#elite drabble | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alygator77 · 5 months 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 )

-> part 2

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! -> click here for part 2

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

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

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@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @strychnynegirl

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madamechrissy · 7 months ago

Text

Do I wanna know?

Pairings: Yandere Gojo x Fem reader

Summary: Satoru Gojo knows as soon as he sees you, he'll do anything to have you, but first? He needs you to need him. Ignoring his friendly offer to let you stay with him to save up for a better place, you soon find yourself kicked out by your landlord, and moving in with Satoru. Every thing seems like it's bringing you to need Satoru more and more... yet he doesn't make a move on you, and soon you start putting things together... is Satoru a stalker?? 9k word count

CW - There are SO MANY lol here we go- gaslighting, manipulation, possessive behavior, stalking, Satoru is so Yandere, teasing and tension, explicit sex, rough sex, face smacking, choking, breed kink, videoing without consent, oral sex (both receiving) trying to baby trap mentions of cum, dirty talk (he calls you a slut a lott lol) and misogyny. SATORU BEING PSYCHO but sexy. It's toxic- Based on this drabble

Comments/reblogs appreciated if you enjoy this one! Thank you for 4k followers omg!!!

You’re not sure how you came to be so close to Satoru Gojo so quickly.

It was as if everywhere you were, he popped up in some way, at first you all met at your work, you were a bartender for a pretty elite club, and Satoru came in along with a few of his CEO friends for drinks once. He had tipped you insanely well, this gorgeous man with shocking white hair, and the most intense blue eyes you’ve seen, you couldn’t even describe the color they were.

Satoru Gojo was rich, handsome, friendly, funny, you couldn’t understand why he even asked for your number. You’re a beautiful girl, but he seemed like the kind of man that had women come to him, but not just that, he’s humble and sweet. He messaged you that night even, hoping you got home safe after your shift, and then asking if you’d like to hang out.

When you pictured hanging out, you honestly pictured maybe a date, or something intimate, but it was just coffee the first time, and he asked real questions about you. The next time you all went to a concert he had tickets for, and you had invited him into your apartment when he’d dropped you off, offering a drink to him.

That’s when Satoru saw your shitty little apartment.

He scoffed, walking around while you went to grab two beers, earning a view of your ass that had him shifting himself in his pants, but he was so upset then, he knew where you lived from the outside, he’d watched you plenty, but this? It’s a teeny one bedroom nothing, surely he could treat you much better than that, you deserved a penthouse, his penthouse.

He’d been watching you since that night weeks ago, he could not get his eyes off you, you took his breath away when his eyes had shifted up your body in that slutty bartending outfit. God he can’t wait until you’re not allowed to wear that anywhere, until you’re all his, and oh he knows you want him, he sees the desire in your dilated eyes, how your lips part when you look at him.

But not just yet.

Satoru can’t just fuck you, no you need to be his and you need to stay his, never, ever leaving him, and to do that he needs you begging for him. He needs there to be no other ideas in that pretty head of yours, so he decides to be your ‘friend’. Even when you step a little closer, lowering your lashes, eyes drinking him in when you take a sip from your bottle.

Beer? You should have top shelf champagne.

Satoru can do that for you.

“Thank you so much for tonight, Satoru.” You say softly, a hand trailing up his chest then, he tilts his head, blue eyes assessing you hungrily.

“Why live here?”

You blink now. “Well, it’s cheap and safe?”

“Don’t you make good money?”

“Um… yeah but I have student loans out the ass for my failed creative writing degree.” You roll your eyes and sigh, earning his chuckle.

“Failed? Didn’t pass?”

“No, I did but it’s useless I guess now. I should’ve gone into medical and been a little smarter, but I didn’t listen.”

“Is it your passion?” You nod then, with a little smile.

Satoru can make it happen, surely.

“You could always stay with me.” You cough then, you all barely know each other. “I have a huge place, I wouldn’t mind.”

“I could never impose like that. Don’t feel so sorry, Satoru, I swear I’m good here.” You lean in now, Satoru leans down, big hand caressing your face, tilting your chin up, his look so intense you can’t breathe. Breaths come in quick pants as your gaze hits his plush, glossy lips, imagining them everywhere.

“It’s an open offer, if anything happens. I’ll be…” He smirks a bit, leaning even closer, so close you taste the sweetness of his cool breath. “All gentlemanly and everything.”

“Would you be?” He chuckles now, lips just an inch from yours, your chest is rising and falling, heart thudding at just what his touch does. “What if I don’t want you to be one right now?”

“What’re you asking, sweets?”

“I…” The phone rings now, you clear your throat, realizing you were about to beg this almost stranger to fuck you.

What’s wrong with you!?

“I am sorry, let me see who it is.” Satoru smiles good naturedly, but you don��t see the glare from behind you, as he scowls at the phone, seeing another man’s name. You text him that you’re busy quickly, earning a little relief for him.

“Boyfriend?” You whirl around now, eyes narrowing a bit.

“No, um… ex boyfriend. We were together for years though, even in college, so we keep in touch sometimes.”

Satoru’s jaw sets, and something… changes then, confusing you a bit, as he sets his drink down. “Who broke up with who?”

“Um, he did.” Your cheeks heat up now under his scrutiny. “I’m sure you don’t wanna talk about my ex though.”

Oh, he does.

He wants your attention all on him, and not a bit of that should be for your ex, who didn’t even want you!? How could anyone not want you? Your gorgeous face that fucks his dreams up, your perfect body like you’re built just for him, how sweet you are, and those damn eyes of yours. He can’t wait to see them fucked out, to see you drooling.

Can’t wait to make sure you never text this man again.

“Is something wrong?” You ask now, he smirks, brightening his face so you don’t figure out all his thoughts.

