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yeonayearns · 8 days ago

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࿐ vows of duty ── part 2

࿐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 — wet dream, sex, masturbation, dry humping and making out, satoru is horny af and shameless with dirty talk. say hi to yuji, megumi and maki! also shoko and nanami. satoru is still a dick. BORDERLINE cheating behavior - so read at your own discretion. the angst is angsting.】

࿐wc. 20k (what is wrong with me?)

࿐a/n. it's back! oh man, i'm gonna go crawl under a rock after posting this, ahaha. i hope ya'll like it. as you can see, i can't stop yappin. like, clearly i can't write a story without making it super in depth 🙂‍↕️ with the traditional ceremonies, just know that i'm not japanese so if certain things are incorrect forgive me! also, there is definitely canon divergence in this fic. satoru is not officially a sensei at jujutsu high. his duty is to his clan. art by @/_3aem

previous part

“Mm… fuck. Look at this mess…”

His voice drips over your skin, all sugar and filth—slurred into something reverent. While he drags his cock through your soaked folds, the teasing mess smears up his throbbing dick.

“’t-toru… I-I—mnh…” You’re floating. Weightless beneath him, breath caught somewhere in your throat—not that you care to find it. Because he's everywhere. Pressed to you, over you, into you. Warming you from the inside out as the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—thick, leaking, spilling sticky precum between your thighs.

It’s a mess. It’s so fucking new. And god it’s everything.

A low chuckle hums in your ear—warm, cocky, curling down your spine. When your lashes flutter open, he’s already looking at you. That crooked little smirk carved into his lips. Blue eyes sharp and soft at once, like he’s reading you and writing you all in one breath.

“Already drippin’ all over me, huh?” he murmurs, grinding lazily against your clit like it’s just a game to him. “What’s got you so needy, baby?”

Snowy strands brush your cheeks. His hair falls wild in his face, casting soft shadows over those impossible eyes. And god—he’s beautiful. Too beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him. He feels like a wish granted too fast. Like something stolen from a dream. And he’s yours. That’s the part you keep trying to believe.

Looming over you, he plants a palm on the sheets by your head. The other traces down your thigh, slow and certain, spreading you open like you’re delicate. Like you’re special. Making your heart ache more.

“Gonna tell me what you want?” he pants, dragging himself back through your slick. “C’mon…” he hums, earning your gasp—hips lifting as he teases you. “Lemme hear it, pretty girl. Don’t be shy now.”

Your voice slips from your lips before your shame can catch it. Because right now, you feel like you could spill your entire heart to this man. Why?

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” he croons, abs tensing with every lazy rut of his cock. “Aww… what do you want, hm?”

And oh, it’s humiliating how badly you want him while the fat head of his dick rubs your clit. You ache for him in places you didn’t even know could ache. But the heat between your legs is nothing compared to the heat in your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

“I want you,” you whisper, heart cracking open. “Want you so bad…”

And how could you not?

He makes you feel like nothing else matters. Like no one’s watching. Like you’re allowed to want. To crave. To be touched. To take.

Free of expectation. Free of tradition.

And still—still there’s that voice in the back of your mind. The part that remembers the time in his private villa. The silence after. The way he didn’t hold you. Didn’t stay.

I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?

You try not to think about it. Try not to let it matter. Because he said it like it meant nothing. But… this has to mean something. It has to. Right? Because how could someone touch you like this and not mean it? You’ve never felt like this before. Never even imagined you could feel this. Like you’ve always belonged here—under him, wrapped around him, lost in him.

His.

Exhaling, he cups your cheek—thumb brushing tenderly over your skin, like he doesn’t notice the war you’re losing beneath it. “That so?” he breathes, mouth so close it feels like a secret. “You want this cock, sweetheart?”

You nod. So hard it almost hurts.

“Want you to fuck me… please…” and that earns his groan. “Oh, you pretty thing…” and pressing forward—he’s lining himself up with a smirk and a low whisper. “Gonna make a mess of you…”

And then he’s pushing every inch of that flushed, angry cock into your tight little cunt. Slow. So slow it feels like it’s never going to end. Like he wants you to feel every inch as it splits you open, stretching you in a way you could only dream.

“Oh, fuuuuck…” his voice splinters as your legs fall open wider. “Shit… just fuckin’ meltin’ around me…” and your body gives, like it’s been waiting for this. Made for him.

“Satoru—” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders like you might fall through the floor. “Shhh…” his forehead falls to yours, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there. Inside you. Wrapped in your heat, your walls fluttering around him like you’re not sure if you’re ready or begging for more.

And that’s the thing—you don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. Just that it’s him. That it’s this. And it’s yours. A dream come true.

“You feel like a dream,” he whispers, hips twitching once, slow and deep. “Like I’ve waited forever for this…”

Dream.

Maybe you are dreaming. Are you? Is that why this feels so good? No, maybe it’s just him. Because suddenly he’s moving. A rhythm that starts with reverence—measured, deep, like he wants to memorize you. Every breath. Every arch. Every sound you make.

“Look at me,” he pants, lips brushing yours as he rocks languidly. “Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you, yeah?”

Your lashes flutter—dazed, drunk on him. And you do. You look. You stare into those vivid blue eyes like they’re the last thing tethering you to this goddamn earth. Eyes that are endless. Limitless.

A dream?

Yeah. That’s what this is. A dream come true. A dream spun from every ache you’ve buried—pulled from the softest, dirtiest corners of your aching little heart—where no one ever told you what to want, only that you shouldn’t. And now he’s here.

The man of your dreams, giving you everything you thought was out of reach.

Freedom. Pleasure. Love.

Love?

Love’s a strange thing. You’ve never been in love—never trusted it. And how could you if you’ve never seen it done right—watching your parents gut it and wear it like a lie. Butone thing’s for sure—this is what it feels like to be wanted. Right?

So, you’ll be his. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Always. If this is how he’ll make you feel—god, you’ll be his forever.

“Feels s’good,” you whisper, head tilting back as he fucks you deeper. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, dragging his cock out slow, then driving it back in with a wet slap. “You hear that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Whining under him, your cunt coats his dick, wet and warm, dripping between your legs. His muscles tense above you, hands sliding down your body, gripping your hips.

“God, baby… greedy little pussy’s grippin’ me… shit,” he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Fine… take it—” and with a hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

“Ahh! W-Wait—” you jolt, but the protest melts into a stream of filthy moans as he finds his rhythm—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass.

“Mmm… that’s my girl…” he pants, cooing against your ear as he kisses the side of your neck. Slick, wet sounds echo through the room as he fucks your cunt in sharp, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, Satoru—" you gasp, choking on his name. And he groans—filthy, low—panting in your ear, lost in your heat as your pussy grips him just right.

“Shit… look at you,” he breathes, grinding deeper, breath hot against your cheek. “Yes… fuck yes… you gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

Your cunt is fluttering around him—soaking, tight. He's rolling every inch of that flushed cock in slow, devastating thrusts.

“So pretty… so fuckin’ pretty…” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, fixed on your face. He's drinking every gasp straight from your lungs. “Gonna let me fuck this pussy every goddamn day, hm?” his cock drags out, only to slam it back in. “Nnngh… have you drippin’ down my cock, making a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me?”

God, you will. You’d do anything for him. You moan as his mouth finds your throat again—kisses that turn to bites, soft lips followed by sharp teeth. Gentle, then greedy as he continues to pump deeper.

“Let ‘em see,” he growls against your skin. “Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you—just take it.”

His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, meaner. Each thrust crashes into you with a wet slap, your cunt gushing around him. You’re gasping, breath breaking into ragged whimpers as the dripping head of his cock kisses your cervix—over and over again.

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—you’re just moaning, gasping, breaking.

“Well?” he snarls, pounding you harder. “C’mon… who do you belong to, sweetheart?”

He fucks you so hard the floor seems to shake. Your body’s sliding helpless beneath him, your mind scattering like shards of glass. You sob, "Y-You," and your fingers curl into his hair, clinging like you'll fall about without him. Because you will. “Yours—’toru—m’yours…”

That encourages him, he’s gasping, thrusting, moaning—wet slaps echoing.

“Good fuckin’ girl… f-fuck…” he groans, voice cracking as his cock pulses deep inside you, cum spilling hot. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum…”

And wrapping your legs around him, you feel him shudder. Warmth spills from your cunt, slick and slow, while your pussy flutters around him, milking every drop. His thrusts don't stop. They just slow—grinding in lazy, possessive circles. Rolling deeper, messier, like he wants to keep it all inside you. Like he needs you full.

“Mine,” he breathes, dick twitching inside you. “Fuck… all mine… my pretty wife…” he pants, teeth grazing your shoulder, “…my messy little slut—mine… mine…”

The words tumble from him in broken, breathless threads—a litany, hot and reverent—branding you from the inside out.

Mine.

Again.

Mine.

You’re gasping, falling. Everything blurs; his body wrapping around you, filling you, flooding every aching, empty part of you. And the room—it starts to feel…

Mine….

Soft?

Mine…

The kind of warmth that doesn’t feel real.

Almost like…

Mine…

Like a dream.

Mine…

Get up.

You blink.

Get. Up.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“You’re still in bed?”

That voice. No warmth. Just clipped syllables slicing through the remnants of your dream.

“Get up.”

And just like that, the weight of him vanishes. The heat. The stretch. The sweetness. Gone.

Jolting up, your silk robe slips off your shoulder, and light stings your eyes as your lashes flutter open. But it’s not his breath you feel, it’s the bite of morning air against your sweat-slick skin—and your mother’s cold stare.

Oh. Right. A dream.

“Well?” Her voice cuts again, brisk and unforgiving. “You think the entire Gojo clan is going to wait for you to collect yourself?”

She’s already at the window, fingers ghosting over the wood frame. The shoji groans as it slides open, letting in a wash of cold that rushes over the tatami and blooms across your bare collarbone.

Flinching, you instinctively draw your robe tighter—but it’s too late. The ache between your legs is still slick, still pulsing like a secret you can’t scrub off. Shame burns hot in your chest.

A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream.

Over him.

Cheeks burning, your knees lock tight. And by the curl of your mother’s lip—you must look exactly how you feel.

Filthy.

“You’re flushed,” she remarks, arching a brow. “And you’re shaking.”

“Oh… sorry,” you whisper, shutting your eyes like that might make you disappear. “I… didn’t sleep well.”

There’s a pause.

You brace for a reprimand. A sharp lesson, a stern lecture. But it doesn’t come—only the soft rustle of silk.

“Why? Are… you nervous about today?”

When your eyes flutter open, she’s kneeling before you. Her expression has softened, and there’s something quieter in her hands as they reach for your robe, brushing your collar with practiced care.

“That color suits you…” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric where it’s slipped from your shoulder, “…Ivory always did.”

You blink, lips parting, startled by the shift in her tone.

“You used to wear it constantly…” she adds, softer now. “Said it made you feel like a princess. Wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else.”

Adjusting the fold near your shoulder, her fingers linger, smoothing it flat with quiet care.

“I swear…” glancing up at you, her lips twitch, like the memory tastes bitter and sweet at once. “I hid that white yukata more times than I can count.”

Your own mouth curves, matching her smile.

“Yeah… but I always found it.”

“Tch. And stained it before noon!” She huffs, smiling, shaking her head. “Grass. Dirt. Ink from your calligraphy kit. You’d tear through the garden like a storm. Always barefoot. Always chasing your father, trying to mimic his stances.”

You still.

Because she said it—his name. And she never does. Not anymore. Not since the night he left.

Her hands move slower now, but her gaze drifts somewhere far beyond the room.

“Your father…” she echoes quietly, straightening a crease, “…he used to call you his little crane. Said you looked too delicate for martial arts… until you bloodied his lip.”

Her fingers hover at the fold of your robe, and for the first time in years, the silence between you feels fragile. Sacred. As if something hidden might surface—something she’s almost ready to hand you.

But the moment doesn’t last.

Drawing back, she stands in one fluid motion, sleeves whispering against her sides.

“Regardless… you’re not a child anymore,” her voice sharpens. “And we don’t get the luxury of mistakes, understood?”

You nod, and whatever had cracked in her seals shut again—her tenderness slipping away, folded back inside like silk tucked into a drawer.

“You have fifteen minutes before the stylists arrive…”

Then, the door slides shut with a soft click.

And you’re left alone with the scent of sandalwood fading in the air, a chill still clinging to your skin, a heat between your legs, and the ache of a mother’s love that always pulls back before it ever reaches your hands.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Gentle fingers tilt your chin.

“Hold still, sweetheart. I don’t want to poke your eye out before the ceremony.”

The powder brush sweeps across your cheek in soft, fluttering strokes—light as breath, enough to chase the nerves from your skin.

“You really are a vision,” one of the stylists insists, a small, reverent sigh slipping past her lips. “He won’t be able to look away.”

“I doubt that…” you murmur, trying to smile—though it barely touches your eyes.

But the reflection staring back at you says otherwise. The perfect bride-to-be, composed and radiant.

Your kimono wraps tight around your ribs, layers of pale ivory and blooming crimson spreading like a painted fan across your body. Embroidered cranes glide up your sleeves in gold and silver threads—regal, serene. Their necks curve skyward, as though chasing something you can’t see.

“This must feel surreal,” the older stylist adds, stepping back to admire her work. She tilts your chin higher, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The yuino ceremony… such an elegant tradition.”

You blink slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The yuino—an engagement ritual where two families exchange gifts to formalize a union. Every offering means something: thread for longevity, sake for harmony, kelp for joy. It’s less about the couple, more about the bloodlines. A promise not just between people, but legacies.

“It’s definitely… traditional,” you admit.

“More like transactional…” the youngest mumbles, tugging at your obi with sharp, precise hands.

The elder hushes her with a look—not harsh, but warning—then turns back to you.

“My dear… tradition isn’t meant to trap us,” she assures, low and sincere. “It’s meant to carry us.”

Reaching up to adjust a pin in your hair, her touch is slow, almost motherly.

“All of this—the layers, the ritual—it’s not just for show. It’s a blessing. A beginning.” Her fingers pause at the side of your head before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And if you let it… it can be something beautiful.”

Glancing at your reflection, there’s a quiet ache behind her words. Because you were raised to follow. To perform. To marry. And yet, somehow… her words echo, soft as silk.

It’s startling. Strange, even.

It should feel like a cage. Shouldn’t it? Every fold, every knot, every ornament arranged to present someone else’s idea of who you are. After all, with your family, marriage was always the destination. And yet, the weight pressing down on your shoulders feels lighter than it should.

Maybe it’s the way she said it. Or… maybe it’s because of him.

Satoru Gojo, with his messy grin and reckless freedom—he doesn’t bow to tradition. He lives like nothing owns him. Not his clan. Not his duty. Not even his legacy. He rewrites every rule with a smirk.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him.

The wet dream had only sharpened it, made it vivid—too vivid. That stretch, that heat. It felt real. It felt like it mattered. Because despite everything—despite duty and expectation—you want him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you fall apart in that villa.

You want him to see you through all of this.

You want to be his.

Because maybe, as strange as it sounds, the stylist is right. Maybe this can be more than duty. Maybe this is a beginning. Not of obedience—but of something else. Something fragile and full of possibility.

God, you wish it to be so. You need it to be so.

The older stylist gives your shoulder a final pat, stepping back to admire you once more.

“I wonder what he’ll give you,” the youngest muses, voice airy, almost starstruck. “Someone like Gojo Satoru…” she hums. “I bet it’s something extravagant.”

“He’s like a storm in silk,” another sighs dreamily. “Whatever it is, it’ll be unforgettable.”

The eldest smiles, something softer flickering in her eyes. “Glamour fades,” she remarks. “But a gift that knows who you are… now that’s something you carry for life.”

A gift that knows who you are.

The words echo, soft and lingering. And suddenly, you’re not sure—does yours? Is it enough? Will he appreciate it?

Glancing towards the vanity, your gaze drops to the small black box, half-hidden among the combs and lacquered trays like a secret.

“Ah!” One of the stylists perks up, catching the direction of your eyes. “That’s for him?” she asks, nodding toward the box.

You hesitate for a breath, then nod. “It is,” and reaching for it, your fingers smooth over the velvet before curling around the edges. “It’s my gift.”

In the yuino, it’s customary for the groom’s family to present gifts first—then comes the bride’s turn. Something of worth. Something of value.

That part was never easy. Not when you had nothing to give but what little you could scrape together. Money is short, but you did it. Somehow. And you wonder—would he see that? Would he know what it cost you—the quiet sacrifices, the things you were forced to let go of—just to place something in his hands that felt like truth?

Your fingers slide beneath the satin ribbon, loosening it slowly, letting it fall open.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a pair of sunglasses. Sleek. Rectangular. Matte black with thin platinum accents at the temples. Understated, but undeniably expensive—a limited designer release you spent weeks searching for.

“Um…” the elder tilts her head, “…sunglasses?”

“Modern,” another hesitates, as if afraid to offend. “Not exactly… traditional.”

You watch the way the lenses catch the light—dark, smooth, almost defiant.

“No…” you admit, lips curving faintly. “But neither is he.”

“Tch.” A voice from the doorway cuts in. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Looking up, you already know who’s interrupted before setting eyes on her—the dry bite in her voice is unmistakable.

Maki Zenin.

Leaning against the doorway, green hair pulled back into a ponytail, there she is. Your sister in arms. The closest thing you have to a friend. Or maybe… a younger sister, if life had been kinder.

“Ah…” one of the stylists clears her throat, taking a careful step back. “And… you are…?”

“Relax,” she huffs. “I’m just the disgraced friend. I promise not to stain the upholstery.”

The eldest arches a brow, and you jump in quickly.

“She’s with me.”

The two of you go back years—back when your families still tolerated one another. Her clan managed stock, yours specialized in cursed weapon refinement. While the adults buried themselves in trade negotiations and formalities, you both were left to your own devices. Two girls, too young to matter, yet old enough to know it.

She was brash even back then—calling you “old” and “boring.” Daring you to sneak into the armory, challenging you to out-duel her with weapons twice her size. You were quieter, more reserved, raised on obedience and grace. But when Maki handed you a dull blade and grinned, your blood had thrummed with something you never had words for.

You were raised to bow. She was raised to bite. And somehow, you met in the middle. Now, years later, you still find her at your side. The only one who never abandoned you, never flinched when the world turned cold and your clan shut you out. Like hers did for her.

“I see,” the stylist straightens politely, smoothing her sleeves. “We’ll give you two a moment, then. I’ll prepare the fan offering for the ceremony.”

“And I’ll fetch the lacquer box!” Another chirps, already gathering her things.

They exit with soft murmurs and a shuffle of silk, bows and slippers brushing over tatami. The door slides shut behind them, sealing the room in a quieter hush.

Exhaling, your shoulders ease as your eyes meet Maki’s in the mirror.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, well… I said I’d come, didn’t I?” she sighs, pushing off the doorframe with the kind of casual bravado that’s always been second nature to her. Her eyes sweep the room—to the silk shimmering across your collarbones, the ceremonial stillness. “So…” her brow lifts, “…you’re really going through with it, huh?”

“Yup. But don’t sound so surprised,” you hum, smoothing your kimono with a teasing lilt. “After all, one of us had to make it out of exile first.”

“Pfft.” Maki rolls her eyes, but her grin flickers with something almost proud. “I don’t want out. Fuck the Zenins. I’m not crawling back just to prove a point.”

You smile faintly.

“Still stubborn.”

“And you’re still too soft,” she quips, striding towards the vanity.

Leaning against it, her arms fold, eyes narrowing in a way that only pretends to be judgmental. But you know. Beneath it: worry. Loyalty. That particular kind of protectiveness that only someone who’s exiled knows how to wear.

“You… really want to do this?”

“Maybe…” you meet her eyes in the glass, hesitating. “He’s not like them, Maki…” you shrug, looking down, fidgeting with the sleeve of your kimono. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe it could be… different?”

She doesn’t answer right away. You’re older, but she’s always looked out for you in her own prickly way. And the fact that you didn’t volunteer for this, more like you were voluntold—it annoys the hell out of her.

Still, she huffs out a breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah…” she admits finally, like it costs her. “I guess he’s not.”

Glancing at her sideways, she drops her hands into her pockets, mouth twitching into a grin.

“Y’know… he let me train in the middle of the damn courtyard,” she mutters. “Didn’t even ask what I was doing there. Just tossed me a staff and went, ‘don’t embarrass yourself.’”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Yup.” She shrugs, almost smug. “Snuck into Jujutsu High last week. Through the garden wall. Figured I’d get thrown out before I even touched a weapon. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell the higher-ups either. Just… let me stay.”

Your lips part, but no words come right away. The thought of Gojo Satoru—maddening, brilliant, impossible Gojo Satoru—doing something so quietly kind? To someone you care for so deeply? It makes your chest warm. Maki’s been trying to get into Jujutsu High for months, but the system’s written her off like she’s disposable. Unfit. A mistake. But she’s more capable than half the sorcerers they’ve accepted. You’ve always known that.

