#lidded vessel

[claypigeonpottery]

sold

this is my favourite nightmare fuel pottery lmao

the clear glaze only goes halfway up the inside so it looks wet deeper in the well but not at the top

[little-ceramic-head]

A textured lidded vessel

[sam-the-skelepun]

The man

[eva-2k]

Lidded Vessel

Yoruba peoples, Owo group 17th–18th century

Сосуд с крышкой Этот впечатляющий сосуд из слоновой кости когда-то был заветным достоянием «олово», правителя королевства йоруба Ово в современной южной Нигерии. Ово приобрело региональное значение в восемнадцатом веке благодаря торговле и завоеваниям и стало одним из крупнейших государств Западной Африки того времени. Оно имело тесные политические связи с королевством Бенин, расположенным примерно в семидесяти милях к юго-востоку. Большая часть придворной культуры Ово, включая титулы, костюмы и престижную скульптуру, отражает тесную связь между двумя важными политическими и культурными центрами.

Огромные и ужасные силы «olowo» выражены в образах этой работы четырьмя фигурными группами, объединенными питоном, важным символом королевской власти. Выдающиеся и распространенные мотивы грязевой рыбы и крокодила вызывают в памяти хвалебные имена короля, или «орики», которые сравнивают его с огромным океаном, в который впадают все реки и чьи непостижимые глубины хранят могущественные тайны и сверхъестественные способности. Это также подчеркивает тесную связь короля с Олокуном, богом моря, который приносит богатство и плодородие своим приверженцам. Изображения, выгравированные по всей поверхности этого сосуда, предполагают способность «olowo» охватывать несколько сфер — земную и водную, человеческую и божественную.

[stimboardboy]

butter keeper pottery

[yourantiquarian]

Bronze Age sarcophagus lid

ITEM Sarcophagus lid MATERIAL Pottery CULTURE Bronze Age, Canaanite PERIOD 1400 - 1200 B.C DIMENSIONS 270 mm x 157 mm x 35 mm CONDITION Good condition PROVENANCE Ex Museum Exhibiton of the Arbeitsgruppe für Biblische Archäologie, Germany (Deaccession) The Canaanite sarcophagus lid is an extraordinary artifact that sheds light on the burial practices and artistic traditions of the ancient Canaanite civilization, which flourished in the Levant region from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age. These lids, typically crafted from stone such as limestone, were designed to cover sarcophagi, or stone coffins, that housed the deceased. The lids often featured intricate carvings and reliefs, reflecting both the artistic abilities of the Canaanites and their beliefs about the afterlife. Many Canaanite sarcophagi, particularly from the Late Bronze Age, show a fusion of Egyptian and local Canaanite influences, indicating the strong cultural exchange between these civilizations. One notable characteristic of Canaanite sarcophagus lids is the stylized human face or mask often carved into the stone. This representation of the deceased, though somewhat abstract, was believed to honor and preserve the identity of the individual in the afterlife. The facial features, typically simple and symmetrical, were not highly personalized but followed conventional designs, which might have reflected the Canaanite belief in the continuity of the soul beyond physical death. Read the full article

[watermelonsea]

my cat won't quit sticking his head in my cups of water

blease.... im so thirsty

[lmaxell]

This is an 'easy gaiwan'

A gaiwan is a lidded bowl you use to make tea, it's from a Chinese tea service/technique called gong fu. There leaf to water ratio is much higher than you get with a western style brewing but you steep for much shorter time and multiple times until the tea no longer tastes good or you're finished.

THIS, however, is an easy gaiwan. The ceramic is beautiful, and it is a beautiful piece, but easy gaiwans are so unnecessary and over designed. If you want to get into gong fu, just get a standard gaiwan.

Additionally, this reeks of an advertisement.

Anyways, here's my favorite gaiwan tutorial video because of the sound her table makes when it drains.

[sunnyglassware]

(via Clear Square Glass Candle Jars with glass lid home decor,Sunny Glassware.)

[claypigeonpottery]

not available

this was my very last wheel thrown piece. it's been like 3-4 years I think? I should really work on the wheel once in awhile but I just always have pieces I want to build

[alexanderwales]

This is a water-seal stoneware crock. The design is ancient.