“Nah, sweets, just curious who’d break up with you.” His casual words hit hard, as he brushes your hair back now, leaning in again and you think maybe he’ll kiss you finally, but he just stares at you, holding your face with strong hands.

So strong he could really crush you if he wants, you feel so small in his presence, so overwhelming. Then he brushes his lips up and against your cheek, your eyes flutter shut, your body throbbing with need, but he pulls away after the little kiss on your face, those blue eyes glittering now, he grins all bright and beautiful, casually putting his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I’m off now, enjoy your night, huh?” You blink a bit at that, wondering then, is something not to his liking about you? You’re studying yourself in the mirror after he left, picking yourself apart.

Your makeup is perfect still, your outfit is sexy, you look really good, and you’d damn near been begging for him silently. Maybe he wasn’t interested? Then why did he look at you like that? You sigh now, washing your face and getting down to just your bra and panties, picking back up the phone and finally writing your ex back, then seeing a text from Satoru.

Satoru: Had fun, sweets. Good night.

You: I had fun too… you didn’t have to leave so early.

Satoru smirks, still in his car, watching your silhouette from behind your curtains, gently walking back and forth, he glares when he realizes you are likely naked or damn close to it. He is going to have to teach you some lessons, it seems, because you are already trying to show the world what’s his.

Or will be.

Satoru: It was getting late, did you want me to stay?

You: Maybe I did. Thank you for tonight though.

Satoru: No problem, love.

Love… that does something to you, Satoru does something to you, when your head hits the bed and you’re staring up at the ceiling. Your ex texts you again, but this time you ignore it, thoughts whirling, you still feel the touch to your cheek, having fucked you up more than even being intimate with someone.

Satoru Gojo, who was he really?

*****

“Hey, hey… what’s wrong?” Satoru knows what’s wrong, he is all sweet hugs and rubbing your back though when you are at his place the next week, sobbing against his chest.

“I’m so sorry… I… My landlord just kicked me out!? And I did nothing wrong, she said she’s renting it for triple to someone? I was past my lease, but shit.” Satoru smiles, but you don’t see it, buried against his strong chest as he strokes your hair softly, pleased that you came to him.

You’re such a good girl.

“Oh, sweetheart, it's okay. Shh.” He’s consoling you so sweetly, you pull back, seeing his concerned gaze as you blink away tears, swiping at your cheeks.

“I can’t afford three times the rent? Satoru I… I make decent enough money, if I could just pay you for a room until I find somewhere? I-”

“Nonsense.” He cuts you off, and your stomach flutters when he’s brushing a hand across your back, palm pressing into the fabric of your dress, like it’s burning you with a touch. “You stay here for free, save up money, yeah?”

“I can’t do that, I have to pay you something. It’s already a huge imposition-”

“Have you seen this place? It’s not shit to have you here, won’t cost me anything anyway.” You have seen it, his insane penthouse with a view that’s fucking ridiculous. It’s spotless, only the finest everything all over, you know Satoru’s very wealthy as a CEO but he screams old money too.

“I would feel terrible. Could I cook, pick up?”

“I have cleaners. Cooking though… yeah, you good at it?”

You smile tremulously, wiping your eyes again. “I’m so good! I also could give the best neck massages after work?”

“Now that sounds perfect. It’s a deal then, stay as long as you need, but cook yummy things. As for a massage, we’ll see if you’re good as you say.”

“Swear, they’re magic! Oh goodness, I have to get to my shift soon, ugh… is there a way you could help me get my things? I’ll just leave the furniture, it’s old, I can buy new shit.”

“Absolutely.”

You hug him tightly, kissing his cheek then, he tenses at it, at the brush of your lips, at the curves of your body against him. Fuck he can’t wait to make you his.

“Satoru Gojo, you're amazing.” He chuckles then.

“I know.”

*****

Living with Satoru Gojo, who walks around shirtless is… difficult. Your tummy clenches, mouth gulping the first time you see him, his chiseled perfect body, all dewy after a shower. Towel slung across his neck, sauntering over to you with that smirk of his, so casual as you’re in the kitchen chopping up veggies, he brushes his fingertips across your back, driving you insane.

Shivers slink down your spine when he leans over you, breath against your neck, you damn near arch back into him as he murmurs in your ear. “Looks yummy.”

Fuck.

You take a shaky breath, hands trembling as you then nick yourself with the knife, you wince then. “Ow, shit!”

“Lemme see.” He takes your hand gently, peering at the drop of crimson that pushes out in droplets then, the way he takes your hand even is too much.

Weeks of living together, walking around in arguably almost nothing in front of him, and he hasn’t hit on you, despite his eyes devouring you, like they’re touching you. No he’d smile and lazily trail his gaze, maybe brush against you in the kitchen, give you a hug after work, you’d rub his neck just so and he’d grip your wrists, smiling up at you, to the point you’re losing control.

All you can think of is him.

Satoru loves it that way, too, he loves hearing you murmur his name in your sleep, he’s got cameras all over, especially in your room, and he can even hear you on them. Your little whines of pleasure, he’d see how your hands would move under your blankets, as you stayed as quiet as can be, but he heard your whimpers, your sweet little moans.

He strokes his cock every night watching you, listening, waiting.

He needs you to really need him.

“Just a little nick, I’m fine.” You assure him, then your mouth drops as he takes your finger, sucking it into his mouth.

He’s sucking on your damn finger, hot wet mouth and the lewd images destroying the fragile hold you have on your sanity, snowy lashes lowered as he presses his tongue up on your fingertip, putting pressure. You stand there quiet, but then there’s a little sound that escapes your throat, a little whine, and when he pulls back he smiles knowingly.