And the fact that Satoru saw it too…

You feel it then—slow and steady—that hum beneath your skin. That ache of something soft unraveling inside you.

“I mean, damn,” Maki stretches, cracking her knuckles behind her head with a yawn. “You’d think someone that powerful would care about rules, right?”

“Yeah… he doesn’t,” you huff a breath, the smile pulling at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s the problem.”

Or maybe… it’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Meanwhile, Satoru’s head is spinning—with you. His pretty little wife-to-be, the one who’ll keep the elders quiet and his cock wet.

He’s been in the shower far too long. Steam clings to the cedar walls, fogging the glass panels while the overhead spout hisses steadily against his skin. Water beads down his spine—but it’s not the heat that has him breathless. His hand pumps steadily over his sensitive dick—gliding and rolling over his fat heat as it drips messily onto the stone tile.

He should be getting ready for the ceremony, but here he is, fapping his stiff cock while milky drops spill down his pretty pink tip.

“Fffuck…” he groans, panting with each filthy slap of his fist, “Unngh… that’s it…”

Lewd images flash through his mind—'cause this is easier. Just muscle and heat. No feelings. No expectations. Just the illusion of your trembling thighs, your sweet little cunt sucking him in, soaking his fat dick as he slams into you, over and over.

He bites down a moan, head tipping back, soft white bangs soaked to his forehead. Those impossible eyes—half-lidded beneath snow-damp lashes—burn in the haze, glassy and low. Water rivulets track the slope of his abdomen, glinting over taut skin as his hand works faster, more desperate.

“Shit—yeah… jus’ like that…”

Breath hitching, his hand jerks harder, crude sounds echoing with the hiss of water while his thick shaft pulses in his grip. He can’t stop. Can’t help it. The image sharpens in his mind—your tits bouncing with every thrust, the soft slide of your sleeves slipping off your shoulders. He's drive into you from behind, hand fisted in your hair.

God, he doesn’t want to be married. But he’d love to fuck the pretty little wife they’ve handed him—make you cry for it, ruin you slow, watch your sweet face twist when his cock drags deep through your dripping cunt.

“Mnh—take it…” he growls, one palm braced against the slick cedar wall, the other pumping hard and fast. His hips stutter, rocking into the heat of his fist, chest heaving as steam curls like breath around his ankles.

Fuck, he’s desperate for relief, and your name’s on the tip of his tongue—not that he’d say it. ‘Cause that’s not how this works. He needs relief. He needs a distraction. Just a little more. So close. So—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Flinching, Satoru’s hand stills as the voice slams through his pleasure like a slap. The water beats down, dazed eyes fluttering open as he pants—and the moment he glances at the room’s wooden door, an agitated scowl curls across his lips. That voice is muffled, but unmistakable.

Fucking Megumi.

“Dude. You’re taking forever,” the kid gripes, banging again. “I mean… for fuck’s sake—at this rate you’re gonna be late to your own damn engagement party!”

Engagement party.

Right. The yuino.

“Oh, fuck me…” Satoru mutters under his breath, grip falling away with a wet, dejected slap. His cock bobs, still red, swollen—leaking in desperation.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Even this—this one private moment—can’t fucking belong to him. The mood’s gone; sucked dry by the obligation pounding at his door.

Great. Now he’s annoyed. Because he was supposed to be getting off, not thinking. But of fucking course, Megumi’s words are that lovely, blaring reminder that he’s about to become officially tied down tonight. About to lose whatever little bit of freedom he was barely clinging onto.

Sure, you’re pretty, you’re tempting—but you’re also part of this now, aren’t you? Part of the problem—despite how good you make his dick feel.

Marriage?

Duty?

He never wanted that shit.

Another knock breaks through the water pounding around him—and with a groan, Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Kid, do you mind?!” he snaps, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking hell—some of us are trying to have a crisis in peace!”

“Yeah, well, your ‘crisis’ is way behind schedule.” Megumi fires back, tone dry as dust. “Get your shit together, old man.”

Oh, like it’s so simple. Sure. That’s what everyone expects of him.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back under the stream. His cock twitches again, stubborn and sensitive, but already softening, the ache still lingering in his groin like a cruel echo.

Wait… why is he even fantasizing about you?! Great. Now he’s even more annoyed at himself. And as his irritation begins to simmer, another insistent knock breaks through the wooden door.

“Jesus Christ… Megumi!” Satoru grits, low and bitter, finally lifting his head. “Unless someone’s dying, just… walk the fuck away!”

“Well, I’m dying. From boredom. Hurry the fuck up.”

With a growl, Satoru twists the water off—steam hissing in protest while a silence finally settles—save for the drip of condensation tapping down the glass. His hands brace against the wall; muscles tense, breath ragged, cock twitching but neglected.

The moment’s gone. Stolen. Per usual.

And now he’s pissed the fuck off. Why the fuck does he keep thinking about your face when you cum?

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eight minutes late,” Megumi notes. “Again.”

Strolling in barefoot, Satoru glides across the tatami, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. His inner kimono hangs loose over his frame, belt tied lazily at his hips, sleeves pushed up in carelessness.

“Oh?” he blinks, feigning surprise, raking the towel through his hair. “What’s this, hm? You timing me now?”

“Yaga is,” Megumi sighs, already looking back down at his phone. “Says you’re always late. Just not late enough to chastise.”

That earns a slow, smug grin from Satoru—crooked and boyish, like a secret he’s not going to share. Clicking his tongue, he tosses the towel over the back of the chair, reaching for the next layer of silk.

“Aww,” he hums, slipping into his outer kimono with an almost bored ease. “He’s still using that line? Sentimental old man.”

The linen is rich and textured, dark indigo, finely woven. Near the collar, stitched in silver so pale it borders on illusion, lies the Gojo family crest: Two dragonflies—wings outspread in mirror flight.

Curious creatures, dragonflies are. They say dragonflies can’t fly backward. Only forward. Relentlessly, instinctively—like time, or fate. No turning back.

…much like him after tonight.

Letting out a low breath, Satoru brushes the crest once over with his knuckles. Until—

Thunk!

He blinks, glancing toward the sound. Across the room, Yuji curses under his breath, a lacquered box falling to the floor, skittering across the tatami and landing near Megumi’s foot. As a silk ribbon flutters in Yuji’s hand like a white flag, Satoru immediately realizes what it is.

His gift—for you.

“Oi,” he calls, brow arching. “Is that my gift? Be careful with that.”

Freezing mid-reach, Yuji flinches—caught red-handed.

“Oh—shit. Sorry, Sensei!” he blurts, grabbing the box, fumbling quickly. Steadying it, his eyes flick up sheepishly. “I, um… didn’t mean to—uh—drop it.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, gaze dragging slowly over the box.

“Mmm… Yuji,” he drawls, tilting his head. “The ribbon’s untied.”

“Right. Uh…” Yuji hesitates, holding the ruined bow like it might defend him. “…it was already like that. Probably.”

Satoru snorts, fiddling with his kimono. “Uh-huh. Right. And I was born on a rice farm.”

Groaning in defeat, Yuji drops his shoulders.

“Okay—fine. But I didn’t mean to untie it. I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Got curious.”

“Curious,” Satoru echoes, unimpressed.

“Yeah…” Yuji mutters, guilt settling in. “Wanted to see what you’re giving the future Mrs. Gojo.”

Pausing mid-adjustment, that title hangs in the air.

Mrs. Gojo.

How strange. Satoru’s called you his wife already… but why does it sound kinda weird hearing it out loud from someone else. Especially someone as pure as Yuji. Huh… maybe it’s easier to call you that when your legs are spread open for him.

Humming low in his throat, he smooths his sleeve with more tension than before.

“Mm.”

But Yuji brightens anyway, as if the mood hasn’t shifted.

“Don’t worry, Gojo-sensei!” he declares, lifting the ribbon like he’s already halfway redeemed. “I can fix it!”

Satoru lifts a brow. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

Megumi doesn’t even look up. “No, he can’t.”

And just like that, the pink haired boy’s hunched over the low table again, brows drawn in tight concentration, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as Yuji—bless his heart—tries his best; wrestling that ceremonial silk into submission.

Megumi sighs. “It’s a box, Itadori. Not a curse.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Yuji grumbles. “Tch.” He gives the ribbon a final tug, and the knot bunches in on itself like it’s mocking him. A frustrated exhale pulls through his nose. “Kay, but… like, why is this harder than cursed energy manipulation?”

Strolling over, an amused expression pulls from Satoru’s face as he ties his sash with one hand carelessly. Then, peering over Yuji’s shoulder, his gaze drops to the disaster unfolding under the young boy’s hands.

“Eh?” he hums, cocking his head. “You’ve come a long way with your cursed energy control. But clearly, we skipped basic knot tying, Yuji.”

“Okay, but Sensei, this ribbon is cursed,” Yuji deadpans. “It’s mocking me. I swear. I just—ughhh!” He flops back onto the tatami with a groan, arms spread wide like a fallen soldier. “The hell? I’m not even the one getting married, and I’m sweating over this.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching with an easy grace. He plucks the lacquered box from the table with two fingers and spins it once in his palm.

“It’s ‘cause tradition is allergic to convenience,” he drawls, deftly untying the clumsy knot with a flick of his wrist. “It exists purely to make our lives harder.”

“Hey!” Yuji bolts upright, looking betrayed. “I almost had it, Gojo-sensei—!”

“Mhm.” Satoru ruffles his hair in passing, already walking back toward the mirror with the box in hand. “Sure, ya did~”

And then, without even looking, he smooths the ribbon out, looping and tucking it back into a clean, symmetrical knot—annoyingly perfect in a matter of seconds.

Yuji gapes. “How’d you do that so fast?”

A smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips. “Talent,” he sighs simply, setting the box down and reaching for his hakama pants.

Huffing, Yuji groans, flopping back on his elbows. “Y’know, Gojo-sensei—”

“Yuji,” Megumi cuts in, tone clipped. “That’s the fourth time. Watch yourself.”

Mid-gesture, Yuji blinks. “Huh?”

Glancing up at the mirror, Satoru doesn’t say anything—he’s stepping into his pants, folding the kimono in with quiet ease. Megumi just exhales—slow and tired, like he’s said this a dozen times before.

“Don’t forget where we’re going tonight.”

“Uh…” Yuji squints. “What, the party? What about it?”

“Seriously…?” Megumi finally looks up, brow arching with something between irritation and warning. “There’ll be elders. Councilmen. Clanheads,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his phone. “Just… don’t slip and call him ‘sensei’ in front of them.”

“Oh...” realization hits fast—Yuji’s hand lowering, his grin slipping with it. “Right… sorry… I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…still don’t get why it has to be a secret though,” he grumbles under his breath.

Across the room, Satoru’s hands go still—fingers curling around the edge of his obi. In the mirror’s reflection, his gaze flicks to Yuji, lingering a second too long. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—like he’s caught in the gravity of a memory he doesn’t want to chase, standing on the edge of a thought he might not survive. But if he says nothing, maybe it will pass.

“I mean… it’s dumb, right?” Yuji tries, voice soft but sincere, gathering his courage. “You’re already doing it. Teaching us. So… why can’t it just be official?”

The question hangs there, light but pointed—too honest to brush off. Too direct to ignore. Just honest.

Young.

Satoru could say it; could say it’s not that simple—that some doors don’t open without closing others behind you. That some names come with chains no one sees. That the one thing they’d make him do to earn the title of sensei would leave a scar too deep to walk back from.

But what would be the point?

Yuji means well. Of course he does. That’s not the problem.

The issue is the world they live in.

There are rules older than all of them, and games played by ghosts who never left the table. But they’re too young to understand. And they shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids—holding the weight of things they shouldn’t have to carry.

And Satoru—he has no intention of handing them more. He’s good at pretending. He’s been doing it since before either of them were born. So, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t let the shadows stretch across the room. He only laughs—low, dismissive, breezy in a way that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Oh, Yuji…” he exhales, feigning exasperation. “C’mon now. You really think I wanna sit through boring faculty meetings?” he deflects, reaching for his haori—the final layer of silk—and slides it on like armor. Easy. Fluid. Just another layer to keep the truth out. “I mean… please. Wear a tie? Take attendance? Bleh. I’ve got enough on my plate keeping you dummies alive.”

Stretching his arms overhead, a lazy grunt slips from his throat as if that settles it—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Becoming Nanami is not on my bingo card.” He drawls, a smirk returning—lazy, lopsided, familiar. “I mean, being tied down’s not my thing, y’know?”

Scoffing from the floor, Yuji shoots him a look.

“Yeah, sure. Says the guy giving her that.”

Satoru blinks, following Yuji’s nod to the lacquered box that cradles your gift.

“Uh… what’s that supposed to mean?”

“No offense, Gojo-sensei, but it’s kinda… romantic. For you.”

Satoru scowls, adjusting the fold of his sleeve.

“It’s a formality, Yuji.”

“Yup, we know,” Megumi mutters, not bothering to look up from his phone. “The custom-cut sapphire gave that away.”

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, jaw ticking as a simmering heat lingers, creeping up the back of his neck.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” he mutters, adjusting the collar like it suddenly doesn’t sit right on his shoulders.

“Whoa,” Yuji blinks, sitting up straighter. “Heirloom tier?”

“Yeah… anyways,” Clearing his throat, Satoru slips the box into the inner fold of his robe with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You’re literally making it a big deal,” Megumi deadpans.

Something about that makes him snap—hot, brief, and immediate.

“I’m not!”

It comes out sharper than intended. Both boys blink, freezing—and Satoru’s hand tightens briefly around the edge of his haori.

Shit.

He didn’t mean to snap. Not like that. Not over a box. Not over you. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he suddenly so on edge? Is it ‘cause he didn’t get his release? Couldn’t finish what he started in the shower?

Yeah… must be. Get your shit together Satoru. This is what happens when he lets himself start thinking again. Lets himself linger too long on what tonight means.

Exhaling through his nose, he forces it all back down. Smooths his expression. Rebuilds the wall. Plays the part.

“Right then… anyways” he scoffs, reaching up to adjust his sleeves again, brushing away at nothing. “You’re the ones turning sapphires and heirlooms into some fairy tale proposal.”

The smirk that pulls at his lips is forced—thin, crooked, but convincing enough. He turns away from the mirror, shoulders squared like he’s fine. Like everything’s fine.

“It’s just a box,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Just a fucking formality.”

There’s a brief, weighty silence—the tension in the air saying enough. The kind of quiet where everything feels a little too loud.

Fucking hell Satoru…

These kids? They’re not supposed to see him come apart. He has to get it together. So, he exhales—loud and theatrical this time—and explodes into motion.

“Alright, alright,” he declares loudly, a sudden brightness that feels almost theatrical. “Enough dramatics. I’m polished. I’m present. I’m fucking dazzling. Yeah?”

He spins on his heel like a performer hitting the cue. A shift so abrupt it somehow works.

Because yeah—the ensemble’s perfect. Layers of rich indigo, the silver-threaded cuffs gleaming faintly under the warm overhead light. The cut is sharp, the fit immaculate. The Gojo crest near the collar flashes like a brand. The fabric whispers against his skin—luxury draped like armor.

Inherited. Not chosen. But he wears it like it fits.

Behind him, Yuji elbows Megumi with a grin. “Wow… Gojo-sensei cleans up scary fast.”

Megumi sighs, dry as ever. “Still late, though.”

And leaning back on his hands, Yuji tilts his head, eyes following the sweep of Satoru’s robes. “Let’s see… I think…” he hums pondering. “Hmm… Gojo-sensei looks like he belongs on money. Or maybe… oh! A museum!!”

Those words are said with a laugh—a spark of awe, but they hit something deeper.

Because… Satoru remembers that line.

Not from Yuji—but from himself. Eighteen years old and ascending to power, tossing the joke to Suguru as they stood side-by-side in this very same room.

His eyes lift to the mirror—pale lashes framing a vivid, electric blue. And for a moment—just a blink—his reflection looks… tired.

Shit… was that the same tired expression Suguru wore that very night? Showing subtle signs of…

No.

No thinking.

The boys are laughing, Megumi rolling his eyes as he mutters to Yuji, “Itadori… you’re feeding his ego.”

And just like that, Satoru’s mask slips back on.

“Oi,” he smirks. “You two done narrating my life?”

And turning towards them in a sweep of silk and silver, the fabric settles around his shoulders like a mantle.

“Besides, Megumi” he drawls, slinging an arm around both boys with exaggerated flair, “m’not late enough to get chastised. That’s the trick, remember?”

Groaning, Megumi shoves him off with a well-placed elbow as Yuji laughs—bright, boyish, easy.

And Satoru?

Satoru walks forward like he isn’t about to hand over the last piece of himself. Like this isn’t the beginning of the end of the only freedom he ever had.

Like this is just another night. And you’re just another girl.

“C’mon, kids,” he hums, stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go crash a party, yeah?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Why’s everyone looking at me like that…?” Yuji mutters, tugging at the collar of his formalwear. His steps hitch as they move through the main hall, voices dimming just enough to be noticeable.

Satoru doesn’t need to look to know what he means. He feels it too—eyes following, sticking like burrs, veiled judgment behind brittle smiles.

“Probably ‘cause you weren’t technically on my guest list,” he remarks casually, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his haori.

Yuji blinks. “Wait, what?!”

Satoru huffs a laugh, soft and unbothered. “You’ve got a mass-murdering curse king riding shotgun in your gut, kid. Hard to ignore,” he hums, half amused. “I’d say it’s definitely a conversation starter.”

Yuji gapes, only for a beat. “Man, seriously?” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Jeez, they could’ve led with literally anything else…”

But Satoru’s attention is already drifting, sweeping the halls without really turning his head. This place is all muscle memory now. He could walk it blind. He knows every floorboard, every creak.

He’s bled in these corridors—trained, limped, laughed barefoot with split knuckles and scraped knees. He’s thrown punches, broken rules, kissed a girl for the first time just past the east wing when he was still dumb enough to think that means something.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t hate the Gojo estate. Not when it’s empty. Not when it’s quiet. But tonight, it’s anything but—it doesn’t belong to him right now.

It belongs to them.

Shifting closer, Yuji’s shoulders tense, gaze flickering—not quite shrinking, but unsure. He knows he doesn’t belong, and he’s just now realizing how many eyes are on him.

Satoru glances sidelong at him, catching the flicker of discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Yuji’s eye. A slow, casual smirk curls at his lips. “I wanted you here,” he says simply, like it costs him nothing. “Relax. They can fuck off.”

Yuji blinks at him, uncertain. “You’re not worried?”

“About them?” Satoru scoffs, shaking off the thought entirely. “Please. They’ve been giving me dirty looks since I learned how to walk. You think I give a shit what they think now?”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Megumi’s voice trails from behind. “I think you managed to piss off half the room, and we just got here.”

Satoru hums, pleased. “Off to a good start, then.”

As they round the corner, the corridor widens—washed in warm lamplight, paper lanterns strung overhead like soft stars. The ceiling arches high, beams lacquered and dark with age, polished to a quiet shine. Satoru remembers tracing them as a kid, flat on his back after getting knocked on his ass. Sparring with Suguru. Laughing through the bruises.

Now, guests linger in quiet clusters, murmurs woven through the hush. Silk hems whisper across tatami. And just ahead, the ceremonial platform waits—elevated like a stage, dressed in folds of indigo and silver. Scrolls line the walls in sharp calligraphy. But it’s just dead men’s words. Legacy bullshit.

At the center, a single katana rests on black lacquer, gleaming under the lights. And there it is: two cushions sitting beneath it.

Right. Two.

Satoru steps up without pause, dropping onto his cushion with a pointed exhale. One knee bends, arm draped over it. His sleeves settle in loose, elegant folds—like he couldn’t be bothered to care, like this platform’s just another bench in Shibuya Station.

A throne he never asked for. So fuck it—if they’re going to put him here, he’ll make sure they choke on the view.

Yuji lingers at the bottom of the step—gaze drifting, distracted. Then, stopping, something catches his attention. Or rather, someone.

“Eh?!” he blurts, face lighting up. “Nanamin~!”

Heads turn at once—a few elders visibly stiffening from the outburst. One exhales sharply, another murmurs beneath their breath.

Across the room, Nanami Kento straightens in his seat, blinking like he’s already exhausted. Shoko, seated lazily beside him, lifts two fingers in a languid wave, unfazed.

“Yo!!” Yuji waves both arms like he’s hailing a taxi, practically glowing. “Na-na-min!! Na-na-min!! Over here!!”

Rolling his eyes, Megumi delivers a quick smack to the back of Yuji’s head.

“Oi. Inside voices, idiot.”

“Ow!” Yuji winces, rubbing the spot. “Rude!”

But Satoru only chuckles, cheek resting against his palm—watching Yuji bound across the floor with all the grace of a golden retriever. He makes his way towards both sorcerers as Megumi follows behind, and the elders start whispering again.

