#Reflecting on God’s Discipline | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alygator77 · 1 month ago

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࿐ vows of duty ── part 1

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

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

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

࿐wc. 16.4k (suuuurprise.... heh)

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there was your clan.

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

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

Respected. Feared. Established.

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

And that was why you were here tonight.

Because power, recognized power.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet…

There was something about tonight that felt… different.

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

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

Not in person. Not until tonight.

"Fix your kimono.”

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

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

You didn’t argue. You never argued.

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

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

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

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

"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed was familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would not challenge him. She never did.

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

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

The Gojo Estate.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stilled slightly.

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

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

It was not a home.

It was a throne.

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

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think they’ll get creative?”

“They always do.”

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

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

Suguru hums, tilting his head.

“You’d make a fortune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You… really think it’s that simple?”

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

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

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

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”

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

There’s a lingering silence.

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

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

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

“Gee, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck off.”

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

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.

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

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

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

Satoru blinks.

“Uh. Duh.”

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

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

Satoru’s gaze narrows.

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

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

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”

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

“Mm... four, if you really try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

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

But Suguru knows better.

He always has.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

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

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

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

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

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

Assigned by status.

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

You barely register it.

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

A dojo.

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

It is… perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, she is gone.

It’s not the first time.

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

And she goes anyway. Every time.

Why?

You begin to ponder.

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

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

“You’re in my seat.”

The words are crisp. Clipped.

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

Shit.

You’ve sat in the wrong seat.

Not just any seat.

His seat.

Gojo Hajime.

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

And you—you—have just taken his seat.

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

“How disgraceful.”

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

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

Eyes begin to turn.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

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

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

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

Because everyone knows that voice.

Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

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

The elder bristles.

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

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

“The council—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

You blink. “…do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”

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

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

“I… didn’t mean it like that.”

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

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

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

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

Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.

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

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

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

What the hell are you supposed to say to him?

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

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

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

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

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

“See ya around, sweetheart.”

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

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

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

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

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

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

Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.

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

And they know it.

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

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

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

Satoru groans. Loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru doesn’t even look at her.

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

The girl from earlier.

And just like that, his mind is made up.

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

Not toward her.

Toward you.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Dance with me.”

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

It’s not a request.

It’s a decision.

A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.

And the room knows it.

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

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

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

“She would love to.”

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

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

An honor.

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

You will dance with Satoru Gojo.

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

“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”

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

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

Into the center of everything.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.

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

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

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

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

For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.

For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.

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

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

And then, stillness. The dance is over.

You should step away. You should let go.

But Satoru lingers.

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

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

Soft. Unhurried.

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

Damn him.

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

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

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

Geto Suguru. His best friend.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t. Not yet.

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

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

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

A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

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

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

But their patience is wearing thin.

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

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

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

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

A tense silence follows.

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

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

His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.

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

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

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

There it is.

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

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

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

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

Ugh. Not this bullshit again.

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

His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.

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

“You will sit down, Satoru.”

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

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

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

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

Satoru stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even the strongest will one day fall.

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

A memory. A voice.

Suguru.

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

Geto Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every file reads the same.

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

Gross.

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

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

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

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

Jesus.

It’s all the same.

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

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

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

Tch.

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

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

You.

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

He knows you… right?

Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.

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

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

Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.

Right. Of course. Same as the rest.

But then, his eyes flick lower.

Martial arts.

His brow lifts.

Huh. Now that’s new.

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

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

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

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

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

“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence. Then another.

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

Jesus Christ... what now?

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

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

Silence.

Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.

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

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

A flicker of unease passes between the elders.

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

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

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

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

Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.

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

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

A slow breath.

“…her family has been outcasted.”

A pause.

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

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

But he doesn’t give a shit about status.

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

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

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

Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.

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

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

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

“Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eat.”

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

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

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

“You’re staring at your food again.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You must eat.”

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

“I’m… not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

Not even the night he left.

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

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

And then, the fallout.

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

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

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

And so, neither do you.

Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.

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

“Hello?”

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

“I see…”

Another pause.

“Yes. Understood.”

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

“…mother?”

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

Hope.

“…we have been summoned.”

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

You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

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

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

Just as breathtaking.

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

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

Right… as if you needed the reminder.

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

Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh… awkward.

Is he still mad about his seat?

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

Alone with Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please… enjoy.”

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

There is an unnerving silence.

“Is it… to your liking?”

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

You blink.

What are you supposed to say to that?

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

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

For a moment, nothing.

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

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

You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “Do… what?”

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

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

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

His words catch you off guard.

People.

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

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

Oh…

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

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

Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.

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

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

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

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

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

He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”

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

His smile widens, pleased.

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

You blink. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.

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

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

“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”

You blink. “Huh?”

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

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

Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.

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

He pats his lap. Once. Twice.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily.

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

“…what?”

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

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

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

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

And yet—

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

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

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

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

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

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

A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.

Where the hell are you?

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

Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.

“Ahh, much better…”

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

“…don’t you agree?”

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

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

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

“Um…”

“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.

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

Because now, he’s all you can see.

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

“Where… are we?” you manage.

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

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

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

“G-Gojo…”

He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”

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

A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”

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

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

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

Comfortable.

Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?

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

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

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

“I—I just need to—”

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

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

“Ohp. There it is.”

Satoru moves before you can even react.

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

And suddenly, he’s everywhere.

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

The air shifts.

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

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

Yup. You’re fucked.

“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.

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

Satoru hums, knowing.

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

Wait.

You freeze.

Oh god.

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

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

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

Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…yes, please.”

Satoru hums. “Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.

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

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

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

And fuck, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

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

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

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

You can’t take your eyes off it.

Fuck

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

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

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

Your fingers twitch. “But, Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck, he seems to like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s invigorating, and so—fuck it.

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

Satoru chokes on a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O-Oh? Your breath stutters. You swallow.

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

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

Gojo Satoru doesn’t love you.

He owns you.

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

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

Home.

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

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

taglist pt 1:

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

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

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

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

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

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

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @strychnynegirl

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celibibratty · 8 months ago

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I...i don't know what to do, if mom wanted to hear something, Sorry, i don't know what to say, i don't know what path is wrong or right, I really don't know💧........now we have a depressed mom, she seem so lost....but she hurt us too,.....she needed to know that the way she treated and treat us affect us, poor marina, I hope because of the mini fight with Marina mom doesn't change her mind on finding a therapist just because we were the ones who suggested, sorry mom, even us/me being the wise person, the ones you open up to and seek for answer, for more loving and supporting we are and helps you sometimes, we are.....not the best help, cuz we are your daughters, we have traumas/beefs with you, sometimes what you say(even if it's not what you meant) will offend us, will hurt us, and same vice versa, sometimes we will hurt you, sometimes we will make you feel worse....you broken, but we are also too,.....and you need to understand that, you need to find someone else

#I hate this vibe #I don't want to eat I don't want to shower I don't want to wake up I don't want to do anything #I don't want to live this day #I just want to sleep...forever #If it was me and marina is so easy sometimes we have breakdown fights but we make up so easily i wish all relationships could be like twins #I feeling bad for marina #That will ruin her whole training motivation(which its already lacking cuz of this shitty X suspended situation💧)#I need to study(zero streght to do that💧) cuz I need to do things fast I tired #I like college but god i just can't wait to finish it I tired i tired of being disciplined I tired of doing all of this #reflection #I fear what mom can think or say of us #;ungrateful children; ;that we use her; ;that we are mean;#...It was necessary and idk i don't feel nothing to be real i think i so used to her that I don't get much anxious anymore #And im different now i don't have much afraid anymore #I just feel guilty and awkward

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amfstargirl · 3 months ago

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Yandere batfam x neglected reader

The cut that always bleed✧.* - what was i made for?

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any grammatical errors that this story may have.

Y/n L/n was a far cry from Y/n Wayne. Despite both last names, each carrying the weight of a turbulent history, "L/n" felt surprisingly lighter. Both names reminded you of the haunting shadows cast by your mother and father, yet they bore different emotional tolls. As you stood before the mirror, a somber reflection gazing back, you pondered on the 13 years—a whole decade and three more—that seemed squandered on people who couldn't hold your gaze for more than fleeting moments.

Of course, the toll it took on your emotional health was immense, but there was nothing you could do about it. You knew that no matter what you did, you could never capture their attention, not even for a moment. By the age of six, you took up martial arts, hoping your family would be proud of you for sharing their passion. But all you received was a pat on the shoulder from Dick when you won a gold medal.

At ten, you delved into video games, hoping to bond with Tim. You spent four days learning all the rules and knowledge about the game, and two whole weeks mastering it. But when you finally mustered the courage to ask Tim to play with you, he stared at you with bored eyes, barely registering your presence. After twelve minutes of rambling about the game, he sighed, pinched his eyes, and said, "I can't. I'm busy, okay?" before leaving your small room. The video game stayed in a box, forgotten and dirty, for thirteen years, a testament to the same treatment you received over and over.

You took every opportunity, every chance to learn something they were talented in, hoping to catch a glimpse of love in their eyes. But all you got were bored, empty stares. Every hobby you had was dedicated to them, except for one: ballet. The art of dancing, with its sharp and strict moves, dancing on your tiptoes, chin up, and a graceful smile on your face. Nothing could take this away from you, not even Cassandra, who was the apple of her family's eyes as she danced on stage. You loved dancing; it filled your heart with joy and bliss. You believed this was the one thing they could never take from you. That's what you thought.

Ballet demanded strict poise and discipline, watching every bite you took and every drink you swallowed. Your mother was a beautiful woman, enchanting enough to enthrall your father. Her eyes could charm thousands of men and bend their morals to her desire. She was like a siren, captivating men with her ethereal beauty. Your father was no different, dazzling people with his money, perfect white teeth, and undeniable allure. He made heads turn and people giggle at his mere presence. So why did you feel as if you were nothing like them? Created by a goddess and a god, yet you turned out to be so unsightly that your mother sneered and threw you out of her arms, forcing you into the embrace of an unknown man.

You panted lightly, staring at your features in the mirror. Why? Why? Why? Why are you like this? Why can't you feel beautiful? Why can't you be beautiful? Why can't you be a sight for sore eyes like the men and women around you? Their features blended so well with their faces, but you? You felt like a pig with makeup on. You saw beauty in everyone but never in yourself.

Your performance is in about a few more days and you haven't eaten anything healthy for the past 3 days, you're starved, you're pressured, and your family hasn't even answered your text in which you, inviting them to please come watch your performance. Dragging your body to walk home, Alfred unfortunately can't drive you home as he is too busy with work (helping your family with their nightly activities) you hiss as the cold wind blew against your fresh scars-the result of you scratching your face with your nails due to resentment for yourself because of the question in the back of your mind: “why can't you just be good enough?”

The harsh glare of your ballet dance teacher only added more pressure, intensifying the burden on your weak shoulders. You carried the lingering thought that your family didn't care about you and the nagging feeling that you would never be good enough for them. The performance was just a few days away, and you hadn't eaten anything healthy for the past three days. You were starved, pressured, and desperately longing for your family's support. Yet, your texts inviting them to watch your performance went unanswered.

Dragging your exhausted body home, you felt a deep sense of despair. Alfred, who usually drove you home, was too busy with work, assisting your family with their nightly activities. As you walked, the cold wind bit into your fresh scars, the result of scratching your face with your nails out of self-loathing. The question haunted you: "Why can't you just be good enough?"