He licks his lips, a drop of blood on them, tilting his head as he releases your finger now. “Better?”

“Um… y-yes. Thank you, Satoru.” You manage to speak somehow, your voice hoarse, you clear your throat then. “Clumsy.”

“Mind somewhere?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

Another week goes by, Satoru watches you every chance he gets, when he’s at work he watches you on his phone, he’s got a tracker in yours, for your safety you know, when something concerns him. Your daily trips were work, maybe the store, and a couple times a week the gym. But you’re somewhere he’s never seen you at, and it concerns him then.

Where are you?

He zooms in on the location.

Someone’s house?

Satoru’s jaw tightens then, and when you’re home that night, you notice he’s not friendly, or sweet, or talkative. He barely responds as you try to engage with him, and when you go to rub his neck, he stops your hands with an icy glare. “What’s… did I upset you?”

“How could you upset me?” He stands up, looming so tall, you shrink back just a bit, the backs of your legs hitting the fancy grey couch, until you’re sitting in it, and Satoru’s arms are on either side of you. “How could you, sweets, hmm?”

“I… I don’t know? Um…” Your mouth goes dry when he gets on his knees, spreading your thighs, your breaths coming quicker, pussy throbbing around nothing, thinking of him, feeling his long slender fingers on your skin. “Satoru?”

“You’re a perfect girl, aren’t you? A good girl?” Your hips shift, his eyes dart down, smiling as he peeks under your skirt now, a wet spot forming on your panties, he can’t wait to finally taste you, when you’re good of course.

“Good girl? I… don’t know.” Your hands are at your side, his face is right against yours again, your thighs on either side of his body, pressing into him.

“What’d you get up to today?” He asks, all casual like he doesn’t know, as he assesses your body for marks, bites, hickeys. Your body belongs to him, even if you don’t know it just yet. He finds none, making him just a little less furious, but now he feels the plush of your thighs in his grip, picturing shoving them against your chest.

You’d look so sexy in a mating press, wouldn’t you?

“I um… went to grab dinner, then I gave some shit to my ex that I had left from the apartment.” Satoru exhales in relief.

“Oh yeah? I could’ve helped you, love.”

“No, it’s awkward. I was holding onto it, I decided to just let it go, he didn’t choose me, you know?”

“Who wouldn’t choose you?” You lean forward, his eyes dart to your breasts, as a strap slips over your shoulder.

“Satoru, you're too good to me, and why? How have I come to deserve you in my life?” He exhales, adjusting the strap with two fingers, brushing your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps, he watches your nipples perk up under your tank top, furious that anyone has ever seen them.

“Is that all? You gave him his shit?” He tries to hide his anger, his jealousy.

“That’s all.” You answer, and he stands again, leaving you wanting and empty when he’s not touching you.

“Should have asked me to help. I’m calling it a night, yeah?” You manage a little nod, he tilts your chin up as he stands over you, your body reacting so violently you’re shaking damn near, unable to stop the reaction. He smiles knowingly, leaving you then, and you glare at his strong, perfect back as he walks off, giving you a little look before going to his room.

Satoru knew you saw him somehow? You can swear it. Are you freaking out for no reason? Surely he didn’t care what you did, he maybe just wanted to make sure you were okay, maybe he could sense you were stressed somehow?

Then why is there this gnawing feeling?

*****

The next day you’re trying to get to work, and your car won’t turn over. You curse it out, it’s old sure but it’s strong and has a good engine. Satoru had already offered to give you one of his cars, saying you could pay him back later, as if you could ever afford a Mercedes Benz. You’d turned him down of course, and now he’s standing in his insanely huge parking garage, right out the side of your window.

You open the door, sighing as you get out of the car. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, ugh!”

“It’s an ancient relic?”

“Hey!” You playfully shove him, laughing then. “It is, I guess. But I don’t know why it won’t start?”

“I’ll have my mechanic check it, he’ll love this archeology.”

“Satoru!” You’re laughing so hard then, god he always makes you laugh, you wish he’d make you moan but you throw those thoughts far back.

“I’m kidding, sweets, kinda.” He narrows those blue eyes, his jaw tensing just a bit then as he assesses your car.

Couldn’t be because he took out your catalytic converter.

“Hmm, maybe a dead battery or alternator went out?” Satoru looks at you amusedly, you’re cute, knowing something about cars. But he needs you to stop worrying about things like that.

“For now, I’ll take you to work, yeah?” You exhale, nodding then.

“Thank you so much, Satoru, you’re so sweet to me.” You say later, as he drops you off at work, top down, grinning with those Gucci shades hiding those baby blues, some of the girls from the bar are out front, they start giggling when they see the two of you.

“He’s so hot!?” One of your friends loudly whispers.

“Shh, I know!” Gojo hears you though, grinning as he swipes a hand through his snowy locks.

“Hello, ladies.” He says, getting out then to come open your door, earning the swoons of everyone. You smile gratefully at him.

“Thank you, Gojo.”

“No worries, tell me when to pick you up, mmkay?” You nod then, he gives you a little kiss on the head, and your friends make no secret of how fine they think he is.

“Is he your man?” Your other friend asks, you shake your head then, while Satoru gets back in the car. “Bitch, why?”

“Is he single?” Your other friend asks.

Something makes you sick then, thinking of seeing Satoru with other women, and surely it would happen soon, yeah? He’s gorgeous and can get who he wants, and he hasn’t yet shown he wants you. You peek back at him as he is starting back up his car, looking at your friend again.

“He’s single.” Satoru wants to laugh at you. He’s not single, you’re his already, you just haven’t gotten where he needs you.

“Why not date him?”