It is, essentially, a large ceramic vessel that you put vegetables and sometimes brine into. To prevent spoilage, you place those ceramic weights on top of whatever food is in the crock, and that keeps them weighted down, below the level of the water. Because fermentation creates gases, most crocks have a "water groove" in them. The lid sits in the groove, which allows air to escape but not come in. Because fermentation creates gas, the interior of the crock is positive-pressure, and because the gas created is almost entirely carbon dioxide, it's a low-oxygen environment that additionally helps prevent spoilage.

And all this would be pointless without lactobacillus, the bacteria that chomp down on the vegetables you put into the crock. They're anaerobic, which means totally fine without oxygen, and they produce an environment that's inhospitable to most other organisms. The main things they produce are CO2, which means no oxygen for other bacteria, and lactic acid, which makes the fermented thing sour and also decreases the pH low enough that many other bacteria cannot survive. They tolerate high levels of salt, which kill yet more competitor bacteria. It ends up being a really really good way to keep food from going off.

Our ancestors figured this out thousands of years ago without knowing what bacteria were. This general ceramic design has been in use around the world in virtually every place that had ceramics, salt, and too much cabbage or cucumbers that was going to rot if they didn't do something about it. It's thousands of years old, so old that it gets hard to interpret the evidence of the ceramics.

And I have crocks like this in my kitchen, where I make my own ferments, and I always think about how beautiful and elegant it all is, and how this was probably invented hundreds of times as people converged on something that Just Works.

(I do have pH testing strips though.)

[nanamiskentos]

MAKE IT RAIN ✤ getō suguru

GIRL, I DO THIS OFTEN ── Suguru's tired of the tireless pleading, questioning and praising of his sycophant followers. After all, it's been a long day and there's someone else at home that he would much rather worship: his lovin' wife.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, getō suguru & afab!reader, wc ─ 2.5k

cw ─ MDNI. wife!reader, mentions of cult, geto luvs his wife ❤️, unprotected, sweet séx, overstìm, fìngering, dìrty talk, talks of éxhibitionism, reader is called 'good girl', squìrting, dìrty talk, orál (f.), implied stsg x you, big dìck geto yass he told me himself...

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) wrote this all out in one sitting omfg

"beloved?"

you don't even have to look up to know that it's him. you can feel it, the warmth of your husband's presence as he tiredly pushes aside the panels of the hefty wooden door.

the soft rustle of silk, the quiet click of the door shutting. the way that the room suddenly feels smaller, hotter, charged. you gently snap your bound book shut, setting it aside on the soft bedding. lifting your head from where you've been lounging, robe loose as it flutters around your shoulders.

suguru. still draped in his robes, in shades of violet and gold. perched at the threshold like a god surveying that which he holds most dear, the one closest to his heart. feathery, raven hair that's half-tied, soft strands falling free around his sharp, exhausted features. cherry-lips slightly parted, and you can hear every jump and fall in his slow breath.

and his eyes, twilight eyes that devour you. drinking in the sight of you, as though he would never get exhausted of beholding his pretty wife.

"you're late," your voice is soft, teasing. there's no real bite in your admonishment, but your staccato pulse must betray you. and judging by the slow curl of his lips, geto must know it too.

but there's no amusement in his gaze, just hunger. that simmering and dangerous edge that leaves you clenching your thighs together, flesh pressed against flesh.

"and yet, you waited for me, love," geto murmurs, and his voice is deep, velvet-rich. rough from use, from his long day of sitting forefront at the temple most frequented by those of the time vessel association. a lord holding court.

well, truthfully, you did a lil' more than just wait. when the warm afternoon's hours grew long, and the last light of the sun stretched thin, you had succumbed to the throbbing in your groin. fingers travelling tight circles over your swollen nub, in some attempt at relief that it seemed only geto would be able to pull from you.

" 'course i did."

geto's steps bring him closer, inches being closed between you. his robes brushing against your knee as he stops in front of your shared bed. settling above you, eyes lidded as he looks down at you.

but you just tilt your chin up, watching the way that his starved desperation drags lower, to where your robe is slipping from bare shoulders. the exposed skin of your collarbone, the soft plush of your thighs that geto aches to worship.

your husband just inhales, slow and measured, exhaling at the same pace. as though he's desperate to hold onto some form of control as you smile, knowing.

"long day, baby?" hah, like you don't already know the answer.

geto just hums, reaching up to undo the high collar of his robes. deft fingers remain steady, but you can see the tension in his wide shoulders, the slight clench of his handsome features, "exhausting, my love." voice rich with some carnal, tilting his head slightly so dark hair kisses his face, falling over his shapely nose, "and frustrating."

a pause, a beat of still air. and then, lower.