Your footsteps echoed in the empty streets, each step a reminder of your solitude. The streetlights cast long shadows, mirroring the darkness that seemed to envelop your soul. You could hear the distant laughter of families and friends enjoying their evenings, a stark contrast to the silence that filled your life.

But even though you're killing me

Arriving home, you unlocked the door with trembling hands. The house was quiet, as it always was when you were alone. The once warm and inviting living room now felt cold and unwelcoming. You dropped your bag and collapsed onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. Tears streamed down your cheeks, a release of the pent-up frustration and sadness. Gasping for breath as you dragged your shivering legs to your cold, small bed room as you dropped your exhausted form to your squeaking bed, staining your pillows with your tears.

I need you like the air I breathe

In your heart, you still held onto a sliver of hope that your family would show up to your performance. You envisioned them in the audience, watching with pride as you executed every move with precision and grace. But reality was harsh, and you knew deep down that their absence would cut deeper than any physical wound. But you needed them. They were the salt to your wounds yet you still crave for their attention. It's not too late right?

Please.

You spent the next few days in a haze, practicing relentlessly for the upcoming performance. Every pirouette, every leap, and every graceful move was tainted by the thought of your family's indifference. You pushed your body to the limit, hoping that the pain would numb the emotional agony. Again, again, again– again y/n! You need to perfect this! This could be the chance for you to prove to them that you're worthy of their attention! That you belong in this family just as much as they do! You can't give up. Stop trembling. Stop acting so weak. If you don't stop acting like a child then maybe they'll eventually throw you out of the house too.

Please

The day of the performance arrived, and you stood backstage, nervously adjusting your costume. Your heart pounded in your chest as you peeked through the curtains, scanning the audience for familiar faces. But as the minutes ticked by, it became clear that your family was not coming. Your lips trembling, your brain can't fathom the idea of them not coming to this performance—of course you'd expect y/n to be unsurprised by this behavior but it's not fair! You worked so hard for this only for them to answer you with nothing but silence.

I need you more than me

You destroyed yourself for this; for them! You worked every bone in your body and stretched every limb of yours, starved yourself for days, just for them to dismiss your one request to just be there. You just wanted that family where they were all so supportive of you, they all loved and adored you. The worst part is they are just not to you. And you had to learn that the hard way.

I need you more than anything

Summoning every ounce of strength, you stepped onto the stage. The spotlight shone brightly, and for a moment, you felt a surge of confidence. The music began, and you moved with the grace and elegance you had practiced so hard to perfect. Each step was a testament to your dedication, a silent plea for recognition and love. Tears threatening to spill from your eyes as a feeling of pain and happiness surged through your chest.

As you danced, the audience watched in awe. To them, you were a vision of beauty and talent. But inside, you felt empty. Every jump, every turn, and every sway of your limb was dedicated to them. With trembling lips you swallow the lump in your throat and ignore the pain in your chest as you play your part of the performance. The applause at the end of your performance was hollow, a reminder that the ones you longed to impress were not there to see it. Backstage, you received praise from your fellow dancers and instructors, but it did little to lift your spirits. You longed for a simple word of encouragement, a sign that your family cared. Instead, you were met with silence. You smiled faintly at them thanking them and exchanging a few compliments here and there. At this moment you couldn't feel anything. You were numb from all the pain you have suffered from this family.

Please, please

That night, as you lay in bed, the weight of the day's events pressed heavily on your chest. You stared at the ceiling, your mind racing with thoughts of inadequacy. The question echoed once more: "Why can't you just be good enough?"

"Those days are over," you say to yourself as you pack your bags and place your belongings into boxes. You've grown, and after 13 years in the manor begging for scraps of their attention, you've realized that what you want will never become reality. It took you a whole decade and three more years to come to this realization. You shake your head softly and smile sadly. What were you thinking? Of course, they wouldn't care about you. Your normalcy and mediocrity never appealed to them, and you’ve decided those days are finally over. It was time to move out and discover what you were truly meant for.

"What was I made for?"

you ask yourself. This question feels so much better than constantly wondering, "Will they finally look at me?" You take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air of your new home. You breathe in and out, closing your eyes for a moment. This was it. You had made it. Slowly, you open your eyes and look at the people surrounding you, those who truly cared for you and saw you through your scars of insecurity, your perfect little hobbies, and your flawed personality. To them, you weren't Y/n Wayne, child of a billionaire, nor Y/n L/n, child of a prostitute. You were just Y/n, who tried so hard, failed, but ultimately succeeded.

The manor has been noticeably quiet for the past few days. The silence weighting discomfort as if something was wrong–as if something was missing. It was surprisingly first noticed by none other than Richard Grayson himself. The first Robin of Batman, the irreplaceable side kick, the first son of Bruce Wayne, and the darling of the crowd whom everyone loves and adore. As he walked through the large halls of the home he grew up in, he felt something was out of place. Like something wasn't in place or rather something was missing. It took him some time to figure it out as the clock ticks

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Aha! He's got it! It was because there wasn't any classic orchestral music playing through the thick walls of the manor. The soft music of pyotr tchaikovsky wasn't heard anywhere around the corners of the walls. That's strange. The sweet melody of violins and cellos wasn't found in any room at all. He didn't know why but it bugged him. He sighs as he disregards it, nevermind he said, must be Alfred playing his favorite old songs. He walks around the manor to look for his siblings and father and somehow stumbled upon this.. Unknown and empty small room. “wow this is.. Something” he muttered under his breath. He inspected the room and saw multiple trophies decorating the room. It was impressive how someone can achieve this many gold medals and such. His gaze traveled across the room and saw a box full of webs and dust, and got interested as he opened it to see an old video game and thought that it must have been Tim's before he decided to throw it away out of boredom. With no more much to do he slid through the doors and whistled his way out of the room, unaware of how many memories a person created in that very same room withering away.

Tim and Damian recognized the absence of humming and the pattern of footsteps that used to echo around the house from an unknown room. The silence made them uncomfortable. They had grown so accustomed to the faint noise that it had somehow brought them comfort. The melodic lullaby of humming painted a serene picture of paradise, lulling them easily to sleep—a struggle they had faced all their lives as vigilantes, or in Damian's case, as an assassin. Their heartbeats aligned with the rhythm of the faint noise.

For Tim, it was a sweet form of salvation from the demons that haunted his nights and kept him from a good night's sleep. For Damian, it was the comfort he never knew, a stark contrast to the heavy stare of his grandfather and the weight of expectations placed on his shoulders by his mother's watchful gaze.

Jason couldn't care less about what happens around that manor. He hated that place. It made him rethink all the moments he wished he could take back. Jason Todd is a hateful man but a good soldier. He destroys in order to protect. He kills in order to let another live. A morally gray person. In his eyes he was what Bruce wayne–Batman couldn't be. But even a man who goes out at night to protect needs a break. So when he came to the manor and went straight to the library and saw that the usual piled up classic books weren't to be seen at their usual spot he found it.. Unsettling per say. The books written by Jane Austen that were filled with marked pages, sticky notes, and annotations not found in the main table of the room were strange to him. He didn't even know who did it but it made him feel like he was home. The silly doodles and random words written on the sticky notes, careful not to dirty the book, made him chuckle every time he saw it; so where was it now?

Cassandra was into ballet. She grew up silenced, observing others, forever cautious. as to why she expresses herself through dancing: ballet. A moment where she can breathe and let go. Where she can freely pour her heart into dancing. Every point, every movement, she releases her unsaid emotions. She was raised that way. Except then she was thought to swallow her words and release her pent up emotions into bad things instead of gracefully dancing. She was completely in love with dancing. Whenever she went to collect her ballet shoes there's always an extra bandage, extra shoes played on the floor. She never knew why and she never questioned it. Just ignored it. But now she somehow froze at her spot to see nothing but her shoes and not next to the light pink ones that had a small bow to compliment its design. Ever so stunning; the person who wears it must have been the same kind of persona-wait.. Person? There's another one.. Oh.

Bruce Wayne was a busy man. By day, he handled his company, Wayne Enterprises. His days were filled with paperwork, meetings, and managing marketing strategies. But by night, he never slept. No, he donned the mantle of Batman, the prince of Gotham City, the guardian of Lady Gotham. He didn't have time for anything he deemed unworthy of his attention. He noticed every tiny mistake, be it at work or on the streets of Gotham. At work, he spotted grammatical errors and unstraightened lines of decorative mugs. As Batman, he detected the slightest hint of lies in a criminal's eyes. So, yes, he noticed that something—or rather, someone—from the manor was missing.

As dick whistled his way out of the room unable to find his family members, he decided to go to the batcave and have a little fun while being alone. He did all things he could think of. Look for more cases to solve, dig some stuff out criminal records, blah blah blah.. Then he decided to check the manor's CCTV.

As dick was checking the cctv's of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage-about 2 weeks ago of a person..? Packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible.. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates, it's impossible. Unless..

Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled and his eyes dilated..

It can't be.

You.. Y-..y/n? What were you doing? Where are you going? He bit his lips harshly as he watched the footage like a hawk. His hands came to fidget with his hair. Was that really you? You look so grown.. Several thoughts ran through his mind as he pondered on what you were doing. After a matter of time he somehow remembers. Oh yeah! Your contact number. His hands trembling, in a hurry he pressed your name in his phone and.. Shoot. His eyes widened at the several missed calls and texts from you. Not even a single response from him. Come to think of it, when was the last time he talked to you? Like, really talked to you? He quickly text you “heyy baby birdddd I miss you! Let's hang out right now!” while biting his thumb as he bounced his thighs up and down from anticipation. And then suddenly.. He remembers! The room! It was yours! Before he even knew it, he was quick on his feet and ran like a mad man towards your room. He panted slightly at the face of your door and harshly opened your room unaware of his strength. He went through every corner of your room. He explored every side of your room to find something-anything that can give him even a spoil of information about you. And that was when he found a tiny pink notebook. He chuckled softly, out of breath, hair messed up like a mad man but dick didn't care, no because he finally found your one and only diary! Filled with bows and pink glitters.. Hah..you were so cute. He went through your diary, invading your privacy and saw all of the things you've said. The way you praised him, the way you adored your family, your little adventures, your previous ballet performances (you did ballet? Wow, you're just so talented.. Oh his little bird.) he suddenly heard a high pitched ping! And scrambled to his phone as he expected a response from you but instead all he was met with was “y/n has blocked you”.

What..? Why? Didn't you want to spend time with your precious big brother? His blood shot eyes twitched and sweat ran down from his face. The suddenly a deep voice said:

“dick? What's going on here?”

Note: as promised! Here is the chapter yall asked forrr tell me what you guys think!

#yandere batfam #yandere batboys #batfam x batbro #batfam x reader #batfam x batsis #batfam #dc universe #jason todd #richard grayson #damian wayne #tim drake #bruce wayne #cassandra cain #neglected reader #amfstargirl #Spotify #tip toes

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nathan-r-dooley · 2 months ago

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36:1-33 | Elihu Exalts God’s Justice and Power

The Verses “Then Elihu continued and said,‘Wait for me a little, and I will show youThat there is still more to be said on God’s behalf.I will bring my knowledge from afar,And ascribe righteousness to my Maker.For truly my words are not false;One who is perfect in knowledge is with you. Behold, God is mighty but does not reject anyone;He is mighty in strength of understanding.He does not keep…

#Bible Study #Book of Job #Divine Discipline #God&039;s Justice #God&039;s Sovereignty #Hope in Trials #Old Testament Reflection #spiritual growth #The Purpose of Suffering #trusting God

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holystormfire · 1 year ago

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Sometimes it seems that I am at war with myself. There is a conflict within. What’s the outcome of that?

