Tw/Cw~ Some nsfw is hinted at. Religion mentioned.
Synopsis~ Alone in the castle, how can you not dowel on the rumours about your lord husband. For Sir Gojo does not belong to you, he is the vessel of his liege lord - the king.
Author's Note~ This was born of listening to Choosin' Texas bardcore version by Hildegard Von Blingin on repeat and reading Kristin Lavransdatter 1: The Wreath.
Divider by @/saradika-graphics
It is the duty of a wife to serve her husband, to see naught but good in him. But how were you to serve him if he was never there? You sighed, setting the household accounts aside. You had done what you could with them tonight. Tomorrow you would see if you could haggle a lower ale and wine price and perhaps get the north tower’s roof repaired. But until tomorrow, you are done. You have no husband to please, so you are left to your own pleasures.
“Lady Gojo,” your husband’s steward greets you.
“What brings you Rodrick?” You ask, pushing the parchment aside. He stands awkwardly, putting his weight on one foot and then the other. “Sir Gojo writes to say that he will not return until the harvest feast. The King needs him in an affair involving a castle being seized by the crown.” Ah, that was it. You hadn’t seen your husband since last autumn, he had ridden off before the winter rains came. Both the winter and spring rains had kept him from returning. And even now, at summer's peak, he had yet to return.
“Very well, Rodrick.” You said.
Rodrick furrowed his brow. “Do you have anything I should write to tell my Lord?”
You paused. “No, there is nothing I have for him.” You nodded to Rodrick and swept from the room.
When noon turns into evening, you sit at your bedchamber’s window. Your hair hangs out the window, drying in the sunlight and evening breeze, just as your mother and mother before her had done before her. Light peaks in through the branches of the tree that stands just outside your window. You did not mind the dim light, you had candles lit, besides you did not like being seen while you sat at your window. You closed your eyes, remembering the day before you were wed. Your sisters had washed your hair with extra lye to make it shine, they had scented it, and oiled it, and braided it. Even Eline had come from her convent to tend to you before your vows. It had tasted sweet to laugh and behave like silly maidens even though most of your sisters were wed and Eline was the bride of Christ. Even though you could not claim the title maiden after those stolen moments in the wood.
The cold metal of the chain around your neck brings you back to the earthly realm. The key on it is to the box where you lock your jewels and all the other keys of the Castle.
Voices rise up to you from below your window. “Our Lord is not to return till the moon rises for the harvest feast.” The voice belongs to Ingrid, a serving maiden.
“Alfred says the king has called him to arms.” That is Stephanie, your handmaiden.
“To arms or his arms,” that is Gunnar, another one of your handmaidens. The girls laugh as the move passed your window. You lean your head against the window frame. You should have known. You should have always known. What kind of man seduces the daughter of the man who has offered him a roof? Shared his cup and a place at his table?
Had you been seduced? No, you had known what it meant when he hurried you to an abandoned gallery while the other men were away on a hunt. He had begged off, claiming an injury to his knee. You had understood when his kisses grew fervent, when he looked at you like pagan goddess, instead of a virtuous maid. You had understood when he came upon you in the woods. You had understood when he took and claimed you. He would marry you, he had panted into your ear, before kissing it. He would take you back across the channel and to his keep. You would be his pretty bride and he would be your protector.
But that had been five springs ago. You had lingered in this castle for four years. Wed to a man who sits at the right and of the King, and more. A smile tightens your face. You would have never met Sir Gojo if King Suguru hadn’t exiled him. Sir Gojo, for you could never think of him as your husband, even alone, had told you almost laughingly that they had quarreled. “Suguru will forget about it in a few months and call me back,” he had said. You should have known. But you had been doe eyed at the champion, even a famed figure in your own land. Your heart had been tender as the first shoots of grass in early spring.
You stood. One by one you blew out the candles, except for the one on your nightstand. You carefully braid your hair and bind it with ribbons before sitting on the edge of your bed. Forgotten in a castle. You watch the flame flicker back and forth. Your father would welcome you back, he had Margot after her husband had risen in rebellion and tried to abduct King Kento. Your husband has done no such thing, you think. But technically your homeland was at war with Sir Gojo’s. Surely, your father would welcome you, your mother would and then he would have to. If he didn’t you could go to Eline’s convent. Perhaps being the bride of Christ would be a warmer lighter bed than the one you slept in now. The flame flickers as a breeze blows through your bedchamber.
The idea has already been formed in your mind; your fingers have run over it in the years since your marriage, smoothing over the rough edges. But even still, you know the price of leaving one’s lawfully wedded husband is a high cost. Your own aunt, your father’s sister, had left her lord husband for a knight without lands or title. He had coaxed her with promises and embraces. You had no doubt he promised her dimpled babes, sweet scented nights, and passion. Instead she had been exiled from kin and kith. You hoped that she had had a happy fate. That her knight had won fame and land and she had her sweet smelling dimpled babes. But perhaps you will find peace in your father’s halls, or with Eline, or perhaps one of your other sisters. You would not mind taking care of their children. Your husband’s absence had denied you the children that used to haunt your dreams.
The flame is burning bright, despite most of the candle being melted away. You stare into it. Willing it to give you an answer. But you are alone. And only you can make this decision.
You will go. You will return to your father’s house and entreat him for mercy for his foolish ill wed daughter. The pit in your stomach gapes. You squeeze your eyes shut. You remember when your sister Matilda had taken the fancy of a lord your father disapproved of. The lord had abducted Matilda while she was out maying. Your father had been furious and weeks of bloodshed had followed. Now years later, your father treated the lord like a son, despite the blood that had marked your sister’s nuptials.
You doubt blood would follow you to the shores of your homeland. The man you wed cares naught for you. But what of honour? What would happen to Sir Gojo’s pride after his wife fled to her father’s house?
As you enter the haziness of half slumber, you remember when he asked for your hand. The day had been cool. Rain had been falling for two days now, and the entire castle was growing antsy from being trapped inside. But not you, you loved the cool stone hall and the warm fires lit. But your Knight did not. You could see by the way his fingers strained as he looked out the turrets, the way his eyes never fully looked at you, the way he read and read again the letter from the court of his king.
It had scared you, if you were being truthful. That day, all he had done was pace back and forth. You had watched him in between stitches of your embroidery. He had spun to face you, his eyes bright. In seconds he crossed the room and seized your hands.
“Sir!” You exclaimed as he tugged you. “Where are we going?” You asked, as he pulled you from the turret.
“Your father, I’m going to ask for your hand.” He said laughing sharply, but you hadn’t noticed, and if you did you had tucked it away.
He would be your husband! You knew knights kept their word, Eline said only holy men kept their word and regular men were not to be trusted. But your Knight was brave and true. They called him ‘The Honoured One’ in songs, and his feats were told in song and at table. You knew to believe him.
He led you to your father’s study. He knocked. When your father called for him to come in, he turned to you. “Wait here, when I return we will have a date for our wedding.” He grins at you. Your heart tinges, he doesn’t look like a man in love. But he had a week ago, when he kissed and took again what he claimed was his right.
You wait. The minutes pass by slowly.
Finally, the door to your father’s study opens and closes. Sir Satoru Gojo stands in all his glory before you.
He embraces you. His mouth finds your own, hot and craving, he kisses you. When you part, he pulls back, hands on your shoulders. He smiles at you like he won.
You will not know what he won, until you put the pieces together. One of them being the letter, detailing King Geto’s favor of one his men-at-arms. You had been wed in spite. He had never been your knight, and he never really had been your husband.
When Gojo said, “Let’s keep it low-key this year,” you really should’ve known better.
The clock read 11:45 PM, and his living room looked like a glitter bomb had gone off.
