alygator77
577 posts
aly 30obsessed with fictional men—mainly gojo satoru
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First Look at JUJUTSU KAISEN Season 3: The Culling Game Arc (January 2026)
#my love for this anime is so complicated#like i’m so hyped but i’m so frustrated with what’s to come later 🥲#oh well. i guess i’ll just enjoy the hype rn#jjk#jujustu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen anime
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JUJUTSU KAISEN – Season 3 Trailer!
#i’m actually so hyped for yuta#and maki#ahh wait and choso!!#3 stacked fights that i loveeee#this animation looks so unreal#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#shonen jump
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Hey when is part 3 of vows of duty coming out? I really loved it I cant wait to continue reading 😭
hi bb!! tysm for your excitement. i’ve been working on pt 3 pretty consistently, and once i have a solid date for posting, i’ll definitely share it here to let everyone know.
my personal goal is to get two of my fics out september… one being vod 🤞🏻 then, one kinktober fic in october. so… as long as my hubby gets his income situation secured, it should be possible for me (he got out of the military. so rn he’s my trophy husband 🫠 i’ve been struggling and working nonstop while we adjust to this change)
anyways, i can’t guarantee anything but that’s the goal i’m setting for myself so we’ll see how it goes! tysm for reading 💖
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Hello lovely aly!❤️
I hope you're doing well. I've been following vod for months now and I can'ttt get over it 😭❤️ ✨ it's so full of detailed descriptions of readers state of mind and emotions that I FEEL 🤌 AND LIVE HER ❤️ ✨✨. I can't wait for the third part, literally curling my toes in excitement 😭, would it be too much to expect the third part in the first week of September? 😭🛐 but please don't feel pressured, take care of yourself and your responsibilities first. Much love to you and your writing. (I hope gojo gets a smack to the face and a kick in the ass in the third part). Muahh ❤️❤️✨☀️
hi sweet nonnie, i adore you sm. your ask brought a smile to my face. i’m so happy you’re enjoying vod bb!! 🥹
gosh, it makes me so happy to hear from ya’ll that the emotional writing is landing 😭 hearing that makes all the hours of me second-guessing myself worth it 🫠 lol
while i can’t promise a specific date yet, i’ve been writing pt 3 actively. so, if i keep this trajectory goin and life doesn’t get in my way, maybe sometime in September? i’ll post a teaser soon!
thank you again for being patient and kind — i’m so grateful for the support 🥰 also… i’m VERY excited for what’s happening between satoru and reader in pt 3 🤭 hehehe. ily bb 💕
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aly baby hope u have been well and taking time for urself ❤️💐
JAAAAY my darling i adore you, hi bb 🥰😘
yaaas, i've been trying to take it easy. especially this weekend. my daughter will be with her grandparents so i'm very excited bc my plans are to take a bath, put on a face mask and enjoy some wine while i write and relax, hehe 😌 thanks for checking in bb 💕 how are you doing my love? are you takin it easy too? don't overdo it!!
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i feel like u just gutted me with the second part of vows of duty …… it’s genuinely the first story that has EVER made me cry, and i’ve been reading fanfics for years 😭 i guess a situationship survivor this kinda hits where it hurts most….. i mean not to tmi on here but i know personally the pain of someone giving you hella mixed signals while they fool around with you but never care about anything other than sex omfg (let it be known im saying this with a lighthearted tone 😤) anyways i loved it, made me absolutely miserable, can’t wait for what’s next !!!!
hi my love!! omgg seeing your name pop up in my inbox made me smile 🥹 i’m so happy to hear you enjoyed the second part bc you've been so supportive with this story and i know you’ve been looking forward to it 💖
i'm literally so honored that my writing is the first fic that made you cry??? whaa 😭 that means so much to me. and i hear you bb, it really sucks only being valued for your body. the mixed signals are like whiplash—it's so conflicting and hurtful.
more heartbreak (and catharsis) is on the way soon 😌 i've been writing vod pt 3 consistently these past 2 weeks bc i've been real inspired with it, hehe.