Matthew 12:25

“Any kingdom divided by civil war is doomed. A town or family splintered by feuding will fall apart.”

While we must recognize the battle over sin that constantly goes on within us, we must be committed to standing against it. Failing to stand against sin in your own life pits self against self, which is doomed to destroy you. If you allow Satan to command a strategic area of your life, he will defeat you.

Galatians 5:17, 22

The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions. . . . But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness.

When you become a Christian, a new conflict will begin inside you that will be a life-long battle: what you want versus what God wants. Fortunately, you also have the Holy Spirit living in you, and when you allow him, he gives you the tools you need to fight your sinful nature. Over time, this conflict within yourself will lessen (though never go away) as peace, patience, gentleness, self-control and other characteristics of God start to overcome your sinful nature.

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melanchoire · 3 months ago

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Hey! Could I request a nsfw college AU with Karina?

Where you’re the shy, honor roll, top of the class, goody two shoes type and Karina is the outgoing, popular, everyone wants to be with her or her friend type.

You guys are in a relationship and she decides to sneak you guys into the deans office because she loves adrenaline and gets a thrill out of knowing the two of you could potentially get caught as she eating her lunch(you) on top of the deans desk.

Thank you!

BAD GIRLS R US ──── yu jimin

── ( 🚬 ) you thought acing exams was stressful? try dating karina, the campus rebel whose every impulsive decision threatens to unravel your perfectly structured world; now, she’s got her sights set on corrupting your good–girl image, and you must decide if you’re willing to risk it all for a taste of the forbidden fruit she's so tempting you with.

pairing. teasing dom!rebel girlfriend!karina x sub!good student!fem reader

warning(s). cum eating, cunnilingus, dirty talk, degradation, fingering, semi exhibitionism, spanking, squirting.

word count. 3,8k

being in a relationship with karina was, as cliché as it sounded, like riding a roller coaster with a fear of heights. you, the exemplary student, the beacon of discipline in academic pursuits, found yourself perpetually dangling from the precipice of her chaotic brilliance. honor roll was your middle name. you were a picture of academic discipline, dean’s list regular, a name synonymous with responsibility.

karina… well, karina was a supernova. bright, chaotic, and drawing everyone into her orbit. she was the cool girl from the movies, eternally confident, radiating a charisma that could light up a room.

but god, she has a big charm.

you remember the initial shock of it all. how she had noticed you. you, huddled in the library with your nose buried in textbooks, while she breezed through life, a whirlwind of social gatherings and spontaneous adventures. yet, here you were, undeniably, irrevocably entwined.

walking with karina was a public affair… it was impossible to go unnoticed. walking with her through the college halls was a sensory overload. your hand swallowed in hers, or her arm draped tentatively around your waist, became a magnet for attention. every few steps, a chorus of greetings would erupt; “good morning, karina!” “hey, karina!” “morning, karina, you look great!” the greetings were relentless, a chorus of admiration echoing her every footstep. her replies were always effortless, sprinkled with wit and genuine warmth. her confidence was a force field, deflecting anxieties that would usually cripple you. her attitude was the reason you loved her.

you, on the other hand, would shrink a little, offering shy smiles and quiet nods. even with your closest friends, karina’s presence amplified your timidity. you were perfectly content in her reflected glory, a quiet moon orbiting a vibrant sun.

now, standing in the bustling college hallway, the aroma of lukewarm coffee swirling around you, you checked your phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the brick facade in shifting patterns.

you’re waiting for karina, having escaped your literature class early after demolishing the midterm. elation had bloomed in your chest — an unexpected free morning! you’d texted karina, hoping she’d be free to celebrate with… something. anything. her reply was brief: “teacher MIA. free as a bird. meet you at the vending machines?”

first, you wonder why your girlfriend suddenly has free time when she’s supposed to be studying right now. surprisingly, karina didn’t have class because her professor supposedly bailed. you’re skeptical, but not enough to outright accuse her of ditching. you take a sip of your coffee, the lukewarm caffeine doing little to soothe the nervous flutter in your stomach.

that nagging little voice in your head, the one honed by years of academic integrity, whispered suspicions. karina skipping class? it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, but something felt off. you took a sip of coffee to try and relax and let the warmth soothe you from within; its bitterness doing little to soothe your rising unease. instead, it was as the taste of hazelnuts and caffeine had doubled your discomfort and worry.

as you scroll through instagram, a pair of hands snaked around your waist, startling you. the unexpected pressure sends a jolt of electricity through you. before you can react, someone’s blowing on your neck, a warm breath tickles your neck and sends a shiver down your spine, followed by a quick, playful kiss just behind your ear.

you nearly choke on your coffee, sputtering and flailing, before whirling around to find karina holding back a laugh, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. “hi baby.”

“karina!” you punch her lightly on the shoulder, a scolding simmering under your voice. “you idiot! you scared me half to death!”

“but you looked so cute, all serious and focused.” she said, her voice laced with amusement. “like you were solving the mysteries of the universe with just a cup of coffee and your phone. all focused and serious. it was adorable.”

you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. “very funny.”

you glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. it’s impossible to stay mad at her. you give her the look and she apologizes, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as a peace offering.

she leaned in, her expression softening. “okay, okay, i’m sorry.” she murmured, planting a soft kiss on your lips. the world seemed to fade away for a moment, the noise of the hallway blurring into a distant hum. “i’ll say it again, i’m sorry sorry.” she murmurs, her breath warm against your skin. “couldn’t resist.”

she looped an arm around your waist, pulling you against her side and steering you down the hall. you let her lead, the familiar weight of her presence grounding you. “c’mon, let’s go for a walk.” she said, her voice regaining its usual playful tone. “tell me all about your brilliant conquering of calculus.”

“it was a literature exam.” you retort, giving her a slight sideways glance, noticing how she smirked at you getting moody when she manages to get out of you the attitude she loves the most

“so…” she says, her voice light and conversational. “how was the midterm from hell?”

“easy.” you retort, trying to sound nonchalant. “finished it in twenty minutes.”

“show off.” she nudges you playfully.

“and you, ms. art aficionado? what masterpieces are you creating today?” even though you two were joking around a bit and treating each other in a certain way, your question had a genuine interest.

“just finished a sculpture”. she replies. “i’m pretty proud of it. it’s… well, you’ll see.”

“i look forward to it. and if you need some help, i can help if you want.” you offer, ever the dutiful girlfriend.

“thanks, babe.” she rests her head on your shoulder for a moment. “i think i’m good for now. i just have to finish this painting project for arts. it’s kind of hard, you know?”

“yeah, i see. and what class was it that you so conveniently didn’t have because of a teacher’s absence?” you ask, your voice laced with gentle suspicion.

karina laughed, a melodious sound that always made your heart skip a beat. she tried to hide her smile, but a tell–tale glint in her eyes betrayed her. it only took one pointed look from you for her to confess. “okay, okay, you caught me.” she admits, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“me and yeji and giselle decided a sunny morning was better spent… elsewhere.”

you felt a familiar surge of exasperation. “karina!” you started, ready to launch into a lecture about responsibility and wasted potential.

you open your mouth to scold her, to lecture her about responsibility and wasted potential, but she clamps a hand over your mouth, her eyes wide with mock horror. “shhh! don’t say it so loud!” she hisses. “someone might hear me, and then i’ll be in actual trouble.”

before you could formulate a retort, she grabs your wrist and tugs you in the opposite direction, away from the main thoroughfare and towards a more secluded part of campus. “c’mon, let’s go somewhere more… private to discuss this.”

you stumbled after her, your mind reeling. where was she taking you now?

“karina, where are you taking me?” you ask, your voice tinged with concern. she’s never skipped like this before. “we should probably get you back to class—”

she cuts you off, spinning you around and leading you towards the hallway with all the administration offices. now, you two are standing outside the… dean’s office. the polished brass plaque gleams in the filtered sunlight.

you stared at the imposing wooden door, your heart pounding in your chest. “karina, what are you doing?” you ask, your voice rising in pitch. the anxiety that had been simmering beneath the surface now threatens to boil over. “why are we here? you’re not in trouble, are you?”

she leans closer, her eyes sparkling with a reckless abandon that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

she grinned, a wild, mischievous glint in her eyes. “well, if i’m going to get a report for skipping class anyway.” she said, her voice dripping with mock drama. “i prefer to give a good reason for having one.”

“are you serious? karina, you’re going to get into serious trouble! actually... you’re going to get us into serious trouble! do you have any idea how a report would look next to my grades? that would ruin my student image! and—” before you could continue with your monologue, she interrupts you.

“relax.” she says, her voice a low murmur. “i’m going to get a report whatever happens, so, i prefer to give a good reason for having one. and don’t worry, if we get caught, i promise you that i’ll be the one to take full responsibility and face the consequences alone, so stop being a pussy.”

you don’t have time to process her baffling statement before she’s pushing you through the door, her hand firmly planted on your lower back. the office is thankfully empty, the dean presumably away at a meeting. the air smells of old paper and authority. this is so wrong.

she pressed you against the cool, smooth surface of the door, her body a warm, insistent pressure against yours. your breath caught in your throat. her hands moved to cup your face, her thumbs gently tracing the lines of your cheekbones. her gaze, intense and playful, locked with yours.

“karina.” you breathed, your voice barely audible.

she didn’t answer. instead, she lowered her head, her lips brushing against yours in a feather–light kiss that sent shivers dancing down your spine. the kiss deepened, her lips parting yours, inviting you in. you surrendered, your worries and anxieties melting away in the heat of her touch.

her hands moved from your face to the small of your back, pulling you even closer, molding your bodies together. the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of vanilla and something indescribably floral, filled your senses.

her hands roam freely, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding under your shirt to explore the sensitive skin of your back. you gasp against her mouth, your body responding instinctively to her touch. her fingers dance along your spine, sending shivers down your back.

the world shrinks to the space between you, a bubble of heat and desire in the sterile environment of the dean’s office. you can feel the rapid beat of her heart against yours, the frantic pace of her breath mingling with your own.

you instinctively arched closer, your own hands finding their way to her hair, the soft strands sliding between your fingers. the kissing grew more insistent, more demanding, a silent conversation of desire and unspoken needs.

she nibbled at your lower lip, her tongue tracing its outline, and you moaned softly, the sound lost in the deepening kiss. your hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her back, the smooth fabric of her blouse a tantalizing barrier.

the kissing broke, and she trailed kisses down your jawline, her breath warm against your skin. you tilted your head back, giving her better access, a silent invitation. her lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, and you gasped, a thrill shooting through you.