"i need somethin' to ease it, gorgeous."

large, calloused hands find your thighs first. a grip of marble, warm and strong. spreading your legs apart, so he can step in between them. crowding you right in as your back hits the mattress with a slight bounce.

"you, wife." geto's voice is thick now, laced with need, "only you."

and then, he's on you. mouth claiming yours in an instant, no patience nor prelude. just heat and want. his lips are soft, but unrelenting. tongue sliding past yours as his fingers dig into your skin, pulling you closer, deeper into him.

you just gasp against his ferocious mouth. hands fisting into the thick, bunched bundles of his robes. and geto groans deliciously. low, dark, dangerous for you know what's in store for his beloved wife.

"waited for me like this all night, did'ya?" geto's frame eclipsing the warm light above, until all you can see when you open your eyes is him, "lookin' so sweet, so perfect. jus' for me."

his hands slip under your robes, dragging right up your bare, quivering thighs. calloused, scarred fingers teasing, testing, claiming.

you chew back a sweet whimper, swallowing the sound back into your glossy mouth. but your husband knows all your tricks already, and geto just smiles. so very almost genuine.

"ohhh, you really did." geto's plush lips ghosting over your jaw, the juncture of your throat, the sharp fangs grazing over sensitive skin, "so patient, m'perfect wife."

your shaking breath hitches as his fingers continue to linger over your inner thigh, and you know he's aware of the moist slick still clinging to your skin, "ah, musta' been needy all that time. couldn't help yourself at all."

you don't answer, don't trust yourself to open your mouth without a whining shriek falling from your lips when two slender fingers dip into damp folds, spreading the flesh open to pool translucent arousal down his trimmed nails.

"c'mon, tell me how much you missed me, gorgeous," geto's thumb brushing over your throbbing clit, and he must feel the frantic rhythm of your bucking hips beneath his touch, "say it, i know you got those words in ya' somewhere."

geto doesn't even seem that keen to give you a chance to catch your breath. his mouth is everywhere, trailing over chest to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin there. the grip of his free hand tightening on your thighs, determined to spread your legs apart so he can marvel at his two favourite sights in the entire world. you, his darling lil' wife, and your clenching, dripping pussy.

"so warm for me," geto murmurs against your pulse, struck with wonder, "so, so eager."

you can't think, not when your husband's hands are dragging up, pushing against the last layers of fabric between the two of you. discarding your robes haphazardly against the linen quilts. his touch is lazy, calculated, as though he savours the way that you tremble beneath him, drinking in every gasp and sharp inhale.

"suguru –" you gasp, nails tangling in his choppy raven hair, tugging, desperate for the man above you to push you to climax, to teeter you over the edge so wonderfully. like he's always done.

geto groans against your skin, shivering as your hands blindly push his own robes aside. hands imprinting into carved, shaped deltoids that ripple with each twitch of geto's frame. each shake in his composure that comes from the wonder of his fingers being lost in probing at your cunt, "that's my good girl."

the praise is intoxicating, and he knows what you like to hear. you simply arch into him, a swell of breasts pressing against his own (fairly impressive) pectorals. and he rewards you, pads of his fingertips pressing deeper, exploring and teasing. pushing you to the edge at such a deliciously cruel pace.

"god, my love, you take me so well," geto slurs out, lips dragging lower. teeth nipping, tongue soothing, "always so good for me."

you whimper, hips jutting forward. chasing more, needing more. but geto just pulls back, just enough to make you curse in frustration.

"patience, love," geto shuffles to pull himself to his knees, the robes finally shifting entirely from his adonis-esque form, "you know i like to take my time with you." revealing toned biceps that flex as he pulls your thighs further apart. a row of chiselled abdominals that lead to a dark thatch of curls over his groin, and frankly (crudely), your gaze hits bullseye over the well-endowed cock that springs free, smacking against his stomach and smearing a thin line of pre-cum over the flushed skin.

geto moves lower, hair tickling your thighs as his lips follow their downwards descent, breath moist against the pebbled skin. oh.

