STOP SCROLLING, SAMIR AND HIS FAMILY ( @samirahmed125 ) need urgent help !!
As I said, Samir's family have been working unbelievably hard to try collect donations. They are broken and tired and seeing Samir in pain is unbearable.
Together, we can help save Samir's life with donations, please let us come together and have our hearts and humanity come together. It's abhorrent to me how many people (especially with bigger platforms and pages) don't post or talk about Gaza, people could find a fundraiser and help because YOU shared.
Please, take part in helping save Samir, donate here, 38% of the goal has been raised. VERIFIED BY @/gazavetters (#428) and by various other accounts.
Samir needs his spleen removed, he is also in a coma and risks having his foot amputated.
AHMED AND SAMIR'S FUNDRAISER HAS BEEN REPEATEDLY VETTED BY @/a-shade-of-blue
(#428) by @/gazavetters
I don't understand why people are so hesitant to help Gazan fundraisers, and find every single excuse in the book to not donate or ignore them..
With all of this suffering, death and starvation looming over their heads every day, people in Gaza still work very hard to raise funds and make connections on social media.
Ahmed recently had to go to one of these "aid distribution points" in southern Rafah, where he saw many people die in front of him, just drying to get food. Where else but Gaza will you see people die trying to get food?
He was forced to do this because of slow donations, slow donations also have a bad effect of Samir's life, Samir who has been shot in the abdomen, is in a coma and risks getting his foot amputated. They need funds to travel and help Samir recieve the urgent medical care he needs.
They need $300 per day to be able to survive, they hardly get $40 per day. Please help this effort, participate so Ahmed isn't forced to risk his life for food again.
Your donation could light a dark path, and help save Samir's life and help a family in Gaza survive amidst the hardships.
To those who have a living conscience and good hearts who feel us despite the distances a… Abeer Sa needs your support for Urgent Aid Needed
PLEASE KEEP EYES ON THIS, THE SITUATION IS EXTREMELY URGENT.
Imagine going out to get food and risking your life because you don't get enough donations??
Imagine knowing that your son might die, because you don't get enough donations??
Imagine the dehumanisation of having to rely on a fundraiser??
Please, I beg you to have sympathy for the people of Gaza on this app, please do what you can to help them. Ahmed and Samir need our utmost help and efforts at the moment. Please help them reach their $300 daily goal and do what you can !!
DONATE HERE
And about this inhumane "Gaza Humanitarian Foundation" people are forced to go to, I have started a petition and lobbying campaign to pressure the Irish government to speak up about it.
Eryka Caldwell is a back trans woman who was murdered by her partner in her apartment last Sunday, and the story is getting a fraction of the attention that the murder of Juniper Blessing did. The police had already been called several times about her partners violence before her murder and did nothing, and she deserves the same outrage and mourning as Juniper got, and every one of our murdered trans siblings deserves. Trans women of color are more likely to be the victims of murder than any other group of queer people, and they need our solidarity, protection and support.
Caldwell’s boyfriend, 38-year-old Jonathan Fernandez, has been charged with murder.
Today I wanted to talk about Kyle Bassinga. Kyle was a 21 year old man from Georgia, whose family described him as "a kind, thoughtful, and smart young man who loved nature, music, and the people around him". Kyle Bassinga was killed on February 18th 2026, just ten days after his birthday. He was found hanging from a tree in a park.
The police ruled it a suicide. The family and local community demanded an investigation. The police refused to change their ruling.
I know this website it too white for this to really go anywhere, but an understanding of the present reality of white supremacy in the United States is just so important to transfeminism here. Lynchings never stopped, white supremacy never went away, you just stopped looking.
Support Cyrus Carmack-Belton's family in pursuing justice: Mutual Aid.
CW: The murder of a Black child, Cyrus Carmack-Belton, by a HongKong-Chinese-ethnic South Carolina man Rick Chow.
https://www.gofundme.com/f/justice4cyrus please share this ongoing gofundme for Cyrus’ family. There is STILL an upcoming civil case which requires funds for legal aid. Stand with the Black community in this time when they have to fight this system that rarely if ever delivers justice for Black peoples. This message goes out especially to Asian Americans.
Donate to the ongoing gofundme for Cyrus’ family, they’re gonna need funds for the upcoming civil lawsuit. It is our duty, our test of basic human decency, to ensure that they get the best legal team possible when the odds are already stacked against them with the injustice of the system. Put your money where your mouth is and stand for allyship with the Black communities.
You're against ICE taking babies, so also be against a trigger-happy 60+ year old child killer. Make sure murderers do not get away with killing babies from ALL Black, Indigenous and POC communities.
We have started this GoFundMe to help support the family of Cyrus Carmack-Belton and … Todd Rutherford needs your support for Justice for Cy
My heart is with the Black community, filled with rage and disappointment at the injustice here.
Rick Chow is a murderous anti-Black child-killer with a history of being trigger-happy. He’s been involved in two shootings prior to this, and this time he killed a Black child. We know that this is nothing a Black person would get away with under the oppressive penal systems of America. But Chow walks, Scot-free.
Cyrus was just a baby, a 14 year old boy who probably has only just started learning graphs in class. Who has not even had his 15th birthday nor graduated the 9th grade. He was still in junior high.
There’s more details to the case for those who want to go investigating. But none of which at all exonerates this man of his cruelty and the blood on him, and his family’s hands (both his son and wife involved).
But the injustice remains and this is grief for the Black community which I can only hope the Asian community takes the time to decenter ourselves and stand in support of Cyrus and his family, in empathising with the Black community’s terror in the face of this innocent life taken by a anti-Black NB man, and the justice system which has failed them again.
This is Latasha Harlins all over again. It’s heartbreaking. And yes the AsAm community has to fucking ostracise the Chows, start a protest, raise some funds. Apologising is one thing but it’s empty without material reparations, especially when we KNOW the system won’t deliver.
Cyrus’ family has stated they will continue fighting. The Black community is grieving. The Asian community should not contribute to that boot on their necks nor benefit from the horrors of this system. We should not be centering our own shame or fear, but centering the Black community’s expressed grievances with the dehumanisation and terror they must be facing as a consequence of this murder. We must show loud and meaningful support for the Black community.
We can’t let this slide, this is literally a core moment that requires Asians to step the fuck up, and ensure what happened in the 90s does not come to fruition again.
If Asian Americans are against the death of children, including all Black children, please boycott the Chows. Do everything in your power to ensure that all melanated peoples band together to bring justice for the Carmack-Beltons where the system is designed to fail them, and to ensure that Black people aren't alone in this.
AsAms need to be LOUD about this injustice and in support of Black communities, LOUDER than the skinfolk traitors amongst us who are cruel, inhumane, and anti-Black. LOUDER than those those whose behaviours fuel the ideas that AsAms are just performative Boba Liberals and anti-Black racists. LOUDER than shame or fear because we do not get to center ourselves when the Black community's grief and terror for their babies are overflowing.
You may think they're responsible for their own kids, but in this situation; our own slaughtered theirs. We aren't all like the Chows, but in bystanding, in remaining silent and allowing justice to fail the Black community; we are.
you're in the chambers you share with zuko, but zuko is nowhere to be found.
he's been on the road on some kind of diplomatic mission. as fire lord, zuko had been sent to negotiate with other nations regarding restruction of some kind, and although you know people rely on him and need him for guidance, you need him too. selfishly, maybe even more than them.
you sigh and rest your head on your vanity, not feeling like finishing your makeup when your betrothed is worlds away from you. he'd been your best friend first, too. so now you are missing both your closest companion and your dear fiance. you two weren't meant to leave each other's sides the few months before your wedding, and yet here you are, moping with no idea when he'll be back-
you hear a voice, his voice, calling your name from the doorway.
your head snaps up so fast you nearly hurt your neck, but you have to see if you're hallucinating or not. you'd been whining to one of your attendants, "do you know when he'll be back? is he nearly done? when do i get to see him again?" just yesterday, and she'd playfully told you to be patient, that he will be back in due time, that the more you ask, the more worried you'll be. "just don't fret, darling." were her final words.
as if it were that easy.
but now here he is, standing there in formal attire, staring at you like he can't believe you're real either.
it's a moment of disbelief, perhaps nerves as well, as the two of you stand and stare at each other, before you're both bolting forwards, trying to meet each other in the middle. there isn't any communication of how the embrace will be, but he just knows to bend down a little so he can catch you while you leap into his arms, locking your limbs around him.
zuko squeezes you as tightly as he can without hurting his beloved, one hand cradling your head while the other wraps around your body. the first thing he does is take a big inhale of your scent, eyes squeezing shut to try and memorize the moment in the present.
he exhales a shuddering breath, having held it in since he first saw you again. another soft whisper of your name, before he speaks, holding you tighter. "i thought about this-" he starts, voice murmured into your hair. "-every night. every single night, i thought about getting to feel you again."
his voice is so soft. you know him to be a little uptight and reserved with his feelings, but they come out unrestrained and sighed almost dreamily. he pulls back just enough to get a better look at you, stroking your hair and looking into your eyes. "zuko..." you murmur, eyes filling with tears.
the consolidation comes immediately, and his eyes search yours sympathetically. "no don't cry," he whispers hugging you closer. "i'm here now, i won't leave again as long as i can help it, i swear it."
with his brows drawn together, he reaches around to hold your jaw, wiping some of your soft tears and smoothing his thumb over the pout on your lips. "i'm here now," he repeats, leaning his forehead against yours before placing the softest kiss to your mouth, reassuring and achingly gentle.
he justs wants to take care of you now. his princess.
walking onto the bed and laying you down with such carefulness, he kisses you again, deeper this time, so that his mouth connects perfectly with yours, your lips moving together with practiced ease. it's as if there was no time apart between the two of you at all.
he sighs your name once again into your mouth, coaxing his tongue along the seam of your lips to ask for permission. eagerly, you welcome him into your mouth, moaning at the sensation of his tongue laving over yours, tasting you.
using his big hands to tip your face upwards, he deepens the kiss and keeps you in place while slowly starting to undress you. you help him, brushing off his heavy robes and undergarments before he helps you out of yours, wanting you nude and bare for him so he can remind himself how beautiful you are underneath layers of clothing. "so beautiful," he praises, parting from your mouth just to descend his kisses lower, down your throat, your clavicle and shoulders, towards your breasts.
he kisses each seperately before mouthing at the left one, busying his hand with palming your aching pussy, spreading you and then slipping a finger inside your warm hole. you're tighter than he remembers. perhaps a month of celibacy had made you that way. he'll be sure to get your cunt to mold to the shape of his cock once more. but for now, he needs to get a second finger in you to stretch you out in prepreation.
your hand fists in his long hair, pulling it out of its ponytail so that the long strands fall all over you, and you brush back the long front pieces so you can see his eyes while he pumps a thick finger in you while suckling on your breast - now finally switching to the other one once your nipple had gotten too tender and swollen. "mnh- zuko... gentle, i'm so sensitive now." you plead, squirming when he curls his finger inside you, pressing upwards against that one tiny weak spot inside you you'd thought he forgot about after all his time away.
seeing you flinch and let out a shuddering moan when he finds it, he focuses his attention there, spreading your pussy lips and twisting a second finger inside you so he can press two against the spot now, groaning when you pull his hair a little harder as your orgasm fast approaches.
"i know," he says around your breast. "it's like i've never fucked you before, love."
his voice is so honeyed and sweet; it's the same tone he uses on you when you're on your garden walks and he finds a flower to put behind your ear, or when he's doing other kinds of sweet things to you. for you. and yet he's using it again now while pumping his fingers knuckles deep inside your sopping hole and marking your chest with lovebites. you love that voice. the longer he talks, the closer you get to-
"do you wanna cum for me? i'll let you cum if you ask nicely."
fuck.
your head tips back and your eyes roll as he pushes one finger against that same weak spot while the other bends and twists inside you, and with one weak, cried out "please!" your back arches off the bed and you cum around his fingers with your walls fluttering and moans leaving your parted lips with no restraint.
he fucks you with his fingers all throughout, revelling in the way you tighten up and gush out liquids down his wrist. he grins into your chest, lifting his head to see your eyes while you cum. it's the prettiest sight he's ever seen.
zuko sits up, pulling his fingers out of you and cleaning them off with his tongue, looking down at you so you can see him tasting you off his fingers.
you whine and reach down to palm at his cock, no longer able to wait to have him inside you, filling you up to the hilt with his warm, thick length.
his heart warms at your eagerness, and he sits up, palming his achingly hard dick in his big hand, huffing hot and heavy breaths while looking down at your face, eyes wide and glossy. he rubs your clit with the thumb of his free hand, trying to coax you to relax. he needs your pussy to take him in one go, and you're still a little too tight. "hold on," he whispers, even as you frown and try to shift forward.
he finally angles the head of his cock at your pussy, rubbing it through your tender folds and against your clit, tapping it against you just to hear you whimper and cling to him tighter. then finally, he notches the head of his cock inside you and pushes slowly inside you.
the stretch is immediate.
your walls immediately cling around his cock as he sinks in deeper and deeper, and you both moan together while his hands move up to curl through each of yours, fingers linking between your smaller ones and clinging tight to soothe you through the slight pain of his big cock filling you up for the first time in thirty days.
"zuko faster," you plead softly when he's around halfway deep, and he blinks down at you, long hair fanning down onto your face at your request. he thought you'd want him to go slow and gentle until you're settled with him inside you, but he was wrong. with a nod, he squeezes your hand and watches your face scrunch up at the emptiness when he rears back, before slamming back in.
he starts fucking you fast and deep, pulling back and then pushing his cock back inside you. then, he leans down and begins to press an open mouthed kiss to your throat, already marked from his kisses from earlier. he pushes his lips against a fresh love bite, nearly purring with delight when you shudder and clamp down around him with delight. "is that better for you?" he whispers against your skin, lifting his head to move his kisses up to your cheeks while rutting into you. such a soothing gesture.
"yes, oh my- zuko more!" you plead, tilting your head to capture his mouth into another kiss. spurred on, he snaps his hips into yours, tipping his pelvis upwards so his cock buries deeper in your pussy and pushes against yet another weak spot that's deep inside you. you can nearly feel him in your guts now.
"i just- fuck, i missed you so much. mngh." he doesn't need you to answer him, because he knows you missed him and thought about him just as much by the way your pussy tightens and milks his cock with each thrust. the blunt head of his cock presses right by the spot that makes your tummy flutter, and you push your body down so you can suck in more of his cock.
your mouth falls agape with his still pressed against yours, and again, he wraps his tongue around yours as the head of his cock nudges your cervix.
his cock is throbbing inside you, pre-cum lubing up your insides and adding to the pre-existing slick from your neediness and your previous orgasm, and his balls twitch each time they make contact with the curve of your ass. you can tell he's close, but he's holding back from spilling into you until you cum again. he gets off best when he makes you feel good first.
"give me another one," he pleads gently after pulling his mouth off yours, relishing in the way your tongue slips off his and leaves strings of saliva in it's wake. "wanna feel you cream around my cock this time."
and that's all his takes. squeezing his hands and letting him push his cock in you to the hilt, his pelvis rubbing against your swollen clit, you cum again, but this time on his cock, bucking against him and rolling your body forward so his heavy tip grinds into your womb while you soak his cock with your creamy cum. as you tighten around him and your cum floods along his cock and down his balls, he finishes too, right inside you where it belongs.
your orgasm continues through his, and your legs shake while his hot, thick load fills you up.
and for the first time in thirty days, you feel whole again.
𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 900+ ) words of . . . nsfw, husband!zuko x watertribe!wife!reader, canon-divergent universe, established relationship, teasing, size difference, zuko has an edging kink, missionary, finger sucking, belly bulge, slight use of firebending, use of pet names, explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!
𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ۶ৎ here i present, my first tribute to the fire lord! one look at the new-and-improved zuzu and i lost ittt >.< omg he’s never looked better . i just had to put out somethin’ spicy for this delicious man in the meantime, until the real firecracker bun finishes baking! art credits here! thank you for reading, and please enjoy! ❤︎
𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ ) lovely thang, kut klose ⨾ earned it, the weeknd ⨾ body smile, dvsn ⨾ hold on, the internet
zuko fucks you so, so slow. takes his sweet time, moves with a maddeningly balmy heat; much like the kind that smolders beneath the callous of his palms. it's a slow-burning ember that simply refuses to catch fire, no matter how much you ache for even the littlest flame — ache for him.
his long, dark hair spills over his broad shoulders, like ink bleeding into tainted water, and he peers at you through that swaying, silken curtain, eyes ambered with pure lust. he uses the muscled brawn of his frame to keep you pressed into imported satin mahogany sheets, as if he could live forever in the saccharine pulse of your dripping cunt.
or, perhaps not. maybe, he simply finds there to be more pleasure in the hunger of a good tease. it’s sudden when he pulls out, drenched to the very base of his dark, downy hair, wettened in the sweet overflow of your juices. the silence that follows the ‘shlick!’ is heavy and warm, filled only with the sound of synchronized breathing. in the stillness, every small sensation feels magnified. cool air against buzzing skin, the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, the gaping emptiness within you that zuko left in his wake.
there he lingers at the precipice for what you consider to be a torturous eternity — glides his heavy, pulsing length along the weeping seam of your slit, drags the throbbing underside along your slickest folds in a way that teases your entrance; he enters just a fraction, his shallow promise of depth before he withdraws entirely. you’re left terribly hollow.
“you want it, huh?” he taps along the hypersensitive bud of your sticky clit with his swollen, mauve tip, gaze narrowing whenever you whine. “need to be fucked so badly, don’t you? aw, my poor baby . . .”
through the gaze of his golden, unmarred eye, you’re a vision of beautiful undoing beneath him; all breathless and pleading for the friction he so carefully withholds. crystalline tears trace the flushed curves of your warm cheeks, salt meeting skin. zuko’s large hand moves to find purchase, his pale fingers contrasting sharply as they bloom against the rich, warm brown of your hip, gripping you with possession.
you begin to press onto him, wiggling your round, pretty ass against his bobbing cock until he’s forced to rock back and meet your rhythm.
it’s then that the tether snaps, leaving him helpless against the both the gravitational pull of your plush, pouted lips, and the siren call of your sweet pussy; he catches your hips in two sweltering palms, unable to endure another second of the space between you.
finally, finally, he sets away his restraint. he’s toyed with you long enough . . . who is he to deny you now?
when zuko eventually flips you onto your tautly-arched back and sinks home — tilting his strong hips at that precise, devastating angle — he presses in past smooth, squeezing walls and fills you to the very brim; a thick, sated pressure with a weight leaves you impossibly stretched around the girth of his hard cock.
he devours your pitched sounds in a deep, swollen kiss, his tongue sliding into the cavern of your mouth to suckle on your own with a heavy, shameless wetness. the low, messy sound of him drinking you in is syrupy and loud, a slick noise that echoes in the quietness of him swallowing up your gasps.
you pull away for air and reach up, desperate to claw at him, your soft palm sliding over the firm ridges of his toned stomach until your fingers trace the jagged, fleshy bloom of the lightning scar centered at his solar plexus. it’s a map of his old pain, vibrating against your skin as he lets out a long, shuddering exhale that tells you he’s wholly, devoutly, surrendered his fire and found his personal heaven inside of you.
“mmgh, zuko — finally . . .”
he only chuckles, a low vibration that resonates through the saffron-spiced air of his bedchamber, his head dipping low. the raised crimson dermis of the burn mark around his eye brushes against your temple; a rough, familiar texture that only adds to the delicious friction when his forehead brushes yours.
he rocks into you with such a torturous slowness that it feels as though he isn’t fucking you at all. you’re practically sobbing for him to just move.
your spirited husband, an ever so patient man, only chuckles, shushing your dulcet whines with the prod of two thick, pale fingers. they settle onto the pink of your tongue and sink further into the velvet of your mouth, claiming it as his own. he watches intently, with beautifully sharp molten eyes as your spit pools and gathers, slicking the width of his middle and index until they glisten.
“don’t worry, my love,” he coos, feeding you a deep, heavy thrust that distends the soft curve of your belly from within. his free hand descends, palm blooming with the slightest flicker of ignited heat as he presses that simmering touch over your pelvis, marking the bulge where he passes in and out of you.
he fights the spread of a grin as you moan and gag around his fingers simultaneously, your breath hot and frantic against his palm. “i’ll make you feel so fucking good, i promise . . . you’ll forget you ever had to wait.”
࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.
࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — involves a 7 yr time skip, from both reader and satoru's pov. satoru's a little shit. he's arrogant and gives no fucks. suguru defects. sexual content. fingering, handjob, orgasms, male ejaculation on tits, lots of dirty talk】
࿐wc. 16.4k (suuuurprise.... heh)
࿐a/n. hiiii. it's finally here—the full fic of this drabble. you can expect this fic to be multiple parts, i'm just not sure how many yet. anyways, i had fun writing a canon version of satoru. i love my canon pookie. even if he's emotionally constipated here. enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/_3aem on X )
➔ next part ➔ series masterlist ♫ playlist ➔ ao3 ➔ primary masterlist
Your mother had always told you—there were four great clans in jujutsu society. Four names that shaped history, wielding power that stretched back for centuries.
The Zenin Clan, ruthless in tradition, where strength dictated worth and weakness was met with exile.
The Kamo Clan, a relic of the past, clinging desperately to their once-unshakable influence, willing to spill whatever blood necessary to remain relevant.
