if you don't like this type of content feel free to block me, i don't mind that, but don't comment how you dont like this :)
The fluorescent lights of the Jujutsu High administrative office hummed low and steady, casting their sterile glow across the stacks of mission reports, expense forms, and incident logs that had accumulated over the past week.
Kento Nanami sat at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cup of cold coffee resting beside his elbow as he methodically worked through the pile. His pen moved with practiced efficiency, signing off on completed missions, flagging anomalies, writing brief observations in his neat, compact handwriting.
He'd sent the other staff home hours ago.
But here you still sat, at the small desk across from his, hunched over a stack of paperwork that wasn't technically your responsibility. You'd offered to help. Insisted, actually, when you'd seen him still working past eight o'clock. And he'd let you stay—against his better judgment—because the truth was that your presence made the monotony of administrative work slightly more bearable.
"You should go home," he said, not looking up from the form he was reviewing. It was the fourth time he'd said it over the past hour.
"I'm almost done with these," you replied, your voice soft, almost swallowed by the quiet of the empty office. You flipped a page, read through a field report, filed it in the correct folder.
Nanami finally lifted his gaze, watching you work. You were diligent. Careful. A little slow, but thorough. He'd noticed that about you during your missions together—the way you double-checked your cursed energy output, the way you ensured barrier techniques were properly sealed before moving on. Attention to detail that reminded him of himself, years ago.
He drained the last of his coffee. Cold. Bitter. He didn't mind.
"You don't have to stay late just because I'm here."
You looked up, meeting his eyes for only a second before glancing away. "I want to help."
His jaw tightened slightly. That earnestness. That genuine desire to be useful. It did something to him that he didn't care to examine too closely.
He returned to his paperwork, and the office fell back into comfortable silence, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the occasional scratch of pen on paper.
An hour later, you were struggling to keep your eyes open.
Nanami noticed. Of course he noticed. He'd been acutely aware of every small movement you made for the past three hours—the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way you bit your lower lip when concentrating, the way your eyelids grew heavier with each passing minute.
He set his pen down.
"That's enough for tonight."
You blinked, straightening in your chair. "I can finish—"
"No." His voice was firm but not unkind. "You're exhausted. Go home, get some rest. The rest can wait until morning."
You started to protest, but a yawn escaped before you could stop it, and the argument died on your lips. You looked almost embarrassed, and Nanami found the expression… endearing.
He stood, walking around his desk to where you sat. He was tall from this angle, broad-shouldered, the dim light casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face.
"Stand up," he said, and there was something in his tone that made your stomach tighten.
You obeyed.
He was closer than you'd realized. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and understated, bergamot and cedar. Close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw.
"Nanami-san—"
"You work too hard," he said, his voice lower now. "You always volunteer for extra duties. Stay late. Take on burdens that aren't yours to carry."
You swallowed. "I just want to be useful."
"I know." His hand came up, and for a moment you thought he might touch your face. But he stopped, his fingers hovering near your cheek, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn't.
"I know," he repeated, and there was something dark flickering in his eyes now. Something that didn't belong in this quiet office with its fluorescent lights and stacks of paperwork. "But being useful isn't the same as being used."
His fingers brushed your cheek, featherlight.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're too trusting?"
Your breath hitched. "Nanami-san—"
"I'm not going to hurt you." His thumb traced along your jawline, tilting your face up slightly. "But I want you to understand what you're offering when you stay late like this. When you look at me like you're looking for approval."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His voice was gentle, almost disappointed. "You see me as someone safe. Someone reliable. A figure of authority who will protect you."
He wasn't wrong, and the truth of it made your cheeks burn.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again, his hand dropping to your shoulder, fingers curling against the fabric of your blouse. "But I'm also not as safe as you think I am."
The air between you had changed. Become charged. Heavy with something unspoken.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, "and I will."
You should have. Every rational part of your brain screamed that you should step back, make an excuse, leave before this crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
But you didn't.
Instead, you leaned into his touch, and Nanami's resolve cracked.
His mouth met yours, and it wasn't gentle.
It was demanding, possessive, a stark departure from the controlled professionalism he maintained during work hours. His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss until you were breathless.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them.
"Walk away." he said, his voice rough.
You couldn't have moved if you wanted to.
He saw the answer in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—a hunger that had been carefully contained, now unleashed.
He didn't bother with the desk. He lifted you onto it, without a second thought, stepping between your legs as his hands found your waist. "This isn't going to be sweet," he warned, his lips brushing your ear. "I've held back for months. Watched you work. Watched you smile. Watched you trust me."
His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher.
"Do you have any idea what I've wanted to do to you?"
You shook your head, breath coming in short gasps.
"Good," he said, and there was something almost cruel in the way he smiled. "I want to show you."
He was methodical in his undressing of you, just as he was with everything else. Button by button. Layer by layer. His hands were steady, deliberate, never rushing even as your skin flushed beneath his touch.
When you were bare before him, seated on the edge of his desk, he stepped back to look at you. The fluorescent light caught the sheen of your skin, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively.
"Look at you," he murmured, and there was genuine wonder in his voice. "So eager. So willing. Do you even know what you're asking for?"
"I trust you," you whispered, and the words seemed to affect him more than any provocative gesture could.
His expression flickered, something raw and vulnerable beneath the composure, before he schooled it back into control.
"That," he said, his voice rough, "is exactly why I shouldn't do this."
But he was already unbuckling his belt.
He took his time with you.
His hands mapped every inch of your body, learning the places that made you gasp, the places that made you arch into him, the places that made you whimper his name.
"Nanami-san—please—"
"Please what?" His fingers slid through your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance without entering. "Use your words. I want to hear you say it."
"I want—I need—"
"You need what?"
Your hips bucked against his hand, seeking friction, seeking more, but he held you still with a firm grip on your hip.
"I need you inside me," you finally gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush of embarrassment and desperation.
"Good girl," he purred, and the praise sent a jolt of heat straight through you. "That's all you had to say."
He entered you slowly, deliberately, watching your face as you stretched around him, your mouth falling open, your eyes fluttering closed. He was thick, and he filled you in a way that felt almost overwhelming, stretching you to a point just shy of pain.
"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes snapped open. "I want to see your face when I fuck you."
He set a pace that was punishing. Hard. Each thrust drove the breath from your lungs, the desk creaking beneath you, papers scattering to the floor. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, and some distant part of you knew you'd have marks tomorrow.
"That's it," he growled, his rhythm unrelenting. "Take it. Take all of it."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned—a low, guttural sound that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You feel incredible," he said, his voice strained. "Tight. Hot. So fucking perfect around my cock."
His hand found your clit, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts, and the dual stimulation pushed you toward the edge faster than you'd expected.
"N-Nanami-san—I'm close—"
He pressed harder, faster, driving into you with a desperation that belied his usual control. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
And you did, your orgasm crashing through you in waves, your walls clenching around him, your cries filling the empty office.
He followed moments later, his hips stuttering, a low groan escaping his lips as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he rode out the aftershocks.
He pulled out, and before you could process the loss, he was lifting you off the desk, turning you around, bending you over it so your palms rested flat against the cool surface.
You heard the rustle and then he was pressing into you from behind, a different angle, deeper, reaching places that made you gasp.
His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently.
"You're so responsive," he murmured against your ear. "So sensitive. I love the sounds you make."
His thrusts were slower now, deeper, more deliberate. He was savouring it, drawing out each movement, making you feel every inch of him.
"Look how well you take me," he said, his voice carrying that dark satisfaction. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."
Your knees were trembling, your arms barely holding you upright. The desk edge dug into your hips, the slick sounds of your bodies meeting filled the air, and you were so overstimulated, so sensitive, that every touch sent sparks across your nerves.
"Nanami-san—I can't—"
"You can," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You can take one more for me. You've been so good. So perfect. Just one more."