“You call this low-key?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“What? The disco ball adds ambiance!”
“Ambiance for what? A New Year’s Eve rave?”
“Exactly!” he said with a snap of his fingers.
You sighed, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.
“Okay, Satoru,” you said, crossing your arms. “What’s the plan for midnight? Are we setting off fireworks indoors this time?”
Gojo gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh my gosh, N/n! I’m not that irresponsible. …Well, not this year, anyway.”
You were about to retort when he pushed a glass of drink into your hand and clinked his own glass against it.
Gojo grabbed an obnoxiously large pair of “2025” glasses and perched them on his face. You could barely hold back your laughter when he posed and told you to take a picture.
“Alright!” Gojo declared, pulling you toward the giant wall clock he’d somehow installed just for this occasion.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four!”
At “Three!” Gojo spun you around dramatically, making you nearly drop your drink.
When the clock struck midnight, he threw his arms up, setting off three party poppers at once. The glitter rained down over both of you.
“Happy New Year, Y/n!”
You laughed, shaking the glitter off you, “Happy New Year, Satoru.”
Gojo who was still wearing those ridiculous glasses now faced you properly and smiled.
“Thanks for spending this one with me,” he said quietly.
You bumped your glass against his again, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He smiled and immediately broke the moment, “Okay! Who’s ready for karaoke? Because I’ve got eight hours of songs queued up, and we’re not stopping until sunrise!”
|| satoru gojo x reader || E (18+) || foreplay, smut, & hurt/comfort || wc: 6.1k || ao3 ||
Even sorcerers make time for 'simple' trysts— Satoru Gojo is no exception.
minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni
a/n: oooh man it's the gojo smut 👀 i set out to write some pwp and it became this piece!!! oh to explore intimacy with such a guy!! thank you to the lovely cielo for beta reading 💕 enjoy!!! 💌
CW: soft smut, hurt/comfort, panic/anxiety attacks, intimacy issues/discussion around intimacy, a wittle angst if you squint, cheeky satoru
“Can I take this off?”
You tug at the elastic of his eye mask. It’s silken under your fingers and feels a little too tight under his ears.
Satoru sucks in a breath and chews his lip. You watch his expression shift, the skin of his cheeks drawing up to crinkle his hidden eyes. You draw shapes over his temple, trying to calm down his rabbit’s heart.
You know this is a lot for Satoru. You can feel it. Your fingertips are pressed to his skin, top. him. Satoru Gojo, strongest, is letting you touch him. The divine layer around him is gone and replaced by this. Warmth. From void to heat.
There’s a subtle shift of his thighs under yours as he muses over your question.
“You don’t have to, “ You assure him, setting your arms over his shoulder. “This all must be… a lot.”
If he’s more comfortable covered, you’re content with that. The expectation to bear oneself in such a way is new for Satoru. Self-imposed expectations, you’re almost sure will crush him as they have before.
You truly want nothing but him, in whatever way he allows you close. If he lets you close.
It’s only the second time you’d been perched in his lap like this, the second time his infinity has been lowered for the sake of intimacy. You wonder, quietly, how long it’s been since he’s shared the heat of human touch. You consider yourself lucky to have the opportunity to know the feel and firmness of his skin. You get to be close to him. It’s such a novel thing, really, but it feels a bit sacred with him.
(The dance prior had been a rite. A ritual to open a space between the two of you, one that could be inhabited by both of you. It was a careful back and forth, smoldering embers and climbing flames that stretched with crooning words and easily seen through lies.)
(You are a good dancer, and you reap a god for it.)
“Nah, it’s fine,” Satoru’s pinched expression falls away. He’s still strained, feigning, as he pulls the silk away from his eyes and over the top of his head. Gossamer hair falls flat, laying gently over his forehead and just barely covering his undercut. You don’t meet his gaze yet. You instead inspect the curve of his jaw to his ear, tracing a fingertip over the bone.
He’s beautiful, you think.
Before you’d met Gojo, you’d heard him described as such. An earthen god with beauty to match it. Atrocious personality, but nice to look at. The rumors weren’t… wrong. Satoru found a way to be both cloying and avoidant while remaining one of the most breathtaking people you’d ever seen. The high praise he receives isn’t in jest.
You adore him, you think. You can’t ever let him know— not to your feeling’s true extent. He’d never let you live it down.
His palm, large and warm, cups your chin and turns you toward him. He knocks his forehead against yours. It’s a bit clammy.
(A spark of pride warms your belly. His infinity has only been off for a few minutes. The room is temperate. The sheen on his forehead is from him reacting to you. Getting a rise, even if only bodily, from Gojo Satoru is exhilarating.)
But Gojo knows exhilarating, doesn’t he? He knows combat and strife, but it’s tenderness that's foreign to him.
If you were in his place, you may have broken a sweat too.
You keep your eyes lowered. You can feel him, looking into and through you. You’re still fully clothed, not bare in the slightest, but Satoru still strips you in a way beyond cloth. The only skin-to-skin contact you have is through your light touches around his neck and the point where your foreheads meet.
It still feels like a lot.
“You can touch me more, ‘ya know,” Satoru prods you, grabbing your wrist and placing your hand on the back of his neck. “I like when you do. Have you done this before?”
You stifle a snort, “You’re toying with me now? Getting impatient?”
Satoru hums, and shrugs, “With you? I always am.”
Oh, god, what an admission. To be wanted in such a way by anyone, let alone Gojo. It makes your gut twist with something equally sweet and sour. There’s something to it— you’re not used to it. You’re not used to it. You’re not used to accepting someone’s desire for you. To be perched in someone’s lap, someone you equally desire? Feels like a new experience, even if you had been in this position at some other point.
“Needy,” You grin, and finally look at him.
Satoru, you realize, hasn’t taken his eyes off you. You’re not sure what he’s seeing (the way your cursed energy is melting in pools, the rapid beat of your heart, the tremor in your hands—), but you assume it’s all. You’re at his mercy, in that way. There’s nothing you can hide from him and it's daunting. You’re at such a disadvantage in knowing, but it’s familiar.
Satoru’s pretty. Especially pretty in his face. Everyone talks about Gojo Satoru’s fabled crystalline eyes, but they really don’t do it justice. You don’t want to stare too much, but it’s the first up-close look you’ve gotten at him, and you’re enraptured. For most of your trysts, Gojo kept his blindfold on for ease. You were never afforded the chance to ogle. His eyes cut, blue topaz, set in a human skull. You swear they refract light from the inside.
“Go on, stare some more,” Satoru grins, sitting back against the cushions. “I’ve got all day.”
You raise an eyebrow, sitting back on your haunches in his lap, balancing with a hand on his chest, “I’m happy to. You’re beautiful.”
Satoru whistles, “Buttering me up? You’re sweet.”
“Oh, fuck off,” You say with no edge. You flash him a smile. “You knew that already. You couldn’t keep your size ego without knowing you’re stunning.”
Satoru doesn’t reply for a moment. He licks his lips, chews on the bottom one for a moment. You almost open your mouth to redact a word or two. You are being presumptuous, and perhaps a bit mean. Who knows, maybe Satoru actually has no idea—
“It’s different, since it’s you,” Satoru says, settling his big hand on one of your hips.
There’s a wealth of unspoken secrets in such a phrase. Satoru’s built too guarded to show you them, and you half-doubt he ever will. You’ll have to settle for your own conjecture. You’ll have to settle for the way such admission makes your heart pound. You’ll have to settle for how his words are followed by a soft squeeze of your ribs in his warm palm.
To be special to someone, someone who seems so above such connections— it makes your insides melt down your spine.
