Yeah I said something similar yesterday but we can NOT let what happened to Renee Good cloud what happened to everyone else at the hands of these SS Demons!!!
Because we can’t disregard one person if we’re for human rights!
࿐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 )
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.
༻༺♥༻༺
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!
cw: dub-con, kinda weird shit if you ask me, filthy talk with the slightest daddy kink. first time writing smth like that damn
the air in "kitty kage's kitchen" is thick enough to choke on. it’s not the cute, sugary kind of thick—it’s the salty, greasy kind, choked with the desperate energy of too many dudes trying too hard to keep their dicks in their pants.
toji is a slumped monument of a man in a sticky pink vinyl booth, his shoulders a heavy, tired line. he’s a stain on the pastel aesthetic, wearing basic gray sweatpants and a blank stare aimed at the general 'nyaa~' spectacle. his hands, resting on the table, are massive, the knuckles swollen and veined.
you approach, your name tag reading 'milky'. the uniform is a fucking crime—the skirt a mere suggestion, the corset a brutal squeeze making your tits strain against the cheap fabric. you’re carrying the tray like it’s an anchor, a bright smile plastered on your face. "here's your order, sir! is there anything else 'milky' can do for you?" the cheerful sound is sandpaper in your throat.
he doesn’t even glance at the rainbow cake. his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, lock onto yours. "c'mere." the word is a low grunt, meant only for you. he gestures to his lap with a slight tilt of his head. "sit."
your heart hammers against your ribs. you know you shouldn't, but the command is absolute. you hesitate for a split second before moving around the table. you can feel the eyes of the room, but they all blur away as you lower yourself, your back to his chest, onto the solid, unyielding muscle of his thighs.
his arms come around you, not in an embrace, but like a cage. one hand rests possessively on your hip, the other arm braced on the table, effectively trapping you. you can feel the heat of him through your uniform, through his sweatpants. it's overwhelming.
then you feel it.
the thick, rigid heat of his cock, already fully hard, presses against the curve of your ass. it’s a blatant, obscene presence. he shifts slightly, and you feel the heavy length of him slide, settling into the cleft of your ass, a promise and a threat.
"look at you," he breathes, his voice a rough rumble against your ear. his hand on your hip slides down, his big, calloused palm smoothing over your thigh before pushing up under your short skirt. there’s no finesse, no slow crawl. his fingers find the damp, flimsy lace of your panties and his thumb rubs a slow, brutal circle over your clit through the fabric.
you jolt, a choked gasp catching in your throat. you fold forward over the table, a picture of eager service, your voice a strained, bright falsetto. "the cake is super sweet today, sir. a real treat!" you project, while his thumb presses down, the pressure making your vision blur. you bite the inside of your cheek until the metallic tang of blood floods your tongue.
"you gonna sit still for me, girl?" his voice is a low, gravelly murmur right in your ear. his other hand comes up to your front, splaying across your lower belly and pressing you back harder against the thick ridge in his sweatpants. "or you wanna make a fucking scene in front of all these clowns?"
he grinds up against you, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you whimper. "i didn't come here for the fucking cake, milky."
his thumb hooks into the waistband of your panties, not pulling them down, just stretching the lace taut against your swollen flesh. "soakin' through this cheap little thing. that for me? you get this wet for an old man like me?"
"sir, i-i have other tables," you whisper, the words a desperate, miserable plea. your thighs try to clench, but his own are like iron, holding you open.
"your only table is right here, sweet girl. until i say we're done." he pushes his hips up again, that slow, agonizing grind that presses his entire length against your core through the layers of fabric. the pressure is immense, a brutal, overwhelming promise. a choked sound escapes your lips, the brittle maid facade shattering completely.
"that's it," he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back. "let go. just a dirty little thing gettin' off on a dirty old man's cock in a room full of strangers. ain't that fucking right?"
his hand on your panties is relentless. he simply hooks a finger into the side and wrenches the sodden fabric aside. the air hits your exposed flesh for a second before you feel the fat, blunt head of his cock, freed from his sweatpants, pressing against your bare entrance.
he doesn't push; he settles. he buries himself into you with a single, devastating thrust that makes you clamp a hand over your mouth to smother a scream. it’s filling, claiming, so much more intimate and devastating than grinding through clothes. this is the fucking truth.
your head falls back against his shoulder, a silent scream caught in your throat. your eyes, wide and unseeing, stare at the happy, oblivious customers.