The Gojo Clan, untouchable, revered—the bloodline of gods. A name so powerful it stood above all others, their very existence defined by the Six Eyes and Limitless, abilities so rare they might as well have been myth.
And then, there was your clan.
A family as old as Kyoto itself, a bloodline sharpened by centuries of discipline and technique. The fourth great clan, standing alongside these names not as a rival, but as an equal. You were always told that your family had not built its legacy on brute force or deception, nor had it relied on a singular, overwhelming ability to dominate the battlefield.
No—your clan thrived on precision. Strategy. Control.
Respected. Feared. Established.
Yes, let it be known that your family produced some of the finest jujutsu sorcerers Kyoto had ever seen—that alone secured your place among the elite. And so, you had spent your life walking the delicate line between tradition and expectation, power and obedience. You were raised to be precise, to be measured—a perfect reflection of the strength your family stood for.
And that was why you were here tonight.
Because power, recognized power.
And tonight, the most powerful clan of them all was crowning a new king.
Tonight—December 7th—on his eighteenth birthday, Gojo Satoru would be proclaimed Clan Head of the Gojo family. The invitation had been sent to only the most respected and esteemed. This was more than a celebration; it was a display. A reminder.
All of Japan had known for years that the next ruler of the strongest clan had been chosen. Ever since the moment Gojo Satoru was born, it had been inevitable. But tonight, it would become official.
Inhaling deeply, you forced stillness into your spine—your expression smoothing into something unreadable.
You were no stranger to moving through halls filled with power—no, you had been raised for moments like these. You knew how to hold yourself, how to command respect, how to navigate a room full of Kyoto’s most dangerous and influential figures.
And yet…
There was something about tonight that felt… different.
Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, you would stand in the same room as him. The prodigy. The untouchable. The strongest sorcerer of his generation—a living legend before he was ever grown, a force of nature wrapped in a human body.
You had heard his name more times than you could count, but you had never seen him.
Not in person. Not until tonight.
"Fix your kimono.”
Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp and precise as ever.
She didn’t look at you as she said it—she never had to. The flick of her gaze toward your reflection in the window was enough. Cool, assessing. She expected perfection.
You didn’t argue. You never argued.
Instead, your hands moved instinctively, smoothing the silk draped over your lap. Midnight blue, embroidered with delicate silver cranes in flight—a symbol of strength, of longevity, of duty. A reminder of the life you were bound to.
The obi at your waist had been tied flawlessly earlier that evening, its silken folds pressed into place with meticulous care—yet you still adjusted it. Not because it was imperfect, but because she had told you to.
Exhaling softly, your mother’s eyes swept over you briefly—as though the smallest flaw in your presentation might tarnish the family name.
"Appearances matter," she murmured, smoothing the folds of her own ivory kimono, embroidered with peonies and bamboo—symbols of wealth and resilience. Even in the dim light of the car, she radiated elegance, flawless as always.
"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."
She spoke as if you didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent years molding you into a perfect reflection of the family’s strength.
Across from you, your father shifted, stretching his legs slightly as he leaned back into his seat. The glow of his phone screen flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. As his fingers tapped idly against the side of the device, the screen was angled just enough that neither you nor your mother could see it.
Yeah… that was a habit of his. One you had learned not to acknowledge.
Your mother never acknowledged it either. Not in words, at least.
But you saw it in the way her fingers tensed against her sleeve, in the subtle shift of her posture, as if willing herself to ignore the obvious.
"You put too much weight on these things," your father muttered, carrying an air of finality. "The Gojo Clan already knows who we are. No amount of perfect posture is going to change their minds."
The silence that followed was familiar.
A subtle tension seeped into the space between them—the kind that had no beginning and no resolution. Something ever-present, like a thread woven too tightly through the fabric of their marriage.
Lowering her gaze slightly, your mother adjusted the folds of her sleeve with slow, deliberate care.
"Power is not always displayed through strength alone," she said, softer now. "It is seen in the way others perceive you. The moment you allow someone to look down on you, you have already lost."
Exhaling through his nose, a quiet sound rumbles through your father’s chest—neither agreement nor disagreement. He wasn’t listening. Not really.
"Depends," he sighs dismissively. "There are worse things than being looked down on."
Your mother’s hands froze for just a moment, before she recovered, smoothing out her sleeve with a quiet nod.
"Of course…" she murmured, conceding with practiced ease.
She would not challenge him. She never did.
Turning yourself toward the window, you felt the weight of their silence settle into your ribs.
You had seen this scene too many times before. So you looked away. Focusing on the world outside, rather than the quiet battlefield inside the car. Then, finally, it came into view.
The Gojo Estate.
It did not sit among the rest of Kyoto. It stood above it.
Carved into the mountainside, the estate loomed over the landscape like something untouched by time. Its outer walls stretched endlessly into the dark, built of aged wood and blackened stone, reinforced not just with craftsmanship but with sorcery itself. A silent warning. A declaration of power—this was not a place where outsiders were welcome.
Beyond the towering gates, the estate unfurled like a painting.
The courtyard was vast, an expanse of raked gravel and polished stone pathways that twisted through pruned bonsai, moss-covered lanterns, and koi-filled ponds shimmering beneath the moonlight. Each element was a silent testament to a clan that valued not just power, but control—as if even the earth beneath the Gojos’ feet bowed to their authority.
A long row of cherry blossom trees lined the outer garden, their pale petals quivering in the night breeze. Winter had stolen the color from Kyoto’s streets, but here, the blossoms remained in eternal bloom—preserved unnaturally, suspended in time by the lingering touch of sorcery. As the wind passed through them, petals drifted down in soft flurries, catching in the air like falling snow.
Your breath stilled slightly.
Even for someone raised in a powerful clan, the sight of the Gojo estate was enough to humble.
The car slowed to a stop, just before the entrance, and your gaze flickered toward the attendants waiting outside before shifting upward, toward the main hall that loomed beyond the courtyard.
It was not a home.
It was a throne.
And tonight, the man who would rule it was waiting inside.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Y’know, I really don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Satoru drawls, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robes with a dramatic grimace. “They’ve known I’m the strongest since birth. Feels a little redundant, don’t y’think?”
Across the room, Suguru lets out a slow exhale, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wooden frame of the window. Beyond him, Kyoto stretches into the night—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, the glow of distant lanterns flickering like dying embers. But he isn’t looking at the view. His gaze flickers toward Satoru through the mirror’s reflection, watching as his friend fussed with the layers of fine silk draped over his shoulders, like it’s a burden rather than an honor.
“They have to make a big deal out of it,” Suguru murmurs, quiet, almost bored. “Otherwise, what’s left for them?”
Satoru scoffs, shifting his weight as he tugs at the sash around his waist, loosening it just to tighten it again.
“Yeah, well. If this keeps ‘em busy, maybe they’ll hold off on nagging me about marriage for another year.”
Suguru hums, pushing off the window frame. Taking a slow step forward, his hands slip into the wide sleeves of his yukata as he watches Satoru wrestle against his robes like they were shackles.
“You say that like they won’t have a new excuse next week.”
Catching Suguru’s gaze in the mirror, Satoru’s lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin.
“Think they’ll get creative?”
“They always do.”
Clicking his tongue, an exaggerated sigh slips from Satoru’s lips as he finally turns from the mirror to grab the ceremonial overcoat folded on the edge of the lacquered table. The fabric is rich and regal—deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, the threads gleaming under the dim candlelight.
“Tch… I swear…” he barely spares the elegant silk a glance before throwing it over his shoulders, the heavy material settling like a crown he never asked for. “Maybe I should start charging for every goddamn time they waste my time.”
Suguru hums, tilting his head.
“You’d make a fortune.”
“Please,” Satoru scoffs, flicking at the intricate gold trim on his sleeve, grin sharp and self-satisfied. “I’m already loaded.”
Suguru lets out a quiet breath, one hand slipping into his sleeve before pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.
“And yet…” he muses, placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter, “all that money, and you’re still stuck wearing that ridiculous thing.”
Satoru let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the overcoat, shifting slightly—like he could somehow make it sit lighter on him.
“Right?” He turns back toward the mirror, tugging at the stiff collar with an annoyed pull. “I look like I belong in a fucking museum.”
Suguru says nothing at first. The metal flicks, a sharp scratch of sound, flame briefly illuminating his face as he lights the cigarette. The glow reflects in his violet eyes for half a second as he takes a slow drag.
“Or on a wedding altar,” he exhales smoke in a measured breath.
Satoru’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His head snaps up, and through the mirror, he shoots Suguru a flat look.
“Not funny.”
Suguru smirks, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as smoke curls through the air. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Wouldn’t put it past them to slip an engagement announcement into tonight’s festivities. You know how they like their surprises.”
Clicking his tongue, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, deliberately messing it up again.
“Yeah, well… first sign of trouble and I’m teleporting the hell out of there.”
A quiet chuckle slips through Suguru’s lips, but there’s no humor in it.
“And then what?” his voice softens, but the words weigh heavier. “You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?”
Satoru shrugs. “If I have to.” He’s grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
With quiet consideration, Suguru exhales, watching Satoru with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. But this time, it’s not his reflection he’s looking at. It’s him—standing there in those ceremonial robes, draping over him like chains, wearing arrogance like armor.
“You… really think it’s that simple?”
Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His grin sharpens, flashing white teeth like a blade.
“Of course it is. I’m Satoru fucking Gojo.”
Though Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift, his gaze darkens, something quiet and knowing creeping into his features.
“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”
“C’mon, you think they actually care?” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru through the mirror. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the name. The bloodline. Hell, they’d be throwing this same party for a rock if it had the Six Eyes.”
There’s a lingering silence.
Through the mirror, Satoru sees Suguru’s expression shift—his posture still loose but somehow weighted, as if each breath he takes is heavier with words unspoken. Suguru’s long raven hair falls slightly into his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the quiet strain pulling at his features.
“Damn…” Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “You look like shit, man.”
Suguru blinks, briefly startled, before scoffing, rolling his eyes as he flicks ash into the tray beside him.
“Gee, thanks.”
But Satoru doesn’t let up. His gaze lingers, cutting through pretenses like a blade.
“No, seriously. Have you slept at all this week? ‘Cause from here, you look like you’re about to keel over.”
Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle, but it’s weak, hollow—gone before it ever really forms.
“Yeah…” he lifts the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag. “I dunno. ‘m just tired.”
The ember burns bright for a moment, casting sharper shadows along his best friend’s face—deepening the lines of exhaustion—a quiet weight that Satoru’s been too busy to address. Then, clicking his tongue, Satoru focuses back to the mirror, dragging a hand through his hair with careless ease.
“You’re thinking too much again…” he mutters. “Always a bad sign.”
“Yeah, well...” Suguru exhales, smoke curling lazily around him. “Guess someone’s gotta do it.”
Quirking a brow, Satoru turns toward him fully this time.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Suguru smirks, but it’s small, faint—the kind that barely lifts the corners of his lips before disappearing altogether. As he leans back against the wooden frame of the window, his fingers tap against his arm, holding the cigarette loosely in his grip.
“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.
Suguru quirks a brow before he huffs, shaking his head slightly.
The silence sits heavier this time. There’s something distant in his expression—like his thoughts are a step ahead of him, somewhere neither of them can quite reach. Flicking the cigarette between his fingers, he taps ash into the tray with slow precision.
“I’m just wondering…” Suguru mutters, his voice quieter now, something careful in the way he says it. “If you weren’t who you are—would they still be kneeling at your feet?”
Satoru blinks.
“Uh. Duh.”
Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep.
“No, Satoru. If you weren’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose, his jaw flexing slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to. Instead, he shakes his head. “Never mind…”
Satoru’s gaze narrows.
“Um. The hell was that? You can’t just say something cryptic and then drop it.”
For a moment, there’s something unspoken between them—something lingering just beneath the surface, pressing at the space between words. Then, just as quickly, Suguru’s expression smooths over. Whatever flicker of thought had been there vanishing behind an effortless, practiced mask.
“It’s nothing.”
It wasn’t.
But whatever it was, Suguru wasn’t going to say it.
Exhaling through his nose, Satoru watches him for a second longer before rolling his shoulders—shaking off the conversation entirely.
“Anyways,” he sighs, stretching his arms above his head as he strides toward the door, loose and unaffected, like he’s just heading out for a stroll instead of stepping into the weight of his legacy.
As he passes the lacquered table, his hand instinctively reaches for his sunglasses, flipping them open with a careless flick before sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.
Suguru’s gaze drags back to him, eyes lingering over the contrast of expensive, embroidered silk and dark tinted glasses. He smirks. “Doesn’t really fit the robes.”
Satoru groans, shoving his sunglasses up into his hairline before letting them drop back onto his nose.
“Tch. I know, I know. Too fucking modern for their delicate sensibilities, right?”
Suguru chuckles, putting out his cigarette. “Something like that.”
With a resigned huff, Satoru tosses the sunglasses onto the table with a clatter.
“Fine fine…” he grumbles, pausing—considering. A wicked smile curls onto his lips. “Hey… what do you think—should I blindfold myself instead and pretend I can’t find the stage? Give ‘em a little show?”
Suguru barks out a short laugh, shaking his head as he exhales.
“You’re really gonna make a fucking scene on your own celebration?”
“Oh, Suguru,” Satoru’s grin is all teeth as he makes his way toward the door. “Make a scene? When have I ever done that?”
Suguru gives him a long, slow look as he follows.
“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”
Satoru snorts. “Smartass.” He shoves the door open without hesitation. “Y’think I can piss off at least three elders before the night’s over?”
“Mm... four, if you really try.”
“That’s the spirit.”
And as Satoru steps forward—toward the weight of a legacy that meant nothing to him, Suguru lingers behind him, watching as Satoru walks ahead, carrying the world like it’s weightless.
But Suguru knows better.
He always has.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Stand up straight,” your mother murmurs quietly—so soft that only you can hear it. “And try not to stare.”
Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pressing back—but stare? Fuck. How can you not? The Gojo estate is unlike anything you have ever stepped foot in.
The ceilings stretch impossibly high, wooden beams arching overhead like the ribs of some celestial beast. Hand-painted fusuma panels line the walls, gold leaf catching the candlelight, depicting Kyoto’s landscapes in elegant brushstrokes. There is a stillness here—something ancient, untouched by time. Unshaken by war or weakness.
A faint trace of aged incense lingers in the air, blending with the clean scent of fresh tatami, wrapping around you like something sacred—a quiet reminder that tradition is absolute here.
The steady flow of guests direct you down the grand walkway, toward the main hall, and the air hums with low voices—silk robes rustling as elders and elite sorcerers file in, taking their assigned seats.
Assigned by status.
The highest-ranking families settle nearest to the center of the hall, where Gojo Satoru will take his place, while the lesser clans drift toward the outer edges, far enough to understand their place.
You barely register it.
Because just beyond the walkway, past a row of sliding doors left slightly open, something catches your eye.
A dojo.
Wide and open, its polished wooden floors gleam under the dim glow of candlelight. Tall, arched windows invite in the cool night air, carrying the rustling of bamboo from the gardens beyond. Along the walls, beautifully crafted bokken rest neatly in their racks beside long naginata and aged katana, their lacquered hilts gleaming faintly.
It is… perfect.
Unlike anything your own estate has ever had. A proper space for training—not the rigid, structured sessions dictated by the elders, but something freer. A place to move, to breathe, to fight.
God… it’s everything you’ve always wanted.
After all, your clan was built on precision, control, intelligence. Not raw combat. You have trained—mastered every movement drilled into you since childhood—but never were you allowed to spar without restraint. Never trained to be a sorcerer, never encouraged to fight in a way that would leave bruises—that would stain silk with sweat and blood.
You were raised to be a perfect reflection of your family, a perfect wife—that is all.
And yet, here it is. Fuck. A proper dojo—what a dream. So perfectly built for battle, yet it’s tucked into the halls of the most powerful clan in Jujutsu society, probably taken for granted as if it were nothing.
As your steps slow, you barely realize how long you’ve been staring, until you feel the lightest tug on your sleeve.
“Enough,” your mother mutters, grip light but firm.
Your heart jumps. Shit. It was one thing to observe. To admire. But it was another to linger.
“Eyes forward,” she lifts her chin, and you follow her deeper inside.
Moving ahead, the crowd shifts around you, elders and elite sorcerers weaving through the grand hall, settling into their assigned seats—but damn it. You’re still thinking about that damn dojo.
What must it be like to strike and be struck back, to train not just for form but for battle?
But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.
Then, with the slightest turn of her head, she murmurs, “…w-what? Where did he go…”
Your breath stills as you realize, your father is no longer beside her. Glancing around, he is nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flowing silk and quiet murmurs. But you don’t need to ask where he’s gone—you already know. And… so does she.
Despite it, she doesn’t curse. Doesn’t let her expression falter. Doesn’t break stride. But you see the way your mother’s lips press together, the way her fingers curl slightly against the sleeve of her kimono, gripping fabric like it’s the only thing she can control.
A slow, measured breath leaves her nose. Then, with a practiced ease, she smooths out the folds of her sleeve.
“Wait at your seat…” she instructs softly. “I’ll find him.”
And just like that, she is gone.
It’s not the first time.
Not the first time she’s swallowed the weight of his absence, nor the first time she’s forced herself to chase after a man who has never once stopped running. A man who dishonors her with such frequency that it no longer feels like betrayal—only expectation.
And she goes anyway. Every time.
Why?
You begin to ponder.
How many wives have had to smile through disgrace, bound by duty to men who do not see them? How many have sat in silence, enduring the quiet disintegration of a marriage, knowing their suffering is only theirs to bear?
The thought lingers as you move toward your assigned seat, your steps slow, lost in quiet contemplation. You barely register the way silk brushes against you, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the polished floors.
“You’re in my seat.”
The words are crisp. Clipped.
You barely have time to process them before the weight of who they belong to settles in your chest like stone. Glancing up, your stomach drops.
Shit.
You’ve sat in the wrong seat.
Not just any seat.
His seat.
Gojo Hajime.
An elder of the Gojo clan. A man whose presence alone commands respect and caution in equal measure. His reputation is built upon unforgiving discipline, a fierce advocate for upholding the hierarchy that governs jujutsu society. You have seen how lesser-ranked sorcerers bow deeper in his presence, how his voice alone is enough to quiet a whole fucking room.
And you—you—have just taken his seat.
You should apologize. Immediately. Stand, lower your head, bow so deeply your knees kiss the floor—but you don’t even get the chance. Because the moment your lips part, his voice cuts through the air again.
“How disgraceful.”
The murmurs start immediately. Soft at first. Rippling outward.
A misplaced seat is not just an accident—it is an insult. A disruption to the hierarchy, an unspoken challenge to status. And it is not just your mistake—it is your family’s.
Eyes begin to turn.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic coiling tight in your stomach. You can feel the weight of scrutiny, the silent condemnation pressing against your skin like needles. But just as the tension threatens to crack open, before you can even move, before you can correct your mistake—
“Damn,” a voice cuts in. “I didn’t know we had assigned seats based on grumpiness. If that’s the case, maybe we oughta scoot you a little further up, gramps.”
The murmurs die instantly. A ripple of silk as heads turn, a breath caught collectively in the throats of the room.
Because everyone knows that voice.
Gojo Satoru.
And when you finally force yourself to look, when you finally shift your gaze toward the source of your salvation, you find yourself staring into the bluest damn eyes you’ve ever seen.
They are a color not meant for this world—icy, piercing, almost otherworldly under the flickering candlelight. Not simply blue, but something deeper, something endless, like the sky when it stretches too far, too high, too unreachable.
And then, just as effortlessly, he drops into the seat beside you.
“Hope ya don’t mind if I sit here, gramps,” he sighs, propping his chin against his palm with a lazy grin. “Since, y’know… you’re already standing.”
The elder bristles.
“Gojo-sama…” he says slowly, voice strained. “Seats are assigned with purpose.”
Satoru exhales loudly, stretching his neck. “Right, right,” he drawls. “And lemme guess—some dusty old men in a room decided where everyone sits?”
“The council—”
“Right, right,” he interjects, waving a dismissive hand. “The same council that decided I needed to wear this stiff-ass robe tonight.” He tugs at the embroidered silk draped over his shoulders for emphasis before flashing a sharp grin. “Real forward thinkers, those guys.”
A flicker of disbelief passes over the elder’s face.
Satoru hums, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Tell ya what… since I’m feeling generous tonight, how ‘bout we just let it slide? Y’know, pretend we’re not wasting all this energy over a damn seat?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head, his voice dropping to something lower, lazier. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep arguing with me in front of all these lovely guests? On my birthday, need I remind you?”
The words are spoken lightly, casually, but there’s an underlying challenge in them—something daring, something edged with amusement, as if he already knows how this will end.
And the elder does, too. Because what can he say? What will he do? It’s a battle he can’t win. Not against the strongest.
A long breath drags through his nose before he bows his head stiffly.
“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”
Satoru grins, entirely pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
With that, the elder moves stiffly to another seat, the murmurs gradually settling into quiet acceptance, though you can still feel the lingering weight of curious glances thrown your way.
And finally—finally—your lungs remember how to breathe.
You should say something. Thank him. But before you can, Satoru turns his attention to you, tilting his head slightly, that easy smirk still curving his lips.
“There,” his fingers play idly with a tousle of your hair, letting it twirl between his grasp. “A lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, don’t y’think?”
You blink, still caught between lingering panic and something dangerously close to awe.
Because just like that, with a grin and a few well-placed words, he had made a mockery of the entire situation. Had turned the weight of expectation into something trivial, something meaningless.
