming, so free—kissing you? Is this real life?

When he pulls back, he studies your expression, a smug grin dragging up his lips.

“What? You want more?” his lips brush against yours, and you barely process it when he mutters, “…wanna ruin you…” kissing you again.

This time, his lips are moving—slow, languid, like he’s introducing himself to you in a way words never could, coaxing you into the unfamiliar rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He guides. Mapping out your hesitation, your breath, the way your body tenses before melting beneath him.

Is your heart going to beat out of your chest? It feels like it. Just as you ease into his movements, his tongue flicks against the seam of your lower lip—soft, teasing.

“C’mon…” he quietly demands, tongue tracing your lips again, “open up f’me…”

And God, you do. Because he feels too good not to.

“Atta girl…” he hums, tongue slipping past your lips with ease. And now, that slow, lazy exploration turns headier, more consuming, more demanding. Groaning quietly, he’s pulling you in, guiding you. Leading. Teaching.

Oh.

That heat in your tummy… it’s spreading down between your legs now. You’re simmering with an inexplainable heat, and you instinctively clutch his robes, whining involuntarily as he kisses you stupid.

He’s grinning smugly against your lips, your sound fueling him as he devours you more. As your lips crash, you feel him shift, his fingers tugging at your kimono—toying with the delicate knot of your obi.

Wait.

You freeze.

Oh god.

Are you about to lose your virginity to the man you are to marry—before your wedding night?

Noticing you tense, Satoru’s smirk gentles and his movements slow. His lips taper, trailing down your jaw with tender pecks.

“Heh… relax, sweetheart…” he purrs against your skin, caressing your body. “In case you’re wondering, ’m not taking that tonight.”

Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.

Are… you relieved? Fuck… do you want him to fuck you? He’s making your head spin, and with him, tradition feels unnecessary.

 “Oh… I-I just…” you swallow. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He raises a brow, a slow smirk pulling up his lips. “Yeah? Then I can show you, baby.” His lips graze the curve of your throat, fingers still teasing at your obi. “But I need to hear it from you first.”

You blink up at him, heat pooling between your legs at the look in his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, consuming.

“What do you want? Gonna let me play with what’s mine?”

Your heart stammers. Fuck, you should hesitate. This is entirely unbefitting of a proper lady. It’s against everything you were raised to be. But the moment his teeth graze your jaw, fuck it, you’re already nodding.

“…yes, please.”

Satoru hums. “Good girl.”

And then, with a deft tug, your kimono slips open as he pulls it apart—the cool air kissing your skin just before he does, lips trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your breast.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty… look at these tits…” His tongue flicks against your nipple, and you whine, “S-Satoru—ahhh…” shuddering as his mouth wraps around it, swirling his tongue as he sucks the peak.

Smirking, he releases your nipple with a wet pop. “Bet you’re not as prim and proper as you look…” he muses, lips dragging lower, nipping at the sensitive dip of your waist. “Bet there’s a filthy little thing hiding under all this tradition…”

His palms descend, smoothing over your thighs, coaxing them apart with ease, but you tense just a bit.

His gaze lifts, ice-blue and smoldering. “Nervous, sweetheart?” he teases, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs sweeping slow, lazy circles—soothing, patient. But there’s a tension in him, the way his breath deepens, the way his hands flex like he’s holding back.

Your lashes flutter. “I… I just… I dunno how to, I—”

“Shhh,” he coos, smirking, “relax f’me, yeah?”

You give him a little nod as your thighs part further beneath the coaxing of his hands, and fuck, fuck, the sight of you like this—open, pliant, so soft and untouched—has his cock aching.

His breath shudders, fingers dragging up your inner thigh. “Mmm… I can already tell—you’re gonna be a dream wrapped around my cock.” A choked whine escapes you, body shivering, and his smirk deepens. “Ohhh, you like that?” he chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the silk of your kimono, spreading it further open. “Like hearing how bad I wanna fuck you?”

And fuck, does he want to fuck you. The restraint it takes to not flip you over and rut into your cunt is damn near unbearable.

It’s been days since Satoru’s had someone in his bed—days of listening to those stiff-ass elders drone on about duty, responsibility, marriage. Fucking is his stress relief. His role—this position as clanhead, as the strongest. God, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit but it’s exhausting. So, he fucks who he wants, when he wants. And now? Now he’s got you beneath him, trembling and breathless, your kimono slipping from your shoulders like a perfectly wrapped gift waiting to be undone.

It’s almost enough to make him say fuck it and take you right now.

Almost.

But he’s not completely selfish—knows you’re untouched, knows he’d probably wreck you if he took you raw the way he wants to. And as much as he loves breaking pretty little things, he’s gotta prepare you. Prepare you for the worst. Because Satoru? He doesn’t make love, he fucks.

“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"

“I gotchu sweetheart,” he drawls, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton panties. “Gonna take my time. Let’s see how filthy my pretty little wife can get f’me, hm?”

You whimper as his middle finger circles the entrance of your slick cunt, teasing, testing, before pressing in an inch, feeling a small taste of your tight heat wrapped around him.

“Mnnh…” your voice wavers as your fingers grip his robes. “S-Satoru.” He groans, dragging his fingers through your slick, spreading it, making sure you feel every stroke. “Shit, baby…” his voice dips, husky, teasing. “Already soaked, hm? Just from me kissing you? Heh… see.” A wicked grin curls against your neck and you’re whining as he parts your folds, circling against your wet heat. “Knew it. You’re a naughty girl. Feels good huh?”

You nod, head tipping back as your cunt drips on the futon, hips shifting toward him.

“I-I… haaa…” you look up at him with pleading eyes as the tip of his finger sinks inside your tiny hole, then retreating just as quickly, playing with you. He groans, “God I’m gonna fucking ruin you… lemme feel how tight this little pussy is f’me…” and then he pushes his finger in fully, sinking knuckle-deep in your entrance.

“Ahhh!” you gasp, body shuddering, face burying into his neck as your cunt clenches him greedily. “Ohhh, shit,” he groans through his teeth because fuck—your tiny pussy’s already swallowing his finger like you don’t wanna let go. Satoru’s cock is twitching painfully in his hakama, leaking, straining against the fabric. He can’t wait to split you open on his thick throbbing dick.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” he coos, lips brushing against your ear. “Nice and easy, baby.” He’s moving now, curling his finger against that tender spot, and you gasp “S-Satoru…” burying further into his neck as you soak his hand, clutching his kimono as you whine, “nngh… s’too much…”

“Aww… s’okay…” he’s pressing wet open-mouthed kisses along your throat, finger slowly fucking into you, “Shit… this is only one finger sweetheart. Poor thing. M’gonna have to stretch you real good, huh?” he pumps through every word. “And you’ll take all of me, wont’cha? Take me like a good girl?”

Your lashes flutter. It’s overwhelming, but god, you love it. Stretching your hot little cunt with his long finger, the way his pretty blue eyes watch you, the way his voice drips into your ears, coaxing you further under. “I-I… nnngh…” your needy pussy’s gushing all over his knuckles, “Satoruuu…” you whimper, squirming slightly, unsure what you’re asking for.

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.

“Faster?” he croons, nipping at your earlobe, pumping you fast, and fuck, your eyes roll back. The sounds of your sopping slick mix with the hum of cicadas. “That’s it… m’gonna teach you. Show my perfect little slut of a wife how to take cock, how to be a good girl for her husband.”

He curls his finger further, sliding against your tight wet walls. “S-Satoru—ahhh…”

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, cock angry in his pants as he pumps you stupid. “Shit, you’re so wet… feel that?” his free hand splays over your stomach, feeling your tiny hole flutter around him. “Ah, fuck… you’re gonna feel so tight around my dick… can’t wait to fuckin’ pound this needy pussy.”

Your breath is stuttering as he’s stretching you faster, making your cunt drool all over him, pretty blue eyes watching you through fluttering white lashes.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby…” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep, velvety. “Hope you’re ready, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, be my little obedient, sexy toy for me to use whenever I want. Yeah?”

Your body moves on its own and you arch further into him, desperate for more of his ministrations.

“…satoru,” you pant, and his cock leaps in his pants the moment you ask, “m-more… please?”

“Shit…” he groans, slipping another finger into your sopping cunt. “Knew you’re not as innocent as you look. Gonna pump you so fucking full, paint your insides white with my hot, thick cum,” he pants, finger fucking you faster. “This want you wanted needy girl?”

“Mhmm…” you nod, eyes squeezed shut, legs squeezing around him, a whimper spilling for your lips. “Ohh, fuck yes…” he growls, licking into your mouth.

Fuck, Satoru’s cock is throbbing so much is hurts now.

The thought of fucking you raw? Of splitting you open on his cock, ruining that untouched little cunt, making you stretch around him, crying, gasping, begging? Fuck—he could cum in his pants just thinking about it.

Because that is something he doesn’t do with other women. He’s always careful. Always keeps things clean, simple. Never finishes inside—ensuring there’s something between him and whatever meaningless distraction is spread out beneath him. Because at the end of the day, Gojo Satoru has a lot of meaningless distractions, and none of them are worth that kind of indulgence.

But you? Breeding you? Filling your tiny little hole, stuffing you full, making you drip with his cum until you’re leaking, messy, begging for more? Fuck, that’s more than a perk—that’s a goddamn plus.

A plus that, at least in marrying you, he’ll have someone to fuck whenever he wants. Satoru always gets what he wants. And he loves to fuck.

That’s all this is. That’s all you’ll be. A perfect little wife, ready to spread your legs and take him like you were made for it. Why? Because Satoru hates being tied down. But if the elders want an heir?

Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.

“O-Oh… ohmygod…” you’re whimpering now, nails digging into his shoulders as he’s scissoring your dripping pussy, stretching you wider. “Ahhh!” The moment his thumb finds your clit, your body jolts, and he chuckles. “Mmm… there it is…” he’s rubbing slow circles against your swollen bud, pumping your cunt as your whimper and writhe. “That’s what I wanna see… let it take you… let it break you, baby.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—eyes hooded, lips parted, white hair falling over his gaze. Fuck, he looks ruined just watching you come apart. You’re gasping, chest rising and falling, and he smirks. “S’too much,” you whine, voice trembling, “too much, Satoru… I… ahhh!”

Leaning in, his lips brush against yours. “C’mon sweet thing,” he rasps, “Cum f’me. Lemme see how pretty you look when you fall apart…”

And fuck, you do.

Your pussy clenches, tightening around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snaps, sending pleasure crashing through you.

A choked cry slips from your lips as your body shudders violently, legs squeezing around his wrist, cunt gushing down his knuckles. He groans, feeling every pulse of your release, the hot slick dripping down his hand as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, watching you unravel beneath him. His lips curl, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s it, baby… look at you, makin’ such a mess on my fingers.” His thrusts slow, easing you down from your high, his free hand stroking up your trembling thigh as you’re panting, gripping the sleeve of his kimono as you look up at him with dewy eyes.

“Mmm… such a good girl f’me,” he murmurs.

Your lashes flutter, hazy and weak, as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your spent, fluttering hole. You whimper, body jerking slightly at the sensitivity, and a thin, glistening string of arousal connects his fingers to your soaked entrance before it snaps, slick dripping down your thighs.

Satoru hums. “Well, well…” he’s lifting his hand to the lantern light, watching you glisten on his fingers. “You really did make such a mess, sweetheart…”

Your dazed gaze meets his just as his tongue slips between his fingers, sucking them clean. “Mmm…” he groans, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back before pulling them out with a wet pop. “Can’t wait to devour your cunt properly… bury my face between those pretty thighs n’ make you cum on my tongue while I feed you my dick…”

You’re fucking speechless, barely processing his filthy words before he’s shifting, his free hand dipping beneath the folds of his hakama. Blinking, dazed, you look down and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He’s pulling himself free, that thick flushed cock springing up—flushed, red, and glistening with precum. It throbs, slapping against his abs, needy and aching. You look at Satoru’s blue eyes and they’re watching you, amusement tugging at his lips.

Gripping the base, he gives it a slow stroke. “Mhn… see what you do to me?” he smears his arousal lazily over the swollen head, exhaling. “Ahhh… look how fuckin’ hard I am just from playing with your pretty cunt…”

Swallowing, your thighs press together, heat blooming in your tummy. Each pump of his cock is hypnotic, deliberate—like he has all the time in the world.

You can’t take your eyes off it.

Fuck

His fingers were already enough to drive you insane, but that? How—how the hell are you supposed to fit that inside your pussy?

Satoru catches the way you bite your lip, the flicker of uncertainty in your gaze.

He smirks, tilting his head. “C’mere,” and he’s reaching for your hand, bringing it toward him. “Wanna play with it?”

Your fingers twitch. “But, Satoru—”

“Shhh,” his thumb brushes soothing circles across your wrist. “Told you, ‘m gonna teach you.” Lifting your hand, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm—soft, sweet. “You’re gonna be my wife, baby… that means learning how to handle my cock, too.”

“Oh…” your lashers flutter, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Okay.”

For a fleeting second, the moment feels… almost tender.

But it shatters as he’s spitting directly into your palm—hot, slick, filthy.

“Gotta get it niiiice and wet…” he mutters, guiding your drenched hand to his throbbing dick, smearing the sticky substance around his shaft. “Grip it like this… kay?”

“Okay…” your murmur, thumb brushing against a thick vein. And god, it’s hot—hotter than you expect—twitching in your grip, heavy and pulsing beneath your tiny fingers.

“Mm, good girl,” he exhales, watching you through lidded eyes. “Start slow, yeah? Let me feel you.” He moves your hand beneath his, setting a pace, slow and teasing. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, lashes fluttering as his head tips back. “Fuuuuck… yeah… that’s it, jus’ like that, baby…”

Biting your lip, you look up at his filthy expression. “Like…this?” you experiment, squeezing a little harder, gripping his dick with more purpose. His cock twitches violently and his lips part. “Fuuuuck…” he grunts, grip tightening on your wrist, “y-yeah… that’s it—shit—keep going, just like that.”

God, the way he looks right now has you dizzy—lidded eyes, jaw slack, breath coming short and heavy. He’s falling apart from your touch alone—like there’s a power to it. That realization makes you bolder, your strokes growing more confident.

And fuck, he seems to like that.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” his cock’s jerking in your grip as he pulls back completely, pretty blue eyes flicking form your hand to your face, smirk turning pure filth. “God, look at you… pretty little wife, strokin’ my cock so fuckin’ well. Maybe I oughta let you do this every night, huh? Put those soft little hands to good use.”

The slick, obscene sounds of your hand working over his cock fills the space as he leans back, shamelessly reveling in it, hips twitching into your grasp.

“Nnngh… keep strokin’ me just like that…” his lips hover a breath away from yours, panting, desperate. You squeeze a little harder, rolling your wrist, and his brows furrow, a sharp hiss escaping him. “Shit—” his head lolls back, voice wrecked, “fuck, you’re such a quick learner… bet you’d let me fuck that tight little throat next, wouldn’t you?”

You cunt is throbbing at his words, slick pooling in your panties. God, how are you supposed to answer him? He’s filthy. But you love it. Your thighs squeeze together, and Satoru sees the way you shift—his grin stretching, wicked.

“Betcha like strokin’ me.” His voice is rough, thick with need, fingers threading into your hair. “Betcha like feelin’ my cock throb in your hand, huh?”

Biting your lip, you squeeze his dick harder. “Y-Yeah…” your cheeks burn at your own filthy admission, and his smirk is vicious, pure sin. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it.” He groans, cock twitching in your palm as his flushed tip drools all over your tiny hands. “Naughty little thing… keep that up, n’ m’gonna cum all over these pretty fingers…”

You swipe your thumb over the tip, rolling the head as you murmur “what if… I want that?” and as the words slip out, Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown wide, something feral in those cerulean depths.

“Oh?” His grip in your hair tightens, a sharp, desperate inhale through clenched teeth. “Say that again.”

You breathe slowly, smearing his drooling dick, and Satoru’s cock leaks more, jerking violently the moment you mutter, “I… I wanna see you cum.”

With a primal growl, he snaps—lunging forward, lips crashing against yours, messy, consuming. Breathless, desperate, your strokes turn frenzied as he’s groaning into your mouth, his hand groping your tit, his cock jolting in your palm, pulsing vigorously.

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged, needy. “Faster—m’fuckin’ close—fuck, baby, don’t stop—”

You obey, jerking him quicker, harder, your palm slick and messy with his slick. The lewd, obscene sounds spilling from his lips are shameless, his hips jerking up, chasing the friction.

It’s invigorating, and so—fuck it.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, part your lips—and spit. A long, slick stream dripping down, coating his thick cock, gliding over your fingers as you pump him faster.

Satoru chokes on a breath.

“Shit. Shit. Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, head tipping back, throat bared, veins straining. “Goddamn…” his voice cracks, laughter breaking through. “Look at that. Gonna turn you into the perfect little slut f’me, aren’t I?”

Your hand is a blur now—stroking, twisting, rolling over the ridge of his cock, milking him as he gasps, shuddering, hands roaming over your tits, groping, squeezing.

“G-Gonna cum all over you,” he groans, voice unraveling, grip tightening as his thumb flicks your nipple. “Wanna see it? Fuck—my cum dripping down your hand—” A ragged whine catches in his throat. “Or maybe—m-maybe your tits? Haaa… s-shit… yeah.”

Suddenly, his hand shoves you down, pinning you against the futon as he straddles you, knees pressing against your sides. Your eyes widen as his cock hovers above you, dripping, leaking, his grip tight around the base as he strokes himself furiously.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” The wet faps of his fist grow louder, his panting wrecked, desperate. “Gonna fuckin’—haaaa—s-shit, take my cum!”

And then, he’s spurting his thick gooey seed all over you, spilling rope after rope of that sticky white essence, shooting it from the ridge of his pulsing dick as it erupts is messy arcs. It's warm and wet, his body lingering above you, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants as he wrings every last drop.

Groaning, his head lolls, lazily pumping the last few spurts, blue eyes dropping to the mess he’s made of you—cum dripping down your tits, pooling in the dip of your stomach.

“Fuck…” he exhales, thumb grazing your bottom lip before tilting your chin up. “Just look at you. Drenched in me.”

You blink, dazed, body still humming, skin sticky and dewy with sweat and cum. Satoru watches you for a moment, then huffs a lazy chuckle, shifting off you. You barely register the way he reaches for something beside the futon, only catching the warm press of a damp cloth against your skin a second later.

Lying there, breathless, he carelessly wipes his release off you. He’s not gentle, not exactly, but he’s careful—moving with the ease of someone who’s done this plenty of times before. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside, stretches his arms over his head, and flops onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

There’s a beat of silence as you both exhale. The weight of what the fuck just happened, settling in your chest. Then, his smirk returns as he tilts his head at you.

“Welp,” he sits up, rolling a shoulder, cracking his neck, as if already moving past the moment. “S’pose we oughta head back, huh?”