“karina.” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “we… we shouldn’t be doing this here. the lunch bell will ring any minute.” the absurdity of the situation finally registered, the dean’s office feeling suddenly small and claustrophobic.

she pulled back slightly, her eyes dark and knowing. “then…” she whispered, her voice husky with desire. “we should hurry up.”

karina’s hands slid up your sides, her fingers splaying across your back as she pulled your body flush against hers. you could feel every curve and contour of her lithe, toned figure pressed against you, separated only by the thin fabric of your uniforms.

she captured your mouth in a searing kiss, her lips moving hungrily against yours. her tongue pushed past your teeth, exploring and claiming, dominating your mouth with a fierce intensity. one hand tangled in your silky hair, gripping it tightly as she angled your head to deepen the kiss.

karina’s other hand slid down to grab your ass, squeezing the firm flesh hard enough to leave imprints of her fingers. she ground her hips against yours, letting you feel the heat building between her legs. the kiss turned sloppy, wet, obscene in its intensity as she devoured your mouth.

karina’s hands slid down to your ass, squeezing the soft yet firm cheeks, followed by a tap on your side, giving you the signal to wrap your legs around her waist. without breaking the weight, she effortlessly carries you up to the dean’s large, polished mahogany desk

after a long, breathless moment, she broke the kiss, leaving you both panting. a string of saliva connected your lips before she licked them clean with a wicked grin.

karina’s eyes flashed with unbridled lust and a hint of madness as she gazed at you, chest heaving with each ragged breath. without warning, she spun you around and bent you over the dean’s large, imposing desk, scattering papers and office supplies to the floor. her fingers found the hem of your skirt, pushing it up and bunched around your waist.

“fuck, you look so hot like this, love.” she growled, giving your ass a sharp smack. the sound echoed through the office, followed by the muffled yelp that escaped your lips. karina rubbed the reddened flesh, soothing the sting before continuing with her purpose.

slowly, teasingly, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugged them down, yanking them off your legs and tossing them carelessly to the floor. cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver with anticipation.

wrapping her long hands around your waist, she spins you around, making you lie on your back. karina grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide and pushing your legs against your chest, making you hook your hands on the back of your knees and hold them against your chest — this exposed your most intimate place to her hungry gaze.

“mmmh, and look at this pretty little pussy... all pretty and perfect, just for me.” karina licked her lips as she took in the sight of your exposed sex, glistening and ready. she leaned in close, her warm breath ghosting over your most intimate place. her fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing and stroking. she could feel the heat radiating from your core, the slick evidence of your arousal coating her fingertip.

without further preamble, karina leaned in and sealed her mouth over your sex, her tongue delving deep between your folds. she groaned at the taste of you, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she focused intently on pleasuring you. her tongue circled and flicked over your clit, then pushed inside your tight heat, fucking you with deep, deliberate strokes.

karina’s hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave marks as she held your legs open, keeping you spread wide for her hungry mouth. she devoured you like a woman starved, determined to taste every drop of your arousal.

she lapped at you greedily, savoring your unique taste, before focusing on your sensitive clit. she suckled and flicked the hardened nub, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body.

karina attacked your pussy with wild abandon, her tongue delving deep and stroking every sensitive nerve ending. sloppy, wet sounds filled the dean's office as she ate you out with gusto, not caring about the mess she was making or who might hear.

every so often, she would pull back and spank your ass hard, leaving a red handprint on your cheek. the sharp sting only served to heighten your arousal, making you writhe and buck against her mouth.

“fuck, you taste so good.” karina growled against your cunt, giving your clit a hard suck. she released it with a pop, only to dive back in and press the flat of her tongue against it, rubbing firm circles.

“such a naughty girl… letting me do this in the dean’s office.” she purred, punctuating her words with a sharp smack to your ass. “i bet you love being a dirty slut, don’t you baby? being eaten out where anyone could catch us?”

tears burn in your eyes, escaping from the corners of your eyes and turning into fat drops as they begin their journey down your blushing cheeks. a sob escapes from your swollen and almost sore lips from biting them so much in attempts to contain your moans and noises so as not to be caught in this position by some teacher or student. “you’re the one who suggested it.”

karina laughed, a low, wicked sound that vibrated against your sensitive flesh. she delivered another hard spank to your ass, leaving a matching red handprint on the other cheek.

karina smirked up at you, her chin glistening with your juices. she gave your clit a quick flick with her tongue before responding. “mmmh, you’re right, baby. i’m the one who suggested it. guilty as charged, baby. but i’m not sorry. i saw what i wanted and i went for it, just like this… and look at you, being such an obedient girlfriend for me.” she purred, rubbing your reddened skin soothingly before gripping it hard enough to leave bruises.

she dove back in, sucking your clit into her mouth and flicking it rapidly with her tongue. at the same time, she pushed a finger, then two, into your dripping cunt, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace.

“mmmh, and now look at you, spread out on the dean’s desk like a feast for me to devour. i can’t help myself around a cute little thing like you.” she purred, curling her fingers to rub your g–spot as her thumb circled your clit.

karina leaned in and buried her face between your thighs again, attacking your pussy with single–minded focus. she licked and sucked and fucked you with her tongue and fingers, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

she could feel your walls starting to flutter around her invading fingers, signaling your impending orgasm. karina doubled her efforts, determined to make you come undone on her tongue.

“that’s it, baby, come for me.” she growled against your cunt, the vibrations pushing you over the precipice. “i want to taste your cum dripping down my chin as i make you scream my name.”

karina punctuated her words with a particularly hard spank to your ass, leaving a vivid red handprint on your skin. at the same time, she pressed her thumb hard against your clit and bit down gently on your clit, sending you hurtling into ecstasy.

she could feel your breathing growing more ragged, your hips bucking erratically against her face. with a final, hard suck to your clit, she pushed a third finger into your tight channel, stretching you deliciously.

karina fucked you hard and fast, the wet squelch of her fingers plunging in and out of your dripping cunt filling the room. she could feel your walls fluttering, your body tensing, and she knew you were right on the cusp.

with a final, brutal thrust and a hard suck to your clit, karina sent you hurtling over the edge. your pussy clenched vice–tight around her fingers as your orgasm crashed through you, waves of ecstasy radiating out from your core.

your pussy clamped down around her fingers as your orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of intense pleasure radiating out from your core. karina moaned as she felt your release flooding her mouth, lapping up every drop of your essence like a woman starved.

karina groaned against your spasming sex, lapping up your release and pushing her fingers deeper to feel every pulse and flutter. she worked you through your climax with skilled fingers and a wicked tongue, wringing out every last tremor and aftershock until you collapsed back onto the dean’s desk, boneless and sated. only then did she pull back, a smug grin on her face as she licked her lips.

pathetic. that's what you looked like right now; pathetic. but of course your girlfriend was enjoying every damn second of this moment, seeing you so vulnerable given the context of the situation… maybe this will just feed her twisted brain and get her mind working on thinking of more places she can get a nice piece of pussy if she’s in the mood

maybe this will just feed her twisted brain and get her mind working on thinking of more places she can get a nice piece of pussy if she’s in the mood, and of course, you’d never deny it to your girlfriend, right?

“not bad for a quick fuck in the dean’s office, huh baby?” she purred, standing up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. her eyes raked over your disheveled form, sprawled out on the dean’s desk with your skirt bunched up around your waist.

karina leaned over you, bracing her hands on either side of your head. she licked her lips, still glistening with your juices. “and i’m not nearly done with you yet, baby. we’ve still got so much more to explore together… just wait until i get you all to myself.”

pulling away from you, she takes your wrist, giving you a gentle tug to lift your body off the desk and onto your feet.

she picks up your discarded panties on the carpeted floor, kneeling in front of you. wrapping one of her hands around your ankle, she helps you lift each of your legs and put your underwear back on. she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, pulling the panties up your weak, shaking legs — the fabric stained as it made contact with your slippery folds and puffy clit, but hey, you had to endure the sensation until you could find a moment to sneak off to your dorm and find a clean pair of panties.

smoothing your skirt and setting it into place, karina watches through her lashes as you put your sweater back in place and comb your hair, running your fingers through your messy locks. “we’ll go get something from the cafeteria, okay? let me buy you something for lunch. you need to regain your energy to continue the day, you can’t be in class with that lack of energy on your body. i promise that after class, i’ll take you home and take proper care of you.”

you smiled victoriously. finishing the literature exam in record time and passing it, being able to spend quality time with your girlfriend, getting fucked by her and then her promising you a nice breakfast and a date afterwards? today was your lucky day.

“oh, and wipe that satisfied smirk off your face before someone sees. wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea about the dean’s pretty little assistant.”

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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hoseoksluna · 3 months ago

Text

STRATEGY | jjk

pairing: yandere!jungkook x female!oc (feat. police officer!taehyung)

genre: smut; angst

rating: 18+

summary: due to his reasons, jungkook can't get close to you—but when you show your tits to him through your window, he might just teach you a lesson.

word count: 6.0k

warnings: dark content not to be romanticized — stalking, manipulation, slight gaslighting; mental states of — anger, anxiety, depression, dissociation, daddy issues. sexual content — mentions of male masturbation, dd/lg, dom/sub dynamics, discipline, the threat of punishment, use of belt, making out. other — insecurities, smoking, mentions of drugs, of parental neglect, inner child in the form of an animal.

FORMAL WARNING: jeon jungkook written in this work is a figment of my imagination and does not reflect the living person and his family.

luna's note: the first chapter of this year's first series is here. you're all gonna scream. oh my god. i worked so hard on this, i need my babies to know that. as much as i struggled with writing, this was a wild ride that i enjoyed. i'd like to give my thanks to my ruru, @tkslovechild, who fixed my mind well enough and inspired me to open the last doc of many. if it weren't for her, this fic wouldn't be alive. this chapter is a taste of what's to come. you can expect a whole lot of smut in the next one. i hope you enjoy. sending lots of kisses MWAH.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster,

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl,

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

@rrosiitas @KookieNooki @cristinamajadera @Chaelvrx @mimikoba

@junecat18 @deepops79 @notsevenwithyou @futuristicenemychaos @psychicjellyfish @alpaca @Kooloveys

Jungkook’s cigarette is wet.

The paper, encased around it, is nearly translucent enough to expose the leaves of the tobacco inside, the very tethered parts of his burning soul. The rain pelts down on him hard, brisk and icy like bullets, but its droplets soften and grow warm once they seep inside the thick, thumping vein along the column of his throat. His hair is soaked, a few of his freshly cut strands rounding over his forehead clouding his vision. Normally, he’d get one long and thorough look at you, finish his cigarette in but a few sucks and return to his car, but tonight he can’t. Neither can he afford to get sick, not when he’s studying exhausting hours deep into the night just to secure your financial well-being and freedom, but right now, despite the risk, he can’t take his eyes off of you.

You’re playing a dangerous game. As a matter of fact, you’ve always been with your flirtiness and your delicious perversion, but the boss-defeating level he finds himself to be in is not something he can handle so easily. It’s blanketed in a light layer of the possibility of his life permanently changing, and he can’t run from it. Not when he’s frozen in this speed of time while his wobbly, jelly limbs long to be in your proximity.

In any textbook image example of his romantic relationship with you suggests the very opposite of this sketch he’s being drawn into by your hand. Before all else, the charcoal pencil should’ve been in his tattooed fingers. The big bad boss should’ve been him, and you should’ve been the brave princess with her sword, small before him, but more powerful with her spirit and fearlessness, getting impaled on his dick time and time again before you conquer him, at last.

In this ashy, starless scene, you’re the boss and he’s the princess.

You’re flashing your tits at him through the window of your bedroom and he’s sporting a boner so astronomical that he couldn’t sit down inside his car even if you, yourself, asked him to. Made puppy eyes, put your palms together and rubbed them in a childish gesture, pleading him with the pout that he knows you’re very capable of doing. The pout that started this habit of his—driving up to your street, despite the fact he lives an hour away, just to ensure your safety, just to be certain that you’re well and not staining your pillow with black mascara tears.