You kiss him, to let him know you heard him. You lean forward suddenly, half-tipping over into his lap. It brings you chest to chest, where Satoru easily wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you close, holding you there without give.
And you kiss him like you’ve wanted to for god knows how long.
It’s not like the chaste touches you’ve had in the past. It’s nothing like the hungry looks you’ve caught Gojo flashing you from across campus. It’s neither entirely carnal, nor pure. It makes your insides, from your brain to your toes, turn to mush.
You press into him, winding a hand into his hair.
Satoru holds you steadfast. The grip he has around your waist is unwavering and keeps you chest to chest. You can feel his expand against your own, even the pounding of his heart in an earthly rhythm.
(As much as you claim to know Satoru, it still shocks you, occasionally, how human he is. His heart beats, thumps and thuds when touched like something fragile and precious. It’s endearing, in a way.)
You cup a hand over his chin and stroke your thumb against the sharp line of his jaw. You curl your nails behind his ear, and nearly die when you feel Satoru shudder beneath you. The half-moan he hums into your mouth has your thighs clenching around his own.
Satoru is nothing if not competitive, even knowing he will always win. A loss is a feint with him, and you forget this in the moment.
He breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips down your neck, deftly unbuttoning your top and sliding it down your shoulders. It settles against your biceps as Satoru lays kiss after kiss against your skin.
“You’re so,” He says, suddenly. “So—”
He cuts himself off and smothers his face into your neck. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pouting. His grip on you gets tighter, and there’s not a smidge of space between you two.
It’s overwhelming, maybe.
You’re not used to this. Your mutual lifestyle rarely left time for things like this, and when they were shared, it was quick and quiet. There simply isn’t enough time of respite for a sorcerer to be so indulgent. There are lives, people— souls left out in the cold if you’re too selfish about this.
For that reason, you wonder if Satoru has much experience at all.
You know his history, his place, his status (even in this position, the miasmatic knowledge of such things will not leave you.) You can’t decipher whether such things would make him more or less likely to experience physical intimacy. You’ve heard rumors, sure, but you don’t think Satoru has the room in his schedule to be as much of a slut as whispers would have you believe.
Regardless, you feel special, getting to be so close to him. You covet him too much, probably. It’s been drilled into your head since birth, so you can’t fault yourself too much.
“You’re thinking so hard,” Satoru kisses your neck again. “Your cursed energy’s going crazy. What’s on your mind?”
You pause.
“... You.” You answer honestly.
“Oh, wow, me? I’m flattered.” He noses up to your jaw and nips, before grabbing your face in one large hand and dragging you together again. “But, I’d prefer if you were here with me, right now. Think you can manage? I’ll make it easy.”
“I’ll try,” You say, letting Satoru kiss over cheeks.
Satoru hums, “You will. You’ll stay here, with me.”
...
He does make it easy, notably.
Satoru drags you close as can be and devours you— there’s no other word for it. He kisses and kisses and kisses until you feel saliva dribble from the corners of your lips. He nips at your bottom lip and tugs more than once. It hurts in a good way. It’s the kind of pain that you want more of.
Satoru must understand, because he bites your lip and you swear he must bust it to bleeding. You nearly thank him as sparks of pain mix with heat and pleasure like its own heady drug.
Your grapple onto his shoulders, encouraging him to shrug off his uniform top. It’s shed easily, quickly and he’s down to a tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination. You run your hands up and down his chest, unabashedly feeling him up. Who knew Satoru was so broad? (tits) Shoulders too. Satoru towered over nearly everyone he met, but he never struck you as anything other than a beanpole.
But now? You can feel the muscle on him. You can feel it tensing and relaxing in rhythm as he massages the meat above your hips. You can feel him and how strong he is.
It’s exhilarating. You want to drown in him.
“You’re excited,” Satoru breaks away to tease.
You hum, kissing the corner of his mouth, “So are you.”
That much is obvious. You’ve skillfully been ignoring how hard Satoru is against your inner thigh, even through his trousers. It’s taken a fair amount of willpower to not grind in his lap senselessly.
Satoru’s grip slips lower, cupping your ass and dragging you down against his clothed cock. He nips at your jaw, up to your ear, and dares to whisper, “I want to feel you.”
You swallow, thick and hard, and Satoru belts out a laugh. You slap his chest for it, hoping the dark of the room distracts from the heat in your cheeks. You know Satoru must notice how your hands tremble as you grab his shoulders and grind down into his lap. You bow your head, hiding in the crook of his neck and fucking take.
It’s shameless, really.
There are still several layers of clothing between you, yet it feels like so much. Maybe you’re touch-starved, maybe you’re enthralled with the idea of Satoru Gojo and his cock being interested in you, maybe— it just feels good and you’re chasing the feelings.
Satoru bucks his hips up while holding yours down, letting your circle and grind on him to your heart’s content. Little whines drip from his lips, huffs of breath barely loud enough for you to hear but god, you feel weak for them. The sounds meld with your own. You scratch at his shoulders, cursing under your breath.
Satoru drags you up by your scruff to kiss you, mumbling against your lips, “‘Think you soaked through your panties.”
He confirms this by slipping a hand down your front. Satoru cups your cunt, feels you, and curses under his breath. You don’t have time to process how he’s touching you more gently than you imagined, more carefully, maybe even tenderly— before he’s winding a hand in the hair at the base of your skull and hauling you back.
You’re forced to keep your back arched. You’re bare. Your shirt pools around your waist and one of the straps of your bra slips down your shoulder. It’s obscene, you feel filthy despite being covered to some degree. You’ve probably got the front of Satoru’s trousers filthy—
Satoru pulls you from your thoughts.
He cups your jaw with his free hand and runs his fingers up and down the planes of your face. Cheeks, jaw— down the bridge of your nose before pressing his thumb to your lips.
He’s a difficult person to make eye contact with. He’s infamous for it. It’s rare anyone actually has the opportunity to meet his gaze, but even when folks do, it’s hard to meet him on his level. Satoru doesn’t need to look at you in such a way to really see you. For him, you imagine direct eye contact must be like a dance, a challenge, and a way to make people squirm under the weight of an immeasurably powerful being.
You force yourself to look at him and find Satoru looking back at you. He’s tracing your features, up and down, taking you in a way that looks more human than any other way you’ve seen him look.
“... You okay?” You ask, softly, words slurred by the thumb Satoru has yet to remove from your lips.
He hums, musing, before fully pressing into your mouth, down onto your tongue. You let him, and suck and nip at his thumb.
“I’m great,” Satoru says. “Basking, a little bit.”
He has a dopey smile on his face as he switches from his thumb to his ring and forefinger. You stay relaxed as he presses further and further back to your throat. He only stops when the tips of his fingers meet soft flesh and your gag around him.
“You’re so good,” Satoru preens, nearly pulling his fingers from your mouth, before pressing them forward once more. “You’re precious.”
He says ‘precious’ like it's endearing and demeaning, and for some reason, it turns you on even more. You whine around his fingers and struggle for friction against his lap. Satoru clicks his tongue.
“So needy,” He grins, letting go of your hair in favor of undoing the buckle and zipper of his trouser, rubbing himself over his boxer briefs. He continues to fuck your mouth, smile getting wider when spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and slips down your chin.
You slowly sink closer, holding yourself up by your thighs and sheer willpower. You are needy— you desperately want to be in Satoru’s lap. You want to be sitting on his cock until the sun rises and sets again. You can see in the dim light that Satoru’s bulge is not small, rather large perhaps, even against his hand.
You swallow. The thought of stretching around Satoru’s cock’s girth has you clenching around nothing and moaning around his fingers. You get impatient.