"see?" he murmurs, his voice thick with strain. his tongue flicks out to lick a stripe up your neck. "see how good you can be for me? takin' a stranger's cock so sweet and quiet. just a good girl doin' her job."
he gives a tiny, experimental shift of his hips, a minute rock that makes you desperately clench around the sheer, impossible size of him. a broken, shaky sob is your only answer.
"shhh, now," he coos, the hand on your belly pressing down, making you acutely aware of the bulge his cock is creating inside you. "just a dirty secret between us. my perfect little maid, gettin' her pretty little cunt stuffed full in public. ain't no one ever gonna know what a filthy, needy thing you are. except for me."
then, he moves.
it’s not a frantic pace. it’s something far worse. a slow, deliberate, deep roll of his hips, a lazy, circular grind that has your eyes rolling back in your head. each movement is a calculated, filthy caress from the inside, a possessive exploration that has your fingers turning white where they grip the table's edge.
"atta girl," his murmur is a warm, damp ghost against your ear. "lettin' me use this sweet little cunt just the way i need to. customer satisfaction, remember? and your sir is a very... particular... customer."
he punctuates the last word with a slightly sharper thrust that jolts a silent, open-mouthed gasp from you. a fresh wave of heat floods your core, slicking his already gliding length.
"there she is," he groans approvingly, feeling your body's helpless response. "there's my dirty girl. gushin' all over my cock. you like that, don't you? like bein' my little secret in this crowded shithole."
his rhythm remains a masterful, torturous slow dance. deep, wet slides that feel less like fucking and more like he's branding you from the inside. your body is no longer your own, but a pliant, trembling vessel for his pleasure.
"shhh, now," he soothes, his own voice getting rougher, tighter. "just you and me. you take it so fucking well. gonna feel me for days, sweet girl. gonna remember who you belong to when you're curtsyin' for the next bastard."
his rhythm shifts, the rolls becoming shorter, harder, more focused. you can feel him thickening inside you, pulsing within the tight, wet clutch of your body.
"nghn," he grunts, his voice harsh and ragged. "that's it. right there. you're squeezin' the life outta me. gonna fill you up. gonna pump my cum deeeep inside."
with a final, broken groan that’s all yours, you feel the hot, sudden rush of him, pulse after pulse, flooding your cunt. his whole body locks against you, a rigid, shuddering weight, his hips grinding his release as deep as it will go.
for a long moment, he is perfectly still, buried to the hilt inside you. then, a great, trembling sigh escapes him, and his body goes limp, relaxing with a sated warmth against the booth.
his arms loosen their grip. he gently helps you stand on legs that feel like water, your insides a vibrating, hollow ache. you pull your uniform straight with shaking hands, somehow managing to re-plaster that bright, brittle smile onto your face.
he’s already tucked himself away, leaning back as if nothing happened, his face softer, his dark eyes holding a glint of pure, smug satisfaction. he picks up his fork and cuts a neat, precise piece of the cake he never actually wanted.
"i think that'll be all, milky," he says, that slow, annoying smirk finally gracing his hard mouth. "you were a real good waitress. now go on, get the fuck back to work."
you turn to leave, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze on your ass, on the way his cum is already starting to drip down your thighs. but not before you hear the smug mumble spilling past his lips.
May I please request Nice Law with the prompt Music please! Thank you! And Merry Christmas!
Hello Anon love!!! Of course I can do this for you!!! I hope you enjoy this little number!♥️♥️♥️
Law x Gn Reader: Music Nice
Warning: none
“_______ I told you many times I don't dance.” Law was standing his ground as you tugged on your hand onto the dance floor. Law watched you dance with other crew members having a good time and the music began to unwind down; this was something you wanted to do with Law for the longest time.
“Come one please'' is a slow song by Law. If you dance with me just this one time I will never bug you again I promise!” giving him the puppy wide eye expression.
Law was hopeless as he covered his face finally giving in “Let’s get this over with ya.” His arms tucking around your, your arms draping around his neck closing the gap. Law looked at you see your eye behind the thick lashes as you blinked a few times.
“Law, relax your body, you're too stiff.” You said in a low tone. He was like a twig just moving side to side. Law slowly began to loosen up after you spoke as he started to move like a human once more. “There ya go.” you giggled.