There’s enough blackness in your heart from the wrongness and unfairness that life feeds you, and he’s decided to take the spoon and fill it with something sweet. Like attention, like protection, like your dreams and wishes fulfilled. Because he saw you as a small kitten, underfed and yet loaded with such a large burden of ill-luck that every morsel of his being just couldn’t stand to see it anymore.

He met you in a strange place at a strange time.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to be in Gangnam that day, but one of his soon-to-be pawns in the city of Seoul unintentionally let him in on one of the underground crimes that have been going on in that district. His plan for the night was supposed to be filled with driving around Hongdae just to make sure all the girls were safe. It was Friday, the most sinful day of the week; 9:30 pm, the start of all depraved entertainment, brought out from the depths of all the dark souls of empty people. The girls needed him, but when Jungkook heard from Taehyung that the little bitches called men have been dealing drugs in the bathroom of Starfield Library, the girls had to be good and they had to wait.

The heart inside his inner child ached at the thought that the place, where he used to spend his happy days before they were gone, was getting stained by something so horrendously evil as drugs. Taehyung was putting on his police uniform as the information slipped past his lips and while Jungkook’s heart stopped, it became burdened by his secret, not so secret in reality, dream even more heavily than ever before. He no longer saw him as a pawn—truth be told, he wanted to become a police officer ever since he saw Kiki’s Delivery Service as a young boy before things got bad and having him as his best friend and a neighbor at the same time just offered a crevice of open space for his dream to come true. But Taehyung stalled… until he didn’t.

Upon seeing the look on his face, he tipped his head low, sighed, and told him to come with him. And together they drove to Gangnam up to the COEX Mall. All the while Jungkook bounced his knee and sensed a dreadful feeling slithering down his sternum for a reason he couldn’t simply figure out.

He couldn’t shake off his nervousness even as they got out and he lit up his cigarette. Taehyung told him off, reminded him that the library closes soon, and, nodding, Jungkook took two more puffs before he let the instrument of sweet death plummet to the ground. His better-knowing murmured to him that he should’ve left his heart behind, too, but being loyal to the wretched flesh, Jungkook never learned the language of his logic.

He saw you long before you saw him, going up the white keys of stairs beside Taehyung, taking two at the time. Your short limbs were reaching a shelf above your head, trembling in tension, your form elevated by the way you were standing on your tippy toes. The higher he went, the clearer his glimpse was of your thighs, embellished by a black cotton to keep them warm in the cool spring. The band digging into the flesh entranced him, trapped him to you as if by ropes of mercifulness because that was the most beautiful sight he was graced to witness. He had seen many pretty girls during his late night drives of heroism, but none of them possessed such a pure, alluring kind of beauty that made his heart tighten in his chest.

And the flesh was outright asphyxiated by the following cognizance of your full outfit.

Lifting his foot over the last step, Jungkook perceived that your thigh-high socks were held up by thin slits of garters, uncovered by the riding up of the skirt of your dress. There was no air in his lungs, no command in his brain to keep on walking after Taehyung. There was an absolute silence between the synapses as he stood there, unbreathing, his eyes skimming over the smooth skin of the back of your thighs, the well-fittedness of your short dress, which had an open back beneath the waterfall of your long hair. But it wasn’t bare, not by any chance. As if the thickness of your strands wasn’t enough, you filled the gap with a white shirt, and Jungkook was stunned.

The spell was disrupted when the books, one by one, began to fall over your head, despite the fact you succeeded in getting the one you wanted. Disrupted and not broken because while he knew Taehyung was inching closer to the crime scene, his instinct won over his stupefaction and gave the order to his legs to rush over to you. It felt natural to him, the act of grabbing your arms and pulling you flush to him, to a place of safety, although he was a stranger, a guy and he had no right to touch you like that. Anyone in his shoes would just shout at you to move away, but the spell didn’t allow his logic to filter through his actions. You gasped, nearly tumbled down to the ground along with him, but Jungkook was stronger. Jungkook didn’t let you plummet to the ground like his cigarettes—he held you steady to him, balancing you on your feet, and his heart began to ache, like it did when he heard of the drug-dealing, and age when you lifted a palm and placed it over your forehead, mewling a pained noise through your pouting mouth.

He wasn’t fast enough. An overgrown bush of overprotective roots took form in his black lungs, tangled in the long strands of your hair as you softly trembled like a kitten in his arms. He was no longer a boy, delirious with his need to color the streets with justice and safety; he was a man of fatherly compulsions, organic instincts to never let you disappear from his secure hand again. It happened that quickly—it happened that devastatingly that he himself was dumbfounded by it all.

Dumbfounded and… much to his surprise: pleased.

Jungkook didn’t cleave to love. While his heart hungered to envelop its love around that special person it wished for, he simply couldn’t conform. Couldn’t open the chambers of his heart and let out the horrors—the fights, the violence, the blood, the silent screams and the ungratified needs, left abandoned by those closest. He was afraid to allow himself to be loved; and he was afraid of being only capable of sharing the darkness in return, not his love—the small, wounded bunny hiding somewhere in him, every day concealing itself deeper and deeper. That was why he never even looked twice at the girls he saved, let alone touched them, let alone allowed them to bathe him in feelings that were pleasant.

Strange, the moment that was uncoiling. His actions and their unfolding, and his lack of carefulness and detachment.

The toppling misfortune finished its course, the dull sound of the books hitting the floor halted, and within this abrupt silence, Jungkook felt the hammering of your heart, kicking against his upper abdomen, softening him. And in spite of everything, he turned you around to examine your reddened forehead as if he weren’t Jungkook at all, but someone else. Someone healthy and full of light within his mind, heart and soul, who doesn’t create boundaries and doesn’t hiss and thump his legs back when someone crosses them. This new person eyed the pebble-sized bump poking through the skin, which wrinkled through the furrow of your brows. His lips downturned in pity for you, but he knew pressing the injury with a packet of frozen veggies would fix it by the morning. You were lost in the pushing acuteness of the pain, perhaps not even realizing that you were saved. Your set of wispy eyelashes were quivering like the rest of you and while this new person was desperate for you to look at him, it wasn’t until Taehyung called his name that you did.

But it was too late, the moment was too brief, and the old Jungkook settled over him like a layer of dust.

However, the mutual meeting of eyes kickstarted his dead heart, bringing forth life through the chambers and the vessels like a petal drifting upon the smooth surface of a river. Jungkook fought it with his old weapons, but as the seconds ticked, he became smaller and smaller, the power of the connection looming over him, scaring him and soothing him soon after by the way your eyes widened in surprise and melted right after. As if into his; as if into him.

The old and the new Jungkook began to coexist within him, closing over the bunny.

He didn’t realize he was gone and no longer holding you until Taehyung grabbed a hold of his shoulder, stopping him from colliding his fist into the small-postured drug dealer’s face, who was momentarily stuffing a plastic bag of evil into the toilet tank. It was rage that simmered between the halves of his two personas fading into each other, a yin and yang, not because the abomination was caught as is usually the cause, but because the light and the dark merged within him, bringing him out of his comfort zone into a zone he blanched in panic in.

He didn’t know that you watched the entire time. That you watched him curse at the boy, take the drug from him and nearly flush it down the toilet, if Taehyung hadn’t stopped him. He didn’t know that you’d stick around just to talk to him, had the library not closed.

And he didn’t know that he would meet you again.

And again.

At dangerous places, where you didn’t belong—like his mind when he was ceaselessly fist-fucking his cock before dawn. At safe places, where you painted the walls with your gentleness and simultaneous misfortune, your own yin and yang.

He didn’t expect you to make the first move each time, gazing up at him with a soft smile, making small talk that was more flirty than it was polite. It was hard for him to handle as the strange, fatherly and tender feelings he carried for you, belonging to the new half of him, brewed in him like loose pomegranate tea leaves. Each question you threw his way was that leaf, and the intonation you used, the curiosity, the roundness of your eyes and their constant melting was the fragrance of that fruit, cutting through him until he was nothing but a fragment of a boy in love.

He couldn’t leave. The yang of his split persona wouldn’t give the blessing to him in order for him to do that. And what’s more, he dreamed revolting dreams about shattering your heart with his fluid absence and presence, the black and white easing into one another, and it helped him stay put. He feared sleeping, he feared hurting you, and so he just abused his cock, releasing the endorphins that his body needed in order to sustain this whole newness.

And therefore like the boy he was chiseled into, he took your first moves once the time was right and undisturbed. Took them higher. Took you out for ice cream, where your flirtiness shifted both of you to this point of your love story. All because of the way you licked the sweet delight.

You swirled your tongue along its dissolving perimeter. Ivory in color, its drops dribbled down the cone, resembling the essence of his everlastingly drooling manhood that he had wasted many times prior this date, trying not to picture you in his mind. He cursed the ice cream shop as much as he blessed it for having a vanilla flavor so well-made that it rolled your eyes back during the conversation you spurred about his dreams that shone a dimmed light in his heart. He was hard, unable to speak in a steady flow, pausing between words, watching you, always watching you, enjoy your dessert while not having his own. Watching you half listen to him, half making love to the milky substance with your eyes, your focus diverting back and forth—silently gushing your gusto, silently apologizing to him with the bat of your eyelashes for not adequately paying attention. It made you adorable enough for him to fight the crawling inkling to take this an inch higher, bending you over any nearby surface away from people—because he loved the way you constantly spoke your innermost thoughts, your flirtiness especially, through the different expressions of your eyes. They spoke more profoundly than the vocabulary of your mutual mother tongue could ever achieve.

But he couldn’t follow through with his desire. His sixth sense muttered over his arousal, reminding him there was always a danger close by. By its own sinister will, it interrupted, in an excruciating staccato rhythm, the sensation of heat, pressure and energy he felt, putting it on the back burner. A place he liked to linger because it made him feel alive—the unyielding push and pull of temptation, the fight, the guilt because the fatherliness always won. But his sixth sense was right. Jungkook caught a vulgar string of words about you from the table behind him in a short moment of quietness within his brain. He turned his head to the side, listening, and when the meaning of the words multiplied with the description of you, he banged his fists and impulsively acted out, getting up to his feet.

He flipped the table. Grabbed the collar of the boy who stole his guilty pleasure and made it his own. Seethed in his sweaty face; threw words at him that made him tremble in fear until he begged to be let go. Jungkook saw a vibrant red—he didn’t see how he startled you, how all the people in the sitting area stopped whatever conversations they were having just to stare, how all the employees gulped behind the counter, but didn’t dare to step in. That was the face of his wildness, molded by all he went through, shown to you ahead of time—or perhaps at the right time. He wouldn’t know, and he was too reluctant to contemplate it.

He didn’t calm down until he made the boy apologize to you. Then, he fixed the table and put it to its original spot. Then, he made you feel better by brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, grazing his fingers down your arm until he found your hand, murmuring a soft sorry for scaring you. Then, he went to the petrified employees and apologized to them, too, for the commotion.

You also wanted to make him feel better.

Inside his car, you caressed the tense muscles of his thigh. Just once—a slow, downward motion of your palm that made him twitch. He noted the milky flakes of the dessert you had discarded dried on your lips and he hoped your eyes hadn’t strayed to his private parts—that you didn’t notice the agonized twitch of his cock that regretfully longed for you.