Eh. Let ‘em. He’s stopped caring a long time ago.

But then—something shifts in the room, murmurs bending, redirecting. One by one, heads turn. Not toward Yuji, nor towards him, but towards the entrance—landing on a figure stepping into view, directly beside an elder woman in plum silk.

You.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your steps are measured, your breath careful, but your heart won’t cooperate. It stutters, hummingbird-fast beneath the layered weight of your formalwear as you follow your mother into the hall.

But damnit, it’s not the room that makes you nervous.

It’s him.

His eyes lift, glacier-blue and impossibly clear. And for a moment, that sharp, unreadable stare softens, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—subtle, slow. Like he knows something you don’t. And maybe he does.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, heat blooms beneath your skin. It coils up your spine, floods your chest, burns in your cheeks. Like dry kindling catching flame. Like a dirty secret you can’t ignore.

Your body—your treacherous, filthy body—remembers everything. Too fucking well. God. Who even are you? Thinking such things. Here?? Now?!

He’s just sitting there, and your mind is dragging you back to the villa—laying under him in your unraveled kimono, pretty blue eyes watching you, lips whispering filth. He read your body like a fucking scripture. And worse—

Your dream. That fucking wet dream.

A rustle of silk breaks your spiral, and suddenly—

Thwack!

Jolting forward, you gasp as your mother’s hand clamps firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into a deep bow before the platform.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, voice tight and low. “Do not stand there gawking like a child.”

Flushed with embarrassment, you dip lower—automatically, like a switch had been flipped. Hands fold neatly over your lap, forehead hovering just above the tatami. You’re molten with shame and still shamefully warm in other places.

Wonderful.

First the dream, now this. What’s next—toppling into the ceremonial blade? A full descent into disgrace? Honestly, being swallowed by the floor wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Get it together.

Be poised. Be graceful. Good.

Inhaling, you peek up through the veil of your lashes, and of course—he’s watching. A lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, quiet and sure.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he drawls, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”

Goddamn him.

Your mother’s glare is burning into the side of your skull, and so, you move. Carefully. Rising from your bow, stepping onto the platform with quiet precision. As you watch your mother drift back towards the elders, her presence fades like incense—but the heat in your chest doesn’t. Especially not when Satoru leans in, close enough to stir the fine hairs at your nape.

“Made quite the entrance,” he murmurs.

You exhale through your nose. “That obvious, huh?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he shrugs, voice dipping low, curling at the edges. “Afterall… a lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, right?”

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, drawn to his like a thread pulled taut. Those shimmering blue eyes meet yours—bright, unreadable—a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Déjà vu.

Those words pull up memories like water from a well: his ascension, his 18th birthday—the night you first met, pulling you up from disgrace without blinking. You hadn’t known what to make of him then. You still don’t. But this time, the seat beside him isn’t offered as a favor. It’s yours. And that is what terrifies you most.

“I… shouldn’t have hesitated,” you whisper. “I can’t believe I forgot to bow…”

He clicks his tongue, mockingly gentle. “You really think I give a shit whether you bowed or not?”

You blink, startled.

“All this performance,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, “makes me want to claw my own fuckin’ eyes out.”

A small breath huffs from your nose—reluctant amusement warming you from the inside out. Because he doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds bored. Comfortable, even. Like none of this means anything at all. And for a moment, that loosens something in you. Your shoulders fall just slightly. Your heartbeat slows.

“If you lost those eyes,” you whisper, lips twitching, “they’d probably call it a national emergency…”

He scoffs. “Please. They’d just stuff me in a box and mourn the waste. Whispering prayers to what could’ve been.”

You giggle before you can stop yourself—an actual giggle, bubbling in your throat. It doesn’t belong in a room so silent and serious, and Satoru’s grin spreads instantly, smug with satisfaction.

Though just as warmth starts to bloom in your chest, your gaze strays.

Across the room, your mother sits poised, chin lifted, hands resting just so atop her knees. Her eyes are on you. Steady. Judgmental. And like that, your smile dims. Your hands return to your lap, fingers folding neatly—that old pressure settling heavy in your lungs again.

“…still,” you murmur, “I should’ve bowed. I’m to be your wife. I should carry myself with… grace.”

Satoru hums. “Grace, huh?” When you glance at him, his eyes are already on you. The blue of them softer now. Curious. “You don’t need to try for that, sweetheart. You’ve already got it. Beauty. Poise. The kind of elegance they spend their whole fucking lives faking.”

Blinking, you’re startled. Not just by the compliment but the way he says it. Like he means it. But just as a heat prickles up the base of your neck, he’s shifting, leaning in closer.

“But…” he whispers, voice dipping into something dark and amused, “if I’m being honest… you looked real fuckin’ pretty down there on your knees. M’sure I can think of a much better reason to put you there.”

You choke on air—something between a gasp and a whimper as your legs push together. He smirks immediately, and you’re blinking, glancing toward the elders, toward your mother.

They’re watching.

“I… um. I—” you start, but nothing coherent follows. Satoru’s voice is curling around you like smoke. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” Then, glancing at your mother again, you see her shift. Watching. Always watching. “I’m… not,” you whisper, eyes fixing forward.

“Mmm.” His voice dips, smile sharpening. “You are.”

Drawing in a breath, you try to steady the riot in your chest—trying to focus on the hum of mingling conversation, the scent of incense. Literally, anything but the man beside you.

“…it’s just… hot,” you mumble. And his chuckle is low and dangerous. You feel it. Not just in your ears, but under your skin. “Aw… don’t be shy,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear now. “You were a lot louder at the villa, baby.”

Your head jerks slightly. “S-Satoru—” you hiss, mortified.

But he’s already looking away, perfectly unbothered, grinning smugly. His eyes are half-lidded, watching guests mingle and bow in front of you, and his hand rests across one knee, fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. Relaxed, elegant—like he has all the time in the world.

Though his voice is wicked.

“Those pretty little gasps,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, “moaning my name like a good girl…” Your skin burns. “…all wet for me, yeah? So needy. So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your stomach flips. Your vision swims. The crowd moves like a dream around you—elders offering bows, dignitaries gliding in. And your mother—Still. Fucking. Watching.

Do they know?

Leaning in again, his breath tickles your ear.

“Though… next time,” he whispers, “I want that pretty little cunt in my mouth. Want you drippin’ for me. Want you shaking when you cum.”

You snap. “J-Just… shut up!” and the words are out before you even hear them leave you, making your blood run cold.

Because you said it. You told him—Satoru fucking Gojo—to shut up. The strongest sorcerer alive. The head of your clan. The man your entire life now orbitally depends on. You’ve never dared speak like that to anyone. Not your instructors. Not your elders. Certainly not to someone like him.

Eyes wide, panic swells in your chest.

“I mean—” you scramble, desperate to rewind. “I didn’t—um—I wasn’t—” But he’s fully looking at you now, already grinning. Slowly. Like a cat catching a bird mid-flutter. “Whoa,” he drawls, sounding delighted. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

Yup. You want the floor to swallow you whole. No—burn you alive first, then bury the ashes beneath the floorboards. You want to disappear completely. Maybe reincarnate as a koi in the garden pond. Something small. Quiet. Unseen. Unhumiliated.

“I-I didn’t mean it like—” but he’s leaning in before you can finish, knuckle brushing your cheek in a touch far too soft for how much heat it sparks beneath your skin. “Mmm…” His eyes flick to your mouth—brief, but enough. “And here I thought you were the perfect little girl. The perfect little wife,” he muses, slow and silken. “Maybe I ought to punish you for that. Hm?”

Your breath stalls.

Because he says it like it’s a joke—but it lands like it’s half a threat, half a promise, and somehow, entirely an invitation. And the worst part? Your mind skips ahead before you can stop it, imagining exactly what kind of punishment he means.

No. Nope. Not today. Not when your thoughts are betraying you so loudly, you’re half-convinced he can hear them. You’re in formalwear. Surrounded by elders. With your mother somewhere in the crowd, probably chanting clan law in her head like a fucking Buddhist mantra.

“Ahem,” a throat clears—sharp, judgmental. “Gojo-sama,” an elder approaches.

Oh god. No. Someone heard. Everyone probably heard. You’re going to die here. Combust in real time. As panic swirls in your eyes, Satoru deflates, huffing an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling as a stiff man draped in a stone gray kimono towers over you.

“Mm?” he hums, reclining back slightly. “What is it now?”

“There are those present,” the elder continues, tone brittle, “who feel certain guests might cast… an unfortunate shadow over the ceremony.”

You blink, confused, glancing toward the back of the hall where the elder’s gaze lands on a young boy with pink hair. So… it’s not about you.?

“And?”

Satoru’s expression is eerily cold, and the elder’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. A weapon. The boy’s presence is dangerous—insulting, even. You’ve seated him in a place of honor and—”

“That vessel,” Satoru cuts, “has a name. And I invited him.”

“With respect—”

“Oh, don’t bother.” He scoffs, rising to his feet with slow, liquid grace. “You people keep saying that like you mean it.”

Before you can move or think or brace yourself, his fingers are curling around your wrist—pulling you smoothly to your feet beside him.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, already guiding you away from the dais, towards the estate’s garden. “We’re done here.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Stepping into the garden feels like slipping into a dream—your sandals clicking lightly along the stone path as Satoru pulls you through lantern-lit trees and hedges glazed with moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime stirs in the breeze, delicate as breath.

The world feels hushed. As you approach the pond glimmering ahead, koi ripple through the water in lazy spirals, their pale scales flashing like ghost light beneath the surface.

Satoru is dragging you insistently, fingers wrapped around your wrist, loose but unwavering. And though you barely know this man, it’s obvious there’s something simmering beneath that silence. Something sharp.

“Um… Satoru…?” you murmur, uncertain.

“Mm?”

“Are you… okay?”

“Yup,” he trudges forward, eyes ahead. “M’fine.”

“Oh… alright.”

But he doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s trying not to snap. Not angry exactly—just… shut down. Like he’s closed a door inside himself, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Still, he doesn’t let go. Trailing behind—cherry blossom petals drift through the air like fallen wishes as he leads you to a wooden bench—nestled beside the pond’s edge, encompassed by flowering branches.

“Right then…” he sighs, dropping onto the bench. “Where were we?” And you stumble as he’s pulling you directly into his lap, catching yourself on his shoulders. “S-Satoru—!” he grins, “Shhh…”

And that’s the only warning you get. Because then he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all heat and breath and teeth, like something’s been splintering in his chest all night, and he’s trying to silence the whole fucking world with the shape of your mouth.

“Mnh…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his hand slides low, gripping your ass, yanking you flush to his thigh. “’t-toru…” you whine as he forces you down onto the hard muscle of his leg, right against your wet, aching cunt.

“Fuck,” he groans, panting between each messy kiss. “There’s my little slut…” he palms your ass, squeezes your tit. “Mnh… tellin’ me to shut up in front of all those fuckin’ people…”

As his lips trail down your jaw, you whimper—shuddering. Your body begins. to move on its own.

“O-oh… fuck,” you whisper a moan, hips stuttering, rutting softly, shamefully against him. That delicious friction is too much and not enough, and you feel Satoru’s lips curl against your neck, grinning. “S’wrong, baby?” he croons, rocking your hips harder, the bench creaking beneath you. “Can’t help yourself?”

And God, you can’t. You don’t even recognize your own body. Everything is heat. Everything is him. He palms your ass with both hands now, guiding your hips with filthy easy, and you can feel it—your slick spreading, warm and messy, soaking through your delicate silk with every shameless roll of your hips.

“God, look at you…” he hisses, leaning back to watch, blue eyes hooded, glowing in the moonlight, “—so fuckin’ wet. So needy. This pussy’s soakin’ through your pretty little kimono.”

You choke on a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. Like it might muffle the shame—the filthy sounds of your own body. But nothing hides the mess between your legs. He’s right. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.

“F-Fuck… m’sorry…” you whine, cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. “Sorry?” he huffs a breathless laugh. “Shit… you’re not sorry. S’okay baby,” he purrs, rocking you again. “I know you wanted this. Little pussy missed me, hm?”

Fingers twisting into his hair, you nod—tugging, anchoring yourself. Honestly, you’re not sure if it’s shame or truth that’s guiding you anymore. “I want—” your voice cracks, words tangling, grinding down again, the sensation almost too much. “I want… I—fuck—”

“Hm?” he pants, nosing along your jaw, cocky and breathless. “Speak up, sweetheart. What do you want?”

The garden is too quiet. The moonlight too soft. The breeze shifts through the trees, rustling branches above you, and the soft ring of the wind chime cuts like a bell through fog. It all feels wrong for what’s spilling out of you—for how filthy you feel, how good you feel.

“Want you…” you whine, face burning, lashes fluttering shut. “Dreamt about you fucking me… woke up so wet.”

You don’t even know how you’re still speaking, but the words are tumbling out of your mouth while your hips move. As your pour out your filthy truth, a shameful slick drips from your cunt down the sharp line of his leg. You feel Satoru tense underneath you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “Bad fuckin’ girl,” and you squeal as he’s suddenly lifting you like you’re nothing, repositioning, pulling you down onto the thick, swollen ridge of his cock, tenting beneath his robes. “There,” he mutters, breath ragged, rolling you against it, “That what you wanted?”

You nod, moaning again, hips already moving, cunt grinding slowly over the shape of him. Even through the silk, you can feel everything. The size. The heat. The pulse. He’s panting against your lips, vibrant blue eyes lidded, soft white hair slipping through your fingers as you eagerly roll needy circles over his length.

“I’ve been fuckin’ hard all day,” he growls, dick leaking at the tip, twitching, wetting the fabric right against your cunt. “Had to fuck my fist this mornin’, thinkin’ about pounding your sweet little pussy…”

His mouth is on yours again—teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue swallowing your whimper as you continue to rock insistently. The kiss is filthy. Frantic. He spreads your thighs wider, grinding you down. Harder, deeper—cock throbbing beneath you, soaked with your slick, straining for friction. You’re right there; body flushed, rhythm building. But then—

Crunch

Footsteps on the gravel. The sound doesn’t register until the breeze stops. Until the wind chime stills. Until every nerve in your body suddenly goes entirely fucking cold.

“Oi!” You freeze. Everything freezes. “There you are. The elders are wondering where you—”

As your head slowly turns, you catch sight of a young boy with black hair, backlit by the faint lantern glow. Your eyes meet, and he blinks—seeing you, perched on Satoru’s lap, kimono askew, hitched around your waist, slick dripping down your thighs while his cock is under you. Somewhere in the distance, a koi splashes lazily in the pond, completely unbothered by your descent into personal hell.

“Oh…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Oh fuck.”

You feel your face turn fever-hot, and burying yourself forward, a strangled whimper escapes you, muffled in Satoru’s neck. Yup. You want to disappear. But Satoru just exhales, exhausted, head falling back against the bench.

“Megumi,” he says flatly. “…what the actual fuck.”

“W-What?” Megumi clears his throat, face visibly blanking. “I—” He blinks hard. Swallows. Then abruptly turns on his heel. “I didn’t see anything!” his voice cracks, already retreating. “Nope. Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Please, kill me…” you whimper again, but Satoru huffs. “Tch. I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbles, slumping back against the bench. His hand drags down his face. “Swear to fuckin’ god… this kid’s got a sixth sense for cockblocking.”

“Um… huh?” you peek up, still dazed.

But Megumi’s voice is already fading down the path. “For the record, Nanami sent me!” he shouts. “If you’re gonna kill someone, start with him!” And just like that, he’s gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Yo!! There you are!” Yuji’s voice rings out the second you and Satoru round the bend, loud and bright as he throws both hands in the air. “We were about to send a search party!”

You follow after Satoru, half a step behind, eyes flicking to him in quiet search. Maybe for a smile. A glance. Some thread of reassurance to hold onto. But he gives you nothing—just keeps walking, calm and composed, like you’re not unraveling quietly beside him.

“Mmm… Megumi beat you to it,” he hums, nodding toward the boy in question as you approach the group. You feel it before you even look—Megumi goes stiff like he’s just been yanked into a spotlight, his shoulders pulling tight.

“Huh?” Yuji turns, blinking at him. “You didn’t mention finding them.”

“I didn’t find anything,” Megumi mutters, clipped and quick—the tips of his ears blooming red. But Satoru just clicks his tongue and grins.

“Didn’t find anything, huh? Funny. Your face said otherwise.”

Scoffing, Megumi turns away sharply, already done with this conversation, while Yuji blinks between them, still trying to piece it together.

“Wait—what?”

“Ahhh… I see. That why you looked like you saw a ghost, Fushiguro?” a new voice chimes in as Shoko exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. “Makes sense now. You were white as a sheet,” she hums, ash tapping into a nearby tray.

“Can we not,” Megumi grumbles, glaring at a spot on the wall like he can will it to swallow him whole.

You get it. God, do you get it.

Megumi hasn’t looked at you once. Won’t even acknowledge you—and maybe that should make things easier. Maybe it’s a kindness. But still… something inside you prickles. Like if someone were painting this moment, you wouldn’t be in the frame. Just a blur in the background—a misplaced brushstroke someone meant to wipe away. Because the group is moving in sync around you—falling into a rhythm; a rhythm without you.

“Awww, that bad?” Satoru hums, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Reminds me of Sapporo.”

Megumi stiffens. “Don’t.” But Satoru’s already grinning, eyes lit with mischief.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls. “That curse with the split-face, in the middle of a snowstorm, remember? You tried to give it directions—”

“Oh my god,” Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you sometimes.”

Yuji perks up like he’s just been handed popcorn. “Wait, what? What happened in Sapporo?”

“It was beautiful,” Satoru deadpans, mock-serious. “Megumi thought the curse was just some lost old man. Actually bowed to it.”

Megumi snaps. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Ahhh… I remember now,” Shoko adds with a drag of her cigarette. “You were pale for a week.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Seriously?!”

“You should’ve seen his face when it hissed at him,” Satoru snickers. “I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot.”

They’re all laughing now, but you’re still sitting on the outside. Because they know each other—really know each other. There’s a shared language here; shorthand glances and stories etched into muscle memory. But you? You can’t fake your way into that.

Without thinking, you drift a little closer, just enough to feel the illusion of proximity. Maybe you’re hoping for Satoru to ground you. Introduce you. Anything. A gesture. A glance. A sign that you’re not entirely invisible to him.

But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t reach for you.

“If this comedy set is over,” Nanami sighs dryly, adjusting the sleeves of his kimono, “I’d like to suggest we return to the schedule.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Nanamin.” Satoru tips back on his heels, grin curling. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of the elders. You sure you’re not secretly fifty?”

“At least I act my age,” Nanami deadpans.

Satoru scoffs, teeth flashing. “Can’t all be born with a stick up our ass, huh?” Then he turns toward Shoko, mock concern softening his voice. “Might need to get a medic to check that. You still licensed?”

She exhales, bored. “Only if it’s for your ego.”

They laugh again. You try to smile, to stay present, but it’s like watching the world through a window you’re not allowed to open. Their rhythm is effortless. You don’t even know the tempo.

Should you say something? Laugh along with them? Introduce yourself? Satoru hasn’t even spared you a glance. And though you’ve been trained your whole life to show up perfect, polished, gracious—there’s a difference between knowing how to perform and knowing where you belong.

And right now, you don’t belong.

Until Shoko’s eyes cut to you. Then back to Satoru.

“Uh… you gonna introduce us?” she murmurs, smoke curling from her mouth. “Or should we keep pretending we didn’t all clock the lipstick on your neck?”

The words hit like a slap—snapping you out of your haze before you even realize it. Because suddenly, you’re not invisible.

All eyes shift.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or crawl under the nearest tatami mat. Shifting subtly, you straighten your kimono, tugging at the hem like it can somehow undo the fact that Satoru Gojo just made you grind your dripping cunt on his lap under the moonlight.

But Satoru just casually wipes his neck, lazily smearing the lipstick away with the pad of his thumb. “I was getting there…” he hums, rolling his shoulders. “This is…” he pauses, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

You glance up, confused. His grin is hitching, and though he’s finally looking at you again, why does it seem like he’s…

Hesitating?

“Uh…” he blinks, looking away from you and shrugging. “Her.”

Her?

Your stomach sinks. Heat creeps up your neck.

What does that even mean?

The silence stretches a second too long—enough for it to sting.

Nanami raises a brow. “…her?”

“Uhh… yeah?” Satoru clicks his tongue, like that’s clarification enough. “You know.”

More silence.

Finally, he huffs. “Jesus, the one who—”

“His wife!” Yuji cuts in brightly, grinning at you like you’re already one of them.

You blink, caught off guard by this boy now beaming at you—all wide-eyed sincerity, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s something so disarmingly genuine in the way he says it. The tightness in your chest loosens, and the nerves that were building low in your stomach begin to simmer away.

“Well—technically, future wife,” Yuji amends with a sheepish grin, arms folding behind his head like it’s no big deal.