Your stomach knots. “Oh… um. B-Back?” Because how the fuck are you supposed to sit in front of the elders, in front of your mother, after this? After he’s just—after this?

Satoru snorts, already adjusting himself, tucking his cock back into his hakama like none of this just happened. “Yeah.” He grins, fixing the folds of his robes. “I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?”

O-Oh? Your breath stutters. You swallow.

He smirks, glancing over at you, a few stray drops of his cum still drying on your skin. “Besides… can’t have ‘em thinking I already knocked you up before the wedding.”

The implication is clear. The possessiveness is clear. But the affection? That’s missing. It’s like… he’s already moved on, like this was nothing more than a way to pass the time.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t love you.

He owns you.

And as he extends his hand to you, waiting for you to take it so he can pull you up, there’s… no warmth in his touch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, blue eyes gleaming—calm, unreadable, detached. “Time to go home.”

Home.

But, it’s not a home—it’s a throne. And not yours to claim, only yours to be kept in.

a/n. hiiii welcome to the debut of this fic! i had to set a lot up here before we dive into the angst and the smutfest that's to come. ngl, this is a bit out of my comfort zone bc as a demisexual i crave emotional connection with sex. like, i'm really gonna want satoru to hold me after he fucks me stupid 🥲 but ALAS. this fic is not that (at least... not yet. give satoru some time, soon he's gonna be whipped for readers coochie, hehe 🤭) anyways, tysm for reading. would love to hear your thoughts 🫶🏻 like i said, this is going to be multiple parts. no clue how many just yet tho!

taglist pt 1:

@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji

@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincesss @7haze

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @strychnynegirl

[danicareadssmut]

[danicareadssmut]

I wrote a contemporary romance about a Marine fighter pilot that's so Caleb-coded, I'm afraid of people figuring it out and roasting me for it 😆

[danicareadssmut]

The words they're afraid of.

(Read on our blog.)

The recently appointed Department of Defense head Pete Hegseth (formerly Fox News pundit, perpetually soused creepy uncle, and current group chat leaker of classified intel) banned images of the Enola Gay from the Pentagon’s website for the offense of “DEI” language. In keeping with the far right’s stated war on anything vaguely resembling diversity, equity and inclusion, even historical photos are up for cancellation. When a literal weapon of mass destruction is censored for being a bit fruity under the Trump administration’s war against inconvenient truths, what exactly is left untouched?

This is clown show stuff, but the stakes are far from funny. While some might be hesitant to compare the current administration to the very worst history has to offer, we can at least all agree that they are dyed-in-the-wool grammar Nazis. Policing language has been the objective of the MAGA culture war long before Project 2025’s debut—the wave of book bans orchestrated by astroturf movements like Moms for Liberty, and Florida’s 2022 Don’t Say Gay bill have already had a profound effect in the arena of free speech and freedom of expression (despite the far right’s long tradition of doublespeak performative free-speech martyrdom to the contrary). Don’t Say Gay ostensibly targeted K-3 education, but LGBT+ content at all levels of education (and beyond) was either quietly censored or entirely preempted in practice. The results were not just a war on so-called ideology, or words alone—but on reality and essential freedoms.

Now, words as innocuous and important as racism, climate change, hate speech, prejudice, mental health, and inequality are targeted as subversive. Entire concepts are being vanished from government institutions, scrubbed not only from descriptions but from metadata, search indexes, and archival frameworks.

If you don’t name a thing, does it exist?

These words are as numerous as they are generic: women, race, Black, immigrants, multicultural, gender, injustice. But what is painfully unserious is also particularly dangerous in its real-world consequences. The process of controlling words is a well-worn authoritarian tendency. Fifty-two universities are now under investigation as part of the President's effort to curb “woke” research and thought crimes. Institutions are being coerced to comply with a nebulous set of ideological demands, or face budgetary annihilation. That means cutting funding for entire departments, slashing financial aid, defunding scientific grants, and pressuring faculty to self-censor.

The possibilities for censorship extend far and wide—interfering, by extension, in everything from reproductive healthcare programs, to libraries and museums. The Trump administration’s proposed budget slashing all federal funding for libraries, including the Institute of Museum and Library Services, will effectively gut an infrastructure that supports over 100,000 libraries and museums across the country—community centers, educational lifelines, internet access points, and archives of marginalized histories (starting with the Smithsonian Institution).

When you erase access, you erase participation. And when you erase participation, you erase people, and the means by which future generations might even learn they existed. A culture that cannot remember is a culture that cannot resist.

The erasure is, yet again, unsurprisingly targeted at minorities and LGBT+ people. The National Parks Service quietly revised the Stonewall Monument��s website to remove references to transgender people—a fundamental part of the original protests. Not an oversight, not a mistake, but a deliberate excision—one point in a wider plan of erasure depicted in stark detail in Project 2025, a blueprint to dismantle civil rights, defund LGBT+-related healthcare, and rewrite history from the ground up.

Dehumanization by deletion—welcome to the reactionary resurgence of doubleplusungood governance. In Trumpland, words are weapons—but not in the way they intend. Their fear of language betrays its power; that’s why they’re trying so hard to police it.

Words hurt them.

Hurt them back.

- the Ellipsus Team

[danicareadssmut]

Preliminary thoughts as I watch Fallen Cosmos:

1. "Destructio" and "Construo" - Destruction and Creation - Alpha and Omega

THEY ARE BOTH GODS TRAPPED IN MORTAL BODIES

[danicareadssmut]

Restraining him with his own evol

Caleb’s a renowned bully in the bedroom. Using his evol to carry out his freaky fantasies is not new for him. Turns out though, resonating in bed grants MC the ability to use Caleb’s evol by proxy. With the tables turned, she’s got all night to make it even.  Cw: smut (MDNI!), inappropriate use of evol (my favourite tag), power play, switch!CalebMC, overstimulation, handjob, panty sniffer!Caleb is back but MC induces it, gagging him with her panties, exploration of MC’s evol, fluff, guys don’t run when I say it’s 10k…

“Fuck, stop rushing in like that!” 

Breathless, she falls to her knees as Caleb fends off the wanderer’s ranged attack. The debris stops mid-air around them, suspended by his evol, before flying back at the monster. It’s launched back by the sheer force of Caleb’s attack, crying out as its body hits the wall. He holds out a hand to her but she only looks at him dazed. She’s starting to see double. 

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue in exasperation, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. “Baby, focus.”

She wipes the sweat off her brow, shaking his arm off and taking a defensive stand. 

“Yeah.” 

Here they are, standing in the arena lit up in blazing glory. Thousands of lights adorn the marble walls, the heat glaring on the back of her neck. She’s dragged him to Deepspace Trials before, but they’ve been going at it for nearly five hours. She sucks in a breath, fiddling with the firearm between her shaking fingers. She can feel it. Through the rampant raging of her heart she can feel that peculiar buzz in her stomach as she stands beside Caleb. Feel the tremor in her smile as she feels the surge of energy ignite through her veins. Caleb looks at her knowingly, nodding his head towards to the left. They run together, charging towards the group of wanderers baring their teeth at them.

“Okay, now!”

She can’t fight the smile as a golden glow surrounds her. She feels the swell of her heart as her body lifts into the air. Her every sense, every fibre of her being is being consumed whole by him. Like her soul is in an intricate dance, swirling together as she feels his energy intertwine with hers. She’s resonating so powerfully with him, rays of canary yellow blooming from her hands and into the ruthless bullets she’s firing. For the brief few seconds she’s in the air she has a taste of his evol. And it sets fire to every nerve in her body. She feels his power and energy encircle her completely, invading her mind and surging through every nook and cranny. For those few seconds, she feels him at his most raw. 

But it’s over so soon.

They hit the ground together, guns still aimed at the now weakened wanderers. Their shields have all but been annihilated. And every new bullet into them has them wailing out as they curl into themselves. When the fatal bullet hits them, their exteriors crumble and only protocores are left behind. 

She lets out a shaky sigh, hanging low and resting on her hands on her knees. Caleb’s chest is heaving beside her and he throws his guns back into their holsters. She goes to collect the protocores, tossing them up in her hand. 

She turns to him, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I wanna go again.”

He throws his head back. “I thought we were going to be relaxing on my time off, but all you wanna do is train.” He runs his hand through his hair before taking the protocores from her and walking towards the administration shute. “No good sparring partners at the association, pipsqueak?”

“Something like that.” She brings up the arena’s electronic screen, scanning her ID and initialising a new stage. 

The screen fills with a list of options, from wanderer type to environment selection. Scrolling absentmindedly, she clicks on ‘tundra’ and requests for a few low-threat wanderers to be simulated. It doesn’t matter what she picks. As long as she gets to resonate with him. Gets to lay in that bath of energy and weightlessness that is otherwise intangible. 

“Okay, you ready?”

He hums in affirmation, but his body is sagged. “This is the last trial for today, you hear me? After this we’re going home.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The lights dim, encasing them in a murky darkness. She feels the vents above them whirl to life and the ground rumble. There’s a sudden breeze and it makes her lock her arms together, rubbing them for warmth. When the lights blaze back to life, the ground beneath them is uneven. Littered with rocks and boulders the size of her own body if she was curled up. The marble walls have all but disappeared, instead simulating the expanse of a frigid tundra. Artificial wind almost knocks her off her feet, but Caleb catches her in time.

“Out of all the biomes, you had to pick the one where we’re gonna freeze to death before we see a wanderer?” He pinches the bridge of his nose before wrapping his frozen fingers around his guns. She can’t even tremble out an apology before five wanderers spawn in front of them. 

But all that anxiety and dread is quickly smothered as she feels that familiar buzz in her stomach. 