In this area of your relation with him, the yin won.

He put your safety above his own arousal and need, minimizing it. Grabbed the hand that had the candy-coated intention to make him feel better and kissed it in polite thankfulness, knowing your soundness that he had taken care of did the job already.

You pouted at his declination, and his heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds.

Had he known this would start off your irresistible perversion, he would’ve somehow make it so he could let you do whatever it was that you wanted to do with your hand. Because the fatherliness, which he tried with all his might to preserve in utmost purity, darkened the more you wanted him.

Darkened the more you teased him.

With your garters and your knee socks. With your short skirts that exposed the lines of your bubble butt, which he tugged down many times, his heart racing, afraid any of the horny fucks with wrong intentions walking by would see. With your innocent smiles, mischievous eyes and light touches on the places of his body that he discovered were of utter sensitivity—the crook of his elbow, into which you liked to dig your nails, the left side of his ribs, where you somehow detected his mole, his nipple that you enjoyed teasing just to watch him convulse, and his thigh, the straight pathway to his arousal. Sometimes you went higher, sometimes you went lower—and it tested his patience every single time.

All broke loose once you conveyed, with your words, how much you wanted him after some time passed.

You let him know you were hungry. It was the warmest spring evening you had in months and Jungkook was on his patrol. Seeing the text, he turned the car around and drove up to your street. Picked you up, asked you what you were craving and beside the Subway sandwich, you mentioned that you were craving him, too. As if it were the most ordinary, casual thing in the world.

He stomped on the break so hard that the vehicle behind him honked at him.

Scolded you in a fatherly way that coaxed an endearing giggle out of you. You can’t say things like that, he said, shooting you a glare that made you clench your thighs—and Jungkook wished that he hadn’t noticed.

That he hadn’t noticed being bad turned you on even more.

Then the touches were prolonged. The eye contact was intensified, the interlude of silence between you and him was boiling to such a hot temperature that he sweltered beneath his clothes in your presence, sporting a stony hard-on, which was difficult to get rid of.

And then the confessions began.

The more detailed confessions of your desire, of your liking in terms of his countenance. Of what your fingers were doing in the middle of the night because of your sentiments.

Jungkook didn’t respond. Not at first. He fought so hard to stay pure, stand behind the boundary of purity, unwilling to stain you with his own desire. He was a boy, marred by the times, with a caretaker’s heart, aged by many years, with a soul that brings death. He was afraid of what would be created, if his death mingled with your misfortune. If the bunny of his love had a glimpse of your melting eyes. If his own desire collided with yours. If he cut the ropes of his restraint and broke himself loose along with the trajectory of his untitled relationship with you.

Hell would envelop you. Hell would embrace you so tight that you’d start to despise him.

Because he wasn’t a good person. All the evil he had witnessed clung to him like second skin, peeling off of him like scales, like dirt. The evil he had consumed while living with his family; the evil he had stepped into in order to bring goodness. Jungkook would feed spoonfuls of it to you because every morsel of his being embodied it.

He said this to you, in less harmful words, upon an ordinary car drive through the night when you were starting to get jittery. It would be better if I just took care of you without touching you. He never added the fatherliness he felt towards you into the stream of his speech—he was too shy to do so. He was already flushed in the face; he worried confessing it would trouble his composure. And he needed to be a strong wall for you.

But you were a smart girl.

Devouring his words, you lifted the hem of your skirt. Your legs were still, no hint of jitteriness to them at that abrupt cusp of unraveling desire, when you parted them on the passenger seat and showed him the circle of your arousal on the center of your white panties. This is what you do to me when you talk about treating me like a father.

His blood flow halted. His heart leaped to his throat, the aroma of pomegranate filling his mouth. He edged to the border of his restraint and thought about, briefly, how he would edge you for your smartness. How he would drink the sweetness of your seashell when he would finally let you come; how it would refresh the tobacco of his soul, make him a better person, a better partner. He imagined how the smell of your arousal would linger in the car for days—how it would be a reminder that there’s goodness for him in this world while he would go on doing his job of saving it.

The black and white conclusively coalesced, creating a shade of gray that densely clouded his reasons and his morals.

And because this notion occupied his stomach with hundreds of butterflies, the decision was made. Hasty, and probably catastrophic, but he no longer cared. He fell in love with the idea of him being saved, even if it meant decorating your pretty thighs with scars. Give me some time, he said eventually. I’ll rub your scars with a healing oil, he didn’t promise.

And the detachment, which he was so inquisitive about all those months ago, nestled between you and him. The conversations, which used to be so abundant with passion and liveliness, echoed with the low tones of the trees, of the soft songs of the birds and the ringing of his mind as he completely descended into an abyss of dejection. He didn’t know why he entered this state; it just happened on its own. He no longer had the energy to save the girls of Seoul, nor did he have the strength to face you and be a man. The little life he had left—he used it to fulfill his obligations: he drove to your place after he had done his daily dose of studying and homework. Picked himself up just to make sure you were all right. And if your room lacked any light, it would motivate him enough to go into the streets and look for you.

He’d find you each time, envious and disheartened that you weren’t spending time with him. Go home and cry his colorless tears.

And now he’s here, standing underneath the foreboding downpour, in the present time after a month of idleness, in the middle of the night. His car is parked behind him, the headlights filtering through the thick shafts of rain, illuminating him. His pallid hands are bearing two things in each. A wet cigarette, a spoon that has been washed off the original poison of his life and that is now overspilling with everything nourishing. All because of your pressed-up tits against the window, the fast-paced rivulets of rain blurring the view.

You’ve yanked the time by its throat. You’re the boss and you’ve decided that all waiting is over.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. If it’s absolute fury that is invigorating his system or if it’s distilled passion that is constricting his muscles so much that it’s causing him to quiver. There’s some kind of need in the heart of it all, which smudges all of his attempts at analyzing until they get swept away with the current of the rain. In this very second, there’s no ticking of danger, no deafening silence of dejection, no promise of evil. There’s only one singular thing.

The ropes are torn: he has to have you.

You did this. You cut them instead of him, and that’s all that is pulsating in his mind as he takes the last drag of his sodden cigarette and lets it plummet, lets it burn away to nothingness. His steps are heavy and his steps are furious—and you seem to know because you unpeel yourself from the coolness of the window and skip away beyond his sight. He trusts that your smartness leads you to open the main door for him, and he’s not disappointed when he reaches it and hears its ringing song, inviting him inside.

The song of fate.

You’re waiting for him between the panels of your door on the third floor, dressed in a short nightwear dress of ivory and lilac, lace and bows. Entering your presence, Jungkook is made pliable by the strong cognizance that he’s missed you. Your hair cascades in waves down your bare shoulders, the barest he’s ever seen them, nuzzling into your cleavage that advances his softness and his concurring arousal. You’re pristine and fragrant while he drips in sweat and petrichor laced with cigarette smoke, but he wants you and he wants to punish you for putting him in this position so audaciously.

And for not wearing your thigh-high socks when he wishes you were.

The furrow of his brows deepens, knitting in the middle, and once your eyes flick to it, you breathlessly gasp, those pretty thighs of yours crossing to make friction for your little pussy. It feels as though you were all naked and he’s overwhelmed, he’s furious, he’s frustrated and—

His hand presses against the middle of your clavicles and draws you inside, kicking the door shut.

He’s tender, however, despite his impulses. He’s tender as he pushes you down onto your couch, his fingers latching onto the lacy neckline. The feeling of a warm home he never had sticks to his fingertips from your skin—and it’s clearer to him now than it ever has been before: you’ve become a four-walled home for him through all the time he spent with you on innocent dates and car drives, protecting you and consoling you from the impact of your engraved misfortune. The sensation on the pads of his fingers jumps to the other ones and tingles as they wrap around the buckle of his belt, capturing the interest of your eyes that widen and very quickly and very quintessentially melt.

You see how hard he is for you.

Good.

Now you can. Now it's yours.

He swiftly tugs his belt out of the loops with one hand, bending the leather in half. Your smile rises at that, and while you rake your hand through your hair at the crown of your head and arch your cold chest into his other hand, Jungkook watches you part your legs for him. And time stops when he expects there to be a cloth of any pastel color covering your pussy and finds there to be none.

None at all.

Mustering all of his strength, he rips his gaze away. Points the belt in your face. He can’t see your little pussy, not just yet. He has to punish you first for stealing his first move for the second time around, for triggering his flight or fight response because he wasn’t ready for this—he wasn’t ready to have his control taken, for his detachment and restraint to be broken so promptly. He should’ve laid it down at your feet, having cut it himself. Then, it would've been pure; it would’ve been right.

Nothing about this is of those attributes.

This is dark, this is sinful, and you’re gonna pay for it.

“Repeat back to me what I told you the last time I saw you,” he orders, bringing your eyes back up to him as he towers over you, stinging your lips with the coolness of the wet leather, seemingly coaxing out your words. Your breath shivers at the contact, changing the temperature, mouth parting like your legs as he moves it down to your chin. You run your tongue along its bottom pillow as soon as he drags the belt down the upper of your sternum, the very place he touched with his own hand. He stops at the swell of breast right next to his fist bunching up your nightdress, the accessory lifting and falling with your short intakes of air.

The rain pelts harder against the window. You evidently mull over your answer, blinking slowly at him, dazy from it all—and it’s funny to him. He hasn’t even started, and he’s way too far away from being finished with you.

“You mean what you said to me a month ago? How am I supposed to remember?” you question, the words oozing with every particle of provocation that exists within this irredeemable world. Jungkook knows more than he knows himself that you’re bluffing and he sucks in a breath, his frustration piling up on top of his clenched muscles. His hand longs to lift and spank your visibly stiffened nipple for your smart mouth, but he holds himself back—the time isn’t right yet. He wonders if your pointed beads are still cold from the window or if he needs to suck them into his mouth to warm them up.

His cock flits. Jungkook struggles to contain his noises, growling hushedly under his breath. One corner of your mouth tugs to the side when they encompass you, producing your satisfaction, and it pisses him off even more.

His fist unclenches, letting go of your neckline. The fabric is wrinkled and stretched, ruined until the next wash, and that fact likens him to you, cooking the ingredients of satisfaction for him. Power seizes him, and therefore he stoops to your level, bending at the waist to look you straight in the face. The belt follows suit, stopping at your flushed cheek.

It wasn’t that long ago when you were mewling in pain, the same redness spreading across your forehead. Where is that meekness of yours, your girlishness, your softness? Where has his detachment gone again and why does your malleability madden him so tremendously?

His fatherliness unfurls in full glory, his need to discipline you consumes him alive.

“Watch your mouth,” he spits in undertone, patting your cheek with the belt just once. Light flashes in your eyes, a candle swished by the wind. “I know you remember well, you can’t trick me, so again I tell you. Repeat back to me my last words to you.”

And you do the most unimaginable thing, setting him on fire. Word for word, you repeat back the sentence he uttered but a half minute ago. A serious delivery, with a static contortion, camouflaging your mischief, and he becomes the image he saw in your eyes.

A tall candle, melting.

His fury and frustration should continue on. Should grip the belt hard and paint welts on the flesh of your thighs and bum. But the more your perversion radiates him, the more he loses. The bunny of his love gazes back at you from its hiding place, casting its first glimpse at you, and makes the first move to slightly exit the deep darkness.