“Why must you always use your eyes as a weapon towards me to get your way?” he asked you
“Not all the time, just sometimes.” well you did use it often and he gave in “We never danced together and I thought this would be the perfect song to dance to. It will be our song and everytime we hear it, now we can share the memory of our first dance.” The thought was hitting Law, more and more feeling his arms get a bit more snug around you. Both of you exchanged a small smile as you both continued to dance in silence. Knowing deep down he would do anything to keep the smile one your face
A day off from the demanding task of being a commander came only once a week and when it did come around Ace grabbed at it greedily. Treating himself to a large breakfast before going back to bed, sleeping in as late as his body would let him. Walking around the deck, leisurely enjoying the peace, feeling the warm sea breeze wash over his freckled skin, tussling his hair.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling alive.
He stretched his arms above his head, getting out the last kinks of being fast asleep. Standing on tiptoes and reaching for the sun that shone brightly above. He yawned before he focused on a familiar person walking towards him. He felt himself smile, she was beautiful, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her as she got closer, he could see the smile on her lips.
Ace wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest and hearing her whine as he smothered her with his pecs. She huffed and peered up at him as he smirked down at her. “Enjoying your day off commander?” She teased him with his title as his arms went slack, hands resting on her hips.
“Was surprised not to find you in bed when I got up.” He hummed and watched as she reached up, flicking the rim of his hat and knocking it off his head, the string around his neck catching it before it fell to the ground, she rolled her eyes at him. “Some of us still have to work, I’m trying to plan my day off around yours though.” She said and rested her palms flat against his chest, feeling his warm skin.
He enjoyed the way her hands splayed out on his chest, he put a hand over one of hers, gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles, letting out a chuckle at her frustration. “We can still spend time together when you finish though, right?” He suggested and she shrugged her shoulders, trying to be coy with her boyfriend though she was loving every second of his attention.
“I should get going or Marco will squawk at me for taking a long break.” She sighed and tried to pull away before Ace wrapped arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, kissing her neck, and taking in her scent, the soft fragrance she liked to wear.
“Oh he won’t notice, he’s probably staring at the same wall for over an hour, you know how he gets,” Ace mumbled against her neck with another low chuckle which tickled her with the vibrations of his voice, earning Ace a little giggle from his girlfriend as she wriggled to get loose. “Either way, you are a commander, you shouldn’t be encouraging bad behavior, surely?”
The grin on Ace’s face when he pulled away, how she seemed mildly annoyed but amused at his antics. “Should have seen what a hell raiser I was before I was a commander before you even joined.”
She had heard stories from pretty much everyone about him, even Pop’s had laughed loudly and regaled her with the tales of Ace, how he had tried to kill him over and over, and how he always ended up flat on his ass and didn’t seem to learn at all. She couldn’t imagine him being that way, not when he was so loyal and adored their captain now. Then again, people change with the times she thought to herself as she felt Ace’s lips on her forehead, a gentle peck as he winked.
“Alright, I’ll let you go do your jobs or whatever, but I have a surprise for later..” Ace enjoyed the puzzled look on her face, how she tilted her head to the side, an eyebrow raised as she waited for him to elaborate.
–
All day she spent thinking about this surprise her boyfriend had set out for her. She’d even asked Marco if he knew anything if Ace had indulged any information to the phoenix. But Marco had just shook his head and told her to just go with the flow, to enjoy it.
After all, no one knew what she’d like more than Ace.
She waited on the deck, leaning against the rails and staring at the sky, she enjoyed how the world had cooled down, a light breeze rolling over the ocean along with the waves. She sighed, satisfied at feeling the refreshing air against her skin. The sun had started to set and she was admiring the colors changing and dripping down the canvas of the horizon.
“Boo!” She almost screamed when she felt hands on her shoulders suddenly, turned around and saw Ace with a smirk on his handsome freckled face, a twinkle in his eye as he adjusted the bag on his shoulder.
“One day I’m going to accidentally punch you and you are going to deserve it Portgas.” She warned with a tut, making him smile all the more. “Sorry babe, I just like seeing your reaction.! He teased before adding “Ready for your surprise?” He asked and held out his hand.
She looked down at his hand before taking it, enjoying how warm he always was.
–
The striker was something she was still getting used to, the thing seemed unstable, she always worried about him speeding off on it all alone, a devil fruit user on such a flimsy ship in the middle of the sea. She tried to push her worries away as she sat down on it, a little seat he’d fixed for her. He tossed his bag to her, she held it against her chest as he rubbed his hands together.