“Right,” Satoru mutters beside you, jaw ticking. “Guess that’s the word we’re using now…”

You shift, startled by the way it’s said. Glancing at him, he doesn’t meet your eye, but before you can sit with the sting of it, Yuji is already pulling your attention back to him. “

“I’m Itadori Yuji, by the way!” he beams, all sunshine. “It’s super nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You bow, instinctive and polite, still trying to catch up with the feeling that’s been curling in your gut—but Yuji isn’t finished. “You’re really pretty, by the way!”

Blinking, a surprised smile tugs at your lips. This boy says it so plainly, so innocently, it catches you off guard.

“Oh—um… thank you?”

“Sure thing!” he nods, then adds seriously, “I mean—not that I thought you’d be ugly or anything, just—"

“Okaaaay…” Megumi interjects, already regretting the entire direction of the conversation. “We get it, Itadori.”

You glance Megumi’s way, half-expecting him to look annoyed, or maybe still mortified from earlier—but his arms are crossed and his expression is just… guarded, not unfriendly. Just Megumi.

“Name’s Fushiguro,” he says, giving a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” The words come easier now. There’s a pause, a breath of quiet that—for once—doesn’t feel strained. Yuji tips his head, eyes curious. “Y’know… you’ve got a calm, almost graceful presence. It’s kinda… grounding?”

“Oh?” you tilt your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Definitely good,” he replies without hesitation. “You seem like the type who’ll balance Gojo out.”

You smile, and for a moment, you don’t feel like a stranger. You feel… included. Until Satoru cuts in.

“Kay. Cool,” he says, coldly. “Glad everyone’s caught up. We done?”

It’s tossed out like a joke—but it doesn’t land like one. It lands with the dull thud of something meant to bruise. Glancing over, you see he’s already looking away, as if the moment wasn’t meant to include you at all. As if your presence is just something to get past.

Shoko raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Ignore him,” she exhales. “I’m Shoko. I do most of the patchwork when Satoru gets his dumb ass injured.”

He rolls his eyes. “Once. That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Nanami interjects mildly. “And you nearly bled out the second time.”

Satoru scoffs. “I healed myself that time.” But Nanami doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turns to you, dipping his head with calm precision.

“Kento Nanami. A pleasure.” You bow, a bit deeper this time. “Likewise. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Nanami straightens, and for a second, you think that’s all. But then his gaze flicks briefly to Satoru, who’s practically glaring, staring ahead—annoyed. Then Nanami’s eyes drag back to you.

“He’s a difficult man,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“Dude,” Satoru mutters. “I’m standing right here.”

“That you are.”

“Y’know I can hear you, yeah?”

“Yup. You were meant to.”

Glancing between them, you’re not quite sure if they’re joking or actually irritated with each other. It’s hard to tell. Because the mood has shifted again—warmer around the others, colder beside Satoru. There’s something else behind his smile now. Not amusement. Not ease. Something… distant.

“So…” Shoko drawls, attention shifting to you as she exhales another lazy plume of smoke. “You from one of the Kyoto clans?”

“Yes,” you nod, and despite everything, there’s a quiet thread of pride in your voice. “My family served in the western region for generations, mostly specializing in—”

“Excuse me.”

You blink—body stiffening instantly. The interruption is soft, but cutting. It silences you mid-sentence. And at the edge of the group, your mother steps into view. Elegant as ever in her perfectly pressed kimono. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Apologies, Gojo-sama,” she murmurs with a delicate bow. “I hope I’m not… interrupting.”

“Mm?” Satoru glances at her, then flicks his fingers lazily through the air. “S’fine,” he hums, as if it doesn’t matter either way. His gaze doesn’t follow you. Not once. And as your mother turns to you next, your stomach immediately drops.

“May I have a word?”

It’s not really a question.

You nod, feet already moving—trailing after her with the kind of obedience that was taught to you before you were ever allowed to speak your own name. The warmth you’d been tentatively gathering seems to drain from your chest instantly, bleeding out of you like ink in water. Because as the circle closes behind you, following her away—it’s like… you were never really part of it to begin with.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” your mother begins, low, clipped, “that your appearance reflects not just on yourself—but on your family. On me.”

Behind her shoulder, the group still lingers in a loose semi-circle—smiling, relaxed, unreachable. A world you crave. A world where they belong. Satoru’s laughing at something Shoko says—head tipped back, fingers raking through his hair like the last twenty minutes never happened.

“They’re all watching,” she continues, scanning the room for witnesses, not even sparing you a glance. “And this is how you present yourself?”

“I…” you start, lips parting—but the words never quite come.

Because it did happen. Right? You’re so confused. You remember every second; his hands on your hips, his mouth on your skin, dragging you against him like he wanted you, needed you. And yet, here he is—making you feel like none of that meant anything. Like the second you stepped into his real world, the spell broke.

“Look at you,” your mother cuts back, finally turning that sharp, assessing gaze onto you. “Your lipstick is smudged. Your collar’s uneven. Your obi…” she clicks her tongue. “What were you doing?”

Your gaze snaps back at that question, eyes widening.

What were you doing?

You open your mouth to respond but, what the fuck are you supposed to say? That he touched you? That you let him? That you wanted it to mean something?

“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your place?” her eyes are sharp but her voice is maddeningly calm. “And you walk in here looking like you’ve just rolled out of someone’s bed. Like you’re begging to be replaced.”

Replaced.

The word lands like a slap. You blink, but the burn behind your eyes rises too quickly, no matter how tightly you try to hold it back. Your mother’s lectures are nothing new, but this one? It pulls at something that’s already been festering in your chest since after you left the garden with Satoru. No. Maybe even before. Perhaps since the villa.

Does he truly want you?

The moments you’ve shared, has he moved past them? Was it just heat and impulse? Maybe you were never anything more than a passing indulgence.

Just over your mother’s shoulder, you catch a last glimpse of his white hair before a wave of guests shuffle between you, blocking your view completely. You lose sight of him. And with it, any illusion of being tethered.

“I asked you a question.”

Your mother’s voice slices through your spiral like a blade. Blinking hard, you will the tears to not fall.

“W-What?”

She sighs. “Are you even listening?”

“I-I am,” you rush out, voice thinner than you want it to be. “I just… I’m sorry mother. I didn’t realize my appearance was that bad.”

Her gaze flattens, disappointed. “Didn’t realize,” she echoes, like the words offend her. “That’s not good enough.”

You try to hold her stare, but everything in you feels like it’s caving inward. You want to disappear. You want her to stop. You want to cry, but damnit, you know better.

“This world won’t make room for uncertainty,” she continues. “Not for someone standing beside him. If you look fragile, they’ll use it. If you look lost, they’ll pick you apart. You give them even an inch of doubt—” she narrows her eyes, “they’ll rip you to pieces.”

You swallow hard, gaze flicking to the crowd again, searching for his face. But he’s gone. Though you can’t get the sound of his laughter out of your head—a joy that you didn’t bring him.

“They are watching,” your mother murmurs, stepping in closer, voice lowering. “They’re whispering. Wondering what kind of girl the Gojo clan allowed through their gates.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped your eyes until her hand lifts your chin—gentle, but firm. The way she’s always done. Like control dressed up as care.

“You want their respect?” her eyes narrow. “Then look like someone worth respecting. The Gojo name already eclipses your own. Don’t give them more reason to ask why you’re wearing it at all. The very least you can do is look like you belong.”

Belong.

You don’t even know what that means anymore.

Not when the people behind her were laughing like you’re not there. Not when Satoru won’t look at you. Not when your mother’s voice makes your chest feel hollow. Not when every inch of you feels like it’s wearing something borrowed.

“Go. Clean yourself up.”

Barely trusting your voice, you nod, shifting toward the estate’s restroom.

“Fix your collar,” she adds, turning slightly. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Hold your stance, my little crane. Even when you feel small. Especially then.’

Hearing your father’s voice echo in your mind, the burn behind your eyes sharpens. Don’t cry. Damnit. Don’t cry.

You can’t. Not here.

You just need a second. A moment alone. To gather yourself—pull all the unraveling parts back into something whole. Something worthy. The shape of a girl who belongs.

So, you’ll do just that. You’ll fix your collar. Reapply your lipstick. Walk back with your chin high, like none of it touched you. Like you deserve to stand beside Gojo Satoru and not shrink in his shadow.

Slipping down the hallway, your steps brisk. The paper screens cast soft shadows against the wooden floors, muffling the noise from the party behind you. As you reach the bathroom’s sliding door, it’s barely cracked, and without thinking to knock, you immediately slide it open and enter.

But your eyes blink as you see two figures, seated at the lacquered bench in the bathing room. At first, all you see is silk. Fabric gathered over pale skin. A shoulder bare where it shouldn’t be. The gentle creak of a bench as someone shifts. A low, languid sigh.

But then—white hair.

Satoru.

A girl is straddling him, her kimono hiked high along her thighs, her chest pressed against his. One hand in his hair. The other curled loosely around his shoulder.

“Mnh… missed you…” she’s murmuring between kisses. “You always make me wait too long…” and you hear his satisfied hum against her lips before breaking it. His hand slides slowly up the back of her thigh, fingers splayed. “You like it when I make you wait,” he breathes, lips grazing hers—teasing, not quite touching.

Giggling, her mouth chases his again. “I like it more when you follow through,” she whispers, hips shifting as she rolls into his lap in a slow, practiced grind. “C’mon, Gojo…” she whines, “don’t you ever miss me?”

He huffs—half-laugh, half-sigh—eyes still closed. “Miss your timing…” he mutters, the curve of a smirk playing at his lips. “You always know when to crawl into my lap.”

“Mmh, asshole,” she breathes, catching his mouth again—sloppier this time. Hungrier. “You never called me back…” she pouts, tugging his hair between kisses. “Thought maybe you forgot about me…”

“Been busy,” he murmurs, muffled between kisses, hands tightening along her waist. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The air in your lungs lock up.

Because for a second, you think you must be mistaken. That this can’t be real. That your eyes are lying. That this is some sick trick of the lighting, the stress, the way your stomach’s been twisted into knots since you left the garden.

But no. It’s him. It’s her. It’s his hand curling over her thigh the same way it held your waist not even an hour ago. Satoru’s mouth finds hers with slow, practiced rhythm, and when he exhales against her skin, you feel it like a slap.

Not noticing you, she shifts in his lap, kissing down the line of his jaw, whispering something in his ear that makes him huff out a small, amused breath. His eyes open, heavy-lidded at first, then wider—startled.

Because now, he sees you.

Standing there in the doorway like an idiot—like some ghost caught between floors—here, at your fucking engagement ceremony. Still wearing the lipstick he smudged. Still tasting him on your tongue.

He’s blinking at you like he’s unsure you’re real, not moving, not stopping the girl as she continues to kiss the place where your mouth had just been.

“You’re so tense, baby…” she purrs, grinding slowly into him. “Need me to relax you?”

God, you want to run away.

The edge of your heel catches the corner of a decorative vase, perched on a stand beside the door. It wobbles, then—

Crash!

The ceramic splatters against the floor, immediately getting the girls’ attention, slicing through the room like a whip. She startles, glancing over her shoulder, lips pink and flushed, hair falling loose from her pin.

“Oh,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand down her skirt. “Shit—um, sorry. Did we forget to lock the door?”

You’re not sure who breaks first—your voice, or your heart.

“…I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves you. Like it’s you’re mistake. Like you’re the one intruding—you’re the one who doesn’t belong. Shifting, your eyes glance to the mirror, catching the way your lipstick’s smeared, the way your collars still crooked.

“Was just going to fix this…” you murmur, brushing at your mouth like it matters. Then a bitter laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, “…didn’t realize it had already been replaced.”

You feel so fucking stupid. So fucking naïve.

Satoru is looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s caused, but you refuse to look at him. The girl on his lap blinks, putting the pieces together.

“Wait… is she—?” she starts, glancing back at Satoru, confused, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Shit—um, is this—?”

“Hey. I—” he starts, ignoring her, sitting up straighter—but whatever he means to say dies on his tongue. Because you’re already backing away.

“I…uh… just needed a minute to breathe,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “Not to walk in and lose everything.”

Gripping the edge of the doorframe, you catch a glimpse of his brows knitting together, but you don’t wait for whatever comes next.

You’re already gone.

Because if you don’t get away now, you’ll fall apart in the middle of the hallway. And if there’s anything your mother taught you—it’s that you don’t let them see you fall.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You don’t even feel your feet beneath you. Just grass brushing your ankles. The soft hush of wind threading through bamboo. You blink, not even remembering walking here, only remembering that the hallway swallowed you whole and your legs moved on their own, carrying you deeper into silence until it opened into starlight.

The garden.

Of course, it’s the garden—spilling out in front of you like a memory you weren’t ready to return to. You never chose this path, and yet… here you are. The one place you’d felt wanted tonight. The one place that now feels tainted.

The koi pond shimmers under the low lantern light, its surface undisturbed. Serene. Like it doesn’t remember how he kissed you here. Koi are sliding beneath the surface—flashes of copper and cream, rippling the water slightly.

Collapsing to your knees, you drop beside the pond’s edge, and looking down, your own reflection waves through their movements.

A mess.

Red-rimmed eyes. Your hair a disarray. Crooked collar. Lipstick smeared across your cheek like a fucking brand. A girl trying too hard to look like someone worth choosing.

‘You know why koi are special, little crane? Because they swim against the current. They never stop, no matter how long the river runs against them.’

Your father.

You used to love that story. Because while your mother’s discipline was perfection, his was protection. If you held your ground, no one could move you. But here you are. On the ground. Shaking. And though you did everything he said—still, you weren’t enough. Because, how could he abandon your mother? Abandon you? You’ll never be enough. Not for him, not for your mother, not for Satoru.

With trembling hands, you cover your mouth, but the sound pushes out anyway—soft, ugly, raw.

You cry like a child who never measured up. Like a girl who waited for her father to come home. Like a girl who was told to carry legacy on her back and make it look effortless. You cry for the silence you endured. For the weight of being perfect. For the softness he kissed and discarded like it didn’t matter.

For the fact that, deep down,you don’t even know who you are without trying to be what everyone wants.

The sound of footsteps doesn’t register at first. Just the soft press of soles against grass, slow and careful, stepping around you slowly. You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But the hem of her kimono drifts into view—embroidered cranes glinting gold in the lantern light, silk so pristine it seems untouched by the night.

She stops just across from you, and for a long moment, you stare at her feet. At the way her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs before folding neatly in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks softly.

It’s such a simple question. And it destroys you. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might hold it in—but the tears keep spilling. Quiet, stubborn, relentless.

Though much to your surprise, she doesn’t scold. Doesn’t press her lips thin or huff with disappointment. She just watches. And then, without a word, she’s reaching forward—fixing the edge of your collar with gentle fingers, straightening the fabric, brushing a smudge from your cheek with her thumb. A small breath leaves her.

“…did he hurt you?”

Lips trembling, you nod. Just once. There’s a long pause—her gaze shifting to the pond beside you; watching the koi slide beneath the surface, silent ribbons of color weaving through dark water.

“I see…” she murmurs. “What happened?”

Where do you even begin? And how much should you really tell her?

“I… was just going to fix my lipstick,” the words come out thin and unsteady. You try to laugh, but it buckles halfway, folding into a sob. “God—I was so stupid,” and finally looking up, you blink past the blur of tears. “He looked me in the eye and let her keep kissing him.”

Your mother’s face remains still, unreadable—but her eyes flick once toward the garden gate. A flicker of caution. As if weighing how much time you have before someone else finds you like this. Then, without moving from her place, she reaches up again—adjusting your hair where it’s come undone, tucking strands behind your ear with a care she once gave you as a child.

“My dear… you are not stupid. Now you know,” Her eyes don’t flinch. “He is your husband in name. Not in heart. So, you act accordingly.”

“I… what?”

Blinking, the words barely leave your lips. Because her words don’t make sense—at least… not in the way you want them to. Or maybe they make too much sense. Either way, you’re left speechless.

As your mother’s eyes flick toward the garden’s edge again—faint footsteps pass just beyond the screen, reminding her, and you, that this world is always watching.

“Fate and tradition shape us,” she says quietly. “It isn’t always fair. But it is ours to uphold.”

There’s no sharpness in her tone. No heat. Just a calm, settled truth. And somehow, that makes it worse. It feels like a life sentence said with a lullaby. Like the ending has already been written—and you were the only one foolish enough to think you might rewrite it.

“I—” you try, but your throat catches. You shake your head once, like it might shake the grief loose. “I thought… I…” but you falter.

What is there to say?

That you believed this could be different? That you wouldn’t be tethered to the same quiet resignation you’ve watched around you your entire life. That you weren’t walking into a legacy of endurance, but something else—something that chose you back?

A breath trembles through you.

“I thought… being chosen meant I was wanted.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. “…I’m sure you did,” she replies. And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d scolded you. “But he is a man. A powerful one. And you are a woman of duty.”

The words carve through you—not for their cruelty, but because they were always waiting. Tucked into every lesson she ever gave you. Spoken or not, this was where it always led. A script she memorized long before you were old enough to understand.

“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined this would be,” she murmurs, reaching up, brushing her fingers through your hair, smoothing it gently. “But that man will not carry your dignity for you. If you don’t learn to do it yourself… no one will.”

So… that’s it then?

It’s like she’s repeating something she once told herself. But, living a life like that? Standing tall—though remaining complacent? Silent? What kind of life is that to live? You’ve never once spoken against her. Never even thought to. But now—

“Mother… I…” the words break before they’re even formed. “…I don’t know if I can do this.”

Her brow tightens.

“You can.”

“No—I…”

“You must…” she hushes, smoothing a wrinkle from your sleeve, as if she’s wrapping your words before they unravel too far, “…there is no future for us without this. Without this arrangement, we remain exiled. Forgotten. Disgraced. You understand that, don’t you?”

Your gaze drops. Because you do. You always have. That truth has lived in your bones since the day your father left. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Your duty to him isn’t about love,” she continues, eyes sweeping your face. “It is about what is… necessary,” then, hesitating, you catch sight of her eyes, lifting just over your shoulder.

And that’s when you hear it. The grass bending beneath soft footsteps. The quiet hush of a new presence behind you. You tense, glancing over your shoulder, but of course, you already know who's there. And catching that glimpse of white hair through the dark confirms it.

Satoru.

“Hey… the ceremony’s starting,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting.”

It lands somewhere between casual and cautious. No apology. No explanation. Just a line dropped into the stillness like a stone. And when your mother speaks again, her voice is smooth, seamless—like he was always meant to hear it.

“Right then…” she smiles serenely, gripping your hands in a comforting squeeze. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Now that everything’s settled, come. You will walk beside him with grace, and you will fulfill your role as his wife—as the mother of his children.”

Blinking at her, you don’t find any words. Because you can’t believe that your own mother is really forcing you to go through with this. That you’re just supposed to pretend the bathroom didn’t just happen—pretend everything is fine? And of course, Satoru isn’t going to say anything of this, is he? Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Stepping closer, Satoru extends his hand to you.

“I suppose… mother knows best, hm?”

The words cut.

Déjà vu.

Except… it feels like betrayal now.

Your eyes sting. Not just from the tears, but from how easily you were made the fool, and with a trembling breath, you lift your sleeve and dab at your cheeks, quick and practiced, erasing the worst of it.

Not because the tears are gone—but because they are no longer allowed to be seen. You refuse to go in there looking like a girl who begged to be loved and was told it wasn’t part of the arrangement.

“Of course,” you murmur—voice steadier, taking his hand, not looking at his expression. “I just need a minute. To fix my face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Uh… you hunting something?”

Satoru quietly exhales, amused as you slip around the estate corners like you’re trespassing—even though you aren’t. Even though you’re the fucking bride-to-be. Even though this entire ceremony is built around you and him.

But you look like a mess, and damnit, you’re not going to let anyone know what the fuck happened tonight.

“I need a mirror…” you mutter, tugging open another shoji door. It glides back to reveal the usual: tatami floors, a low lacquered table, a delicate calligraphy scroll inked in stillness. Tranquil. Elegant.

Useless.

“There’s a perfectly good one in the bathroom,” he states flatly behind you.

Right. Of course there is. Like fucking hell you’re going back in that room.

Ignoring him, you keep moving, turning sharply down the next corridor. His footsteps follow—steady, unhurried; the soft whisper of his kimono a shadow just behind yours.

“…do you even know where you’re going?” he asks as you peer into another room. “Nope…” you exhale, letting the door fall shut with a quiet snap.

But you don’t stop. You can’t. Maybe because, if you keep going—room to room, door to door—this frantic motion will somehow piece your composure back together. That’s the only logic fueling you now. Though unfortunately, the next room is no better. Incense. Silk cushions. A painted folding screen.

No reflection. No relief.

“Huh,” Satoru muses dryly. “How many tea rooms does one clan really need. This has to be… what? Number six?”