First move; first step. Curiosity eclipses the white fur of the bunny, the white dot across the blackness of the yin half. Its wide, almond eyes are unblinking, captivated by you, by your forcefulness, stubbornness and your immaculate beauty. By the way you breathe evenly, by how unafraid you are. So full of everything adventurous, like the books you read, which fill every space of your apartment.

The animal is smitten with you. Jungkook stands outside of his own body, wondering if there’s any line at all between the grayness that has been created. If there’s any backing away from the blatantly obvious fact that he loves you.

That he can’t stay mad at you.

That his need to discipline you truly stems from his profound love for you.

“You think you’re the Daddy?” he mutters, at last, the correction of dynamics coming naturally out of him. He silences you with his question, creasing your features, and his satisfaction is a finished meal. The first bite you’ll ever have; the first spoonful. “I’ll show you who’s Daddy.”

And then he grips your throat and forces your lips to collide with his. Breathing in your skin is the first intake of fresh air he’s ever had. This is his first kiss, his first life—and when you reciprocate his kiss and submit to his feverish rhythm, it is the first warm, home-cooked meal he’s ever devoured. The sky falls and is born again, and he, too, is born anew.

You lean back, relinquished, and Jungkook straddles you, his knees making dents on either side of you upon the plush of your couch. The belt falls, his walls fall, and he has to touch you. His fingers crawl up from your ears into the garden of your hair, gripping the roots, moaning into your mouth and you respond just the same. Opening your mouth, you give him access to your tongue and your spit—and he drinks, he drinks as if it were the angelic fountain that had the expertise to cleanse him of his old life. And he lets it.

Clenches and unclenches his fingers, tangled in your hair, the symbol of his green light because he’s safe with you.

He’s safe with you.

Your hands blindly find your favorite spots on his body. They knead his thighs as he sucks on your pout, his abstained dream come true. They ascend to his clothed ribs under his jacket, lingering there, ostensibly seeking the bunny, not knowing that the animal has begun to look for the way out. Your moans gain volume and sensitivity, and Jungkook knows you can’t take it anymore.

Neither can he. He’s hard to the point of bursting.

And when he latches his mouth onto the side of your neck and your moans lighten to little mewls akin to those he missed, he doesn’t allow you to sink your nails into the last place you love on him. He pushes you face down onto the couch and grabs his discarded belt.

He’s going to make that little girl stay.

BACK to masterlist

#divider by d-oie #bangtanwhq #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #kpop smut #jungkook fic #jungkook series #jungkook x reader

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salemlunaa · 9 months ago

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USING SATS FOR THE VOID OR ON ITS OWN:

a guaranteed “method”, where all that you desire is owed to you

IM BACK BITCHES!!!

DID YALL MISS MEEEE?? BC I MISSED YOU

anyway, i know i talk alot about not needing methods, and its true, you don’t need anything but yourself to tap in to the void/“I AM” state. However i dont really see SATS as a method and i think it’s great to consider when looking at loa and shifting

“what is SATS?”

you may ask, well, that is the abbreviation for the “state akin to sleep”

as you can see, the word “akin” means something of a similar nature to, so the state akin to sleep is basically the name to describe the lightheaded, woozy state before you go to bed bed

You can visualise what you want in this state, or you can affirm, you don’t need ten thousand affirmations, one can get the point across you’re a god and the operant power so even with one vague affirmation, your subconscious mind knows exactly what your talking about.

“when will i be able to see my results?”

you may also ask, and let me tell you it is guaranteed that you why what you want as soon as you wake up. This is why this “method” is popular in the loa community because it one of those where your subconscious mind is in full control.

An example of this could be Neville Goddard’s manifesting class. He asked that his students affirm/visualise climbing a ladder during SATS. He then told them to affirm against it during the day, telling themselves that they will NOT climb a ladder. He told his students not to come back if they didn’t climb a ladder and everyone returned.

This example just shows how powerful we can be when we let our subconscious mind take the wheel. All our doubts and fears cancel out and whatever we desire becomes real and no longer remains a desire. You can use this to enter the void, visualise your void and affirm for it and you will wake up there. You can do this for absolutely anything you desire. you can use SATS on its own, a lot of people just love the void so they use SATS to get there, but affirming for your dream life or visualising you waking up in the bed of your dream reality is another method other than the void.

A lot of you may struggle with this because you either, “can’t fall asleep” or you “fall asleep too quickly” while your mind was wondering and to that i say STAY DISCIPLINED!! The same way you would stay disciplined while studying for a test or while working a shift at your job is the same way you must stay disciplined while doing this method. It’s okay to “fail” the first time, and you’re more than allowed to feel upset waking back up in your shitty “reality”. But don’t beat yourself up about it and know that you can always do it again. You can simply decide that SATS is easy for you and it will reflect. always.

And as i always say, you don’t have to wait for the night to do this, ofcourse if you have things to do you don’t need to put them on hold but you don’t need to wait for the night to come, you. an fall into this state at ANY TIME OF DAY, so there goes another excuse for you to procrastinate. Now get to it love, because i KNOW that you can do this.

WAKING UP WITH YOUR DESIRES GUARANTEED SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE, BUT DONT LET THAT SCARE YOU. 🔮💋

#salemlunaa #shiftblr #permashifting #reality shifting #shifting #law of assumption #success story #loa #void state #the void #void concept #the void state #voidstate #void state tips #state akin to sleep #respawning #shifters

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slytherin-pen · 2 months ago

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Lessons In Discipline II

pairing: Cazriel x Reader

word count: 3.6k!!

warnings: SMUT, 18+, spanking, shadow bondage, use of a gag, blow job, daddy kink, edging, —oh god what else uh— Azriel’s kind of mean ig, oral on female, biting, hickies, p in v penetration, let me know if i forgot anything 😅

a/n: i’m not sure what demon possessed me to write this but i’m starting my period so we’ll blame that. and who let me write a threesome as my first smut EVER? i was stressing fr but i hope it’s good *bites nails nervously* i also added some fluffy aftercare at the end. enjoy!!

Part 1

Shadows bound your hands to the foot of the four-poster bed, positioning you to stand before it, facing the wall. Azriel and Cassian were behind you, but you couldn’t see them. You tried to focus on the painting above the bed, waves crashing into rocky cliffs under a full moon, but your body was fully tuned in on what the Illyrians could be doing behind you. The heady scents of all of your arousal filled the room, only amplifying the heat that’s overcome your body. Your breasts rose and fell with heavy breaths, the anticipation and fear for what was to come overwhelming you.

Azriel had silenced you with a gag, telling you that apologies were useless and that he’d decide when your mouth would serve a purpose.

You heard movement behind you, and a shiver ran down your spine as something traced its way down your back. A sharp smack to your ass had you gasping, nearly choking on your saliva.

“I’m very disappointed in you, angel,” Azriel chastised, dragging the riding crop up the side of your thighs. Your knees nearly buckled at the sudden adrenaline rushing through you. “I thought I would come home to my good girl and we could have some fun together, but instead I have to remind you how to behave. Who you belong to.”

Your whines were muffled, the urge to apologize on your tongue but it was useless. He couldn’t understand you. It was exactly what he wanted. He knew you would say you were sorry and beg for him to forgive you, but you had gone too far. He didn’t want to hear your pleas. He wanted you to take it.

“You know, I was on a very important mission when Rhys entered my mind to tell me that Cass requested I come home. I thought surely my little girl would be able to behave for one week but then he tells me that you weren’t eating,” *swat* “or training,” *swat* “and disobeying him,” *swat*.

Tears gathered in your eyes, incomprehensible mumbles leaving your lips. You couldn’t see your ass, but it burned from Azriel’s relentless spankings. You were sure it was red and raw by now.

Azriel clicked his tongue. “I’ll admit I was shocked. You’re usually so good for Cass, saving all that bratty behavior for me.” A hand wrapped around your hair and tugged, bending your neck so you looked up at him. Hazel eyes simmering with rage met your bloodshot eyes. “That’s why I’m going to let him have his turn with you. Usually, he likes to just watch but I think after the week he’s had,” he chuckled darkly, “I think he deserves to have his way with you.”

The shadows released your wrists and you were shoved down onto the mattress. When you pushed yourself up to your hands and knees, Cassian was already situating himself in front of you, wings spread behind him as he stroked his cock. He smirked as he looked down at you, and that only served to send a shiver down your spine.

“You can take the gag out now, Cass,” Azriel said.

Cassian gently cupped your face as he loosened the gag just enough to slide it down to your neck. Calloused hands pinched and twisted your nipples, earning short and breathless gasps from you.

You dared to look behind you at Azriel. He still had his pants on but he was shirtless, the swirling black tattoos on his chest and climbing up his neck on full display. His shadows swarmed him in harsh, sharp motions, reflecting his feelings about your recent behavior.

Cassian grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him again. His large hand cupped the back of your head, guiding you to his red, swollen cock. You took it in your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you sucked languidly. He threw his head back with a groan as he rocked his hips towards your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart, just like that.”

You felt the bed dip behind you as scarred hands gripped your waist. Cassian’s hold on your head became a little more forceful, his fingers threading through your hair. Azriel positioned himself under you, pulling your hips down so you sat on his face. You bucked as Azriel licked a long stripe up your folds then focused his tongue on your hole, swirling his tongue around before pushing it in and out. His nose rubbed against your clit with every motion as Cassian started fucking your mouth. Hands gripping the sheets, a strangled moan escaped you, muffled by Cassian’s cock, and you ground yourself down on Azriel’s face eager for more friction before he smacked your ass and pulled away.

You whimpered at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing as arousal dripped down your inner thighs.

“This is a punishment, angel,” Azriel scolds. “You take what we give you and nothing more. You don’t cum until we say you can. Do you understand?”

Cassian pulled his cock out of your mouth. “Yes, Daddy,” you gasped, desperate for them to keep touching you.

Cassian chuckled as he looked into your wide, dilated eyes. “Look at our needy girl. You’re already a mess aren’t you?”

He didn’t let you finish your mumbling before sticking his cock back in your mouth. It was salty with the taste of his pre-cum, your tongue running up and down the soft, veiny skin. Your jaw ached as you sucked him off and saliva dripped down your face onto the bed. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment you clenched your eyes shut, focusing on the up-and-down motion Cassian was guiding you in.

You nearly bit him in shock when you felt something cold touch your pussy, but he only shoved you farther down as you gagged on him. “Don’t you worry about what Az is doing back there, sweetheart. We’ve got it all under control.”

Azriel huffed a laugh as the cold, foreign object circled around your entrance. “She knows exactly what this is, don’t you, love?”

You whined and squirmed as the realization settled over you. It wasn’t unfamiliar, but Azriel rarely used it and reserved it for when you’d been especially bad. When you hadn’t earned the privilege of feeling his cock just yet. The glass dildo.

Moaning as he inserted it, you tried to refrain from sinking back on it lest he take it away. His large, scarred hand smoothed up your spine and pressed down in the center of your shoulder blades, arching your back the way he liked. Cassian picked up the pace with his thrusts in your mouth, and it was then you noticed Azriel wasn’t moving the dildo but only using the momentum of Cass’ thrusts that rocked you backward.

Your walls clenched helplessly, begging for more but being greedy would only get you in more trouble. You wanted to be a good girl. Maybe, if you behaved, he’d let you cum eventually. Azriel was relentless in the bedroom, expertly bringing you to the edge of climax only to rip it away, leaving you crying and desperate. He was the Torture Master, after all—skilled in delivering both pain and pleasure, balancing on the fine line between agony and ecstasy.