Had made defiance look so damn effortless. And for the first time tonight, you wonder what it would be like to live that freely.
Satoru watches you, head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something. Amusement flickers in those ridiculously bright eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.
You realize then—you haven’t said a word.
Shit.
Heat pricks at the back of your neck. You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to gather the scattered remains of your dignity before finally managing, “…oh, um… t-thank you, Gojo-sama.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Ugh. Don’t do that.”
You blink. “…do what?”
“That whole ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Bleh.” He scrunches his nose, expression twisted in exaggerated distaste. “You make me sound old.”
You hesitate, caught between confusion and amusement. “But… you’re the Clan Head now.”
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
Your lips twitch, just barely suppressing a laugh, and his gaze flickers to you at that, something playful sparking in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, his elbows rest on the low table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.
“You wouldn’t believe how many speeches I’ve had to sit through already. I swear, they’ve been reciting my life story like I’m some kind of historical relic.”
You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”
Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “Wow. The betrayal.”
Shaking your head in amusement, you finally allow a small laugh to slip out.
“I… didn’t mean it like that.”
“Uh-huh.” He squints at you in mock suspicion before his lips stretch back into an easy grin. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide, since I like you.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
It’s nothing… right? Just the nerves. The residual stress from earlier. The weight of too many eyes lingering in the periphery.
But as he watches you—head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out—you don’t know what the hell to say. And yet… you also find yourself not wanting to look away.
Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.
He is elegance without effort, arrogance without apology, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him. His snowy-white hair is a tousled mess, catching silver beneath the candlelight, framing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbones, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.
And his eyes—God, his eyes.
They aren’t just blue. They’re endless. A shade too sharp, too striking—like fractured gemstones, like glacial ice catching the light at just the right angle. They don’t just see, they consume, pulling you in as if the whole fucking world just disappears when he looks at you.
What the hell are you supposed to say to him?
Shit. You’re lingering again. Your mother would curse you for this. You should speak—say something, anything. But the words never come.
Luckily, you don’t have to figure it out.
Because just then, a sharp chime rings through the grand hall, signaling the start of the formal ceremony. A ripple of movement stirs through the guests as heads turn toward the center of the room, where the elders begin to take their places.
Satoru exhales, stretching his arms overhead in a lazy arc. “Guess that’s my cue.”
He rises smoothly, adjusting the heavy silk of his robes with little care, as if he’s already bored of the whole affair. But then—before stepping away—he casts you one last glance, that ever-present grin still playing at the edges of his lips.
“See ya around, sweetheart.”
And then, like this entire night is nothing more than a game to him, he waves, casting you a playful wink. Casual. Effortless. Like you’re old friends. Like this moment, fleeting as it is, belongs to just the two of you—despite the dozens of eyes still lingering in your direction.
And, without hesitation, he turns, stepping toward the center of the room, where the weight of his legacy awaits him.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
The ceremony is exactly what Satoru expected—long, tedious, and filled with more self-important speeches than he cares to count. The elders take turns praising the significance of his ascension, the legacy he carries, the burden he must now bear.
As if he doesn’t already fucking know. As if the weight of the Gojo name hasn’t pressed against his spine since the moment he was born.
He stands at the center of it all, a crownless king in layered silk, his every move watched, measured, and judged by the dozens of expectant faces surrounding him.
Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.
Because at the end of the day—he is still Gojo Satoru. And they can dress him up in their finest robes, seat him at the highest throne, weigh him down with the expectations of an entire clan—but they can’t make him care.
And they know it.
So, when the speeches end and the ritual formalities dissolve into something more palatable—celebration, sake, music—the real scheming begins.
The moment the first note is played, an elder clears his throat. Satoru doesn’t even look up.
“We have taken the liberty of selecting your first dance, Gojo-sama,” the man says, hands folded neatly in his sleeves, the picture of diplomatic grace. “She is from a highly esteemed bloodline. A perfect candidate for marriage and—”
Satoru groans. Loudly.
“Oh, come on.” He drags a hand down his face, tilting his head back like this entire conversation physically pains him. “You’re really pulling the marriage card already? I just fucking turned eighteen.”
The elder’s expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t falter. They’ve played this game with him before. They know Gojo Satoru only bends when it suits him.
“We must get ahead of things. And it is tradition for the head of the Gojo Clan to take his first dance with a suitable partner—”
“Right, right.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the room for anything more interesting than this conversation. “And lemme guess—she’s got a nice lineage, proper manners, and the personality of a wet napkin?”
A pause as the elder clears his throat. Yeah. That’s all the confirmation he needs.
Satoru exhales, shaking his head, fingers drumming lazily against the lacquered armrest of his chair.
“Yeah… I think I’ll pass,” he’s rising from his seat as the elder begins ushering a poised, graceful young woman towards him—clad in silk, the color of cherry blossoms.
Satoru doesn’t even look at her.
He’s looking for an escape, and as his eyes sweep the crowd, he sees you.
The girl from earlier.
And just like that, his mind is made up.
Before the elder can say another word, before the girl can step any closer, Satoru moves.
Not toward her.
Toward you.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Dance with me.”
You blink, gaze dropping to his hand, extended toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed.
It’s not a request.
It’s a decision.
A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.
And the room knows it.
The air seems to tighten, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as hushed murmurs flicker between the guests, silk rustling as heads turn. The weight of attention presses against your skin, heavier than the finest-woven kimono, heavier than the eyes of your parents, now fixed on you, unreadable.
Your lips part slightly, but no words come. Fuck. You should at least breathe. But you don’t. You can’t. Your mind is barely processing what the fuck is happening.
Then, a quiet but pointed sound—your mother clearing her throat beside you.
“She would love to.”
Her voice is soft, but firm, a smooth, graceful assertion that leaves no room for question. A response crafted not for you, but for those watching, those weighing this moment, those who will whisper about it long after the night ends. Because this is not just a dance. This is a spectacle. A shift in the script carefully written for the evening.
And your mother knows that. To refuse would be foolish. To hesitate would be disgraceful. To accept, however—
An honor.
So, when she turns toward you, offering the smallest, most practiced of smiles, you understand her meaning entirely.
You will dance with Satoru Gojo.
With a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding, you glance back toward him. He’s watching you, amusement flickering in those impossibly blue eyes, that lazy, knowing grin still curling at his lips.
“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”
You don’t know what possesses you—perhaps the weight of expectation, or perhaps something else entirely—but your hand lifts. Fingers barely brushing against his before he takes it completely, enclosing it in a grasp that is warm, steady, unwavering.
And just like that, he pulls you into the center of the room.
Into the center of everything.
His grip is firm but unhurried as he leads you, like none of this is a big deal. Like he hasn’t just overturned an entire evening’s worth of careful tradition.
Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, your breath barely finding its way back into your lungs as you let him guide you into position. One of his hands settles lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.
“Relax,” he murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear. “You’re stiffer than my old kendo instructor.”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against yours. “I—this is just… unexpected.”
Exhaling dramatically, he spins you effortlessly into the first steps of dance. “Tell me about it,” he groans. “You just saved me from another goddamn elder trying to shove some proper young lady into my arms.”
You blink. “What?”
“Oh yeah,” he drawls, twirling you smoothly before pulling you back into his grasp. “The matchmaking schemers are working overtime tonight. Bet they’re seething right now.”
You stifle a laugh. “So… you picked me out of spite?”
“I picked you because you looked like you needed saving too.” His eyes flicker toward you, sharp but warm, like he’s seeing straight through you.
You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.
“Well… my mother was about to give me a very long lecture about decorum,” you admit quietly.
His grin widens as he hums. “Guess that makes me your knight in shining silk, huh?”
You roll your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays you.
Satoru’s grip shifts slightly, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against your waist as he leads you through another step. He moves so effortlessly, like the weight of expectation never touches him, like the rules of this world bend just for him.
For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.
For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.
For a moment… it’s just the two of you.
As the melody slows—the last few notes stretch through the grand hall like a fading breath—you barely register the shifting of the crowd around you. It feels like the world has shrunk.
And then, stillness. The dance is over.
You should step away. You should let go.
But Satoru lingers.
His fingers remain curled lightly around yours, as if he’s forgotten to let go—or maybe he just doesn’t feel like doing so yet. His touch is warm, steady, and entirely too deliberate for someone who seems to take nothing seriously.
As his gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, his smirk deepens, something unreadable flashing in those impossible blue eyes. Then, with a casual ease—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts your hand slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
Soft. Unhurried.
Barely a brush of his lips against your skin, but enough to send something fluttering wildly in your stomach.
Damn him.
You feel it everywhere—the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hold lingers a second too long before he finally lets go. When your hand drops back to your side, it’s still tingling from the contact, and you know you should say something, but your tongue feels too damn heavy in your mouth again.
Satoru, however, looks perfectly at ease, like he hadn’t just turned your world sideways with a single fleeting kiss. Still, the moment stretches—something about it feels… different. A beat too long, a silence that carries something unspoken.
But when he shifts, the moment simmers away as he turns his head slightly, his attention suddenly caught by something beyond you. Or, someone.
Geto Suguru. His best friend.
His posture loosens as he exhales through his nose, casting you a final glance. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawls lazily, taking a step back. “Hate to dance and dash, but duty calls.”
And just like before, he lifts a hand in that same casual wave, and winks—slipping back into the crowd with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.
Following his gaze, you look just past the cluster of mingling sorcerers, at the figure leaning lazily against one of the wooden pillars. His dark long hair falls across his shoulders, his arms are folded neatly into the side sleeves of his yukata, and his eyes are half-lidded, bored.
Satoru reaches him in just a few strides, and whatever the two of them exchange is lost to you beneath the hum of the room—but they’re laughing, at ease.
Exhaling slowly, you force your trembling hands to steady at your sides, your racing heart to settle, remembering where you are. Because the world moves on. The music starts anew. The guests return to their conversations.
But you don’t. Not yet.
Because this—this is something you’ll remember. The night you first met Gojo Satoru.
The night you first saw him for who he was—not just the head of the Gojo Clan, not just the strongest, but something untouchable, something defiant. Something free.
And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always hold onto that moment.
A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Seven years have passed since that night. Seven years since the weight of an entire clan was draped over his shoulders like a silk noose.
Gojo Satoru is still the strongest, still the untouchable ruler of the Gojo Clan, but the years have done little to change the one thing the elders have always hated about him—he refuses to be controlled.
But their patience is wearing thin.
The moment he steps into the council chamber, Satoru already knows he’s going to hate every second of this.
Same old stiff-ass room, same old stiff-ass elders. The walls lined with painted screens depicting wars won centuries ago, incense burning in the background like it’s meant to cleanse him of his sins or some shit. He exhales loudly, rolling his shoulders back, then strolls forward with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution.
Dropping lazily onto the tatami, Satoru lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Alright,” he drawls, popping his neck with a slow tilt of his head. “Let’s hear it. What crime have I committed this time?”
A tense silence follows.
Gojo Hiroshi, the eldest of the council, lets out a long, deliberate sigh, his sharp gaze steady beneath thick silver brows. “Your inappropriate conduct has reached our ears again.”
Satoru smirks. “Oh? I’ve got fans? You geezers keeping tabs on me now?”
His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.
“You mustn’t treat this as a joke,” another elder chimes in, voice lined with restrained patience. “Your recklessness is a stain upon our clan’s legacy.”
Satoru scoffs. “Recklessness? I’m pretty sure I’ve saved more lives than any of you sitting here. Y’know, by doing my actual job.”
“The strongest should not act so carelessly,” Hiroshi cuts in. “And yet, all you do is goof off. Throwing yourself around, jumping from woman to woman, acting like some common fool—”
Satoru groans loudly, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “God, is this really about me having a good time? I hate to break it to ya, old man, but I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Maybe if you all had a little fun in your youth, you wouldn’t be so damn uptight.”
The closest elder levels him with a stern glare. “We have tolerated your… indulgences long enough.”
“You speak of a ‘good time’,” another elder continues, fingers steepled together. “But you must consider the future. This—this frivolity—must end.”
Satoru clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers lazily against his knee. “Yeah? And just where are ya gettin’ at, gramps?”
Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.
Satoru watches as they silently decide who will be the one to say it. They always do this. Always sit in their stiff little circles, acting like their words carry the weight of gods.
Finally, Hiroshi exhales, slow and measured, before speaking.
“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”
There it is.
Satoru lets out a slow, exaggerated breath, tilting his head back. “Man… you guys really need a new hobby.”
“We have been patient,” Hiroshi continues, ignoring him. “But the time for childish defiance is over.”
Satoru’s lips twitch. Childish? He could wipe this entire damn room off the map if he wanted. Not that he would, though—he’s mostly reasonable.
An elder shifts slightly, fingers curling over the edge of a plain, unassuming folder resting beneath his palm, and as Satoru’s gaze flicks to it, recognition flares.
Ugh. Not this bullshit again.
This isn’t new. He knows what’s inside. A folder full of names. A folder of candidates—eligible women, bloodlines deemed strong enough, clans deemed worthy. A relic of a past he never fucking asked for.
His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.
“Yeah, so… fuck this. I’m gonna stop ya right there—”
“You will sit down, Satoru.”
The words are sharp. Final. Satoru freezes mid-step, the weight behind them pressing like a blade against his spine.
The fucking audacity. A command? A fucking order?!
Exhaling through his nose, he bites back the burn of frustration clawing up his throat. “Nah,” he mutters, waving a dismissive hand as he turns on his heel. “Fuck off.”
“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”
Satoru stops.
A slow laugh bubbles up from his chest—sharp, humorless, before turning back to face them. Tilting his head, an icy chill threads his voice.
“Let me get this fucking straight. You dragged me all the way here, wasted my precious time, just to tell me I need to knock someone up? Wow.” He lets out a sharp whistle, slowly clapping his hands together in mock awe. “Out of all of your excuses, this one takes the fucking cake.”
“You fail to take this seriously,” Hiroshi’s voice is quieter than the others, but heavier in its own way. “You never have.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe because I don’t need to. I’m the strongest, remember?”
“And yet,” Hiroshi exhales, “even the strongest will one day fall.”
The words settle in the air like a foregone truth. Satoru doesn’t flinch. But something in his jaw ticks, barely perceptible.
Even the strongest will one day fall.
He hates the way those words burrow under his skin, clawing at something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
“You refuse to take a wife. You refuse to consider the future,” Hiroshi continues, voice steady. “You’ve left us no choice. And so, we have taken it upon ourselves to make the choice for you. Marriage arrangements are already in place.”
Satoru’s brow furrows—a seething rage building underneath his skin. Pulling down his blindfold in a slow, deliberate movement, he reveals the impossible, piercing blue of his Six Eyes.
“Excuse me?”
The air shifts, thickening under the weight of power, of warning—of a challenge.
For a moment, all he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. And then, just beneath the suffocating weight of his own fury, another voice cuts through.
‘You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?’
A memory. A voice.
Suguru.
The words hit him like a hammer, striking something raw, something he thought he buried a long time ago.
Geto Suguru.
His best friend. His brother. The one person who had ever truly understood him. The only person who could ever match him step for step, thought for thought.
The person he lost. A man who had abandoned all right or reason. Who had turned his back on everything. On Jujutsu High. On their ideals. On him.
And suddenly, the weight of it all presses heavier on Satoru’s shoulders. It feels suffocating. Because for the first time in years, something inside him wavers. And damnit… that pisses him off.
With a sharp step forward, Satoru’s hand snatches the folder from the table in one swift motion, the rustle of paper slicing through the silence like a blade.
The room tenses as he flips it open, eyes scanning the pages, the names, the faces—the future they’ve decided for him.
As he goes through its contents, a folder he’s seen often but never truly looked into, he realizes it’s exactly what he expected—polished profiles, lists of pedigreed women, hand-selected for their bloodlines, their breeding, their usefulness.
Every file reads the same.
Perfect posture. Proper etiquette. Skilled in traditional arts. Fluent in tea ceremonies. Raised to serve, obey, bear children.
Gross.
His brow furrows in irritation as he skims through the neatly cataloged qualities, as if he’s browsing a fucking menu.
Expert in tea ceremonies. Elegant calligraphy. Well-versed in ikebana.
Exhaling sharply through his nose, he flips to the next file with a flick of his wrist.
Gentle temperament. Raised to uphold family honor. Culinary excellence.
Jesus.
It’s all the same.
Not a single original thought, not a single fucking thing that isn’t meant to mold them into perfect little wives and mothers.
Satoru’s fingers twitch as disgust curls up his throat.
What? Is he supposed to just pick one, put a ring on her, fuck her like some obligation? Breed an heir with a woman whose only defining trait is knowing how to arrange flowers?
Tch.
He’s already itching to slam the folder shut and walk out of this room, consequences be damned.
But then—he halts. His gaze briefly catching on a familiar face.
You.
A picture clipped neatly to your file, just like all the others, but something about it makes him pause.
He knows you… right?
Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.
Satoru has slept with countless women, but he’s pretty damn sure he’d remember if you were one of them. Plus… you’re a virgin, according to your file, so… that can’t be it.
He scans the page with mild curiosity, barely reading at first—and low and behold, it’s another list of fucking perfect traits designed to impress him.
Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.
Right. Of course. Same as the rest.
But then, his eyes flick lower.
Martial arts.
His brow lifts.
Huh. Now that’s new.
Shifting his weight, his gaze lingers on that one detail. You practice martial arts? Interesting.
The corner of his lips twitch, intrigue curling at the edges of his amusement as he flips through the rest of your file—skimming for anything else that isn’t some prim manufactured selling point.
Not much stands out amongst the crowd, expect that, yeah, you’re hot too. That certainly doesn’t hurt.
If they’re really forcing him to do this shit—if he really has to fuck a woman and produce an heir—he’s at least going to pick someone who can actually hold his attention. Hell, if he has to fuck her, she better be someone who can at least get his dick up.
Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker back up to the elders, their bated breaths held with anticipation.
“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”
A ripple of movement shifts immediately—a murmur of approval.
“But.” His voice cuts through their satisfaction like a knife. “Cancel whatever bullshit arrangement you had planned.” His Six Eyes gleam as his gaze flickers up, sharp, glacial. “If I’m doing this,” he exhales, voice smooth as glass, “I’m doing it my way.”
And with that, he slams the folder down, open with a photo of you.
“I at least want a say in who the fuck I’m picking,” he mutters, voice cool, final. Then, his gaze flickers up. A smirk—sharp and defiant—curls at the corner of his lips. “So… there ya have it. I pick her.”
A beat of silence. Then another.
Satoru watches as the elders’ expressions shift as they take in your photo, their brows knitting together, their lips pressing into thin, disapproving lines. There’s something unspoken between them—hesitation. Uncertainty.
Jesus Christ... what now?
His fingers tap idly against the table, impatience curling at the edges of his composure. Rolling his eyes, he exhales sharply before plopping back down onto the tatami.
“What?” his irritation spikes, gaze flickering between the stiff-ass old men. “You gonna tell me she’s not good enough? That her tea ceremony etiquette isn’t up to your impossible fucking standards? She was in your folder!”
Silence.
Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.
“There is… history.” His words are careful, measured. “With her clan.”
Satoru lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Okay… and?”
A flicker of unease passes between the elders.
“Satoru,” another speaks, voice steady, placating. “Clan politics are not so simple—”
He scoffs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You think I give a shit about clan politics?”
More exchanged glances. More unreadable expressions. But Hiroshi remains still.
“It is not just politics…” he finally says, gaze unwavering. “There was a… scandal.”
Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.
God, he fucking hates when people beat around the bush. His patience is wearing thin. He agreed, didn’t he? What the hell more do they want?
“Scandal?” he echoes, voice flat, uninterested. “Oh, let me guess. Daddy lost a business deal? Mommy hosted the wrong kind of dinner party? Spare me.”
A slow breath.
“…her family has been outcasted.”
A pause.
“Disgraced,” another adds. “Stripped of their status. They have nothing. They live in ruin.”
Arching a brow, Satoru lets the silence linger—lets them wait for him to grasp the supposed severity of the situation.
But he doesn’t give a shit about status.
He just wants these crusty old men off his back, and your folder was the least boring in that entire damn stack.
“…and?” his voice is flat. “I fail to see what the fuck any of this has to do with me. She was in your folder. That’s who I pick.”
The tension thickens as the air feels heavier. The elders remain silent, exchanging glances, waiting for him to finally understand—to realize what he’s signing up for.
Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.
“She comes with nothing now, Satoru,” his tone’s heavier now. “She was a suitable candidate… yes. But now? She has no wealth. No influence. Her mother is drowning in debt. If you choose her, you will be marrying into ruin.”
Satoru groans, loudly, dragging a hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired of this conversation. With a sigh, he rises, reaching into his pocket for his blindfold.
“You old geezers really think I give a shit about money?” he mutters, shaking out the fabric before sliding it over his eyes slowly—like he’s already disengaging from the conversation. “God, you’re all so dramatic. I’m loaded. Who fucking cares.”
“Satoru—”
“I said I’d marry. It’s her or nothing,” his voice is final, unwavering.
The folder snaps shut in his hands, the sharp sound slicing through the hushed tension. A flick of his wrist sends it skidding back across the polished table.
“So, there you have it. Call her mother, we’ll draft an arrangement.”
A ripple of unease shifts through the council, their stiff expressions unreadable. Hiroshi’s brow knits. “An arrangement?”
Satoru exhales, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms overhead like this entire conversation has physically exhausted him.