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“babe,” your boyfriend slurs, voice carrying over the music. “tell me why i can’t raw you right here, right now? like, hypothetically. nobody would notice if i just bent you over the table… right?”
the people sitting at the table behind you go dead silent. you choke on your drink, before slamming the glass down.
“oh my god, satoru—”
“what?!” he reels back, genuinely affronted, eyes glassy but still piercing in that glacial blue. “what, i can’t admire my own girlfriend in public now? society’s gone to shit.” one hand drifts down your thigh, his idea of subtlety. it isn’t. especially when he adds, sotto voce, “fuck, you’re hot. i’m so har-”
that’s when the bartender leans in, grim.
“miss… is this man harassing you?”
you drag a hand over your face. “…no. he’s my boyfriend.”
to make matters infinitely worse, said boyfriend points at you with righteous conviction, beaming with tipsy pride.
“boyfriend!” he hollers to the room. “can you believe this angel-” he gestures so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink, “is dating me? me! do you guys understand how mind-blowing—”
“satoru gojo. behave.”
he nearly topples off the stool, then promptly buries his face against your neck, mumbling hotly, “’m gonna put a fat ring on your finger. how’s that sound? me as your sexy, super-powerful husband—” already trying to sneak his hand back up your thigh.
and despite your mortification, you can’t even bring yourself to be truly mad. because really, he’s just that: a man in love.
#omggg i loveee 🤣#lightweight satoru is precious. hehe#fic recs#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jjk fanfic#gojo satoru#satoru gojo x reader#jjk x reader
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Haiii!! I just wanna ask, where did you get the inspiration to write VOD? It is a very beautiful story and I am looking forward to the direction you take it. ❤️ You are a writing gem.
😭 ahhh tysm bb, you are so sweet! so, we can all thank my bestie @strychnynegirl for the birth of this story. it’s always our endless convos on discord that lead to us going down rabbit holes, hehe. she’s my muse fr. and without her support, this fic would likely not exist. she’s collaborated with me a lot. this story is a gem bc SHE is a gem. ily maria 🥹😘💖
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Vod is so good because you made the character of the reader realistic. We're either used to them staying meek all the time or just a strong sassy thing.
She's just looking for love. Love was denied to her everywhere. I do think her dad was always adoring her, so him leaving was really a bad blow to her self esteem and sense of worth. Her mom...... is designed like those traditional moms who care about everything about you except..... You.
Poor girl feels suffocated. Let's be honest, the social circles already despised her since the fall of her family.
Then Satoru comes. She might've felt special for once. That feeling too was taken away from her. He himself took it away (asshole)
I fear she'll break really bad and then maybe piece herself back together. I'm literally crying.
I relate to this so much.
Not belonging anywhere yet knocking all doors.
Aly I love your writing so much it's literally unreal. Take time. Because dishes cooked on low flame for a long time are the tastiest.
i’m literally holding your ask to my chest omg 😭 tysm bb.
you have no idea how much this means to me—bc reader’s characterization has literally been something i’ve agonized over constantly, lol. there were so many times where i wanted to give in and have her fight harder, speak louder, stand her ground. but i had to be honest with where she’s coming from. she’s someone who was shown her whole life that being quiet = strength. in real life, people are shaped by the environment they grow in, and now we’re watching her try to unlearn that in real time.
you broke it down perfectly with her mom, her father, the way satoru made her feel special just to take it away again—it’s exactly what i was trying to show. she was denied love in every direction and is just trying to be enough for someone. it breaks me too, istg i want to protect this poor girl 😭 she needs to be enough for herself.
i literally adore you sm 🥹 ty for being so patient with the story, for reading it and for sending me this beautiful ask 💖 smooches bb! i’m excited for what’s to come!