“Let’s break their shields first,” she says, a little too excitedly. He cocks a brow but nods nonetheless. 

“Yeah, okay. Lead the way.” She signals him to go left while she takes the right, encircling the crowd of monsters. Twirling the guns in her hands, she leaps up onto a boulder and calls out to him.

“Can you get me to higher ground? We’ll cast a net.” She gestures a circle motion around the wanderers and he nods. Then she feels her body lift on its own. She swallows. It almost feels like Caleb himself is lifting her in his hands, supporting her in his warm embrace. She’s launched high above the wanderers. She feels him use his evol to force the wanderers closer together, caging them in an invisible dome. Its effects are amplified through her resonance.

Once again, she feels his energy surge through her. It’s so addicting, so utterly overwhelming and insatiable. Her brows furrow, almost too exhausted to take it in fully. Her mind is running on dregs, and so is his. She can feel it in the way his evol slips sometimes, like if she moves too much she’ll fall. And in the way the wanderers are able to push against their cage. She can feel the dome walls almost crack at the seams, slide away and reveal an opening for the monsters to escape with. 

She grits her teeth, straining her arms out as she focuses her own energy on the fragile dome. And for a second, just a split second, she assumes control. Feels the power shift over to her as she harnesses his evol entirely. Then the dome breaks and she’s sent plummeting to the floor. 

Her mind falters as she yelps. Now, she’s seeing triple. She can barely stand up and the wanderers are charging at her. This snaps Caleb almost completely out of his exhaustion, and he throws out a hand, slamming the wanderers into the ground. It’s like his evol has returned to its full strength. Ferocious and unyielding. He lifts her to her feet and drapes her arm over his shoulders. 

“Are you okay?” His eyes are rounded and his pupils are blown as he scans her body. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I lost focus for a second.”

Her breaths are slow and heavy, but she turns her head to meet his gaze. Her brows furrow. Had he really not felt her presence, her energy in him? Fair enough, it had only been for a split second, but was he really that unfocused that he hadn’t noticed her take control? Like she had spun the wheel from under his nose. She clenched her eyes. Maybe it was her that was overthinking. Had she really felt it? No, there was no doubt in her mind. She had harnessed his evol in that instant. 

Caleb slams a closed fist in the air, recalling the electronic screen. He jabs at it shakily to halt the simulation and the wanderers glitch out of existence. The whirring of the aircon halts, and instead, warmth floods the room. The arena returns to its default set up and the lights at the entrance go green. 

An electronic voice sounds over the room. “Deepspace Trial Exited. Practice makes perfect.”

When they get home, Caleb insists she go shower while he busies himself in the kitchen. It’s a feat in itself that she manages to come back in one piece having maneuvered with half shut eyes. Caleb’s got his back to her while he hunches over a cutting board, his biceps flexing with each slice. He’s got two pots over the stove, the overhead lights illuminating the subtle accumulation of sweat on his skin. As she pauses at the door, she cocks her head to the side, watching him intently. His sleeves are loosely rolled up his forearm, and the fabric is sliding down with each thrust of his hand wielding the knife. She watches as the rolled fabric pushes itself back up to his elbow, then as the lid of the steamer beside him hovers into the air. A rush of steam engulfs the stove before the lid is placed back down. She chews on her lip for a second before moving towards him.  

“Need any help?”

She leans against the counter, peering up at him with a smile. He shoots one back at her, the rhythmic chopping of the knife unfaltering. 

“That was quick. Are you sure you washed properly?” 

She rolls her eyes, not answering him. Instead, she takes his sleeve in her hands and methodically rolls the fabric over itself into neat rectangles. Once the sleeve is tightly over his elbow, she lets her fingers trace over his arm before dropping down. He’s looking at her downcast gaze, hidden beneath her eyelashes. When she moves around him to do the other sleeve, his chopping ceases abruptly. Her chin is almost resting against his bicep as she works on the sleeve. She can feel his warm breath on the shell of her ear; it’s easy, almost natural even, for her to sync her own breathing to his. 

In her determination to roll his sleeves, a strand of hair falls across her eyes. Her irritation is fleeting though, as she feels it lift carefully from her face and hook behind her ear. She looks up to find him staring down at her. And she feels that all too familiar stir in her stomach.

Her brows furrow slightly as she leans into the sensation. The use of his evol so tenderly, so gently to lift her lock of hair triggers a spike in the surrounding energy fluctuations. She’s always able to feel it; sense that low, subtle buzz whenever he manipulates gravity around her. Feel the murmur of energy as it warbles and tingles against her flesh. But now, it’s louder, heavier on her senses, amplified by her sudden interest in it. 

And once again, it ends all too quickly. The buzzing stops and her hair is secured around her ear. He cocks a brow at her before resuming his hand on the knife. 

“You can help me by doing the eggs.”

Pulled out of her thoughts, she picks up one of the eggs on the bench and cracks it into a bowl.

“What are you making?”

“Steamed salmon and eggs. One of your favourites, remember?”

She whisks the eggs with the chopsticks absentmindedly. “I haven’t eaten it in so long. I remember Gran forcing you to make it at least once a fortnight.”

“Oh, she was so keen on omega-3,” Caleb laughs. He unwraps the salmon from the deli paper and smooths his hand over the orange flesh. Her stirring slows as she watches him. The way his fingers push into it before he tweezes out the bones. His gaze flickers to hers and he smiles. “Well, why didn’t you try making it? No one makes it better than me, huh?” He nudges her playfully.

“Yeah, okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Think what you want. I just don’t like descaling the salmon and picking out the bones.”

“Mhm.” 

“I’m done with the eggs. Move over.” She brushes past him, swiping up an empty cup and opening the lid of the steamer.

“Careful! It’s hot.”

The lid pulls away from her gasp, hovering in the air and blocking the steam from hitting her face. Then she feels the cup unwind from her grasp. She watches as it scoops up the boiling water and pours it into her egg bowl.

Her hands lower to her sides. “I could’ve done that myself.” Not looking at him, she returns to her side of the counter and mixes the water into the egg. It froths up, threatening to spill over the sides. 

“Why won’t you let me do nice things for you?” He pouts. She doesn’t answer at first, eyes trained on the task at hand. When her hands grow tired of whisking she leaves to open the pantry door, grabbing out a few seasonings. As she settles them on the counter carefully she notices his eyes fixed on her and looks away. 

“How’d you…” She starts before falling back into silence. Words play at the tip of her tongue awkwardly. Fiddling with the seasonings, she arranges them into a neat line then shuffles them until they’re not. Then she cranes her neck to look up at him, lips parted. “I mean, is it easy to do these types of things with your evol? It looks so natural when you use it.”

Caleb blinks. “My evol?” His confusion dissolves into laughter. “You mean the thing I’ve had twenty-five years to hone and master?”

She looks down at her open palms, stretching her fingers as far as they would go. Her evol is powerful, undoubtedly. But it’s so intangible. Hidden in a way that demands she rely on other evolvers. 

She remembers when she first learnt the classing of her evol: anhausen. A force to resonate with and propel others. 

“Everything in this world has a unique, unmatchable frequency. That’s why each life is isolated.

But your Evol allows you to change your frequency. You can resonate with others.

If you open your heart, you can establish a connection.”

Caleb puts down the tweezers and wraps his hand around hers, pulling it against his chest. 

“Your evol is so special. I mean, who’s saved me a bunch of times during orbit trials?” He nudges her again and she shakes her head with a smile. “Maybe we don’t understand it fully right now. If you’re worried about it, don’t be. There are things my evol can’t do.” He gestures down to his hand still prodding at the fish. “I can’t debone salmon with it.” His words coax a laugh out of her and she nods in acknowledgement. 

“Yeah, I know.” She pulls her hands out of his grasp and holds her index fingers out in front of her like a conductor. There’s no point dwelling on what she can’t figure out right now. “Then why don’t you share your evol with me? Let me feel what it’s like to be you.”

“Oh, I see.” The corners of his eyes crinkle up as he laughs. “And what are you planning to do with this new evol of yours?”

She hums for a second, chewing on her lip. “I think the eggs need some white pepper.” She twirls her finger in the air and the white pepper floats into the air, maneuvering gently over the bowl. 

“And how much are you gonna put in?”

“Just a bit!” She moves her finger in a tapping motion, like patting the bottom of the container to release the seasoning. With each movement, the pepper shakes until her finger stops. 

“Wow, you already have such precise control. You’re so skilled and talented-”

“Okay, shut up. Next is a bit of chicken powder.” She does the same movement, shaking in about two teaspoons of it before setting it down. Her eyes crinkle proudly as she moves her finger in a circle motion. The chopsticks lift into the air and begin whisking the mixture together. Once it’s done, she moves both her hands in a scooping motion and the entire bowl rises. She gives an approving nod, giggling. 

“Ready to steam,” she says. Again, she moves around Caleb and watches as the steamer’s lid and the egg bowl engage in an intricate dance within the air. Despite the theatrics, the egg doesn’t splash up the sides. 

At the end of their dance, the bowl lowers into the steamer and the lid is placed back on top. When she looks back, the salmon is already placed neatly in a dish, submerged in sauce. Last she had seen, the salmon was still being deboned and the sauce hadn’t been made yet. She looks up at him with a frown and they stare at each other in silence. 

“...”

“Wow, how did the salmon get there? I didn’t know you could multitask-”

“Oh my God.” 

Infuriating, she almost mumbles under her breath. 

“It’s okay, baby. We’ve still got the ginger and scallions to put on top as well.” He gives her a guilty smile before gesturing to the cut vegetables. She remembers how decorative Caleb used to be when plating up dishes. Be it intricate floral garnishes or complex layering, his food was always so beautiful to look at. 