You fumble your grip against Satoru’s chest and reach downward. You get as far as his waistband before Satoru shoos you with a laugh, giving you a particularly hard thrust to the back of your throat. You choke.
“Let me take my time,” Satoru hums. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, letting tendrils of thick drool connect from your lips to his fingers. “I want to savor this.”
And the fucking bastard shamelessly pressing his fingers into his own mouth, sucking your saliva from them while not breaking from your gaze.
“Y-You’re a menace,” Your voice lacks any bite as you speak.
“I’m sure I am,” Satoru looks so smitten as he palms his cock, pulling at the zipper of your uniform skirt with his free hand. You wriggle out of it and it's discarded somewhere beyond your comprehension.
Satoru uses one deft hand to finish off the buttons of your shirt, peeling it away until you’re skin and heat in his lap. You hold onto a shred of modesty in just panties and a bra. Satoru ogles you all the same, chewing his lip as he traces your figure up and down, and up and down once more.
Despite your last two garments, you feel naked.
You can’t help it— you feel shy, even. You wrap your arms around your middle and avert your eyes down to his chest. You can feel that Satoru’s going to say something about it, prod you for being bashful when you’re going to be open for him in moments, more than likely. You distract him by grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, tugging until he peels it off.
“I can’t tell if you’re eager or dreading this,” Satoru laughs, but the end of the sound is rotten. It makes something in you shrivel and twitch. “Enlighten me?”
“I...” Your voice dies in your chest and you take a shaky breath.
You grab his hands and hold them in your own.
For someone whose hands never actually touch their opponent, Satoru’s are worn. There are calluses around his fingernails. Worn, dry skin on his palms and knuckles that you run your own scarred flesh against. His hands are warm and a bit clammy, which makes him feel a little more human.
“It’s been a while,” You murmur. “It’s scary to be so bare around someone.”
You refuse to look at him for a moment.
Satoru hums, adjusting his grip so his palms cup your own, “It is.”
Of course, Satoru gets it.
“I want it. You—” You hiss out a breath between your teeth as Satoru’s grip trails higher, squeezing on his way. “But, I can’t shake the feeling that being so close to someone won’t result in some tragedy.”
Satoru is silent after you speak. His eyes shine glassy and glazed, fixed somewhere else beyond the room. You don’t attempt to pull him back, not yet. He keeps massaging you, hands finding purchase on your hips.
You suppose Satoru must be familiar with this distinct feeling as well. You both deal in tragedies. Your profession demands it, and so it is. You must purge away that which is addled in suffering, you must go hand-to-hand with grime and hate and everything rotten with the world, so that there’s, perhaps, a chance for someone, somewhere to rest easier.
The thing you are closest to is tragedy. You spar with suffering and feel it in your open palms every day.
It makes sense you’d anticipate closeness, regardless of its intention or context, as something to be wary of. Frightening, if you really got down to it. Terrified that pleasurable touch is a farce, and that the next moment you’ll be faced with your guts on the floor, and something in you wounded beyond repair.
“Satoru?” You say his name softly, tugging his face to your chest. His cheek rests against your sternum and his warm breath fans over your skin. “You there?”
“Yeah,” He answers immediately, nuzzling into the heat of you. “You’re better with words than you give yourself credit for, probably.”
You don’t get a chance to reply or process Satoru’s confession. He startles you when he shifts his grip under your thighs and hefts you up. He stands, adjusting you, and whisks you off to a bedroom nearby.
The room you’re brought to is dimly lit, enough that the shadows obscure any of the decor. There’s only a small lamp atop a dresser that gives off the barest bit of warm light. Hardly enough to make out any of the furnishings. You have to rely on feeling as you are set on the bed with a gentle bounce, and pushed into the sheets. They’re cool and buttery beneath you. The mattress is harder than you would expect from someone with Satoru’s tastes.
Any other thought you could have is quickly chased away by Satoru. He’s up over you within moments, settling over your hips and kissing you harder than before.
He’s handsy, feeling and squeezing anywhere he can get a hold of. No part of you is spared from the heat of his palms and strength of his grip. He’s a bit more forceful, a bit bolder, now that you’re laid out underneath him. He’s big. Broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and easily keeps you down and pliant.
You meet him where you can. You wind a hand into his hair, tug him closer and try to drink him. It’s a sloppy thing, messier than you’d ever admit. And you like it. The spit pooling out of the corner of your lips and the desperate little noises you exchange warm your guts in a way that feels foreign and welcome all the same.
“Satoru,” You say his name like a smothered prayer, caught between half-breaths. He outright moans when you call to him.
“Fuck, you sound so pretty saying that,” Satoru pulls away to drop his hand to your collarbone.
You run a hand down the nape of his neck, squeezing, “Your ego is showing, be careful, Satoru.”
He makes a choked sound and chomps down on your collarbone. You squeak and slap at his shoulders. Your scolding doesn’t deter him, if anything it eggs him on. His lips trail lower, deftly removing any remaining fabric as he does.
You claw at him, trying to drag him into your skin. You want to mix together, dissolve into a puddle, and never be anything but that. It’s indulgent to think about, and you can’t help the giddy sound that bursts from your lips as Satoru brushes past a particularly sensitive spot on your navel.
“That’s a cute sound,” He peaks up from his lashes, long and silver and he looks fucking angelic. You drop your head to the pillows, steeling yourself as he works. You adjust your leg over his shoulder, tucking him between your thighs and Satoru makes a contented sound that has you thrumming from the inside out.
The heat of Satoru seeps into your skin, making you pliable beneath him. Satoru lies half off the bed and his lower half slips to the floor below. He drags you by your calves. You yelp, grabbing the sheets and regarding him with wide eyes.
Even kneeling on the bed, Satoru is tall. The figure of him sends something stirring in you, some feeling that’s both intimidating and lust, rolling into something hot on the back of your tongue. Satoru tilts his head with a smile that gleams, adjusting you as he pleases. You let him, let him, let him—
He props your hips up with a pillow, leaving you off-kilter and exposed to the cold air of the room. He works off the rest of your uniform skirt, leaving your panties and knee-highs intact. Satoru seems to settle, eyeing your clothed sex with that same smile. He traces a nonsense pattern over your hips, teasing with the tip of his finger.
Blood rushes to your skull and you feel woozy with it. With him. It’s so much. You feel exposed like this. He has hardly touched your cunt, only prodded the parts he could lavish, goading you on. You should’ve met him more, he can’t—
You shoot up, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, “I’m sorry—”
Satoru pauses, raising an eyebrow and withdrawing.
“Sorry? For what?” He retains an air of mischief to his voice, but it feels hollow. You feel a ringing start in your ears.
You’re scared.
You’re scared.
It’s too close.
You twitch. Your impulse is to grab a weapon, wind up with cursed energy, and punch. The urge claws up your chest in the form of breaths that catch in your nose too fast. Sweat beads on your forehead and you make a tiny, dying sound.
You feel Satoru’s cursed energy crackle and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise. You scramble upright on the bed, away, away.
It’s instinct, really.
Your heart pounds, the feeling of violence so thick in your blood that it clouds your vision. You’re nothing but a specter, why would you bother with physical pleasures? You feel foolish and you clutch at your throat.
“Woah, woah there,” Satoru puts his hand up, still kneeling. His brow creases with concern. Gone is the desire and mischief. Caring. Satoru Gojo cares about you, about the way you’re sure he can see how your body and cursed energy are spasming. You’re scared, you’re scared—
This is it, isn’t it? Why you so rarely indulge in the carnal. It tastes bitter. Its bile, rising from your gut and you have to swallow to keep from drowning in it. It’s a fear that’s so fucking hard to place, hard to verbalize, certainly to someone outside of your profession. Even to another sorcerer, you’re not entirely sure you could force yourself to put into words the tangled, horrific feeling that you can’t seem to escape in these moments.