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i read vod. absolute masterpiece, your talent astounds me. i hope gojo gets hit in the balls 🩵 multiple times 🩵 i know she’s supposed to be us but divorce his ass i’ll be a better husband. i make wonderful sugar cookies and i respect women as people
sugar cookies and respect is genuinely the strongest husband application she's received to date 🥹 satoru should be shaking in his boots.
hehe, but in all seriousness tysm my love for your kind words!! you are so sweet and i'm so happy you enjoyed vod 💕 satoru will learn his lesson soon 😌
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fuckboy!satoru who's givin pussies a test drive every day till he meets urs and then he spirals into true pussy obsession, needing his dick soaked like that, grippped like that, fucked like that. suddenly he's the whimpering bitch under a hot wet pussy, getting snapshots of your form in his eyes feelin like he's bursting into a fever as it bounces on him like that. "such a nasty slut; tight and perfect..." he thinks to himself. "Shit... nobody does it like you."
ooh, the feeling of your walls jerking off his cock from base to tip suckin' him all in like a juicy lollipop is shifting his whole world perspective — and just like that, he reawakens as a new man. your pussy changed him. after a one-night stand with you he can definitely say yes he's seen god and yes he's had a metamorphosis. your pussy literally made him believe in true love.
n'aw but poor fuckboy!satoru didn't expect to get a taste of his own medicine; you were firm about it being a fling and so was he... at first... uh, yeah.
now you've got 14 missed calls and a slew of messages from this heartbroken heartbreaker. oops!

🍒 x 🐇 x 💗@𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖎
#i love when satoru is whipped for coochie 😌#fic recs#mooties ♡#gojo satoru x reader#jjk x reader smut#gojo satoru smut
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whaaaa, summer is over. i’m gonna have to figure out wtf i wanna do with my theme next 🥲
#fall is my fav season tho 😌#it’s also my daughters#this is the time of year i will be forced to watch nightmare before christmas every day until new years. lol#she is obsessed with it#my daughters bday is coming up too#she’s gonna be 4 years old#wtf#i’m not okay 😭#aly talks
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I been absent for a little due to work but I found the time today to have a loooooong catch up with vod part 2! I must say I had my heart ripped out, cried like a little bitch twice, felt an overwhelming amount of rage and betrayal from Satoru all in one day (I love this man still)
I just found the last part of the chapter really compelling, as I noticed the parallel between that and (I forget which episode of HI) when they confronted the star religion group or whatever they were called. Poor reader.... I really felt the same sort of emotion in that moment as well, as (It isn't really comparable) I kinda had a similar situation where just everything in the background kind of just felt overwhelming in the moment and I could only focus on hearing the somewhat negative stuff going on around me. I think you captured that feeling really well (Very scarily so, it hit home haha), and I just wanna send all my love out to you! I think you do some great writing work in the community, as you're one of the authors I always look forward to for updates the most, even if it means that it may not come all the time (I understand as a working girlie myself), I always appreciate the quality of the fics!
I wonder if there will be more parallels in vod coming up, and if reader will slowly become a little more numb/find it in herself to confront him about his behaviour? (Because imma be real for one second I would absolutely love to see vod Satoru in his place, lmao 😔)


whaaa omg i’m kickin’ my feet rn. you are literally so sweet 😭 it means the world to know you look forward to these updates, even when they sometimes take me a little while to get out 🫶
i’m so happy someone picked up on the parallels with the hidden inventory arc!! that was exactly what i was going for. there’s so much imagery and emotional weight in that arc that’s always stuck with me—it’s def one of my favs. but yes!! that feeling you described—it’s such a haunting one. almost like derealization. ugh, i wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. i’m glad i was able to capture it successfully in the fic though.
you can absolutely expect more parallels to come, hehe. i love paying homage to the manga—even if gege emotionally wrecked me with the way things ended, there’s still so much i love about jjk. (obviously, or i wouldn’t be here writing thousands of words on the internet about my blue-eyed king 🥹)
as for what’s coming… it’s gonna stay messy for a bit 🙂↕️ they’ve both got a lot of growing to do. and yes—there will be consequences to satoru’s behavior. how? we shall see. but he doesn’t get to dodge accountability just because he’s hot 😭
tysm for your ask my love!! 😘💕 from one working girlie to another, we got this! i’m giving you all the hugs 🫂
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࿐ vows of duty ── part 2



࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader
࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.
࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — wet dream, sex, masturbation, dry humping and making out, satoru is horny af and shameless with dirty talk. say hi to yuji, megumi and maki! also shoko and nanami. satoru is still a dick. BORDERLINE cheating behavior - so read at your own discretion. the angst is angsting.】
࿐wc. 20k (what is wrong with me?)