His hand slid around to your front, finding your clit again, working you with a precision that bordered on cruel.
"That's it," he praised as you moaned. "That's my good girl. Let go for me."
You shattered again, your body convulsing around him, and he followed you over the edge with a groan, his grip on your hip tightening as he spent himself.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of breathing.
Nanami pulled out carefully, and you felt the absence of him like a physical ache. He helped you straighten, his hands gentle now, and you turned to face him, your legs unsteady, your mind a haze of pleasure and exhaustion.
He looked at you—dishevelled, flushed, thoroughly ruined—and something possessive flickered in his eyes.
"You should go home," he said, but his voice was softer now. "I'll finish the paperwork."
You nodded, reaching for your clothes, your hands still trembling.
He helped you dress. Buttoned your blouse with patient fingers. Straightened your skirt. Ran his thumb across your lower lip.
"You did so well tonight," he said quietly. "I'm proud of you."
And it was that—that paternal note, that proud—that made you say it.
"Thank you, Dad."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Your eyes went wide. Your face flushed crimson. Your mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Nanami went still.
The silence stretched, unbearable, and you wanted to disappear. To sink through the floor. To rewrite the past five seconds with any other combination of words in any language.
"I—I didn't—I'm sorry—"
But when you looked at him, his expression wasn't one of disgust or anger.
It was something far more dangerous.
He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit the wall.
"Say that again."
"What? No—I didn't mean—"
"I said," he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that made your knees weak, "say it again."
You shook your head, mortified, but he trapped you against the wall, his body pressed against yours, his hand tilting your chin up.
Your breath caught.
"All that trust," he murmured. "All that obedience. Looking at me like I'm someone who'll take care of you." His teeth grazed your earlobe. "And now I know why."
"I'm sorry—I don't actually think of you as—"
"Don't lie to me." His hand tightened on your chin. "Not after I've been inside you."
The bluntness of it made you gasp.
"You called me Dad," he said slowly, savouring the word, "because some part of you sees me that way. Someone safe. Someone in charge. Someone who praises you. Corrects you. Takes care of you."
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.
"And now you've let me corrupt that, haven't you?"
There was no judgment in his voice. Only dark, hungry fascination.
"I want to hear you say it again," he said. "When I'm fucking you. I want to hear you call me that while you come apart on my cock."
Your face burned, but your body responded to his words in ways you couldn't control.
He saw it. He felt it, your body pressing against his.
"One more round," he said, his hand sliding down to grip your ass. "And this time, I want to hear it."
He took you against the wall.
Harder than before. Rougher. His hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, his voice in your ear whispering a stream of praise and degradation that blurred together until you couldn't tell which was which.
"Such a good girl," he groaned, driving into you. "Letting your father figure fuck you in the office. Letting him fill you up and use you."
The words should have repulsed you. They should have snapped you back to reality, made you push him away.
Instead, they made you clench around him, made you moan into his palm, made you come with a broken sob that was half pleasure and half shame.
"I want to hear it," he growled as you pulsed around him. "Say it."
"N-Nanami—"
"I want to hear what you called me."
You shook your head, tears pricking at your eyes, but he thrust deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and the pleasure was too much, the pressure too great—
"Dad—"
The word came out broken, desperate.
He came, his release hot inside you, his body shuddering against yours as the word you've spoken seemed to echo in the empty office.
When he stilled, he stayed buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged.
"That's going to be our secret," he said quietly. "No one else will ever know what you call me when I'm inside you."
You should have felt disgusted. Ashamed.
But all you felt was his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear, his voice gentle when he said, "You did so well. I'm so proud of you."
And you leaned into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight.
He drove you home that night.
Neither of you spoke much in the car, but his hand found yours across the center console, and he held it the entire way.
When he pulled up to your apartment, he killed the engine and walked you to your door.
"Get some rest," he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I'll handle the paperwork."
"Nanami-san—"
"Kento," he corrected. "I think we're past formalities."
You smiled, small and tired, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep well," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
And as you watched him walk back to his car, you couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow would bring—and whether you'd be able to look him in the eye without remembering the way he'd said good girl while buried deep inside you or the way you'd called him dad while he had came inside of you.
I don't know if it's that good or not it is a little rushed though!! also i got done with my exams, that was the reason i couldn't post anything.. (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
Anyways, THANK YOU FOR 56 FOLLOWERS, haha i wanted to say this cause, damn i didn't know you all liked the Satoru Gojo one this much („• ֊ •„) i know what you are (lol)
I'd love to take requests and my asks are always open^^ feel free to repost and comment, i appreciate it, tysm again!! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜ i love you all
𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 🌷♡ ͏͏ is fighting demons while you hump his thigh in your sleep.
♡. 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓫. older clanhead!satoru :: age gap (40s/20s) :: arranged marriage :: smut :: wet dreams :: satoru's fighting a losing battle
⊹ ꒰ 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 ꒱ ⊹
"Are you scared I'll pop your hip if you let me bounce on it?"
You chirped one day during breakfast.
He choked up his mouthful of rice. Hacked with tears in his eyes while you had the audacity to rub smooth circles on his back. Hellish minx with your hands softer than heaven.
Satoru was the strongest, and you tested all forty four years of that strength.
"You are actually going to kill me," he grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Your eyes glimmered. "You've got a hefty life insurance, rightttt?"
Never in his life had it been so hard to fight a smile. You were something else. A demon and a doe, placed into his scarred hands.
You were all he was looking for and everything that he shouldn't want, even three months into your marriage.
Every day, you chipped away at a new section of his sanity. Made his slowly failing hormones surge and erect. Ahem, in more ways than one.
It was the way you spoke to him. Silk and smooth.
The way you batted those bratty, bambi eyes at him.
The way you flaunted that pretty body of yours. Teases of skin with your kimono dipped below your shoulder. Or the towel you'd prance around in the room with, agonisingly slowly as you went about your morning routine.
Yeah. Satoru had accepted that he was married to a crazy girl. A young girl. Who looked like she was a second closer every day to jumping his bones and giving him more wrinkles in his thighs.
To say he didn't fantasise about it would be a lie. Satoru thought about the things he could do to your soft, tender body more times than he'd like to admit.
Were you all big talk? Would you crumble the second his worn hands slipped between your thighs?
Would you be able to take him at all?
Guess that's a thought that'll remain just that. A thought. A guilty fantasy he'll condemn himself for until the day he closes his eyes.
After much whining and those puppy eyes that his infinity had no chance against, he loosened up enough to cuddle you. Hold you through the night when you curled into him and tucked yourself under his chin like a cat. You sure were as mischievous as one.
But in your sleep, without those damning eyes and pretty smiles, Satoru could admire you without the threat of a vein popping. Or a stroke. Or a heart attack.
The tender slopes of your face. The gentleness of your brows. The softness of your lips. Angelic. You were angelic.
Well, when you weren't trying to hump his thigh.
Somewhere in the dead of dawn. On a day the gods decided to test his every ounce of patience, Satoru awoke to the softest, sweetest sound.
A moan.
Groggily, his eyes fluttered open. Halfway through a stir when he heard it again—
"toru."
His stare shot down. Hands already on your waist and a scold rising to his tongue.
Only to see that you were fast asleep.
Brows twitched in a small pinch. Face blotched in the darkness. Lips parted. Your fingers curled into him while your hips rolled in a stuttered rhythm.
He took a breath. Then two. Three. Enough for him to catch up to what was happening.
You were dreaming.
"Mm. . . Satoruuuu."
Worse, you were dreaming about him.
Stewing in guilty pleasure, Satoru watched for a selfish moment. Your scrunched up face. Your hips rutting on his haphazardly.
His breath lodged in his throat.
A damp spot bloomed on his thigh.
Fuck.