It pulls you. Tugs you. It’s going to tear you apart—
Satoru says your name, sharp and clear, and it brings you back to the room. You’re in Satoru’s low-light bedroom, probably. The sheets are soft. Satoru smells good. There’s a dead stick of incense on a holder on the dresser.
Satoru grabs your cheeks in his hands and drags you nose to nose. You feel the heat pouring off of him.
And you look at him.
“There you are,” Satoru says with an edge of relief you’ve never heard from him. “I lost you for a sec there. Take some breaths with me, ‘kay?”
“S-Sure, yeah,” You reach for Satoru’s wrist without thinking and hold. You ground yourself on the feeling of his pulse and bone.
Satoru counts in little murmurs, coaching you through a few moments of deep breathing. The first ones wrack through you, dragging out sounds you wish you could’ve quieted. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps your attention, expression schooled open and inviting, and doesn’t waver until you’ve settled.
“There we go, back down to earth,” Satoru lets out a sigh. Perhaps, of relief, even.
You expect Satoru to pull back and create distance in some way. The necessity for closeness has passed and there’s no reason for him to linger—
(You forget, so easily, that you’re in the exchange of desire. You’re tender in a dance of skinship that you’ve never left, not even for a moment.)
Satoru shifts, dragging you up and pressing you against his chest. You’re both so bare— you’d forgotten. The sudden amount of skin-to-skin contact, superheated and sensitive, makes you jolt. Satoru shushes you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you flush against him.
You don’t say anything for a while. You deflate from rigid to slack over some length of time you’re too fuzzy to measure. Satoru is mostly quiet. He only hums in what you can only assume to be approval, with each chest-heaving exhale that leaves you more relaxed against him.
It’s easier to bend now. The heat of the situation has dissipated, and the post-adrenal haze makes it easy to crash. You can feel embarrassed about it later. You’re lulled by bugs that sing night songs in the estate’s courtyard, and the gurgling of the stream that cuts through the property.
“... You know, it happens to everyone,” Satoru says nonchalantly. He hooks his chin over the top of your head. “I don’t know a single sorcerer I’ve consistently fucked who hasn’t melted down at least once.”
“... How many sorcerers is that?” You surely must validate his data, see if he’s pulling your leg out of pity.
He laughs, “Is that a roundabout way of asking for my body count? You dog.”
You snort and shake your head, “No, I’m asking seriously.”
“More than a handful, less than a dozen,” Satoru answers after a moment of thought. “It’s normal, though. I have my moments too.”
He doesn’t elaborate, just squeezes you.
You haven’t bedded too many of your colleagues, and even when you had, you hadn’t thought too much about their potential panic (you were too busy quelling your own enough to enjoy physical release.)
Like all things of this nature, your dance is mutual.
“Huh,” You lean up to look at him, craning your neck. “Comforting. Glad to know the strongest sorcerer in the world cries during sex sometimes.”
He gives you a look, “Hey, I never said that—”
You lean away from him, cupping your hands around your mouth, “Hey world! Did you hear that ‘World’s Strongest Sorcerer’, ‘Well-est Endow-ed’, Gojo Satoru cries during—”
He jabs at your sides and you sputter around your words.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re in for it—”
And Satoru sets upon you, your ribs and sides and tummy with the tips of his fingers in what can only be called a minor war crime. You snort and gasp between giggling fits and streams of ‘no, no— Satoruuuuu!’s. He relents, eventually. Satoru goes from tickling to petting you as you catch your breath.
“Asshole.” You huff without any bite.
He kisses your temple, “You started it.”
“Maybe, perhaps.” You jab your elbow into his ribs. You preen at the little ‘oof’ of air Satoru lets out. Victory.
“Do you want to continue? Or is the mood totally ruined.” You ask matter-of-factly.
You’re still shaken, just a little. But you wouldn’t mind trying again. The silliness of things worked away some of your latent tension. You’re not boneless, but you wouldn’t mind being, you know, bone in if that’s what things led to.
“The mood’s not ruined,” Satoru squeezes your hips and you shift higher in his lap. “I’d love to see where things go, if anywhere, if you want to continue.”
You adjust, sitting up over his hips.
“I want to try, even if we have to stop again.”
And in the low light of the bedroom, you come nose to nose with Satoru Gojo yet again. You’re level.
“Perfect, sweetheart,” and he thumbs over your bottom lip before kissing you so soft and gently, it almost cracks your chest in two.
...
Your night continues until it becomes a dawn, and then a morning.
It’s not a seamless tryst, surely, but your stumbles and brief panics are quelled now that Satoru knows what to look for, and you’re more vigilant of the things that will send you spiraling.
(Satoru says your cursed energy begins to curl around your chest and climbs to your throat in little wisps. You avoid your middle being exposed and vulnerable.)
Satoru holds his own— very well, in more ways than one. His own hiccups in intimacy aren’t panic, like your own, but rather awe. He has moments where he looms above you, eyes glassy and almost unfocused, where you can tell he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t seem scared, just slower, more out of body than the strongest allows himself to be.
(It’s reverence, really. He touches you in those moments like you’re a sculpture at a shrine, a sacred thing to pray to.)
He takes his time. You take yours. It’s a mutual crawl, but a pleasant one. Satoru stretches you open on his fingers, one after another until you swear the fucker is prepping you to take his fucking fist and not his cock.
(“I’m just being thorough!” There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “— Didn’t you already call me ‘well-endowed’?”)
You try on top of him, first. When Satoru finally considers you prepped ‘enough’ that you could fit his cock into your cunt, you straddle his lap, brace yourself over his navel, and try—
(He’s too big. He’s too fucking big.)
Even sinking down with the help of gravity, and the incessant need to be filled and fucked and anything other than teased, it hurts. It’s a tight fit, and you only get halfway impaled on his cock before the angle and pressure have you tipping off of his lap and away in defeat.
(Then, Satoru makes you come at least three more times— you start to lose count after that. You’re more pliable, soaked through and fucked out without even being properly filled. Satoru easily shifts you onto your stomach and lifts your hip with a pillow or two.)
When Satoru takes you like that, you know you won’t be able to walk for a half day. His rhythm starts slow, to give you time to adjust, wriggle about, and find whatever angle satisfies both your cunt and your bent spine.
(It’s good, it’s sooooo good—)
Satoru comes inside you, which is fine. Unplanned, but fine. You prepped for such a possibility prior. You’re only half-lucid when Satoru’s pace shudders, and he fucks you with a few short thrusts before spilling into your cunt.
(You can’t remember the last time someone came inside you. Even when he pulls out, and flops next to you, you still feel full of him.)
Satoru gets clingier after that. Less wordy, less mouthy (well, in the traditional sense of the word.) He tugs you to his chest, lets his refractory period pass, before fucking you slow and hard, back to chest.
The rest of the night passes much the same way.
You’re liquid, by the end of it. You’ve only taken a break or two, mostly to gulp down water, or sit up briefly and kinesthetically reorient yourself as the bodily force of Satoru Gojo’s fucking you rewired your brainstem, maybe.
When there are threads of hot, gold light spilling in from his bedroom window, you’re only half aware and a quarter awake. Almost dreaming.
Later, you’ll remember this morning. You’ll remember the exact hue of the sun rays, the smell and thread count of the sheets, and him— Satoru. Who looks equally as wrung out, tired, but sated. He looks content and you’ll be forever grateful you burned the image of him like this into your mind. You’ll savor in the worst of times. In your grief.
