mytoru

[mytoru]

name your favorite fic from each of your mutuals

I unfortunately don’t really have any mutuals on here besides @creamflix whose sex yeah! multi jjk men I loved reading but I also don’t have much time to read nowadays or sometimes just find myself scrolling through my own work 😔

but hopefully one day I’ll have more moots 😭

[mytoru]

My love language is giving sadaqa on your behalf and you never knowing.

[mytoru]

| mdni, suggestive?, adultery, drinking, age gap/uni student reader

꒰ঌ໒꒱ Nanami Kento was only human, he rationalised internally as he surrendered for the umpteenth time to amber waves arcing languidly around the old-fashioned glass housing the intoxicant his doting wife, comfortably residing at home, played second fiddle to.

Subconsciously, his uniformed figure reclined further into the antique armchair, settled in the corner of the dingy room. The Victorian-esque piece, which rode on the brass castors, complained at the excessive comfort he and his youthful guest sought from the aged single seater by creaking irregularly.

Briefly, his attention fixated on the liquidation that would be guilty of tomorrow's wreckage, cheekily taunting his slim mouth to position itself at the glinting rim for another mere sip.

The florescent beams belonging to this shabby motel (now a common meeting point) beautified the beverage he had been casually grasping – prominent veins protruding amongst finer details such as his gnarled knuckles powdered with subtle rouge accentuated the link between his fair complexation and his employment which restrained him within sophisticated walls for several hours the reason behind his skin's lack of warmth as he was generally released when clement evenings frothed with cinematic swirls of peach seducing indigo; the opportunity to experience balmy days emitted from benevolent rays diminished whilst he remained situated at his cubicle equipped with office essentials.

Overexerted fingers, thick yet sculpted with fine lines, were ingrained with a reminder of the bleak life that came with honouring his white-collar occupation, one that was loyal to seniority and focused on improving his work ethic.

Nanami was an often-overlooked hero of Japan's society, who fed his burnout and dismissed his need for healthy breaks by prioritising his commitment to ensuring his company's progress, thereby dedicating himself to upcoming promotions.

His wife was a matter he reassured himself would be resolved soon, internally monologuing that in a few more hours, his sturdy figure would be snug against hers, adhering to their intimately vocalised vows by moulding into one beneath satin sheets.

However, there was you, the personification that all suffering originated from aching yearning and indisputable desire.

No soul was vacant of sin, from violating sacrilege and flouting heavenly decrees scribed for mortals to practice to prevent their society from spiralling.

Nanami not only acknowledged himself as an active participant in a failing society and a hypocrite, being in the category of men he despised, but also as inadequate in pinpointing the reasoning behind his own path of villainous actions - the most lenient adjective to label his pastime rendezvouses when the woman embedded with his marital covenants slept oblivious to her husband's true activities – his co-workers blamed for keeping him far from his abode rather than you, a timid university student.

Clammy figures feigning romance was the reality of this situation between you and this average businessman. Occurrences of offered tenderness were easily mistaken as love, when in truth, and unbeknownst to the student currently atop his lap and huddled into his side, was evidence of being a ruin.

But he wasn't average.

To you, he was Mr Nanami.

Mr Nanami, who had yet to disclose his first name, reasoning there was no need when he revelled in you moaning 'sir' and commending your overall obedience.

Mr Nanami, who despite dabbling in alcoholic beverages every time you met, remained unmoved by the substances' lethargically deteriorating his insides, his tipsiness was non-existent.

Mr Nanami, who refused to acknowledge the legal occupant of his heart, remained adamant in his fourth finger homing the sterling band he noticed mimicked the moon's sob hovering above your own crown of tresses, yours’ lacklustre of aureate which he deciphered as you not being a pure form of heavenly symbolism, but rather the celestial ring mocking his disloyalty and audacity to continue wearing the meaningful piece.

"I prefer my whiskey strong," he dryly muttered into the glass, which had fogged with condensation from covering the lower half of his defined visage for longer than necessary. Eyeing the cheap bottle decorating the side table, he eventually placed his glass beside it.

The same fingers accustomed to clacking at the ergonomic board homing keys consistent of lettters, numbers, and symbols, grazed the knit of her sweater vest embossed with a private tuition emblem, plaid skirt suffocating her plush thighs a grave indication she were far from his age, assumably naïve and optimistic to the notion of them together past their discreet liaison. However, neither your comments nor your actions aimed at such.

His touch snuck beneath the elasticity of your socks, the initiative to secure them snug up to your mid-thigh by practically terminating your blood circulation was evidently disagreed upon following his deliberate ministration of towing the woolly stocking of your right leg downwards which began and remained with a measured pace, eventually sheltering his veiny hand the further he slid south, the noir material obeying by unveiling your goosebump-risen shins once brushed by his tamed fervour.

His eyes were a colourant described as mother nature; evergreen moss dominated by the damp mahogany bark, it seasonally adorned – hues shifting per the display of the sun's coruscating charm. They observed yours, unwavering, whilst trusting the direction his caressing glides were heading.

Meanwhile, your attention briefly alternated from his nature-infused gaze to the brief silver that winked beneath the minuscule gaps of the synthetic fibre now crumpled past the balls of your feet, ridding the cloth from your left in an identical manner.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," he gestured, before your pointed toes effortlessly tossed the garment onto the hellish pit disguised as a murky carpet, the motion awakening its appetite for more fabric to join its surface; the sequence of strewn clothes an indication of the inevitable adultery to follow suit.

"I'm not very aware of alcohol in general," you sheepishly admitted with a bashful chuckle, clearly flustered at her lack of participation in typical adulthood but also the calloused contrast against your smooth exterior (which were beatified with its own natural blemishes Nanami complimented before retracting his touch to steadily recouple with his arm that had remained caged around her, the handprint magnetised to that particular placement and subconsciously pulling her into his side even more)

Your dainty fingers fiddled with his cerulean button-up, twisting the sewn plastic spheres mindlessly, which admittedly roused his libido. Nanami's slackened tie lazily hung from his unbuttoned collar, a personal reminder that he had been liberated from realism as the stark yet minimal expanse of skin on show persuaded your thighs into a tight squeeze.

You supposed that the segment of his pale flesh, lacking any territorial stamping and carelessly exhibited, was an indirect invitation to delve beyond his naturally rugged exterior and navigate the inner workings to reawaken his perspective on divine companionship, to cherish any remaining fragments of his nature devoid of romantic praise.

Alternatively, Nanami deemed your inexperience incredibly endearing. Concluding your appeal was both your innocence towards modern society's normalisations, and your sinful attraction towards impiety, such as frolicking with a married man.

A firm squeeze graced your waist, which you momentarily peeked at before Nanami guided your disrupted attention back to him via a gentle push of your chin with a curved index finger

Vocabulary was exchanged for tranquil breathing until his low confession ardently smooched your soul, hopelessly inebriated by false-heartedness.

"I think I may be a terrible man." He lowly admitted, which tugged your lips into a twist of demure sympathy instantaneously.

Comprehending his admission as a disguised plea to love him, unlike any other, was another scene of undressing a sincere revelation and a new advancement into your treacherous fantasy.

Your response alone confirmed you were a perverse and two-faced lady, both corrupt but lovelorn; your angelic aura defaced with diabolic participation in an act disliked by the omnipotent witness observing your demise by being prey to idiotic delusion, hypnotised by the prospect of potential love and ignoring factuality.

"I don't mind.".

a/n: first time writing in second person POV arghhh but can also be found on ao3/wattpad

[mytoru]

made a side/personal blog if you wan follow here: @cyxbby

[mytoru]

CONSUME ᝰ S. GOJO

w.c 390 ꒱ fem! reader

"and you can take my flesh if you want girl, but baby don’t abuse it"

ᯓ★ satoru was no oblivious citizen regarding the other species living amongst the human race, specifically, ghouls.

Carmine tainted her canines, metallic infiltrating her eager taste buds that clung to the few remains of his pancreas before finally allowing the bumpy delicacy to traipse down her throat. Her tongue was saturated with a mix of both saliva and blood, the appendage tarnished by the unfortunate indulgence of a cannibalistic diet.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered, sitting prettily beside an extremely slouched Satoru who weakly shook his head, managing, albeit sluggishly, to shove a cascading strand behind her reddened ear with a faint yet endearing grin before warily glancing down at his punctured abdomen - his pristine shirt cautiously torn and circling the gaping gash, now an entrance to the contents of her diabolic feast.

“You tried for me, and that’s more than enough.” He sputtered, azure irises once brimmed with exuberance now dampened by the loss of blood, the shadow of his limp arctic strands, and a smidgen of injustice regarding their last moments together.

Essential body parts of his were either devoured or waiting to be. Satoru could almost imagine cavities budding within her mouth the more of his body she digested, desperately gnawing on the flesh remnants of her lover, as she finally caved into hunger’s beckon; her patience awarded with the offer of his organs, which was a stake he insisted she claimed.

He witnessed the faint lick of her lips, her Stygian pupils deluged with a metabolism revived and urging her to dine more once granted permission by himself to “commit the deed”.

She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand; gore smudged outside the perimeters of her pouty lips, which trembled; her appetite coming to be replenished, but her loving him the opposite.

Satoru tiredly smiled despite the grimy brick wall of an abandoned alley and its gritty surface repugnantly stroking his undercut before his head began to loll forwards - but not before a shaky thumb warmly swept against the rouge smothered across the lower half of her visage – the view confirming the stigma around those lacklustre of remorse and restraint, all stereotypes around her kind she direly attempted to refrain from falling into.

Her vision twinged with a moist blur, noting his consciousness decrease, which she yearned to prolong by cradling his limp hand against her cheek defaced with her boyfriend’s remains.

It’s not right, It’s not fair.

© 6ixtoru all rights are reserved. do NOT repost or copy my work

[mytoru]

a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

[mytoru]

♯ FUCK THOSE FEELINGS .ᐟ

SMAU: the jjk! men disregarding your feelings… probably definitely ooc (standard tag), jealousy, toxicity, manipulation, gaslighting, profanity, self-doubt, canon character death mention in toji’s, slightly suggestive language, modern! ex fiancé sukuna, angst.

ft. g. satoru, g. suguru, k. nanami, h. higuruma, k. choso, i. takuma, t. fushiguro & r. sukuna. || smau m.list

note. this one is the worst of them all… it’s so bad i’m literally cringing. i’m definitely suffering from smau blindness. pls ignore if there r mistakes… i’m tired rn n it’s late. also someone send nanami help to get rid of my cramps, ty.