࿐a/n. it's back! oh man, i'm gonna go crawl under a rock after posting this, ahaha. i hope ya'll like it. as you can see, i can't stop yappin. like, clearly i can't write a story without making it super in depth 🙂↕️ with the traditional ceremonies, just know that i'm not japanese so if certain things are incorrect forgive me! also, there is definitely canon divergence in this fic. satoru is not officially a sensei at jujutsu high. his duty is to his clan. art by @/_3aem
previous part
“Mm… fuck. Look at this mess…”
His voice drips over your skin, all sugar and filth—slurred into something reverent. While he drags his cock through your soaked folds, the teasing mess smears up his throbbing dick.
“’t-toru… I-I—mnh…” You’re floating. Weightless beneath him, breath caught somewhere in your throat—not that you care to find it. Because he's everywhere. Pressed to you, over you, into you. Warming you from the inside out as the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—thick, leaking, spilling sticky precum between your thighs.
It’s a mess. It’s so fucking new. And god it’s everything.
A low chuckle hums in your ear—warm, cocky, curling down your spine. When your lashes flutter open, he’s already looking at you. That crooked little smirk carved into his lips. Blue eyes sharp and soft at once, like he’s reading you and writing you all in one breath.
“Already drippin’ all over me, huh?” he murmurs, grinding lazily against your clit like it’s just a game to him. “What’s got you so needy, baby?”
Snowy strands brush your cheeks. His hair falls wild in his face, casting soft shadows over those impossible eyes. And god—he’s beautiful. Too beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him. He feels like a wish granted too fast. Like something stolen from a dream. And he’s yours. That’s the part you keep trying to believe.
Looming over you, he plants a palm on the sheets by your head. The other traces down your thigh, slow and certain, spreading you open like you’re delicate. Like you’re special. Making your heart ache more.
“Gonna tell me what you want?” he pants, dragging himself back through your slick. “C’mon…” he hums, earning your gasp—hips lifting as he teases you. “Lemme hear it, pretty girl. Don’t be shy now.”
Your voice slips from your lips before your shame can catch it. Because right now, you feel like you could spill your entire heart to this man. Why?
“P-Please…”
“Please what?” he croons, abs tensing with every lazy rut of his cock. “Aww… what do you want, hm?”
And oh, it’s humiliating how badly you want him while the fat head of his dick rubs your clit. You ache for him in places you didn’t even know could ache. But the heat between your legs is nothing compared to the heat in your chest, your throat, your thoughts.
“I want you,” you whisper, heart cracking open. “Want you so bad…”
And how could you not?
He makes you feel like nothing else matters. Like no one’s watching. Like you’re allowed to want. To crave. To be touched. To take.
Free of expectation. Free of tradition.
And still—still there’s that voice in the back of your mind. The part that remembers the time in his private villa. The silence after. The way he didn’t hold you. Didn’t stay.
I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?
You try not to think about it. Try not to let it matter. Because he said it like it meant nothing. But… this has to mean something. It has to. Right? Because how could someone touch you like this and not mean it? You’ve never felt like this before. Never even imagined you could feel this. Like you’ve always belonged here—under him, wrapped around him, lost in him.
His.
Exhaling, he cups your cheek—thumb brushing tenderly over your skin, like he doesn’t notice the war you’re losing beneath it. “That so?” he breathes, mouth so close it feels like a secret. “You want this cock, sweetheart?”
You nod. So hard it almost hurts.
“Want you to fuck me… please…” and that earns his groan. “Oh, you pretty thing…” and pressing forward—he’s lining himself up with a smirk and a low whisper. “Gonna make a mess of you…”
And then he’s pushing every inch of that flushed, angry cock into your tight little cunt. Slow. So slow it feels like it’s never going to end. Like he wants you to feel every inch as it splits you open, stretching you in a way you could only dream.
“Oh, fuuuuck…” his voice splinters as your legs fall open wider. “Shit… just fuckin’ meltin’ around me…” and your body gives, like it’s been waiting for this. Made for him.