“Yup.” His fingers splay lazily as he waves a hand through the air, tone entirely too casual. “I’ll pay off their debts. In return, she marries me. Win-win. There. Easy.”
Then, that smirk—cocky, taunting—pulls at his lips as he leans back, tipping his chin up in mock amusement.
“Anyways. Good talk.” He pauses. “Sooo… uh. We done?”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Eat.”
The command is soft but firm, breaking the silence that has stretched too long across the small table before you.
Your mother sits across from you, poised as ever, lifting her chopsticks with careful precision, plucking a small piece of tofu from her bowl. The once-pristine silk of her kimono has dulled with time, its ivory threads faded from wear, from struggle. But she wears it the same way she always has—with quiet dignity, spine straight, hands resting carefully in her lap, an image of control that nothing—not scandal, not exile—has managed to break.
She doesn’t look up as she speaks to you once more.
“You’re staring at your food again.”
You don’t remember the last time dinner felt this quiet.
Well, at least not this kind of quiet. This quiet is… different.
It’s not the quiet like when your father was still here—sitting where your mother is now, tapping idly at his phone, barely listening as you spoke about your day. Not like the quiet nights when he would come home late—smelling of perfume that didn’t belong to your mother.
Not like the quiet night he left—walking out the door, taking everything with him.
A soft clink pulls you back—the sound of your mother setting her chopsticks down with slow, deliberate care. When you lift your eyes, she is already watching you, her expression as unreadable as ever.
“You must eat.”
Picking up the chopsticks, your fingers feel stiff against the smooth wood. The miso soup in front of you has gone lukewarm, its thin broth barely fragrant, stretched with water to make it last longer. A meal meant to sustain, not satisfy.
“I’m… not hungry.”
Your mother doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t frown. She simply takes another bite of her meal, chewing with quiet deliberation before dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
“A weakened body leads to a weakened mind,” she murmurs. “You cannot afford to be careless with your health.”
You don’t roll your eyes, but damnit, the urge is there.
Even now, she speaks in lessons, in discipline. As if you still had a name to uphold, a family to represent. As if any of that mattered anymore.
Frustration coils in your stomach, tight and twisting, but you don’t let it show. Because she won’t. She never has.
Not even the night he left.
You still remember it—the way your mother stood there, unmoving, as your father walked out the door. No screaming. No pleading. No chasing after the man who had stolen everything from her, from you.
Just stillness. A quiet that swallowed everything—a quiet that never fucking leaves.
And then, the fallout.
The scandal that burned through the clan like wildfire. The disgrace. The exile. The slow, agonizing unraveling of everything you once knew.
You swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, lifting your chopsticks to take a bite.
Because your mother doesn’t dwell on the past. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.
And so, neither do you.
Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.
Your mother stills—her gaze lingering on the telephone for a moment before she moves, rising to her feet with effortless grace, lifting the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
As she silently listens to whoever’s on the other line, her shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, but you see it. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curl around the receiver, gripping it just a fraction tighter than necessary.
“I see…”
Another pause.
“Yes. Understood.”
The quiet click of the receiver settling into its cradle echoes through the small room, and you study your mother for a moment as she remains still—motionless.
“…mother?”
When she turns, something flickers in her eyes. Not worry. Not resignation. Something else. Something you haven’t seen in years.
Hope.
“…we have been summoned.”
Smoothing down the fabric of her kimono, she settles back at the table—smiling serenely.
You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”
“Gojo Satoru.”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
A familiar weight settles over your shoulders as you step past the towering gates of the Gojo estate. It’s been so long since you last walked these halls, and yet you still remember the first time, seven years ago—the grand ceilings stretching impossibly high, the golden glow of lantern light against hand-painted fusuma panels, the hushed murmurs of Kyoto’s elite.
Now, as you pass through the inner courtyard, it is just as intimidating as you remember.
Just as breathtaking.
A servant bows low, silently ushering you toward the tea room, leading both you and your mother in graceful step. As the entrance nears, her voice breaks the silence.
“You will be on your best behavior,” she murmurs, not unkind, but firm.
Right… as if you needed the reminder.
Stepping inside, the tatami mats barely creak under your careful steps, and the scent of incense greets you first—rich, woody, cloying. A low table sits at its center, the lacquered wood polished to perfection, a ceremonial tea set already in place. And across from it, seated with an unmistakable air of ease, is him.
Gojo Satoru.
Even draped in expensive silk—his robes stitched with the distinguished colors of his clan—he carries himself with an irreverence that clashes against the rigid atmosphere of the room. One arm rests against the table, the other draped carelessly over his knee. His blindfold is absent, and for the first time in seven years, you once again meet those impossibly blue eyes head-on.
“Ah, there she is,” he hums, lips curling into a lazy grin. “Thought I was getting stood up.”
Your mother clears her throat pointedly, bowing in greeting. You quickly follow suit, the practiced motion ingrained in you.
“Gojo-sama,” she says smoothly, “it is an honor to be welcomed into your home.”
Satoru waves a dismissive hand, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. Big honor. Let’s skip the formalities, huh?”
Seated around the table, the elders watch the exchange in silence, their presence heavy, suffocating. You recognize Gojo Hiroshi among them—his sharp, assessing gaze narrowing on you briefly.
Oh… awkward.
Is he still mad about his seat?
Hiroshi exhales, dragging his gaze to your mother. “We will discuss the terms of the arrangement in the study,” he says, voice calm, measured. “In the meantime, Gojo-sama and his intended should use this opportunity to… familiarize themselves.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, Satoru sighs—stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “Right. Tea ceremonies. My favorite.”
Placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, your mother gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder—behave.
And then, with a final bow, she follows the elders as they shuffle toward the adjoining room, their hushed voices retreating beyond the sliding doors. The quiet click of wood sliding echoes in the stillness, leaving just the two of you.
Alone with Gojo Satoru.
A familiar weight settles in your chest, something tight, uncertain. His gaze lingers—not scrutinizing, not cold, but assessing. And God, he’s just as beautiful as you remember him. Too beautiful. The same easy confidence. The same impossibly blue eyes that seem to pierce through everything.
You’ve always held onto that feeling from the first time you met him—what was it, exactly? Admiration?
“Well,” Satoru exhales, stretching his legs slightly beneath the table. “Guess it’s just us now.”
Something about the way he says it makes your tummy clench. Is that the admiration? Fuck, whatever. You know what this meeting is supposed to be. A display of grace, a demonstration of propriety. A wife’s first duty to her husband-to-be.
And so, you inhale, slow and controlled—reaching for the tea set.
“Care for some tea?” you murmur, lifting the delicate porcelain into your fingertips, moving through the familiar, measured motions of ceremony. Of tradition.
Lifting the teapot with both hands, you tilt it just so, allowing the warm liquid to pour in an elegant arc, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The way you were taught. The way it has always been.
Then, with just as much care, you offer it to him, your gaze respectfully lowered.
“Please… enjoy.”
With an unreadable expression, Satoru’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the cup from your hands. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker down at the tea, before taking a slow sip.
There is an unnerving silence.
“Is it… to your liking?”
“Uh…” he shrugs, flashing a boyish grin. “Tastes like tea?”
You blink.
What are you supposed to say to that?
A growing nervousness flutters in your chest. Your mother is depending on you—don’t fuck this up. Nodding, your hands fold neatly in your lap as you recite the lines of tradition.
“It is an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama. May this tea be a reflection of the harmony I hope to uphold in our union.”
For a moment, nothing.
Then—Satoru laughs. Not a small chuckle. Not polite amusement. Full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter.
It startles you, your body tensing at the sound as he sets his cup onto the table and doubles over, catching his breath between chuckles.
You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?
“…did I say something amusing?” you ask carefully.
Satoru waves a hand, shaking his head as he wipes beneath his eyes. “No, no. It’s just… wow. You really went full perfect wife mode, huh?”
Your brows pull together slightly. “Yes… well. It is only proper to conduct myself with—”
“Yeeeah… let’s not,” he waves a hand, leaning forward slightly, arms folding over the table. “You don’t have to do that with me, y’know.”
You hesitate. “Do… what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely at you, expression amused but pointed. “The stiff politeness, the whole ‘it is an honor to serve you’ thing. Jeez… feels like I’m at another meeting with the elders.”
You blink, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sleeve. “But… this is a formal arrangement.”
He hums, tapping a long finger against the porcelain cup. “Yeah, but we’re also people… aren’t we?”
His words catch you off guard.
People.
You’re not sure if you’ve ever been allowed to simply be that—just a person. Not an heiress, not a proper wife, not a disgraced daughter in need of redemption.
You glance at him, at Gojo Satoru, and suddenly… he doesn’t feel so unreachable.
Oh…
He’s the same as you remember—the man who saved you seven years ago. The one who made defiance look so effortless, so free.
Perhaps… with him, you can breathe. Live freely.
Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.
“…Very well,” you murmur. “Then how would you prefer I speak to you, Gojo-sama?”
Satoru exhales dramatically, tilting his head to the side. “Well for starters, drop the ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Hate that.”
You bite back a smile. “It’s a title of respect.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand. “But every time you say it, I feel like I need to go yell at some underlings or something. I’m twenty-five, not fucking ancient.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “Alright… what should I call you then?”
He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”
“…mmkay,” you hesitate for a moment. “Satoru, then.”
His smile widens, pleased.
“Perfect.” He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his palm, one long finger tapping against the table. “Now… be honest. You don’t actually like this crap, do you?”
You blink. “Pardon?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely at the tea set, the meticulously arranged porcelain, the lingering scent of incense curling in the air. “All this traditional, stiff-ass, sit-in-silence tea ceremony nonsense.”
Your fingers clench slightly in your lap. “It’s… important.”
Satoru hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. But do you like it?”
You hesitate. It’s a simple question. A stupid one, even. But for some reason, it feels… foreign. Like no one has ever asked before. You should say yes. It would be the correct answer. The proper one.
“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.
Satoru hums again, watching you closely. “That’s not a yes.”
Looking down at the tea in front of you, a quiet weight settles in your chest. Then—he leans back with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head.
“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“I mean, c’mon,” he groans, tilting his head to the side like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “This is boring as hell. You don’t actually wanna sit here drinking tea all day, right?”
You lift a brow. “But… isn’t this what the elders want?”
Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.
“Yeah, and I like pissing them off,” his voice dips slightly as he shifts closer. “So… let’s try something.”
He pats his lap. Once. Twice.
“C’mere,” he says, lazily.
You stare—heat rising up your neck, your fingers gripping the fabric in your lap.
“…what?”
Satoru lifts a brow. “What?” he echoes, with a grin. Then, he pats his thigh again, nonchalant. “You heard me. C’mere. Sit.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Erm… how does… this have anything to do with ditching?”
“Hmm… maybe, it doesn’t.” Satoru shrugs, lips curling at the edges. “Maybe I just wanna see if you’ll do it.”
A pause. Your stomach flips. Your pulse skips. Your brain is screaming at you. This is improper. Completely inappropriate. Unbefitting of a proper woman, much less a bride-to-be.
And yet—
Fuck. He’s watching you with expectation, amusement, curiosity. Because this is Gojo Satoru. The man who has always done whatever the hell he wants—and somehow, that makes you feel like you can too.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you drag in a deep breath, then move—shifting onto your knees and leaning forward. With a quiet exhale, you turn, lowering yourself onto his lap, your back against his chest as your hands rest awkwardly in your lap.
The moment you settle, his arms curl around your waist. The air changes, and your heart flutters.
“…huh,” his voice is closer than expected, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze—when suddenly, the world bends.
Weightlessness seizes you—like free-falling, like slipping through space itself. Your stomach lurches as reality warps around you, fleeting, untethered—until solid ground finds you again.
A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.
Where the hell are you?
Soft lantern light flickers against dark wood and paper screens, casting shifting shadows along the floor. The air is crisp, laced with pine, and beyond the open veranda, a private onsen awaits—its surface steaming beneath the early evening sky, mist curling lazily across the mountain air like silk. The distant hum of cicadas thrums through the silence, the world around you untouched, secluded, still.
Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.
“Ahh, much better…”
Warm fingers thread through your hair. Slow, deliberate—gathering the strands to one side. You feel a brush of lips against your shoulder as he murmurs,
“…don’t you agree?”
Shit. The realization settles over you like heat—you’re still in his lap.
“Wha—” the room is hazy—you’re a bit breathless from the sudden shift in reality, and fuck, it’s mixing dangerously with the heat of his touch as his fingers slowly drag along your waist.
Hesitantly, you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. Blue. Endless. Watching you. You should look away, but you don’t.
“Um…”
“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.
Shifting slightly, you try to will away the heat in your face, slipping away from his chest as you adjust. Your thighs drape over his lap now, half-facing him. And fuck—was that a mistake?
Because now, he’s all you can see.
Snowy white hair, framing a face too perfect to be real—his mouth curving into a lazy grin that makes your tummy clench in a way you’re entirely unfamiliar with.
“Where… are we?” you manage.
Satoru hums, shifting beneath you—his fingers dancing over the silk of your obi. “Oh… y’know,” his hand drags higher, resting just below the curve of your breast. “Just somewhere no one will bother us…”
As your dizzy mind tries to recalibrate from teleporting, you blink, finally processing the position you’re in. Or rather, the position he’s in—lounging on a shikifuton.
His fingers twirl the tie of your obi, and you tense, suddenly incredibly nervous.
“G-Gojo…”
He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”
“Um…” his other hand begins to slide higher up your thigh. “S-Satoru,” you amend, barely above a whisper.
A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”
Oh. You’re fucked. A shudder rolls through you.
“This place… um…” you try to distract yourself with words. Because what the fuck are you supposed to do when he’s touching you like this?! “Its… not the estate, is it?”
“Nah,” he murmurs lazily. “One of my private villas.I’ve got property all over Japan, sweetheart. Figured I’d take you somewhere more… comfortable.”
Comfortable.
Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?
And shit. Just what is this heat coiling at the base of your stomach? It’s dizzying. You need to move—need space, need air. But as you shift, attempting to slip from his lap, his grip tightens.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, hands steadying you with effortless strength. “Easy there, sweetheart.”
Your pulse stammers, and for a second, you forget to breathe.
“I—I just need to—”
“Stay put.” His fingers flex against your waist. Firm. Unyielding. “We just teleported. Move too fast, and you’ll tip over.”
As your lips begin to part—a protest forming—a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. Your breath hitches as the edges of your vision blur for a fraction of a second, and you sway, balance slipping.
“Ohp. There it is.”
Satoru moves before you can even react.
One hand slips behind your back, the other finding your hand as he gently lays you back against the futon. The silk of your kimono pools around you as his palm slides back to the curve of your waist.
And suddenly, he’s everywhere.
Leaning over you, elbow propped up—half above, half beside you. A frame too broad, his snowy-white hair falling forward just slightly, strands ghosting against your forehead.
The air shifts.
Those impossibly blue eyes drink you in, framed by thick lashes that soften the sharp cut of his jaw. “Still dizzy?” he murmurs teasingly.
Inhaling shakily, your eyes flutter shut for just a second, searching for something steady, something solid. But there’s only him—his presence, his warmth, the scent of him—clean, crisp, intoxicating.
Yup. You’re fucked.
“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.
Because it’s not the teleporting that’s making your head spin anymore.
Satoru hums, knowing.
“Since we’re to be wed…” his fingers resettle just below your breast, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you deserve a sample, don’t you?”
Huh?
You should say something. Anything. Your lips part instinctively, but before you can form a thought, before hesitation can settle in—Satoru is leaning in and your brain is short circuiting.
His hand lifts, cupping your cheek as he tilts your chin just so, and with a tenderness, his lips brush against yours in a soft, lingering press.
It’s like a dream. Gojo Satoru—the man you’ve admired, so sweet, so charming, so free—kissing you? Is this real life?
When he pulls back, he studies your expression, a smug grin dragging up his lips.
“What? You want more?” his lips brush against yours, and you barely process it when he mutters, “…wanna ruin you…” kissing you again.
This time, his lips are moving—slow, languid, like he’s introducing himself to you in a way words never could, coaxing you into the unfamiliar rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He guides. Mapping out your hesitation, your breath, the way your body tenses before melting beneath him.
Is your heart going to beat out of your chest? It feels like it. Just as you ease into his movements, his tongue flicks against the seam of your lower lip—soft, teasing.
“C’mon…” he quietly demands, tongue tracing your lips again, “open up f’me…”
And God, you do. Because he feels too good not to.
“Atta girl…” he hums, tongue slipping past your lips with ease. And now, that slow, lazy exploration turns headier, more consuming, more demanding. Groaning quietly, he’s pulling you in, guiding you. Leading. Teaching.
Oh.
That heat in your tummy… it’s spreading down between your legs now. You’re simmering with an inexplainable heat, and you instinctively clutch his robes, whining involuntarily as he kisses you stupid.
He’s grinning smugly against your lips, your sound fueling him as he devours you more. As your lips crash, you feel him shift, his fingers tugging at your kimono—toying with the delicate knot of your obi.
Wait.
You freeze.
Oh god.
Are you about to lose your virginity to the man you are to marry—before your wedding night?
Noticing you tense, Satoru’s smirk gentles and his movements slow. His lips taper, trailing down your jaw with tender pecks.
“Heh… relax, sweetheart…” he purrs against your skin, caressing your body. “In case you’re wondering, ’m not taking that tonight.”
Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.
Are… you relieved? Fuck… do you want him to fuck you? He’s making your head spin, and with him, tradition feels unnecessary.
“Oh… I-I just…” you swallow. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
He raises a brow, a slow smirk pulling up his lips. “Yeah? Then I can show you, baby.” His lips graze the curve of your throat, fingers still teasing at your obi. “But I need to hear it from you first.”
You blink up at him, heat pooling between your legs at the look in his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, consuming.
“What do you want? Gonna let me play with what’s mine?”
Your heart stammers. Fuck, you should hesitate. This is entirely unbefitting of a proper lady. It’s against everything you were raised to be. But the moment his teeth graze your jaw, fuck it, you’re already nodding.
“…yes, please.”
Satoru hums. “Good girl.”
And then, with a deft tug, your kimono slips open as he pulls it apart—the cool air kissing your skin just before he does, lips trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your breast.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty… look at these tits…” His tongue flicks against your nipple, and you whine, “S-Satoru—ahhh…” shuddering as his mouth wraps around it, swirling his tongue as he sucks the peak.
Smirking, he releases your nipple with a wet pop. “Bet you’re not as prim and proper as you look…” he muses, lips dragging lower, nipping at the sensitive dip of your waist. “Bet there’s a filthy little thing hiding under all this tradition…”
His palms descend, smoothing over your thighs, coaxing them apart with ease, but you tense just a bit.
His gaze lifts, ice-blue and smoldering. “Nervous, sweetheart?” he teases, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs sweeping slow, lazy circles—soothing, patient. But there’s a tension in him, the way his breath deepens, the way his hands flex like he’s holding back.
Your lashes flutter. “I… I just… I dunno how to, I—”
“Shhh,” he coos, smirking, “relax f’me, yeah?”
You give him a little nod as your thighs part further beneath the coaxing of his hands, and fuck, fuck, the sight of you like this—open, pliant, so soft and untouched—has his cock aching.
His breath shudders, fingers dragging up your inner thigh. “Mmm… I can already tell—you’re gonna be a dream wrapped around my cock.” A choked whine escapes you, body shivering, and his smirk deepens. “Ohhh, you like that?” he chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the silk of your kimono, spreading it further open. “Like hearing how bad I wanna fuck you?”
And fuck, does he want to fuck you. The restraint it takes to not flip you over and rut into your cunt is damn near unbearable.
It’s been days since Satoru’s had someone in his bed—days of listening to those stiff-ass elders drone on about duty, responsibility, marriage. Fucking is his stress relief. His role—this position as clanhead, as the strongest. God, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit but it’s exhausting. So, he fucks who he wants, when he wants. And now? Now he’s got you beneath him, trembling and breathless, your kimono slipping from your shoulders like a perfectly wrapped gift waiting to be undone.
It’s almost enough to make him say fuck it and take you right now.
Almost.
But he’s not completely selfish—knows you’re untouched, knows he’d probably wreck you if he took you raw the way he wants to. And as much as he loves breaking pretty little things, he’s gotta prepare you. Prepare you for the worst. Because Satoru? He doesn’t make love, he fucks.
“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"
“I gotchu sweetheart,” he drawls, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton panties. “Gonna take my time. Let’s see how filthy my pretty little wife can get f’me, hm?”
You whimper as his middle finger circles the entrance of your slick cunt, teasing, testing, before pressing in an inch, feeling a small taste of your tight heat wrapped around him.
“Mnnh…” your voice wavers as your fingers grip his robes. “S-Satoru.” He groans, dragging his fingers through your slick, spreading it, making sure you feel every stroke. “Shit, baby…” his voice dips, husky, teasing. “Already soaked, hm? Just from me kissing you? Heh… see.” A wicked grin curls against your neck and you’re whining as he parts your folds, circling against your wet heat. “Knew it. You’re a naughty girl. Feels good huh?”
You nod, head tipping back as your cunt drips on the futon, hips shifting toward him.
“I-I… haaa…” you look up at him with pleading eyes as the tip of his finger sinks inside your tiny hole, then retreating just as quickly, playing with you. He groans, “God I’m gonna fucking ruin you… lemme feel how tight this little pussy is f’me…” and then he pushes his finger in fully, sinking knuckle-deep in your entrance.