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# tags: @natdu @ermbehindyou @corvid007 @shokosbunny @canigotosleep--plz @totallygyomeiswife @cauqhtz @designerpvssy @mwuffyy @megumimind @lady-of-blossoms @kawowoa @dazaisfavgf @lastsubstance @akio-ayashi @aquamarine001 @justacutelion @realalpacorn @hanham10 @patpatspatz @dreamingoftomorroww @sleepykittyenergy @aesztik @layalisthings @lizzie3d2y @croissant-san @reallyvexin @inmyspirit @hopeliketrunks @hadassery @rosiedoll @shesabeeler @simeon-lovergirl @mel1mak @samoankpoper21 @rainschnael @lov3vivian @queenmimis @literallypinkie @tenthmilo @hellokittyloverrxox @syimonee

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©𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐀 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 !

[mytoru]

ꗃ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃, 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 .

❝ answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and holding me— was she the one on your mind? ❞

summary: it's hard knowing you aren't really the person in toji's heart but loving him was something you still did regardless. as for toji, he thinks he's ready to give you his all.

desc: 2.8k words, f!reader (referred to as ‘mama’), canon compliant i think, takes place after mamaguro's death and before toji’s, age gap (early 20s reader, early 30s toji), baby gumi ahhhhh, sfw, angst to fluff to angst again lol, intended lowercase, think you're tsumiki’s mom but without tsumiki bc the relations would be too complicated and also the second wife erasure in the canon storyline?? yeah it's reserved specifically for this fic, not proof read i fear but pls read it's really interesting i can swear by it lmaoqhdhns

dating a widowed man with a son wasn't easy especially when the said man is still in love with his former wife, or rather, his wife who had died.

love is often beautiful but sometimes it's unfair. it can also be cruel. what other reason would make you still stay despite knowing you'll never measure upto the person who had been here before you?

and you've heard stories about her. she was sweet, so beautiful— not just in her appearance but her entire being was beautiful. there always was an ache in your heart upon just the mention of her name.

so how much more would it have ached for toji?

“mama” the spiky haired boy, barely two years old calls you and you realise the silence in the room. “not mama, i’m nana okay?” sick.

nana. not mama but close enough. it doesn't matter anyway, n and m are just letters and next to each other so how much difference would that make? you're the one that's here after all, are you not?

if there's a lump in your throat and your eyes are burning with unshed tears, you force yourself to ignore.

“okay nana” megumi nuzzles his face into your chest, slowly drifting away to sleep. the boy always liked cuddling with you and it melts your heart immensely.

your hands strand through his dark hair. people always said he's the carbon copy of his dad but you'd like to differ. megumi has his mother's eyes and his hair resembled hers more than it did his dad's.

the thought sends another ache in your chest but you push it away– as you always have.

you recall the last time toji had heard megumi call you “mama”. you had never seen toji that livid. he was never a gentle man to begin with but that night, there was nothing else you've been more scared of.

was he like that to his wife? maybe not.

does that matter though? it's not like toji treats you badly. he's decent and loves you an enough amount. you weren't crazy enough to stay when you're not wanted so that must mean you were something to him right?

you also recall the whispers of pity and condemnation thrown at you for just being with toji. him being a brute is one thing but the difference in age is what people seem to have a problem with. you're so much younger than him and have your whole life ahead of you so why are you entrapping yourself this way?

you disagree though. love doesn't know any age and you definitely aren't naive to be head over heels over a guy just because he's relatively older. no, this was real and genuine.

a faint knock disrupts your train of thoughts. “he sleepin’?” toji nods towards the small boy in your arms and you nod back in return.

taking care not to wake the sleeping kid, you slowly pry his hands away from you and pull over a blanket to cover his small body.

when you make your way towards toji, he wastes no time in pulling you closer “missed you” he mumbles, placing a kiss onto your forehead and suddenly all thoughts plaguing your mind disappears. that's all you could ask for, even if it was just for a moment.

“i missed you more” you whisper back, he only huffs out an amused chuckle.

“got bad news though” a frown finds itself on his lips, decorated by a single scar next to it.

“did you lose all your money again?” toji was a gambling addict, another thing you forced yourself to tolerate just for him.

“sorry, doll. thought i’d win this time” he rubs small circles on your back comfortingly and it makes you a bit uneasy to know that he has his way with you so easily.

“it's alright. i’ll just find another part time job”

“so good to me” toji pulls you into his chest and you let out a sigh— of exhaustion? relief? you couldn't really tell but that's not important, toji had you in his arms.

“i’ll try and think of something too. don't worry your pretty little head too much” he lifts you up with ease. while you're in his arms, you feel the safest.

toji really felt bad this time. he was confident he would win but that stupid horse had to trip and lose its lead, ending up last of all places. he knows luck never favoured him but that's didn't stop him from trying again and again and again.

he also knows how you didn't say anything more than necessary about it but he isn't that much of an idiot either. he sees how your expression falters and your shoulders slump a little more when he comes home with another news of his gambling loss.

this is also why he tries, or rather, tried to quit — one too many times, unbeknownst to you. however, old habits die hard and most of the time (everytime) toji gives into his urge and loses yet again. the cycle keeps happening.

maybe this isn't just about gambling.

with the way you're asleep so soundly next to him after putting his son to sleep and taking care of him too, he is overcomed with yet another feeling to be better for you and megumi alike.

toji isn't a gentle man; everyone knows that, you do too — even more than anybody else but he can't help the familiar pool of warm feelings surging through him the longer he stares at your peaceful state.

he remembers the last time he felt it, with another person. it felt like a lifetime ago.

he also remembers how painful it was when he lost it — the person, the feeling altogether. his hands that were making their way to caress your face stops mid air.

toji knows you deserve so much better. you've been nothing but patient to him, so amazing, so perfect to him. still, he just can't do it yet, just not yet.

he will eventually, he hopes you stay until then.

toji wakes up to an empty bed and his heart sinks a little but the creases and wrinkles on the sheets serve as a reminder that you were really here.

he makes his way towards the kitchen, only finding megumi sitting on a chair next to the dining table.

“hey kid, where's your mama?”

toji freezes. it came out so naturally he didn't realise he said it himself and almost thinks he didn't but megumi's wide eyes prove that he actually did.

“m…mama?” megumi says hesitantly and toji nods this time. “yes, your mama”.

“potty potty!” megumi points to the bathroom and giggles, toji follows suit. the man crouches to his son's eye level and pats his head.

“you love your mama, kid?” toji sees megumi's eyes sparkle as the boy nods enthusiastically “very very much!!”

“yeah? i love your mama too.”

toji smiles to himself, he can't wait to tell that to you.

the next time toji got his pay, he finds himself hesitating. instead of heading towards the race tracks, his feet takes him to a jewellery store.

instead of picking out a slot and testing his luck, he picks out a ring. it's not fancy by any means but he thinks it would be the most beautiful band of metal to exist if it slides into your ring finger.

the tiny ring carries all the heavy feelings he has for you.

──

it was one particular evening when you saw an old man lingering by the front gate. its particular because the warm sunset and the soft cool breeze contrasted the ground breaking truth you find out.

“can i help you?” you ask the old man who looks at you up and down, not making an attempt to hide his distaste of your sight.

“is this where toji zenin lives?” he stares down at you with his scrutinising gaze; it makes you feel small.

“zenin?” you ask, confused. is he referring to toji? but his last name is fushiguro is it not?

“yes toji zenin. i heard he has a son as well. you're not the mother are you?”

is it that obvious? you wonder how the old man figured it out. regardless, you're not about to give him his answers so you stood your ground.

“i’m sorry i don't know what you're talking about.” you turn around, about to head inside when his words make you stop short.

“are you fushiguro?”

that's toji’s last name isn't it? not zenin or whatever he called it. so why is he asking you that? is he implying that you're married to toji?

“no. you have the wrong person.”

“why? did he say not to get involved with anyone from his clan?” the old man draws closer, chucking to himself. you're just there unmoving, trying to comprehend the situation and the words coming from his mouth.

“or did he not tell you that either? did he tell you anything at all?” he stands tall in front of you, tearing away bits of yourself with every word he says.

“when he returns, tell him the clan wants to propose him an offer. you can do that much at least won't you?”

…

and when toji comes home that night with the ring cluched tightly in his fist and inside the pocket of his white pants, the world stills.

he finds you in a state he has never seen you before. you look completely and utterly defeated.

“hey, what's wrong?” his hands come to caress your face so effortlessly, the ring and prior nervousness long forgotten.

“talk to me what's going on?” he looks around and the house seems emptier than usual. your laundry that were usually hanging with his were gone.

your small trinkets you placed around the house to “make it more lively” were nowhere to be found.

and there's a bag in the corner of the room which toji prays and hopes he isn't what he thinks it is.

your hands push away his own that were cupping your face. you're not even looking at him.

“say something damn it!”

you flinch and toji takes a step back. he recalls the last time you trembled in fear — when he got mad megumi called you his mom. he punishes himself for it.

“im sorry. please talk to me.” he isn't touching you now but he wants to. he wants to reach out and pull you close, as he always had done. but now there's an unbearable silence and the small distance between you both felt like lightyears away.

“who's zenin” your voice was meek, barely a whisper but toji's eyes widen. how did you find out about that?

no fuck that, he was supposed to be the one telling you. in his own time.

“i can explain” was all that came out of him. he's nervous, he doesn't know where to start. there's a lot of information to unpack and he's not sure how to do it without hurting you too much.

when he doesn't elaborate, you ask another “who's fushiguro then?” your voice falters a bit and toji curses himself for it.

but he's done running away and keeping things from you. “my… my late wife” he says wryly.

your eyes close and a shaky breath leaves your body, as if he just confirmed your worst suspicions. damn life is so funny isn't it? everything you thought you knew apparently wasn't what it seemed to be after all.

opening them again, your vision blurs and you realise tears were escaping your eyes. fuck you didn't want to cry now of all times but they won't stop.

and the way toji was looking at you, it makes you want to throw up.