“Yup…” you mutter dismissively, brushing past him with clipped breath. “You’d think a place this massive could spare at least one goddamn mirror…”

He only hums, content to trail behind like this is some game. Asshole. He probably knows where one is. He’s probably waiting for you to ask. But you won’t. Maybe out of pride. Maybe out of spite.

Or perhaps because… if you stop—if you look at him—you’ll break for real this time.

So, you press on—because the last thing you need is another pair of eyes watching you fall apart—which is exactly why it drives you fucking mad that you can feel his on you. That heavy blue gaze hasn’t left you since the moment he stepped into that garden. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

You’re too terrified to look at him. Not after what he did to your heart. What expression is he even wearing?

Pity?

Amusement?

…nothing at all?

“…you’re not gonna find a mirror in a broom cupboard,” he adds as you slide open yet another useless door.

For a second, you truly consider slamming it shut—hard. Right in his fucking face. Just to hear it echo down the hallway and maybe shut him out with it.

“I’m well aware…” you grit, sliding it closed, fingers trembling at the seam. Then, shifting down the corridor, another door comes into view. Your hand lifts, reaching for it—before suddenly, you freeze—body stilling.

Because voices linger… muffled through paper-thin walls.

“…wonder what’s the hold up,” a woman sighs, bored.

“She’s still not out?”

“Nope. They’re stalling.”

“Think she’ll even show her face before the ceremony starts?” another muses.

“Honestly? Who knows. At this point, it’s just embarrassing.”

Blinking, your hand hovers inches from the handle. You feel Satoru still behind you.

“Mm. Not a great look for a bride, is it?”

“Well…” another voice drawls—sweet, venomous, “…her father cracked under pressure too, didn’t he?”

“Cracked?” another snorts. “More like he fucking shattered.”

Laughter.

It shivers through the paper like a breeze, but it hits you like a slap. Because that’s all it takes, isn’t it? To turn your life into a punchline. A passing footnote to joke about.

“Rumor has it that she ran off crying,” one whispers covertly.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” someone adds breezily—footsteps shifting closer. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone from that family bailed when things got hard.”

A giggle. “Guess falling apart runs in their blood.”

You don’t even realize that you’re shaking until your hand falls away from the door—like your name, your shame, your father, your tears—is just something for them to stir into their tea.

Stumbling, you shuffle back, retreating from the hurt, the anguish. But your back immediately collides with something solid, or rather, someone.

Satoru.

His arms catch you before your mind can catch up—steadying you as your breath stutters out. You blink back more tears as your fingers curl into the sleeve of his kimono, curling into it like a lifeline.

He doesn’t speak, you don’t look at him. Their footsteps are drawing near—the tatami whispering beneath them, and with it, your panic only builds.

Oh god.

If they slide the door open and see your face like this—they’ll know they were right. You’re unraveling.

The shoji begins to slide open.

And in and instant—you’re gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your feet hit the polished floor with a soft scuff, hands still fisted in silk. And when you open your eyes, it’s there. Right in front of you.

A mirror.

That fucking mirror.

And behind you—arms still around you like he has any right—is the man who broke your heart in this very room.

“I didn’t want this mirror,” you snap, shoving him off, voice breaking halfway through. Satoru lets go, taking a single step back as you brace your hands on the sink. “A mirror’s a mirror,” he mutters, hands raising in lazy surrender. “Bathroom seemed like an upgrade, all things considered.”

You glare at the sink instead of answering, trying to breathe past the mess inside you.

…is this guy for real? Does he really not get it?

Is he that clueless to the hurt he caused you?

Clearly, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. And despite how clueless he may be, you know he heard what those girls were saying out there—heard every word about you, your family. They laid your shame out for everyone like a fucking dinner course.

Shaking the thoughts away, you twist the faucet on, splashing cold water over your face. One handful. Then Another. Like it’ll rinse off their voices. Like it could strip away the sting of their laughter.

Like it could cleanse the memory of him from your skin.

You turn the water off with trembling fingers, gripping the counter tightly as you breathe. Because your reality is that you have to face him. Face this. Walk your ass back out there and smile. This is your life now.

Lifting your head, you look up into the mirror, and there he is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you through the reflection like you’re some unsolvable thing. And that expression on his face is… strange.

Not pitying. Not cruel. But it’s not comfort either.

Just there.

Like… he sees you.

And for a moment, you almost wish he didn’t. Because that quiet—whatever it is—is worse. It’s the same kind of silence you’ve known your whole fucking life. The kind that says everything without saying a word. Cold meals. Cold rooms. Cold people. Conversations that never really started, let alone ended.

With a shuddering breath, you’re the one who looks away first. Because if you keep looking, you’re going to cry again. And you’re so fucking tired of crying. So instead, you reach for the compact hidden in your sleeve and snap it open.

Finally. Something to control. Powder. Liner. Blush.

Each motion is practiced, mechanical—building your face back up to dull the damage—stroke by stroke, until you look more like a bride and less like a breakdown.

“Hey…” Satoru mumbles, tilting his head. “That shit they said… about your family…”

Your fingers pause, hovering over the powder.

Of all the things to talk about, that’s what he chooses.

“Doesn’t matter,” you murmur, reflection hardening. As you reach for your lip color, he watches you smooth it on like war paint. “…you’re really gonna go back out there?” he asks, almost to himself. And capping the lipstick, you slide it back into your sleeve.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“…do I?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. Briefly. Long enough to see the truth of it—that he knows what he’s saying isn’t fair. That he’s not offering you one.

And yet… he still says it.

That look on his face… it’s not indifference. But it’s not enough either. Just this frustrating stillness. That quiet, complicated way he’s always looked at you.

You almost wish he’d laugh. Or sneer. Or leave. Anything to make it easier. It would be easier if he acted cruel—acted like you meant nothing.

Instead, he says nothing at all.

“Come,” you say, turning from the sink. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. “They’re waiting.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Today, we gather not only to honor a union between clans, but to witness the seat at Gojo-sama's side finally be filled.”

While you and Satoru ascend the dais, the hush of the hall is thick around you. You step with grace—smooth, poised—a perfect pace beside the man you’re meant to call husband. The man who doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t reach for you.

At the edge of the platform, Gojo Hajime is droning about lineage and honor—the union of households, the promise of an heir. The words blur into each other—because you’ve heard them all before.

Still, you smile. You bow. You perform.

Settling on the cushions laid before you, you lower yourself with care, but the platform is narrow, and Satoru takes up space like it’s owed to him. As you adjust, your thigh brushes his.

“Might wanna scoot…” he mutters under his breath, amused. His eyes flick to the seat just behind you both—Gojo Hajime’s cushion, looming in quiet judgment. “I mean… not that I’m complaining. But Hajime hates when people steal his precious throne.”

“Yes,” you murmur, smoothing your sleeve as you shift subtly away. Your eyes stay forward. “I remember.” And that earns the faintest shift in Satoru beside you. “…oh?” he hums. “What’s there to remember?”

Glancing at him, you see the lazy coolness still etched into every line of his body, but those blue eyes are fixed on you.

Focused. Curious.

You hate how much those eyes unravel you. How, despite everything, they still make your heart stutter.

“…how could I forget?” you shake the unease away, exhaling. “You made space for me that day. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.”

He shifts again. “…huh?” and you raise a brow—exhausted with him, exhausted with this conversation. “…what do you mean huh?”

You’re trying to pay attention to the ceremony. To perform. But Satoru keeps whispering above the hush of the hall while Hajime continues without pause—speaking like his words are carved into stone.

“For nearly a decade, the strongest has stood alone,” he declares. “But even power must be accompanied. The strongest must not only protect blood—but create it. A legacy. An heir. She will nurture the future of this clan. And with this duty, she will take her place not behind him, but beside him.”

Right… more like beneath him, it seems. Beneath his name. Beneath his body. And the worst part? Some small, broken part of you still aches for it. For him. For the feeling of being wanted, of being seen—even if only in the dark. Even if only for a moment.

“No fair,” Satoru mutters suddenly, like he’s trying to break the weight in the air. A slow smirk curls at his lips. “You pissed him off without me. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

“…you did see it,” your gaze flicks to him briefly. Flat. “The way he nearly took my head off with a single glance.”

Your eyes lock, and Satoru’s blinking—looking at you with bewilderment. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he tries to play it off. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. A crack in the cool.

“Uh… the fuck are you talking about?”

Inhaling, your spine straightens, and you don’t turn this time. Instead, your gaze stays trained on the gift tray being carried forward—on the servant kneeling before it, hands delicate and practiced.

“Seven years ago…” you mutter. “When I sat in his seat by accident. During your ascension.”

…what?

Satoru’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should, your words slotting into place with a quiet click that echoes—like a key turning into a lock he didn’t even know was there. That itch—that nagging sense of familiarity when he saw your photo in the dossier—he brushed it off. Didn’t connect it. Didn’t care to.

Well—shit.

It rushes back with startling clarity, like a memory pulled from fog: a girl in formal wear too heavy for her frame. Beautiful, but young. Sitting where she shouldn’t have, swallowing her fear like glass. And him—half-bored, half-amused—tilting his head and letting you stay.

It was a brief moment. You were a brief moment; a moment he let pass, a flicker.

But…

‘You made space for me. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.’

He’s confused. You say it like it should matter. Why is he unsettled? Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel unsettled. Hell, Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel—period. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has a job. A clan.

Okay… fine. Maybe people assume he doesn’t give a fuck about everything—but the truth is, feelings complicate things. Make you vulnerable. Weak. Unpredictable. All he needs is strength. Strength should be enough… shouldn’t it?

Because he has hopes and dreams too. To teach. To raise something better. To burn the whole damn system down and rebuild it from the bones. And feelings? Those get in the way. That’s why the elders made their conditions clear. He knows what he has to do. If he wants to teach he—

No. Don’t think about it.

His eyes flick sideways, catching your profile in the corner of his vision as Hajime drones on. You sit with your spine poised, your expression perfectly arranged. But he remembers what you looked like a moment ago—that gloss in your eyes, silence stretching tight across your face.

He was a dick. He knows that. But so what? You’re not even married yet. Why does it matter? And even if you were…

His lips press into a thin line. He’s getting real fucking tired of questioning his morals over someone he barely knows. But for whatever fucking reason, you’re stirring something in him that should’ve been long dead—guilt, confusion, the dull ache of something dangerously close to remorse. Feelings he buried the day Suguru walked away from Jujutsu High.

Why?

“Let us begin with the gifts,” Hajime intones, and Satoru blinks—snapping out of his thoughts. You’re already looking at him, expression unreadable while Hajime waits. Everyone in this damn hall is waiting—watching.

Anyways. Right.

No feeling.

“So… uh…” he tilts his head slightly, slipping back into his usual nonchalance, shoulders loosening. “…I go first?”

Hajime nods. “It is customary for the groom to present his offerings to the bride.”

“Right…” Satoru mutters, dragging a breath through his nose. “Customs.”

There’s an easy tone in his voice, but tension pulls beneath it as his hand slips into the inner folds of his kimono. The silk rustles as he draws a small black box from the depths of his sleeve—catching faintly in the hush, wrapped in a silk bow.

It almost seems like he’s holding his breath as he unties it—for his hands are far too careful for someone who mocks tradition. Popping the box open, he sets it on the tray in front of you gently.

“For you.”

Inside: a kanzashi comb shaped like a dragonfly. Platinum, fine as breath. The wings unfurl in delicate filigree—spiraling patterns so precise they seem to shimmer when caught by the light. Along the slender body, deep-blue sapphires glint like midnight stars. The craftsmanship is meticulous. Elegant. And yet, the edges are gently worn—not from neglect, but from time. From touch. From memory. Places where fingers must’ve lingered, again and again.

It looks… loved.

Blinking, your breath stills as you stare at the comb. Of all things… especially after tonight, you’d been expecting money. Something impersonal. That’s what most men offer in these ceremonies—clean, transactional, easy to forget. A sum to be tallied, tossed across a lacquered tray without thought.

But an heirloom?

It feels like a contradiction: a man who mocks tradition, honoring it. A man who avoids meaning, offering something that feels like reverence. It’s almost like part of him understood what this gesture was—and still did it anyway.

“It’s… beautiful,” you manage softly, “Thank you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You’ll look good in it.”

Your smile cracks, but you pull it back into place. This man confuses the hell out of you. You try not to linger on it too long, because you know—this man does not love you, does not want you. That much is clear. But something about that comb… makes you wonder if clarity is ever that simple.

Clearing your throat, you shift, sliding your hand into your sleeve. “I know your technique can be a little… draining,” and pulling out your gift to him, you begin unravelling the ribbon. “So, I figured these might help. And… well… they suit you.”

With careful hands, you lift the box open—setting it on the tray between you. Satoru blinks down at the sunglasses, then back at you, unreadable.

There’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But you can feel Hajime shift beside you. An observer in the crowd coughs in the audience. The air sharpens with awkward expectation.

Yup. You’re already regretting getting him this gift entirely. What the fuck were you thinking?

“This gift…” Hajime starts, tone already tight with disapproval. “It is—”

“Huh. You got me shades,” Satoru cuts in flatly, like saying it aloud will make it make sense.

Still, his hand moves toward them—lifting them from the box—turning them over slowly as he examines the weight, the curve, the ridiculous sincerity behind him.

No one ever sees him. Not really. Or rather, they see him for his purpose, not for who he is. And the fact that someone bothered to think of him not as a symbol, but as a man?

Great, now he feels… unsettled. Again.

So, he does what he’s always done. Deflects—sliding them on with a cocky grin. Hajime clears his throat, and Satoru looks up at him unapologetically.

“What?” he drawls. “She’s right, they suit me.”

A ripple of faint laughter stirs at the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t reach the dais. You exhale slowly, heart pounding. Thank God. That’s probably the most untraditional gesture you’ve ever made. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you in the crowd—cutting, sharp—but you don’t look. You just sit straighter.

“Besides…” Satoru murmurs, vivid blue eyes glancing over the rim to you, “…she’s got good taste.”

Your breath catches, and the sunglasses certainly don’t help you make out that still unreadable expression he wears. Great. Now you’re guessing again. Reading between lines he never bothers to draw.

“Anyways…” he takes them off, folding them back into the box. “Uh… thanks…” he mumbles. “Sure…” you echo.

And with it, the tray rests between you, holding its mismatched offerings.

One comb.

One pair of sunglasses.

One tradition honored. One broken.

There’s a moment of stillness. Then—

“Come!” Hajime intones, rising from his cushion with all the slow gravity of ceremony. “Let us present the final offering. A token worn in promise—a symbol of union, where it may be seen, and remembered.”

The air shifts, and the change in Satoru is immediate. You feel it; something solemn threading back through the moment, like a red string of fate.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru shifts his weight, reaching into his sleeve yet again—pulling out a small, lacquered ring box. You blink as he opens it.

Inside: a platinum engagement ring. The band curves in an elegant infinity twist, looping seamlessly between twin rows of diamonds and deep, midnight sapphires.

“Hand…” Satoru mumbles, barely above a whisper, his palm open in silent ask. “Oh—of course,” you breathe, hesitation flickering, then fading as you slip your hand into his.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm, steady. And when he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits like it was always meant to be there. Looking down at the flickers of silver, white and blue, your breath catches as it glitters softly—like stars trapped in metal. It’s gorgeously elegant, and the sapphires remind you of his eyes.

Though as your gaze lifts, his eyes hold the weight of something unspoken. He’s staring at the ring, and that vivid blue is suddenly… dimmed. Like something caught between elegance and meaning. Between promise and prison.

For the first time, it strikes you. The man beside you—who always seemed untouchable, unfazed, immune to the binds of tradition—is kneeling here, completing the ritual, bound by the same rules.

Maybe… he isn’t as free as he looks.

“Let it be seen,” Hajime declares, voice rising through the hush, “and remembered by all. Arise!”

The tray is lifted. The offering complete. And as Satoru straightens, you follow; shifting towards the crowd. Then—

Applause.

First a few. Then dozens. Then more.

Clapping…

Too loud. Too sharp.

Clapping…

It echoes off the walls like a warning—faces blurring in motion, smiles stretching too wide. The sound closes in like smoke—like something choking and hollow. Though, somewhere near the farthest end of the hall, lingering in the shadows, someone does not clap. They watch.

Because far from the estate, on the grounds of a forgotten shrine, ash stirs in the wind.

A candle gutters.

Another catches.

The world holds its breath.

And with the tilt of a match—

A curse begins to stir.

a/n. hello lovelies, i hope you enjoyed pt 2! 🥹💕 we're cooked. bc this was 20k and they aren't even married yet LOL. i kept telling myself that this fic wasn't going to be THIS long, but alas. i write what my heart tells me and my heart was yappin. i feel like a lot of arranged marriage fics jump straight to the marriage and i wanted to try something different and set some groundwork instead. plus, since tradition is a heavy theme in this fic, so bc of that, the traditional engagement ceremony just seemed right. there were a lot of callbacks i did with certain scenes from jjk, i wonder how many you can spot 🤔 both reader and satoru still have a lot of growing to do. anyways, there's more i could say but i am sleepy and posting this super late 🫠 so i'll leave it at that, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter 🥰 thanks for reading. MUAH! -aly

taglist pt 1:

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

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

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

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

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

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

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @sukuxna0

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yeonayearns · 8 days ago

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🜼 ⋆ nanami loves waking up you up in the morning by fucking you til you’re breathless.

you wake up to the distinct, unmistakable feeling of being watched but it’s not uncomfortable. it never is with nanami.

his arm is already around you, forearm firm under your chest, right beneath the weight of your tits, where the heat of his skin is branding. you feel it before you even open your eyes: his cock, thick and stiff, nestled against the swell of your ass. and then his voice, rich and velvet-dark, cuts through the haze of your sleepy mind.

“there you are,” nanami murmurs against the back of your neck, lips grazing over your skin like he owns it. “you always make the prettiest sounds in your sleep, you know that?”

you make a noise, something between a breath and a whimper. still half-asleep. you try to stretch, but his arm tightens, keeps you flush against his chest. he kisses behind your ear, slow and deep, while his hand ghosts down your belly with all the patience of a man who has no intention of letting you go anywhere.

“been hard for the last half hour,” he breathes, voice shot through with that casual arrogance. the kind he never says out loud in public, but here, in the dark hush of your shared bed, he lets it out. “you kept moving against me. thought you were teasing.”

you’re not. weren’t even. not consciously, anyway. you don’t even remember shifting in your sleep, but the way his fingers trail over your hip and dip between your thighs makes it very clear what you did do.

he hums when he finds you already wet—his middle finger dragging through the slick mess between your folds, slow and deliberate, like he’s confirming what he already knows.

“mm. see?” he says against your skin, voice curling with smug amusement. “your body knows what it wants even before you do.”

you try to roll your hips back, to chase the friction of him. he lets you. barely. his thigh nudges between yours, and you instinctively hook your leg around his, spreading yourself wider. open and helpless, still caught between sleep and morning light.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “lazy little thing. just let me do the work.”

you feel him shift behind you, his cock nudging at your entrance, already leaking, already impossibly hard. but he doesn’t rush. he never rushes. he just ruts against you in slow, maddening rolls, soaking the head of his cock in your slick, teasing you with the promise of fullness without giving it yet.

his other hand fists gently in your hair, just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his mouth. he kisses down the line of it, soft and damp and hungry. every inch he touches feels like it lights up beneath his lips.

“so needy,” he breathes. “and you haven’t even said a word yet.”

you make a noise that might be his name—half-whine, half-moan—and it earns you a low, pleased chuckle.

“use your words, sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in something wicked and affectionate. “or should i just take this pretty little pussy the way i want it?”

you gasp when he pushes in—not slow this time, but steady and deep, bottoming out with a low groan like the heat of you knocked the wind from his chest.

“fuck,” he hisses, teeth grazing your shoulder. “tight as ever. and so wet—what am i gonna do with you, hm?”

you choke on a moan, back arching instinctively as your body tries to take him even deeper. he shifts his thigh between yours again, spreading you wider, angling your hips just right—and when he thrusts again, it hits a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“there it is,” he mutters, smug. “knew you’d take it like this. knew you’d let me have you, just like this—sleepy and sweet and dripping.”

his hand slides up from your hip to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, grounding you. his thumb strokes beneath your jaw like he’s coaxing something from you.

“say it,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “tell me it’s mine.”

you can barely breathe, let alone speak. but you do. broken, wrecked, half-crying the words.

“yours. it’s yours.”

he groans at that, thrusts getting just a little rougher, still deep, still measured, but now fueled by that possessive edge that simmers just under his skin.

“that’s right,” he grits out. “my girl. my perfect little thing. fuck—this pussy was made for me.”

you come without warning, clenching around him like your body couldn’t possibly hold back. he doesn’t stop. doesn’t give you time to fall apart fully, kento just keeps fucking you through it, voice low and breathless.