“Ahhh!” you gasp, body shuddering, face burying into his neck as your cunt clenches him greedily. “Ohhh, shit,” he groans through his teeth because fuck—your tiny pussy’s already swallowing his finger like you don’t wanna let go. Satoru’s cock is twitching painfully in his hakama, leaking, straining against the fabric. He can’t wait to split you open on his thick throbbing dick.
“There ya go, sweetheart,” he coos, lips brushing against your ear. “Nice and easy, baby.” He’s moving now, curling his finger against that tender spot, and you gasp “S-Satoru…” burying further into his neck as you soak his hand, clutching his kimono as you whine, “nngh… s’too much…”
“Aww… s’okay…” he’s pressing wet open-mouthed kisses along your throat, finger slowly fucking into you, “Shit… this is only one finger sweetheart. Poor thing. M’gonna have to stretch you real good, huh?” he pumps through every word. “And you’ll take all of me, wont’cha? Take me like a good girl?”
Your lashes flutter. It’s overwhelming, but god, you love it. Stretching your hot little cunt with his long finger, the way his pretty blue eyes watch you, the way his voice drips into your ears, coaxing you further under. “I-I… nnngh…” your needy pussy’s gushing all over his knuckles, “Satoruuu…” you whimper, squirming slightly, unsure what you’re asking for.
But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.
“Faster?” he croons, nipping at your earlobe, pumping you fast, and fuck, your eyes roll back. The sounds of your sopping slick mix with the hum of cicadas. “That’s it… m’gonna teach you. Show my perfect little slut of a wife how to take cock, how to be a good girl for her husband.”
He curls his finger further, sliding against your tight wet walls. “S-Satoru—ahhh…”
“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, cock angry in his pants as he pumps you stupid. “Shit, you’re so wet… feel that?” his free hand splays over your stomach, feeling your tiny hole flutter around him. “Ah, fuck… you’re gonna feel so tight around my dick… can’t wait to fuckin’ pound this needy pussy.”
Your breath is stuttering as he’s stretching you faster, making your cunt drool all over him, pretty blue eyes watching you through fluttering white lashes.
“Gonna fuck you so good, baby…” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep, velvety. “Hope you’re ready, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, be my little obedient, sexy toy for me to use whenever I want. Yeah?”
Your body moves on its own and you arch further into him, desperate for more of his ministrations.
“…satoru,” you pant, and his cock leaps in his pants the moment you ask, “m-more… please?”
“Shit…” he groans, slipping another finger into your sopping cunt. “Knew you’re not as innocent as you look. Gonna pump you so fucking full, paint your insides white with my hot, thick cum,” he pants, finger fucking you faster. “This want you wanted needy girl?”
“Mhmm…” you nod, eyes squeezed shut, legs squeezing around him, a whimper spilling for your lips. “Ohh, fuck yes…” he growls, licking into your mouth.
Fuck, Satoru’s cock is throbbing so much is hurts now.
The thought of fucking you raw? Of splitting you open on his cock, ruining that untouched little cunt, making you stretch around him, crying, gasping, begging? Fuck—he could cum in his pants just thinking about it.
Because that is something he doesn’t do with other women. He’s always careful. Always keeps things clean, simple. Never finishes inside—ensuring there’s something between him and whatever meaningless distraction is spread out beneath him. Because at the end of the day, Gojo Satoru has a lot of meaningless distractions, and none of them are worth that kind of indulgence.
But you? Breeding you? Filling your tiny little hole, stuffing you full, making you drip with his cum until you’re leaking, messy, begging for more? Fuck, that’s more than a perk—that’s a goddamn plus.
A plus that, at least in marrying you, he’ll have someone to fuck whenever he wants. Satoru always gets what he wants. And he loves to fuck.
That’s all this is. That’s all you’ll be. A perfect little wife, ready to spread your legs and take him like you were made for it. Why? Because Satoru hates being tied down. But if the elders want an heir?
Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.
“O-Oh… ohmygod…” you’re whimpering now, nails digging into his shoulders as he’s scissoring your dripping pussy, stretching you wider. “Ahhh!” The moment his thumb finds your clit, your body jolts, and he chuckles. “Mmm… there it is…” he’s rubbing slow circles against your swollen bud, pumping your cunt as your whimper and writhe. “That’s what I wanna see… let it take you… let it break you, baby.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—eyes hooded, lips parted, white hair falling over his gaze. Fuck, he looks ruined just watching you come apart. You’re gasping, chest rising and falling, and he smirks. “S’too much,” you whine, voice trembling, “too much, Satoru… I… ahhh!”
Leaning in, his lips brush against yours. “C’mon sweet thing,” he rasps, “Cum f’me. Lemme see how pretty you look when you fall apart…”
And fuck, you do.
Your pussy clenches, tightening around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snaps, sending pleasure crashing through you.
A choked cry slips from your lips as your body shudders violently, legs squeezing around his wrist, cunt gushing down his knuckles. He groans, feeling every pulse of your release, the hot slick dripping down his hand as he fucks you through the aftershocks.
“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, watching you unravel beneath him. His lips curl, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s it, baby… look at you, makin’ such a mess on my fingers.” His thrusts slow, easing you down from your high, his free hand stroking up your trembling thigh as you’re panting, gripping the sleeve of his kimono as you look up at him with dewy eyes.
“Mmm… such a good girl f’me,” he murmurs.
Your lashes flutter, hazy and weak, as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your spent, fluttering hole. You whimper, body jerking slightly at the sensitivity, and a thin, glistening string of arousal connects his fingers to your soaked entrance before it snaps, slick dripping down your thighs.
Satoru hums. “Well, well…” he’s lifting his hand to the lantern light, watching you glisten on his fingers. “You really did make such a mess, sweetheart…”
Your dazed gaze meets his just as his tongue slips between his fingers, sucking them clean. “Mmm…” he groans, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back before pulling them out with a wet pop. “Can’t wait to devour your cunt properly… bury my face between those pretty thighs n’ make you cum on my tongue while I feed you my dick…”
You’re fucking speechless, barely processing his filthy words before he’s shifting, his free hand dipping beneath the folds of his hakama. Blinking, dazed, you look down and—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He’s pulling himself free, that thick flushed cock springing up—flushed, red, and glistening with precum. It throbs, slapping against his abs, needy and aching. You look at Satoru’s blue eyes and they’re watching you, amusement tugging at his lips.
Gripping the base, he gives it a slow stroke. “Mhn… see what you do to me?” he smears his arousal lazily over the swollen head, exhaling. “Ahhh… look how fuckin’ hard I am just from playing with your pretty cunt…”
Swallowing, your thighs press together, heat blooming in your tummy. Each pump of his cock is hypnotic, deliberate—like he has all the time in the world.
You can’t take your eyes off it.
Fuck
His fingers were already enough to drive you insane, but that? How—how the hell are you supposed to fit that inside your pussy?
Satoru catches the way you bite your lip, the flicker of uncertainty in your gaze.
He smirks, tilting his head. “C’mere,” and he’s reaching for your hand, bringing it toward him. “Wanna play with it?”
Your fingers twitch. “But, Satoru—”
“Shhh,” his thumb brushes soothing circles across your wrist. “Told you, ‘m gonna teach you.” Lifting your hand, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm—soft, sweet. “You’re gonna be my wife, baby… that means learning how to handle my cock, too.”
“Oh…” your lashers flutter, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Okay.”
For a fleeting second, the moment feels… almost tender.
But it shatters as he’s spitting directly into your palm—hot, slick, filthy.
“Gotta get it niiiice and wet…” he mutters, guiding your drenched hand to his throbbing dick, smearing the sticky substance around his shaft. “Grip it like this… kay?”
“Okay…” your murmur, thumb brushing against a thick vein. And god, it’s hot—hotter than you expect—twitching in your grip, heavy and pulsing beneath your tiny fingers.
“Mm, good girl,” he exhales, watching you through lidded eyes. “Start slow, yeah? Let me feel you.” He moves your hand beneath his, setting a pace, slow and teasing. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, lashes fluttering as his head tips back. “Fuuuuck… yeah… that’s it, jus’ like that, baby…”
Biting your lip, you look up at his filthy expression. “Like…this?” you experiment, squeezing a little harder, gripping his dick with more purpose. His cock twitches violently and his lips part. “Fuuuuck…” he grunts, grip tightening on your wrist, “y-yeah… that’s it—shit—keep going, just like that.”
God, the way he looks right now has you dizzy—lidded eyes, jaw slack, breath coming short and heavy. He’s falling apart from your touch alone—like there’s a power to it. That realization makes you bolder, your strokes growing more confident.
And fuck, he seems to like that.
“There ya go, sweetheart,” his cock’s jerking in your grip as he pulls back completely, pretty blue eyes flicking form your hand to your face, smirk turning pure filth. “God, look at you… pretty little wife, strokin’ my cock so fuckin’ well. Maybe I oughta let you do this every night, huh? Put those soft little hands to good use.”
The slick, obscene sounds of your hand working over his cock fills the space as he leans back, shamelessly reveling in it, hips twitching into your grasp.
“Nnngh… keep strokin’ me just like that…” his lips hover a breath away from yours, panting, desperate. You squeeze a little harder, rolling your wrist, and his brows furrow, a sharp hiss escaping him. “Shit—” his head lolls back, voice wrecked, “fuck, you’re such a quick learner… bet you’d let me fuck that tight little throat next, wouldn’t you?”
You cunt is throbbing at his words, slick pooling in your panties. God, how are you supposed to answer him? He’s filthy. But you love it. Your thighs squeeze together, and Satoru sees the way you shift—his grin stretching, wicked.
“Betcha like strokin’ me.” His voice is rough, thick with need, fingers threading into your hair. “Betcha like feelin’ my cock throb in your hand, huh?”
Biting your lip, you squeeze his dick harder. “Y-Yeah…” your cheeks burn at your own filthy admission, and his smirk is vicious, pure sin. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it.” He groans, cock twitching in your palm as his flushed tip drools all over your tiny hands. “Naughty little thing… keep that up, n’ m’gonna cum all over these pretty fingers…”
You swipe your thumb over the tip, rolling the head as you murmur “what if… I want that?” and as the words slip out, Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown wide, something feral in those cerulean depths.
“Oh?” His grip in your hair tightens, a sharp, desperate inhale through clenched teeth. “Say that again.”
You breathe slowly, smearing his drooling dick, and Satoru’s cock leaks more, jerking violently the moment you mutter, “I… I wanna see you cum.”
With a primal growl, he snaps—lunging forward, lips crashing against yours, messy, consuming. Breathless, desperate, your strokes turn frenzied as he’s groaning into your mouth, his hand groping your tit, his cock jolting in your palm, pulsing vigorously.
“Fuck,” he pants, forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged, needy. “Faster—m’fuckin’ close—fuck, baby, don’t stop—”
You obey, jerking him quicker, harder, your palm slick and messy with his slick. The lewd, obscene sounds spilling from his lips are shameless, his hips jerking up, chasing the friction.
It’s invigorating, and so—fuck it.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, part your lips—and spit. A long, slick stream dripping down, coating his thick cock, gliding over your fingers as you pump him faster.
Satoru chokes on a breath.
“Shit. Shit. Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, head tipping back, throat bared, veins straining. “Goddamn…” his voice cracks, laughter breaking through. “Look at that. Gonna turn you into the perfect little slut f’me, aren’t I?”
Your hand is a blur now—stroking, twisting, rolling over the ridge of his cock, milking him as he gasps, shuddering, hands roaming over your tits, groping, squeezing.
“G-Gonna cum all over you,” he groans, voice unraveling, grip tightening as his thumb flicks your nipple. “Wanna see it? Fuck—my cum dripping down your hand—” A ragged whine catches in his throat. “Or maybe—m-maybe your tits? Haaa… s-shit… yeah.”
Suddenly, his hand shoves you down, pinning you against the futon as he straddles you, knees pressing against your sides. Your eyes widen as his cock hovers above you, dripping, leaking, his grip tight around the base as he strokes himself furiously.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” The wet faps of his fist grow louder, his panting wrecked, desperate. “Gonna fuckin’—haaaa—s-shit, take my cum!”
And then, he’s spurting his thick gooey seed all over you, spilling rope after rope of that sticky white essence, shooting it from the ridge of his pulsing dick as it erupts is messy arcs. It's warm and wet, his body lingering above you, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants as he wrings every last drop.
Groaning, his head lolls, lazily pumping the last few spurts, blue eyes dropping to the mess he’s made of you—cum dripping down your tits, pooling in the dip of your stomach.
“Fuck…” he exhales, thumb grazing your bottom lip before tilting your chin up. “Just look at you. Drenched in me.”
You blink, dazed, body still humming, skin sticky and dewy with sweat and cum. Satoru watches you for a moment, then huffs a lazy chuckle, shifting off you. You barely register the way he reaches for something beside the futon, only catching the warm press of a damp cloth against your skin a second later.
Lying there, breathless, he carelessly wipes his release off you. He’s not gentle, not exactly, but he’s careful—moving with the ease of someone who’s done this plenty of times before. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside, stretches his arms over his head, and flops onto his back with a satisfied sigh.
There’s a beat of silence as you both exhale. The weight of what the fuck just happened, settling in your chest. Then, his smirk returns as he tilts his head at you.
“Welp,” he sits up, rolling a shoulder, cracking his neck, as if already moving past the moment. “S’pose we oughta head back, huh?”
Your stomach knots. “Oh… um. B-Back?” Because how the fuck are you supposed to sit in front of the elders, in front of your mother, after this? After he’s just—after this?
Satoru snorts, already adjusting himself, tucking his cock back into his hakama like none of this just happened. “Yeah.” He grins, fixing the folds of his robes. “I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?”
O-Oh? Your breath stutters. You swallow.
He smirks, glancing over at you, a few stray drops of his cum still drying on your skin. “Besides… can’t have ‘em thinking I already knocked you up before the wedding.”
The implication is clear. The possessiveness is clear. But the affection? That’s missing. It’s like… he’s already moved on, like this was nothing more than a way to pass the time.
Gojo Satoru doesn’t love you.
He owns you.
And as he extends his hand to you, waiting for you to take it so he can pull you up, there’s… no warmth in his touch.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, blue eyes gleaming—calm, unreadable, detached. “Time to go home.”
Home.
But, it’s not a home—it’s a throne. And not yours to claim, only yours to be kept in.
a/n. hiiii welcome to the debut of this fic! i had to set a lot up here before we dive into the angst and the smutfest that's to come. ngl, this is a bit out of my comfort zone bc as a demisexual i crave emotional connection with sex. like, i'm really gonna want satoru to hold me after he fucks me stupid 🥲 but ALAS. this fic is not that (at least... not yet. give satoru some time, soon he's gonna be whipped for readers coochie, hehe 🤭) anyways, tysm for reading. would love to hear your thoughts 🫶🏻 like i said, this is going to be multiple parts. no clue how many just yet tho!
-> click here for part 2
summary ⭐︎ "Look at the Gojo family!! Their kids are so cute!! When will it be your turn to have child with Kento?" Oh. Oh.... why are you incapable of being pregnant? Why is it eating you alive? And why Kento is... distant. . .?
art cred @/neconi_o0 on tw
pairing ⭐︎ Husband!Nanami x Wife!AFABReader
PLAYLIST hehehe
cw ⭐︎ infertility, depression, misunderstanding, lot of crying, miscommunication, angst, feeling useless, envy, doubting nanami, communication, talking things out, man crying, woman crying, angst to comfort to smut to possible fluff, sex, oral sex (f.receiving), fingering, worshipping, dirty talk, POUSSSEYYY TALKING YEAHYEAHYEAH, rough and gentle, needy, fluff and domestic annnnd will it be a happy ending tho??? eheheh SURPRISE ( • ̀ω•́ )✧
wc ⭐︎ 7.1k continuation of this Drabble!
author notes ⭐︎ omg the dear people of my girly land are you ALIVE?! it has been so long my dear sweet girly!!! this fic was supposed to be out for the start of December.. then 31st Decembre.... THEN FOR NEW YEAR. . . . and obviously none of that happened "( – ⌓ – ) but eh! better late than ever right?? so anyway it probably is my favorite fic I've ever wrote and when I tell you I TEARED UP HELP I was extremely sentimental while writing this and I hope some of you will tear up too, hehehe. I also wrote this in 3+ months (·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ ") I took my sweeeeet time with it and since y'all forgot about me I expect 20 notes on this lmaooo BUT AS LONG AS I HAVE FEED BACK YALL KNOW I SUCK BALLS FOR OPINIONS <33333 have fun (or have tears) ((lame attempt at jokes,,,, I'm bad like that,,,,,,,))
Quiet.
It was always so quiet.
And you never minded the quietness your husband carried. Actually, you loved this part of him more than anything. You always find refuge in his quietness.
The way he never rushed you to put words on your complicated feelings. He was always the anchor in the storm that was your heart.
“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t know the answer, yet.” You remember vividly the day he asked you to be his girlfriend. Everything was so different back then, wrapped in the warm, dizzy rush of young love.
He’d been the quiet boy at Jujutsu Tech. The one who kept to the corners, his thoughts tucked neatly behind that calm gaze. You were his opposite: loud, laughing, easy to notice. Everyone thought you and Gojo Satoru would be the inevitable pair. But they were wrong. So wrong.
Because from the very start, it was Nanami Kento who steadied you. His silence wasn’t heavy.
It was a harbor.
When your laughter burned too bright, he was the one who let you rest in the quiet. When the noise of the world became too much, he offered you stillness instead of words.
And you remember thinking : this is what love should feel like. Not wild, not loud, not blinding. But something firm. Certain. An anchor.
But now, oh, how you hated quiet.
You don’t know what to do with the stoic Nanami Kento driving like he hadn’t cry with you in the Gojo’s bathroom. You don’t know what to do with his rigid form, glasses perfectly in place. Not a single piece of clothes, of emotions, out of place.
You wished he’d scream at you. Confront you. Tell you you were pathetic.
Because that wouldn’t be far from the truth, would it?
But instead, he said: ‘There’s nothing you have to prove to me. Not with a child. Not with anything.’
These sentences echo again and again in your mind. The monster that is your mind. You can’t even bring your eyes to look at the man on the driver seat. And it seems like he doesn’t find the strength to do so too.
Or maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe it was another one of his mercies. Not forcing you to give more voice to feelings you weren’t ready to face.
Quiet, quiet. Was it always quiet. And was it the same quietness that ate your soul alive those past months. If he simply… admitted, you were not a good wife. Hell, you even failed to keep up with intimacy.
If Nanami could just snap, just hurt. Anything. Anything that will show you he was as impacted as you were. Or maybe he found release somewhere else…
Just like every time this horrible thought crossed your mind; you break out in a cold sweat. You fidget with your hands even more, starting to bite your thumb as you usually do when anxiety and thoughts gnaw at your mind.
That wasn’t a thing he would do, right? Nanami Kento wasn’t a man like that. He wouldn’t seek out another body just because yours recoiled after losing the baby… right? Because your body couldn’t push itself to be close to him anymore.
For the first time ever, this idea made its way in you. Another thought, yet, to devour you whole and bring you a little bit more in the insanity of it all.
You risk a glance at him. He is still focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other motionless on his thigh. If you hadn’t seen him cry earlier, you would have never believed it.
You glance quickly at the mirror of the car above your seat, and you’re startled with your sight. Where your husband embodied quietness and well-put together composure—as if nothing happened—you were the total opposite. You’d left the warmth of Gojo’s house like a ghost of yourself. Your eyes rimmed red, face stained with dry tears, the under of your eyes black with the mascara that flowed.
Looking at that reflection… you could almost understand if Kento had sought solace elsewhere. It would only be fair—
“Hey, darling.”
You jump at the deep sound of your husband's voice. Your eyes snapped toward him. But the seat was empty. You turned the other way, and the door was already open. The driveway’s white gravel glared under the moonlight.
“We’re… home?” You don’t remember him pulling into the driveway. Didn’t hear the engine die, his seatbelt clicking, the door open.
Was your state already that bad?
“Darling,” he murmured again, bending over to unbuckle your belt, his hand warm and gentle as it wrapped around your forearm.
His touch electrifies you. His tenderness, once the softest comfort, now twisted deep inside your gut. Where it was once liquefying your body, it is now unbearable. Always reminding you your failure to bring a little body he could be gentle with. . .
you could be gentle with.
You step out barefoot, heels dangling from your hand, the sharp gravel biting the sole of your foot. The night was supposed to be warm; one meant for laughter, for friends, for children running under porch lights. But all you felt was the bitter wind cutting through your dress, scraping over the emptiness in your chest.
The only warmth came from Nanami’s large hand on your elbow. His hazel eyes met yours; once alive and golden, now dim, flickering like a dying candle. You don’t know how long you stay there, staring at each other. Waiting, listening. Drowning in all the words neither of you could say.
And maybe, just maybe, you fumble toward the neatly collar of his shirt and fist it to bring your chaos into his perfect neatly world. Maybe you crush your lips against his hard enough to remind you he is still yours. That maybe, just maybe, if you kissed him hard enough, your mind would stop and erase the thought of him with another woman.
Even though, you know, he is not a man of this kind (God, he would most likely kill himself before even thinking about hurting you) the demons in your head screamed otherwise, whispering rot into every corner of your heart.
Maybe then the raw, splitting pain in your chest would ease. The sour, festering grief of losing what should’ve been yours, now buried somewhere deep in the abyss of your own tears.