“He’s not interested. Drop it.” You hiss, waving at Satoru, he tilts his glasses down then, the unreal eyes behind the snowy lashes drinking you in.

“Have a good day, sweets.” He leaves a bunch of giggling, whispering friends and heat on your cheeks when he drives off, grin glinting in the setting sun, because now he knows just where you are.

*****

After two more weeks of living with Satoru, you’re at about a month with him, and despite the endless little brushes against your skin, the little touches while you cook, the hugs and pecks on your cheeks, he never makes a move. You moan just a little louder at night thinking of him, wondering then when you’d see him in the morning why he looked so tired.

You’re wondering about lots of things.

“Satoru, do you date?” You ask one day, and he looks at you lazily, trailing up and down your body the way he does, the way that makes you ache with longing.

“Do I date? I haven’t in a while, why?”

“You’re so… you?” He snorts then.

“What’s that mean?”

“Like, gorgeous? Smart and sweet? Rich? How do you not date?”

“When I get with someone it’ll be permanent, there won’t be any dating or fucking around, so I guess I’m kind of picky about it. Why? Would it make you jealous if I brought a girl over?”

Yes, yes it would.

“Oh, no, I’m cool with whatever. It’s your place, I just live here.” Satoru leans you against the counter then, barring you with strong arms, his thigh brushing between yours, he feels it then, the heat that builds as you shift your hips just a bit, eyes darting up to his.

“Wouldn’t mind if I fucked someone right here? Ya sure?”

“It’s your place.” You manage weakly again, watching thin nostrils flare, his pupils blown out as you shift again, and he feels your hot pussy against his thigh, your hands slipping up his shirt slowly. “You like to fuck, Satoru?”

He blinks now, shifting his thigh, tilting his head as he studies you. “You’re asking if I like to fuck?” You nod, just barely, and one of his hands slips down your side, his cock throbbing under his jeans, thinking about devouring your pussy right on the kitchen counter. He already has tasted you off those panties he stole, he imagines it’s even sweeter from the source. “Do you?”

Your cheeks flush, eyes lowering nervously, Satoru tilts your chin up, making you look right at him. “I didn’t like it much, no, but… I like to…”

“Play with your pussy?” You bite your lower lip, rolling your hips once more, waiting for him to break, but he acts casual as he’s ruining what’s left of your addled mind. “You brought it up, don’t be shy.”

“Yes, I like to. Do you… play with…”

“Slutty questions.” He smirks now, backing up, you look in horror as you realize you’ve left a damn wet spot on his thigh, but he brushes it with his thumb leisurely, lapping it off his tongue, leaving you with your mouth open. “Mmm. Have a good night, pretty.”

You’re shaking when you get to your room, literally dying over him, knowing he’s in the next room but won’t come near you is torture, but for him it’s fun. He’s watching you pace around your room avidly, damn near chuckling when you strip off your clothes so quickly, flopping on the bed and covering your face with your hands, pressing your knees together.

He’ll make you feel better soon, don’t worry.

But then, you pick up your phone, earning his glare that of course you can’t see, he picks up his other phone now, the one that shows him every message and call you make. Some guy has been trying to ask you out for a couple weeks, but you’d ignored him, like a good girl. Now, however… you’re texting him back!?

That just won’t do.

He’s so absorbed in staring at your messages, as you smile just a bit, wondering if there was a way to get under Gojo’s cool exterior.

Maybe a date with someone?

******

You’re dressed in some slinky outfit, it hugs your body just right, hitting about mid thigh, a black lacy little number. You step out of your room, his mouth drops open when he sees you, too much of your smooth skin revealed, your breasts on display for everyone who would see, you smile up at him all pretty and do a little spin as he grips his hands into fists.

He wants to rip that dress the fuck off you, bury his cock inside your pretty little cunt and fuck you hard, fuck you so hard you sob those eyelashes off, so hard your perfect hair is a tangled goddamn mess. Teach you that you’re his and only his, that you belong to him, have you cum so hard you can’t form anymore thoughts of ever leaving in your pretty head.

He can’t even speak when you nervously ask, “How do I look?”

How do you look? You look like you need your ass beat, your clit overstimulated to the point you beg him to stop, look like you need to get that pretty neck choked out by his big hands. And that little smile on your face, like you know just what you’re doing to him? Satoru’s teeth click together, jaw tensing now while he sits there on the desk chair looking at you.

“You look gorgeous. But then you always do.” You blush at that, lashes lowering at the praise. “But why so dressed up? Going out with… friends?”

You know he knows.

You hear it in his voice, in how tense it gets. You smile then, shaking your head, lacing your fingers together in front of you as you feel those blue eyes touching your skin. “No, I’m going on a date.”

Satoru’s little facade breaks for just a moment, he can’t keep it up just now, and it’s like you know, you’re being this little brat and not his sweet little thing right now. He can’t wait to fuck the attitude out of you, as hard as it’s making him. “Oh? A date, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s been a while you know.” You step up to him just a bit, smiling so pretty, devious little brat. “A while.”

“A while.” He repeats, voice hoarse, before realizing you’re trying to play him, aren’t you? “Since?”

“Since anything. This guy seems super nice, maybe he’ll… think I’m hot, you know? Be attracted too? We’ll see.”

“Who wouldn’t want you? That’s stupid.” He huffs.

“Oh, is it? Well I’m not everyone’s type, you know?” You blink those damn lashes at him, he raises a brow. “So we’ll see. But don’t wait up for me, hmm?”

“Don’t you need a ride?” He asks, as you head towards the door, grabbing your little purse now.

“Oh no, he’s going to come get me, don’t worry.” Satoru’s hand stops yours on the knob, hard body pressed against your back, your breath catches, quickening now, watching the veins raise on his hand, as it covers yours completely. “Something wrong, Satoru?”