She taps at her chin. Maybe an alternating pattern of ginger slices and slivered scallions will look nice. And she wonders how well Caleb will be able to follow along. Lifting a finger, she points vaguely at the sliced vegetables and points to the salmon. A slice of ginger floats over and rests on the fish. 

“You know, this kind of reminds me of ratatouille.”

Caleb laughs. “Awh, come on.” As she gestures for another piece, both piles rise and hover over the dish. She throws her fingers out dramatically as the vegetables scatter over the dish. With each addition, her brow creases and her lips curl up. It’s no pattern, that’s for sure. But she sees the beginning of letters being spelled. 

‘I…’

‘L…O…V…E’

Her eyes crinkle. Then as the last slices of vegetable fall into their designated space, so scoffs.

‘CALEB’

She shakes her head. “No no no, I think my evol is waning.” 

Caleb flicks her forehead. “No, I don’t think so, pips. If I hadn’t just witnessed it, I’d say you were confessing to me through your evol.”

God, she has to find a way to shut this man up. She hooks her arm around his neck, pulling him down against her before pressing her lips against his.

“You’re such an idiot,” she mumbles against him, a smile breaking loose on both of their lips. He maneuvers her with his elbows, pressing her gently against the sink as he washes his hands behind her. All the while, her lips are fervent against his, hands cupping his jaw as he leans roughly into her. He fumbles for the towel, throwing it messily between his hands. Once his hands are dry, they come to rest firmly on her waist, smoothing down the fabric of her camisole. He’s the first to break the kiss, coming up for air with open-mouthed pants. Her own lips are pink and swollen, glistening with a thin sheen of saliva. She swallows slowly as she looks up at him, taking him in. He’s so close to her. So large compared to her frame, caging her against the counter. 

“Are you still interested in my evol?” His lips ghost her jaw but his eyes are fixed on the strap of her camisole. She can feel his breath against her lips. Slow with each inhale and exhale. Then she feels that buzz that she’s grown to know all too well. Feels the hum of its frequency push and pull her with its melodic familiarity. His evol pulls the strap of her top down to her arm.

“Still interested in the things I can do?” He leans down and kisses the flesh, tracing his way to the loose strap. As her hands come to tug at the collar of his shirt they’re suddenly seized mid-air, constrained and forced behind her back.

“Caleb…” Her voice is shrill and airy. Slowly, she feels its force tilt her jaw up. Her eyes are wide, rounded at the corners. 

“Don’t move. Or are you also interested in testing the limits of this evol?” Despite his warning she writhes in its hold. But it’s like trying to swim through quick sand. The pressure against her arms is firm; not painful, but unmistakably profound and unyielding.

She shakes her head. “But I wanna touch you.” At that he feigns a pout, leaving small kisses down the juncture of her neck. 

“Go on, touch me then,” he teases, brows knitted as he laughs at her. “Try.”

She struggles in her binds, wanting so desperately to lean into his touch. She can wiggle her fingers, but there’s no getting out of her constraints. 

“Looks like you’re losing control of your evol. Not so clever after all, are you?”

She grits her teeth, using her limited mobility to rub her legs together. The glare on her face is piercing and he almost doubles over in laughter when his gaze returns to her. 

“Baby, what is it?”

She huffs. “I’m thinking about how I’d use my evol to smack you across the face. Have you on the ground in two seconds flat-” Suddenly her head is wrenched back, his evol tugging roughly on her hair. The thin skin of her neck lays completely exposed to him, throbbing with each shallow breath. Her words are all but seized from her, mouth running dry in shock. 

“You’re so bold for someone that’s completely in my care.”

Her eyes strain to meet his in her position, and she debates whether or not offering a smile will appease him.

“I thought you said you wanted to do nice things for me.” His laugh is gentle compared to the cruelty of his evol. 

“Baby, I am being nice.” Tracing the edge of her jaw, he closes in on her, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. Taking another step closer, he presses his thigh against her core, towering over her and indulging in all the little gasps he manages to draw out of her. He takes on a rhythmic motion, rocking into her. 

“Caleb, I swear…” He shushes her, biting at the shell of her ear. She shivers into his touch. Once he was over his little bit, she was going to show him. Get him down on his knees and repenting for the way he was using his evol against her like this.

He whispers into her ear. “Baby, I’m so pent up. You had me working like a dog today. Don’t I get some sort of reward?”

She doesn’t say anything. Can’t even move her head to the side and bite at his smug smile. “Hmm?” he presses, angling his face down at her. He thumbs at her bottom lip, dragging the flesh down slightly and letting it spring back in place. 

“Had me fighting in a goddamn tundra.” The glint in eyes is cruel as his lips curl. “Had me put on a show for dinner…”

“Surely your evol is depleted by now, with the way you’re complaining, wouldn’t you think?” she bites back. Her body is arched painfully further, elbows suspended above the counter. The edge of the granite digs into her hip bones. A whimper escapes her lips, and her eyes shake as he leans down over her. His face is so close to hers, his breath hot against her cheek. 

She feels that familiar ache at her core. A terrible mix of want and excitement as she submerges herself in the frequency of his evol. The gentle drumming of energy pulses holding her captive, entangling itself fully against her own dwindling power. She’s depleted from training. Yet, he’s still got energy to spare. 

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, almost biting into her cheek.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to stop.” She mirrors his sick smirk, almost baring her teeth at him. “You say you deserve a reward. Come take it.”

She watches as his eyes almost haze. He doesn’t say anything as he steps away from her before gripping her upper arm tightly.

A sudden pit opens in her stomach and she feels the surge in energy around her first before he spins her roughly and forces her against the counter again. The frenzied spikes of energy fluctuations engulf her senses, and she almost moans, letting herself drown in the overwhelming pressure. This feels intangible. Like she’s living in his evol whilst simultaneously being puppeteered by it. She whines as her shorts are pulled off her, the hem of her shirt riding up over the curve of her breasts.

She feels him grope her ass as he presses his weight against her. She almost falls on her face against the granite before being supported by his evol. Her hands are still tightly bound behind her back. 

Caleb presses two fingers against her panty-clad cunt, stroking over the wet fabric before pushing it in slowly. 

“Look at that, don’t even need to prep you.”

She pants, unable to writhe against the sensation. “Keep teasing me and find out what happens.”

Cocking his head, he laughs down at her rigid form. He retreacts his fingers briefly, only to pull the fabric and let it snap back harshly against her cunt. And she jolts with what limited mobility she’s afforded. 

“Go on,” he whispers. Then he slaps her ass harshly, the echo resounding throughout the kitchen. Heat burns at her cheek as she hangs her head low, almost wanting to press her forehead against the cool counter, but his evol doesn’t allow it. Pulling her panties to the side, he rubs the head of his cock against her swollen cunt, collecting the sticky leakage and smoothing it over his length. She hears him groan before returning to his slow, laboured pants. “I’m waiting.”

“That makes two of us,” she forces out, suppressing even the notion of a moan through clenched teeth.

“Oh you don’t know when to stop, do you?” Gripping his cock and bracing her ass with the other, he pushes in, filling her roughly. She can’t even lurch forward. Can only gape as a broken whine spills past her lips. His thrusts are initially shallow, hand smoothing over the small of her back as he waits for her to settle into the feeling.

“Caleb,” she moans. She wiggles her fingers at him, desperately pleading for him to hold her hand. And she hears him laugh at her softly, before he intertwines their fingers. 

“You okay, baby?”

She nods, eyes clenched shut as she focuses on drawing in air. “I’m okay. You can go faster.”

She feels him lean down against her, moulding his body over hers. The shift in position causes him to bottom out, kissing her cervix. Her walls are fluttering around his cock, spasming and contracting with each shaky breath. She feels so fucking full. Consumed entirely by his body and evol. 

He kisses the curl of her ear. “Okay, baby.”

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust knocking her into the invisible boundary of his evol. Fuck, she’s going delirious, letting her mind be swallowed by his scent. His thrusts are so rough as he moans into her ear, hands slipping from their grip at her waist. They wander over her stomach, latching onto every curve, kneading the flesh roughly as he ruts into her. Finally, they settle on her breasts, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck, Caleb!” She gasps out. Her chest is a flushed rose, sweat glistening as her body is drilled past exhaustion. Whatever energy she regained from her shower is long gone. 

His other hand is still tightly locked with hers, her own knuckles bruising her back. It’s almost laughable how quickly her mind dissolves into nothing. He’s barely settled on a steady rhythm and she’s already fucked dumb. 

She arches her back into him, moaning out his name.

“Please, please,” she whines, laboured breaths echoing out against the counter. “I’m so tired.”

“You’re tired? Baby, I’m doing all the work.”

She rolls her eyes, squeezing his hand in retaliation. He responds with a murmur of ‘ouch, baby’ before returning to his ministrations concerning the aching throb of his cock being still for too long. 

“Come on, baby. Push back into me.”

“Mmm, can’t,” she whines, slumping forward as far as she was allowed. 

“You can’t?” he echoes. “Are you asking for my help?” He doesn’t give her the chance to answer before a force yanks at her hips, reeling her body back to meet his thrusts. 

“Mmph! Oh my fucking God.” Her mouth is agape as her body is maneuvered so indecently. The slap of her ass meeting his pelvis casts a hue of red over her cheeks. He’s pushing so relentlessly into her, fucking her so brazenly in their kitchen. 

He releases his hold on her hand, no longer binding her wrists to her back. Once she feels the pressure alleviate, they scramble out in front of her, bracing against the counter.  