“gonna fill you up,” he murmurs. “wanna watch it leak out of you after—drip down your thighs while you try to make coffee.”

you whine, too fucked out to argue. too high on the feeling of him—his cock, his voice, his body wrapped around yours like a blanket and a brand all at once.

and when he does finally come—hips stuttering, groaning into your neck—you feel it everywhere. the warmth of it, the weight of him, the way he doesn’t pull out even after.

just holds you there. cock still buried deep. arms wrapped tight.

you think he might drift off like that. spent, content, still inside you.

but then he kisses your shoulder again, and murmurs, amused, “i’ll clean you up after.” he nuzzles to you, pressing himself like he wants to be in your skin.

“but right now, i want to feel it. stay like this for me, yeah?”

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yeonayearns · 16 days ago

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Even though your husband Gojo was not on this world anymore, he was still there, just not visible anymore.

Content: short fic, angst, death, Gojo died while reader was still pregnant, Gojo lost to Sukuna, Gojo just watching over, fluff, reader and Gojo has a daughter

a/n: THE ANGST IS REALLLLL YEEH-OUCH!

When you heard the news that your husband, Gojo, had lost and passed away during the fight with Ryomen Sukuna, you were hit with the instant pain of despair and misery.

Why, why, why did he have to go so soon? When he hasn’t even met his daughter to begin with?

Life is not fair, it never is, and it just got more unfair when he passed. What were you gonna do now? Who was gonna support you during your rough times in pregnancy?

Thankfully, your husband’s friends and students have been supporting and helping you. Knocking on your door to give you some company when you’re feeling lonely, or donating baby supplies and your own needs.

You couldn’t have done it without them, if they weren’t there, you’d be drowning in tears already.

—————

7 months have passed, you were now currently being rushed to the hospital after your water broke. It was all messy, you were so scared, your husband couldn’t be there to hold your hand and whisper you some comforting words.

It hurt.

You almost didn’t wanna do it, you wanted to give up, to end the pain, but just when you were about to give up on pushing, you saw him. You saw the ghost of your husband at the corner of your eye, oh how you forgot how lovely he looked, he was holding your hand, yet you couldn’t feel his warmth.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, but before his ghost disappeared from your sight, you heard him saying:

“Keep going, love. Even though I’m not with you physically, I will always be with you spiritually.”

You gasped as you snapped back to your senses, what he said inspired you and got the energy back in, so with all your might..you pushed, pushed..until..

WAHH—WAHH!

You looked up to see the doctors cleaning your baby and wrapping her in a blanket to keep her warm. Oh my, how she looked like Gojo so much, the only difference was she inherited your hair color.

The doctors handed you your daughter after running a few tests saying: “Congratulations, you gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby girl.”

But their voices were muffled, as you were more focused on your little girl. You tried so hard to not be emotional, but oh was it so hard. She really just looked like her daddy, her sweet and caring daddy that she will never get to meet.

————

3 years later, a lot has changed. Your daughter grew up, and now she is 3 years old! The void in your heart is slowly healing bit by bit as you focused on being more happy.

Today, you took your little girl to her daddy’s grave. She was still very much confused on why you always take her to this place every now and then.

As you were replacing the old wilted flowers with new fresh ones, your daughter tugged at your dress.

“Mama, why do you give that stone some flowers?”

You chuckled, patting her head. “Well, sweetheart, that stone is your papa. I’m replacing the flowers just for him.”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Stone…papa? That stone is not my papa! I only have my mama!”

You smiled softly, placing your hand on her cheek. “Listen, sweetie, do you know why your mummy’s eye color is different from yours?”

Your daughter nodded. “Mhm! Why mama? I always wanted to know!”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, showing her a picture of her papa.

“Because you got the eyes of the person I fell in love with.”

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yeonayearns · 19 days ago

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Sukuna X pregnant!Reader

small Drabble, your water breaks in the middle of the night.

It was past midnight when you felt it.

The room was dim, bathed in the flicker of city lights leaking through the curtains. Sukuna was half-asleep beside you, arm thrown over your waist, breathing deep and slow. His warmth pressed against your back, his palm splayed protectively across the swell of your stomach.

You shifted. Then froze.

“…Sukuna,” you whispered, nudging his arm.

He grunted, voice groggy, “What is it? You hungry again?”

“No.” Your throat tightened. “I think… my water just broke.”

Sukuna stilled. And then he was sitting upright in one smooth, urgent motion. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, eyes wide. His gaze dropped to the dampness soaking the sheets. He blinked. Slowly. Processing. “Fuck.”

He wasn’t the panicking type—not on the surface. But you could feel the shift. Something sharp in the air. A crackle of fear he didn’t voice.

He stood, fast. Grabbed your overnight bag. Helped you up with a hand that lingered too long on your arm.

“Breathe,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Just… fuck. Okay. I got you.”

The car ride was silent but loud in every other way. Your breaths were uneven. The contractions had begun—dull and low and already unbearable. Sukuna gripped the steering wheel like it had personally wronged him, jaw tight, red eyes flickering toward you every few seconds.

“I should’ve made you go to the hospital last week,” he snapped suddenly. “You said you felt weird. I should’ve—”

“Suku.” You reached for him blindly, fingers brushing his wrist. “Stop. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay. You’re in pain.” His voice cracked around the edges. “And I hate it.”

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to fix this.”

“I fucking know that,” he growled. Then, quieter—“Still kills me.”

Labor blurred. He refused to leave the room. The nurses didn’t argue—he gave them a single look that said don’t even try.

You clung to his hand like it was a lifeline. And when the contractions got unbearable and your cries turned broken, he let you squeeze until his knuckles turned white.

“Breathe, baby. Come on,” he murmured into your hair, pressing desperate kisses to your temple. “You’re almost there.”

At one point, you sobbed, “I can’t do it—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” he said, firm but trembling. “You already are.”

And then—her cry. Loud. Piercing. The sound cracked something inside him clean in two.

Sukuna didn’t move at first. Just stood there as they placed the tiny, wriggling bundle onto your chest. You were crying again, half-laughing, too overwhelmed to speak.

He stepped forward slowly. Looked down at her. And for the first time in his entire life, Sukuna had no words.

She was so small. So loud. So his.

You looked up at him with glassy eyes and whispered, “Come meet her.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek with two fingers like she might disappear.

“She's… real,” he muttered, almost angry. “She’s fucking real.”

You nodded. And for a moment, he didn’t look like Sukuna. He looked like a man who had finally found something worth praying for, even if he didn’t believe in anything at all.

You took his hand again. And as his daughter whimpered softly on your chest, Sukuna bowed his head and whispered, “If the world touches her wrong, I’ll burn it down.”

You believed him. And in the fragile silence of that hospital room, you knew: He would ruin himself before letting anything ruin you two.

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yeonayearns · 26 days ago

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— the g (spot) in gyno

credit: _3aem on twitter

pairing — gynecologist! gojo x female reader

synopsis — you didn’t anticipate this is how getting your first ever pap smear would be like. soaked, shaking, and moaning. but hey—your doctor’s hot as fuck and dangerously good with his fingers, and his mouth is even filthier.

tags/warnings — smut, fingering, dirty talk in a medical way, slight praise, very unprofessional & unethical gojo, a little dubcon-y, power imbalance, oral (f. receiving). dividers by @/enchanthings

wc — 4.5k

a/n: s/o to remmm @/redrrem for helping me proofread + making this more slutty. xoxo mwah

Ever since you moved out of your suburban hometown and into the big city, you’ve had many more changes to get used to than you had initially thought.

Someone taking your undesignated parking spot, the insane coffee prices, and waking up to the annoying sound of traffic in the early morning.

Another change that came with your move is finding not only a new primary care doctor or a hospital you can now call your go-to, but also finding a new gynecologist.

And, unluckily for you, you haven’t been to one since…ever.

You’re a bit afraid, which is natural, considering the many horror stories you’ve heard about metallic devices being shoved into your vagina, which hurt like a bitch, or how, on the contrary, it’s not painful at all.

You know, you know, you need to go. And you won’t deny that you’ve been pushing this dreaded appointment off ever since you turned the right age.

But now is the time. You’ve moved. You’re on your own in the big city, and times have changed. No more having to rely on your mother to schedule an appointment for you.

Your legs still feel wobbly as your name gets called. Standing from the chair you’ve been in for the past 20 minutes and following the kind woman in scrubs. She leads you to the back and into a designated room.

Before you enter, you catch sight of the silver-plated "Dr. Gojo” plastered on the door.

The first thing she does is check your height, then your weight, and lastly your blood pressure.

That’s normal, you’re used to it. You reassure yourself and your pulsing heart rate.

After the initial examination, she takes the strap off your arm, rolling over to the computer, and that’s when she begins to ask you questions.

“So…Ms. Y/N, correct?”

You nod, fingers fiddling in your lap as you sit upright. “Correct.”

“I assume this is your first time?” she asks with a reassuring smile, noticing your fidgeting.

“It is,” you awkwardly laugh. “I guess I’ve just been…nervous, that's all.”

She smiles and looks at you. “That’s completely normal. Many women have a hard time scheduling their first gynecologist appointment. But I just want to assure you that we will try our absolute best to ensure you are comfortable throughout the appointment. And of course, this is for your safety. We’ll be able to determine if—”

“Yeah, yeah. Diseases. Cancer. I know.” After you’ve just so rudely cut her off, that’s when you shamefully sigh and scratch your neck. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m just nervous.”

The woman nods in understanding, focusing back on the screen. After a few silent moments, she clears her throat. “When was the first day of your last period?”

You think for a second, then answer: “About two weeks ago now.”

She nods slowly. “And are they regular?”

“Hmm, mostly. I guess? Sometimes I’m a few days late, never more than a week.”

“I see, how long do they usually last?”

“Maybe a few days... Or even a week?”

“Any specifics?” She’s typing on the keyboard.

You purse your lips in thought. “I guess…around five to six days at most. Somewhere around there. I don’t really know.”

“Do you experience heavy bleeding or severe cramps?”

“Both,” you slump your shoulders. “But some periods I feel nothing, and my bleeding is less heavy.”

“And are you sexually active?”

Your cheeks burn stupidly for some reason, gulping. It’s a slightly difficult question, in all honesty.

You’re not a virgin, but you’re also not getting dicked down frequently. “I’ve been celibate for more than a year now.”

The nurse, humming again, continues typing her fingers against the keyboard. The next few minutes are full of her questions about your sexual life, any symptoms or concerns you may have, medication you’ve taken, family history, and even mental health.

You audibly sigh in relief when she finishes up, but this was the easy part.

Now, left alone, having already removed your bra and underwear from your tank top and skirt, you’re actually fucking terrified.

You’re forced to wait in agony and anticipation, trying to focus your mind on whatever shit you’re watching on your phone.

What’s even worse is that you were informed that your gynecologist is a man. You wanted a woman.

“Great, fucking great.” You scoff under your breath, fisting the thin layer of bed sheet beneath you.

You try to think on the bright side of things. Getting a Pap smear and a breast exam during the same session. It’s like killing two birds with one stone. Or more like killing one bird with two stones.

Your head whips up the second you hear a knock. The door handle turns, opening from the other side, as you scramble to turn your phone off and into your purse.

Your mouth dries.

“Hello, Y/N. I’m Dr. Satoru Gojo. I’ll be your primary gynecologist. How are you today?”

You can’t even respond, eyes shamelessly fawning over the man in front of you.

Tall, lean, extremely handsome. Soft, white hair pushed back lazily, but elegantly. Thin-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose that barely do anything to obscure the fact that his eyes are just so, so blue.

Standing before you, in a long white coat with scrubs underneath, with a smile that showcases his pearly white teeth and his dimples on his cheeks. You can smell his expensive cologne from here.

Sitting on the rolling chair the nurse was on previously, legs spread slightly, he regards you with a friendly gaze that leaves you wondering…This man is your gynecologist???

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for your response.

You blink rapidly, words broken as you manage to stutter out a response. “O-oh. I—um—I’m great, thank you. And you?”

“I’m doing wonderful, thank you for asking. It’s a very hot day today, isn’t it?” He fans himself and looks out the window. All you’re focused on is his fingers. “The summer heat is getting brutal.”

You force out a laugh when he does, though it doesn’t sound as genuine as his. “Yeah, really, really…hot….” Your voice trails into a soft whisper, hypnotized by the way he adjusts the watch on his wrist, exposing just a peek of forearm muscle and veins.

From his peripheral vision, he glances at you. Oh no. You’ve been caught staring.

He simply chuckles softly and rolls over to the computer to look over your chart. “So, this is your first time, correct?”

“Correct…”

“I'll walk you through every step, okay?”

You nod, his honeyed voice calming your nerves.

“We’ll start with a breast examination, then move on to your pap smear. I’ll step out and give you privacy to undress and put on this gown.”

He opens a cabinet nearby and hands you the folded piece of fabric. His fingers brushing against you, making you flinch. Maybe it’s your delusional side, but you could’ve sworn his touch lingered—and his eyes sharpened just slightly behind his glasses.

You’re so not ready.

The moment his cold fingers feel the underside of your breast, you can’t help but softly gasp.

That doesn’t deter him. He mutters softly, “Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head, your throat dry.

He hums. “Good, if anything does, please let me know.” Then he uses his other hand to lightly prod and feel the sensitive, soft skin of your breasts. Slim fingers move methodically, fingertips just barely pressing deeper into you, examining the areas for any unusual or concerning lumps.

He shifts closer on his rolling stool, knees brushing against the edge of the exam table. You’re completely hypersensitive. From the antiseptic smell emanating from the room, to the way your heart is beating rapidly, the flutter of his pale lashes, and lastly, on the focused creases between his eyebrows.

And of course, his hands on you just have to feel better than any other time you’ve been felt up before.

Granted, he’s doing an examination, not ‘feeling you up’. And you’re a little—well, very—touch deprived. So there’s a perfectly good excuse as to why your thighs squeeze together from under the gown, fists bunching the material up and doing your ultimate best to hold back a whimper when the pad of his finger flicks against your hardened nipple.

“Any tenderness here?”

Somehow, you manage a response through a shaky voice. “N-No, Dr. Gojo.”

Another faint hum of acknowledgment. “You’re sensitive, which is completely normal, no need to worry. Especially during exams like these.”

You nod silently, feeling a puff of warm air that he exhales. Each gentle, circular rotation from him feels like a restrained study. Moving from the outer edge to the inner, until his fingers skim over your perky nipples.

You’re almost tempted to close your eyes. To tilt your head back and ask him not to stop, but you restrain yourself. You swallow hard.

“Skin tone is even, no visible discoloration. Your tissue is soft, no abnormalities.”

“That’s good,” you exhale shakily, eyes fluttering. You’re not so sure if it’s in response to him or his hands.

He raises his pale blue eyes, a smile creeping up his lips. Focusing on the other side, he repeats his ministrations. His movements never rushed, they’re slow and deliberate with an occasional squeeze.

“Consistent texture. I sense no masses. Your breasts are symmetrical,” his eyes move back down to your boobs in front of him, a constant. “You’re doing very well. Just keep breathing, okay?”

Your chest rises and falls in a stuttering way. He glances back up. Just once.

“If you’re holding your breath, that may cause some tension. Try to relax for me.”

“Right. Relax,” you repeat in a quieter tone of voice.

Heat pools in your belly, squeezing your thighs tighter. He runs his finger across your nipple again, flicking it in a clinical way to test your reactions.

And boy, is your small gasp a reaction for him. Too bad your eyes are closed, you would’ve seen the boner he carefully hides in his slacks.

“Highly reactive to stimulation. Again—this is very normal.”

Finally, after what feels like forever, his hands pull away, and you finally breathe right. Slowly opening your eyes, you feel your cheeks red, a small wetness between your clenched thighs that makes you panic at the thought of him seeing it.

Does he smell it?

You make eye contact, his tongue running over his bottom lip. His white teeth peeking out from his semi-smile. It’s like he knows the effect he has on you; he just doesn’t point it out.

At least he’s somewhat saving your dignity.

“That concludes the breast exam.” He confirms in approval, noting down whatever observations he’s made, before moving on to the next half of the examination.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your muscles relax, watching as Dr. Gojo reaches for a pair of fresh latex gloves, before turning to you once again.

“We’ll move on to the internal portion next.” His voice is smooth as butter, professional, and friendly. You blink, your brain a bit foggy. His head tilts. “Unless you’d like a moment to catch your breath?”

God, just the way he asks that question. How his voice lowered and softened into honey silk.

“No, I…I’m okay to move on now.”

His smile turns crooked. “Excellent.”

Completely bare from the waist down, the gown that once offered you the slightest bit of dignity now lifted up to your hips to present your bare core to the man sitting in front of it. Your feet were held up, planted on the stirrups, legs up and apart, and you’re left blinking up at the blank white ceiling.

You hear some shifting from down there, assuming he’s getting everything he needs ready for the exam.

Your bare thighs prickle under the cold air, and from your own growing sense of anticipation.

Gloves snap against skin, a subtle clink of metal against a tray.

“This may feel just a tiny bit cold. But if you’re uncomfortable or feel any sort of pain or discomfort, tell me immediately.”

You gulp. “Okay.”

His chair wheels closer between your thighs, his gloved hand gently resting on your thigh. “I’ll begin with the visual exam, just checking to make sure everything looks safe and healthy.”

“Okay,” you say again, as if it’s the only word you do know right now.

You bite your lip, eyebrows furrowing. You can’t help but tense when two fingers carefully part your folds, hips twitching—an involuntary response. He pats your thigh gently.

The cool air hitting your intimate area leaves you with goosebumps all over, unintentionally clenching your pussy as you feel his hot breath against your inner thigh.

“Your labia appears healthy. No irritation, lesions, or abnormal discharge,” he clinically notes to himself. His two fingers spread you a bit more, wheeling closer.

You can practically feel the heat of his gaze, your breath stuttering. It feels embarrassing. You try to reason with yourself once more that this is mandatory, just another check up for your own health, but fuck—getting examined like this, by a man this gorgeous, it feels different.

Even worse when he says:

“You’re already lubricating naturally. That’s a very good sign, it means your body’s responding well.”

God, just kill me now.

He pauses, then asks softly. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

“No,” you whisper.

A low purr. “Alright.”

You hear latex against metal. “Now you'll feel just some slight pressure. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

You mentally brace yourself.

Inhaling sharply as he presses the speculum into your entrance. It’s coated in lubricant, making the process somewhat easier. You’re still tense, however.

“Relax your muscles, I’ve got you.” He pats your knee now.

Well, that’s fucking hard to do when he’s putting a metal device inside your pussy.

It’s cold, foreign. The dull slide of the metal instrument still manages to make you cringe and tense instinctively. His free hand that rubs your knee manages to ground you, even if just for a little bit.

It slides in deeper in a controlled, careful manner. You wince. And he finally settles it in place.

“Almost done, okay? Just a deep breath for me.”

Then, he gently opens the speculum, effectively widening your entrance to his focused gaze. The stretching of it makes your body and mind go rigid, a wheeze leaving your lungs as you fist the thin sheet laid beneath you.

You want to just clamp your thighs together, to just push the object out. Somehow, you withstand.

“You’re doing very well for me,” he praises, his voice smooth and even. “…cervix is high and centred. No inflammation. Looks healthy.”

He’s silent for a beat, and then: “We’ll take the Pap smear sample now.”

You nod, but your body stays stiff as a brush touches deep inside, brushing lightly, strangely. Not painful, but so intimate you could scream.

“Alright,” he finally says, retracting the brush and then closing the speculum before slowly sliding it out.

Instant relief washes over you, letting out an audible breath you were holding in for who knows how long. However, he doesn’t wheeled away yet.

“And now, I’m going to perform the bimanual exam next. Just two fingers inside, and the other hand will press down on your abdomen. This allows me to check the size and position of your uterus and ovaries.”

You nod again, more dizzy than anything.

A pause. “Still okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathe.

Then his fingers are back—two gloved digits sliding in slowly, steadily, and deeply. They fill you quickly, curling slightly inside you while his other hand presses gently down over your lower stomach.

“You’re tight,” he murmurs, still sounding like he’s merely observing facts. “No tenderness. Cervix is firm but not rigid… The uterus feels normal. No abnormalities detected. Good response.”

You let out a shaky breath. The pressure of his touch is maddening. Not rough. Just exact.

“You’re clenching again. Try to relax around me.”

You whimper slightly as his fingers curl just a little more deliberately, pressing gently against the front wall.

“Very sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Highly reactive. Normal, but worth noting for future visits.”

“I-Is this…is this really part—I mean—necessary?” You manage to get out, voice strained.

He chuckles gently. “It is all part of the job. Remember, tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” He eventually glances up at you again, noticing the way your face is as red as a tomato, and how you look like you’re holding something back, albeit barely.

He likes the look in your eyes. Loves it even.

And unbeknownst to you, his cock twitches.

He manages to keep his composure, looking back down at you spread before him, how your slick coats his latex-gloved fingers. Your scent is beginning to make him dizzy, and he almost wants to pull out and lick his fingers clean.