“Just wanna make sure you’re safe, you should let me take you.”

“Don’t even impose yourself, I’ll be fine.” You turn and look up at him, his plush lips just a breath from yours. “Everything okay?”

“Of course it is, you can text me if you need me to get you though, okay?” You exhale now, slightly dejected.

You want him to say he doesn’t want you to go, fuck you want him to grab you and keep you here, he makes you feel so fucking toxic, the insane thoughts making your mind whirl, your tummy coil with desire. One of his hands grips your hip, and you feel his length against your back, your eyes shut as you grip the door knob so hard it hurts.

“I asked you something, sweets.” His grip tightens, you open your eyes again, looking up at him.

“Of course, Satoru.”

“Have fun then.” He is back to being a bright, happy Gojo, blue eyes glittering, letting you go when you ache for him to drag you against him. “Be safe, yeah? Creeps everywhere, stalkers even.”

He’s following you in his car as soon as you take off in this asshole’s car, he tracks your location and finds you’re at some restaurant, he sees you then, up front at a table shivering a bit in your slutty dress. Part of him thinks, that’s just what you get, but another part thinks, fuck this dude for not giving you his jacket, Satoru sizes him up with a flick of his eyes, fists clenching the steering wheel.

You keep peering at your phone, you don’t look like you’re really having fun, what are you playing at? Are you trying to make him insane, trying to make him more jealous than he already was? He was jealous anyone even fucking saw you altogether, he thinks how good it would be to breed you constantly, to keep you knocked up with his babies, stay at home for only his eyes to see.

The thoughts drive him insane, as does seeing this dude’s hand on your bare thigh now, thighs for him to touch, he is so furious he almost blows his cover, taking several breaths as he prepares to rip this dude’s hands off. How dare anyone touch you!? And then he gets it, your text.

Satoru, I’m so sorry, but are you busy?

Satoru exhales in relief, leaning his head back on the driver’s seat, brushing his hand across his face.

Having fun on your date?

Satoru is being petty but he can’t help it, he sees your cute little glare as you poke on your phone, and his hand slips higher up your leg.

Not really. I’ll be fine though, sorry.

Satoru panics now.

What’s wrong?

He watches as you type.

I feel really uncomfortable, could you please come get me? I’m so sorry to put you out like this…

Satoru comes right out of the car, walking across the street now, and your eyes widen in shock, lips parting as he saunters up, grinning and holding out a hand. “Hey pretty, wanna get out of here?”

“Excuse me!?” The man sputters, but you giggle, Satoru wonders if you’re the crazy one here, him or you?

“I’d love to.” You put your little hand in his, following him to his car then, when Satoru slides in however he cups your face, grip tight on you, his eyes glaring and fucking furious. “How’d you get here in ten seconds? Instant transmission like Goku?”

“You’re such a brat.” He mutters, glaring now as you grin, one hand in your hair, pulling, making you cry out, a sound that makes Satoru’s cock leak precum, just from the sound of you. “You did this it piss me off, hmm?”

“Why would you be mad, Toru?” You put a hand on his thigh now, leaning forward, showing more and more of your breasts. “You don’t even want me like that, haven’t you made it clear?”

He starts laughing now, he’s feral, manic in his insane laugh, pulling your hair even harder. “I don’t huh? Then tell me what the fuck this is?”

Satoru takes your hand putting it over his clothed cock now, you whimper feeling him for the first time, hard for you, his breaths coming faster and faster as you go to stroke him, earning his own throaty moan. “Are you jealous?”

“No, because he’s not shit, and you’re mine anyway.”

“How am I yours!? Don’t even kiss me. Don’t even-”

Satoru yanks you to him, slamming his lips on yours then, devouring your mouth, tongue swiping in every inch of it, swirling as he loses his fragile sense of control. You taste so good, you feel so good, he’s wanted you for so long, he’s brutal with his lips, with his teeth, with how he grips your chin so fucking tight. You’re falling apart for him, then, when he yanks back.

His breath is hot on your lips, his hand slipping between your thighs then, you can’t stop the cry that escapes your lips, when he finds you over your panties, soaking wet for him. “This for me, or for him?”

“Stupid- ah!” Satoru pulls your hair so hard tears prick your eyes, stroking you over your sticky panties.

“Watch that mouth, and that attitude before I fuck it out of you.” His whisper and his touch makes you drip down his fingers, you’re arching your hips as he touches you, pressing on your clothed clit now. “So you get this wet for me?”

“You get that hard from me?” You counter, he laughs again, shaking his head at your audacity, slipping his finger under your panties now, finding your bare cunt.

“Stupid fucking soaked, huh? From a kiss?”

“Just touch me, please…” You’re begging him now, leaning closer, lips pressing against his, drinking his moans when he shoves two fingers in your eager hole, stretching you and making you gasp. “Satoru…”

“Do you deserve to cum, after acting this way?” He demands, curling his fingers up in your slick walls, pressing that spot that has your eyes rolling back, entire body reacting to him, dripping down his sleeves, his watch you’re so wet. “Answer me.”

The first slap on your cheek shocks you with the sting that throbs, you glare at him, slapping him back on his pretty face, earning him gripping your wrist brutal as his fingers fuck into you. The car is heating up right in the middle of the damn street, you hear your pussy squishing, hear your cries and gasps.

“Asked you a question, sweets. Seeing your ex, going on a date, showing off this body to everyone? Ya think you’re a good girl?” You shake your head then, and he groans, kissing you messy, tongues drooling saliva, thumb finding your clit now, and you’re close, so close, clinging to him.

“N-no but… please…” He laughs as he pushes you to the edge, sucking you off his fingers then, groaning, cheeks hollowing.