“i must've been so stupid to you” you let out a humourless chuckle. “did you pretend im her?”

your gaze was sharp and so were your words. maybe all your bottled up feelings were resurfacing. it doesn't make you feel better about it but that doesn't stop you though.

“answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and when you're holding me, was she the one on your mind??” your voice was loud now. you should be afraid of waking up megumi who you cradled to sleep just a few hours ago but no, your thoughts are too clouded right now.

toji sighs. he has no excuse.

“i used to” he actually looks ashamed as if he wasn't the one who did it purely out of his will.

your scoff makes him wince “but not anymore.”

his words fall on deaf ears “you know… i knew you did. but i stayed regardless because i thought there would be a chance that maybe one day, you could open up your heart to me. im not even asking for all of it, just a little… i thought you'd let me in.”

you're blabbering and honestly, so distraught.

“but not a moment was there when it was me isn't it? it was always her in the first place.”

now toji should have said something, anything but he stays there planted in place. and maybe that was your breaking point.

you turn around, grabbing your bag and brushing past him towards the door. instead of holding onto you and stopping you, toji clutches the small box containing the ring — your ring in his pocket, almost crushing it in the process, as he hears the door slam.

you think it's funny how toji did not reach out after what happened. it's poetic even. very fitting of him, till the very end, he did not give two shits about you.

so then, why were you back here?

it's been four long years since the trajectory of your life changed. you still don't know if it was for the better or for the worse.

saying it has been hard would be an understatement. it took you a long time just to get back onto your own feet but you did it regardless. however, you left a part of you here long ago and now, you're here to take it back.

that and you missed megumi dearly. perhaps it was an excuse too because you won't deny a part of you still missed toji, despite everything that happened.

standing a few feet away from the place you used to call home, you hesitate.

maybe this was a bad idea. oh this was definitely a bad idea. you'll see them, and then what? what comes after that?

closure? don't make yourself laugh. you’ll just be reminded of how you couldn't be that person for toji— how you'll always come second. and what if they moved?? there's no reason they'd still be here right?

forget this, you don't need to do this. why must you still be the one who put effort? to reach out? four long years passed and still no news means they clearly moved on... right?

you were convinced enough and was about to go back when you saw little megumi carrying a backpack on his back, seemingly coming home from school.

your feet wouldn't move and your eyes wouldn't blink. he grew up so well.

the world pauses as your gaze follows the kid you used to consider your own, now as good as a stranger.

“do you know that kid?” a voice at your back makes you whip your head around. life really is full of surprises and this time, the surprise was in the form of a tall man, no a tall kid with white hair, looking at you curiously through his round tinted glasses.

“... no i don't” well you weren't exactly lying. you don't know the megumi you see now. perhaps if he asked whether you raised him since he was a baby till he was two, then your answer would've been different.

“oh okay” the boy shrugs. “poor guy though”

“why? whats up with him?” you turn to look at megumi again who was minding his business walking home and your heart aches a little.

“I'm here to recruit him. his dad died you see so he's–”

“wait what was that??”

“his dad. he's dead” the amused boy in front of you chuckles and you stare at him, horrified.

“what happened to him?” your voice was shaky and doesn't sound like your own. he leans down to meet your eye level and smirks “why? i thought you don't know that kid. why does that matter to you?”

your stomach churns as you stare at him, not even knowing what to say— the smug expression on his face only widens.

“so you do know him.”

'know' would be a weak word to use when it comes to toji. you knew of his habits, the simple things he does and also of the more complex ones — like the exact place his scar decorated his lips and how it felt to kiss it.

then again, you don't really know anything about him and maybe you never will.

and maybe that's really, the closure you needed.

[mytoru]

──on the move

a/n. in honor of father's day, i wrote a short drabble for our favorite daddy fictional husband. here's some good 'ol dadjo fluff 🩵 this was a request, but it's also inspired by a scene from the romcom life as we know it.

cw. your daughter's first steps. humor. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. also, satoru is just too stinkin' cute (isn't he always though?!).

Neither you nor Satoru were prepared for the day your daughter decided to walk.

She’d been going through another sleep regression—clingy, overtired, and endlessly fussy. The last few nights had been brutal for you both; nonstop crying, sleepless nights—hell, you barely remembered the last time you’d eaten something warm or sat down for more than five minutes without a tiny hand tugging at your shirt.

So today, when she finally settles, babbling to herself instead of wailing, Satoru doesn’t hesitate.

“You go clean up,” he says, already hoisting her up into his arms. “I got this.”

And you don’t argue. Because a hot shower and ten minutes to breathe feels like the most luxurious gift in the world.

Downstairs, Satoru sits leisurely, sinking onto the living room floor, one of your daughter’s stuffed toys shoved behind his back like a makeshift pillow. She sits a few feet in front of him, chewing thoughtfully on a rubber block like she’s solving some ancient puzzle.

As she babbles cheerfully, he nods along, blue eyes soft beneath the fall of snowy hair. One hand props up his chin as he listens intently, like he’s getting a full debriefing from a tiny general.

“I know, right?” he murmurs. “They really said no dessert before dinner. Criminal, honestly.”

An insistent string of nonsense syllables spills from her tiny lips, animated and loud, flapping one hand as to make a point.

“Exactly,” he hums, nodding solemnly. “It’s injustice. You and me—we should unionize.”

Then, without warning, she shifts—pushing herself up with both hands, wobbling slightly as she reaches for the coffee table. One tiny palm finds the edge. Then, slowly… she lets go.

Satoru blinks.

Standing. She’s standing. No hands. No support. Just two steady little feet on the rug.

All by herself.

“…no way,” he breathes, straightening instinctively. “Hey, uh—princess?” clearing his throat, his voice catches slightly. “Uhh… whatcha doin’, huh?”

And then she moves—one step. Wobbly. Uncertain.

Satoru's mouth falls open.

“No, no, no—wait—shit—uhhh… babe?!” his voice pitches as he springs to his feet, torn between staying and bolting for the stairs. “Hold on sweetheart—wait for mommy, wait—!”

Twisting towards the ascending hall, his voice booms.

“Babe! She’s walking!!”

Upstairs, the shower pounds steadily as you scrub shampoo from your hair. A voice echoes up the stairway. With a pause, you tilt your head slightly.

…is Satoru calling you?

“Huh?” you shout back, reaching for the knobs. “What was that ’toru?”

His voice echoes again—louder this time, unmistakable.

“SHE’S WALKING!”

“What?!” heart lurching, you move, fumbling out of the shower, slipping slightly on the mat as you grab for the nearest towel and yank it around your body. “Shit—okay—hang on—!”

But downstairs, equal chaos unfolds.

Your daughter takes another step, and Satoru's still at the bottom of the stairs, caught somewhere between panic and awe. He doesn’t want to move—can’t risk missing it. Can’t let you miss it.

“Okay—just—freeze,” he says, crouching slightly in front of her. “Hold it right there, little lady. Stay. Don’t advance. Mommy’s coming.”

But babbling back in defiance, her little eyes brighten with determination as she takes another wobbly step forward.

“Shit—fuck. Honey, I need you to hurry!” he shouts toward the stairs, voice cracking.

“Coming! I’m coming!” you call back breathlessly, hopping down the hall with one towel clutched around your chest and another half-heartedly blotting your dripping hair. “Just—stall her! I’ll be right there!”’

“Stall her?!” he echoes, eyes wide as she continues toward him, arms extended, smile wide—like he’s the finish line and she’s already won. “How the hell do I stall a baby?!”

Another leg plants itself on the rug, and Satoru scans the room in panic. No bottle. No snacks. No plan. No goddamn time.

“Okay—um, hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees in her path. “Let’s do… let’s do clapping, yeah? You love clapping!”

And there he is, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm, a desperate smile plastered on his face. But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up speed—giggling now, like this is all a game.

“Shit. Nonono. You are not following protocol…” he mutters, backing up a step. She’s almost at him. “Please princess… please… wait for mommy.”

He’s at a loss, and so, with nothing else to do, he reaches out—gentle, barely a touch—tapping her belly with two fingertips. But it’s just enough, because with little balance, she blinks—wobbling, plopping her butt onto the floor with a soft thud.

There’s a pause.

Then, in a matter of seconds, her face crumples, lip trembling as a tiny, heartbroken whine spills out of her.

Satoru's eyes widen in horror. “Aw, no—no, no, hey, it was just a loving little stall,” he says quickly, hands out. “A nudge. A tactical nudge. Fuck, don’t cry—”

And you’re bursting into the room just as the first real wail escapes her lips.

“What happened?!” you gasp, chest heaving, towel clinging to your damp skin as you rush over.

Looking up, Satoru's face is wide-eyed, painted with guilt.

“You… you said stall her,” he says helplessly. “So I… I gave her a little push.”

You blink. First at him. Then at her. Then back at him.

She’s hiccupping through a sob, hands balled up against her chest like she’s been personally wronged. Yet somehow, his face is more pitiful than hers.

“She was walking,” he adds weakly, looking down. “I… didn’t want you to miss it.”

Exhaling slowly, the panic bleeds out of you now, replaced by something warm and humorous—the edge of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh, ‘toru…”

He peeks up, sheepish. “I panicked.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I gathered.”

And sinking to your knees, you gather her into your arms. The second she’s pressed against you, the sobs dissolve into sniffles, cheek nuzzling into your collarbone like nothing ever happened.

“There we go,” you whisper, brushing your hand over her hair. “See? All better. She forgives you.”

“…you sure?” he looks doubtful. “Because she looked at me like I betrayed her entire damn bloodline.”

“Oh, shush.” Huffing a quiet laugh, you roll your eyes playfully, gently lowering her onto the rug in a seating position—pacified, for now.

Stepping closer, Satoru's gaze flicks between you and her.

“Five steps,” he says quietly, sliding his arms around your waist. “She took five real steps.”

“That’s incredible,” you whisper, arms looping around his neck. A slow smirk stretches across your lips. “Next time maybe just… record it, yeah?”