Cassian’s grip on your hair tightened, his thrusts stuttering before he grunted as his cum shot down your throat. “Oh fuck, keep going. That’s it.”

You took him deeper, swallowing every drop before releasing his cock with a pop. Azriel pushed the dildo in faster now and you moaned as your face landed on the mattress, arching your back even further. You felt yourself reaching a climax, but much to your chagrin Azriel pulled the dildo out.

He quickly flipped you over, leaving you slightly dazed as you watched him unbuckle his pants and slip them down his muscular thighs. His cock sprung free and you practically drooled at the sight of it. He smirked at you as he stroked it slowly, as if he knows how badly you want it. He grabbed your ankles and yanked you to the edge of the bed before leaning over you and blessing you with a quick, feverish kiss, then put the gag back in your mouth.

You whined and thrashed in indignation, causing Azriel to deliver a sharp smack to your thigh to end that nonsense. “That bratty mouth of yours is half to blame for the trouble you’re in,” he said.

Cassian lifted you up by the shoulders, placing you between his legs so you could lean back on his chest. You sighed and relaxed against him, going pliant as he brushed your hair to the side and kissed your neck. “Be a good girl so we can take this out,” he tapped the rubber ball sticking out of your mouth, “and then maybe you’ll be rewarded with an orgasm. You want that don’t you, sweet girl?” he whispered in your ear.

You shivered at his words but nodded. You wanted that very much. It felt as if you might combust if you couldn’t find release soon. Your pussy was throbbing, begging for someone to touch it and make you feel good.

Azriel was already on his knees on the floor in front of you when you looked up at him. He threw each of your legs over a shoulder, and he gradually licked his way up your thigh. Your eyes rolled back as he bit the supple skin of your thigh, his nails digging into the other. Between Cassian licking and nibbling at your neck, and Azriel sinking his teeth into your thighs it was a delicious mix of pleasure and pain.

You couldn’t help but watch Azriel. Shadows curled around him like living things, but the look in his eyes chilled you to the bone. Predatory, possessive, hungry. He had you spread out before him, shadows wrapping around your wrists to keep them pinned to the sheets so he had you exactly where he wanted.

“You smell so sweet,” he murmured, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dripping pussy. The teasing flick of his tongue followed, sending tingles down to your toes.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking relief, but Azriel merely shook his head. “Patience,” he chided, pressing your thighs wider apart. “You’ll take what I give you.”

A slow, torturous drag of his tongue over your aching pussy had you moaning, your fingers curling into the sheets. He groaned against you, the deep vibration making your toes curl. His tongue moved with calculated precision, tracing every sensitive spot, circling your clit before pulling away just enough to make you whimper.

“My needy little girl,” he teased, his lips brushing against your swollen skin before he sucked your clit into his mouth. The sensation sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through you, a muffled cry tearing from your throat.

His grip on your thighs tightened as he devoured you, his tongue relentless, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin to keep you from squirming away. He wanted you desperate, ruined, shaking apart beneath him.

When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you nearly sobbed.

His only response was a dark chuckle before he sucked harder, thrusting his fingers in time with the flick of his tongue. The pressure built fast, too much and not enough, your body writhing as pleasure coiled tight in your core.

“That’s enough, I think,” he said as he pulled away.

Tears streamed down your face, frustration building inside you, and if it wasn’t for the cauldron-forsaken gag you would curse him out.

Cassian tutted as he wiped away your tears with his knuckles. “Oh, poor girl. He’s being so mean isn’t he?”

You nodded, nuzzling into his neck for comfort. This was torture. Your thighs shook and you choked around the gag. Blessedly, Cassian decided to have some mercy on you and unbuckled it. You took deep, greedy gulps of air, tilting your head back on Cass’ shoulder as he ran his hands up and down your arms in an effort to soothe you.

Azriel sat next to you and stroked your jaw with his thumb. “Do you need to use your safe word?”

You shook your head, “I’m fine. Promise.”

He nodded and kissed your temple. “Go ahead and sit against the headboard, Cass.”

Cassian kissed your cheek before doing as Azriel bid. You watched his abs ripple as he got comfortable, fluffing up the pillows behind him.

Cassian met your gaze with a lazy smirk as Azriel approached behind you. The heat in his eyes sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, but it was nothing compared to the dominance in Azriel’s voice as he murmured into your ear.

“Ride him.”

Your breath hitched, your body already buzzing from the weight of his command.

“You can do that for me, can’t you?” he asked, his voice was a low rasp. One of his hands slid between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. “Be a good girl and show me how desperate you are.”

You exhaled shakily and crawled toward Cassian.

Cassian hummed in approval, his hands settling on your thighs. His pupils were blown wide with lust. “Such a good girl.”

With trembling hands, you reached for Cassian’s broad shoulders, lifting yourself just enough to sink down onto him. The stretch was delicious, Cassian groaning as you took him inch by inch. Azriel’s hands found your hips, guiding you, controlling even as you rode the other male.

“Fuck,” Cassian growled, his grip tightening on your thighs. “Look at you. So fucking perfect.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Azriel’s hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so his lips brushed against your ear. “Don’t stop until I tell you.” His voice was pure sin, sending shivers down your spine. “Make him fall apart for me.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered hoarsely.

Your nails dug into Cassian’s shoulders as you moved, moaning every time you felt his head reach your entrance. It was bliss, everything you’ve been wanting. Azriel started biting your neck and sucking on your jawline. You’d surely have marks later but that made it all the more enjoyable.

You and Cassian’s moans echoed in the room, along with the sound of your skin slapping together and the wetness dripping off of you onto his pelvis. Azriel kept his hands on your hips but you were able to take some control back as you bounced up and down.

“Feel so good,” you slurred.

You felt Azriel smile against your jaw as he nipped at the skin. “I bet our sweet girl wants to cum. What do you think, Cass?”

“I’m about to myself, it would be cruel not to let her join,” Cassian chuckled.

Azriel took the lobe of your ear between his teeth and pulled down causing you to gasp at the sensation. “Does that sound good, angel? Do you want Daddy to let you cum?”

“Please, please, please,” you chanted. It was a miracle you hadn’t already, but it only would have drawn out your punishment for longer. You had certainly learned your lesson this time and want nothing more than for Azriel to let you finish. A sheen of sweat coated your skin and your heart pounded in your chest. Your body is exhausted, muscles sore from being so tense. Pleasure coiled deep within you, winding tighter with every touch—a burning tension building to the breaking point, ready to snap and send you spiraling into bliss.

“Beg,” Azriel demanded.

You swallowed thickly, trying to soothe your scratchy throat. “Please, Daddy, please let me cum.”

“Will you be good for Cass the next time I leave?” he asked as one of his hands found your clit, circling slowly.

“Yes, yes, I will I promise.”

Azriel hummed and tilted his head as if considering. He glanced at Cassian who had his eyes clenched and head tilted toward the ceiling, like he was trying his best to wait for you.

Finally, he clicked his tongue and said, “You can cum.”

You cried out as Cassian sped up the pace, jerking his hips up to meet yours at a punishing pace before you toppled over the edge together, your pussy pulsating and squeezing his cock. You cried out as blinding pleasure coursed through you, your vision blacking out momentarily. Cassian moaned as he continued to thrust inside you, chasing every last shockwave of the same ecstasy you felt.

You collapsed on top of Cassian’s chest, his cock still inside you. You were panting, desperate for more precious air. His warm, calloused fingers stroking gently down your arms, grounding you. His expression, usually filled with teasing grins or cocky smirks, was nothing but concern now. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

You nodded, but the exhaustion tugging at your limbs made you feel boneless, too drained to do anything but lean into him. Your breath was still uneven, your heart hammering in your chest.

Then Azriel was there beside him, brushing his knuckles over your cheek, hazel eyes scanning your face as if he could read every thought running through your mind. “You did so good,” he murmured.

Cassian started running his fingers through your damp hair and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Azriel’s touch was featherlight as he traced over your wrist—the spot where his shadows had held you. There was no guilt in his gaze, just a quiet, unwavering attentiveness. “Tell us what you need,” he said softly. “Water? Something to eat? A bath?”

It took a moment to find your voice. “Water,” you croaked.

He was up in an instant, disappearing into the en suite and returning moments later with a glass. He sat beside you again, lifting the glass to your lips and tilting it just enough for you to take slow sips. “That’s it,” he murmured, watching you closely. “Take your time.”

You gulped down the water, the chill a balm to the burning in your throat. You sighed as you finished the glass and laid your head back down on Cassian.

Azriel set the glass aside, then helped Cassian remove himself from inside you, shifting you slightly so your legs were slung over his. Azriel reached for a damp cloth, running it over your skin with tender precision. He wiped away the lingering sweat and fluids, caressing every inch of you with care.

Once he was finished, Azriel tossed the cloth onto the bedside table before pulling the blankets up over you, tucking you in before slipping beneath them himself. Cassian shifted, maneuvering you to be pressed between them as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. Azriel settled on your other side, his wings partially draped around you, cocooning you in warmth.

Cassian’s fingers trailed up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Do you want to talk about it now or wait?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, then buried your face further into his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “You’re not in trouble anymore, and you won’t be in trouble for anything you say right now.”

Azriel nodded. “He’s right. And you know it always helps to talk through it. We won’t be upset with you,” he promised.

You rolled over, eyes staring up at the ceiling as your hand found Azriel’s and he intertwined your fingers. You glanced at him then, voice cracking as you spoke. “I missed you.”

“Oh, love, I missed you too,” he frowned, then brought your hand to his lips to kiss it. “But that doesn’t mean you can just act like a brat for Cass.”

“I know, but I just..” you looked to Cassian, guilt and sadness shining in your eyes. “You were so busy, and I know it’s not your fault that you have so much to do but I was sad and lonely, and it felt like you didn’t have any time for me. At least when I acted out you paid attention to me.”

Cassian’s face fell and he cupped your jaw as he kissed you slowly. “I am so sorry, sweet girl,” he whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours. “Next time Az has to go out of town I will make sure I have more time for you. I will tell Rhys to suck if I have to.” You both huffed a laugh. “You are the most important thing to me, and it breaks my heart that you felt that way. It will never happen again,” he vowed.

Azriel tucked rogue strands of hair behind your ear. “Feel better, angel?”

You sniffled as you nodded, tears pricking your eyes.

“Aw, don’t cry, love. What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just love you both so much and I—I’m sorry for how I behaved. I just hate it when either of you leave and I might have to lock you in here to keep you to myself,” you blubbered. Both males chuckled, squeezing you tighter between them.

“We’re here now,” Cassian assured.

“And we’re not going anywhere any time soon, Rhys’ demands be damned. I think we’re due for a mate-cation,” Azriel joked.

You let out a shaky giggle, the sound thick with tears and uneven breaths. But the weight of them, their bodies, and their reassurances grounded you more than anything else.

Azriel pressed his lips to your hair, his thumb moving in a slow, steady pattern on your hip. “You’re okay, my love,” he murmured. “Just relax.”

Cassian’s grip tightened slightly. “We’ve got you.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the tension finally start to drain from your body. The steady rhythm of their breathing surrounded you, their warmth and scents seeping into your skin.

And as you drifted toward sleep, nestled between them, you knew that you were loved. That despite your bratty-ness, they wouldn’t leave you. And that was the most comforting thought of all.

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