He holds back.

He’s a professional, remember?

“Internal temperature is warm. Muscles are responsive.” His fingers twist up slightly. “There.”

A sound catches in your throat.

“Found it,” he says simply, as if identifying a sample on a slide. “You’re particularly reactive here. Let’s test the consistency of that response.”

He starts up a slow, controlled rhythm—his fingers moving upward, pressing with devastating precision against your G-spot.

You bite your lip, your body jerking with every press.

“Pelvic contractions are increasing,” he observes. “You’re clenching harder around my fingers. Excellent neurological response.”

“D-Doctor—” you whimper.

“Shhh,” he coos, face leaning closer to your dripping heat, savoring the slick sounds of his fingers exiting, entering, curling, then exiting again.

The next few seconds are agony, pure agony. Because, sure, this is an exam. But are they usually this long? Do they usually feel this good? And does your doctor always finger your G-spot with ease until you’re dripping out onto the bed?

“Hypersensitivity right along the anterior wall. Fascinating.” He murmurs lowly, as if the way he moves his fingers in and out of you was part of the examination all along. “And every time I do…this—“ his two digits curl, smirking when he hears the hitch of your breath and sees the jerk of your hips. “You tense up. Means your nerves are firing just perfectly.”

“This…this feels…..”

“Good?”

You can’t help yourself this time. A surprised moan escaping your lips when his thumb comes into the picture, lazily skimming over your clit with enough force to make you practically yearn for more.

You hadn’t expected that. Especially that. Not during an exam.

“Apologies, that wasn’t part of the plan,” he murmurs more so to himself, thumb barely hovering above your bud. “But your body is begging for more stimulation. Your clitoris is swollen and hot to the touch. I’d be remiss not to note this down.”

When you whimper again, his eyes flicker up, half-lidded. A slight smirk against his glossy lips.

“Still with me?”

“U-uh…huh…” you pant, your hips shamelessly rutting up against his fingers. You need more.

His smile becomes thinner, eyes glinting with something hidden behind them. “Then I’ll continue. Neurological response is reaching its peak, I’ll apply more pressure now.”

Your toes curl in the stir-ups, head tilting back with your mouth parted in a quiet mewl. The tip of his fingers hit that special spot so effortlessly, and the way he talks as if what he’s doing is completely normal, it makes you feel warmer. Wetter. It makes you want something else. Maybe even for his cock to replace his fingers.

“P-Please—”

“Do you need me to stop?”

You shake your head helplessly. “N-No—I just—”

“You’re pulsing,” he croons. “Try to hold on just a bit longer, can you do that for me?”

“No…!” You cry out, your hand shooting down to hold his wrist. Your body is moving on its own at this point. You moan again when his middle finger rubs your G-spot, back arching off the examination table.

“I think you can,” he merely suggests, his thumb swirling your clit.

You see stars, wetness prickling at your eyes.

“Clitoral sensitivity is elevated. Likely from prolonged internal and external stimulation.”

Your hips shift, rutting against the heel of his palm. You’re conscious of the way you clench down around his fingers, like you’re trying to suck him in and bring them deeper.

In your mind, it’s all a jumbled mess. You’re aware of what you’re doing—of what he’s doing. Questioning if this is appropriate in the first place, if he’s even a damn gynecologist.

But this far in, you’re only focused on one thing.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Dr. Gojo, I—”

“I know, I know. You’re overwhelmed, correct? That’s normal.” His fingers hit your spongy wall, rubbing and curling. “However, I am surprised you haven’t orgasmed yet. Maybe my fingers aren’t doing that good of a job?”

He chuckles at his own shitty joke, all the while you’re completely falling apart.

“This is still a part of the exam,” he says again, but softer this time. More dangerous. “I’m checking your response to prolonged internal stimulation. Monitoring consistency. Depth. Pressure. Pleasure.”

And just like that, he brings his fingers out, thumb withdrawing from you.

It feels like a blow to your pussy, a physical punch that leaves you winded and panting and broken. It’s completely devastating. You’re left clenching around nothing but air, desperately begging for something to fill you once more. A whine claws up your throat, raw and utterly needy.

Before you can even question anything or attempt to regather your bearings…

He slides back in.

Faster. Harder.

Your loud, broken sob that morphs into a moan echoes off the walls of the office. “Dr!”

The wet, filthy squelchy sound of your cunt swallowing his long digits welcomes his ears. He sighs in blissfulness. His fingers drive into you, knuckles deep, curling—dragging—along that same pulsing spot with surgical precision. Your walls tighten violently around him, trying to hold him in, to milk him like it’s his cock instead, your body betraying your mind completely.

You can’t stop the tears that now trickle down your cheeks. The overstimulation, the embarrassment, the need. Your hips twitch again, greedy for more, even as your legs shake helplessly in the stirrups. “W-wait…I…this isn’t…”

The lewd sounds are slick and steady, timed with your ragged breathing and broken gasps. And somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to say ‘stop’, to tell him this isn’t right.

Maybe this is normal? Maybe this always happens. It is your first time, so everything probably feels way more intense than—

Spit!

A filthy warm, deliberate wad of saliva hits your shivering cunt with abrupt forcefulness. It makes you wheeze, jolting.

“Hah…look at that,” his voice is low, ragged—almost breathless in awe. “Oh, right. Sorry, intrusive thoughts. But I was right, you contracted again. It makes me wonder...”

“Dr. Gojo—!” You whine out, eyes closing forcefully. “F-Feels—hah—good!”

His spit slides down your creamy slit slowly, meeting his gloved fingers, and the rest of it wetting the sheet below. He studies the way your pussy tenses, how it flutters like it needs something bigger—thicker.

“There it is again,” he whispers reverently. “You like that?” His eyes flick upwards, taking in your fucked-out expression. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks red, panting for air, your tongue peeking out from your pink parted lips.

His fingers fuck into you with slow precision, letting the obscene squelches take over and act as background noise to your inevitable unraveling.

“Now, just Imagine if I let my mouth take over.” His voice is pure filth now, drawn out and dark with desire. “I wouldn’t even stop to breathe, you know? I’d spit, lick, suck this pretty little clit until you came all over my face. Would you like that, sweetheart? You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You nod without much thought, hips bucking up again as you chase your high. The speed of his fingers slows down, allowing you some moments to breathe. But all of that is thrown out the window.

You should’ve expected it. He did ask. And you did nod.

But you didn’t think he’d actually—

“Ngh!”

A cry tears through your throat.

His lips making contact with your slippery cunt is what you register first. Then his tongue lapping up the slick, swirling around your quivering hole, then up to your puffy clit. His lips wrap around the bud—wasting no time in absolutely eating you the fuck out.

His nose is shoved against your skin, muffled groans mixing in with your whimpering sighs and gasps.

Your brain short-circuits, back arching completely off the exam table. The flick of his experienced tongue—both slow and indulgent—absolutely wrecks you. “Oh my god—” you gasp, voice cracking.

You can faintly make out the low muffle of his chuckle through your dazed mind.

His mouth alternates. Switching from a long, slippery stripe up your cunt to hungrily sucking on your clit like it’s his favorite snack. Wet, popping noises fill the room.

His moans are stifled, his so-called ‘professionalism’ wavering by the second and his hands—the ones that felt so precise and methodical just minutes ago—now dig into your thighs, forcing them open for his impatient mouth.

He works you with obscene devotion, admiring the squelch of his hot tongue against your soaked flesh.

“F-fuck, Doctor—please—” you whimper, hands fisting the sheet beneath you, head tossing back against the paper-covered cushion.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He’s like a man possessed. His tongue curling and flicking, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance again just to lap up the fresh slick you keep leaking for him.

“Fuck,” he groans into you, the sound so guttural and real it makes your toes curl. “You taste so fucking good—this pussy’s unreal.”

You cry out again as he sucks harshly, tongue pressing flat, lips tugging just right—and it absolutely shatters you.

Your orgasm hits hard. Harder than any you’ve experienced before. Either by your own doing, or from another man. Because this time—this time—you see stars.

Your ears ring with vibrations. Your vision whitens out, and for a second, you think you may have died from how fucking hard you just came.

You think you’ve stepped through the gates of heaven. Your body? Limp. Chest heaving up and down with breathless pants. You feel flushed and hot to the touch. It’s utterly violent.

Thighs instinctively clamping shut around his head like you’re trying to save yourself from something that’s already been done.

How cute, he thinks.

You sob through your unravelling, hips jerking against his face as he devours every second of your release. He doesn’t pull back, instead he rides it out with his mouth locked to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him like he’ll never get enough.

Finally, your spasms fade slowly. The ringing in your ears dulls, and you can make out the ceiling of the room—the antiseptic scent invading your nostrils again. Though this time, mixed with something much more salacious.

Your back collapses against the table. Blinking weakly, you barely manage to look down between your spread legs.

There—your doctor—tilts his head back. His beautiful face glistens. His lips are pink, shiny, and swollen. He smiles unapologetically.

Breathing out—shaky, satisfied, and completely drunk on you. His lashes flutter across his cheekbones as he exhales through his nose, like he just came without even being touched.

He licks his lips in a disgustingly pornographic way.

His voice, when it finally leaves his throat, is wrecked—raspy and hot, full of hunger not even close to being sated.

“So, I’ll see you next week for your fertility examination?”

a/n: hope u all enjoyed this <333. wish i could’ve made it longer but this whole fic took WAYYY too long for me to completely finish 😹😹 again, ty rem for helping me proofread & brainstorm. love you!!!

taglist: @miizuzu @dickktektive @momoewn @beabamboo @ilovemyswlf3

@hazel-babbit @satorus-princess @yuhhh03 @mymoonisgrey @yesdere

@ilperfect @satoblue @all-with-angel @nina-from-317 @httpstoyosi

@forevamsoo @aldebrana @satorusprites @bmorgonzobean @wanna-amani

@mxlktae @lilychan176 @sirencholia @saitamaswifey @zeunys

@dracosangelsworld @emochosoluvr @picoporii @zoeyflower @ehcilhc

@privthemis @kiraflowersworld @naialace @luvleixo @ersvni

@beli-eve-ing @gojowifefrfr @blushedcheri @reactwithjan @surethingmoto

@konatakona @thisiswhereishitpostalot @slightlystressed @casssiesthings @siobhankk

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yeonayearns · 1 month ago

Note

It is CANON while everyone is fighting sukana Gojo HEALS himself. He looks and acts exactly like himself just stronger

It is CANON Gojo heals himself from sukana and lives with NO scars.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself from sukana and lives with NO missing limbs.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself from sukana and lives.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself and comes back with NO missing limbs and NO extra limbs. He comes back EXACTLY as HIMSELF.

It is CANON Gojo is a MAN with TWO eyes and ONE dick and TWO balls.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself after sukuna and is still a MAN with TWO eyes and ONE dick and TWO balls.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself after sukuna and comes back LOOKING and ACTING EXACTLY like HIMSELF. The only difference is he is STRONGER.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself after sukuna and comes back EXACTLY like himself just STRONGER.

It is CANON Gojo heals himself from sukana and lives.

It is CANON Gojo LIVES. He is ALIVE.

It is CANON Gojo LIVES.

the coping is extremely strong with this one 。・゜・(ノД`)・゜・。

#yeonayearns #anonymous

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yeonayearns · 1 month ago

Text

Even though your husband Gojo was not on this world anymore, he was still there, just not visible anymore.

Content: short fic, angst, death, Gojo died while reader was still pregnant, Gojo lost to Sukuna, Gojo just watching over, fluff, reader and Gojo has a daughter

a/n: THE ANGST IS REALLLLL YEEH-OUCH!

When you heard the news that your husband, Gojo, had lost and passed away during the fight with Ryomen Sukuna, you were hit with the instant pain of despair and misery.

Why, why, why did he have to go so soon? When he hasn’t even met his daughter to begin with?

Life is not fair, it never is, and it just got more unfair when he passed. What were you gonna do now? Who was gonna support you during your rough times in pregnancy?

You couldn’t have done it without them, if they weren’t there, you’d be drowning in tears already.

—————

It hurt.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, but before his ghost disappeared from your sight, you heard him saying:

“Keep going, love. Even though I’m not with you physically, I will always be with you spiritually.”

You gasped as you snapped back to your senses, what he said inspired you and got the energy back in, so with all your might..you pushed, pushed..until..

WAHH—WAHH!

You looked up to see the doctors cleaning your baby and wrapping her in a blanket to keep her warm. Oh my, how she looked like Gojo so much, the only difference was she inherited your hair color.

The doctors handed you your daughter after running a few tests saying: “Congratulations, you gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby girl.”

————

3 years later, a lot has changed. Your daughter grew up, and now she is 3 years old! The void in your heart is slowly healing bit by bit as you focused on being more happy.

Today, you took your little girl to her daddy’s grave. She was still very much confused on why you always take her to this place every now and then.

As you were replacing the old wilted flowers with new fresh ones, your daughter tugged at your dress.

“Mama, why do you give that stone some flowers?”

You chuckled, patting her head. “Well, sweetheart, that stone is your papa. I’m replacing the flowers just for him.”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Stone…papa? That stone is not my papa! I only have my mama!”

You smiled softly, placing your hand on her cheek. “Listen, sweetie, do you know why your mummy’s eye color is different from yours?”

Your daughter nodded. “Mhm! Why mama? I always wanted to know!”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, showing her a picture of her papa.

“Because you got the eyes of the person I fell in love with.”

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yeonayearns · 1 month ago

Text

Even though your husband Gojo was not on this world anymore, he was still there, just not visible anymore.

Content: short fic, angst, death, Gojo died while reader was still pregnant, Gojo lost to Sukuna, Gojo just watching over, fluff, reader and Gojo has a daughter

a/n: THE ANGST IS REALLLLL YEEH-OUCH!

When you heard the news that your husband, Gojo, had lost and passed away during the fight with Ryomen Sukuna, you were hit with the instant pain of despair and misery.

Why, why, why did he have to go so soon? When he hasn’t even met his daughter to begin with?

Life is not fair, it never is, and it just got more unfair when he passed. What were you gonna do now? Who was gonna support you during your rough times in pregnancy?

You couldn’t have done it without them, if they weren’t there, you’d be drowning in tears already.

—————

It hurt.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, but before his ghost disappeared from your sight, you heard him saying:

“Keep going, love. Even though I’m not with you physically, I will always be with you spiritually.”

You gasped as you snapped back to your senses, what he said inspired you and got the energy back in, so with all your might..you pushed, pushed..until..

WAHH—WAHH!

You looked up to see the doctors cleaning your baby and wrapping her in a blanket to keep her warm. Oh my, how she looked like Gojo so much, the only difference was she inherited your hair color.

The doctors handed you your daughter after running a few tests saying: “Congratulations, you gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby girl.”

————

3 years later, a lot has changed. Your daughter grew up, and now she is 3 years old! The void in your heart is slowly healing bit by bit as you focused on being more happy.

Today, you took your little girl to her daddy’s grave. She was still very much confused on why you always take her to this place every now and then.

As you were replacing the old wilted flowers with new fresh ones, your daughter tugged at your dress.

“Mama, why do you give that stone some flowers?”

You chuckled, patting her head. “Well, sweetheart, that stone is your papa. I’m replacing the flowers just for him.”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Stone…papa? That stone is not my papa! I only have my mama!”

You smiled softly, placing your hand on her cheek. “Listen, sweetie, do you know why your mummy’s eye color is different from yours?”

Your daughter nodded. “Mhm! Why mama? I always wanted to know!”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, showing her a picture of her papa.

“Because you got the eyes of the person I fell in love with.”

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yeonayearns · 1 month ago

Text

Fists and Feathers

Art by: @_3aem on insta! Feat: Gojo Satoru

Pairing: Boxer!Gojo x Ballerina!reader

Synopsis: On your way to ballet practice, you stumbled upon a man—But oh it wasn’t just any man. You have bumped into Mr. Worldwide famous boxer, Gojo Satoru. You thought it was just a one time thing and there will be no more future encounters, but you were wrong.

word count: 5.5k words for this chapter.

Content: MDNI, fem!reader, no curses AU, smut, slow burn, detailed violence during boxing matches, blood, injuries, some fluff, Gojo calling reader some pet names, swearing, jealous Gojo (in later chapters), mentions of Sukuna

a/n: This idea randomly just popped up in my head while i was writing on another fanfic! Thought it’ll be an interesting dynamic dontcha’ think? ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ I DID NOT PROOFREAD THIS.

Chapter one

You didn’t think your day would end up like this.

You had set multiple alarms to ensure you woke up on time, carefully adjusting your phone and clock the night before. Yet somehow, you managed to overslept and completely miss all the alarms! It’s hard to believe you could sleep through all that. You weren’t even particularly exhausted when you went to bed; you thought a solid night's rest would be refreshing! But now, you find yourself in a rush, going through the consequences of oversleeping. Panic sets in as you realize you’re running late, and the clock is ticking away your precious time.

You rushed everything, from brushing your teeth to packing the things you need for practice. Almost forgetting to pack your ballet attire. Having barely any time left, you stopped by a nearby cafe and ordered a cup of coffee.

You checked your phone on your way to the practice, only to see that you’ve got more than 20 missed calls from your friend in ballet class. Each getting more and more aggressive as you didn’t respond.

“Girl where are you? You’re supposed to be here at exactly 8:00 am!”

“Don’t tell me you overslept AGAIN!”

“Buzz buzz! Practice is about to start in 10 minutes! If you don’t come in time you own me 100 dollars!”

The messages from your friend made you chuckle as you read one by one, until that laughing stops and you looked at the time on your phone—it’s 7:50 am, you’re supposed to be there at 8:00 am!

“Ah fuck, I’m so doomed..” You said, immediately running to the studio now with full adrenaline rushing through your body.

As you hurried down the bustling sidewalk, the world around you seemed to blur with each hurried step. Suddenly, without warning, you crashed into a tall figure, the impact sending your drink flying. The hot liquid splattered across his crisp white shirt, creating a large dark stain that contrasted sharply against his shirt.

You froze for a moment, your heart racing as shock washed over you. Realizing the extent of the mess, you quickly dropped the cup and began frantically patting at the stain, your fingers moving in a flurry of activity as you muttered apologies.

“Jeez I’m so clumsy, I’m so sorry! I’ll pay for it I—“

“No need to overreact, gorgeous,” the man said with a grin. “It’s just a t-shirt; buying 100 of them barely puts a dent in my bank account anyways.”

You looked up in disbelief, your heart racing as you processed the reality of the situation. Standing before you, with his striking blue eyes and tousled white hair, was none other than Gojo Satoru—Mr. Worldwide famous, the boxer known for his incredible skills in the ring and his charm outside of it. It felt surreal to begin with.

“S—Still I’m really sorry for the shirt! I hope the coffee didn’t hurt you since it was still very hot.”

With a slight desperation, you rummaged through your wallet, your fingers brushing against the various bills and cards until you found a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Without a second thought, you pressed it into his hand and took off, heart racing as you dashed away.

Meanwhile, Gojo remained frozen on the spot, his mind awash in confusion as he tried to make sense of the odd encounter. After a moment, he glanced down at the bill resting in his palm, its vibrant colors contrasting with the muted tones of the bustling street around him.

“Huh, what a strange girl,” he murmured, a soft smile curling on his lips. He shook his head, a mixture of amusement and intrigue flickering in his eyes as he watched you disappear into the distance, your figure growing smaller but your impact lingering in the air.

“Now then, where was I supposed to go?” He tucked the 50 dollar bill safely in his wallet.

————————

8:00 pm, you finally arrived at the studio, already sweaty and panting from all the running and the embarrassment on what you just encountered. Your friend immediately ran towards you, aggressively shaking you.

“Girl, i thought you weren’t gonna make it in time! What happened? And why are you so exhausted already? You’re sweating so much that it could fill buckets!”

You took a few minutes to regulate your breathing before explaining what just happened to you.

“I overslept and didn’t have time to make breakfast, so I stopped by a cafe to order coffee and started walking to the studio. I realized I was running out of time and started speeding my way to get on time.”

“So that’s it right?”

“Jeez I wish, I accidentally bumped into someone and spilled my coffee on his shirt—but it wasn’t just any ordinary person..I spilled my drink onto the Gojo Satoru!”

“You spilled your drink onto the GOJO SATOR—Hmm—hmm!”

“Hushh!—Everyone can hear you! I don’t want them to find out that I embarrassed myself infront of the great Gojo Satoru!” You covered her mouth, shutting her loud ass mouth from letting the whole people in the studio hear it.

“Okay, okay, fine I’ll keep it down! Now, how did Gojo react to you spilling your drink on his shirt? He must’ve been furious or something.”

“Actually he was quite calm with it..I’m not sure if he kept it cool so he wouldn’t appear aggressive or mean, but I don’t think it’s like that.”

Your friend was shocked, Gojo not mad about his shirt getting ruined? “What?! He should at least make you pay for his shirt, right?”