"suguru, sugu', fuck, fuck!"

your absolute munch of a husband would never deny how much he gets lost between the juncture of your thighs. for the only thing that can truly quench geto's parched thirst is that oasis that drips for his eyes only. tongue peeking out over his kiss-stung lips to slurp at your wetness, to let the taste of you dissolve on his tongue and wash away every less savoury stain in his mouth.

"sweetest damn' thing that i've ever tasted," geto breathes, and you can see his lilac eyes blown wide, inky lashes fluttering against blushed skin at how much he relishes this position, and he tells you so every time you do him the honour of slotting him before your pussy, "y'know what keeps me going in those fuckin' long, dry meetings?"

you mewl, feeling elegant hands prod into your gummy walls, the tapered ends reaching for your most sensitive, sweet spot.

"wasn't a rhetorical question, wifey."

your husband takes a brief second to breathe, pulling away by only a millimetre to nip at your thigh, and you buck your hips impatiently into his salivating mouth, "what, what was it, s-sugu' ?"

oh, yeah. he was just waiting for you to ask that. pleased in your reciprocated interest as he leans back ever so slightly. the angle firmly latching his lips to your plump, aroused cunt, "thisss." there's a sibilant hiss that flourishes the end of his words, the extra sound of arousal and slick clinging to his lips in strands, "thinkin' about having ya' like this, heh, right in front of those boring members. spreading you open on stage like m'personal feast."

somewhere through the haze of an impending orgasm, you briefly register his words. hard, that clench of your pussy around his digits, his lapping tongue and geto chuckles, "oouh, she does like that idea, doesn't she? like the idea of me showin' those vermin my greatest treasure?"

but one thing about being married to the geto suguru? the most notorious, infamous curse user of the modern age? never let him have the last word. so you just clamp the fat of your thighs around geto's head, boxing him in as your husband moans like a slut at the extra pressure. giggling, tittering as you glance down at the sorcerer, "c-could even suck ya' dick in front of them, sugu', if you w-wanted?"

"oh," geto's rumbling, desperately clinging to your pretty pussy as though drinking your release will vitalise him, "ohh, would ya', would ya' really do that all for me? baby?"

he's getting antsy now, absolutely determined to have your release paint his sticky mouth. strands clinging from your pussy to his lip when he takes a second to breathe sweet air, your scent. fingers hitting bullseye each time as he curls and coils his knuckles just so, so he slams a direct hit against your g-spot at a pace that leaves you clawing his back.

"go on, my love," geto hics, words getting all mushed up in the sloppy, sloshy sounds of your cunt tryna' get a few sentences in, "cum for me, swear 'm gonna make you see all the stars."

a gorgeous stroke drives you right to the edge, the tension that's been coiling right up within you snaps. leaving you breathless, shaking.

your abdomen tightening as you reach that delicious peak as geto sighs, and you can feel his muscled shoulders quiver against your thighs. leaving no doubt to the ropes of thick seed that must be coating his fist as he bucks up against the bed.

that sudden wave of heat washing over you as your husband pants, still eagerly drinking in the gush of your orgasm. the clear liquid absolutely spraying out over the lower half of geto's face, drops falling from his chin as he moans.

that golden, boneless sensation giving away to the sharp peaks of pleasure as geto continues, lapping at your clenching pussy. eyes never leaving yours as he releases one hand from his spurting cock, tilting your thighs against his mouth as though he were sipping nectar from a cup.

"s-suguru, sensitive, s-so sensitive," you gasp, feeling his fingers probe further into your pussy, if that was even possible. each cloying, filthy touch sending a shiver through you. sparks falling away from your vision as you tremble, lost in the waves of the incredible, pleasurable sensation hitting you. over and over. geto's still intent on having overstimulated waves crash right into you, eager and so close yet again and —

oh. something's shifted. you know it, and geto knows it too. but he does not let up on swiping his fingers through your glossy, drooling pussy. letting your release paint the sheets beneath you translucent. but his pretty head turns, fixated on the door with a frown. as though . . . as though he knows exactly who stands behind it.

and then you heard it. the door creaking ever so slightly, and you need not even lift your head to know who it was. darkening with the presence of a man who could bend space and time, if he so wished. the tension in geto's jaw jumping as your husband stiffens. violent eyes dark, with ferocious anger, with want.

ah, satoru.

for a sorcerer who supposedly hated you both, he jus' couldn't stay away from the two of you. there's the unmistakable sound of gojo's mouth clicking open. a familiar, and cocky grin crossing his peachy lips. voice dripping with lust and amusement.