He lets you bruise his lips, bite until you taste the salt of your own pain. He lets you hurt him as if your despair could be transferred through skin. His hands only rise to your waist. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just rests them there, steady and quiet, a silent promise that he’s still here, even as your storm tries to swallow you whole.
He delicately pulls away from you, resting his forehead against yours. “Let’s get inside, yeah?”
In the moon’s thin glow, you see the small split on his lower lip, a dark smear of red tracking the place your teeth had been.
His voice is so gentle.
With all the patience in the world, Nanami Kento slowly takes the heels from your trembling grip. The way he accepts them—like he’s accepting another piece of your agony—makes your breath hitch. He lowers himself, lifting you into his free arm as though carrying a vow he carved into his bones long before tonight.
He adjusts your weight in his arms as if you’re made of something fragile, not breakable. He will never see you as breakable. . . you will always be his wife he wants to cherish until the day he dies. A wife who’s turned fragile because she endured too much.
The night air brushes against your skin, cold in the exact same way grief is cold: quiet, familiar in a way you wished it wasn’t. Something you’ve learned to live beside. Something you never asked for. . . yet can’t seem to escape.
But his hold is warm, burning and making its way under your skin, reaching your heart as desperately as it can.
And for a heartbeat, right there, right against his solid chest, you remember what it feels like not to drown.
So, when he sets you down on the couch, your hands uncontrollably fumble toward his chest, fisting it in tight balls. Your eyes, still red from how much you cried at the Gojo’s house, are again filled with the glassiest film of tears.
Your breath shakes when you meet his gaze.
His, doesn’t.
“I’m right here,” he softly speaks, palm closing around your wrist, thumb tracing reassuring circles on your soft skin. “I’m going nowhere.”
Nanami kneels in front of you. Not towering, not distant, not brave in the way people expect of him. Simply present. Absolutely, devastatingly present.
His knees touch the carpet. He intertwines your fingers together and waits.
And that, his stillness, makes something inside you shakes. You’re torn between being grateful for him being an anchor to you or going crazy on his lack of emotions. Nanami Kento was always a puzzle. A puzzle driving you insanely crazy. A puzzle you loved—no, loves—to discover and assemble new pieces.
You hiccup.
He moves one hand, giving you every moment to pull away, every chance to reject the comfort he’s not sure he deserves to offer. But you don’t move.
You can’t move.
When he realizes you’re letting him in, if only a silver, his fingers curve around your cheek. His palm is shockingly warm. It’s only then you notice how deadly cold yours is. A cold born not of the chilly night, but of a loss so deep that your body doesn’t know how to hold temperature anymore.
“It hurts so much.” Your lips tremble.
His answer comes soft, almost broken, as though he’s trying not to let the fullness of his own grief bleed into the words. “I know.”
And the simplicity of it—no promises, no empty hope—hits you harder than if he’d collapsed at your feet. He isn’t telling you it will be okay. He isn’t telling you you’ll heal. He isn’t telling you you’re strong.
He’s just here. Here, where your pain can exist without needing to be tidied or softened.
He shifts closer and lowers his forehead to your knee, unable to look you directly in the eyes. Not because he’s ashamed, but because he’s terrified that if he lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back. . . he will break.
The tears come. It’s not the storming ones from earlier. This time they’re slower and nonetheless heavier. He doesn’t flinch when they fall onto the back of his neck. He doesn’t try to shush you or fix what can’t be fixed. He lets your heartbreak mark him.
He lets your heartbreak consumes him, because he needs it. Because he can’t afford his own heartbreak. Because if he cracks even a little, he fears he’ll drown and drag you with him. So, he’s wrapped himself in a quiet, numb steadiness that is killing you both different ways.
“Ken…” your voice is a shadow of the sound he used to cherish. The laugh he memorized, the sweetness he swore to protect. Hearing it like this feels like something inside him tears straight down the middle.
He lifts his head, eyes searching your face. “Just—just…” your throat closes. “Make me forget.”
The request hangs between you, fragile and razor-sharp. His expression shifts, the mask of control trembling at the edge. For a moment, he looks utterly lost.
Unsure, wounded and… human.
The muscle in his jaw ticks, his breath stutters before he can steady it.
“Love…” his voice cracks barely, but enough for you to catch it. “That ain’t a—”
“Kento,” your voice is firmer this time, firmer than it had ever been in months actually. “Please, take me.” you whisper, fingers sliding to the back of his head, gripping the soft blond strands. “It’s been so long,” and you try (keyword : try) soooo hard to pull on a smile, to play the card ‘I’m fine’.
But oh, was it useless in front of the person who knows you like the back of his hand.
You’re not asking out of desire. You’re asking because you’re desperate to feel anything other than grief rotting inside your chest.
You know it. . . and he knows it too. He always read you like a scripture. His lashes lower, his jaw tightens a fraction too long. Pain flickers across his face before it all vanishes to let place to a cool measured façade.
“Alright,” he murmurs, standing on his feet to lean in. His breath is hot, his mouth opens as if he needs more air in his system. Nanami Kento is fighting every fiber of instinct in him to pull back. “If—if that’s what you need.”
You can feel the distance in the way he moves, the fat of his thumb tracing your lips a little too featherlight. His hand settles on your waist and cages you between him and the couch a little too hesitant.
And somehow, that hurts more than the emptiness you were trying to outrun.
But it’s ok… if you shut your eyes really hard and—
And his still swollen lips from the kiss earlier graze yours.
And his hand cup your jaw to guide you slowly through the unpassionate kiss.
And your own fingers move as fast as they can to unbuckle his belt.
And tears are coming faster than expected.
They spill down your face and between your lips, mixing with the tip of his tongue. The salt floods your tongue as he deepens the kiss clumsily, mechanically. As if he’s following the memory of passion rather than feeling any of it now.
Nanami has his brow frowning, forcing himself to give you what you want. God, he’s trying so hard to be what you asked for. Trying to be helpful in a way he wasn’t before. Trying to fill the void.
But when his thumb pushes up your dress and your hips jolt away from him. . .
A sharp inhale cuts through his chest, loud in the painfully quiet living room.
“I’m sorry.” he abruptly says, pulling back like you suddenly burned him.
“Kento,” you reach out, but he’s already retreating.
“I-I can’t—” His voice collapses on itself, cracking open. A part of him you haven’t heard in months. His eyes avoid yours as if looking at you might shatter him. His fingers rake through his hair, dragging hard against his scalp like he’s trying to wake himself from something he shouldn’t have done.
“I can’t do this,” he says again, softer this time, but no less broken.
And you see it. . . finally see it.
He wasn’t numb.
He was drowning too.
Silently. Alone.
Behind his own locked door.
You stand on shaking legs, taking a hesitant step forward. “Kento, talk to me,” and as you get closer to him, he lifts a hand between you. “Please, don’t shut down. I know it’s my fault here. I—” you shake your head, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to jolt away I swea—”
“I–I shouldn’t have…” his voice splinters. “I thought it could help—” his words collapse, the end swallowed by a breath that fails halfway.
His chest caves inward as though something inside him finally buckled. His thick fingers press against his eyes, but you still see the shine slip between them. His breaths come in uneven bursts, as if he’s trying not to cry but his body refuses to obey.
“Kento…” you whisper again, softer now.
He doesn’t look up. His voice emerges hoarse, strangled. “I don’t know how to touch you anymore.”
The room seems to tilt around you.
“I’m afraid,” he forces out. “Every time I get close… every time I think about holding you the way I used to… I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m taking advantage of your pain. Like I’m—” He breaks off, shaking his head hard, trying to steady himself but failing miserably. “Like I’m replacing our baby...”
His hand trembles violently as he gestures between you. His eyes finally meet yours—and they’re wrecked. The beautiful color of his iris drowned in tears.
“I’m terrified,” he admits, voice cracking in the middle. “Terrified of hurting you. Terrified of touching you the wrong way. Terrified that if I want you, it makes me selfish. And if I don’t…” He swallows hard. “It makes me a monster.”
You feel your own breath stutter.
“And I know,” he goes on, voice dropping to a whisper, “I know I’ve shut down. I know I’ve been distant. But I wasn’t trying to punish you. I just…” His mouth trembles. “I didn’t know how to hold you without breaking apart myself. And you needed me to be whole.”
“You lost a piece of your body. I lost…” his voice collapses. “I lost the future I promised you.”
You step closer, but your legs barely hold you. “It wasn’t your fault,” the words wobble, your breath stuttering around each syllable. Because even as you say it, your mind races—blinding, frantic—trying to understand how the two of you had drifted this far into the dark without noticing.
How had you ended up on opposite sides of the same grief?
How had he decided he was the one to blame for your body’s betrayal?
Your voice cracks before you can strengthen it. “You’re not responsible for my incompetence—” the word tastes like poison, “—for my body’s inability to carry your child.”
“Take that back,” the words rip out of him. “Right. Now.”
You flinch, not because you’re scared. . . but because he’s breaking and still carrying that deep authority and intolerance about disrespecting his wife.
“I am, in fact, very much responsible,” he says in the most convincing tone you’ve ever heard. Your heart drops straight through your stomach.
“You had a baby in your tummy,” he swallows so hard it looks painful, eyes dropping to your unrounded belly. “I wasn’t a good husband-hell not even a good father.” His chest heaves. “I should’ve been there more. I should’ve held you differently. Loved you differently. Made you rest even more. Not let you stress about a single thing—”
“But you already did that.” You interrupt him, thinking about how he was so gentle with you, being careful in the way he embraced you. He was always there so you hadn’t had to lift a single finger.
He bites the inside of his cheek. “I should’ve kept both of you safe.”
The anguish in his voice is almost inhuman. The kind that comes from guilt he’s been burying like a live wire beneath his ribs.
“I was careless, and you paid the price. Your body paid the price. And you’re standing here calling yourself incompetent when—” he stops. A tortured sound slipping through his teeth. “…when the only incompetent one here is me.”
He finally looks at you.
And God.
Nanami Kento looks like a man who’s been bleeding internally for months.
He stands there, eyes rimmed red, shoulders collapsing inward, reflecting the guilt that pooled so deep it drowned him from the inside. He looks like…
Like he’s bracing himself.
Bracing himself for you to agree with him. To confirm his worst fear. To say out loud the words; the words he’s been branding onto his heart.
'It’s your fault Kento. You failed me. You failed our child.'
Your chest burns, too tight to let you breathe normally. The tears come fast, blurring everything.
You move in small, uncertain steps. Closer. Closer. Closer. Until the air between you is thick with everything he’s been holding back. His desperation rolls off him in quiet waves: controlled, lethal in its restraint. All you can see through the tears is the weight of his guilt.
Your fingers reach for his clenched hand at his side. It takes a moment before he realizes you’re touching him and even more time before his grip loosens to let you in.
“You’re not taking advantage of my pain,” you murmur, voice trembling. “Not when you want to hold me.” A sob claws its way out of your chest. “You think having you far away from me is easier than losing the baby?”
That’s when his restraint falters.
His free hand lifts without thinking, thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching a tear like it might cut him if he doesn’t.
“I wanted to do good.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
Oh, Nanami Kento.
Oh, Nanami dear Kento. Always putting you first, trying to be the best husband for his wife.
“Every day you shut me out felt like—” Your voice catches. Your eyes drop, unable to hold his gaze as the truth gathers painfully at your throat. His hand stays on your cheek, bringing warm and only encouraging you to take out your thoughts. “Like another funeral.”
His knees dip slightly…
You don’t stop. “I even thought… I thought you would—” Your breath stutters. Shame creeps in.
How self-centered was I to think that.
“I mean… I thought somehow you have started to resent me,” you confess softly. “That you stay with me only by pity. Or maybe,” your voice lowers, “you would start to see someone else for… relief.”
The words land like a blade.
The silence is devasting before he speaks with a truth so absolute it just as vows were whispered into your bones.
“You are the woman I chose. The woman I would have chosen in every lifetime. My wife, the one I want to carry. Not just tonight, not just through this,” his forehead comes to rest against yours, the space between your breaths closing.
“But for as long as my heart knows how to beat.”
The words settle between you. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath mingling with yours in shallow, uneven pulls. His thumbs brush your cheek once more and you can feel the tremor still living him with the motion.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt, fist tightening in the fabric, drawing him closer until there’s no space left to question. Your bodies press together, not out of urgency, but necessity.
“I want to kiss you,” you whisper.
For a heartbeat, he searches your face reverently. And you know exactly why he’s doing that.
“It’s not like prior,” you assure, a small shaky breath escaping you in the shall waiting. “Not tryin’ to forget.”
He hums before leaning in. His lips brush yours in a kiss so gentle it almost breaks you completely. Well, actually his gentleness wraps all over you and you feel so weak, your knees buckle.
But your husband is fast to wrap his arms around your waist and lift you.
Because he would never let you down.
His lips capture your bottom lip, slowly licking the sheer skin before tugging lightly. One hand under your thigh, the other cupping the back of your neck. He continues testing the water and gives you cat-like-kisses.
As you slowly abandoned yourself into his lovely approach, you don’t realize you’ve reached your shared bedroom. Only when your back hit the soft cover that you understand he’s carried you there between the soft presses of his mouth.
Your legs naturally wrap around his narrow waist. Despite the lack of intimacy those past few months, your body was still acting and reacting on its own toward Kento. His thumb strokes your jaw once before applying a slight pressure for you to open wider.
Nanami hums in satisfaction when your tongue delicately strokes his. “I’ve missed you,” he says, voice muffled.
“I’ve missed you too. The air felt a little sharper each time you tried to escape me.” You admit.
“It wasn’t my intention,” he replies, voice ruder with a terrible hint of sadness that breaks your heart.
“Promise not to shut me out again,” Your fingernails graze his scalp before pulling on his soft blond strands, pulling his mouth away from yours so you can look him in the eyes. “I would die from it if it happened again.”
You can see all sort of emotions pass over his tired features: guilt, love, fear.
“I won’t,” he breathes into your mouth. A promise he’s determined to keep.
You can feel it in the way he’s kissing you feverishly. “Just one thing,” he pants out. “Let’s not put pressure on ourselves.”
His mouth travels lower. He nips at the sensitive skin right under your jaw, sharp teeth grazing before soothing the spot with his tongue. “I don’t want our intimacy to be reduced to procreation.”
A moan slips from your spit-swollen lips when Nanami’s fat tongue flattens against your throat, shameless in the way it trails down to your collarbone. He can’t help the proud smirk tugging at his lips.
“I want you to take pleasure just like this,” he murmurs as he settles onto his knees and discharge his clothes except for his boxers. Then he turns his attention back to you, carefully tugging your dress free until you’re left in dark cotton pantie.
He leans over you, calloused palm tracing the soft skin of your upper body, moving up, up, up—until his fingers find the swell of your bare breasts. “To hear those pretty sounds again,” he teases, weighing them in his hands before his thumb and forefinger gently tug at your nipple.
“Ken…” you whimper, your hips bucking toward him.
“Mmmh, ‘s right darling.” His eyes stay fixed on where your hips meet. “Move toward me. Don’t be afraid.”
“I—I wasn’t,” you gasp helplessly when his mouth lowers to your hardened nipple. His plump lips close around the sensible skin and sucks, one hand cupping the breast to present it to his eager tongue.
“You were.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” his tongue swirls around your nipple in the most agonizingly way. “It’s fine. We’re going to relearn together.” He blows a hot breath to tease further, and it works just fine. A multitude of goosebumps rise on your skin.
The room feels hushed again, like it did earlier.
The unique difference now… is that desire is consuming your bodies in the most unrelenting, devastating way. It eats at your grief little by little; with each stroke of your husband’s tongue, you forget the sour sadness and let the fire of desire grow.
The same fire you’d stifled for all those months.
“May I?” Nanami’s voice is heavy with lust but not only. When his beautiful chocolate eyes lift to meet yours, you can only experience the depth of his love for you. there’s no hunger there without love to temper it.
Only devotion, the kind that’s been waiting patiently through silence and discipline. You see all through the way to his soul. All the things he’s been hiding in fear to drown just like you were. The fear of hurting you, the ache of missing you, the quiet awe of finding each other again. It all crush into you with such force it knocks your breath away.
The fat of his thumb plays abstinently with the waistband of your panties. Your gaze drifts down, noticing the line of drool he left on your breasts, your ribcage, and your navel.
He tilts his head, waiting on you the way a heart waits on its own name, his eyes softening and melting into a beautiful chocolate hue.
You give a small nod.
“I need your words, my love. I want to be sure you want this just as much as I do.”
“I want it,” and just to tease back, to lighten up the mood (and mostly to remind both of you that you’re still you) you add with a breathy laugh: “I mean. . . just look at the ridiculous wet spot on my panties. I think it’s speaking pretty clearly.”
“Of course it is,” he replies, suddenly far too pleased with himself. “Seems a pretty girl missed me just as much, didn’t she?” There’s warmth in his smile now. It’s such a sincere smile that even his single dimple makes its shy appearance.
He hooks his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and slides it down your legs. The motion is unhurried, as though savoring every second of the closeness between you. The oh-so-missed closeness between you.
Once it’s gone, he lets his hands trail back up. Thick and calloused palms traveling softly along your calves, up to your knees. His gaze stays on your face, and the intensity of it makes warmth bloom beneath your skin, makes you shy under the way he looks at you like this.
Before you can say anything, he dips down, pressing a kiss just below your knee. Another follows, then another, each one lingering a little longer than the last. Each one quietly confessing how much his heart aches for you.
“I missed you—” an open-mouthed kiss pressed to your hipbone. “So freaking much—” another mwah but slower this time, more reverent, at the gentle curve where your thighs meet your hips. “My dearest love.”
His right hand finds yours, fingers threading together as he needs the anchor. He squeezes softly, making sure this moment is real.
A shaky desperate breath escapes him. He rests his forehead against your stomach for a moment, breathing your scent. His thumb strokes your knuckles as he confesses “I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
The words sink in and something in him seems to break open after saying them. His mouth drifts back to your skin, kisses warmer now, less careful.
They are… needier.
“It would only be fair for me to show you all the love that has been waiting to come out these past few months.” And as if on cue, his tongue flattens from your navel down to the place where your core starts to throb. Deprived for so long, every nerve in you feels exposed, reacting before you can even process what is happening.
The sound you make goes straight through him, something raw and animal flashing in his eyes. You barely catch a glimpse of it before his gaze rolls right back in his skull as his pink muscle encounters your heated center.
“Oh!”
“Fuck—”
You and your husband find yourself muttering at the exact same moment. Right when your taste bursts across Nanami’s eager tongue. He’s flattening the fatness of his muscle to draaaaag all the way from your cute little nub down to your already spasming hole. Rushing to the single white essence escaping your velvety walls.
“Great heavens—” The blonde man muffles onto your puffy lips, sending a ripple of shiver all over your soft skin and causing you to buck your hips into his handsome face.
And oh, Nanami Kento couldn’t be happier.
Perhaps… closer to heaven than he’s ever been.
Because Nanami may as well have accessed to the most delicious juices of all. The most intoxicating nectar.
Sweetness flooding his senses, overtaking his tastebuds as he laps at your entrance with greedy devotion. He pushes his face deeper into you—on instinct—needing all of you to blur his thoughts. His large hands slide over your plush thighs, drawing them closed around his neck, your heel pressing into the solid muscle of his back.
And it feels like the pressure only sharpened his needs.
And not only his needs were sharpened. His cock swelled further more. The length of it creating an imposing and unmistakable tent in his boxer. The tip leaking more and more pre each time his tongue is blessed with your juices.
He’s easily shaping his tongue onto a thick, cylindrical form to sliiiip it all the way past your little puckering pussy. His nose bumps your clitoris as he pushes pushes and pushes onto your tight entrance with obscene impatience.
Your back arches off the bed, the sensations being too much to bear, fingers flying to tangle in his long locks. Your husband is so lost in the spiral of emotions he barely hears your whimpers, the only sound that reaches his drunk state is the slick of his tongue exploring your nook and cranny—all for his own pleasure.
You’re practically gushing all over his lower face.
Hell must it be all his face by the way he’s completely buried between your thighs. It’s only when you risk a glance down between our legs that you notice how hard he’s breathing. His back heaving with each deep inhale he’s taking.
“K-Ken, you—” but the words die in your throat when he curls his tongue to hit that squishy spot with the tip of his tongue and sends constellations bursting behind your eyes.
“Still know the body of my beautiful darling,” he murmurs against you, voice low and eyes still closed. “So responsive, so mine. Ain’t you, my pretty?”
“Yea—” but the word dies once again in your throat, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whine. He shakes his head slowly, side to side, and the movement sends another wave of goosebumps through you.
“Not you,” his breath is hot and tickles you just right, enough to have your thighs quivering around his head.
Only then do you understand. He isn’t talking to you.
He pats your clit with the rounded tip of his fingers. Nanami tilts his head up and hits your clit with the ridge of his nose, and you’re embarrassed.
Embarrassed by the ridiculous, wet sloshes of your cunt. Gushing another generous spill of arousal straight onto his waiting tongue.
“Always answering me,” he hums idly. “Like a gooooood girl.”
And somehow, that does more to you than anything else. Because it makes your thighs shut tighter around his neck, hips uncontrollably bucking to his lips. And of course, Nanami takes everything his dear wife is willing to give him; tongue swirling round and ‘round between your puffy slit.
“There you are,” a loud mwah. “Know that I missed you just as much.” A vulgar spit onto your cunt. “I will never let you alone for that long again,” a devilish spank landing firmly on your throbbing clit.