Satoru’s moving around, somewhere. Maybe in the bathroom? At some point, you’re lifted carried there yourself, and literally set on the toilet— (“You’ll thank me for this when you don’t get a UTI.”)
Satoru helps you back to bed after, now laid with fresh sheets and linens. It’s cool when you flop face first and take a whiff of whatever detergent he uses. It’s fresh, if not a bit minty. Maybe eucalyptus or tea tree? Some scent that clears your sinuses and skull enough to regard Satoru outside of a sleepy or lust-filled haze.
“Busy tomorrow, I’m assuming?” Today, you silently add. You know his answer before he speaks.
“Yup!” There’s a hollow echo of cheer to it. “Don’t worry about that now, though. We’ll rest, and get something sweet for breakfast in a few hours.”
“... Sure, sure,” You nod into the buttery sheets. You know he’ll treat you to something decadent.
You crawl up toward the headboard, closer to Satoru, until you’re snug against his side. You wrap yourself around him shamelessly, and let his easy chuckle that follows be the last thing you hear as you slack and fall asleep.
• Seduction - literally almost anything. but one thing that will always get him riled up is you wearing cute clothes. not even super girly outfits (although he’s not going complain in any way if you do dress like that) but like a baby blue silk pajama set. or a lemon yellow crop top with a sweetheart neckline and puff sleeves. god forbid you dress up for a formal occasion, you’re in for it. a strapless black bodycon dress that stops at your calves paired with strappy heels has Satoru foaming at his mouth and blood rushing to his cock. but nothing is quite as effective as you wearing his clothes. if you walk into the kitchen in the morning, sleepy yawns and wearing his tshirt, Satoru will have you bent over the kitchen island instantly, rutting into you like your cunt is his life source. on more than a few occasions, he’ll use that same tshirt to wipe you and the floor clean, his cum leaking from you and dripping. he’ll toss the shirt aside and carry you over his shoulder to the bedroom, for round two of course
• Worked Up - Satoru is initially super flirty and teasing when horny. he’ll toy with your body, running his hands across your waistline and nearly engulfs you with his entire body with an attempt to be close to you. he’ll kiss and suck on your neck, use his teeth to nip at your ears, and will dry rut his clothed cock against your ass. but, if you deny him long enough, Satoru Gojo will start getting desperate. he becomes whiny and pouty, begging you to let him sink his dick inside your heavenly hole with a breathless tone. he’ll palm at himself if you won’t touch him, moaning your name akin to a porn star. his cheeks gets all flushed and his stunning cerulean eyes are filled with precious tears, so so desperate for your touch, your body, anything. plz fuck him, he’s so cute
• Libido - after years and years of neglecting personal connection, Gojo will snap when you come into his life. at the beginning of your relationship, he barely had enough will to stay outside of you to allow you to work, or make food, or pee. most days consisted of you two having sex multiple times, only stopping when Satoru exhausted himself. it’s gotten much better since then, and you can exist without him pouncing on you, but you two still fuck once a day. unless you’re both busy, exhausted, or away from each other, his cock is going to be inside you at least once a day, and ideally he makes you cum at least two times. then again, he’s gotten horny on missions and simply teleported to your location, to fuck you fast and hard, only to return to said mission after you’re both satisfied
• Romantic - there has always been a healthy balance of fucking and making love with Satoru. sometimes your intimate times is filthy, him fucking you fast and hard until you gush across his lap, all while whispering dirty things into your ear: how your pussy was meant for him, how tight and wet you are around his cock, etc etc. but Satoru is a hopeless romantic, and when he’s feeling extra sentimental, he’ll take it slow and precise, gazing into your eyes with love and adoration on his face. during these times, there’s a chance he’ll bury his head into your neck or hair, an attempt to hide his tears that are threatening to spill from his waterline. you can hear his little sniffles those, so drag his face from you and look into his eyes while mouthing ‘I love you’ and he’ll cum so hard the tears fall
• Kinky - he’s a little kinky for sure, but you’re going to have to be the one to be extreme kinks into the bedroom. the most he’ll do is tie you up and blindfold you, choke you on occasion, and spanks you pretty much everytime you two fuck. he’ll edge the shit out of you as punishment and then overstimulate you to continue the punishment. Satoru would always 100% be into roleplay (especially boss/worker or student/mentor) but anything else you want will have to brought up by you. however, he’s down for pretty much anything. want to call him daddy? easy, done. he really likes it too. you want to him to call you mommy? not a problem, he finds he’s really into it. want him to ravish you in public? he nearly cums the moment he enters you, the thrill of being caught encouraging him. one thing he’s hesitant about is exhibitonism. Satoru Gojo is a jealous man, so even thinking about having someone lust after you fills him with anger and envy. however, if you’re insistent, he’ll agree, but only if the third party is someone both of you trust wholeheartedly. options for him are Shoko, Utahime (though it’s likely she’s never agree lmao) and Nanami. anyone else is gonna take lots and lots of convincing. even then, he still might say no.
• Experimenting - Satoru is so down for anything, as long as he gets to fuck you. new kinks and methods are fun for him (he’s a Sagittarius, he’s obviously gonna love trying new things) and keeps him excited (again, he’s a Sagittarius, he’s doesn’t want anything to get boring, especially your guys’s sex life)
• Favorite - Satoru’s absolute favorite thing about you during sex is your reactions. your sounds, your expressions, the way your legs tremble and your body shakes with pleasure. it’s like crack to him. he’s a giver, so bringing you pleasure brings him pleasure
• Toys - Gojo is a big fan of toys. there’s nothing like seeing you squirt on a loop when he holds a wand to your clit. he’ll have a variety of vibrators, especially if you’re someone who can’t cum without clitoral stimulation, and he has no qualms with fucking with his cock with some sort of vibrator against your clit. he feels the vibrations too, after all. he’ll even have some dildos, to fuck you with to punish you for being a brat. he won’t fuck you his cock, which is so much bigger and warmer, and fills you up better than any toy ever can. (psst, use a wand on his cock and he’ll be a whiny, subby mess that cums buckets and buckets)
• Position - his three favorite positions are missionary, cowgirl, and doggy. he’d jump off a cliff before he’s forced to choose just one position. he loves missionary because he can sees your expressions fully, so he knows when you’re feeling good and when you’re about to cum. he loves cowgirl because seeing you put in so much effort to pleasure him is so hot to him, plus he loves to watch your tits bounce. and he loves doggy because you are unbelievably tight from behind. he has to extra time to adjust to your tightness when he’s fucking you from behind, or else he’ll cum prematurely
• Another - we touched on this earlier, but Satoru is hesitant to bring in the third party (cause he get jealous easily, he gets all pouty and whiny it’s adorable) It would have to be someone both of you trust, so your options are limited. Shoko, because Shoko’s a hoe (complimentary) and is dtf pretty much anyone. plus, it wouldn’t be the first time Shoko has joined Gojo in explicit activities. Utahime, because she’s pretty and extremely loyal, and watching you two together would be something he finds extremely hot (however, it would take a lot of convincing from you, because if she hears about the idea from Satoru, she’d assume he’s pranking her and slap him) and Nanami, because Gojo has always had a tiny itty bitty crush on Nanami since he was a second year and Nanami was a first year (idk Satoru finds him alluring and mysterious, and those traits always have been attractive to Satoru)
• Locations - anywhere is fair game. his favorites include the bedroom obvi, the shower, the kitchen counter, and his office. he’ll definitely fuck you at the school too, but would never fuck you on one of his students’ desks, he thinks that’s icky
• Sounds - Satoru loves the sounds you make, so his goals is to make you as loud as possible. if your throat ain’t sore after your comedown, he’s disappointed. but Satoru himself is loud as fuck. he, on multiple occasions, has gotten noise complaints, despite residing in a penthouse. yes, even his downstairs neighbors have heard him, he’s so damn loud. he does all of the above - moans, groans, whines, growls screams. he groans breathily when he first enters you, but because a whiny, moaning mess when he’s close to cumming. he calls your name on a loop and describes vividly how good you make him feel. during sex, Satoru is never quiet. he’s either dirty talking you or moaning. he won’t shut tf up when he’s having sex, it’s quite impressive honestly
• Aftercare - Satoru becomes a baby after sex. he’s cuddly and clingy, and will become pouty of you choose to leave him to clean up. Satoru will very quickly become sleepy, and would prefer to fall asleep asap, but you needed the aftercare, he would force himself to help you. he’ll clean you up with wet wipes or a warm wash cloth, get you water, and if you feel gross, will shower or bathe with you. if you choose to bathe, however, expect him to fall asleep in the bath. you’ll have to wake him up in order to bring him to bed lol. he’s do those basic things, but ask him to make you food or to pick up something and he’ll act like you attacked his family name lmao. he’ll get snacks or order delivery if you’re hungry, but don’t ask him to make you a meal or drive to a restaurant for take out bc he’s sleeeeepy and just wants to close his eyes, plz you’re tutoring him! but without a doubt, he always makes sure you’re good after sex. he’ll always ask if you’re alright and will tell you over and over again that he loves you. if you’re feeling insecure, he’ll sleepily tell you all the things he loves about you, and yaps about your future together, ie; your future wedding, house, possibility of children if that’s what you want. he does demand head pats and hair stroking, so make sure to give him that or he’ll be a grumpy baby
I loooove arranged marriage + affair fics! Are we thinking reader being younger than gojo? I kinda have a thing for poor young lovers dmdmkkd
[arranged marriage au og post]
“poor young lovers” well you’ve come to the right place anon!