"well, well, looks like 'm interrupting something," gojo teases, and you eventually lift your eyes. knowing that the thick bulge in gojo's uniform pants (that dastardly former school of yours) probably owes to the sight of geto leaning in between your thighs, drinking in the gloss of your exposed cunt.

a lazy flick of his fingers, peeling away the white bandages that had been wrapped around his eyes, though you had always liked the sunglasses better. fabric falling away to reveal those piercing, sharp glow of sapphire blue eyes that you had always been too familiar with them.

but your husband doesn't flinch, doesn't even look at gojo anymore, as though he's used to gojo's interruptions, and dalliances. turning back to sip at your sweet heat, "missin' out, satoru."

gojo's voice cutting through the air, for he's close enough now to lean over geto's shoulder, brushing your husband's dark hair back, peering hungrily at your winking pussy, "shoulda' known better than to start without me then, eh?"

[luveline]

spencer x reader where she kisses his forehead and he’s 🥹🥹

“Spencer, are you dead?” 

Spencer ignores your question by accident. Heavy head in hand, he’s slowly sinking closer and closer to the hotel breakfast table to rest. His neck twinges with the effort it takes to stay up. 

“Spencer,” you say more sharply. 

His eyes track like the air is honey. He settles on your sluggishly while offering no greeting, tiredness pulling at him. “My eyes hurt,” he offers. 

“Make you some tea.” 

“Um, okay.” He’s disappointed when you leave, then dozing, face pressed to his desk as itchy eyes press along lids. It feels as though his eyelashes have turned inward. 

You return with a cup. Spencer grabs it blindly, lifts his head to squint one eye open. “What?” he asks. 

There isn’t tea in the cup. There are tea bags, two of them, wetted and leaking tan beige along the white china of the mug. Distinctly no tea. You must be tired too. 

“They’re for your eyes, Spence. They’ll make your eyes hurt less. The caffeine restricts your blood vessels to calm the inflammation, and the tea itself soothes sore skin.” 

“How do you know that?” he asks. 

You rest a hand on his shoulder. “I read about it in a book of modern home remedies. It really works. Here, can you tip your head back?” 

Spencer is very, very tired, but your voice is nice, your fingertips gentle against his neck, so he tips his head back. He doesn’t know how terrible he looks, having forgotten his untucked shirt, his rumpled sweater vest, his hair sticking up all over the place. 

“Close your eyes,” you murmur. 

Spencer shuts them. 

“It’s cold,” you warn, “but it’ll feel nice.” 

Spencer doesn’t care. He waits for you to move. The tea bags you place on his closed eyes feel cold and at first they sting just a touch, perhaps tea finding its way through his lashes, and he can’t confess to noticing a difference in soreness. 

“Hey… what’s this? It looks like it hurts?” you ask, drawing a short line over the side of the bridge of his nose. There’s an indent there that feels like a bruise.

“I fell asleep at my desk with my glasses on,” he says. “They dug in.” 

“You were up late, I’m guessing. Maybe you should go back to the room.” 

“No, I can’t. I’ll be okay. Thank you for the… tea.” 

Your hand rests tentatively against his cheek. He can’t open his eyes to see what you're feeling, and he doesn’t need to. There’s emotion to be felt in your slow strokes, how your thumb rests along his jaw as your nail scratches to the top of his ear, then behind the shell of it. It’s intimate enough to summon a different kind of tiredness. Exhaustion swapped for content. He could sleep in the curve of your palm all day. 

“You’re welcome,” you say. “I’m gonna take them off for a second to check the damage.” 

You take them. Your breath draws near. 

A warmth presses to his forehead atop his left eyebrow. Spencer doesn’t know what it is until your nose graces just above it, and your lips part —it’s a kiss. You’re kissing him sweetly, your fingers sewing through his hair. 

He peels his sore eyes open to look at you. You lean back as unhurried as you’d ferried forward, your hand cradling the nape of his neck. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask. 

Spencer stares up at you. In that moment, tired, aching, and balmed, he’s completely in love with you. You must see a little of it, your lips parting again in an unnamed emotion. It’s sheer luck that you’re the only one awake with him, because if any of his teammates saw the way he was looking at you they’d never let him forget it. And, he gets to see your reaction. Your partial smile. 

“Did that help?” you ask. 

You must mean the tea. “I feel better.” 