“Satoru—” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders like you might fall through the floor. “Shhh…” his forehead falls to yours, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there. Inside you. Wrapped in your heat, your walls fluttering around him like you’re not sure if you’re ready or begging for more.
And that’s the thing—you don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. Just that it’s him. That it’s this. And it’s yours. A dream come true.
“You feel like a dream,” he whispers, hips twitching once, slow and deep. “Like I’ve waited forever for this…”
Dream.
Maybe you are dreaming. Are you? Is that why this feels so good? No, maybe it’s just him. Because suddenly he’s moving. A rhythm that starts with reverence—measured, deep, like he wants to memorize you. Every breath. Every arch. Every sound you make.
“Look at me,” he pants, lips brushing yours as he rocks languidly. “Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you, yeah?”
Your lashes flutter—dazed, drunk on him. And you do. You look. You stare into those vivid blue eyes like they’re the last thing tethering you to this goddamn earth. Eyes that are endless. Limitless.
A dream?
Yeah. That’s what this is. A dream come true. A dream spun from every ache you’ve buried—pulled from the softest, dirtiest corners of your aching little heart—where no one ever told you what to want, only that you shouldn’t. And now he’s here.
The man of your dreams, giving you everything you thought was out of reach.
Freedom. Pleasure. Love.
Love?
Love’s a strange thing. You’ve never been in love—never trusted it. And how could you if you’ve never seen it done right—watching your parents gut it and wear it like a lie. But one thing’s for sure—this is what it feels like to be wanted. Right?
So, you’ll be his. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Always. If this is how he’ll make you feel—god, you’ll be his forever.
“Feels s’good,” you whisper, head tilting back as he fucks you deeper. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, dragging his cock out slow, then driving it back in with a wet slap. “You hear that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”
Whining under him, your cunt coats his dick, wet and warm, dripping between your legs. His muscles tense above you, hands sliding down your body, gripping your hips.
“God, baby… greedy little pussy’s grippin’ me… shit,” he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Fine… take it—” and with a hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.
“Ahh! W-Wait—” you jolt, but the protest melts into a stream of filthy moans as he finds his rhythm—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass.
“Mmm… that’s my girl…” he pants, cooing against your ear as he kisses the side of your neck. Slick, wet sounds echo through the room as he fucks your cunt in sharp, steady thrusts.
“Fuck, Satoru—" you gasp, choking on his name. And he groans—filthy, low—panting in your ear, lost in your heat as your pussy grips him just right.
“Shit… look at you,” he breathes, grinding deeper, breath hot against your cheek. “Yes… fuck yes… you gonna let me fill you up, baby?”
Your cunt is fluttering around him—soaking, tight. He's rolling every inch of that flushed cock in slow, devastating thrusts.
“So pretty… so fuckin’ pretty…” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, fixed on your face. He's drinking every gasp straight from your lungs. “Gonna let me fuck this pussy every goddamn day, hm?” his cock drags out, only to slam it back in. “Nnngh… have you drippin’ down my cock, making a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me?”
God, you will. You’d do anything for him. You moan as his mouth finds your throat again—kisses that turn to bites, soft lips followed by sharp teeth. Gentle, then greedy as he continues to pump deeper.
“Let ‘em see,” he growls against your skin. “Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you—just take it.”
His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, meaner. Each thrust crashes into you with a wet slap, your cunt gushing around him. You’re gasping, breath breaking into ragged whimpers as the dripping head of his cock kisses your cervix—over and over again.
You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—you’re just moaning, gasping, breaking.
“Well?” he snarls, pounding you harder. “C’mon… who do you belong to, sweetheart?”
He fucks you so hard the floor seems to shake. Your body’s sliding helpless beneath him, your mind scattering like shards of glass. You sob, "Y-You," and your fingers curl into his hair, clinging like you'll fall about without him. Because you will. “Yours—’toru—m’yours…”
That encourages him, he’s gasping, thrusting, moaning—wet slaps echoing.