“Don’t look so scared, you’ve been on this before. “Ace said with a click of his tongue as he got into position, starting to heat himself up. “Yeah, and there are some things you never get used to.” She replied and gripped the bag tighter.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, stroking back a strand of hair. “Would I ever let anything happen to you?” He asked, honest and soft as he cupped her cheeks with his hands.
“Alright,” she nodded “I’m ready.”
Shooting off across the waves like a star falling from the sky. She hugged his bag close to her chest and gripped the mast as tightly as she could as he sped through the waves with practiced ease. Her grip became white-knuckled but she had to admit the wind in her hair and the splashes of seaspray made her feel alive.
It didn’t take long for the small speedy ship to lose sight of the large vessel that was the moby, their home. The sun had sunk further into the sea, colors changing in the blink of an eye. The trip hadn't felt long at all but the golden hues had faded and indigo like ink drenching parchment paper loomed above them.
“So why are we all the way out here?” She asked him as he took his bag from her, having to pry it from her grip. He didn’t answer at first, he just unpacked his bag. He set out a blanket on the floor and urged her to come and sit with him, pulling out another that he draped over their shoulders, having her sit between his legs, arms around her waist.
She felt his pointy chin on her shoulder as he still ignored her question. Pulling out one last thing from his bag, a small lunch box, popping off the lid and seeing some of her favorite snacks. “You’ll see.” He said with a hum, kissing her cheek before grabbing a snack and bringing it to her lips, she happily accepted it with a sound of enjoyment. Nodding, this was nice.
Ace took one for himself before looking into the dark sky above, seeing the canopy of stars. He had been told by Marco tonight there was going to be a meteorite shower, and it would be good to take her to see it. Out in the ocean where they could have their own private show.
About to prompt him once more, she saw something in the corner of her eye, turning her head, and seeing nothing but the darkness above. She furrowed her brows before more started to fall from the heavens. She gasped and gripped the arms around her middle when streaks of light flashed through the sky.
They looked like a thousand shooting stars all around them, her eyes widened as she watched the shower. Watching the cosmid rocks fall to earth, into the sea to never be seen again by man. She was blown away by the spectacle, so romantic. She didn’t think Ace had it in him but here he was, holding her close, wrapped in blankets, and watching a rarity, even on the grand line.
“This is so nice Ace… Thank you.” She said, still awestruck. Ace kissed her neck and nuzzled his nose into her hair. “I thought you’d like it.” He replied and gave her a little squeeze.
“I love you, Ace,” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes full of wonder and adoration for him, leaning in to meet his lips with her own. “I love you too,”
caving as an extreme sport is sooo unfathomable to me why are u as a creature of the daylight doing that. were u born without the dread in ur bones or something
Premise: How many Laws are too many? While studying an enigmatic artifact recovered from one of their missions, the Polar Tang finds itself in cross currents of White Stroms, leading to the device being activated and transporting Laws from different timelines to the present. Sure, they are still Law, but what does this entail? (Will be multi-chap)
WC: 3.5K | Warnings: Canon x s/i OC, character distress, slight suggestiveness & spoilers for OP Chapter 1081
Intro Chapter
All was ordinary on the Polar Tang. Jean-Bart was reviewing Bepo’s revised maps and Isla’s sea condition predictions for the next 100 leagues to anticipate his navigation route, Hakugan was co-piloting, Shachi and Penguin were watching the radar for any abnormalities, Ikkaku was checking the pressure meters, Clione and Uni were maintaining the fire controls in the boiler room…yes, all was as it should be on the submarine. At least for now.
“What do you make of it?” Law asks Michelle, pondering the odd half-hourglass contraption they uncovered during the close of one of her investigation cases last night, concerning a prominent slave auction ring using a hospital as a mask. When upturning the place, a false bottom display case revealed the curious thing. Perhaps it was utilized as an ornate centerpiece or timer for deplorable events or a means to perversely manipulate aging or time.
Michelle taps her pen against a small pile of mythical stories and artifact identifying tomes in focused rapidity. “It could be a fragment of Kronos? I’ve heard the original artifact shattered and scattered itself across the world during the Great War, because the turmoil of that period was too great for it to absorb into its core all at once,” she hypothesizes, observing the sand-like amber folding and oscillating amongst itself in a seismic fashion, as if it was depicting a tumultuous moment in time, “I’ll ask Robin about it for more cross-referencing when I get the chance.”
The surgeon leaned back in his seat and nodded, “We know Pluton, Uranus, and Poseidon exist, so it’s not that far-fetched. What concerns me is that we don’t have a lot of information on what abilities it has as a weapon and what to do with it after.”