He grit his teeth. Summoned all his strength. Squeezed his eyes shut and said every affirmation under the sun.
I will not touch my wife who's half my age.
I will not help her horny dream self.
I will not drive myself crazy with her sweet moans.
I will not be tempted by her little wet pussy on my— NO.
He gulped. Hard. Glaring to the ceiling as he fought off demons while you humped him like a rabbit in heat.
Eventually, he found the strength to grip your waist. To stop you. More importantly, the strength to not pull you over his crotch and grind up into that sweet cunt.
Your moans stirred into whimpers. Stirred into shudders. Your bucking hips slowing until they laid motionless.
Peace.
Or well, as much peace as he could have with a heavy, hot throb between his thighs.
This was a comic. Fucking. Joke.
There you were. Sleeping soundly with a content smile on your face. Like your wetness wasn't smeared on his thigh and you weren't humping the hell out of his leg just a moment afo. Looking as beautiful as you were damning.
Fuck. He was gonna lose his mind.
Sucking in a breath, Satoru slowly unwinded his limbs from yours. Slipping away before he broke all of his vows. Not tonight. Not ever.
Even through the ice cold shower, he was staring at his pulsing erection. Refusing to go down. Standing high at attention.
He almost wanted to slap it.
Slap himself.
Slap whatever divine force brought him here. Strung him between all of his morals, and his sweet young wife.
"Toru?" Your petal voice called out.
He groaned. Slumping his head against the tiles. Oh yeah. You were gonna give him a stroke.
a = aftercare: by the time suguru is done with you you’re out like a light, he’s still sweating on top of you, trying to slide himself out of you but your walls keep him locked in.
he’ll finally pull out and wipe you down then put you on his chest, watching you sleep until he eventually dozes off.
b = boobs: suguru loves your boobs and the way that they fill his hand, how hard and reactive your nipples get when he rubs them and how they feel in his mouth when he’s covering them in hickies and spit.
c = cunt: suguru gets your cunt soaked. he likes when you wear tiny things that your messy cunt messes up in just an hour because of the way he teases you.
d = dick: his dick is 7 inches hard with a nice girth. its not too wide but not small either, you can feel it in your stomach when he has you face down ass up taking it in back to back strokes, no 5 second breaks. when he pulls out hes back in a second, touching every little spot that turns you into a sprinkler.
e = experience: suguru has a lot of experience which brings you pleasure that you've never got before.
f = forcing : he likes forcing you to take his dick. suguru taught you well, he knows you can take it and make him cum in under five minutes if you really put your mind to it and work your throat the way he told you too while the tears in your eyes burned and poured every few seconds.
g = gagging : suguru loves when you gag on his dick, the bubbles from your saliva building up on his dick and your throating tightening around the head of it every time he bucked his hips into you. his hand on the back of your head making sure you don’t breathe until you make him finish.
h = hair : he makes sure you use his hair as a handle when he’s in between your soft thighs. moaning every time you pull it when his tongue runs over your clit making your body tense from the intensity, tugging harder and harder each time.
i = intimacy : suguru loves taking care of you. he makes sure every time he’s touching you he does it softly, he is never letting thing go fast, he takes things slow. softly kissing in between your tits all the way down to your pussy, light touches all around.
j = jerking off : every time his hand wraps around his dick his mind drifts to you every single time, your pretty face and the way you smell, your laugh when he tells a corny joke. sometimes he can’t help himself and does it three times in a row, letting his cum coat his hand.
k = kinks : suguru is very open minded, a few of his kinks are - bondage, impact play, voyeurism, breeding, cum eating, edging.
l = lewd : the sounds that come from your pussy when he’s sliding in and out of you is a sound that suguru wishes to listens to every time he’s trying to relax or when he’s doing errands.
m = morning : the morning after is always the best because he gets to go another round when you’re freshly waked, softly spreading your thighs and eating you out first, taking his time with you making sure to savor the taste.
n = nudes : suguru has a folder full of your nudes, looking at them every day and every night with a hand in his pants his eyes glued to the screen and his tip leaking down his shaft, all of it just for you.
o = orgasm : the orgasms he gets with you feels like ten in one. he spasms a little while his eyes get heavy and his dick gets stiff. it all comes crashing down at him at once, tightening his grip on you to make you stay, making him ride it out.
p = pearl necklace : when you’re on your knees staring up at suguru eager for his cum he doesnt waste time giving it to you especially since you’re so good for him, letting his warm cum fall on your chest, slowly stroking himself teasing you.
q = quickie : suguru goes out of his way not to have quick fucks because he wants to savor and feel you but the adrenaline he gets when you’re bent over taking it in a bathroom at a restaurant is unmatched.
r = raw : he doesn’t like fucking you with a condom, it’s too much of a barrier. he wants to feel the warm slickness coating his dick when you squirt.
s = squirt : suguru knows how to work his mouth and fingers, he knew how to eat pussy before knowing how to properly fuck. so when he made you squirt for the first time he got greedy for it. all he wanted every time he was between those thighs is for you to make an unapologetic mess right on his face.
t = tempting: he can’t hold back when it comes to you. he knows you put on certain things to make him lose his mind but he cant even sit with that feeling because all he wants to do is take it off.
u = united : whenever he is inside of you he feels united. like he’s fucking you for the first time after a month of not seeing each other when in reality he fucked you last night. that’s the beauty of it and the way he sees you, you always feel like the first time he was inside of you.
v = voluptuous : he loves your body and how your bodies mold together, like you were made for each other. the way your ass jiggles when he has you on all fours, your curves and how beautiful they are, his fingers sinking into your soft thighs.
w = wild : his hair gets wild after sex, leaving you to fix it if it gets really crazy. laying in between your legs while you gently brush out the knots that formed.
x = x rated : this page is x rated, just like when suguru picks you up and fucks you against the wall… that’s x rated.
y = yummy : suguru’s cum is not off putting, not too salty or bitter, that’s why you prefer when its in your mouth, because it actually tastes good.
z = zzz : after getting you cleaned up hes out fast after sex. holding you in his arms and breathing in your scent.
꒰private party꒱ or boyfriend!satoru taking care of you after drinking too much
༺ fluff; comfort
༺ requested by anon! i hope you enjoy it ᢉ𐭩
"All right, that's enough for you princess"
Your boyfriend's words reach your ears, but you're struggling to focus on them. Everything just feels so far away, a little hazy even, and somehow… funny?
You're not sure why, but you feel yourself giggling as you see Satoru's big hand reach across the table like a snake, your eyes squinting in inebriated curiosity, before noticing its coming right for the bottle resting between the two of you.
Somehow, you're faster – snapping it away before your boyfriend could get there, and the way Satoru sighs suggests this might not have been his first failed attempt.
You hold the cold glass to your chest with a hiss, hugging it like you were a koala and this bottled beer was a tree – one that mean Satoru was trying to deprive you of.
"Give it here, pretty" he calls to you with an open palm, in that sing songy tone that makes your cheeks warm. To be fair to Satoru, his voice is very convincing, and you feel yourself leaning towards it with a soft smile.
But then his big hand reaches again, and you turn your body away instinctively. Even though this was your… sixth bottle? Seventh? Who knew at this point.
All you knew was that beer good.
"No" you growl, the word coming out all slurred despite being only a monosyllable.
Satoru finally stands up, deciding this was getting serious. He puts two hands up like he was approaching a wild animal, taking slow little steps towards you while you tried to bring the bottle to your lips again and–
Oh.
It was empty.
"Nooo" you slur again with a sad pout, turning the bottle upside down and shaking it lazily to see if any droplets of golden liquid will drop.
No luck.
"What a shame" Satoru sighs, trying to hide his amused smirk and finally settling next to you. You had been so distracted by the sheer disappointment you didn't even notice him get so close. "Might be a sign, sweetheart" he nods dramatically, brushing a thumb just above your knee to help ground you.