“Tch…” he huffs. “Right…”

And leaning in, his smile meets yours halfway—lips touching where laughter wants to begin. You kiss him, eyes fluttering, a hum rumbling through him.

But then—

pat-pat-pat.

Freezing, you pull away from that unmistakable sound. And turning, you’re left with the sight of your daughter tearing off down the hall with a delighted squeal, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood like she’s been walking her whole damn life.

“Oh.” Satoru's already straightening. “Oh shit.”

“Ohmygod…” you breathe in awe. “’toru… she’s walking!!”

“No,” he says grimly. “She’s running.”

And just like that—it begins.

Yeah. You’re never going to sit down again.

[mytoru]

something, somehow, someday

series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

prologue: aurora borealis

chapter 1: your takara

chapter 2: near miss

chapter 3: sun stall (coming 6.18 at 9pm PST!)

chapter 4: tba!

~~~~~~~

let me know if you'd like to be tagged :3<3

[mytoru]

                                        ೯⠀⁺ Stillness to Ripples ᰋ

୨ৎ summary . . .  Ambitious, you dared to dream that your arranged marriage to the Shogun could bloom like the storybooks that coaxed you to bed in your childhood. But dreams don't always come true. Not when he is as still as lake water, surrounded by willow trees-concubines-who draw the glow from your moonlit heart. His stillness lay below you, and you wonder if the light of your moon can cause a ripple in his stillness, if some dreams do come true. ୨ৎ pairing . . .  gojo satoru / female reader.

── .✦ contains hints of infidelity on gojo's side, heavily implied perfectionism on both reader and gojo, purposeful ambiguity mostly on gojo (?), reader being traumatised/having ptsd, eating disorder (purging), and slight (?) angst. proceed with caution, 17+. ── .✦ 8.8k words. i'm sorry this took so long :c

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Your heart hammers within your chest as the norimono, a lacquered transportation cage of black silk and gold patterns, finally stills. It signalled your arrival at the Edo Castle, a setting of power, politics, and soon, your new home. In mere hours, you will be Seishitsu of the Shogun, the wife of the most powerful man in the country.

You should be trembling, but instead, excitement and dream-drappled anticipation bubbles within you, born from childhood tales that put you to slumber. Tales where noble daughters like you find not just duty, but affection in the arms of mighty men like him, and you naively cling to those tales.

No doubt you have heard of your soon-to-be husband, his power, and his strength, but you are mystified when it comes to his physical and personality traits. All they say is that he is beautiful beyond belief. Not handsome. Beautiful. As if whoever or whatever carved him loved him deeply. The imagination of him makes your hammering heart flutter briefly, along with another imagination of him being a soft-spoken man, perhaps lonely beneath his facade, waiting to find love in you.

And yet, anxiety laces within your excitement and dream-drappled anticipation and imagination. What if he is not soft-spoken? What if he would rather be alone? What if he is not waiting for love from you? Much like your father and mother.

You are of the Momonaga clan, a proud daimyo clan line with feudal lords, ink-thick blood, and reserved courtesy. You have seen what arranged marriages are, being an offspring of one: minimal affection, formal, siblings born from duty rather than desire.

It was this black and white that drove you to find the greys in stories. Stories of love blooming like a lotus in a political pond. You dreamed, no, you dared to believe that your marriage would be different. That Tokugawa Gojo would converse with you, choose you, and cherish you.

Your heart hammers tenfold as the norimono is gently lowered to the ground. A moment later, its hatch opens, elegant in motion, revealing your most trusted servant. She wears a small, comforting smile on her lowered face, a gesture that slightly eases your pounding chest. With practised care, she arranges the layered folds of your formal kimono before offering her hand to help you step out.

You step out cautiously, the weight of the kimono tugging at your balance, before you straighten your posture genteely, adopting the poise expected of a high-born bride. Then, your eyes lift to take in the foreign environment.

The castle looms atop a rise, its foundation carved from massive stones and its perimeter protected by wide, still moats. Pale walls stretch forward, crowned with dark-tiled roofs that stretch into the horizon. Layers of arched bridges and heavy gates, a samurai guard seemingly visible at each post, but the outer gates hinder your vision. The castle is power and prestige itself, making the premises of your Momonaga residence feel like a child’s playground in comparison.

Then, your gaze finds the people who await you. A small group of senior male retainers, dressed in formal kamishimo, bows in acknowledgement. They confirm your presence and escort your past security away, catching your eyes and heart. You have always carried a tenderness others deemed a flaw, a softness your parents chastised. “A daughter of rank must not lower herself to empathy,” they would reprimand, but you never listen.

Samurai guards line the pathway along the outer gate for your arrival, silent and still, a reminder of the scale of power and security this place holds. Every necessary person is present, except the one you hoped to see.

Gojo Satoru is absent.

Your pulse relaxes, not in disappointment, but in momentary relief because you may not be ready, or it may be unhealthy for your heart. Yet, the corner of your heart cracks, just a tad bit.

An appointed herald from the shougnate steps forward from the row of samurai, ��We have awaited your arrival, Lady…” he says your name, “…Princess of the Momonaga Clan. You honour Edo Castle with your presence,” he earns your sweet smile that pauses him. He knows you should not smile so openly, being the noble woman and bride under scrutiny you are. You know, too, but you do not care.

The herald bows deeply that you worry for his spine, before beginning to escort you from outside the outer gates to the inside, leaving your norimono and loyal servant. You step through the Otemon gate, a passage reserved for those of your rank.

The two of you move through a series of winding paths, inner gates, and bridges. You walk in silence beside the herald, admiring the scenery offered by the castle. All while your heart and mind flurries with each step that brings you closer to your marriage.

Eventually, you reach the secluded, gated premises of the Ōoku compound, the Inner Chambers for the women in the castle. You stop before the gate, the Ōoku-mon, where a samurai stands in silent vigilance, prompting the herald to speak. “This is where I must take my leave, my lady,” he turns to you with a smile that crinkles his eyes, “for beyond this point lies the residence of the ladies, and only selected men by the shogunate may trespass here.” You offer him a grateful smile in return, one last kindness before parting ways.

As you step forward, the samurai bows deeply upon recognising you, so deeply that you worry again his spine may never forgive him. Your heart and mind flurry again, anxious thoughts gathering like clouds. You glance back over your shoulder one last time, catching the herald’s parting bow before he turns away.

His departure did not soothe you; in fact, it deepened your unease. Plus, the walls that surround and taunt you, white clay topped with dark grey kawara tiles, are too high for comfort, too silent for ease. The patrolling Onna bugyōs add to the taunt, halting, bowing, and continuing if they see you. It puzzles you how everyone already knows you are, but then again, perhaps it should not.

The onna bugyōs are the female guards of the compound, suggesting that this is the one place in the castle governed by women. Uplifting, yes, but you could not feel that as you continue to step into their world with your thoughts and emotions in disarray.

The outer courtyard opens before you, with carefully swept gravel paths, moss-covered stepping stones, and seasonal plantings. Plum trees bloom shyly, their fragrance soft but fleeting. The beauty calms you for a moment.

But serenity fades as you approach the covered engawa walkways that snake between the compound’s wings. There, waiting patiently for you is your loyal servant, hands folded with an amused expression, waiting—no, expecting—you to step up the planked walkway. Another step that brings you closer to your marriage that has your nerves in shambles.

“Why, Izumi,” you ask, breathlessly, “how ever did you arrive before me?” Anxiety laces with your voice, holding your feet back from taking the step.

She replies, “I used the servants’ way, my lady,” she replies with a gentle smile, “and I made good pace,” her voice is a familiar balm, sweet and grounding. Over the years, she has become more than a servant, become your companion. Perhaps even something like family. Your parents would frown upon this closeness, of course. But then again, your parents have frowned upon most things that make you happy and highlight your uniqueness.

“Anxious, my lady?” she asks, noticing the sheen of sweat on your palms before you do. She takes your hands delicately, as if holding a glass.

“I am indeed, very much so,” you exhale your nerves, but it does so little. “Might I… might I have a moment of solitude, just for a while, before I ready myself?” you request softly, and she sighs.

“Time won’t wait, my lady. They’ve given you little more than an hour to be ready for the ceremony,” you panic then, before you borderline beg, “Pray, grant me a moment, I shall be swift!” she gives you a look of sympathy, and you know she is very close to granting your request, “I shall also be swift in adjusting my toilette and changing into my ceremonial kimono,” she sighs in surrender.

She caresses your sweaty palms, “Very well, my lady, go on then,” you give her the biggest smile you can manage before breaking free from her gentle hold, fast-walking to the garden you had spotted earlier. “Do remember to be swift, my lady!” she calls after you, half in jest. You glance back, nodding once, your smile still on your face.

You reach the garden shortly, a haven you have marked in your mind during your walk with the herald. Even now, it welcomes you like an old friend.

You have always loved gardens as they have always held a language you understood: peace and solitude, a kind of quiet you could never find in your family or people, for that matter. As a child, you spent your leisure time among flowers and trees reading your storybooks, writing your poetry, and much more. If your family would allow you to eat, sleep, and bake there, you would. Yes, you bake as well. That, too, your parents scolded, but eventually they learned that there were parts of you they could not reforge into the mould of a perfect noblewoman.

Before Izumi, it was the flowers and shrubs you trusted. You spoke to them, cared for them, and asked the gardener to chase the bugs away. You named them, called them friends. 

When Izumi entered your life during adolescence, she came something close to your garden: safe, soft, and true. But not even she could replace it. Nothing or no one could.

You crouch in a way a woman should, your fingers hovering just above the soil. You wonder if this castle’s garden will grow to know you like your home’s garden. To accept you, to become your sanctuary in a place that feels anything but.