“Well, one answer is that it absolutely does not belong in a museum, with the kinds of pirates and government we have out there,” Michelle remarks. Law could almost hear the snickering glint in her eyes as the words left her mouth and felt one simmering in his chest. After another half-hour, the pair exhausted the resources they could find for the day and decided to call it a day and join the rest of the crew in the mess hall.
However, before plates could be removed from the cabinets, the submarine sharply turned on its starboard side, catching everyone off-guard and began aggressively weaving and barreling with the alarms being activated simultaneously.
“What’s going on, Hakugan?” Law falls behind the helmsman to evaluate the immediate situation with a sense of urgency and command.
“A White Strom just appeared from the sea floor!” the masked man grunts with an aggressive turn of the steering wheel on Bepo’s call that another one was forming below them.
“It looks like they’re almost joining together, like cross-seas,” Michelle comments, causing Isla to gasp.
“We need to get out of here now!” the polar bear mink exclaims, “If they start overlapping and crossing into each other, the conflicting waters from multiple directions will batter the ship, until we run out of power and drag us inside the strom!”
“Captain, do you think you can teleport us out of here?!” Shachi calls from the staircase to the lower decks, as Penguin and the others scurry to survey the submarine seals, distillation apparatuses, and electrolysis equipment. On cue, Jean-Bart hands Law a map appropriate to their approximated location, as Michelle syncs her vision with Erebus, who swiftly alternates between 3 portholes to scan the waters for the next few leagues.
“C4, E3, and F5 are safe,” the investigator declares.
“F5 has fewer trenches and is the second furthest from our projected route, Captain!” Bepo supplements, to which he was received with a nod.
“ROOM. Shambles.”
In less than a millisecond, a familiar blue orb expanded around them and enveloped the submarine, just in time before another White Strom cycloned underneath. A spectacle of brewing bubbles suddenly replaced violent cross-currents, signaling a move to safety, as the crew cheered and high-fived each other for another job well-done. The spirit of camaraderie grew infectious to where someone proposed they surface the Polar Tang for the time being and have dinner together on the top deck.
Curiously, the odd half-hourglass artifact found its way into the hall and caught Law’s attention when it hit his foot, as he was returning to the cafeteria. “It shouldn’t have rolled all the way here, even with the recent chaos,” he mentally notes. Upon picking up the hourglass, however, something triggered when his hands wrapped around the brass spires, causing the oscillating sand to freeze in place and foreign inscriptions to materialize. The surgeon let out a great yell, as the device flashed and ropes of emotions he experienced over his lifetime began to fill him all at once, that felt as if they were attempting to constrict his chest until it burst. He immediately threw the object away from his person, but the effects did not subside, with its gold light becoming increasingly blinding. Law’s grip on Kikoku was faltering and felt himself close to falling, if it weren’t for Michelle catching him. The rest of the crew soon followed after her.
“Are you ok enough to walk?!” she asks in panicked exertion, throwing Law’s arm around her shoulder, but he never got to answer, because something more perplexing occurred.When the golden light coalesced back into the half-hourglass shape, 3 familiar tall figures possessing the same character of steel eyes now stood before them, transforming panic into confusion.
“Hello? Wolf?” a youthful Law calls into his disconnected Den-Den Mushi, before sighing in frustration. He paused, realizing he was strangely relocated from the upper deck, and locked eyes with Michelle’s perplexed one, “Who are you and how did you get on my ship?”
“I should be asking you that,” she answers in quiet befuddlement at her lover in his teenage years. Yet, her mind was not in a state to start solving the reason behind the anomaly before her, being more worried about the current Law, who seemed to have made a miraculous recovery to both his and her bewilderment. “How?” she mouthed to him, to which he responded by standing to his full height, with his eyebrows furrowing in an expression of “I’m not sure.”
“Where are Ross, Lamia, and Lukas? I want to ask them about--” a middle-aged Law, with black locks cascading over his shoulder, lifts his gaze from what appeared to be a summary report. His mouth opens and closes, unsure of what to make of the scenario, before slowly asking, “Why does everyone look 20 years younger?”
“What I’m wondering is why there is an older version of me mentioning names I’ve never heard of,” another voice quips, belonging to a Law who seemed like he was pulled from 2 years ago. Quizzical rouge slightly dusts his ears, noting how tightly his 26-year old self was holding Michelle’s waist and pressing her body to his.