A slight blush creeps up the tips of his ears when you turn to him with that sad expression, his smile faltering just slightly while he clicks his tongue and smooths down your hair.
"But we–hic–were having so much fun" you complain, leaning into his caresses.
And it's true, you were!
Only a few hours ago your boyfriend had suggested you turn a cozy night in into a private party for two – but some drinking games and far too much alcohol later, you couldn't even remember the trip to the nearest store where you both practically raided their fridge.
Beer bottles, canned cocktails… all empty vessels now thrown around the living room, reminding you there was a very painful hangover waiting the next morning.
So why would you want the night to end?!
"I know sweetheart, I know" Satoru hums, starting to lift you from your chair with ease. You completely welcome it, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist on instinct. This koala had found a new home – and this was much better.
"So warm" you nuzzle into his broad chest, and one hand comes to soothe your back as he lowers the two of you down on the sofa.
"How you feeling?" Satoru asks gently, the only hint that he was also drunk being the words slightly slurring together and the sugary smell of the ready-to-drink cocktails he had been drinking, but of course… your boyfriend is much better at handling his liquor than you are.
You consider his question, though just thinking seems to be escaping you right now. You can feel the warmth of his hold, the safety of being nestled on his lap, maybe a little sleepy, a little lightheaded also, and…
"I'm hungry" you pout with a long exhale, like the realisation annoyed you more than the feeling itself.
Satoru chuckles, tucking a strand behind your ear and kissing the top of your head. "I'll heat up some food" he reassures. "How about a bath too?"
"Mmmh" you nod like it was a magic word. "Bath sounds nice" you smile into the crook of his neck, so at ease around Satoru, already picturing you both exactly like this still – but soaking under warm, relaxing water too.
The thought alone was making you smile all dreamily.
And Satoru seems satisfied by your answer, starting to shift his weight just a little in a way that makes you cling to him harder. How dare he move when you were so comfortable!
"Can you drink this for me first?"
Satoru extends a glass towards you, and you take it with no hesitation. Your lips expected the delicious taste of beer, or one of the sugary abominations he had chosen for himself, but you scrunch up your nose when the expected sensation doesn't hit your taste buds.
"Toru" you complain. "I think this beer's gone off"
You feel Satoru's laughter reverberate through his chest, but you can't for the life of you figure out whats so funny.
"It's water, baby" he says finally.
"Oh" you mumble, dropping your head down again.
"Can you take another sip?" he brings it to you again, cupping your cheek gently with a large palm when you try to shake your head no. "For me?"
Damn Satoru Gojo for always being so convincing.
So you open your eyes, only then realising they had been closed this entire time. What you're met with is your boyfriends handsome blue gaze – a little blurry, sure, but his eyes shine so bright it practically lights up your whole field of vision.
"Toru" you whisper, cupping his face with both hands. "You're so handsome" you say like he's a miracle.
Satoru's face goes from a curious pout to a wide cheese eating grin when you complete the sentence. "Did you only just notice?" he asks you, smugness dripping from every bit of him.
But you hazily consider his question, cocking your head to the side. "I don't think so" you mumble, unsure, and his whole face cracks at your response.
"You're supposed to say no" Satoru pouts, eyebrows scrunched together adorably.
"Sorry" you throw your head back onto his chest, closing your eyes once more. "What was the question again?"
Satoru chuckles, lowering his forehead to the top of your head. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty head over, princess" he nods. "Let me get you some food, yeah?"
satoru comes home frustrated and all he needs is his girlfriend.
satoru was already having the worst day imaginable.
he woke up late, spilled coffee on his shirt before the clock even went past twelve in the morning. his phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and by the time he finally got done with work, he was convinced the universe wanted to make him miserable.
all he wanted was to go home. all he wanted was you.
he unlocks the front door to the apartment with a sigh, already preparing himself to complain dramatically in the satoru way, the moment he sees you.
“god-..baby you’re not gonna bel-“ the words die in his throat as he stops in his tracks. there you were. curled on the coach, in his shirt, looking so beautiful and comfortable.
his chest tightened and he felt relieved. his expression softens as he closes the door behind him. shrugging off his coat, hanging it, quickly taking off his shoes as well.
you look up at him the moment he starts walking towards you. “toru! baby you’re home.” you smile opening your arms for him to hug.
he leans down immediately, falling in between your legs, his hands tightening around you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“toru?” you laugh softly, wrapping your arms around him more comfortably.
“don’t.”
“don’t what?” you ask confused, with a soft smile on your face.
“be cute right now.”
you giggle. “im just sitting here.”
he pouts like a child. “exactly.” his grip tightens. “that’s the problem.”
you smile and run your fingers through his soft white locks. it’s much softer than it looks. he practically melts in your embrace. “bad day?” you ask quietly.
“the worst.” he lifts his head to look at you. “spilled my coffee,” he frowns, “almost drove into a curb.” he furrows his brows at you when he sees you fighting back a smile. “is my suffering funny to you, hm?”
you finally laugh. “sorry, baby.”
“unbelievable.” he shakes his head dramatically and feigns offence. “i come home traumatized, hoping for support and comfort… and this is what i get?”
you giggle, “traumatized?”
he groans. “nobody takes me seriously.” despite his complaining, his arms tighten around your waist. you feel him relax a little more the longer he stays in your arms.
you smile softly and continue playing with his hair. almost immediately his eyes flutter shut. “there he is.” you mumble.
“hm?” he hums.
you smile, brushing a few strands of his beautiful white hair away from his eyes. “my satoru.”
he peeks one eye open. “your satoru?”
you nod. “mhm. all mine.”
a sleep smile tugs at his lips. “i like the sound of that.” for once, he isn’t being dramatic. or teasing. he just looks at you with that soft expression he saves for nobody but you. his hand finds yous, intertwining your fingers together.
“today sucked.” he admits quietly.
“i know, baby.” you lean down and press a kiss on his head.
“coming home to you fixes all my problems. i love you.” he says it so sincerely that your heart breaks.
you melt instantly. “i love you too, my baby.”
“don’t go anywhere.”
you smile. “wasn’t planning to.”
“good.” he sighs and closes his eyes again, laying against you ever so comfortably. and within the minutes, the frustration the day gave him, is completely forgotten. replaced by the comfort of your arms around him, your body against his.
ugh i tried my best guys pls I hope u like this :)
[𝝑𝑒] :: outlaw!toji would risk getting caught by the local law enforcement if it meant having one last taste of your pussy ⸝⸝ cw. smut, pwp.
one of toji’s large and calloused hands hold your hips still while the other covers your mouth, trying to contain those pretty sounds you’re making. “i know, darlin’,” he breathes against your ear, “shhh, sh shh—you don’t want ‘em findin’ me here with ya now, do you?”
you try your best to stay quiet, but you can’t really. not with the way that thick cock of his is rearranging your insides. the loud thwap thwap thwap of his heavy sack smacking against the plump flesh of your ass and thighs isn’t helping your case either.
it would be scandalous if the local deputies caught you—the mayor’s oh-so-innocent daughter—getting railed by a wanted outlaw. but neither of you seem to care. your bodies are grinding against each other in this narrow alleyway just a few metres away from the sheriff station.