arranged marriage AUs are in & of themselves quite compelling. however, it wouldn’t be a banjjakz story™️ if there wasn’t a twist — in this verse, i’m convinced that is is gojo himself who orchestrates the arrangement. subtly slipping your family portfolio into the thick file of potential brides mulled over by clan elders; bribing various transport companies to cancel certain train times so you are forced to meet him “by chance” while riding a different line than your normal choice; he might even go so far as to directly proposition your parents & involve them in the scheming from the beginning.
with this in mind, you could honestly be any age & still would he consider you his fated beloved.
certainly, a younger betrothed comes with all kinds of salacious implications: that you’re too naïve to recognize your husband’s obvious manipulation of circumstances, that you think the way he treats (read: controls) you is commonplace.
if you were significantly younger than gojo, your affair with yuuta would provide her a necessary learning curve into the cunning, brutal social ecosystem of powerful jujutsu sorcerers. you might even learn how to sway some currents, yourself.
Tropes~ He fell first, he fell harder, arranged marriage, dislike to love.
Prologue ~ Chapter One
Synopsis~ Due to your grandfather's conniving, you are betrothed to the Duke of Less. Your family is ecstatic, His Grace's money is just what your family needs to save them from ruin. Too bad he's an utter fop.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
Author's Note~ The image used does not reflect Reader's appearance I just really like the aesthetics of old romance novels. Also taglist is open. This is reupload/rewrite of a fic on my old account which was lost due to my account being deleted. I hope you enjoy <3
“But what I don’t understand is how it came to be,” you say. You set your tea cup down and gaze steadily at your mother.
She doesn’t meet your gaze. She nervously stirs sugar into her tea, staring into it like it will reveal its secrets to her. Slowly, she raises her head. “You cannot blame your father. It was entirely your grandfather,” she pauses, collecting herself. “I had just had you and I was still in confinement when he came to your father - and you know what your father is! And what your grandfather was!”
You interrupted her. You knew well enough that if she got on the topic of your father’s father, she would not stop for at least a half hour. “But why? And how? Surely, the future Duke of Less could find a better match than the impoverished daughter of an earl.”
“Well, the accounts weren’t as bad in your grandfather's day - though he was the most horrendous miser and -”
You interrupt her again. “But surely, the Duke will not hold up to an agreement made twenty five years ago?” After all it was preposterous that a man at the peak of society would wed you. In fact it was preposterous that any man would care to wed you, save perhaps a man of the cloth, but you would rather be a poor relation the rest of your life than listen to a man sermonize on the moral failings of the people of today.
“He responded to your father’s letter quite politely, he informed us that he would be arriving. . .” Your mother trails off, tilting her head up. “Tomorrow.”
“Father wrote to him about the arrangement?” Horror brings heat to your cheeks. Oh, how humiliating! That a man on par with Brummel himself would receive such a grubby letter from your father! It was beyond imagination.
“Why yes,” your mother says, blinking at you.
“I am loathe to admit it, my dear, but we are in dire straits. Your father was desperate."
“Name it,” you say. You want to know the sum at least if you are to be inspected and sold.
She says it in a low whisper, as if it won’t be real unless she says it louder. You feel the colour draining from your face. You knew that things were bad, perhaps even desperate. But that sum. . .
Your father enters the solar, glancing around before sitting on the settee next to your mother. He glances from your face to your mother’s. “Told her, ehhh?”
“Wasn’t entirely my fault, hey,” he says in his choppy manner. “I did lose a lot in speculating and White’s, but it can’t be helped, ehh, gentleman’s honour. Jones’ tells me a pestilence took the harvest, tenants haven’t got food, desperate matter.” He stares up at the fresco ceiling before glancing at you. “Wouldn’t do it unless it was so, right Old Girl?” He glances at your mother before his gaze begins to wander again.
Jones. You had long suspected your father’s agent lied to your father about the books. A suspicion your father’s secretary Nanami shared. But your father called Nanami a damned dull man and never minded him, much less you, his oldest daughter. You knew your father was a bad landlord and his tenant farmers suffered under his reliance on Jones.
“Yes, Papa,”you say, giving a tight smile. You suspect the Duke of Shrine is just coming to humiliate your family. After all, even buried in a country estate, you have heard of his famous set downs.
The Duke of Shrine arrives at three o’clock the next day, which he tells your father is a miracle of biblical proportions, after all it is well known it simply isn’t the thing to rise before noon. Your father escorts him into the receiving room, where you sit patiently, hands folded into your lap. Your father mutters something about the door being left open then he scurries off. You hear a crash and a thumping noise that sounds suspiciously like your father falling down a flight of stairs.
You look up but you don't meet the Duke’s eyes. You only see his pale pink lips quirked up into a smile. Then you see what he is wearing. The pits of fashion, britches and coat so tight they must have been sewed onto him. Your eyes widen. The word escapes your mouth before you can stop it.
“Fop.”
He smiles, flashing white teeth. He looks like a crazed Roman god, white hair messily on his forehead, burning blue eyes, face chiseled as he is stone come to life. You take an instant dislike to him.
“Lady,” he says your name like he’s pronouncing a foreign word. “I am struck by the gods upon meeting you,” he says, sitting across from you. He takes out his quizzing glass and lifts it to his eye. Your gaff from earlier keeps you silent. You already insulted the man, no matter how odious you find him, he didn’t deserve to be insulted to his face.
He studies you for a moment, then he tucks his quizzing glass away.
“Was your grace’s trip pleasant?” You ask, attempting to break the awkward silence.
“No,” he answers simply.
“Your Grace,” you say, pinching the fabric of your shawl. “I understand that this is most inconvenient, especially having to drive your curricle all the way here. So I understand if you desire to break the arrangement between our grandfathers.” You sit back.