“Where are you trying to go?”

She shakes her head through her moans, fingers gripping uselessly at the flat counter. She can’t stop her hips, can’t pull away from his demanding thrusts. And each breach of his cock is pushing her closer, and closer to the edge. 

“Fuck, Caleb, it’s too much.” She thinks about potentially coming all over the kitchen floor. How she knows that when she releases, it’s going to be messy. Feels in the angle that he’s bruising her walls that she’s going to fucking squirt. The tips of her ears are hot ember.

Suddenly her hair curls around a bodiless force before being yanked. Her head is jerked back until her nape rests against his shoulder. He’s breathing down over her cheek, groaning so fucking nastily into the air above her as he works his cock into her. She can feel how sticky her cunt is, how each time his hips leave hers, strings of their mixed precum strains between them. Can hear the foul squelch of his cock fucking her sloppy cunt. All of this, combined with the pleasurable pressure of his evol restraining her body. Its energy so fucking insatiable that she can’t think of a better use for it other than keeping her still while he uses her. 

“Mmph, fuck fuck fuck.” She clenches so tightly around him that he lurches forward, crushing her with his weight. His cock slams against her cervix and she falls apart. She feels her warm release gush out of her cunt, the sheer force of her orgasm pushing his cock out. 

“Fuck, you’re so messy, baby.” Yet he only drives his cock back into her, the sudden halt of pressure and friction threatening to knock him out. “Come on, just a little more.” 

The steamers cry out beside them, whistling as a stream of steam shoots towards the extractor. It’s like a sharp hook back to reality, clearing the fog from out of her mind. 

“Caleb, you’re gonna over steam the eggs. You know I hate when they get all rubbery.”

“You’re worried about the eggs?”

Fucking her into overstimulation, he makes her watch as bowls and plates swirl and woosh before her. The lids of the steamers rise, unveiling the salmon and egg and engulfing them in its rich scent. The cutlery draw  opens beside them and spoons and chopsticks follow each other out. All the while, his hips are still pushing into her spasming cunt. But he’s wearing a smile, laughing through his guttural moans as he feels the pressure almost consume him. There’s something about using his evol on so many things at once that awakens something in both of their stomachs. 

“Baby, fuck.” 

Her body is mush as she feels him slow, returning to shallow thrusts as his come spills into her. 

She lets him ride it out. Meanwhile, the dishes plate themselves beautifully in front of them. 

“Okay, okay. Stop showing off. Fuuck.” She rolls over on the counter, splaying out against the cool surface. Her cunt is throbbing, legs wobbly as she tries to hold herself up. Caleb is bent over her, eyes crinkled up in his laughter. Their breaths mingle at their proximity before he presses a fervent kiss along her jaw. 

Then all at once, she’s no longer suspended by that delicious pressure. He’s holding her up in his warm, shaky hands, all signs of his evol finally put to rest. 

“I’m sorry, baby. Are you okay?”

She grips onto his shoulder for leverage, planting a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I am so getting you back for that.”

He scoffs. “You enjoyed that, no?”

She drags their plates towards them, deciding it’s best to eat while it’s hot and fresh. Even if they’re both covered in sweat and cum. 

“Doesn’t matter if I enjoyed it. I’m pretty sure there are rules against such unlawful use of one’s evol.” Before he can argue, she presses a spoonful of rice, salmon, and egg at his lips and he accepts. She watches him chew and swallow.

“Rate my cooking?”

Now he can scoff at her. “Ten out of ten, baby.”

The rest of the night continues with playful bickering as they clean each other up and settle in bed. Once they hit the mattress, it’s lights out almost immediately. But not before she conjures something diabolical in her mind. A sinister plan for the day to come, using all that she’s learnt from today. 

Come morning, she’s up before Caleb. Stretching out with the night’s rejuvenation of her body. 

“Come on, baby, time for our morning run,” she says, as he’s spooning his breakfast into his mouth. He quirks a brow at her.

“You’re gonna join me?” She almost fails to hide her grimace before nodding. 

“Of course.”

She did not join him for his run. In fact, she only walked, cheering him on as he lapped her for the fifth time.

“Baby, think you can do a few Deepspace Trials with me? I’ve got a room booked. You know how fast they fill up.”

He doesn’t hesitate, wiping the sweat off his brow and taking the ice-cold water bottle she had so graciously filled up for him.

“You wanna go again? You’re determined.” Yeah, about that.

When they find themselves outside the familiar arena, she lays her hunter firearms down in the weaponry room, before perusing the shelves. He watches her, cocking his head to the side as her fingers brush along a peculiar weapon. 

“You’re going to use a sniper?”

She looks back at him, shrugging. “Yeah. I’m not great at ranged attacks. It’s important that I’m versatile when it comes to weapons.” Convincing, enough. 

“...Okay.” He pauses for a second, twirling his own firearms in his hands.Then he parts his lips.  “Well, why don’t we go to a shooting range? That’d be better if you wanna improve your aim.”

She shakes her head, giving a curt, “no.” She picks up the sniper and balances it in her hands. It weighs a fucking tonne. “In real situations, wanderers aren’t going to be standing perfectly still for me.” She watches as his face scrunches up slightly before he gives in.

“Yeah, okay.”

As they make their way into the arena, the operating screen flies down towards her. She scans her ID and it beeps with approval. 

“Welcome back!” Its robotic voice sounds out. “Please select your desired training conditions.”

She barely looks at the icons that she’s pressing, scrolling right to the end and selecting whichever SSR, boss-class, level eighty-five wanderer comes up first. The one she selects is classified as a ‘knave’, using melee as its primary type of attack. It also wields an axe the size of its body. She almost snorts at the cruelty of her impending plan. This wanderer is better known as ‘beyblade’ at the Hunters Association, with the way it frequently uses an uninterruptible, spinning attack to defeat Hunters. Pain in her ass. But good for the situation, she justified. 

Scrolling down to the environment section, she holds back another laugh as her fingers travel to a very specific biome: Tundra. 

Set weather conditions to extreme, check. 

She glances at Caleb, thankful he was too busy admiring the interior of the arena. 

“Warning! Your chosen weapon of…sniper…is not recommended gi-” She shushes the robotic warning, closing it and sending the screen away. Yeah, no shit.

The lights dim and the familiar drone of the vents start to burr to life. 

“Ready?” Caleb probes in the darkness.

“Always,” she answers back.

When the lights come on again, the ground is an uneven mess of coarse rock and snow. The vents mimic the sound of harsh winds, and she feels their effect immediately as goosebumps rise along her arms. The arena is boundless. A cold, dry, and deathly expanse of nothingness. 

“Did you pick a fucking tundra again?!”

Then the wanderer spawns, its axe soaring far above its head as it hovers in the air.

“And you picked that fucking wanderer?!”

Not even she has time to laugh in the given situation, immediately turning on her heel. She sees a rise in the terrain, and gestures to it. 

“I’m gonna go for higher ground.” Hiking her sniper up on her shoulder, she runs. It’s only been a few seconds but she’s already out of breath. The air is so cold and dry; her chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. Throwing her equipment down, she tries to steady the sniper on the coarse dirt. She squints as she peers into the scope, moving her rifle until it aligns with the wanderer. She repositions. Then repositions again, trying to find any weak points in the monster’s hardened exterior. Any cracks within its armour.

“Got a clear shot?” Caleb’s voice echoes out, amplified by her Hunter’s watch. Leaning her head away from the scope, she watches as he runs around the wanderer, intermittently suspending himself in the air as he fires round after round. She can see his hot breath puff out against the cold, but he doesn’t seem deterred, pressing on. 

Looking back through the scope, she positions the rifle before pulling the trigger. She hits it square in the shoulder, knocking it back a step. It’s not super effective, but it gives Caleb the upper hand with his next attack. 

They continue like this: her staying calm and firing strategic shots while Caleb tires himself at the front line. Almost there, she thinks. That humming in her stomach when she’s close to resonating, so tantalising as it flares at the corners and sets her nerves alight. When the last barrier of the wanderer’s protocore shield is broken, she hikes the rifle back over her shoulder before sliding down the terrain to Caleb’s level. He looks over his shoulder at her, understanding instantly what’s to come. They nod at each other.

Golden rays wrap around her like silk, emerging from her palms and chest. She feels his evol simmer and crackle around her before lifting them both in the air, launching them to spiral around each other in an intricate dance that she so loves. She takes a deep breath, opening her heart entirely to the sensation. His evol is so much weaker than it was yesterday, thanks to her tiring him out. There would have been no way she’d be able to even think of manipulating it if he was at full power. In the darkness of her clenched eyes, she can almost see the energy fluctuations of his evol mixing with her. A vibrant blue, grey, and orange bleeding into her gold hues. Then, as she shifts her arms, she sees the hues bend to her will and she surges higher into the air. 

“Watch out!”

Caleb’s voice rips her from the void, forcing her back into her body. She cries out. No! But there’s no time to scream, because the wanderer’s axe is coming straight for her. She rotates the sniper over her shoulder, slinging it around and aiming the barrel in front of her. There’s no time to look into the scope, the shot’s going to make it anyway. She pulls the trigger and the recoil sends her flying back. Caleb’s evol cushions the blow, letting her drift slowly to the ground.

“Dammit!” she curses, almost throwing the rifle to the side. She was so close, so close to wielding his evol. Really understanding the ripples and spikes in its energy waves and manipulating it. 

“Again,” she mutters, wiping the sweat off her upper lip.

“Are you crazy?!” Caleb screams. He takes a moment while the wanderer is down to stalk towards her. “What’s up with you today? You’re being so reckless. Choosing an unsuitable weapon--which,” he points his finger at her, “you can’t even use.”