“Fuck you taste even better than your panties.”

“My what!?”

“C’mere, ya wanna be a good girl for me?” You blink rapidly, nodding then, and he revs up the car, pulling out, you are jostled as he begins to drive like a maniac, you’re grasping him, half thrown on his lap.

“Where are we going?”

“Home. You’re gonna make it up to me, being so slutty, huh?”

“Slutty?”

“Slutty mouth.” Satoru unzips his pants then, and you gulp when you see him for the first time, thick and long, veiny cock so pretty, the tip pink, drooling drops of precum already. You stare at it, he feels it as he drives, peeking at you now, grabbing the back of your hair again. “Put it to use, and I’ll let you cum.”

“Fuck…” You have never done something like this, but you find yourself bent over him then, taking your tongue and lapping at the precum on his tip, while he drives with one hand, his other, entangling against the nape of your neck.

“Gonna be my perfect little slut, no one else's, huh?” You nod eagerly, you’re stupid, this man literally stalked you on your date, he’s acting possessive and psychotic, but your pussy is clenching around nothing. “Say it.”

“Your perfect little slut.” You whisper, he moans then, husky and guttural as you suck him in your mouth now, hot and wet, swirling your tongue around the ridge of his tip, earning his hips bucking, cock twitching.

“That’s it, I knew you could behave. There you go, good girl.” You’re trembling, sucking him deep in your throat, over and over as your cunt is drooling, dripping down the panties that are becoming soppy wet and pathetic like you. “Feel that slutty mouth, never gonna suck anyone again, are you baby?”

“Mmm…” You’re moaning eagerly, sucking his cock as deep as you can, he’s shoving your head fully down to where you’re slobbering all over him, tears pricking your eyes, you’re shaking while he uses your throat, your mouth, as your taste his salty precum, shoving it in your throat deeper and deeper.

“F-fuck… you’re finally being good, huh? Bet you wanna cum, bet your pussy is soaked, yeah?”

He knows you can’t answer, he’s loving the choked out sounds you’re making as you suck him down more and more, until he finally pulls up to his house, he pulls you off him, cock glittering with your saliva. He moans, kissing you again, teeth sinking into your lip, tasting himself off your tongue, you’re whining, trembling, he chuckles just a bit then.

“Look at you, sucked it that good? Should I fucking be mad?” He demands then, you gasp at his touch on your pussy again.

“It’s been a long time for me, okay?” You whisper, he exhales now.

“No one will touch you again when I’m done, yeah? No one.” You nod weakly, Satoru smiles now. “Good, you’re so good f’me.”

Satoru’s got you in his penthouse so quickly you’re disoriented, and as soon as the door is closed behind you, he grabs you, slams you against the wall, and kisses you again, hard and desperate. His hands slips down to your ass, squeezing it roughly in his big palms, long fingers pressing in as he takes over everything, making you moan into his mouth.

You can feel his cock pressing against your tummy now, thick and insistent, on your tummy, half put up, his pants unzipped, and you can’t help but arch into him, rubbing against him, tip toeing to get close. He’s so rough with you, so demanding, and it’s making you wetter, making your body respond in ways it never has before, it’s insane what he’s doing to you.

He shoves a hand back up your dress, twisting your panties to the side again, rubbing in teasing circles, as tears fall out of your eyes, looking at them and moaning. “You’re crying?”

You manage a sniffle, fuck you looks so perfect like this, in tears for him, it only makes Satoru’s cock spurt more precum, so hard it hurts, he can’t wait to bury it so deep in you, he’s picturing it as he slides his fingers into your soaked cunt. You moan loudly, you’re tiny hands clinging to him, leg around his hip, letting his fingers fuck you deeper.

“Hear it? You’re so loud, so messy, huh?” He’s whispering, all you can do is nod, pupils so blown out your eyes are dark. “Look at you, fucked out from my fingers? That won’t do, baby.”

You barely register his fingers sliding out of your pussy again, you whine at the emptiness, but then he’s on his knees, shoving your dress up over your hips, yanking your panties off you. He’s throwing one of your legs over his shoulders, bright blue eyes staring up under his snowy lashes, you’re clinging to his hair, chest rising and falling as he places a kiss on your pussy.

“You were so good, I’ll treat you so good, hmm? Make you feel s’good?” You just nod, earning a smack on your pussy, making you gasp. “What do we say, little slut?”

“Please.” Satoru Gojo then his face buried between your legs, his tongue sliding along your slit, tasting your arousal that starts pouring down his mouth. You gasp as he nibbles on your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, sending bolts of pleasure through your body.

He’s eating you out like he’s starved, slutty moans from both of your throats, your head slamming against the wall. His stupidly long tongue is moving in circles around your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you, and you can’t believe how good it feels. You’ve never been with a man who’s so hungry for you, who devours you like this, his fingers making your squelching wetness even louder.

Your hands entangle in those silky white locks as he fingers and licks like he’s always known how to, but it comes so natural, flicking his tongue against your little twitchy clit over and over. Your cunt is so wet his fingers slip, before shoving back in, pressing your spongy spot inside your little hole, all while you’re a pathetic mess, sniffling and hiccuping.

He can’t wait to make you stupid for him, beyond this, beyond anything, can’t wait to own you, possess you in every fucking way. As he sucks your tiny clit in his hungry mouth, he moans against it, looking up and watching you shatter for him. You’re so close to cumming, you can feel it building.

“Gonna cum, please, please-” You whine out, gasping, thighs shaking as you’re too weak to stand, but then he stops, leaving you gasping for breath, your body on the edge, pulsating all over through every vein..

“Beg for it.” He orders, sadistic smirk on a face half soaked with you, as he licks his lower lip, glossy.