“Yeah? Do you…” Your voice turns to cashmere, a thread of bemusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Would another one be okay?” 

Spencer can only nod as you wrap your arms around him and position your mouth at the soft skin where his hair meets his forehead. When you kiss him again, his eyes flutter shut. 

“You really need some help with your insomnia,” you murmur. 

Spencer wonders if maybe you’d want to be that help. You must have melatonin in your kisses.

[ttngummybear]

Days without buying myself another goddamn drink cup: 0

[itostea]

the strongest (gojo x wife! reader)

gojo can't help but feel annoyed that he feels concern for the wife he swears he doesn't care for.

warnings: arranged marriage au, gojo refers to you as his wife, enemies to lovers (?), gojo tells you to lift up your top, slight angst, he's really bad at feelings okay, image from loving yamada-kun at lv999 (part of gojo’s wife series)

The lines of intrigue and fear are often blurred. It explains why we admire fire from afar, careful not to get too close in hopes of not getting burned. It explains why we find peace in parts of the ocean and tense up in deeper parts. It also explains why Gojo Satoru seeks your presence yet pushes you away the moment he finds himself feeling something other than indifference or vexation–it’s never hatred though. The strongest can’t envision himself ever hating his wife and it scares him. 

He’s not sure that can be said about you. Gojo wouldn’t be surprised if you grew to hate him after the treatment you put up with. 

Your marriage is what you call a “marriage of convenience” and Gojo made sure you remembered that. He wasn’t always so distant with you. Back then, you might’ve considered him a friend but time did its bidding and you two drifted apart, your time together merely a memory. Now fast forward a few years and you were wedded to him, taking up his surname and sleeping in the same house as him–in separate rooms of course. 

Your steps on the wooden floors were silent as you intended not to make a single noise at such a late hour. You sighed, feeling the weight of your heavy shoulders drag you down. 

Gojo might be considered cruel to you but the elders were on a different level. They knew this mission would be too much for you yet they sent you on it as punishment for speaking your mind the last time everyone gathered. 

At that time, your husband had an unfamiliar gleam in your eyes as you voiced your thoughts on the matter of Itadori. He’s a nice kid, you thought when you first saw the pink-haired boy. 

Taking away his youth wouldn’t be fair. After all, he didn’t choose to have the Ryomen Sukuna use him as a vessel. Yet, sentiment doesn’t do well with the higher ups and they made sure you knew your place with the mission they sent you on. 

You inhaled sharply, wincing as you felt the bruise on your rib with your palm. There was blood soaking your tights, little cuts littering your legs. You’re so tired you can’t find it in yourself to even eat. Then again, you needed to be in your best condition tomorrow since another mission was sent out of you and specifically you. Those in power always make sure it’s clear that they are in power. Your voice of opinion meant nothing to their beliefs in tradition or what you liked to call, “backward thinking.” That’s one thing you and your husband could agree on. 

“Ow,” you wince for the nth time as you open the fridge, scanning the items. Mochi. Ice-cream. Leftover cake. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to go grocery shopping a day prior so you could have a proper meal. This was the kind of stuff Gojo could live on but you couldn’t. Closing the fridge, you opt for instant ramen instead. Not the best choice in regards to healthiness but cracking an egg in there meant more protein and it also minimized the spice levels. 

You’re halfway in between preparing the noodles when you feel a presence right beside you and soft breathing besides your ears. “You’re home,” your ‘husband’ mumbles, his eyes half-lidded from just having woken up. 

“God! Satoru!” You gasp, flinching away from and only realizing how close he was. For someone who claimed he wasn’t interested in you, he didn’t know what personal space was. “How did you know I was home?”

“Your cursed energy leaked in,” he shrugs his shoulders, peering down at you without the constraints of his blindfold or shades. You gulp as his eyes flit up and down your appearance, causing your insides to tense up in a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Being scrutinized by the six-eyes himself wasn’t much fun and you’re suddenly aware of the fact that your hair is disheveled and your face is sweaty from just having come home from a grueling mission. 

You don’t even notice the glint of rage that crosses his hues before he masks it. “Who did this to you?”

“Huh?” You blink, coming to your senses that your body was bloodied up and battered from having fought a curse. “Oh it was just a mission. It’s normal to be hurt on missions.” 