Your breath stutters. Your hips furiously grinding against his handsome features. The thought that you might smother him completely lost in the hazy of pleasure. How could your fogged mind even register something like that when his tongue meets you with a wet, sinful flick—circling, teasing, then snapping back to your swollen nub—until another slick tremor spills from you.
“See how honest you get with me?”
And the humiliation might as well have you burning alive. . .
If it wasn’t for the familiar snap of an orgasm tearing straight through you.
Your nails scrape his scalp, clutching like your life depends on it, matching the violence of the release breaking you apart.
“Kento! Mhh, Kento—!” Your vision blows out, nothing but blinding white behind your eyelids, thoughts drowned and reduced to mush.
“’S right give it to me,” your husband grunts and he’s messy. Completely and utterly messy in the way only devotion makes a man. Shamelessly undone by the need to make you cum harder than you every should.
His dexterous tongue is lapping and sucking. He makes damn sure none of your release goes to waste. Making sure to swallow every drop. To stay well-hydrated for the years to come, to make up for every single month he’s been denied your divine orgasm on his tongue.
“Make a mess, shit, make a mess,”
One heavy palm presses down your lower tummy, keeping you from squirming away from him. While the other pushes your left leg wide open for him to insert the fatness of two digits inside your convulsing walls.
And if you thought your dear husband couldn’t go and be more feral, then you couldn’t be more far away from the truth. He’s lost in his own mind, filled with you and his need to feel more, more, more.
He doesn’t let you even one second in your first orgasm that he’s already curling his fingers and his cut-perfect-nails scrap riiight against your spongy G-spot.
“It’s too much. . . too much, Kento! S-slow down ugh—”
The only reaction you got is him pushing the rest of his inches inside your convulsing cunt.
“Look at me, love.” He groans, tongue desperately trying to make its way with his fingers inside your puckering hole.
“Love—”
You hiccup.
“—Look at me.”
Your ears are ringing with pressure, oversensitive with the way you’re being fucked raw by his roughened digits. Not only your cunt is wet, but your whole body is covered with a thin trickle of sweat. Your face drenched in tears but, unlike earlier that evening, your tears are the source of pure devastating pleasure.
“I said,” scissoring fingers. “Look—” twisting his wrist. “At—” tongue leaving your sweet sweet inside. “Me.” Canines nipping at your demanding clit not stopping until he hears you scream his name.
Your eyes follow his order, teary eyes meeting his darkened hazel eye, blown wide with hunger and emotion, completely wrecked.
“It’s just—it’s too munch Ken, too—” Your last word is screamed into the air of your shared room. Your lovely husband has hallowed his cheeks to suck on your puckering clit.
His generous plumpy lips are sexily wrapped around the fat button, sucking with one sole purpose: making you cum so hard you forget everything but him. And, perhaps, forgive him.
Forgive his carelessness these past months. Forgive the silence where reassurance should have been. Forgive the way he let you doubt your own worth.
When all he ever wanted was to—
“Love you.” He whispers desperately. His voice is nothing smooth. It bleeds.
“I love you.”
And who would have known three little words could split your life clean in two: everything before them, and everything after.
Because sometimes the end of something isn’t a goodbye…
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
3 years later
“Hey, how many times did I already tell you? Do not run in the kitchen.” Nanami’s voice is a bit firm, but you could decern the lovely tone he tried oh so hard to hide.
Pointless.
“Sowwwwwyy dadaaa!!” the 5 years old monster with pink hair just as tall as four apples put together replied as he ran faster to catch on the other little 5 years old monster girl with brown hair—both completely ignoring their papa warning.
And talking of the little girl she just found refuge right next to your thigh holding on tight to find some sort of refuge against her brother tickling.
“You can’t tuch mwe hiwe, hehehe” she giggles and sticks her tongue out as she sinks further between your thigh and the kitchen furniture where you stand by to fry the vegetables in a pan.
“Ara, you mean!” Yuji shouts out before he finds himself also next to your thighs.
Nanami exhales slowly, setting his pen down on top of the invoices spread across the dining table. He had been trying to finish the month’s factures before dinner, but clearly, peace was no longer an option.
“That’s enough for this evening.” The deep graveled voice of your husband sounds much closer now. You didn’t even hear his chair slide back. You were too preoccupied to smile at your children bickering.
One moment Yuji is wedged between your legs, plotting revenge. The next. . .
Nanami crouches down and swipes your son upside down. Enormous hands wrapping securely around his tiny waist before catapulting him onto his broad shoulder.
“EHHHHHHH—” Yuji’s shriek ricochets off the kitchen walls, quickly dissolving into breathless laughter as he grips fistful of his father’s shirt.
Nobara gasps, eyes sparkling.
“Me too! Me too, papa!” she squeals, tiny hands shooting into the air, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
And you can’t help but glance side way, and just in time to see the barely-there curve of Kento's lips and the soooo adorable tiny dimple making its way on his left cheek.
He shifts Yuji easily with one arm, the strength in his shoulders flexing beneath the fabric of his rolled-up dress shirt. His tie slightly loosened now, sleeves pushes to his forearms from earlier when he was balancing numbers at the table.
He looks unfairly good like that.
And your heart swells.
Swells with love and how far you’ve come through in those past three years.
Because yes, it has already been three years since you and Kento had laid your hearts bare, made grief of the unborn baby. You both learnt just how strong your love for each other was.
And now, it's been two years since you’ve been blessed with Yuji and Nobara. They came crashing into your lives, right when you thought everything was impossible and hard. Two years since paperwork and interviews and nervous waiting rooms. Two years since you’d sat in a quiet office, fingers laced tightly with Nanami’s, grieving the future that would never be yours biologically… and daring to hope for a different one.
You couldn’t carry children.
But you carry those two children now. In every other way that matters.
Nanami turns slightly, and for a fleeting second, his eyes find yours.
And like the first time your eyes ever locked in; the world stop, the time stops.
The hearts beat.
“Up,” he instructs Nobara gently.
She barely has time to squeal before his free arm scoops her up with the same effortless security. For a heartbeat, both children cling to him, one on each side, like he is the safest fortress in the world.
Because he is.
“Papa’s strong!” Nobara declares.
“Dada’s huge!” Yuji corrects upside down.
Nanami huffs.
You wipe your hands on a towel and step closer, your smile showing all the love and happiness you’re capable of feeling for your little family. You walk toward Nanami and stop only when you're able to grab the fabric of his shirt near his waist. You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Dinner will be ready soon?” he asks.
You nod, eyes gleaming and you add: “Do you plan on keeping ‘em upside down up there all night?”
“Tempting.”
Yuji squirms. “Mamaaaa Papa said tempting!”
“That’s not a bad word, sweetheart.” You smile sweetly and Nanami might as well have received an arrow in his heart.
Your husband’s eyes don’t leave yours. His voice drops half a tone. “No. It’s not.”
And it's your turn now, to receive a lovesick arrow deep into your heart.
Even after two years of parenting. Even after sleepless nights and sticky fingers and stepping on toys in the dark. Even after all the grief you thought might dull things between you. Or even dared the thought that losing a baby destroyed your relation.
It didn’t.
“Time to wash hands, monsters.” He lowers the children carefully back to the floor. And they both scramble off toward the sink, making it a competition to whom will arrive first.
“Your dimple is showing.” You comment, tilting your head as you couldn’t help but bite your lower lip.
“It is… not..?” Nanami’s cheeks flush up. The faint dent in his cheek deepens as his lips press into a thin, stubborn line, like that will somehow undo it. His hazel eyes flick away from yours, suddenly very interested in the spice rack. Or the ceiling. Or literally anything that is not you.
You hum softly, pretending to inspect his face. “But, it’s definitely there.”
“It is not,” he insists, voice lower now, but lacking its usual authority.
You lean in slowly, your lips stopping near his stubble beard before whispering, “If you say so,” and plant a louuud mwah on the said-so irresistible dimple.
And the reaction is instant. The flush spread down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His throat bobs.
“You’re flustered,” you murmur, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his collar. Your fingers trail just a little too slowly.
“I am not flustered.”
“You’re blinking a lot.”
“I blink a normal amount.”
You smile.
He nearly combusts.
His hands, large and steady enough to toss a five-year-old over his shoulder without effort, hover awkwardly at your waist.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks carefully.
“You’re cute, it's toooo tempting.” You wink at him with mischief.
Cute.
Nanami, who negotiates contracts without mercy.
Nanami, who balances finances with terrifying precision.
Nanami, who carries both children at once like it’s nothing.
Cute.
His hands finally land on your waist, large and thick fingers easily covering half your waist. He pushes you closer against him.
“You’re aware,” he says quietly, voice dropping half an octave. “That I am your husband.”
“Mhmh”
“You married me in front of people,”
“I did.” You grin, your thumb lightly brushing over the dimple again.
“I blame you,” he mutters and if you squint your eyes really hard, you could see the tiniest form of a pout.
“For what?”
“For this,” he gestures vaguely at his face, the bottom of his neck… his entire compromised state.
He can't believe it, he's a grown man now! A responsible adult, who doesn't fold. And yet, after years of marriage with you. . . his pretty lovely wife seems to be the only one able to make the tip of his ears red as tomato.
To make him act like a school boy all over again.
He wants to tease you back and when he leans his face closer to yours—
“MAMAAAAA DADA’S BEIN’ WEIIIIIRD AGAIN!!!”
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
༝༚༝༚
5 years later
“You did good, so so so good my love.” Nanami is stuttering onto your sweaty neck, tears all over his face and watering your naked shoulder. His forehead presses into the curve of your neck, feeling tears sliding and mixing with sweat and exhaustion and everything you just poured out of yourself.
And your mouth is dry. Actually, your whole body is dry.
It feels as if every drop of water you ever contained has drained out through your eyes instead. Because you’re absolutely crying a river in the hospital room for the miracle that just happened.
“She is so pretty.” You hear the doctor vaguely says. Your brain temporarily shut and apparently only capable of hearing your husband shallow breaths next to your ear. His hand holding on yours tightly, so tight that his knuckles turned white and, in all honesty, if you could feel anything beyond the heavy ache in your lower back, your hips, the deep trembling fatigue of your body—you would probably feel how desperately he’s holding on to you.
“She’s smaller than the norm,” the doctor continues softly. “Her twin brother took up most of the space in the womb. But she’s healthy. That’s what matters most.”
“We have twin children, my wife.”
Twin.
You and Nanami not only had the impossible miracle to have a son. But a girl too.
The doctor laughs gently. “She must have been tucked behind him. Sometimes it’s rare, but it happens.”
The nurse carefully places a tiny, bundled weight near you. Then another.
Your vision swims.
Two.
Two small, wrinkled, impossibly fragile little humans.
“We have twin children,” Nanami breathes once again.
You turn your head slowly toward him. “We do,” you murmur, words slurred slightly from exhaustion and medication and disbelief.
“She was there the whole time,” he whispers, looking down at the tiny girl. “Hiding.”
Your son makes a soft, indignant noise from his blanket, as if protesting the accusation. And another wave of tears rip through you.
“You gave me two.” Nanami whispers against your temple, lips trembling as he presses a kiss there.
“She’s so small.”
Nanami doesn’t listen to the medical statistics anymore as the doctor lunched herself into another row of explanations.
All his attention is turned to you. For you.
At the woman who carried a secret second heartbeat for nine months. At the woman he thought he might only ever have one child with—if that—after everything you’d both endured before becoming parents.
At the woman who just rewrote his entire future in one breath.
He presses his forehead to yours, your children between you, and the world feels too big and too perfect at the same time. He’s impossible to suppress the tears slipping freely down his cheeks, catching in his lashes, falling without restraint.
“Nobara and Yuji,” He whispers softly, as if he only wanted you and your twins to hear. “They’re going to be so happy to meet the new babies. They’ll be formidable in their new older-sibling roles.”
A tired, tearful smile curves on your lips.
“They will.”
It’s certain.
You and Kento had fought for this life like lions guarding their jungle. Through doubt, through fear, through every unexpected turn.
And as he tightens his hold on your hand, as your children breathe softly between you, you know with quiet clarity—
You wouldn’t rewrite a single chapter.
( ꈍ◡ꈍ)
another a/n (bare with me I'm a yapper) I put myself in a emotional roller coster here
›› bum! toji fushiguro x reader
››f!reader
›› wc: 864
›› sfw jjk fic
›› Part 2
ʚ ao3 ɞ / ʚ kofi ɞ / ʚ fic masterlist ɞ
‹𝟹 summary: You get home after a late night shift to see that your bum! husband Toji is nowhere to be found.
‹𝟹 fandom: jjk, jujutsu kaisen
‹𝟹 genres / warnings: misogyny
‹𝟹 tags: SFW/NO SMUT, misogyny, cheating, you are megumi's mother
‹𝟹 notes: This is an interactive fanfic. There will be elements that you need to click through in order to progress the story. There will be a link to my neocities blog where the interactive phone is hosted. Everything is coded and designed by me. Please do not reproduce. And please give me feedback :)
You swipe your badge ID and clock out. Another grueling night shift at the local county hospital ER finished. There was nothing too horrendous this shift, aside from your favorite patient coding around midnight. You made your rounds, checked on your patients, and conversed with your coworkers to pass the time.
You sigh, exhausted. You pull out your phone as you walk to your car, and shoot a quick couple texts to your husband, Toji.
Just got off! Shift was terrible but I’m ready to be home and see gumi and you 🤍🤍🤍
On the way home :3 See u soon sleepy
You unlock your car, and get inside.
---
You walk up the steps of your house. It’s not the fanciest, but it’s a quaint and cozy little place that you call home. It’s the perfect neighborhood for raising a child; it’s peaceful, quiet, and has a good school nearby. It isn’t much, but it’s yours. You work your ass off in the night shift just to afford it, and it’s worth it. Anything for your family.
You yawn as you unlock the front door. As you step in, you notice the eerie silence. By now, you should see Toji sitting on the couch, watching some random show and drinking a morning beer. But he isn’t in his usual spot.
You make your way deeper into your house. You go to check on Megumi, and see him sleeping peacefully in his little toddler bed. You smile gently as you watch the rise and fall of his little chest as he breathes. This is perfect, you think, He is what makes all of this worth it.
You gently close Gumi’s bedroom door, leaving a small crack open so you can hear him if needed.
You make your way to your bedroom, and notice the door slightly ajar. The ceiling fan is still going, the covers of the bed are strewn about, and you notice something light up in the corner of the room. You see Toji’s phone, but you don’t see Toji.
That’s odd. He should be here, watching over Gumi and taking care of him.
You walk over to where his phone lays on the nightstand, and open it.
---
Please visit https://milkpup.neocities.org/phone for the interactive phone portion of this fic! Take this time to explore Toji’s phone, and then come back for the rest of the fic!!!
---
As you look through the final app and turn his phone off, you feel anger boiling in your chest.
Fucker couldn’t even remember to bring his phone when cheating. Almost like he wants to get caught. Fucking bum.
You can’t believe what you saw. Not only did he leave your child alone in your house, where anything could go wrong, but he has repeatedly done this while you work night shifts just to support your family!
Even though Toji contributes nothing financially, and barely as a parent, he still has the fucking audacity to be unfaithful! You pay for everything! The fucking bills! His gambling addiction and alcoholism! You even send him a fucking weekly allowance just so he has some spending money! And what does he use that money for? Fucking DoorDash and onlyfans! And don’t forget the absolute audacity to transfer money out of your SAVINGS ACCOUNT just to pay his fucking mistress!
He acts like he has money to give, meanwhile it’s YOUR fucking money! He’s a fucking bum and women believe his lies. Worst of all, you married this idiot of a man. The sex was NOT worth it. And while you did end up with the joy that is Megumi as a result of this relationship, you feel betrayed. You were willing to sacrifice anything and everything to keep this family afloat, and Toji pissed all over it!
The pain isn’t even the infidelity. It isn’t because he used you either. The real pain comes from the fact that Megumi has a piece of shit bum ass loser of a father, and he has a mother who was too dumb, blind, and infatuated to realize it.
You decide this is the last straw. While you’re out working grueling hours, Toji is getting his dick wet with some random woman he probably met on Snapchat! And the kicker? Women don’t actually want him! They just want his “money” because he’s a “hustler”! You think back to the fact that not one person matched with him on Tinder, and you feel like even the universe is laughing at him in that moment.
---
You wait. Hours go by. You’re exhausted, but you still wait, sitting on the couch.
You don’t watch anything on TV. You don’t read. You don’t look at anything. All you can do is stew in your anger and wait for this fucking animal to come back, just so you can tell him you’re leaving.
You hear keys unlock the front door, and you look up, smiling at your husband.
As Toji walks in, he locks eyes with you. “I want a divorce and full custody,” you say, not a hint of anger or resentment in your voice. The calmness of your voice is unsettling, and Toji’s bullshit smile fades.
‹𝟹 notes: please let me know if there are issues using the interactive phone portion, or if you have any comments/suggestions. I learned html, css, and js just to make this :') and it took me a few days to complete. If y'all enjoy this type of content, I may try to make more interactive fanfics in the future.
firelord zuko and his royal advisor 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
༄ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 coworkers(?) to lovers, he fell first AND harder, first kisses, too many marriage proposals for the fire lord, happy ending, lowkey power imbalance cause he’s technically her boss, sever angst in ch.3, fluff in all other chs, political concerns, unc iroh is alive idc, more to be added as i write!
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟏
when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor.
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐
under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.
༄ starr's p.s. hi! i was not planning on this and i highkey suck at consistently posting series’ [ahem regency jason ahem] but by popular demand of 30 ish people in comments, i will be doing this!!! the number of chapters might change a little but this is what ive outlined for now!! stay tuned!!! i’ll probably post properly starting 29th-30th after my exams!!
— a/n: i was writing something for shouto yesterday then this idea hit me and i had to try something. i want to gnaw on his biceps.
it's 3 a.m. Your eyes blink open to find the bed empty—your lover's side still pristinely made and unbearably cold. That just wouldn't do.
It doesn't take you long to figure out where he could possibly be at this hour, and despite your sleep-sluggish movements, you're off the massive four-poster bed and into your slippers in no time, grabbing your satin robe to slip on over your nightgown.
As you slip into the winding hall, the first guard you spot is quick to flick his eyes toward Zuko's whereabouts. His name is Luke, and he's been devoted to you both ever since Zuko decided to invite him to dinner instead of punishing him for stealing from the kitchen. Your chin dips in gratitude before you beckon him to your side, where he falls into step without hesitation.
“How long?” You keep your eyes trained ahead, tamping down a yawn as you're led to the throne room.
“He hasn't moved since the coastal meeting, m’lady,” Luke divulges. His voice is devoid of emotion, but his hazel eyes swim with worry for his lord-turned-close friend.
“I knew it was bothering him more than he let on.” You tut as you approach the double doors leading to the throne room.
“Zuko,” you call as you step further in, and his spine straightens, his haggard features smoothing into something blank and unbothered.
“Dearest.” He responds almost immediately, his gaze tracking you from the door until you're standing in front of him, his greedy hands pulling you to straddle him once you're in reach.
“You're still awake.”
“Yes, I noticed.” He blinks once before his ever-warm hands find their favorite spot on your hips.
You bump your forehead against his. “You think you're so funny.” Gripping his chin, you make him look up at you. “Sleep on it, Zuko. You've been at it for hours.”
He sighs, head falling to your chest. “Father made it look so easy. He made it seem like the entirety of the Fire Nation was aligned, but after today, I see it's much different.” He nuzzles your cleavage, pulling you even closer as your hands find his hair.
“How so?” You pet at the nape of his neck, fingers looping through thick brunette strands and tugging occasionally—a move that makes your husband sink even further into the chair.
“It seems as if they respected him more, and I'm just a joke.” He huffs, a dejected sound that unsettles you.
“You are anything but.” You kiss his cheek, then his other, and his body sags, face tilting to make sure he catches each pucker of your lips fluttering along his skin.
“You're supposed to say that—we're married,” Zuko grumbles, bottom lip jutting into a pout you can't resist nipping at.
You scooch even closer and he welcomes it, exhaling a ragged breath as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “Point taken,” you quip, and he leaves his hiding place at the junction of your neck to level you with a withering look.
“Don't give me that look.” You laugh, a quiet sound befitting the late hour, and the rigid lines of tension in those powerful shoulders smooth out a tad. “It's stupid and, quite frankly, childish in my opinion—but I'd wager they're acting like this to see if you can manage the weight.”
“Even after all this time?” Zuko's look is incredulous. “Seems long-winded, and if I say anything, I fear it would make matters worse.”
You shrug. “Hey, I’m just speculating, dearest. My next guess is testosterone.”
Zuko chuckles—a tired little thing that makes your face pinch in sympathy.
“Do you feel disrespected? If so, off with their heads or something.”
“Legally, I can't do that.”
“And here I thought being Fire Lord came with some perks.” You kiss his nose before standing and pulling him up as well. His hand squeezes yours three times before you let it drift to slot into the crook of his left elbow. “Now then—bedtime. You do have an early morning.”
Zuko sighs, leading you from the throne and out the chamber doors. His head bumps yours in gratitude. “Thanks for coming to get me, though I'm not sure how you figured out where I was.” He gives Luke a stern look, but the mischief is easy to see in his tired amber eyes.
The guard keeps his head forward, face impassive except for the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. As per Zuko's rule, the Royal Procession on night watch need not wear a mask inside the palace. “I took measures I saw fit, m’lord.”
“Telling my wife?” Zuko scoffs primly as Luke falls into step behind you both.