“Please, Satoru, please make me cum.” You whisper, your voice shaking, and he groans, shocking you when he yanks you down, you slam onto the ground wincing and gasping as you hit the floor, and he starts palming at your dress, until he’s ripped it completely off you. “Satoru!? What!?”

Your dress is in pieces now, much to his pleasure, all you have now is what’s left of it under you, and you’re naked aside from heels and a bra. “You’ll never wear that fucking dress again, got me? Showing off what’s mine when I wasn’t even with you? Do you hear me?”

You nod then, you should be terrified, but fuck you want him too much, as he shoves your thighs up high, then dives back in, his tongue swirling around your clit, his teeth grazing it again as he bites it. You scream out at the pain, he shoves those fingers back in, three this time.

“Too much, too much!” You’re sobbing out, and he laughs now.

“No baby, your slutty pussy can take it, huh? Lemme hear you scream my name.” He shoves his fingers in so deep and his tongue is drinking you as your orgasm hits you, your body convulsing against his mouth, your juices flowing onto his face, everywhere.

You can hear him, lapping you up, drinking every bit, all while the best orgasm of your existence makes you blind, you’re floating, the only thing that tethers you is when he looks down at you, fingers still buried. He slams his lips back on yours, you taste your pussy on his lips, whimpering and clinging to him desperately, bare as he’s fully dressed.

“You’re made for me, only me to taste, just me.” You just nod, and he chuckles, shaking his head. “Can’t talk baby?”

“You, jus’ you… Toru…” He’s picked you up to stand, before he’s pulling you up against him, holding your naked frame against him, carrying you to your bed now, lips not coming up for air until he’s tossed you on your bed.

“Bra off, now.” He orders, you do as he says, tossing it and then peeking at the camera you know is there, smiling before you look back at him. He’s glaring, unbuttoning his dress shirt now. “Looking at something?”

“Oh, nothing. Do you record? Will you stroke yourself to this later?” He slips off his shirt, leaving you speechless until he’s laying on top of you again, eyeing your perfect tits and little smile.

“You knew?” You tilt your head now, leaning up on your elbows, a hand stroking his cheek.

“Did you like how I played with my pussy in front of it? How I moaned your name?” Satoru’s ended now, scowling at you.

“You liked it, being watched? By me?” You nod again, swallowing as he slides off his pants, yanking off your heels, kissing along the tops of your feet before lapping at your ankles. “You did it knowing?”

“You wouldn’t come to me.”

Satoru’s eyes are on you, you’re his entire world now, his obsession, his fixation. He’s going to claim you, fuck you until you forget every other man who ever existed. He’s going to ruin you, and you’re going to love it, he can already tell when his cock is hot and heavy against your inner thigh, when your hips are rolling up, and you’re dripping down the bed.

“You get off on it, me being fucking obsessed, huh?” You nod weakly, and Satoru has your thighs spread and pressed up, his tip drooling precum against your aching hole. “Then let me be clear, you'll never see or date anyone again, got it?”

Satoru grins sadistically as you weakly nod, whispering a- “Yes, Satoru.” He moans then, filling your tight hole in one stroke of his huge cock, stuffing you so full you scream out, pussy gripping him like a vise, drooling down his veiny cock to his balls, pooling under you both as his own eyes roll back.

“Feel her, made f’me, just me? Mine, mine, mine.” He’s whispering it like some insane mantra as he begins to move, fucking into your soppy cunt over and over, you’re pulsing and fluttering around him as he pounds your cunt, nasty words spilling from his pouty lips. “My little slut, hmm? Mine.”

“Ngh…” Is all you manage, when he slams your cervix with his drooly tip, leaning up to grip the headboard and pressing a thigh higher, railing your cunt so much it hurts, but you’re dying, drool pooling out of the side of your lips, eyes fluttering, trying to stay open.

“That’s it, oh look at you, fucked stupid already? I’m just starting with you, baby, gonna fuck your pretty mind up till it’s all me.” He leans down, rolling his hips and grinning with his eyes lit up, so dark they look black for just a moment. “That’s it, cum all over my cock, can’t help yourself huh?”

You do then, you’re cumming all over him, muscles contracting around his cock so hard she tries to push him out with the force, so much wetness dripping it’s streaming across his cock, earning his breathy moan. He’s fucking you through your orgasm, your thighs shaking, you are stupid, you can’t form one thought in your pathetic brain as your orgasm waves over your body.

“Aw, fucked dumb? Poor stupid baby. I’ll keep fucking all those thoughts out of your head, hmm? Till it’s just me.”

“Satoru… jus’ you… s’good I…” You can’t talk anymore, not when his cock’s strokes are hitting just right, not when his tip drags against your gspot before bruising your cervix. You’re clinging to him, nails pressing into his strong back, as pulls back, watching your tummy bulge.

“Fucking up your guts, fucking up your brain. S’all me, huh?” You can’t answer, you’re too fucked out, but his slap brings you too, he smacks both cheeks, gripping your thighs brutal, leaving bruises. “Focus, baby, focus.”

“S’all you…” You answer, you’re so obedient, you’re so good for him.

“You’re such a good girl, perfect pussy, perfect body. Perfect face. Haunting my every fucking thought, torturing me.” He shoves your thighs high, pressing them against your breasts, folding you in half and bottoming out, you scream at it, hands gripping the sheets beneath you as you’re stretched and filled so much. “You’re so good you deserve all my cum, all these babies in you.”

You can’t register concern, he’s pounding you while gripping your face so tightly, you feel so tiny as he works his long, muscular body, as he breaks your body and mind with his cock, slamming harder and harder. You hear the sounds of it, the smack smack smack of his skin, as his balls slap your asshole, covered in slick from your cunt that’s drooling down his length.