That is when you hear it, a woman’s controlled laughter, poised and confident. Curiosity draws you from your thoughts, and you rise from where you had crouched. You wander with soft footsteps on the garden’s moss-lined pavers, determined to find the source.

Nearer now, you hear the murmur of a man’s voice. Smooth and warm, the kind of voice meant to be listened to, meant to linger in the ear, meant to capture a woman’s heart. “You have a sharp tongue, I must say, Ami.”

Ami giggles, and you peer through a tall camellia bush. There he stands. Tall, graceful, dressed not in a samurai or servant’s garb, but in deep indigo silks embroidered with silver accents that suggest superiority, snow as his hair. He walks beside a woman, smaller in stature, who reaches slightly above his shoulder. Their posture suggests familiarity.

“My sentiments on the matter of—” he stops mid-sentence, his instincts elevated. His gaze lifts, sharp and immediate, locking straight onto yours.

You freeze, heart caught in your throat. His eyes are ice blue, brilliant, and hold you in place. You duck instinctively behind the bush, but it is too late.

“Woman, come forth at once,” his voice is commanding, not hostile. Your breath remains as you step into view.

The way he noticed you so swiftly, the way he identified you as female by presence alone, there is doubt in your mind. This man is the Shogun.

His gaze sweeps over you, curious, amused, but not unkind. Beside him, the woman, Ami. Presumably, eyes you with barely concealed annoyance. “You intrude upon a private discourse, woman,” he says plainly. Not scolding, but firm.

He studies your attire, the soft white and pink layers of your formal kimono, embroidered with delicate threads of gold that gleam in soft light. His eyes narrow slightly. “Who might you be? You wear neither the garb of a servant nor a concubine,” he notes.

The implication unsettles Ami, whose robes are more vivid but lack the grandeur of yours. You catch the way she stiffens at the comparison, before you state your name, “of the Momonaga clan.”

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, “You are she? The one I am to wed?” So he is Gojo Satoru. Your intended. The man whose name haunts your thoughts and dreams. They spoke the truth: he is beautiful beyond belief. Yet, the reality of him standing before you with another woman discomforts you.

You glance between him and Ami, uncertain. Fortunately, Gojo senses this and clears his throat. “My lady, this is Ami. She is… my appointed concubine.” He says it casually, as if you are expected to understand.

Ami curtises just enough to be polite, her eyes cold as flint. He then turns to her, a polite smile on his lips, “Forgive me, Ami, but I must ask you to take your leave.

“If that is your wish, my lord, I will not linger,” her voice is smooth, practised. She departs with grace, only faltering when her gaze cuts toward you. You offer a small bow in return, unsure of what is appropriate. She does not respond.

When the silence falls between you and the Shogun, you gather your courage. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but the word ‘concubine’, what does it mean precisely?” He blinks, then frowns at your uninformed curiosity. “You do not know?” You shake your head.

He thought that you had known what it is the entire so now he thinks that this is a growing, terrible first impression, “A concubine is…” he pauses when he realises something else.

“Ought you not be preparing yourself for our wedding, my lady?” he asks, “or do you mean to run from me, is that it?” his voice sharpens at the accusation that startles you, unable to make sense of your presence in the garden instead of the compound.

“Heavens, no, my lord!” you reply, too quickly. “I desired a brief respite before our wedding… to calm my nerves,” you explain, and he nods, neither amused nor irritated.

“…You are far too handsome a man to flee from, my lord,” you murmur sheepishly. He accepts the compliment without reaction. Used to it, perhaps even tired of it. Is that all people see in him?

“If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly,” he says. His tone is blunt. Honest.

Did he not prefer your looks? Sure, your face is covered in pale white face powder, your lips subtly rouged, eyebrows darkened, all of it far from your natural beauty, but it was meant to enhance your beauty, was it not?

The words sting more than you expect. You hide your reaction behind a demure nod, but he notices. Sees the slight stiffness in your smile. The flicker of hurt in your eyes.

He clears his throat again, this time awkwardly. “I meant no offence. I speak only the truth. I do not flatter.”

“I comprehend, my lord.” Your heart feels heavy as you speak ever so softly.

“Go now,” he says again, “attire yourself as befits a bride. The hour of our marriage draws near.”

“Very well, I shall, my lord,” your voice hints disappointment hidden behind softness as you withdraw. For the solitude you had sought has unravelled into something else: disappointment.

You had prepared for this moment for years: how to speak, how to look, how to act, and still, it was not enough. Your mother would say it is your fault. That you should have tried harder. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot stop being… you, or magically become his preferred woman, for that matter.

The garden feels colder as you turn your back on it. Your feet trace the same moss-lined paths you once followed with wonder, though your pace is quicker now, your thoughts unspooling like thread on a loom.

Gojo Satoru

The name that once existed in your thoughts, calligraphy, and whispered voices has now taken shape, and he is nothing like you imagined. Beautiful, yes, but not gentle. Honest but not tender. His words were not cruel, but they cut like your mother’s words would have. You wonder if the distance in his gaze is by design, or merely the armour of a man who has grown tired of being seen but never known.

You retrace your way beneath the soft-filtered light of the wooden cloisters. The polished planks of engawa creak lightly beneath your feet as you finally hone the courage to step up the walkway. The tatami-smelling air grows warmer, touched with the faint perfume of incense and sakura petals that were born to soothe nerves, perhaps. You have no such luck.

As you near the central corridor, several attendants in muted lavender and dove-grey kosode appear. They bow in unison and one steps forward with her hands folded respectfully.

“My lady, the inner chamber awaits,” she says, voice gentle, gesturing ahead.

You recognise none of them. They are not yours—not Izumi—not familiar, not home. Appointed by the palace, their roles are ceremonial, practised, and silent. You wonder if they can sense how afraid you are or if they would even care, if they did.

Inside, the dressing chamber is wide, its pale wood floors gleaming beneath the glow of paper lanterns. Shoji screens filter sunlight into golden lattice shapes across the floor. The ceiling beams are lacquered dark and polished to mirror sheen, reflecting movement below.

A folding screen painted with cranes and chrysanthemums hides the corner where your wedding garments are already laid out.

“You will need assistance to dress, my lady,” says one of the women gently, bowing. Another arrives bearing a basin of warm water steeped with sakura and yuzu. “But first, the cleansing.”

You nod and step behind the screen. Your garments fall away one by one—first, your formal and travelling kimono, then the modest white layers beneath. Each fold carries a symbol: your clan, your station, your past. And as they are peeled from you, the girl you were feels like she is being erased.

A soft cotton yukata is offered in modesty, but you still feel exposed. Cold not in body, but in spirit. It is always Izumi who does this, not strangers with perfumed hands and empty expressions.

They begin to cleanse you. Cloth soaked in floral water traces your skin—shoulders, arms, back—but never your face. It feels like a ritual, like less than preparation and more like erasure. But your resolve is strong.

As they work, you try to still your thoughts, but they spill over.

You think of your mother’s strict voice: “Stand tall. Speak softly. Smile, but not with teeth.” A woman must be composed, a bride must be perfect. You think of Izumi, who never asked you to be anything but yourself. And you think of Gojo’s voice again: “If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly.”

He does not find you beautiful.

And to someone raised to shape herself into beauty, who was told it was her only coin in this world, that is cruel, even if unintended.

You inhale, shaky. You are tired. Tired of being tailored to someone else’s desire: your mother’s, your father’s, your siblings’ (who felt like competitors rather than family), and now a groom who is painfully truthful.

When the cleansing ends, they help you into your ceremonial kimono. Then, they seat you before a lacquered vanity. Another woman approaches with delicate brushes and bowls of pigment.

Your reflection stares back at you from a polished bronze mirror. They affix your coiffure. Your skin is retouched: face a pale white rice powder, your eyebrows darkened, lip crimson, and no rouge. The image is elegant, striking, and beautiful, but it is not yours. It is a mask. One that he will not admire.

Your chest tightens. Tighter now that a fist knocks softly against the screen.

“My lady?” comes a familiar voice, warm and sweet as red bean paste. Your chest feels looser now. Izumi peeks in, and her smile, wide and bright, feels like sunlight after days of rain.

“You bear the face of a poem,” she says.

You blink. Your vision blurs. “Do I? You know my fondness for poetry.”

“A poem,” she nods, her gaze fond, “of your composition, not one penned by your family.”

You reach for her hand. It is warm and grounding.

“Time draws near, my lady,” one of the attendants murmurs and catches your gaze and smile.

You glance back at Izumi. “Before I take my leave, I must ask—what, pray, is a concubine?”

Izumi’s expression softens, but sadness flickers in her eyes. She had hoped to shield you from the word. But you are a bride now, and brides must know the world as it is. “Forgive me, I should have spoken of it prior to our arrival here,” she begins gently, but you shake your head and interrupt. “Think nothing of it, for my parents have said little… and I find myself embarrassed by my ignorance.”

“A concubine, my lady, is a woman who shares a man’s bed, though she is not his lawful wife. She lives under his protection, yet she holds no claim to marriage or title.” Izumi’s explanation is respectful and euphemistic.

You blink, stunned. “You meant to say, only for his pleasure? And nothing more is expected of her?”

Ami. That is what she is to him. And they know each other that way?

Your cheeks flush, pale powder unable to hide the heat of shame and heartbreak.

“Gracious… such arrangements are permitted? Without marriage? I can scarcely believe it.” Your voice hints at your heartbreak. “…I had thought such affections were meant for one alone—for me.”

“I know it seems unkind, my lady… but such is the custom, especially for one as high as the Shogun. A concubine’s purpose beyond his pleasure is to bear children; after that, nothing more. It is a matter of securing his heirs and legacy, not affection. It does not lessen your place.” She tries to comfort you. Of course she does.

“If heirs are what he seeks, I am more than capable; I would give him many. Why must my worth be divided with another?” Your voice breaks on the word. You bite your lip, but not too hard to ruin the pigment. Your dark eyebrows contour into the heaviest frown.