This didn’t escape Shachi, who elbows Penguin to bring attention to 24-year old Law’s expression, “Looks like we get to see him experience the crushing stage all over again.”
A grin spreads over the latter’s face in half-conspiracy, “Maybe we can give him some advice to speed things up a bit, for the sake of everyone’s two-years ago selves.” They felt an icy aura boring through their skulls from their present captain, who overheard the aside, but he didn’t have time to reprimand them, being more fixed on what time-space continuum violations entailed with transporting different versions of himself in one place.
Speechless would be insufficient to describe the level of disbelief the rest of the crew found themselves in. It was like an album tracking Law’s growth over the years suddenly manifested itself, but there was not much they could do and neither the present Law or Michelle could figure out how to fix the situation. After the investigator encased the artifact in a dream orb and sent it into her Dreamscape to prevent more unanticipated events from happening, the day was already coming to a close. Dinner was uncharacteristically quiet on the top deck, with the members looking from one Law to the other. Bepo was most effective at putting all Laws at ease, being one of his oldest friends. Any topic that the polar bear brought up, from new fish or geographical patterns they encountered in the New World to questions about the time they were pulled from were always met with a response. Shachi and Penguin made conversation with 18-year old Law regarding the adventures he’ve yet to embark on and pointers on how to make the future road smoother, which helped settle his wariness around crewmates he’d yet to recruit at his age.
When the atmosphere reached an awkward standstill, Ikkaku proposed they play music or a game of shuffleboard to lighten the tenseness, resulting in the Heart Pirates participating in an impromptu sporting tournament lasting into late hours. Feeling they should get some rest, Law and Michelle excused themselves after two rounds to prepare for tomorrow.
The Surgeon of Death felt a sensation of genuine relaxation wash over him, once he was alone with his lover, and they immediately began undressing each other to share a much-needed bath. Michelle opted to bathe him tonight, with concern for his well-being still lingering in the back of her mind, and he answered the few questions she had about what occurred with the hourglass, until she felt confident in his reassurances that he was alright. Law left first and thought to spend time waiting for Michelle with a book regarding instances of alleged time anomalies, until he was distracted by her early exit from the bathroom. She walked to the wardrobe in her usual militant way and let her body towel drop, causing Law’s eyes to darken with a beckoning temptation, but the investigator only looked over her shoulder and shook her head at him, pulling out the summer shirt he wore on Zou to don as as her pajama for the night.
Law’s lips curl in approval once she joins him in bed, as he wraps his long arms around her waist to aid her in straddling his hips, “You developed interesting nightwear tastes, Mi Xao.”
“Blame it on the provider of my interesting nightwear, mein Schatz. This ‘nightwear’ feels and smells too comfortable not to wear,” the investigator coyly leans in, laying chaste pecks on the Surgeon of Death’s neck, with playful inhales of his scent each time to prove her point, while massaging his stiff shoulders to draw a litany of relaxed sighs from him. Deciding she pampered him enough, he cups the side of her face and brings her in for a gentle kiss, until a brilliant follow-up to their word-play crosses his mind.
Chuckling to himself, he slides a hand under the fabric and gingerly caresses the skin of her back, making her melt against him, “Maybe the curator of your wardrobe has an airier nightwear design you’d like to try. What do you think, my rose?” But before Michelle could respond, an all too familiar wind rushed the bedroom and in less than a second, 46-year old Law materialized at the foot of their bed.
“Dammit,” Law cursed.
A dark shadow overcast the couple’s eyes, accompanied by a vein that popped on the left side of Law’s cheek in ire at his older self “Shambles”-ing into their room unannounced and interrupting his private time with Michelle. The stabbing aura from the couple’s unamused glare seemed to only be deflected by the older Law, unfortunately. “This is technically my room, so it’s not trespassing,” he justifies.
“...You could have knocked,” Michelle remarks with a bite, defensive that another man--albeit an older version of Law--caught her in an immodest state. As if on an inconvenient cue, the other two Laws pop in.
“Why?” Law (26) grits his teeth in exasperation. Although he knew he possessed a habit of teleporting himself into his quarters whenever he was exhausted, his other selves just had to choose an inopportune time.
“Where are we supposed to sleep aside from our room?” 24-year old Law dryly asks, though anyone else could sense the sarcasm underlining his relaxed posture.