“That’s it, milk my cock, so fuckin good, you want it, me to fill you, make you drip me for days.” You just weakly cry out, sniffling, tears pouring down your cheeks. “So beautiful like this, crying f’me? Oh baby, you’re perfect like this.”

Satoru loves your tears, your trembling lips, as you grip him so good, he feels it, you’re going to cum again, eager pussy sucking him in loudly, as he fucks you so hard the headboard slams the wall, you’re barely hanging on, sobbing and mumbling. You’re so fucked out it’s cute, opening and closing your mouth, unable to speak.

“It’s all me in there, yeah? Gonna be all me, gonna fill you so good, baby just wait, f-fuck!” Satoru slows then, pumping your cunt full, hot gooey cum sticking to your walls and making you cum right with him as he fucks it further, deeper.

“Satoru!” You’re mumbling his name, gasping for breath as he fills you, all of you, so hot and deep, until he finally lowers your legs, laughing softly.

“Oh I’m gonna have so much fun with you, you’re never leaving me, are you? Aw, can’t talk baby?”

He’s got you flipped on your trembling knees next, burying his face in your pussy, cleaning all his cum out and groaning. “Too much, too much!”

“Taste us together, fuck. Made for me, just me.” He’s on top of you next, prone over you, fucking out his first load and prepping you for another, all while he’s choking your neck squeezing so hard you almost faint. He’s whispering in your ear, breath tickling, hands over your sensitive skin. “Love it, hands around this neck, beg me to cum in you, fill you.”

“P-please… please fill me- ah!” You’re fading as he chokes you harder, spitting and drooling in your mouth, cock wrecking you as he fills you again, his sweat dripping from his skin as he works you. He groans then, hand pressing on your tummy.

“So full of me, but you need more, need no question in your pretty head who you belong to.”

After another load you’re weak, and he’s still going. When you finally wake in the morning, after several loads pumped in your pussy, you’re a mess, wobbling weakly as you step out of your room, thinking of facing him. Would things be different now, was it all passion, in the moment? Was it just sex? Was it more…

You smell something sweet then, inhaling as you slip on one of his dress shirts, you’d gone from fucking in your room to the bathroom, all the way to his room. At some point he had you bent over the couch, at another he had you pressed against the shower wall. It’s like little fragments, your pussy is aching, your experience has never prepared you for his size or stamina.

But you feel deliciously fucked out.

You catch his eye then, he looks at you, exhaling at how beautiful you are, your eyes are a little puffy from crying, you have bruises and marks littering your neck, you’re wearing his expensive dress shirt and nothing else. He feels himself hard just looking at you like this, remembering all the cum he’d pumped you full, wondering if it was still dripping out?

“Good morning, sweets. Get some shut eye?” He teases, winking at you as he flips his spatula, finishing the stack of pancakes he’s made.

“You cook, Satoru?” You ask, throat hoarse from your moans, from slobbering all over his cock and having him choke you. You clear it nervously, earning his smirk.

“Cute.” He murmurs, pulling out a chair for you. “Of course I cook, I just enjoy you cooking for me, so sexy watching you, barefoot in the kitchen you know.”

“That sounds so…”

“Sit down, you need that energy baby. Last night I know I took it easy…’

“What!?” You blink then, sitting as he plates your breakfast, wincing at how sore your entire body is.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, look at my girl.” The words ruin you, when he leans down, cupping your face and his thumb brushes along your jaw. “Covered in bruises.”

“I am?” You look down and see your thighs, your chest, in hickeys and bruises, red and purple all over. “Oh…”

“Don’t worry you’re not going anywhere today anyway. You should take a break from work, you know.” He chuckles and kisses you. “Fuck I’ve waited so long for you, for you to be mine.”

You are kissed by him then, you eagerly meet his lips, before he pulls back, taking a breath. You frown when you see your phone is over by his coffee. “Is that my phone?”

“Oh, mmhmm. Needed to block any guys, you know, also that period tracker said you’re ovulating today.” You blink again as you sip the orange juice he gives you, nearly choking on it, his blue eyes have gotten even brighter, his grin huge as he watches your expressions.

“Satoru…”

“I threw out your birth control, cancelled your prescription.”

“Satoru!”

“What baby?” He sits you up on the table, between your thighs, your body violently reacts when he grabs you under your chin, his other hand slipping down your breasts. “I know, I should have breakfast first, is that what you want?”

“I… you…”

“Gonna look so fucking sexy full of me.” He lifts your thighs, sliding up the shirt you wear as he sits right on the seat, sliding it up to get a full view of your abused, puffy cunt. “Oooh, fucked her up. Do you hurt, baby?”

“Y-yes… I- ah!” Satoru’s lapped at your pussy now, from your hole to your clit, chuckling as he pulled the lips apart. “T-Toru…”

“Look at her, she’s ready for more, she’s so greedy.” He’s buried his face against you again, and you’re cumming so quickly, he laughs at it. “So easy, too. Ah we’re gonna fill her up more, don’t worry, gotta knock you the fuck up.”

You’re going to protest then, this is insane, he’s crazy, but when you’re getting bent over the kitchen table and fucked again, you soon forget your protests, as Satoru grips your tits and pinches your sensitive nipples, pounding your hole, all you can do is cry out and arch your back. Satoru smiles against your neck as you fall apart, as he pictures breeding you.

He’s got you right where he wants.

And you both know you’re never leaving.

Ahahah this was INSANE, none of this is cool unless it's Gojo, stay safe out here lol. Hope you all enjoyed! (yes all my stories are Arctic Monkeys or Chase Atlantic lyrics loll)

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