Gojo’s been living with you for nearly half a year now and he knows you’re more than competent when it comes to shaman duties (not that he’d ever tell you). He knows you return home by 7 p.m.., and never at hours well past midnight. He knows that you usually only get injuries on your back because you get careless at times. But now, he sees cuts everywhere and he’s not sure if you’re running on adrenaline or if you’re too tired to notice. 

His eyes glance at the way you press a palm on your rib, subconsciously squeezing the area as if hiding it from him. “Let me see.”

Your surprise is immediate and he would’ve felt a strange fluttering in his stomach if not for this concern he was experiencing for you. You smile. “See what?”

“Your injury. Let me see it,” he says again, pressing on the hand you hold close to your ribs, narrowing his eyes as you hiss in pain. “Don’t be stubborn (Name).” 

His voice is different from the cheery one he often uses and you’re left leaning further into the kitchen counter, acutely aware of the fact that his taller frame wasn’t allowing you to escape. His eyes widen the slightest once he gets a glimpse of your flustered expression as you peer up at him and he only realizes what he was asking from you. Part of him tells him to ignore this and pretend his concern for you was brief. Yet, part of him screams at him that he was your husband, so he should feel the right to be worried–even if he was months late. 

He sighs, tilting his head. “I’m just going to look. I promise I won’t do anything else,” his voice is oddly tender as he speaks to you, a contrast to the usual nonchalance you’re used to. 

You gulp and let out a shaky sigh, giving in when your fingers reach to pull your top up for him to see the bare skin that you can’t even say is spotless or void of marks. Multiple wounds litter your skin–some faded, some new. You’re scared his gaze would show some signs of judgment or disgust but you’re left bemused when you see how his eyebrows furrow and his lips purse. For a second, you allow yourself to be deluded by the fact that he might be worried but you quickly abandon that thought, averting your eyes from him.

You can see how he pieces everything together. From the way you rebelled against the elders and how they saw it as a means to punish you. He does it so quickly that you can only blink when his blank expression morphs into something different. You almost feel relieved from the fact that his expression of pure anger wasn’t directed at you and rather those who sent you on the mission.

It’s almost natural how he slides the top further up, mapping the extent of the bruise with his eyes. His hands are warm and calloused. They’re also gentle, tracing the bruise carefully to not hurt you. “I’ll kill those old bastards,” he chuckles with a sneer. “They have some nerve letting my wife take this mission without me.”

You frown as you see his anger first-hand. “Satoru–”

“Why didn’t you go to Shoko?” He interrupts, gently holding on your waist to prop you on the counter while he stands in between your legs. He watches you intently, in search of answers.

You feel somewhat embarrassed as his hand still lifts your top up to see the bare skin but don’t comment on it. “I didn’t want to bother her so late at night…”

For the first time since today, you see him flash a genuine smile, as if exasperated by your reasoning. “But you’re fine with bothering me?” 

“That’s different!” You say, a pout slowly forming on your lips and he can’t help but feel drawn to you even if he doesn’t want to. 

He laughs as you pull your top down with a huff, finding it cute that you were so bashful. “Because I’m your husband?” 

You go silent and for a second, Gojo thinks he’s messed up for mentioning that. Despite being your husband, he’s not the greatest at doing his job. He’s not callous or spiteful towards you, instead taking on more of a cold and aloof attitude towards you. Even so, he thinks that hurts just as much as a few insults. 

He’s about to pull back but your voice draws him back to you. “Yeah. It’s because you’re my husband.”

Gojo can’t stop himself from glancing at your lips at that single statement. He was today years old when he realized he was a man of simple tastes. All you had to do was tell him that he was your husband and he’d want to kiss you until your lips turned red. He considers himself lucky that you didn’t see that slip-up of his–though he wouldn’t have minded if you did.

He breathes out a sigh, propping his chin atop your head while his fingers draw circles around your hips. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

It’s a vow he swears to keep. 

“I know,” you whisper quietly enough for him to hear. “You’re the strongest after all.”

He thinks it’s funny that even as the strongest, he feels weak when he feels your fingers play with his sleeves. No words are said after that and a comfortable silence drifts between you two. It’s like the barrier between the two of you is cracking once you feel his lips press gently against your forehead and you think it's his way of sealing the promise. 

Gojo Satoru thinks–or rather he knows that he wouldn’t mind living the rest of his life with you. And he knows that he should fix his behavior around you and stop running away. That way, instead of a kiss to the forehead, he can finally give you one on your lips.