Izumi’s expression falls, aching for you. “Again, my lady, your worth is not lessened. You are his bride—the one who stands beside him before all others. A concubine bears children, yes, but she does not hold your place in his palace or heart.”

“It sickens me to think of it, and he does not admire me. I cannot hope to hold any part of his heart.” Izumi frowns, then, “You’ve met him already? And he had a concubine by his side? Is that why you speak so?”

“Yes… I encountered him whilst seeking solitude in the garden. But I departed with nothing but a bruised heart.”

She sighs deeply, then her voice lowers, as if wishing she could spare you this. “Then, I will say only this, my lady: the first meeting is not the whole of him. Men are not poems. They are chapters. And this is only your first.”

The attendant interrupts the conversation, polite but urgent, “Time draws near, my lady,” she repeats, “The wedding ceremony is soon to begin. Might I suggest continuing this conversation another hour?”

Izumi turns to you, squeezes your hand. “If I could mend your heart this very moment, I would… but time has come, my lady. You must go.”

And so you do.

You walk toward your wedding like one walks toward winter: wrapped in silk and ceremony, but inside, trembling.

You do not carry joy in your heart, only silence and unmet hopes.

But still, you walk forward. Farther and farther from the inner chambers of the Ōoku compound until you reach where your wedding will occur.

The ceremonial kimono you wear shimmers like moonlight on a lake, an elaborate shiromuku. White from head to toe, threads of sapphire blue—a shade of your groom’s eyes—and gold brocade run like veins through its silken folds. The long furisode sleeves brush against the stretched tatami mats with each measured step you take, trailing elegance behind you along with two of your attendants.

Gojo, seated at the far end beneath the painted screen of cranes and pine, lifts his gaze at last. His eyes, paler than sapphire blue, fix upon you. He observes the embroidered chrysanthemum and trailing vines blooming across the hem in glinting gold thread. Then, his gaze lingers on your tsunokakushi, the while silk headpiece that veiled your orante adorned with sapphire blue lacquered kanzashi and combs shaped like delicate peonies. His eyes reach your waist, an obi layered with a dark brocade pattern tied with an intricate cord, trailing tassels that sway with your breath.

“Who knew she could be radiant? That wedding kimono does all the work.” Gojo thinks, then pushes the thought away as soon as it comes.

By the time your anxious, disheartened eyes reach him, he is already looking elsewhere. You observe his robes that are of the hitatare, a ceremonial garb reserved for those of the highest rank. Sapphire blue silk drapes his strong shoulders like the falling dusk, dyed in a shade both noble and subdued, rich with the weight of ancestral formality. The sleeves hug long and full, fastened with sodekukuri cords at the arms, lending the garment its stately silhouette. Across his broad chest, tied neatly beneath the collar, lay the munahimo, the chest cord, binding the layers of fabric in place like a warrior’s vow. Resting upon his brow is the eboshi, a black lacquered cap shaped with folded wings, its peak turned gracefully to the left, that a sign of his office. At his waist tucks the chisagatana, a ceremonial short blade that is of symbol, not a weapon. Yet, its presence reminds all that your groom is a ruler and a protector with incomparable power and strength.

“Such a shame he is not fond of me. He is every inch the gentleman I once dreamed of,” you think, and that plagues your mind as soon as it comes.

The marriage hall in the Edo Castle lay in profound stillness, gold-leaf fusama screens framed the room with images of cranes taking flight over pine and plum, an auspicious symbol of longevity and fidelity. The scent of camellia oil and freshly laid straw mingles with the faint smoke of ceremonial incense. Those of his family stood in their appointed places at the periphery, their robes still as the painted trees on the walls. Beyond the hall is the unseen garden, a winding path stirring through the pines, but here within, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

The silence deepens as the shrine official steps forward, dressed in layered robes of white and vermilion. His presence is humble, but when he speaks, his voice cuts through the hush like the distant toll of a temple bell. The san-san-kudo is brought forth, along with three nested sakazuki lacquered sake cups that are sapphire blue and gold, and the size of a plum blossom, placed between you and your groom. The shrine official bows low and begins the intonation: solemn, ancient words calling upon the kami to bless this union with peace, harmony, and perseverance through the changing seasons of life.

You kneel, and Gojo mirrors the motion, casting only a glance in your direction. The ritual is deliberate. You take three sips from each of the three cups, alternating—first he drinks, then you. The sake is faintly warm, carrying a bitter sweetness that lingers like unspoken hopes on your tongue.

Nine sips. Three times three. A sacred number, a binding.

When your fingers brush his as you pass the second cup, a quiet jolt runs through your veins. He does not react, but you wonder if he felt it too. When the final cup is emptied, the official declares what everyone already knows, “By the sacred rite of san-san-kudo and the will of the gods, this union is sealed. May the spirits of your ancestors bear witness. From this day forward, you are husband and wife under heaven,” he bows, deep and slow. Those of the family, still as lacquered dolls until now, bow in unison, the air shifting. Then, another silence, longer this time.

Gojo rises first. He does not offer you his hand, though you feel the weight of his gaze as he walks past. There is no smile or a whisper of congratulations, only a quiet nod. It is not unkind, as you are getting accustomed to, but it is unreadable.

Your attendants help you to your feet, the furisode sleeveless trailing like mist behind you as you follow him out of the hall. Through the painted gold fusuma doors, into the long corridor of pine-shadowed lacquer and faint incense.

No one speaks. You have married a man of legend, and he has married a stranger. The corridor stretches ahead like the path of your new life—polished, gleaming, and lined with closed doors. Yet you do not know which of them he will open to you.

You are brought to the inner quarters through a corridor illuminated only by paper lanterns. The hush deepens as the world outside fades behind you, the faint murmurs of distant attendants replaced by the soft shuffle of your geta and the sigh of silk brushing lacquered wood.

Inside, the bridal chamber is a sanctuary of stillness. Gold-painted fusuma screens depict red-crowned cranes among pine branches and layered clouds. A brazier warms the air faintly, and the scent of white camellia oil lingers, soothing but sharp. Tatami mats stretch beneath a lacquered frame supporting the bedding, a layered silk futon arranged with ceremonial precision, and a sapphire blue brocade pillow placed at one end.

Your attendants follow after you quietly. With them comes a warmed bowl of water scented with sakura and yuzu, along with a folded hemp cloth, a nuka bag, and drops of camellia oil. They prepare the folding screen shield, and soon it stands for you. Then, they bow and leave you, Izumi replacing them soon enough.

She helps you disrobe from the white shiromuku with careful reverence, folding the heavy fabric as if laying aside a scared chrysalis. A fresh garment awaits, a soft sapphire kakeshita patterned with flying cranes and blossoms, the hem padded and edged in gold. A warmer tone now, less celestial, more feminine, more intimate.

You sit as she adjusts your obi and gathers your hair again. Simpler now, though the lacquered kanzashi remain. This time, shaped like plum petals and irises instead of peonies. Your mask of white powder, darkened eyebrows, and red-tinted lips is removed with the hemp cloth and nuka bag provided. Drops of camellia oil are massaged into your skin to restore its original softness and scent.

You feel exposed, not physically but inwardly, like a poem written without a metaphor. However, you do feel true to yourself.

“I shall take my leave now, my lady. Your husband will be here shortly to share the night with you.”

You stop her with a question on your heavy heart. “You speak though as it is certain… but how can it be, when he sees no beauty in me?” she sighs, her sadness for you resuming within herself.

But she speaks with quiet hope, encouraging you to feel the same, “Have a little faith, my lady. I pray that he will.”

“…Very well. You may take your leave now…” You give her a melancholic smile, your voice soft, and she returns your smile.

“Izumi?” you call out to her one last time for today in a whisper before she withdraws.

“My lady?”

“Your presence—especially today—means more to me than you know,” the smile she returned seconds ago returns.

“I am simply glad to be of comfort to you. Serving you has always been my greatest honour,” you smile again, only this time, it is more genuine than melancholic.

She smiles for the last time, then she leaves.

You are alone.

You wait.

The candle burns lower in its dish, and a single moth flutters near the lamp, then disappears.

When the door finally shifts open, it does so without formality. No herald, no attendants, just him. Your husband.

Gojo enters, clad in a deep navy sleeping robe that parts at the collar, tied with a plain slash. He is bare of ornament, the polished veneer of office stripped down. Though that does not make him less imposing, no.

He says nothing for a long time, his eyes move from the futon to your sapphire robes, then to your face. “You are newly dressed,” he observes, his tone unreadable.

But beneath the tone hides awe for your natural beauty. “She needs no paint… her beauty is far more striking when left untouched,” he thinks—and quietly regrets his words in the garden.

“As tradition dictates,” you answer, hands resting on your lap, and he nods, pushing away the thoughts he found ridiculous.

Another silence that prompts you to wonder if he will reach for the ties of your obi.

He does not.

He walks to the inner alcove where the incense burner rests, adjusts the wick, and breathes in the scent.

“You ought to rest now,” he says, “the day has been lengthy for you.” Just like that, he turns, walks to the opposite side of the room, and kneels beside a folded bedding mat placed discreetly against the wall. He lies down with his back facing you.

You remain kneeling a while longer.

There is no rejection, no cruelty. Just space made by one heart—his. While yours ached to close it.

“You do not intend to claim your rights as my husband?” you speak up before biting your lip, your voice a whisper, and shivering.

Your words briefly catch him off guard. He did not expect you to speak up, and it made his strong body tense slightly. “Such pursuits do not occupy my mind,” he answers simply, devoid of any emotion.

“Even if tradition dictates it? Am I that displeasing to you, my lord?” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

That made him shift on the folded bedding mat, finally turning to face you while lying down still. “Foolish, you are adequate,” he answers. The kindest thing he has said.

He is not unwilling to call you beautiful, but unpracticed in expressing it. And his earlier, regrettable words still sit like tones on his tongue.

“No more than adequate?” you continue to whisper, wounded by his restraint.