She scoffs but he doesn’t let her interrupt.

“Choosing an SSR class wanderer. And setting the biome to the fucking tundra!” She only glares back at him, swinging her rifle back into position. The wanderer’s protocore shields are recovering slowly. They have to defeat it now.

“Come on. You can whinge afterwards. We have to go again. I have a good feeling.” Caleb rolls his eyes but follows her nonetheless, closing in on the weakened wanderer. 

“Oh, you have a good feeling,” he mocks. “Well that changes everything.”

She can still feel the hum of her resonance inside her. It hasn’t dissipated yet. She gives him a nod and he concedes. While they have their fair share of bickering, at least this is one thing that they have a mutual understanding for. They are never more powerful than when they’re together. 

This time, when she’s lifted into the air, her mind immediately sees the energy fluctuations. She splays her hands out over them, feels the way they burn at her hand like live wires. Her brows furrow intently. She can do this. Feel it on the edge of her fingertips. Then, with a decisive blow, she manipulates the strings of their combined energy, feels it wrap around her wrists like a shackle. Was this the weight he bore? 

Caleb immediately meets her eyes, bewildered as he feels his power shift to her. It is inexplicable and daunting. 

Pushing her arms out around her, she surges through the sky, rings of blue and gold and orange supporting her flight. She’s harnessing his evol, amplifying it to terriying heights as she manipulates the environment around them. She hovers her hands over the wanderer and a crushing weight flattens it into the ground, sending clouds of smoke and rubble up around them. Caleb is on the floor, arm over his face as waves away the smoke. She frowns. He can’t fly? Taking control of his energy has nullified his?

She casts her hand again towards him, and pulls him into the air beside her. He looks unsteady. Almost like her when she was lifted for the first time. Is this really happening?

“Woah…” He breathes out shakily, arms out carefully to balance himself. “...What are you trying to do?” He looks so vulnerable. So small and scared, wrapped in an evol that he has no control over.

She doesn’t know what to say, looking down at her open palms. Before she can reply, the robotic voice sounds out over the arena.

“Deepspace Trial completed. Congratulations.”

She looks up. Then below them at the fading tundra. As she slowly lowers them to the ground, her lips curl up into a smile. Caleb’s pupils are still blown as he stares at her, arms still out like he might topple over.

“That was unbelievable.” Her hands are shaking as she stares down at them. “I wanna go again.”

Caleb’s quick to interject. “Nahhh. I think you’ve had enough training for today.” He pats her shoulder gently before bringing her into a hesitant hug. 

The drive home is mostly silent. Caleb’s at a loss for words and she’s still too shocked to know what to make of it. When they get home, it’s her who insists he be the one to shower first. She had to nearly run into the ground before she was able to manipulate his evol like that. 

Once she’s out of the shower, she drops her knees against the bed. Caleb’s sitting up against the headboard, staring into space. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. When he notices her, he parts his lips, then shuts them again. She can sense his unease, furrowing her brows at him. 

“How did you…” he begins. He looks down at his open palms in his lap. “I mean…”

She pushes his hands away, crawling on the mattress and swinging her legs over his so that she’s sitting on his lap. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you during training.” She feels the guilt seep into her chest at his low expression. It was always him protecting her. But this is something new entirely. She brushes her fingers along his cheek reassuringly. “It’s like you said yesterday. There’s still a lot about my evol that we don’t understand.”

He looks up at her, shaking his head. “Yeah. No, I’m sorry. I should be celebrating you. I just can’t help feeling like…”

Craning her neck, she leans down and kisses him, the impending words dissipating from his mind. He kisses her back, hands smoothing over her thighs. 

“Fuck,” he groans, clenching his eyes shut.

She leans back. “Are you too tired? We don’t have to-”

“I’m not tired.” He pulls her back in for a kiss. “Never too tired for this.” His lips work wonders against hers, trailing down to leave wet kisses over her neck. She moans into him, writhing closer so that she’s sitting over his cock. Her hands massage their way to his scalp, pulling at his hair gently. He groans before it dissolves into laughter.

“I can’t believe you’ve still got the energy. Last night wasn’t enough for you?” She jerks back, out of his hold, to send him a scowl. He ‘tch’s, pulling her back down into his embrace and kissing her nose. “Don’t scowl, baby.”

His hands mould against her hips, sliding up under the hem of her shirt. They’re warm against her and she melts into him. 

“There, baby, you look so much better when you’re smiling at me.” She rolls her eyes, leaning into touch as his hands follow the curvature of her breasts.

“I’m not smiling at you,” she mumbles. She braces a hand against his waist as he begins to knead the flesh gently, rubbing his thumb over her nipple and letting it wobble back in place. Her hips begin to grind down against him, small rocks back and forth as their breaths mingle together. His eyes are half lidded as they bore in hers. 

“Caleb,” she sighs, breaths becoming laboured. He lifts her shirt up, pulling over her head and discarding it on the floor. His lips press against the swell of her breast. Then she inhales sharply as she feels the gentle clasp of his teeth against her. All the while, his hands return to her waist, guiding her against him faster.

“Yeah, keep going, baby.”

She leans down towards him, playing with his hair to keep herself grounded. 

“Hah, feels good.” She whimpers softly.

He grins up at her, that smug smile making its way across his lip.

“Want me to fuck you dumb again, yeah?” He bites into her harshly. “Have me running around all day, but you fold when my dick’s involved.” She audibly gasps, wriggling to get out of his iron hold to no avail. Even with one hand, his grip is unyielding, forcing her to continue grinding her swollen cunt against him. 

“Mmph, don’t,” she warns.

“Don’t what?” He bites down again at her breast before swirling his hot tongue over the wound. He bucks up into her roughly and she jolts, hands slamming on the headboard for balance. “Don’t bite you?” He licks another stripe over her breast. “Or are you telling me if we keep going you’re going to cum in your pants?”

Heat burns at her cheeks and she forcibly closes her eyes.

“Caleb, I swear…”

His arms wrap around her waist and she feels his weight shift before he rolls over, caging her beneath him. He towers over her menacingly, knees coming up to press at her core. Her legs are splayed wide open.

“Baby, you gotta finish your sentences. I can’t think for the both of us.”

Her brows crease, the heat on her cheeks turning into anger. Before he can pin her wrists against the pillow, she grabs his arm and pulls it against her chest.

“What are you doing?” he asks, amused. 

“Don’t you think you’re being too callous?” Despite her words, she wears a smile. And he only mirrors her expression. She can feel his energy sputtering, loose ends of anger flaring and threatening to set ablaze. He’s been like this ever since training, when she took his evol. Had him wobbling around like child in his own evol. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be teasing me right now.”

His smile breaks as laughter erupts on his face. Mean, mocking laughter as his eyes rake over her vulnerable state. 

“Then tell me what position I should be in, sweetheart. The way I see it, you’re lying there, soiling your panties, waiting for me to touch you-”

She doesn’t let him finish. Tightening her grip on his wrist, she resonates, engulfing them in a sea of golden flames. The flash only lasts for a second before he’s lurched forward, forced to slam his palm against the mattress and brace himself. She watches as shock creeps into his eyes, and try as he might to hide it, the tremor in his lips is undeniable. She lets go of his wrist, instead flicking her hand and flipping him over on his back. 

“Baby…” there’s a gentle shake to his voice. She ignores it, swinging her legs back over him and easing herself down over his crotch. 

His own evol, taken from him, pins his hips down. Restrains him as she grinds harshly on his cock. He chokes out a moan, pupils blown.

“Baby, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She quips. In the next second, his wrists are pinned on either side of his head. She uses the opportunity to drag her palms over his chest, chewing on her lips with the way her finger mould to every curve and divot of his muscles. She stays there, mesmerised. He never usually lets her admire him for this long. It’s always him worshipping her body. Him giving her attention. Swirling her finger around his nipple, she gives it a gentle pinch before grinning down at him. He’s not smiling anymore. 

“Oh, are you waiting for me to touch you?” Her gaze falls down to his cock and she pulls at the waistband of his pants. As she begins tugging the fabric down, she gives him a sneer. “You know, you give me so much shit when you’re teasing me. For what it’s worth, I better not find you fully hard under here.”

He groans at her touch, fighting against the invisible pressure holding him down to no avail.

His cock springs up and hits his stomach. It’s an angry red, throbbing, and leaking pre-cum down to its hilt. She scoffs.

“Fucking pervert.” 

She leans down over him, taking his cock into her hand and he groans. He wants so desperately to buck up into her but he can’t.

“Okay, baby, I get it.”

She peers at him as her mouth hovers over his tip. Pursing her lips, she spits onto it and lets it dribble down until its caught by her hand. He rolls his eyes back at the sight, fighting through clenched teeth. 

“What’s there to get?”

“Awh fuck, baby. I get it. I won’t tease you anymore. I’ll be nice. Just, please…”

She feels something sinister bubble in her stomach when she hears him say the word ‘please’. But she doesn’t shy away from it. Stroking her hand along his cock slowly, she narrows her eyes.

“Say that again.”

He blinks at her through his convulsions. “I won’t tease you--”

“Not that,” she interrupts him, squeezing his cock. He groans, throwing his head further back into the pillows. “That last part. I want to hear it again.”

“Please,” he says. Bingo. He grits his teeth, forcing the words out. “Please, please, please.”

She increases her pace, wrapping a second hand around it. Her thumb teases his tip, ghosting the slit with the gentlest of pressures. She cocks her head to the side as she watches him twitch and moan. Caleb sucks in a deep breath.