“t—oojiii,” you mewl, meeting his thrusts halfway. you’re a drooling mess, anything but the innocent image you carry on a daily basis.
toji grins to himself at the lewd sight. “yeah, pretty girl?” he purrs. his fat dick twitches in your tight cunt, the tip leaking pre-cum to coat your insides with. “what’s wrong? can’t talk ‘cause of how good ‘m givin’ it to ya?”
you nod mindlessly, mouth gaping in a silent scream as he increases the thrusts. “y-yesh… yesnghh,” you reply between choked and muffled whimpers. the stretching and filling his cock is doing, is so insanely delicious.
the outlaw cusses under his breath once he feels you start to tighten up real good. “fuuuck, yes,” he hisses before pressing you even further up the stone wall—ramming into you like he doesn’t care. he needs it, even if it’s the last thing he does.
turning your head, toji presses a messy and sloppy kiss to your lips. he can feel you freeze when you hear footsteps approaching nearby, but he doesn’t seem to be impacted. “toji—“ you try to warn him through a hushed breath.
but the man doesn’t let up. he simply hides you from sight a bit more with his muscular body, protecting you from view even as his hips still move against your ass;
“i don’t care if they catch me, ‘long as i get this fuckin’ pussy to cream all over my dick ‘fore they put me under the guillotine.”
₊ ݃ ࿔ྀིྀ ꒰ 𓈒 NANAMI KENTO might be the pettiest man alive . . .
⎯⎯ ꒰ 1.3k ! ꒱ 💭
contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.
a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .
the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.
if not, worse.
the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.
in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”
petty. childish. ridiculous.
yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.
“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.
which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.
“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.
nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”
you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”
that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”
he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.
“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”
“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.
his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.
“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”
“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.
you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”
he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”
“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”
and just like that, the war begins . . .
the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:
the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.
YOU ‣
my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy
KENTO ‣
*You’re
How are you texting me then?
YOU ‣
don’t be annoying ken.
that’s not the point
clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.
or so you thought.
despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.
the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.
it was infuriating.
because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.
sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.
and god, the bastard was warm.
firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.
you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.
for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth.
your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.
an inevitable outcome.
“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”
you grumble something incoherent against him.
“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”
your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”
his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.
“so, you admit defeat?”
you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”
you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.
except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.
any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.
you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”
nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.
“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”
he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.
reblogging this because the author's work was reposted on ao3 without their permission or credit, alongside one of my own.
fanfic authors spend countless hours creating and sharing their work for free. the least we can do is respect that effort and make sure creators receive the credit, engagement, and support they deserve 💜
“Fuck, I can see it already. God, I wanna see you swollen with my kids.”
NSFW, explicit sexual content, cursing
︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵ ⊹ ︵
If only Toji hadn’t seen you playing with those kids in the park today on his run. Maybe then he wouldn’t have you thrown into a mean mating press.
But shit, he needed to see you full and round with him. A switch flipped. Toji was a man possessed.
He has you folded in fucking half, your knees nearly pressing against your ears.
“Goona fill your tight little cunt 'til it's overflowing, ma,” he growls, watching as his length disappears into you. “Gonna be such a good mama for me, huh?”
His hand presses down on your belly where his cock bulges within you. It's vulgar how visible he is while he carves out your insides. The pleasure is searing, his tip already massaging your cervix. His eyes flicker from your pussy to your face. His brows draw together seeing your eyes closed and head thrown back.
“Look at me,” he pants. “Look at me while I’m putting a fucking baby is you. I wanna see your eyes when you take my seed.” He holds your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact as his hips snap forward, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
“Fuck, I can see it already. God, I wanna see you swollen with my kids. Your tits are gonna get so full of milk, won't they? Gonna have to taste 'em every day, m’kay ma? Can you do that for me? Feed me as a thank you?”
He's groaning nonsense into your neck, his hands roughly kneading your breasts. He pinches your hardened nipples, the pleasure running down your spine straight to your already throbbing pussy.
You mewl his name. “Dont stop.”
He smirks. “Wasn’t gonna. You were made for this. Made to take my seed.”
A pitiful, strangled moan comes from your throat as you rut up into him, his words spurring your instinctual hunger on.
That bastard smirks and continues, his desire insatiable.
"‘m going to fuck a baby into you. Make you mine forever. And nine months after this, we’re gonna do it again. And again. Forever."
He rolls his hips, ensuring every damn inch of his massive cock was buried inside of you. The feelings was euphoric, the stretch so fucking sweet it made your eyes flutter closed again.
“Toji yes,” you groan pathetically. “Make me yours. Breed me."
A guttural groan rips from his chest at your words. The sound is pure, primal ownership. His grip on your hips becomes bruising as his rhythm becomes frantic. He slams into you, a series of deep, punishing strokes designed to claim you from the inside out. Each thrust is a declaration: You are mine. Forever.
He feels you clamp down on him, a sudden strangle that makes his vision white out. Your walls squeeze him in a greedy, wet pulse.
"That's it, milk my cock. Show me how much you want this,” he groans.
"Fuck a baby into me. Please, I want it so bad." You're begging. Pleading. So, so pliant for him.
The hot pressure tightens in his groin. The pleasure nearly burns. And the coil snaps. His body seizes, and then he's coming. A comforting wave of heat floods you as he erupts, each pulse of his cum thick and potent. He grinds into you, a desperate, jerking rhythm that pushes his release deeper.
He ruts his hips into you until he feels his cock softening. And then he still, pressing your foreheads together. You look up at him, confused.
“‘love you, ma. I really do,” he pants, his eyes locking to yours.
“I love you too, Toji,” you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips.
He smirks down at you, cock still snug deep inside of you. You cock an eyebrow at him.
“You are fucking crazy if you think I’ll let you move after that. Gotta keep you plugged up. Make sure it takes.” Before you have the chance to respond he's nestling a pillow under your lower back, angling your hips up.
You smile up at him. “Gonna stay like this all night?” you tease.
He laughs, laying down beside you, turning you with him to stay connected.
“Gonna stay like this till we do that again. Whether that's in twenty minutes or twenty hours. We are gonna keep going ‘till I have a positive test in my hand. And even then, I won’t wanna stop,” he says, that wicked smile playing on his lips.
He pulls you closer, his arm wrapping possessively around your waist as you both lie there. The room's comfortably quiet. You're both a sweaty, fucked-out mess.
"Swear to God, ma, you're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, his voice low and gravelly as he nuzzles into your neck, planting sloppy, wet kisses along your skin.
"But what a way to go. Imaginin' you all knocked up, waddlin' around with my kid... fuck, it's got me hard all over again."
olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. you’re standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.
"i have nothing to wear," you groan. he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.
"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."
you huff, turning to face him. "you’re always so patient. it’s annoying."
he smiles, small and fond. "i’ve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."
olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. you’re running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.
"we’re going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.
he steps in front of you, a plate in his hand—toast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."
you stare at him. "nanami, we don’t have time—"
"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "you’re not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."
you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like that—like taking care of you is the most important thing in the world—you can’t say no.
olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when you’re being difficult. you’re arguing about something stupid—where to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay in—and your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.
he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "you’re not even listening!" you snap.
"i am," he says quietly. "i’m listening to every word. and when you’re done, we’ll talk about it calmly. like adults."
you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "you’re too kind to me," you mutter.
he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "you’re worth the kindness."
olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift he’s unwrapping. you’re in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and you’re already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.
"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."
you pout. "i don’t want to wait."
he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but i’m going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better it’ll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."
olderbf!nanami who eats you out like it’s a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. you’re on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and he’s taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
"n-nanami—please—" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.
"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "i’m going to make you cum. but i’m going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.
you’re moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."
olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and he’s behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.
"nanami—h-harder!!—" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.
"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "that’s me. all of me. and you’re going to take every inch, just like this. until you can’t think about anything but how full you are."
olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. you’re straddling him, his cock inside you, but he’s not moving.
he’s just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.
"p-please, i.... i can't—" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.
"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."
"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."
he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."
you bite your lip, your face burning.
"please fuck me, nanami. please."
he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "that’s it," he praises. "that's my girl."
olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. you’re lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.
he’s stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.
"you’re too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.
"no such thing. you deserve everything. and i’m going to give it to you for as long as you’ll let me."
olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because he’s not done taking care of you yet. you’re half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.