Radiant is what he wanted to say. However, his nature as a layered and reserved man prevented him from voicing his thoughts. He sighs, standing up from the mat, making his way to the ceremonially arranged futon where you are still kneeling.

“I shall share this futon with you tonight,” he says, surprising you. He lies down on his side while you adjust to yours, his back to you. “In hopes that you might not feel the need to ask such questions,” he finalises.

You think of Izumi, and the name Ami stirs on your lips—but you hold it back.

You finally lie on your back.

One hand aching to hold him.

The candle flickers once, then dies.

He is so close yet so far.

And so your first night as husband and wife passes without passion and with a simple conversation between two strangers.

The room is steeped with stillness, the kind that only arrives deep into the night when even insects seem too weary to sing. The candle has no life, and the chamber is dark. Only the moon, veiled in a thin silken mist, casts a silver lattice across the tatami mats and onto the futon where two bodies lie.

Gojo Satoru awakens.

He lies awake on his back, his snowy-white hair dishevelled against the pillow, his breath deep but measured. The pulse in his throat beats visibly. The room is too quiet for comfort, even if he is used to silence. His skin itches with the weight of a dozen unsaid things.

The woman beside him—you, his bride—sleeps curled on your side, your back to him. Your breathing is soft, steady. You sleep like someone unaccustomed to rest and exhausted by the ceremony—it is peaceful. He does not know that kind of sleep.

His cerulean eyes shift to your outline in the dark. The space between you and him remains distant.

He refused passion earlier. He has that awkwardness so thick it clings to his mouth like lacquer. He had not touched you in the way you asked for, for the air between you two is too raw, too unfamiliar. The conversation was over quickly, like a storm that left behind neither destruction nor renewal… only silence.

And now, the silence gnaws at him. When, for so long, it was his solace.

Gojo presses a hand to his forehead, thumb brushing the bridge of his nose. It should have felt like a triumph—securing a noble bride, performing the sacred rites, following in his father’s (the previous Shogun whom he had surpassed) path—but all it did was hollow him further.

He rises slowly, pushing back the futon covers with careful restraint, unwilling to wake you. He shifts a little to your side. He eyes your alluring sleeping figure, his hand grazing your hip, his mind wondering what it would be like if he kissed your cheek.

He does not. His hand pulls back.

The wooden floor is cool beneath his feet as he kneels by the edge of the room, sliding the shogi screen open just enough to see a pocket garden bathed in moonlight.

The wind smells of dew and earth. The koi pond glimmers faintly.

He exhales.

There is a heaviness on his chest, one that no armour can shield, no sword can vanquish. Not even this marriage, politically perfect, ceremonially ordained, could ease it. If anything, it worsened it.

Because Gojo Satoru, for his brilliance and beauty, is unbearably alone. Regardless of his newfound wife and his concubines.

He is the Shogun, a title lacquered in power, prestige, and isolation. Everyone bows. Everyone obeys. But no one sees. Not truly.

He has grown tired of being adorned from a distance. Tired of being called divine, untouchable, magnificent. Of walking corridors filled with respectful whispers but no voices brave enough to converse with him.

The country rests on his shoulders like an invisible yoke. The feudal lords demand decisions. The court expects omniscience. His late father, perhaps even his mother, expects monstrous sword skills. Even his concubines perform with masks so practised that he cannot tell what is real.

And now, his wife—his lawful wife—lies on the futon he just left, and he does not even know what your laughter sounds like. He does not know what makes you cry, what kind of food you prefer, your favourite thing to do, and so much more.

What kind of husband is that?

His hands curl into loose fists on his knees.

He recalls the way you looked at him earlier that day—how your voice faltered after he made that careless remark. “If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly…”

He regrets it now. For he did not know the beauty you are underneath the ludicrous makeup.

The truth is, you unsettled him.

Not because you are radiant, though you are, but because you did not ‘worship’ him. You looked at him like a man, not a god. And he does not know how to be that anymore. He does not even recall being a boy.

Something shifts behind him. A rustle of bedding. He half-turns.

You stir slightly but do not rise. Your head shifts on the pillow, facing his side of the futon, though your eyes remain closed.

Gojo watches you a moment longer, then pulls the screen closed again. The pocket garden disappears from view.

He returns to the futon silently, his movement almost reverent. He lies down again, this time, closer. Not touching, but near enough to feel your warmth.

In the dark, his voice is barely a whisper. Not meant to wake her, not meant for anyone to hear.

“…My words were false…you looked lovely today.”

The words hand in the dark like incense smoke, unsensed but lingering.

He closes his eyes, and for a while, just listens to your breath. It is the only sound in the world that does not demand anything from him.

It does not put him back to sleep. But it is enough for him to linger with you until he must rise.

The first thing you feel is absence.

A stillness in the futon beside you: no warmth, nor rustle of breath. The heavy silence that once comforted you now pressed like a weight upon your chest.

You open your eyes.

Soft daylight seeps through the shoji, casting pale latticework onto the floor. The incense has long died, the candle is burned to the stub, and the bedclothes beside you are perfectly undisturbed.

As if he had never lain there at all.

Doubt settles within you.

Did he lie with you just for show? Then left as soon as you fell asleep?

You sit up slowly, your limbs heavy with the fatigue of ceremony and longing. The sapphire kakeshita still wraps around you, its inner lining faintly creased. You trace the fold where your obi was tied, now loose, askew. A single plum-blossom kanzashi lies beside your pillow, its golden stem slightly bent, dislodged, perhaps, as you turned toward where he had once been.

But he is no longer here.

Besides, if he followed tradition, you should have been undressed right now, kanzashi put away somewhere, bare from head to toe. Instead of having your robes and ornaments askew.

You rise, half-expecting the door to open, half-hoping this is merely a moment between breaths and he will return with some quiet apology, or even nothing at all. You would accept nothing. You would accept silence if only he stayed.

This begs the question of whether you are that naive to long for a stranger, the same stranger who thinks you are no more than adequate, the same stranger who seems to prefer his concubine over his wife—wife on ink, that is.

Maybe it was your childhood fairy tales that had brainwashed you into your longing. After all, you came here expecting the opposite of what he has shown you. You came here thinking your marriage would be different from your parents’, and it seems it would not be.

The door slides open.

You expected Gojo, but it is Izumi instead. You are not entirely disappointed, though.

She steps inside with careful grace, her hands folded, eyes lowered as if she already knows.

You force composure into your voice. “He has gone… far, has he not?”

“My lady, the Shogun is presently engaged in training in the swordsmanship hall.”

You nod slowly. “Did he… say anything before he left?”

Izumi shakes her head. “His lord said you were not to be disturbed, my lady—that you should rest well.”

And there it is again—that gentle cruelty. The kindness that spares you confrontation, but not the ache.

You press your palms into your lap. “I see.”

Izumi begins to gather the bedding with quiet efficiency, but you remain seated on the edge, unmoving. Your gaze lingers on the place where he had lain. Where, for a brief moment, you had imagined—hoped—that something between you might take root.

But the morning after is colder than the night before.

Another servant enters respectfully with a tray: green tea, warm rice, umeboshi, and a single preserved sakura flower in honey. Your breakfast is bittersweet, so is your marriage.

You take the teacup with trembling hands.

So this is how an arranged marriage begins—not with closeness, but with ritual emptiness. A space where something sacred should be. A futon is cold on one side. A husband is already gone.

You wonder if he even looked back.

Then, slowly, you begin to sip.

The hour of the horse had come: midday. And by this hour, you had been moved from the bridal chamber and back to the ladies’ compound.

The sun spills over the pale shoji screens, softening the lacquered edges of the Ōoku’s private dining chamber with filtered warmth. You are escorted from your quarters by two silent attendants, their heads bowed the entire time, not once daring to meet your eyes. The corridor had been long, lined with finely tended pines and winding stone paths glimpsed through half-open panels, but the hush of the Ōoku remains thick as water, oppressive despite its beauty.

The women had already begun to gather when you entered.

There were eight of them, not including yourself, dressed in hues of spring: cherry blossom pinks, iris blues, pale celadons. Their garments shimmered faintly under the daylight, a subtle reminder of their ranks, appointments, and proximity to the shogun’s attention. Most of them glance at you with careful eyes: neither welcoming nor cold, but measured, as one would asses a procelain figure placed on the same shelf.

A lacquered tray had already been placed at your assigned seat, beside a small painted screen featuring cranes among reeds. The tatami beneath you is soft, freshly brushed, and your cushion bears the mon of your family—evidence of the power you once held before being given to the shogun. Power that the concubines did not possess.

You bow slightly and sit with quiet grace. No one speaks to you. Not yet.

The midday meal is presented by servants in a quiet procession: five small courses are placed with ceremonial precision. Each dish in a black-lacquered bento compartment, the gold leaf trimming flickering in the soft light.

There is a clear dashi broth with shimeji mushrooms and slices of yuzu peel—fragrant and light. Next to it, a small rectangle of tamagoyaki, sweet and delicately layered, its warmth still lingering as if it had been made minutes before. A serving of grilled ayu, its skin crisped and brushed with soy glaze, is presented with a tiny wedge of sudachi and a pinch of sansho pepper. Pickled lotus root, cut into floral shapes, nestled besieged a bowl of steamed rice flecked with sesame seeds and green tea salt. And for the final dish: a trio of wagashi sweets—azuki bean yokan, a delicate sakura mochi wrapped in a salted cherry leaf, and a bite-sized yuzu manju.

You take your first bite of the tamagoyaki, savouring its comforting sweetness. Then a sip of broth. It is warm, tender, and for the first time that day, you feel a breath inside your chest ease. The taste brings you to a place outside of duty, outside of silence and courtly restraint. You let yourself eat slowly, savouring the textures, the intricacies of flavour, the careful harmony of it all.