Michelle’s eyes turned down in thought, “We have space in the observation deck or library where you all can rest. Even if none of you want to sleep right now, it’s quiet enough to work or read there.”
“Hm. I think I’ll take the observation deck. I need to sort out my thoughts about what happened first,” the older Law rubs the side of his temples—an understandable choice, as watching the deep usually helps Law (26) gain some perspective when he finds himself juggling many concerns or lost in thought.
“Wasn’t it only an observation room? It’s a deck now?” 24-year old Law asks in muted surprise.
“We rebuilt the Tang and added some extra features after Blackbeard destroyed the original at Winner Island,” 26-yr old Law answered as a clue to his younger selves and flicked his gaze to Michelle to provide the details.
“After helping an old shipwright expose his rival for framing him with money laundering and ‘site quality violations,’ he kept insisting that he pay us back for saving his business, so I suggested he expand the room and add floor to ceiling windows so it could be a place for the crew to come together and unwind that’s not far from the control room or launch bay. The windows are made with glass that can withstand Sea King and torpedoes attacks. You can also close them by pressing a button that deploys a metal curtain crafted from the same material as the hull, so it seamlessly blends,” Michelle adds with subtle excitement, being one to exemplify details. Yet, a brighter shine reflected in the youngest Law’s eyes absorbing in the upgrade details to his submarine. However, his face remained neutral, not sure what to make of this woman who would become his lover in the next 5-8 years.
“That’s…pretty ingenious,” 18-year old Law comments, with a barely noticeable upturn of his lips, “Was the old man happy with the adjustments when you told him?”
Law (26) makes an amused sound through his nose, remembering the Den-Den Mushi call, “He scolded me for modifying his design without informing ‘the inventor,’ but he was really indulging in our old style of conversation when I--we--were boys. Wolf was more happy than offended at the addition and said he was glad that Bepo, Shachi, Penguin, and I were doing ok since we left Swallow Island.”
The group shared a laugh, feeling the initial awkwardness stemming from having multiple Laws around in the same bedroom ebb away to where it felt as if they were having a casual sleepover.
“He never changes. When we returned to the North Blue, he was still wearing the same Hawaiian shirt, as always,” the older Law chuckles, pondering a bit before sharing an interesting piece of information with Michelle and his younger selves, “As a future note, remember to inform him about when you are making the nursery, or he’ll be irritated that he couldn’t invent a custom baby mobile on time.”
“N-nursery?” Michelle lightly exclaims. The other Laws were rendered speechless, having believed that they were not the type to be afforded the privilege to have a family, given the recurring pattern of tragedies in their lives. However, for the present Law, he was speechless for a different reason, having rediscovered various forms of hope since then.
“Baby…?” Law (26) whispers to himself, instinctively looking down to Michelle, who mirrored his astonished expression. Potential names had been discussed during aftercare a month before, but hearing confirmation that they would have a family of their own stirred a feeling of curiosity and relief. A baby…
“That’s all I’ll say for now. You can figure it out once you get there. Just remember to tell the old man,” the eldest Law chuckles, with a yawn.
That was Michelle’s cue.
“I think it’s about time to get you all set up for the night. We can continue the baby talks and maybe call Wolf tomorrow to see how he’s doing,” she gives a subtle nod to the youngest Law, knowing he was attempting to call the old inventor before being transported into this timeline, “But before you all go, come here.”
Law (26) reluctantly lets go of Michelle, so she could crawl to the edge of the bed and beckon the others towards her. Befuddlement and subtle shyness riddled the youngest’s visage, but 46-year old Law and 24-year old Law immediately understood her intentions.
From a crystal fragment that melted into iridescent mists of indigo and silver fog bleeding from Michelle’s hand, came a blue rose petal that she pressed into Law’s forehead on countless night to help quell his nightmares. 18-year old Law looked in wonder, before bending down to her height, when she gingerly held out her hand for him to rest his cheek on. All at once, a cool feeling of serenity washed over him congruent to a crisp breeze in an autumn forest, and his body felt free of its exhaustion from the past years. One by one, she did the same for each Law, with each desiring her hands to linger a just second more on their skin.
“Rest well,” she wishes to them, when they turn to leave.
This causes 24-year old Law to grin to himself, seeing that this part of her hadn’t changed, “Heh, will try.” An arched eyebrow was shot at him, communicating a silent demand that he and the others don’t stay up all night, but she knew he was teasing her. He was never irresponsible in the first place and this was how they privately interacted when they began getting comfortable with each other, after all.