"nanami—" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and you’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.
"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.
Synopsis. A jester marrying a princess? Not even in the most terrible joke.
Gojo Satoru has loved you ever since the first time he made you laugh, he’s loved you since you appointed him as your personal jester—and he’s loved you even when your royal engagement was announced.
But if only a prince can marry a princess…maybe a jester can wreck it.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, jester!Gojo, royalty AU, forbídden Iove, yearning, PLOT, hurt, best friends to Iovers, betrothaIs (not to Gojo), he’s so siIIy, and so in Iove, sad backstorìes, vìoIence and bIood (not to or from Gojo), rhymes, pranks, Naoya’s awfuI, hidden schemes, makeovers, masquerade baIIs, masks, somewhat CindereIIa-Iike, oraI (fem rec.), tongue f, fìngering, he’s PÚSSYDRÚNK, p taIking, pínching, bíting, spítting, ínappropriate use of the jester hat, he’s FÉRAL, raw, matíng presses, first times (for both), he’s BlG, making it fit, talking you through it, pushing down, dirty taIk, rhymes whilst he’s INSIDE, creampíes, cúmpIay, royal weddings, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.8k
A/N. TO THE LOVELY BABYGIRLS THAT HAVE BEEN BEEEEGGING FOR THIS TROPE- and inspired by the very talented @/karolineprihodko on Tiktok <33
“A fool may sleep. A fool may sneer. A fool may ask why the princess is crying here?”
It’s so sudden that it stops your tears.
Crouched in a small passageway near the royal court. Between the gleaming armors upon display of Gakuganji the Great and Kashimo the Fierce. For a brief moment of madness; you think you must have imagined the lilting voice—almost melodic. Marvelous.
It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard - even more so than the music wafting from the open doors of court, brought by the travelling circus that your palace was entertaining.
And then you’re hearing him again.
“Sob sob sob—for my princess is a crier. Dear Gojo here, shall set Yaga’s stache on fire—!”
That makes you finally lift your head out of your arms, with a laugh that is full-chested and unabashed. For the first time in a long…long time.
“What might your name be?” You ask the boy with the bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile.
And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you.
White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly.
He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly.
His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head.
Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his.
And you…
Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions.
Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh.
At least according to him.
Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.
Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—
For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.
As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter).
Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.
And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.
All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.
And he flashed you his crooked grin.
You grinned back.
His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.
He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.
To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.
And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.
Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.
But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?
“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”
But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.
Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”
“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”
“You shan’t have to call me that.”
And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away.
You.
Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.
And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.
No one listened.
No one arrived.
No one helped.
No one helped.
No one helped.
Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front.
He’d been both enraptured and scared.
And hungry. So…so hungry.
Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him.
One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.
And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile.
And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied.
“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it?
He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.
Let alone two children.
Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other.
“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme.
Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”
.
.
.
“Satoru-”
“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”
“Satoru.”
“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”
“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back.
Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on.
And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course.
But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.
Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin.
One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”
“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.
“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.
Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.
You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”
“A guest?” That piques your interest.
This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.
Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well.
Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman.
And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you.
From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers.
You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post.
“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”
“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”
“The Prince?”
“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”
Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame.
.
.
.
Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Which was saying rather a lot.
You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.
Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power.
And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.
You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.
But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle.
It flashed at you menacingly.
And so did his pearly-white smile.
“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.”
You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”
“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”
“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more.
“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”
Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.
You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—
“Father?”
But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle.
And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”
Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.
As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”
The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two.
Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons.
And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—
“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”
Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.
“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”
“You- you—”
“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”
Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.
You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you.
.
.
.
“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.”
The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.
Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.
Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall.
With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.
It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get.
The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love.
Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.
Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.
Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.
You wrinkle your nose in distaste.
Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship.
From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.
Which seemed to be…everything.
You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…
And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side.
Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.
How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?
You’re biting back a sigh.
“Pssst.”
Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more.
And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.
“Psssssst.”
There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—
When you feel something…touch your wrist.
You’re about to scream-
“Tamper your screaming, please.”
Oh, well if they asked so nicely…
Wait-
Who?
Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table.
Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems.
Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.
Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”
“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”
“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”
Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”
“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”
“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.
“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.
“You rouge.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”
You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.
Wife?
One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer.
But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”
You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment.
“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.
Another bite he takes.
And another wad of wool he spits out.
You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”
And so he does - eyeing you all the while.
Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside.
One of Gojo’s very own.
That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared.
You raise your hand to signal them to halt.
“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.
You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”
Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”
“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.
“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”
“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”
And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.
“He’s mine.”
Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine.
Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable.
“He- he is my best friend-”
“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”
Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.
“Your Highness-”
But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.
Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru.
Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—
But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”
Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”
And yet, he’s gone.
And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.
You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.
But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself.
Your engagement was in six moons.
.
.
.
To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.
You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.
And how many opportunities for diversion there were.
The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz.
One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.
This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).
And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.
Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.
Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya.
He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—
“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.
Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”
The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines.
Tonight, you will be engaged.
And to a man that has never made you laugh once-
“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.
“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”
She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”
“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself.
“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”
You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”
At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”
“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”
Utahime nods.
“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”
There’s a silence.
Her fingers finish their final knot.
And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”
Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.
“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”
You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.
“Or even…a princess to adore.”
Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls.
This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet.
And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”
Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants.
“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.
Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-
“You.”
And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”
“Cease it.”
“No, I said Sour-face-”
“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin.
“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”
Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”
A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”
“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”
Gojo clicks his jaw shut.
“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”
“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”
“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”
“But your duties-”
“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.
She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”
Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”
“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”
“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”
“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”
Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”
“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”
He snarls, “She was never mine.”
“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”
There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.
Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.
One last time.
What was he thinking?
He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”
The answer was as obvious as it was painful.
Gojo Satoru loved you.
Loves you.
Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”
She brushes past him.
Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.
.
.
.
“You look…”
“How odd.”
“How startling.”
“What a change!”
Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”
Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”
“I’ll say.”
As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror.
He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”
“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.
Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.
The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled.
Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.
That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.
And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”
“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied.
Gojo had shuddered.
But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep.
Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…
Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up.
And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.
Or, at least, that was how you described him.
You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome?
He never saw it.
But these girls seemed determined to make him.
Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.
They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course.
Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince.
And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.
But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.
Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes.
He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…
Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.
Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.
All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown.
It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats.
Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’.
“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”
Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.
He stares and stares.
He’s never felt more worthy of you.
By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing.
Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”
And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—
He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”
They smile tenderly back.
The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery.
Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.
His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.
.
.
.
“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”
“I thank you.”
This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded.
Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you.
And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.
Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps.
Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one.
There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze.
Your heart clenches.
Satoru…
You attempt to shake your head free of him.
It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it.
The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.
Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice.
Celestial layers upon layers.
Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom.
Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it.
Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.
You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride.
Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.
You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him.
He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom.
But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.
Summer-sky blue eyes.
They reminded you of—
“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”
Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”
“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”
You manage a smile.
“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”
You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”
“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly.
“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply.
Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them
“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”
“But of course.”
As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.
And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.
But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.
From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-
A title is announced - louder than all the rest.
A prince.
Prince…you don’t hear the name.
But you don’t need it.
Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.
He looked like something from a story.
Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.
The man startles.
He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.
Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.
And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly.
He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince.
Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.
Just like his eyes.
Your breath hitches-
“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears.
“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.
Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”
Michizane nods at you reassuringly.
“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves.
“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-
But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away.
And you’re left alone.
With him.
Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own.
Backward with your right foot.
Sideways with your left foot.
Backwards.
Sideways.
Backwards.
Sideways.
It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”
Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”
“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”
He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.
And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.
Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”
“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”
“And you look like my dreams.”
The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.
The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.
That you could.
That you needed to.
By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.
And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.
Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.
You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.
“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.
“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”
And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his.
He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.
You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—
And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—
Until your lips were buzzing.
Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.