Across the room, a soft murmur begins between two women seated near the corner.

You recognise one immediately.

Ami.

The other name haunting your thoughts and feelings.

She wore a violet kimon patterned with wisteria vines and a silver obi that caught light like moonlit water. Her hair was done in an elaborate shimada, adorned with ornamental pins shaped like peacock feathers. She leaned close to another concubine, a woman with a sharp nose and narrow mouth, whose name you have yet to learn. They whisper low, but not too low.

“It was my quarters he visited first, you should know,” Ami says with a hushed thrill, her fan hiding the lower curve of her smirk.

The other woman raises her brows, tone equally hushed. “So soon after the wedding rites? One would think the morning belonged to the bride,” she glances at you briefly, hoping you do not feel her glance. You do.

Ami gives her a small, silken laugh. “It seems he left the marriage bed unsatisfied—justice for our lord. Fortunately, he knows where to be truly pleased.”

“A bold claim, considering his visits did not end with you.” Ami’s eye twitches, but she lets it go quickly as she seems close to this nameless woman.

You do not look at them. You keep your gaze fixed on the bowl of rice, the gentle specks of sesame and green tea salt now suddenly alien. It is foolish to be affected—he is the shogun, and she is a concubine long before you became his wife. Of course, he would visit her. And you had already talked to Izumi about this matter, so you should be stronger now.

Still, the air shifts in your lungs. You swallow, but the tamagoyaki now tastes dry.

So he can spend a morning with Ami, the rest of his concubines, but not a night with you?

Ami voices again, this time a touch louder. “It is well we know of our station. The lady is most refined, yes—but refinement, as you know, is for spectacle, not for pleasure.”

You force a serene expression, lifting your teacup as if to disguise the sting her words delivered.

“Do you notice the way she takes her meal?” Ami continues, tone still light, as if you are not across from her. “One might think she’d never been taught temperance at the table. Her poor obi is holding on for dear life.”

You lower your cup then.

And for a brief moment, you are no longer in the Ōoku. You are in your childhood garden again, sitting beneath the plum blossoms, while your mother’s voice hissed like wind through the branches after quite the midday meal.

“A lady’s refinement begins at the table. If one cannot master her own appetite, how might she govern a household?!”

Shame creeps like vines under your skin. You usually eat delicately—small bites, slow pace—but in your first moments of comfort, perhaps you show too much ease. Or worse, enjoyment.

The rice in your mouth turns to ash. You press your chopsticks gently on the edge of the tray and fold your hands in your lap.

You would not eat another bite.

The meal continues around her. The women laugh softly at inside jokes and shared compliments on the sakura mochi, but their words sound distant now, muffled by the dull thrum rising in your chest.

You smile, faint and practised. When you finally stand up to excuse yourself, you bow with the poise of a statue carved from moonstone.

Your attendants await you silently outside. You walk back to your quarters like a shadow, soundless through the corridors, eyes fixed on the polished wood at your feet.

The door slides shut behind you, and you are alone.

Your quarter had been tidied in your absence. The brazier refuelled, the futon folded, the inkstone and brush beside a fresh parchment of washi paper placed upon your writing table. A small vase of roses remains by the window, their petals still stiff with morning bloom.

You walk to the vanity first. With practised fingers, you remove the kanzashi from your hair, each pin sliding free like a sigh. Then, you kneel by the basin, dip a cloth in the water bowl, and press it to your lips.

You do not cry.

You kneel for a long time before standing and walking to the inner corner, where the brazier and waste basin stood beside the partitioning screen.

You bend over, slow and quiet. Two fingers down your throat. A shudder. Then, everything you have eaten, every precious bite, rises and leaves you.

The taste of rice and tea salt burns against your throat. Your ribs ache. Your eyes water, but still, no tears. You are used to it anyway.

When it is over, you rinse your mouth with yuzu water, wipe your lips with another cloth, this time, and head back to your writing table.

The poem comes slowly, drawn from the well of silence inside you.

Aside from gardens, you indeed love poems. For while the gardens provided you solitude, poems helped you express every thought and feeling you could not.

You dip your brush in ink, and with careful strokes, write:

宝永四年三月二十七日 Hōei 4, 3rd month, 27th day

吾（われ）、御伽噺（おとぎばなし）を恨（うら）まず…。 I do not blame the fairy tales…

されど、物語（ものがたり）は紗（しゃ）の帳（とばり）に隠（かく）る。 But the tales are in veils.

墨（すみ）を交（まじ）へしとき、花嫁（はなよめ）は婿（むこ）の懐（ふところ）を望（のぞ）むべからず。 When ink is involved, the bride must not expect to be held by her groom.

婿（むこ）は翳（かげ）にして、寂（さび）しき影（かげ）なり。 For he is a gloom.

その心（こころ）と身（み）は他処（よそ）にあり、 For his heart and body are elsewhere,

我（われ）が胸（むね）を責（せ）む、まことに誓（ちか）ふ。 And it pains me, I swear.

母（はは）の影（かげ）より逃（のが）れしと思（おも）ふや否（いな）、また我（われ）を追（お）ふなり。 Beyond that, just when I thought I’d escaped my mother’s shadow, she follows me.

今度（こんど）は異（こと）なる貌（かお）、異（こと）なる姿（すがた）、異（こと）なる独言（ひとりごと）にて。 This time in another face, in another shape, in another soliloquy.

嗚呼（ああ）、命（いのち）、御伽噺（おとぎばなし）の如（ごと）くあらんことを祈（いの）る。 Oh, I pray that life is like a fairy tale.

You place the brush down. The ink smudges slightly, but you do not fix it.

You stare at the poem instead.

Not as a work of beauty.

But as a stitched wound unstitched, with a drop of salt peppering it.

And you finally cry.

꣑ৎ chapter two coming soon | liked this? check out my mlist!

── .✦ likes & reblogs appreciated <3 | © yxtoru | do not plagiarise. ── .✦ dividers by honeyluvsw & sweetmelodygraphics | recoloured fanart by me ── .✦ taglist: @sadmonke @viiennie @bunheadusa @amesenseii @rh-tg1 @aestheticghoul @loopypoopysblog @purplefluffycows @usbrous @emochosoluvr @rcveriees (want to get tagged? click here)

[mytoru]

RASCAL DOES NOT DREAM OF MY MASTERLIST

A Logical Witch (dialogue/writing prompts)

⌗ NANAMI 01 // 02

⌗ GOJO 01 // 02

A Sister Home Alone (sfw content)

⌗ TRADITION SAYS k. nanami

⌗ MY GIRL m. fushiguro

⌗ KAMI-SAMA s. geto

⌗ CONSUME s. gojo

⌗ POMEGRANATE SEEDS s. gojo

Petite Devil Kohai (nsfw content)

⌗ A LIL EXTRA LOVIN’ c. kamo

⌗ MAY THE BEST MAN WIN k. nanami

⌗ TRY ME t. fushiguro

⌗ ART DECO s. gojo

⌗ MEANIE s. kong

Siscon Idol (headcannons)

⌗ TOJI 01 //

⌗ GETO 01 //

A Dreaming Girl (series)

⌗ SINFUL WATCHERS s. geto (nsfw)

[mytoru]

might get cancelled for this but not like i give a fuck but some of you need to understand tumblr fame means nothing. we're literally posting about pixelated cocks. some of you with superiority complex need to pipe down if you think people here owe you anything or people should worship your presence. and some of you people in the fandom need to stop treating your idol blogs like god on here and make a team to pit against other writers or artists. just because you have huge number of followers does not immediately give you authority to belittle those who don't. i hate to break it to you but no one in their right mind gives a fuck about followers count. have a lovely day and humble yourself.

[mytoru]

240417 JAEMIN IG Update

[mytoru]

240824 NCT IG Update

[mytoru]

20 Compelling Positive-Negative Trait Pairs

Here are 20 positive and negative trait pairs that can create compelling character dynamics in storytelling:

1. Bravery - Recklessness: A character is courageous in the face of danger but often takes unnecessary risks.

2. Intelligence - Arrogance: A character is exceptionally smart but looks down on others.

3. Compassion - Naivety: A character is deeply caring but easily deceived due to their trusting nature.

4. Determination - Stubbornness: A character is persistent in their goals but unwilling to adapt or compromise.

5. Charisma - Manipulativeness: A character is charming and persuasive but often uses these traits to exploit others.

6. Resourcefulness - Opportunism: A character is adept at finding solutions but is also quick to exploit situations for personal gain.

7. Loyalty - Blind Obedience: A character is fiercely loyal but follows orders without question, even when they're wrong.

8. Optimism - Denial: A character remains hopeful in difficult times but often ignores harsh realities.

9. Humor - Inappropriateness: A character lightens the mood with jokes but often crosses the line with their humor.

10. Generosity - Lack of Boundaries: A character is giving and selfless but often neglects their own needs and well-being.

11. Patience - Passivity: A character is calm and tolerant but sometimes fails to take action when needed.

12. Wisdom - Cynicism: A character has deep understanding and insight but is often pessimistic about the world.

13. Confidence - Overconfidence: A character believes in their abilities but sometimes underestimates challenges.

14. Honesty - Bluntness: A character is truthful and straightforward but often insensitive in their delivery.

15. Self-discipline - Rigidity: A character maintains strong control over their actions but is inflexible and resistant to change.

16. Adventurousness - Impulsiveness: A character loves exploring and trying new things but often acts without thinking.

17. Empathy - Overwhelm: A character deeply understands and feels others' emotions but can become overwhelmed by them.

18. Ambition - Ruthlessness: A character is driven to achieve great things but willing to do anything, even unethical, to succeed.

19. Resilience - Emotional Detachment: A character can endure hardships without breaking but often seems emotionally distant.

20. Strategic - Calculative: A character excels at planning and foresight but can be cold and overly pragmatic in their decisions.

These pairs create complex, multi-dimensional characters that can drive rich, dynamic storytelling.

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[mytoru]

The symbolism of flowers

Flowers have a long history of symbolism that you can incorporate into your writing to give subtext.

Symbolism varies between cultures and customs, and these particular examples come from Victorian Era Britain. You'll find examples of this symbolism in many well-known novels of the era!

Amaryllis: Pride

Black-eyed Susan: Justice

Bluebell: Humility

Calla Lily: Beauty

Pink Camellia: Longing

Carnations: Female love

Yellow Carnation: Rejection

Clematis: Mental beauty

Columbine: Foolishness

Cyclamen: Resignation

Daffodil: Unrivalled love

Daisy: Innocence, loyalty

Forget-me-not: True love

Gardenia: Secret love

Geranium: Folly, stupidity

Gladiolus: Integrity, strength

Hibiscus: Delicate beauty

Honeysuckle: Bonds of love

Blue Hyacinth: Constancy

Hydrangea: Frigid, heartless

Iris: Faith, trust, wisdom

White Jasmine: Amiability

Lavender: Distrust

Lilac: Joy of youth

White Lily: Purity

Orange Lily: Hatred

Tiger Lily: Wealth, pride

Lily-of-the-valley: Sweetness, humility

Lotus: Enlightenment, rebirth

Magnolia: Nobility

Marigold: Grief, jealousy

Morning Glory: Affection

Nasturtium: Patriotism, conquest

Pansy: Thoughtfulness

Peony: Bashfulness, shame

Poppy: Consolation

Red Rose: Love

Yellow Rose: Jealously, infidelity

Snapdragon: Deception, grace

Sunflower: Adoration

Sweet Willian: Gallantry

Red Tulip: Passion

Violet: Watchfulness, modesty

Yarrow: Everlasting love

Zinnia: Absent, affection