“You leave him alone.” You snicker before sliding your hand down to hold Zuko’s, then stepping ahead to lead him the rest of the way to your bedroom.
Bidding Luke goodnight, the double doors close behind you, and that's when Zuko falls onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. His sigh is deep and weighted as he lifts his arms toward you in a wordless gesture.
Slipping your shoes off, you immediately press into his side, sliding a leg across his body where he drops a warm hand on your thigh. “I know we said no outside dress on the bed. I'll get up soon,” he murmurs into your hair, and you just kiss his shoulder.
the heir to fire nation in his grasp. his child. his daughter. perched on his hip. her little arms waving around as zuko gazed.
round cheeked with his eyes and your nose.
her eyes pan over to you, where you stood to the side of your husband.
one hand fisting at the fire lords hair, unintentionally tugging— like babies do— as she looked around. her other hand, patting at his chest. she continued to stare at you, gummy smile appearing. she giggles. then looks to her father.
her smile drops just a little as she stares at dad. zuko glances at you. your eyes catch his.
a beat.
your daughter turns to you. eyes on yours before drifting back to zuko. her head tips.
his eye.
her chubby hand pats it. little fingers fiddling with the skin as she then turns to you again. her attention on the left side of your face before patting her own. assessing.
“I know. s’just me.” zuko says it softly. accepting. unashamed. a difference compared to how he used to think of it when he was younger.
hi! can you write a story where wife reader and zuko have an argument over him being too risky going on dangerous adventures with the gaang when he has a wife and newborn at home and they go to bed mad at each other maybe even the fire lord sleeps in a guest room and it causes rooms to circulate around the palace and it’s him dealing with her silent treatment for a week and apologizes? like man is wrecked without his wife and baby and barely does his duties bc he misses them so much
silent treatment
summary : zuko frequently leaves to adventure with the gaang, but when you have your first child your concern for his safety grows and so does your feelings of neglect. another letter from aang leads to a fight, and a long week of silence for zuko.
pairing : zuko x fem! reader
cw : sfw! arguing, fluff.
divider by @cursed-carmine
zuko’s spot in the gaang had been secured long ago. he knew that, you knew that, everyone with eyes to see knew that. they were like his family, being of more importance than his nation, but never you. almost.
and yet, despite being the fire lord, responsible for an entire nation, he still felt the need to leave on wild adventures with aang and his friends to agni knows where.
this was fine and well when he first became the fire lord, when you were both young, when it was just the two of you.
however, the moment you fell pregnant you began to see the many issues surrounding his crusades. while he was gone you would walk through the castle, dreading any letter that arrived in fear it would be news he would not return.
any messenger who arrived from afar was turned away, in case they brought with them the announcement of his death.
you were beginning to picture the worst every time he stepped foot out of the borders of the fire nation.
it’s not like this fear was completely unwarranted either as he often returned injured or otherwise, unable to attend court for days.
then the baby came. you expected him to slow down with his adventures, make them every few years instead of every few months. but when a letter came, addressed to ‘flameo hotman’ himself, he was rearing to go.
you took it upon yourself to remind him that you JUST popped out his baby, to which he failed to see the issue. thankfully what he lacked in brains he made up for with his care, being there for much of your recovery. so you acquiesced, allowing him to go with a kiss and a long string of prayers for his safety.
one more. one last big crusade, then he can stay home to help you. that was his promise. he never went back on his promises. at least that’s what you thought.
and then another letter arrived, and he saw the fire nation through you like he never hoped to, red, hot, fiery anger blazing in every piece of you as you chastise him in the confines of your bedchambers. despite your anger, you know better than to disrespect him in the public eye of his court, especially as his ‘lowly’ wife.
“you’ve been back for 3 months at the least, do you have no desire to be with your wife and child?” the letter crumples under your tight grip, and zuko’s displeased wince has you squeezing it harder.
“what? of course i do, how could you even say that?” his eyes are full of concern and hurt.
“how could i say that? here, allow me to enlighten you. three months ago you promised me, you swore, zuko, that this would be the last one for a “long” while.” you feel immense relief that your baby is with your ladies in waiting, unwilling to allow her to ever see this side of you. even if she’s unlikely to remember it.
“and i thought that would be the case! i want to stay with you, i do!”
“so turn him down! you have every capability to reject his invitation. or is this your subtle way of saying that you would rather be free from your responsibilities? from us?”
“my love, c’mon you know that’s not what this is.”
“you’ve done nothing to show me that's the truth.” you toss the letter towards his feet, daring him to reach for it. he is smarter than you give him credit for, you’ll admit, as he steps over the crinkled paper.
“where is this coming from?” he reaches out for your dress, and you swiftly swat his hand away, in no mood to entertain his puppy eyes and delicate hands. in no way ready to accept an indirect apology through gentle touches and soft whispers, as he cares for you like a porcelain vase. you remind yourself that this discussion is for the wellbeing of you and your daughter and you will not be swayed by mediocrity, you want acknowledgement and reflection.
“do you have any idea what i went through during my whole pregnancy while you were gone on your little adventures? do you? i couldn’t be sure if you would back unharmed, let alone alive. i had to worry about not only the health of our baby, but also my husband who would rather risk his life for his friends that live in safety with his family.”
your eyes burn with tears you didn’t notice brewing. you’re not sad, you’re brimming with a rage that has been building for months and months.
he is silent and unmoving. the only indication of his attention is the furrow of his brow and the way his chews on his lip in frustration. even if he wanted to speak, you don’t allow him the opportunity.
“let me ask you this, lord zuko, is your fun worth more than your life? worth more than coming home to your wife, or your daughter having a father?”
“you know it’s not! you two are worth more than the entire world to me.”
“then you know how you will answer aang’s letter.”
“my love..”
“i’d like to be alone now. in fact, i’d like to be alone until you know for certain where your priorities lie.” you approach, gaze pointed as you brush past him, leaving him alone in your shared chambers.
that is the last words you speak before, what he will always remember as, the long week of silence. the first time a fight has left the room with you and carried itself alongside you like a protective shield, preventing him from getting in close. you won’t even let him near the baby, which may be a tad unfair, but you’re angry and not thinking straight.
you continue to perform your duties as the fire lady, diligent as you are, but you’re mean about it. he’s not ‘zuko’ anymore, not your love, he is lord zuko. fire lord zuko. you’ve shrunk him to not so much as a colleague in your mind.
it’s the only way you continue in your position as the fire lady, playing the role of dutiful wife for his court then leaving right after the dismissal of said court with a curt bow.
the tension between you two is felt throughout the castle by all. the court notices the subtle distance between you but doesn't verbalize this observation.
you sleep in the nursery with your daughter. your back is stiff, and your neck is crimped, from sleeping on the tiny futon within. you are kept awake all night long by the light of decorative fire ornaments, night lights for your baby. you don’t rest well.
neither does zuko.
he lays in the empty space of your previously shared bed, staring at the ceiling. his mind races with how to win your favor back. how to speak to you. he misses you. misses his daughter. he reminisces on your touch like it’s been years of your absence, when really it’s only been a few days.
he’s already rejected aang’s invitation and you know that, so why have you not returned to him?
when the end of the week approaches he begins to feel ill. distracted. and of course, you notice, but you are stubborn and strong willed.
you miss him too, but the hurt from feeling second to his ‘freedom’, an idea concocted completely on your own, overwhelms you too much to give in just cause he appears to be losing sleep. you want him to feel your absence a little longer, the way you felt his for nights on end. at least, you reason, he knows you and your daughter are alive and well.
the grand chamberlain drones on and on in the confines of zuko’s royal office, to which he casts a spiritless gaze. his thoughts are not on the affairs of his court, rather they are anywhere but.
he only thinks of you, of your baby. have the two of you eaten? what are you doing now? are you in the gardens? in the capital? in your bedroom.. alone.. without him..? should he go to you?
have you forgiven him?
“my wife...”
“what?”
“hm? oh.. um, what i said was, my life. as in.. i would give my life for this court, of course, chamberlain.”
“i believe you spoke of the honorable fire lady, lord zuko.” he stares at zuko with a silent contempt, then relinquishes his harsh gaze upon fully taking in the shell of the fire lord in front of him.
“i suppose.. my mind may have drifted.” zuko sighs, head falling back against his chair’s backrest. a pause, a moment of understanding and quiet contemplation between them, before the chamberlain speaks again.
“forgive my asking, lord zuko, but have you done something to upset the honorable lady?”
“why? did she speak to you? what did she say?” he straightens, like an arrow, gaze pinned to the chamberlain whose head shakes in dismissal.
“i assure you, lord zuko, that is not the case. in fact, it is quite the opposite, as the honorable lady speaks to none but your own child.” zuko frowns, another wave of guilt flooding his already weak stomach.
“she has not spoken to anyone?”
“not in the last week. perhaps she has taken a vow of silence to honour the beginnings of your child’s life?” it’s more than a stretch to suggest this, considering your daughter has been in the world for over three months now, but the chamberlain suggests it despite this. zuko releases a weak huff of laughter.
“yes.. i suppose, it may be that. thank you, advisor, that shall be all..” zuko waves him off with a gentle flick of his hand, the opposite palm sliding down his weary face. finally, he decides, this silence has gone on long enough.
he leaves his office with a start, tripping over his feet as they try to match his fervor. he searches high and low for you, every nook and cranny where you could be hiding from him. until it dawns on him, you’d barely left the nursery since you took shelter there.
he approaches the nursery quietly, cautiously. his palm, slick with a thin layer of nervous sweat, reaches for the door knob and hesitantly pushes it open.
you sit on the rocking chair in the corner, baby in hand, cooing at your daughter until the door creaks and makes his presence known. your eyes meet his for less than a second before they are stubbornly focused on your daughters chubby cheeks.
one glance at you is enough to have him feeling better, not whole, but no longer ill with worry. he walks to you, steps slow, like he doesn’t rule the nation but rather like that of a hesitant child. he points to the foot stool, unused, muttering a small ‘may i?’
“you’re the fire lord, you don’t need my permission to do anything. you’ve made that fairly clear..”
“i’m asking you if i may join you..” you nod, but still your eyes avoid his. he sits.
“are you well?” you nod once more. “and the baby?”
“she is fine as well.”
“good.. that is good,” he clasps his hands together, contemplative as he searches for his next words, “i rejected aang’s invitation.”
“so i’ve heard.”
“but you didn’t come back..”
“i wasn’t ready to.”
“and now?”
“you tell me.”
he sighs, slipping off the stool to kneel in front of you.
“please, don’t dirty yourself on my behalf, lord zuko”
“enough.” his tone is not unkind, but firm. your brow raises and his nods in apology, you listen despite this, eyes finally on him.
“i understand what you're doing.. and why. and i’m sorry,” he reaches for your hand and you can tell he expects to be swatting away again, a visual that makes your heart hurt, “i’m sorry for everything.”
you hold your daughter, who is drifting in between sleep and wakefulness, close to your body. zuko’s thumb rubs across the back of your hand, searching for forgiveness before he continues.
“i will never know how you felt back then, when i was gone, but i know now the power of absence. you have been gone from our bed mere days and i cannot sleep, i cannot eat, i can think of nothing but you. and i know that my safety is questionable on aang’s crusades. so.. i understand why you do not want me to go as often, if at all. i do enjoy a break from being the fire lord but i.. i never want you to think that i value my freedom more than you. i did not know the meaning of the word until you, until .. her.” his eyes drift towards your daughter, soft and longing.
“i know..” you admit quietly, freeing your hand from his grip to cup his cheek.
your thumb swipes across his scar, his eyes close like a dog being pet. your eyes sting with the threat of tears, but the closeness of him after days of distance overwhelms that part of you, a strange happiness patching any sadness lingering within. you tuck his hair behind his ear, his handsome face on display.
“you do?”
“of course i do, i married you for a reason, i know you value this family.. i was just hurt.”
“i know, baby, i’m sorry.. i’m gonna do anything and everything to make up for that.”
“this is enough for now.. i missed you.”
“yeah?” he smiles weakly, like he’s unsure if that's allowed. when you smile back, it grows more sure. he falls forward, arms wrapping around your waist and face resting against your stomach, “i missed you. so much. both of you.”
“i.. don’t mind if you go with aang every once and a while, but we need you here. safe.” your hand rests on his head, which he raises to look at you once more.
“i know. i’m gonna be better. i’ll be around so much you’ll both get sick of me.”
he stands, offering his hand for you to do the same, which you do. you calmly offer him your daughter, his face lights up. his back straightens, like weight upon weight are being rolled over his shoulders one by one. he takes your daughter in his arms, kissing your temple.
“our chambers have been so quiet without you, you’ll come back right?” you nod. “right now?” you smile at his eagerness, hand resting on his arm.
“sure, lord zuko, let’s go, i am dying for a nap on an actual bed. you’ll watch her right?” he leads you out of the room, and down the hall, baby in his arms as he wears the widest grin you’ve ever seen on his face. It’s infectious, bleeding onto you and making your lips curl upwards.
“yeah, i’ll watch her,” he looks at you with a sincerity you’ve never seen, “we’ll be right where you left us when you wake up, promise i’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
you're in the chambers you share with zuko, but zuko is nowhere to be found.
he's been on the road on some kind of diplomatic mission. as fire lord, zuko had been sent to negotiate with other nations regarding restruction of some kind, and although you know people rely on him and need him for guidance, you need him too. selfishly, maybe even more than them.
you sigh and rest your head on your vanity, not feeling like finishing your makeup when your betrothed is worlds away from you. he'd been your best friend first, too. so now you are missing both your closest companion and your dear fiance. you two weren't meant to leave each other's sides the few months before your wedding, and yet here you are, moping with no idea when he'll be back-
you hear a voice, his voice, calling your name from the doorway.
your head snaps up so fast you nearly hurt your neck, but you have to see if you're hallucinating or not. you'd been whining to one of your attendants, "do you know when he'll be back? is he nearly done? when do i get to see him again?" just yesterday, and she'd playfully told you to be patient, that he will be back in due time, that the more you ask, the more worried you'll be. "just don't fret, darling." were her final words.
as if it were that easy.
but now here he is, standing there in formal attire, staring at you like he can't believe you're real either.
it's a moment of disbelief, perhaps nerves as well, as the two of you stand and stare at each other, before you're both bolting forwards, trying to meet each other in the middle. there isn't any communication of how the embrace will be, but he just knows to bend down a little so he can catch you while you leap into his arms, locking your limbs around him.
zuko squeezes you as tightly as he can without hurting his beloved, one hand cradling your head while the other wraps around your body. the first thing he does is take a big inhale of your scent, eyes squeezing shut to try and memorize the moment in the present.
he exhales a shuddering breath, having held it in since he first saw you again. another soft whisper of your name, before he speaks, holding you tighter. "i thought about this-" he starts, voice murmured into your hair. "-every night. every single night, i thought about getting to feel you again."
his voice is so soft. you know him to be a little uptight and reserved with his feelings, but they come out unrestrained and sighed almost dreamily. he pulls back just enough to get a better look at you, stroking your hair and looking into your eyes. "zuko..." you murmur, eyes filling with tears.
the consolidation comes immediately, and his eyes search yours sympathetically. "no don't cry," he whispers hugging you closer. "i'm here now, i won't leave again as long as i can help it, i swear it."
with his brows drawn together, he reaches around to hold your jaw, wiping some of your soft tears and smoothing his thumb over the pout on your lips. "i'm here now," he repeats, leaning his forehead against yours before placing the softest kiss to your mouth, reassuring and achingly gentle.
he justs wants to take care of you now. his princess.
walking onto the bed and laying you down with such carefulness, he kisses you again, deeper this time, so that his mouth connects perfectly with yours, your lips moving together with practiced ease. it's as if there was no time apart between the two of you at all.
he sighs your name once again into your mouth, coaxing his tongue along the seam of your lips to ask for permission. eagerly, you welcome him into your mouth, moaning at the sensation of his tongue laving over yours, tasting you.
using his big hands to tip your face upwards, he deepens the kiss and keeps you in place while slowly starting to undress you. you help him, brushing off his heavy robes and undergarments before he helps you out of yours, wanting you nude and bare for him so he can remind himself how beautiful you are underneath layers of clothing. "so beautiful," he praises, parting from your mouth just to descend his kisses lower, down your throat, your clavicle and shoulders, towards your breasts.
he kisses each seperately before mouthing at the left one, busying his hand with palming your aching pussy, spreading you and then slipping a finger inside your warm hole. you're tighter than he remembers. perhaps a month of celibacy had made you that way. he'll be sure to get your cunt to mold to the shape of his cock once more. but for now, he needs to get a second finger in you to stretch you out in prepreation.
your hand fists in his long hair, pulling it out of its ponytail so that the long strands fall all over you, and you brush back the long front pieces so you can see his eyes while he pumps a thick finger in you while suckling on your breast - now finally switching to the other one once your nipple had gotten too tender and swollen. "mnh- zuko... gentle, i'm so sensitive now." you plead, squirming when he curls his finger inside you, pressing upwards against that one tiny weak spot inside you you'd thought he forgot about after all his time away.
seeing you flinch and let out a shuddering moan when he finds it, he focuses his attention there, spreading your pussy lips and twisting a second finger inside you so he can press two against the spot now, groaning when you pull his hair a little harder as your orgasm fast approaches.
"i know," he says around your breast. "it's like i've never fucked you before, love."
his voice is so honeyed and sweet; it's the same tone he uses on you when you're on your garden walks and he finds a flower to put behind your ear, or when he's doing other kinds of sweet things to you. for you. and yet he's using it again now while pumping his fingers knuckles deep inside your sopping hole and marking your chest with lovebites. you love that voice. the longer he talks, the closer you get to-
"do you wanna cum for me? i'll let you cum if you ask nicely."
fuck.
your head tips back and your eyes roll as he pushes one finger against that same weak spot while the other bends and twists inside you, and with one weak, cried out "please!" your back arches off the bed and you cum around his fingers with your walls fluttering and moans leaving your parted lips with no restraint.
he fucks you with his fingers all throughout, revelling in the way you tighten up and gush out liquids down his wrist. he grins into your chest, lifting his head to see your eyes while you cum. it's the prettiest sight he's ever seen.
zuko sits up, pulling his fingers out of you and cleaning them off with his tongue, looking down at you so you can see him tasting you off his fingers.
you whine and reach down to palm at his cock, no longer able to wait to have him inside you, filling you up to the hilt with his warm, thick length.
his heart warms at your eagerness, and he sits up, palming his achingly hard dick in his big hand, huffing hot and heavy breaths while looking down at your face, eyes wide and glossy. he rubs your clit with the thumb of his free hand, trying to coax you to relax. he needs your pussy to take him in one go, and you're still a little too tight. "hold on," he whispers, even as you frown and try to shift forward.
he finally angles the head of his cock at your pussy, rubbing it through your tender folds and against your clit, tapping it against you just to hear you whimper and cling to him tighter. then finally, he notches the head of his cock inside you and pushes slowly inside you.
the stretch is immediate.
your walls immediately cling around his cock as he sinks in deeper and deeper, and you both moan together while his hands move up to curl through each of yours, fingers linking between your smaller ones and clinging tight to soothe you through the slight pain of his big cock filling you up for the first time in thirty days.
"zuko faster," you plead softly when he's around halfway deep, and he blinks down at you, long hair fanning down onto your face at your request. he thought you'd want him to go slow and gentle until you're settled with him inside you, but he was wrong. with a nod, he squeezes your hand and watches your face scrunch up at the emptiness when he rears back, before slamming back in.
he starts fucking you fast and deep, pulling back and then pushing his cock back inside you. then, he leans down and begins to press an open mouthed kiss to your throat, already marked from his kisses from earlier. he pushes his lips against a fresh love bite, nearly purring with delight when you shudder and clamp down around him with delight. "is that better for you?" he whispers against your skin, lifting his head to move his kisses up to your cheeks while rutting into you. such a soothing gesture.
"yes, oh my- zuko more!" you plead, tilting your head to capture his mouth into another kiss. spurred on, he snaps his hips into yours, tipping his pelvis upwards so his cock buries deeper in your pussy and pushes against yet another weak spot that's deep inside you. you can nearly feel him in your guts now.
"i just- fuck, i missed you so much. mngh." he doesn't need you to answer him, because he knows you missed him and thought about him just as much by the way your pussy tightens and milks his cock with each thrust. the blunt head of his cock presses right by the spot that makes your tummy flutter, and you push your body down so you can suck in more of his cock.
your mouth falls agape with his still pressed against yours, and again, he wraps his tongue around yours as the head of his cock nudges your cervix.
his cock is throbbing inside you, pre-cum lubing up your insides and adding to the pre-existing slick from your neediness and your previous orgasm, and his balls twitch each time they make contact with the curve of your ass. you can tell he's close, but he's holding back from spilling into you until you cum again. he gets off best when he makes you feel good first.
"give me another one," he pleads gently after pulling his mouth off yours, relishing in the way your tongue slips off his and leaves strings of saliva in it's wake. "wanna feel you cream around my cock this time."
and that's all his takes. squeezing his hands and letting him push his cock in you to the hilt, his pelvis rubbing against your swollen clit, you cum again, but this time on his cock, bucking against him and rolling your body forward so his heavy tip grinds into your womb while you soak his cock with your creamy cum. as you tighten around him and your cum floods along his cock and down his balls, he finishes too, right inside you where it belongs.
your orgasm continues through his, and your legs shake while his hot, thick load fills you up.
and for the first time in thirty days, you feel whole again.
want more? my last zuko fic
see more in my misc masterlist
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