—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.
“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”
And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown.
His fingers are quick- nimble.
And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.
And soaked.
Utterly, utterly soaked.
But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—
“Fuck.”
He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth.
“Fuh-fuck.”
The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit.
He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.
His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards.
Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need.
“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”
“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks.
You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-
“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”
Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”
Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”
He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy.
This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—
“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”
And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”
“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”
He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too.
Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”
“Pardon, my princess?”
“Yes-”
Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.
“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”
It was an honor.
An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro-
Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it.
And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”
Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.
“And this pussy.”
And serving you, he is.
With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt.
The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper.
“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.”
Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”
And his other hand…
Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.
Every single drop.
And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.”
“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.
“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”
“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats.
“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”
Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?
“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.
Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off.
He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.
As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.
In and out.
“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-
You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”
Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”
“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.
Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum.
The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.
Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.
But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”
“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”
Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”
“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”
And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-
But that wasn’t enough for him.
“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.”
He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now.
“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”
And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.
Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.
He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”
“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation.
“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”
And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips.
Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle.
His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.
And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—
“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.
With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”
“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”
“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea.
One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now.
He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—
Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.
However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence.
Almost pathetically so.
And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.
Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit.
He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.
Side-to-side. Up and down.
You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.
You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”
“Your jester aims to please.”
Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all.
Through peak after peak.
Through thrust after thrust.
And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”
Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”
“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”
“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.
“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers.
Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge.
And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.
He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!
Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly.
He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer.
There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice.
“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”
“I am no steed, Satoru.”
“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.
Ready to break—himself. Fuck.
He was breaking himself.
A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-
And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside.
It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less.
You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”
“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes?
Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.
And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.
His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks.
Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”
“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.
In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds.
Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.
Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-
“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”
You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.
For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs.
“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.
“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”
Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”
Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”
You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.
“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”
They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.
“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”
Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds.
“To- hah, fuck you.”
Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little.
Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors.
Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”
He’s finally bottoming out.
Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other.
Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”
Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”
“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”
“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.
“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”
Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”
“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal.
Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”
Gojo’s chin hits his chest.
And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.
And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…
Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”
You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.
“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.
The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.
Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”
“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.
Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.
Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”
And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.
And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips-
Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.
Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”
“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”
And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.
The smooth metal makes you keen-
“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.
“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles.
“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.
Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with.
Something that will make you laugh.
Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him.
Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?
Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.
And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.
He fucks you like an animal.
It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.
Thrumming your every vessel and vein.
Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.
And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”
“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.
“But you forevermore have my heart.”
“Rake.”
“For you only, my princess.”
That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.”
“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”
“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”
Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall.
Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”
“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”
You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.
“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever.
You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down.
“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”
There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters.
“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—
“Satoru.”
“—my princess.”
.
.
.
“Zenin Naoya.”
The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters.
No union had been announced.
The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip.
The fucking jester.
Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.
But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason?
Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?
General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters.
Alone and angry until morning arrived.
He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.
And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden.
Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.
The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.
And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…
Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first.
This was justice.
Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside.
“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.
And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…
This was clearly someone potent.
“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.
Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”
“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”
That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”
THUNK—!
From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.
Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”
The other man chuckles, “Gold?”
And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.
A miniature mountain of it.
Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—
“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”
That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”
His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”
“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”
“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”
Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”
As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips.
“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”
Naoya spits.
“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”
Silence stretches.
It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”
Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.
“And what of their son?”
The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”
“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.”
It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name.
Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”
“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard.
Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”
“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”
.
.
.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.
It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.
But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.
You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement.
You’re leaning in as well—
But then two things occur to you:
It must have been at least midday.
Someone was at the door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
More insistent this time.
The two of you look at each other.
Then at the door.
Then at each other.
Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”
“My princess?” Gojo asks.
“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.
“For all the princess in the land-”
“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.
Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler.
You open the doors, and outside stands…
Michizane?
He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?”
You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…
And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.
And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons.
Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”
Michizane shakes his head.
“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”
.
.
.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom.
After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.
Not that someone knew his life before this life.
Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.
But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage.
And so he had always hoped…always, always…
And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.
It had to have been him.
Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think.
The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.
Had been…
Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son.
Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right.
Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.
During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course.
Long days and longer conversations.
Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.
Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.
But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”
The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.
Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.
He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile.
After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.
His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.
Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold.
And he rebuilt his own family.
Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance.
Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.
Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.
The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.
But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom.
The wedding.
Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh.
Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?
Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well.
Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.
You couldn’t be happier.
Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.
Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.
He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you.
Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.
“Satoru.”
“My queen.”
A/N. Ugh had just finished watching the animated Sleeping Beauty before I wrote that ending, can you tell??
[𝝑𝑒] :: giving outlaw!toji a handkerchief as a lucky charm before he leaves for a heist :: tags. fluff, tiny bit of angst with comfort :: wc. 1.2k
the evening wind carries the scent of sagebrush and distant rain as you stand in your secret spot. the sun has already slipped behind the jagged hills. toji is leaving again. another dangerous job—a stagecoach run near the border that pays enough for him to disappear for months if things ever went south.
you hate these goodbyes. they always feel too final.
you clutch the small handkerchief in your hands, fingers tracing the delicate embroidery you’ve worked on for weeks in secret.
it's simple white linen, soft from washing, with tiny blue forget-me-nots stitched along the edge. in the bottom corner, hidden unless someone looks very closely, are your initials.
toji stands before you like a mountain. his dark duster coat brushes his calves and his stetson is pulled low. even in the fading light you can see the tension in his broad shoulders and the way his scarred lip is pressed into a thin line.
“here,” you mumble softly before stepping closer. you hold the handkerchief out to him, “i made this for you.”
he looks down at the small square of fabric in your palm, then back up at your face. one of his calloused hands take it carefully, as if afraid he might ruin it just by touching it.
“a handkerchief?” his voice is rough with amusement, but his sharp green eyes had softened slightly.
“it serves as a lucky charm,” you explain as your cheeks warm up. “my initials are stitched in the corner. so… a part of me goes with you. maybe it’ll keep you safe. y'know-bring you back to me.”
toji stared at the cloth for a long moment. then, without a word, he folds it neatly and tucks it into the inner pocket of his vest. right over his heart. he pulls you against his chest, one massive arm wrapping around your waist while his other hand cups the back of your head.
“y’re too good for a man like me,” he murmurs into your hair. he's quieter than usual, “but i’ll keep it close, yeah?”
he kisses you then—slow, deep nd full of everything he wouldn’t say out loud. he rests his forehead against yours when he finally pulls away.
“i’ll come back,” he promises, “i always do.”
then he's gone, disappearing into the darkening trees on his horse, leaving only the sound of hooves and the gust of wind behind.
. . .
three weeks have passed like molasses.
you went through the motions of daily life in your town, smiling politely at your father’s dinner guests, helping at the town library, pretending your heart wasn’t aching every single night. every time you heard horses on the main street, your stomach twisted with hope and fear. every time a new wanted poster went up, you forced yourself not to look too closely.
until the night he returned.
it's late, well past midnight, when you hear the familiar soft three-tap pattern against your bedroom window. you nearly trip over your nightgown rushing to open it.
toji is right there, though looking rougher than usual. his stetson is missing with his dark hair messy and damp with sweat. there’s a fresh cut along his jaw and dust caked on his clothes.
but he is alive.
you barely give him time to climb inside before you throw your arms around his neck. toji catches you easily, lifting you off the floor with one arm as he kicks the window shut behind him. his muscular body is solid and warm, but you can feel the exhaustion in the way he holds you.
“you’re back,” you whisper against his neck with tears stinging your eyes, “you’re really back.”
toji carries you to the edge of your bed and sat down, keeping you in his lap. his big hands rub slow circles on your back to ground you.
“told ya i would,” he scoffed, but there is a rare gentleness in his tone.
you pull back just enough to look at him properly. your fingers brush the cut on his jaw with concern in your eyes, “but.. you’re hurt.”