A sudden peculiar sensation of longing began to echo inside Michelle to the point where the direction of the feeling was vividly tangible, pulling her inside a memory that she felt was hers, but never experienced. Following the line of the sensation, she met the watch of the older Law regarding her with unflinching saudade eyes, as he stepped out of the way to allow the younger ones to leave first. His lips pursed, as if desiring to say something, yet he refrained. On the other hand, sentimentalism and nostalgia were stirred watching the two younger Laws exit the captain’s quarters, despite not having met him until she was 17. Speaking of Law—her Law—noting hues of a puzzled far-away expression overtaking her face, discreetly embraced her from behind as a grounding gesture. The brush of his fingertips alone sent an alarming warmth through her, emulating the intensity of reuniting with a lover after many years, and she could not help but cling to his arms, as if her heartbeat would abandon her if he let go. This did not escape Law, who was ready to teleport them to the medic bay if she displayed any further discomfort.
“Is this another effect of the fragment of Kronos? The crew didn’t seem to have a reaction aside from shock…Wait. I’m not having any weird subconscious thoughts of having multiple of him around, am I???” Michelle scrunches her nose in mortification, waving off the absurd idea materializing in a comical thought bubble, “I’ll ask the guys if they felt anything off. They’ve known him since childhood.”
A familiar touch brings her back to the present, with Law pressing his forehead to her own. He sighed, relieved that her temperature was normal and brought a hand to gingerly cup her cheek. “You looked pale…paler than usual,” Law whispers in concern, “have you been feeling pinching in your chest again?”
“No,” she smiles, “Thankfully no. I think I’m trying to digest everything that happened today.” Michelle’s hands found their way to Law’s shoulders in a gesture of reassurance and gently guided him down onto their bed beside her.
They found themselves falling into a relaxed tempo with the detective threading her fingers through the surgeon’s raven locks, while he absentmindedly experimented the different ways they could entwine their fingers with her free hand. Yet, curiosity still nagged at the back of Michelle’s mind.
“Law?”
“Hm?”
“Have you been experiencing any weird sensations since the other versions of you got here? Aside from the surge of past memories and emotions, of course,” she breathily whispers, as her hands fondly trace his chest tattoo.
Gray eyes blinked from their content glaze and focused themselves on the brown ones before them. “I guess I’ve been experiencing some wariness…” he began, “and an unexplainable draw to reflect on the past and a future that I’ve yet to see. You?”
“I feel like I’m being sucked into memories that aren’t mine…especially when the other yous left earlier,” she answers.
Law pauses and multiple hypotheses immediately began running amok in his head regarding the artifact and the cause of Michelle’s earlier reaction. “The sooner we figure out the Fragment of Kronos and restore my other selves to their timelines, the better,” he sighs, finding his eyes wavering from exhaustion. He pulls Michelle close and rests his chin on the crown of her head, as his latent possessiveness begins to ebb to the surface, “Plus, I don’t like the idea of sharing you with my other selves, given they are me…and a part of me had always looked for you, even when I didn’t know what I wanted. But if anyone is to get through to the others, it’d be you,” he murmurs.
Affection only welled in Michelle, understanding that he meant to communicate how any version of himself will and would be inevitably drawn to her, seek to be involved with her, and cherish her above all else, to where she’d want for nothing—including the current him, if he was bested. But to the investigator, the Law in front of her mattered above all others, because he was hers. “Don’t worry, you are my Law and your arms are the only ones I want around me,” Michelle emphasizes by tightening their embrace, dissipating any what-ifs plaguing his mind.
Now, they were still uncertain about how to approach tomorrow—especially Michelle—given that some awkwardness in interacting with different versions of her lover was inevitable, but she decided that things will work themselves out, as they are still him, nonetheless.
-
A/N: Chapter focus will follow 18 yr old Law -> 24 yr old Law -> 46 yr old Law -> present Law & Michelle getting close to finding a solution -> Unexpected Lawrem (sin: holy tea needed) -> TBD
my loveeee your mind never ceases to amaze me this is such a creative and interesting piece idk how you came up with this idea but it was amazing well done as always 💕💕
The One Piece Bachelor/ette is back, and better than ever! Were you dissatisfied with the results of the first season? Think the true winner got eliminated early? Are you still looking for love? My dear reader, get in the mood to be wooed because our fresh set of participants are out to win your heart. A few you may have met before...will this be their redemption? A second chance to claim your heart?
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Details
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