“Baby, please. I’ve agreed to not tease you. You won’t so much as afford me the same courtesy?”

She stops at that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she’s being too cruel. Or not. 

She rises to her knees, tugging her shorts down until she’s only in her panties. His gaze follows her every move, and despite him being restrained, she doesn’t feel all that safe under his scrutiny. 

“Are you enjoying this?” she probes, throwing her arms out. She watches amused as the comforter pulls out from beneath him and folds itself neatly before settling to the side. Then as an extra pillow wriggles its way beneath his head. 

His lips are curled up into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What do you wanna hear, baby?”

She frowns at that. “You’re ruining my fun.”

She brings over a third pillow resting on a chair, slamming her palms together. The cushion contorts before its contents explode, sending a thousand feathers into the air. She laughs whole heartedly, eyes crinkling at the corners. But the feathers don’t drift towards the ground. They dance and twirl in her delight, encasing them in a dream-like scene. His gaze never leaves her, and he can no longer fight the smile tugging at his lips. Because she looks so beautiful like this. 

When she finally lets the feathers fall to the floor she looks down at her panty-clad body. The force of his evol pulling it down at her own will feels almost ticklish. She giggles, kicking her legs as she feels the fabric pull off her and dangle in front of them. When she returns over him, she thumbs at his bottom lip, pulling the flesh down gently.

“Open.”

His breath hitches as he looks between her and the panties. “Baby, don’t you think you’re having too much fun?”

She ignores him. “Wider.” They stare at each other for a few seconds. He can feel heat churn at the pit of his stomach, and he’s afraid to indulge it. “Come on,” she probes.

He swallows before opening his mouth fully, tilting his head back. The panties push into his mouth, and he trembles. 

“Good job, baby.” 

Swinging her leg back over him, she aligns his cock with her swollen cunt. She drags the tip along her sex, letting the sticky fluids collect and drip down the sides of him before prodding closer. She sinks down only a little at first, fucking herself shallowly. Then as her walls loosen, she sits down on him completely. He lurches forward, moaning into her panties. 

“Mmm,” he groans.

She can barely keep her composure as she begins to lift herself on top of him, taking his cock deep and slow. Letting her warm cunt swallow him with each messy and wet thrust. 

She settles between bouncing shyly on his throbbing cock and rocking gently against him. Let it nudge and prod at her most sensitive parts. Taking it entirely at her own pace. Bumping her clit against him with each slam back down onto him. 

As he looks up at her his eyes roll to the back of his head. He just wants to grab her. Reclaim his evol and show her truly what the bounds of his evol are. He lets out a grumble, his string of words jumbling into a muffled mess.

“What was that?”

He rolls his eyes, not bothering to try and speak again. But his head is yanked back suddenly, his evol tugging at his hair.

“Don’t roll your eyes.” She pulls the panties from his mouth and he sputters. “Now, what was that?”

“Baby, when I get my fucking hands on you--mmph!” 

She shoves the fabric back in. “You wanna try that again?” He’s quick to nod, breathing heavily through his nose. She waits a second before pulling the fabric out again.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’re--MMPH!” 

She shakes her head dismissively, letting out a sigh. 

“You know, I’m getting a bit tired.” she brushes the hair out of her eyes before tapping at her chin exaggeratedly. “What was that thing you made me do yesterday?”

Suddenly his hips are yanked up and she gasps as his cock hits her cervix, leaning down to brace against his heaving chest. She tinkers with the amount of force, methodically pulling and pushing his hips into her. Using him to get off. 

He groans into the fabric, wrists writhing against the pillows. His eyes widen as he yells out through the fabric, grabbing her attention.

“You want me to take it out?” He nods frantically at her and she hesitates. “Will you be good?” He doesn’t stop nodding, brows knitting up. She gently pulls the soiled fabric out, holding it up like a threat. 

“Fuck, thank you. Thank you.” Without the muffle, his breaths are so heavy against her. “You feel so good.”

She gasps at his brazenness, sinking down harder on him. “Yeah?” she tries, searching his eyes.

“Yes, yes. Keep going. Keep going.” His words spur her on, and she clenches tightly around him, triggering a throaty moan. 

She wonders if he feels just as delirious as her. If the feeling of having his evol used so cruelly against him turns his stomach over in the same devious way it does to her. If he can recognise his own energy and just barely grasp it. Feel something so powerful and familiar, yet intangible, just like her. 

“Tell me you love it. Tell me you like me doing this to you.”

He whines, lips trembling in the stimulation. “Fuck, Fuck,” he sputters. “I love it. I love what you’re doing to me. I want you to use me like this. I--mmph oh fuck.” 

She moans out above him, vision starting to blur. He cock is leaking out into her, dribbling down the sides and dripping back onto his pelvis. The sheets are a fucking mess. And she doesn’t know how much longer she can last with the way his cock is bruising her walls. 

She commands him to go faster, the force pistoning his cock up into her.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” she gasps, tears brimming at her waterline. She manipulates each and every thrust. Paving her path to orgasm so intricately. His pupils dilate as he watches her, consuming every little expression she makes. How she reacts to each thrust. How she controls his pace and all the little patterns of when his hips are forced into a frenzy, and when his hips are dragged slowly. All of it. 

“Mmph fuck!” Her release spills out of her and he can’t help but come as well. Her being the trigger to his pleasure. She lifts herself up and down on him shallowly as the rest of her cum splatters onto his thighs. She’s gasping above him, eyes watching the heave of his chest. The glisten of sweat down his neck and chest. The flush of his cheeks as gulps for air. She lets him calm down, waiting till their breathing plateaus out into even waves. 

He’s still inside her, plugging what remains of their mixed release in her aching walls. She brushes the wet hair off his forehead, leaning down to kiss him. He looks exhausted, eyes closed and chin tilted up. 

“Baby,” she coos, stroking his jaw. He cracks his eyes open, a smile curling at his lips. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” he answers her evenly. His eyes flicker down to the mess at his hips. “You’re still using my evol,” he points out. 

“Oh right.” She swallows, pausing a second before she retracts the force pinning him down. “You’re not mad, right, baby?”

He shakes his head, a little too quickly. “No, I’m not mad, baby.”

She sighs as a gentle smile spreads across her face. She leans down and presses another kiss against his lips. Truly, she’s spent. Can barely support herself on top of him. Breathing out and focusing, she stifles her resonance, retracting claim over his evol and releasing him of his constraints. Barely a second passes before she’s launched into the mattress, thrown so roughly beneath him that the wind gets knocked out of her.

“Caleb!” She rasps. Then her eyes widen and a cry is torn from her lips as he slides right back into her. 

“Baby, what did I say?”

Tears breach her waterline as he fucks into her roughly, slamming against her already cum-painted walls and spilling it out onto the sheets. She can barely breathe, forcing her palms against his chest.

“That you weren’t mad!” She cries, trying to writhe away as he bullies her into the mattress.

“Silly girl,” he sneers. 

He cages her head between his forearms, breathing down on her as he sets a brutal pace. 

Caleb was a man who could indulge in her ploy for power under certain conditions. But having his evol, one of his only tethers to the world, severed and held just out of reach set fire to something that knew no bounds. She had dug her grave the second she decided to resonate. And surrendered the second she decided to not. And he’d spend all night reminding her.

an: wowie need me some resonance so i can take caleb to plough town

[danicareadssmut]

I need someone to write a Caleb fic where he gets down and dirty with MC in the seat of his starship.

On a related note, i hope we get to see inside the Deepspace Tunnel sometime because I'm a big ol space nerd and I want to see the graphics. What's inside? What are they battling in there? Caleb talks about combat, doesn't he? He need to see him in more action 😫🥲

[danicareadssmut]

So I'm really not on board with the whole "if mc wants it, Sylus will do it, whatever she wants goes" notion. We know Sylus is 100% a provider and will do anything for mc as long as it makes her happy. But I also believe everything he does is WITHIN REASON

Letting mc decorate his apartment

Catching plushies

Wearing a kitty hairpin and taking pictures

Wearing the sleeping masks mc gifted him

Those are small things that don't take much convincing. They're also not harmful to the relationship. But the idea that he's down for anything and everything sex/relationship wise, that's where I can't get on board, like fans saying he'd be down for a threesome/throuple just because mc suggested it. Or that he'd be okay with being whipped or pegged because mc wants to do it. "If mc wants it, he'll do it. He'll agree to it". This notion just implies he has no boundaries of his own, basically saying he can't say no to mc simply because he wants to make her happy. That dynamic might look cute on paper but it's actually completely unhealthy. It makes Sylus sound more like a doormat than a boyfriend. Sylus is all about making mc happy, he's all about her comfort and consent. But Sylus deserves the same level of respect✌🏻✌🏻and let's not forget he did tell mc he wouldn't leave behind his Onichynus lifestyle in Night of Secrecy, so clearly he's capable of telling her no

[danicareadssmut]

The pettiness is just 👌😂

[danicareadssmut]

remember kids

Artist 🎨: @vhsdogs

[danicareadssmut]

Mother fuckers…

[danicareadssmut]

[danicareadssmut]

Noooooo! I was reading this excellent fic about Gojo giving reader her first orgasms but then my app spazzed and it disappeared 😢 Can someone hook me up with the name or author so I can finish and save it?

[danicareadssmut]

Fight or die

[danicareadssmut]

This is the only way to describe me

everything’s wrong with me. unless someone else is saying “what the hell is wrong with you?” then there is nothing wrong with me and i am god’s favorite little lamb or something

[danicareadssmut]

Cops are trained to be bad. Anyone who insists on being good is not welcome.

[danicareadssmut]