“just a graze. nothin’ serious,” toji catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. then, after a pause, he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out the handkerchief.
your breath caught.
the once-pristine white linen is now stained with dried blood—a rusty brown smear across the entire center. but it’s still carefully folded, the edges intact, your hidden initials still untouched.
toji looks down at the cloth in his hand and his thumb brushes over the fabric almost reverently.
“got into a bad spot near the rio,” he mutters quietly, “hell of an ambush. three men. thought that was it f’me.”
his green eyes lift to meet yours, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the scarred corner of his lip, “had this pressed against the wound to stop the bleeding. i kept it right here the whole time i was ridin’ back.”
he taps the pocket over his heart.
“was gonna die out there,” toji continiues, voice dropping lower, “but every time things got bad, i remembered your face when you gave me this. remembered you sayin’ it’d bring me back.”
his smirk turns into a crooked, slight smile, “turns out my girl’s lucky charm works better than any six-shooter.”
your throat tightens with emotion. you take the blood-stained handkerchief from his hand and hold it gently to trace your own initials with a fingertip.
“i was so scared,” you admit with your voice trembling, “every day you were gone… i kept thinking—”
“shh shh, i know,” toji pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin, “but i’m here now, yeah? because of you.”
for a long while, the two of you simply sit in the quiet of your room. his large hand strokes through your hair while you rest against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
the same heart that had carried your little token through blood and bullets just to return to you.
toji eventually tilts your chin up. his rough thumb brushes away a stray tear from your cheek.
“you keep givin’ me reasons to come back,” he murmured, jade eyes dark and intense, “and i’ll keep comin’ back. no matter what.”
your heart swells at those heartwarming words. you lean in and kiss him softly, pouring every ounce of relief and love into it. he responds slowly, almost carefully, his lips moving in sync with yours.
when you finally pull away, you press the handkerchief back into his hand.
“keep it,” you whisper with a determined nod, “i’ll make you a new one. a cleaner one.”
toji chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. he folds the bloodied cloth once more and tucks it back into his vest. right where it belonged.
“nah,” he says, “this one’s my favorite. got your luck ‘nd scent and all.”
toji lays back on your bed before pulling you down with him. his massive arms wrap around you protectively. your body fits perfectly against his larger frame, as always.
“stay with me tonight?” you ask softly. you put on your best puppy eyes for him, “pleaaase?”
toji snickers quietly before lightly tapping your ass;
“wouldn’t leave even if yer old man was standin’ right outside that door.”
suguru geto loves making you scrambled eggs, suguru geto also loves scrambling your eggs. mdni.
suguru’s hands are warm when they slide under your shirt in the morning light, his breath brushing the back of your neck as he presses close behind you.
he murmurs something about breakfast but his fingers are already dipping lower, tracing the waistband of your panties like he’s got all the time in the world.
he loves making you scrambled eggs. cracks them neat and careful, whisks them slow until they’re silky, seasons them just right.
but what he loves more is scrambling your eggs, the way he bends you over the counter with that low chuckle vibrating against your skin. your legs shake as he pushes in deep, one hand gripping your hip to keep you steady while the other reaches around to rub lazy circles against your clit.
“that’s it,” he whispers, voice rough and sweet at the same time, hips rolling in that steady rhythm that makes your knees weak. he fucks you like he’s got nowhere else to be, thick and unhurried, stretching you open until you’re dripping down your thighs.
every thrust scrambles your thoughts, turns your brain soft and hazy, leaves you gasping his name into the crook of your arm.
he pulls out just enough to flip you around, lifts you onto the counter so he can watch your face while he sinks back in. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct and he groans, forehead pressed to yours, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. his pace picks up, deeper now, hitting that spot that makes your back arch and your nails dig into his back.
suguru loves the way you clench around him when you’re close, loves how your moans get all broken and needy.
he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until you’re coming hard with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. only then does he let himself go, burying himself to the hilt and filling you up with slow, pulsing thrusts that leave you both breathless.
afterward he kisses your temple, gentle and warm, and goes back to the stove like nothing happened.
the eggs are still perfect when he plates them for you, but you both know the real breakfast was the way he scrambled you so thoroughly you can barely walk straight.
gentle!gojo takes his time with you. he worships you from head to toe, trailing kisses down your body. he traces your scars and asks you how you got them. he whispers softly to you: "you're beautiful" and "my pretty girl" until you turn away in embarrassment.
gentle!gojo loosens you up before slipping it in, using his fingers and his tongue to stretch you out. he's sure to make you come at least twice before he's satisfied. your pleasure was his pleasure.
gentle!gojo lovesss missionary because he can watch your face twist in pleasure as you take him. he showers you with praises to keep you going and checks in to make sure you're doing okay. he buries his face in your neck and breathes you in. you smell like sex and your sweet vanilla perfume, his absolute favorite.
gentle!gojo also gets pussy drunk. he presses kisses into your thigh and talks to your pussy. "so pretty, so soaked, just for me? what did i do to deserve all this," he slurs before nuzzling his head deeper in between your thighs.
gentle!gojo understands the importance of aftercare. he runs you a warm bath, lights your favorite candles, and holds you close to his chest. pressing his lips closely to your ear, he tells you how good you did for him and how proud of you he is. he thanks you for trusting him enough to have you like that.
on the other hand..
rough!gojo will fuck the attitude out of you if he has to. he pins your hands up and makes you take everything he gives you. "you done?" he asks, fingers tilting your chin back up when you tried to look away. if you dare to not reply, he snaps his hips against yours and taunts you. "what happened baby? you had a lot to say earlier."
rough!gojo uses you as an outlet to take all his anger out. he pounds into you at a relentless pace, gripping you so hard that you were sure to leave marks in the morning.
rough!gojo is the jealous type. he goes real quiet when he’s jealous, keeping a firm hand at your lower back possessively if a guy even looked in your direction the wrong way. the second you got home, he reminds you exactly who you belonged to.
rough!gojo degrades you in bed. he swears calling you a filthy slut or a dirty whore got you even wetter. he chuckles when you clench around him each time he whispered those words in your ear, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, hitting that sweet spot deep inside.
rough!gojo loves to edge you. he brings you so close to the edge you could practically taste it, before pulling out randomly. "'toru," you whine. "please," you hiccup, tears forming in your eyes as you realize just how close you were. "i need to co—"
slamming back into you, he smirks as you yelp in response. "i tell you when you get to come. lemme hear baby, let go for me. for real this time."
rough!gojo has the stamina of a horse. he can go multiple rounds with little to no breaks. all he needs is to feel is your cunt fluttering around him and he flips you over onto your stomach, prepared to go again and again and again.
2 sides of the same coin! been a minute since i've posted smut 🤔
art credits: @ satsu1640
₊ ݃ ࿔ྀིྀ ꒰ 𓈒 NANAMI KENTO might be the pettiest man alive . . .
⎯⎯ ꒰ 1.3k ! ꒱ 💭
contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.
a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .
the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.
if not, worse.
the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.
in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”
petty. childish. ridiculous.
yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.
“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.
which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.
“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.
nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”
you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”
that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”
he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.
“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”
“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.
his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.
“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”
“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.
you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”
he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”
“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”
and just like that, the war begins . . .
the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:
the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.
YOU ‣
my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy
KENTO ‣
*You’re
How are you texting me then?
YOU ‣
don’t be annoying ken.
that’s not the point
clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.
or so you thought.
despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.
the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.
it was infuriating.
because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.
sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.
and god, the bastard was warm.
firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.
you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.
for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth.
your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.
an inevitable outcome.
“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”
you grumble something incoherent against him.
“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”
your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”
his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.
“so, you admit defeat?”
you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”
you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.
except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.
any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.
you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”
nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.
“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”
he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