“Welll about that..he insisted that I shouldn’t pay for it since he said it was a cheap one.”

“Well you’re lucky today! Cause if you’ve ruined something expensive then you’ll be paying thousands and thousands of dollars!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t make you pay for that much to be honest, but yeah, I am lucky that I didn’t ruin anything expensive.”

“Indeed, now let’s go practice before we’ll get headbutted by our other friends!”

—————————

As you slipped into your attire, the room around you was filled with the sounds of rustling and faint chatter, but your mind was consumed by earlier events. You couldn’t shake the embarrassment of what had happened. You thought back to the moment of collision. The two of you had been moving in different directions, and before you knew it, you had crashed into him. The way his eyes widened in surprise flashed in your mind like a red stop sign, and your heart felt super guilt as the image of his shirt, now forever stained, invaded your thoughts.

“What was I thinking?” you berated yourself. “Seriously, I can’t believe I just did that!”

You could almost feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you recalled his reaction. Sure he was nonchalant and calm about it, but it still got to you. “What if that was one of his favorite shirts?” you questioned, anxiety bubbling up inside you. The thought of him recounting this mortifying incident during an interview, sharing it as a comical anecdote about the weirdest fan encounters, made you cringe even more.

“I’m doomed,” you sighed, burying your face in your hands for a brief moment.

As the practice session began, the usual excitement and adrenaline were replaced by a cloud of distraction. You attempted to warm up, your muscles stretching and shifting in routine motions, but your mind kept drifting back to that embarrassing moment. You couldn’t focus, thoughts spiraling through your mind like a relentless storm. Over and over, you found yourself replaying the incident, your internal monologue a chaotic loop of regret and humiliation.

“Just concentrate,” you urged yourself, but the echoes of that encounter, the anxiety of facing him again, and the fear of what he might say gnawed at you, making it impossible to find peace in the familiar rhythm of practice. You felt a sinking sensation, knowing that until you could shake off the memory, nothing else would matter.

—————————

As soon as you stepped through the door of your home after practice, a wave of exhaustion washed over you. You dropped your bag by the bedroom door. Without a second thought, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face in your pillows.

With your legs kicking in frustration, you let out a muffled scream—part anger, part embarrassment. The scene replayed in your mind like a twisted highlight reel, reminding you of the moment you had accidentally ruined his shirt in front of everyone. The humiliation felt suffocating; knowing that not only did you make a scene, but also that the onlookers had likely been gossiping about it ever since.

To make matters worse, the paparazzi had been lurking nearby, capturing every mortifying second. You could almost hear the click of their cameras as they immortalized your blunder for all to see. The thought of it made your face flush with shame, and you buried your head deeper into the softness of the pillows, wishing you could disappear completely.

“Gosh, I’m so stupid..” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head in exasperation. The weight of the day pressed heavily on your mind, and you decided that maybe a good night's sleep was just what you needed to clear your thoughts. You tugged the blankets up around your shoulders, adjusting the pillows to create a cozy nest, as the soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm light in the room.

But then..

Ring, ring!

Your phone rang. Is it one of your friends? Why is she calling you at this hour? Normally all of you rest after a good day of practice.

So you answered her call, still a bit irritated from your cozy time getting interrupted, you answered the phone grumpily.

You sighed, “Hello?…what’s wrong this time?”

“OH EM GEE! Girl haven’t you heard what the ballet master announced just now?!” She yelled through the phone, it sounds like she was freaking out like crazy.

“Uhm…no I haven’t..What did he announce?”

“He announced that there will be a special guest during our final performance tomorrow!”

“And who could that b—“ You questioned, but got cut off immediately by her.

“THE GOJO SATORU! Don’t believe me? Check the group chat! Mr. Gojo texted our ballet master asking if he could watch tomorrow!”

Time froze just as she finished what she was saying, Gojo, gonna watch the performance tomorrow? Is he insane?!

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Hahaha! No way, you’ve got to be joking! There’s no way he would do that…” Just as you were doubting, yoh checked the group chat, the screen lighting up with an array of messages and images.

As you scrolled through the conversation, it slowly dawned on you that it was all true. The ballet master had shared screenshots of his exchange with Gojo, and one by one, you read through each of them.

“Still..I don’t get it, why does he wanna watch a simple ballet performance? Doesn't he wanna get stronger for the next boxing match?”

“I don’t know either, but that’s just a motivation for us to make more effort during the performance! Who knows..maybe he’s there because he finds one of us gorgeous..eek I bet it’s me!”

You sighed and rolled your eyes by her comment, “Who’s been over feeding your ego and confidence lately?” You then ended the call right there, because you knew she was gonna start being delusional and you didn’t wanna listen to everything she would say that’s not true.

But one question continued to stay in mind, why is he gonna watch tomorrow? You all weren’t that famous for him to stand out from the crowd, and yet he still chose your group.

“Whatever is his reason, I hope he won’t recognize me tomorrow..it would be so awkward if he recognizes me..” You said, getting comfortable in bed before turning off the lights. You stared at the celling before dozing off a few minutes later.

————————

After weeks filled with endless training and countless practice sessions, the day of the final performance had finally arrived. You could feel the mix of excitement and anxiety coursing through your veins, a sensation that lingered in the air. As you stood backstage, the hum of voices and soft music provided a comforting backdrop to your nerves.

You slipped into your costume, a shimmering light blue ballet attire that sparkled under the warm backstage lights. The fabric felt smooth against your skin, each delicate detail enhancing the anticipation you felt for the show ahead. Once dressed, you took a seat at a small vanity, where someone was styling your hair and applying your makeup. You sat still, occasionally glancing at your reflection, feeling both nervous and excited about how you would present yourself on stage.

While waiting for the finishing touches, you distracted yourself by scrolling through your phone, checking messages and photos from rehearsals. Just then, a notification popped up in the group chat from the ballet master. You read the announcement, it said that Mr. Gojo had arrived to watch the performance and was currently seated in the guests’ area.

A wave of anxiety washed over you as you finished reading his announcement. The realization hit you hard: he’s actually going to be watching the performance in person! The thought of him sitting there, witnessing every graceful thing and every movement, sent your heart racing. You could hardly believe it; he’s really going to be there, right in the crowd! The pressure mounted as you imagined all the eyes on you, especially his, and a mix of excitement and nerves churned in your stomach.

At last, the moment arrived when your group was called to take the stage, the air buzzing with anticipation as the last touches were applied to your costumes. You took a deep breath, your heart racing slightly with a mix of excitement and nerves, before walking to your designated position in the dance.

The music began—a soft, enchanting melody that filled the auditorium, setting a graceful tone for the performance as you and your group stepped onto the stage one by one, each showcasing their own unique entrance.

This time, the spotlight shone directly on you, illuminating your path as you became the focal point of the audience's attention. With measured confidence, you took a step forward, embracing the moment. You moved effortlessly into a series of ballet moves, executing an elegant arabesque that stretched your body into a perfect line, followed by a fluid piqué that brought you closer to the edge of the stage. Each movement was executed with precision, the years of training culminating in this singular performance.

Although you maintained keeping your graceful character, you couldn't shake the feeling of an intense gaze penetrating through the soft glow of the lights.

It was a familiar presence, one that sent a surge of adrenaline through you. You instinctively knew who that sharp and intense gaze was coming from.

He sat amongst the crowd, his arms folded across his chest, watching intently as he absorbed every move of your performance. Each shift in your posture, every flicker of emotion, was met with a thoughtful “hm” of approval escaping his lips, followed by a slow nod of his head that signaled his appreciation.

He was supposed to be at the boxing ring, having a revenge match, and yet he found this moment infinitely more engaging, relishing the authenticity of the scene unfolding before him. In the vibrant energy of the crowd, he discovered a thrill that far surpassed the repetitive clang of gloves and the cold sweat of the ring.

As the final performance ended and you made your signature move for the last time, the audience erupted into a chorus of applause and cheers, a thunderous appreciation that filled the air. You and your group bowed together, the feeling of relief as you turned to face the crowd one last time, waving goodbye to the crowd.

A wave of relief washed over you as you stepped off the stage, finally free from the weight of his piercing gaze that had seemingly followed you throughout the entire performance. It felt as though each glance was like a dagger, sharp and intense, stealing your focus and making it difficult to fully immerse yourself in the dance.

Once backstage, you were granted a brief reprieve, a few precious minutes to catch your breath and revel in the afterglow of your hard work. It wasn't long, however, before the ballet master made his way to you and your group, his face beaming with a mix of pride and admiration as he congratulated everyone on a job well done. His presence was always commanding, but today he seemed more animated than usual, the excitement palpable as he praised your collective efforts.

Yet, there was something more to his visit than just congratulating. The ballet master suddenly turned his attention solely to you, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. He requested a private conversation, and after a moment’s hesitation, you agreed, curiosity piqued. He led you to a quiet corner of the backstage area where the noise of the audience faded into the background, creating an intimate space for the two of you.

“You were AMAZING today,” he began, his voice low and encouraging. “You had everyone’s jaws dropping, especially Gojo’s.” His mention of Gojo sent a jolt through you—your mind racing. The ballet master paused, gauging your reaction, then continued, “Oh, and speaking of Gojo… he’s been asking to speak with you, privately.”

The unexpected news left you utterly taken aback. First, he had shown up to watch your performance. Second, it became clear he had been watching you intently throughout. And now, he wanted to talk to you? What is happening to your life right now?!

He...wants to talk to me? Of all the people he could choose from? But why?” You felt a swirl of confusion and disbelief flooding your mind.

“I can’t say for certain,” He replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But you’ll have to find out for yourself. Don’t waste any more time—he doesn’t have all day.”

You took a deep breath and nodded, trying to steady your racing heart as you began to walk towards the designated spot. Each step made you feel more and more nervous, the tension in your stomach twisted tighter. The fact that a famous boxer, wanted to have a private conversation with you sent a wave of anxiety coursing through your veins.

What could he possibly want to discuss? The thought raced through your mind unbidden. Had he recognize you from before? Images of that encounter flooded your thoughts, and you felt a flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks.

Oh God, please don’t let it be that! Anything but that stupid encounter! You couldn't shake off the feeling that this moment could change everything, and with each passing second, the anticipation twisted into a knot of unease that settled heavy in your chest.

Once you went outside, you saw dozens of paparazzi surrounding someone, and you knew that was him getting surrounded by them. Jeez, must be hard dealing with crazy paparazzi and fans every single day.

As the crowd continued to surround him, he caught a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye. With subtle movements, he signaled for you to move to the bathroom, hoping to escape the chaotic crowd. It was clear he wanted a moment alone to talk.

Understanding him, you made your way to the bathroom until you finally reached it. Once inside, you paused for a moment, taking in the quiet that contrasted sharply with the noise outside. He can he handle all that? You would’ve go insane if you were him.

After a few minutes, the door creaked open, and a figure stepped in, his face mostly covered by a face mask and hat. It was obviously a disguise.

With ease, he lowered his face mask, then peeled off his black cap, and finally removed his sunglasses in one fluid motion. When he revealed his identity, your heart raced. There, standing before you, was none other than the famous Gojo Satoru—the same exact person who seemed to desire a private conversation with you.

His striking white hair framed his angular face, and his bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief and charm. You found yourself momentarily speechless, overwhelmed by his presence. There was an undeniable charisma about him, and you couldn't ignore how incredibly handsome he was.

“Ah, ah, what’s up? No need to stay frozen forever, little dove,” he said with a playful grin. You blinked just once, and then suddenly—he closed the gap between you, his face now mere centimeters from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

You instinctively brought your hands up to create distance, gently pushing his face away as you backed off slightly. Laughter escaped your lips, tinged with nervousness, your cheeks flushed. Why was he so close for?!

“O—Oh! Yeah, I know that…” you stuttered, trying to regain your composure amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

“Oh yeah! Right..why did you wanna talk to me?” You got straight to the point. You just wanna get out of here and scream in your pillows out of embarrassment.

“Straight to the point huh? Well, I just wanted to say that your performance was utterly amazing. That’s a nice way to avenge my shirt.” He grinned, that stupid genuine crooked grin..

“W—What?! I mean uhm..I wasn’t the one who spilled a drink on your shirt! Probably got the wrong person..” You tried to deny, flailing your arms and you tried to act dumb, knowing full well that he wasn’t gonna believe your silly act.

“Don’t act dumb, dove, I still recognize you from before.”

“Okay, okay, you got me! But you weren’t bothered by it, so what’s the big deal?”

“Nothing, actually, I just wanted to return the 50 dollar bill you gave me yesterday.” He said, pulling out the same crumpled 50 dollar bill.

”Ehh? You wanted to talk to me just for that..?” You raised an eyebrow, you were worrying about nothing this whole time!

“No scolding, no anger..?” You continued, tilting your head as you hesitantly took back the bill.

“Pff..who would be mad over a ruined shirt? It’s not like it’s the only one I have in my closet. I mostly just go around the house shirtless.” He bragged.

“That last part wasn’t necessary by the way..”

“Yeah I know, just wanted to say it.” He smirked. “You still gotta repay me somehow, paying for the shirt is so plain.”

“And how should I pay back the thing that I did?”

“It’s simple! You can treat me to a meal or drink..a cafe sounds good..” He rubbed his chin as he started babbling ideas.

“A meal or drink? Can’t you afford like..dozens of those?”

“You’re right, but I wanted to get to know you more, soo why not get a drink together at the cafe?”

“I’d love to but..won’t the people go nuts again if they saw you in the cafe, especially with another girl?”

“That’s not a problem, wanna know why? Because I have my own private cafe with professional baristas and everything. I usually stay there after a match to relax.”

“Really? You’d let me go there?!” Your jaw dropped and your eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Of course, so you’re down for it or what?”

“Hell yeah! But..don’t you have a boxing match with Sukuna tomorrow?”

“I do, but that’s not gonna be a problem as well. You can watch the match tomorrow, in the meantime..why not exchange numbers to text each other?” He pulled out his phone, typing the password before opening the contacts app.

“Exchange numbers..? Okay then.” You smiled softly and also gave your phone to him as you took his.

After exchanging phone numbers, the two of you engaged in some light-hearted conversation, sharing a few laughs. Eventually, as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow around you, you both realized it was time to say goodbye—for now. With a promise to text each other later, you parted ways—for now.

—————————

It was currently 9:30 pm, you’ve just finished changing into your pajamas and doing your skincare. That’s when you got a notification, it was Gojo! The message was:

“Finally I found your contact, took me minutes to find you through my contacts because you didn’t put your name on there. (-᷅_-᷄๑)”

The message brought a smile to your face and a small chuckle escaped your lips. Is this truly how the strong famous boxer texts? You replied to him:

“My bad, I forgot to label my name there. I’m surprised how you managed to guess!”

“Gave me a headache ya know? I got quite the embarrassment while looking for your contact..had to text multiple people in my contacts with no name as well..”

“Oh really? And what did they say?”

“They got really confused, some were just freaking out that I texted them and thought that I was gonna giveaway some gold bar to them or sell them tickets to VIP seating.. (¬_¬)”

That message got you laughing, you found it funny how some people thought that he was gonna pull a random giveaway just like a famous youtuber.

“Ahahaha for real?! They thought you were gonna give them a suitcase filled with money like those youtube videos?”

“Pffft yeah…they got too excited and started spamming my notifications..had to block them..”

He then continued, “So moving on..what are you doing right now? It’s pretty late at night.”

“Oh, I just finished changing into my pajamas and was about to head right to bed until you suddenly texted me.”

“Ah so I interrupted you from going to sleep? My apologies then! ( ；´Д｀)”

“There’s no need to say sorry, Gojo! It’s not like I was even that sleepy or anything.”

“Alright then..also..call me Satoru! People rarely call me by my first name..Gojo this..Gojo that..Should start saying my first name..”

“As you wish then..Satoru..”

“That’s the spirit! I don’t wanna keep you awake for too long, so I’ll get straight to the point—You should arrive before the match starts..don’t wanna be late and waste your front seat right?”

Your eyes widened in shock, you can have the front seat?! This is too good to be true, “Got it..i promise I’ll get there by 8:00 am.”

“Alright then, don’t run late again and spill your drink on someone else’s shirt okay? Night night! (^_−)−☆”

As soon as the notification came through, his active status on your messaging app turned a dull shade of grey, signaling that he was offline. With a heavy sigh, you set your phone down gently on the wooden surface of your desk. Your gaze drifted upward to the ceiling, your mind was racing with thoughts and emotions that felt almost too overwhelming to grasp.

Tomorrow was gonna be a chaotic day – you were going to witness him step into the ring against the renowned boxer Ryomen Sukuna, a name that sent shivers through the boxing community. The excitement of the upcoming match sent jolts of adrenaline through you, but it was the promise of heading to his private café afterward that had your heart racing even more. It felt surreal to be honest. The quiet moments you would share following the chaos of the fight lingered in your mind, a warm contrast to the impending action.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that so much to unfold in just twenty-four hours. Every scenario played out like a movie reel in your head, each thought amplifying your anxiety and excitement. It kept you tossing and turning in your bed as you tried to sleep.

————————

The annoying beeping sound of your alarm clock jolted you awake, piercing through the haze of barely any sleep you had managed to scrape together. You rubbed your eyes, the weight of tiredness pressing down on you as you fought the urge to sink back into the comfort of your bed, which almost made you give up. With a sigh, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and pushed yourself up.

The cool air hit your skin as you padded to the bathroom, where the warm, cascading water of the shower offered much to wake you up. As the steam enveloped you, the warmth worked its magic, easing some of the tension from your shoulders and helping to wash away the remnants of sleep. After what felt like an age spent under the soothing flow, you finally stepped out and dried off, feeling a bit more alert.

Choosing your outfit for the day, you reached for a simple, white shirt, pairing it with sleek black pants that added a touch of effortless to your look. The ensemble was understated yet polished, perfect for whatever the day might throw at you.

By the time the clock struck 7:30 am, your phone buzzed with a familiar ping. It was Gojo again, checking in:

“Don’t keep me waiting, dove..hope to see you in the crowd in a few minutes! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”

You sighed and shook your head, those emojis are really making his chatting style unique and silly in its own way. You finished eating the toast and made your way to the building the boxing match will take place in.

You managed to arrive on time, squeezing through the crowd to sit down at your designated seat. You’re lucky that you got a seat to the front, all thanks to him.

After waiting for a few minutes, you saw Gojo making his way inside the ring, along with Sukuna, his opponent for the match. Gojo immediately caught your eye, he was wearing his boxing gloves and navy blue shorts. He was already pretty sweaty, probably was warming up before the match started.

The referee stood in the center of the arena, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before he raised the whistle to his lips. After a tense few minutes of anticipation, he finally blew the whistle, signaling the official start of the game. A wave of excitement surged through you as you cheered for Gojo, your heart filled with hope that he could emerge victorious against Sukuna, who was also strong.

Each time Gojo took a hit, you flinched, your pulse quickening in response to the intensity of the match. You felt a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach, making it almost unbearable to watch the fierce exchanges unfolding in front of you. The stakes felt incredibly high, and every blow landed sent a shockwave of worry through you, leaving you torn between the desire to support Gojo and the impulse to look away from the brutal match.

As the final rounds ticked away, the intensity of the boxing match reached its peak. The atmosphere was tense, the crowd roaring with anticipation. You glanced over at Gojo, his body covered in bruises. He was bent forward, chest heaving as he gasped for breath, the sweat glistening on his forehead under the bright lights of the venue.

Finally, the referee stepped forward, his expression grave yet authoritative. With a decisive motion, he raised Gojo's hand high above his head. The moment felt suspended in time as the crowd erupted into cheers, full of excitement and relief echoing all around. Gojo had done it—against all odds, he had won! The validation of his hard work and determination washed over you as you watched him bask in the glory of victory, a smile breaking through the exhaustion plastered on his face. He had won; he had actually won!

As the medical team started treating him, you felt a surge of excitement as you made your way towards him. You wanted to share your congratulations on his impressive victory in the match.

Just as you were about to reach him, you were jolted out of your thoughts when someone abruptly bumped into you. Startled, you looked up, and to your surprise, you found yourself face-to-face with Sukuna, the same guy Gojo fought with just now. His intense gaze right at you, and the tension in the air shifted as you processed who he was. Your mind raced, why do you keep bumping into men?!

“Watch where you’re going, my body is still sore, brat.” He said, quite annoyed at you.

“Oh I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to purposely bump into you! Did I hit some of your injuries? Like here?” You instinctively started apologizing while trying to make sure you didn’t make his injuries worse, putting your hands on his body.

As you were doing that, Gojo finished getting all bandaged up. He was looking around the venue, and saw you, but you weren’t alone. You were interacting with a guy, what’s worse is it was his fellow long time opponent. Ryomen Sukuna.

The water bottle he was holding was crunched brutally with his grip intensing.

Fuck, what is he feeling right now? Is this—

—Jealousy?

———————-

YeonaYearns 2025, do not repost on any platforms.

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