He tilts his head, his eyes sweeping over you. “I do not believe that will be necessary Lady (Y/n),” he says. He leans forward, his blue eyes dancing with mirth. “You see, I am quite happy with our arrangement.”
You drop all semblance of propriety. “But why, your Grace?”
“Would you believe me if I said Ero’s punctured my heart the moment I laid eyes on you? That I fell instantly and maddingly in love with you,” he laces his fingers together and grins.
“No,” you say. “Speak plainly.”
He sighs, a pout touching his lips. “I suppose you won’t believe, nevermind Cruel Enchantress, oh Lady of My Heart, Sweet Queen of Beauty -”
You cut him off, a thing you have become accustomed to doing. “I will not be mocked, if you have come here to -”
He cuts you off this time. “I will be a generous husband, your family will want for nothing.” His Grace leans back, crossing his legs. Is my family so obvious? He knew and you knew what would happen. You would marry him, though why he wanted to marry you was beyond you. You would give up yourself for your family.
You don’t look into his eyes, your pride won’t let you. For a bit you deserve to hold onto your pride before it begins. Before the jape starts in earnest.
summary: you help gojo in more ways that you realize
a/n: it’s December 24th in Japan and twitter is wreck right now so I wrote this to cheer (myself) everyone up. don’t go on there unless you want to have an emotional breakdown
Satoru hadn’t thought it would come to this.
As is the lifestyle he lived, Satoru Gojo had a duty all his life to prepare for the most dire of circumstances. World is suddenly taken over by curses? He must be ready to destroy them all to reinstate balance. Sukuna finds a way to completely take over Yuuji? He must find the strength to fight and defeat his vessel, a student who he has come to cherish. Aliens randomly decide invade Jujutsu Tech? Weirder things have happened and the six-eyes bearer will not pass up the opportunity to be the first person to defeat an alien race.
However, there is one singular thing that Satoru Gojo did not even fathom to encounter, let alone prepare for. One circumstance that was so unforeseen, and one that scared him colossally more than the aforementioned events ever could.
That one thing, is you.
Ever since the departure and subsequent death of his closest ally, Gojo had become content with notion that he will never have someone understand him like Geto did ever again. That bond of friendship, partnership, took time and vulnerability to create and nourish, a vulnerability that Gojo could longer extend. He was the strongest, he was the one everyone relied on, he cannot falter, for the consequences of that would be catastrophic.
So when you came along, all sass and determination, he at first not thought much of you. Sure, you were cute and you were cheeky. You played into his antics but never bludgeoned into submission. He liked that about you, but anyone could be that, you weren’t special.
Except you see him. God, you see him and drives him to near insanity. You know when there’s something off; you know when he’s apprehensive, when he’s uneasy, restless, annoyed, or angry. On the third day of February, after half a day of studying lesson plans, you pointed out how Gojo wasn’t as jovial as he normally is. At first he waved you off, but you pressed further, asking if today marked a day that Gojo would rather wish to forget.
His emotions had overwhelmed him and his blood ran cold, so he abruptly left the classroom you two had been situated in. You went to follow him; however, upon chasing after his figure, he was gone. Probably teleported. You were left alone wondering if you overstepped his boundaries.
Meanwhile, Gojo had indeed teleported, to his luxury penthouse apartment, still in a near neurotic state. You had hit it perfectly on the unstable head, you knew exactly what was amiss with him. And it scared him.
It’s a visceral fear, steady and unchanging, stubborn and firm. A fear of having someone witness the fragility of the strongest, and having them poke at it, until the structure has fallen and the mask has slipped.
Don’t let the mask slip don’t let the mask slip don’t let the mask slip don’t let the mask slip
That became Satoru Gojo’s mantra the proceeding months after the little incident during the cold winter of February.
Except you kept poking. You weren’t deliberate in actions, but it very much affected Satoru as if you were. Every time you pointed out something off about him, every time you offered a smile and a ‘You doing alright? Need to talk?’, every time you brought him a gift because you were worried about him, the persistent leech of fear kept digging it’s grubby claws into Satoru’s brain. You kept poking, his mask kept slipping. And a mantra isn’t a mantra if there’s no purpose behind it, it’s just an anxiety.
One day, news broke of a family member of yours being diagnosed with an illness, and Satoru had found you in the steps leading to Jujutsu Tech in tears. He was conflicted, he didn’t want to leave you alone, that’s an asshole thing to do, but he never was outstanding at comforting people. Especially crying people.
So he sat next to you and waited for your tears to come to halt.
“Thanks Gojo, I like having someone close to me when I cry. Makes me feel less alone.”
He wanted to ask you, but mumbled simply with a ‘you’re welcome.’ However, the question nagged at his consciousness even as he escorted you into the school to begin a day of teaching, and the urge was too much, so he gave in:
“Do you always cry in front of people?”
Gojo cringes immediately, noting how easily that could be taken offensively, but you surprised him with a giggle.
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. I guess it depends on where I am. Being sad is normal and suppressing stuff is unhealthy, so I let it out. I learned how to not be embarrassed of my feelings.”
Poke, slip.
From then on, Gojo begin to notice just how unguarded you were. When he shared a dessert with you, you were candid about your gratitude and how joyous you were when you tasted the sweet sugar. When Gojo said something out-of-pocket, you were immediate to show your dislike of the comment. Before a mission, you expressed your nervousness and dread. He has given you a cocky smile and had said ‘don’t worry you’re with the strongest!’ but deep down, he kept noting how he was always the one saying ‘don’t worry’ and how much he wished someone would say it to him.
Poke, slip.
Gojo had once looked down on your defenselessness. Now, it was something he admired greatly about you. He’d venture to say he was envious of you but his pride would never admit to feeling such a feeling.
After months of spending time together, you began to invite Gojo over. He had a sneaking suspicion it was because you believed he was lonely (he was) but agreed nonetheless. Quickly learning you were a fellow media buff, movie nights become frequent in both of your routines.
The two of began to watch an anime about superheroes and Gojo expressed his immediate dislike for the main character. Satoru called him a ‘crybaby’ and you retaliated with
“I am too!”
“Well, you’re endearing when you cry, but you expect me to believe the greatest hero is crybaby?” He responded.
Then you hit him with
“Vulnerability will always exist within strength, but more importantly, there is strength in vulnerability.”
Poke, slip.
A year passes of Gojo knowing you, a year of you unknowingly influencing Satoru Gojo’s life. And when a year of knowing you passes, your influence permeates Satoru Gojo the most it has ever and his vulnerability peaks beneath the mask he has so desperately attempted to not let slip.
Satoru Gojo confesses that you have done more than just poke, you have crawled into the crevices of his once-shielded heart, chipping away at the armor. He expresses his desire for you and his desire for your continuous influence, to remain vulnerable to you, for you are the only one to see him for who he truly is.
As he expected, tears fall from your eyes, and when he presses his mouth into yours, he welcomes the salty taste. He welcomes it because it is a physical manifestation of your requited love, just as strong and powerful as your vulnerability.
And when Satoru Gojo gazes lovingly at your sleeping form, right next to him in his bed, he knows of the strength in vulnerability you once spoke of. For it is the 24th night of December, a day he once dreaded, but no such feelings are present. Instead, there is feelings of love and adoration for the person next to him and feelings of excitement and restlessness for the future you two will mold together, the reminder of said future gleaming on your left hand.
Yes, you were the one to poke at Satoru Gojo’s mask. And now, you are the one who gently pries it off, and when it’s time for the mask to be put on, you leave a lingering kiss to the forehead. Selflessly loving the person underneath it, and selflessly loving the person he is when it’s on.
And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo is happy he wasn’t prepared.
Don’t forget to like and reblog! And let me know your thoughts 😝