“Good fuckin’ girl… f-fuck…” he groans, voice cracking as his cock pulses deep inside you, cum spilling hot. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum…”
And wrapping your legs around him, you feel him shudder. Warmth spills from your cunt, slick and slow, while your pussy flutters around him, milking every drop. His thrusts don't stop. They just slow—grinding in lazy, possessive circles. Rolling deeper, messier, like he wants to keep it all inside you. Like he needs you full.
“Mine,” he breathes, dick twitching inside you. “Fuck… all mine… my pretty wife…” he pants, teeth grazing your shoulder, “…my messy little slut—mine… mine…”
The words tumble from him in broken, breathless threads—a litany, hot and reverent—branding you from the inside out.
Mine.
Again.
Mine.
You’re gasping, falling. Everything blurs; his body wrapping around you, filling you, flooding every aching, empty part of you. And the room—it starts to feel…
Mine….
Soft?
Mine…
The kind of warmth that doesn’t feel real.
Almost like…
Mine…
Like a dream.
Mine…
Get up.
You blink.
Get. Up.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“You’re still in bed?”
That voice. No warmth. Just clipped syllables slicing through the remnants of your dream.
“Get up.”
And just like that, the weight of him vanishes. The heat. The stretch. The sweetness. Gone.
Jolting up, your silk robe slips off your shoulder, and light stings your eyes as your lashes flutter open. But it’s not his breath you feel, it’s the bite of morning air against your sweat-slick skin—and your mother’s cold stare.
Oh. Right. A dream.
“Well?” Her voice cuts again, brisk and unforgiving. “You think the entire Gojo clan is going to wait for you to collect yourself?”
She’s already at the window, fingers ghosting over the wood frame. The shoji groans as it slides open, letting in a wash of cold that rushes over the tatami and blooms across your bare collarbone.
Flinching, you instinctively draw your robe tighter—but it’s too late. The ache between your legs is still slick, still pulsing like a secret you can’t scrub off. Shame burns hot in your chest.
A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream.
Over him.
Cheeks burning, your knees lock tight. And by the curl of your mother’s lip—you must look exactly how you feel.
Filthy.
“You’re flushed,” she remarks, arching a brow. “And you’re shaking.”
“Oh… sorry,” you whisper, shutting your eyes like that might make you disappear. “I… didn’t sleep well.”
There’s a pause.
You brace for a reprimand. A sharp lesson, a stern lecture. But it doesn’t come—only the soft rustle of silk.
“Why? Are… you nervous about today?”
When your eyes flutter open, she’s kneeling before you. Her expression has softened, and there’s something quieter in her hands as they reach for your robe, brushing your collar with practiced care.
“That color suits you…” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric where it’s slipped from your shoulder, “…Ivory always did.”
You blink, lips parting, startled by the shift in her tone.
“You used to wear it constantly…” she adds, softer now. “Said it made you feel like a princess. Wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else.”
Adjusting the fold near your shoulder, her fingers linger, smoothing it flat with quiet care.
“I swear…” glancing up at you, her lips twitch, like the memory tastes bitter and sweet at once. “I hid that white yukata more times than I can count.”
Your own mouth curves, matching her smile.
“Yeah… but I always found it.”
“Tch. And stained it before noon!” She huffs, smiling, shaking her head. “Grass. Dirt. Ink from your calligraphy kit. You’d tear through the garden like a storm. Always barefoot. Always chasing your father, trying to mimic his stances.”
You still.
Because she said it—his name. And she never does. Not anymore. Not since the night he left.
Her hands move slower now, but her gaze drifts somewhere far beyond the room.
“Your father…” she echoes quietly, straightening a crease, “…he used to call you his little crane. Said you looked too delicate for martial arts… until you bloodied his lip.”
Her fingers hover at the fold of your robe, and for the first time in years, the silence between you feels fragile. Sacred. As if something hidden might surface—something she’s almost ready to hand you.
But the moment doesn’t last.
Drawing back, she stands in one fluid motion, sleeves whispering against her sides.
“Regardless… you’re not a child anymore,” her voice sharpens. “And we don’t get the luxury of mistakes, understood?”
You nod, and whatever had cracked in her seals shut again—her tenderness slipping away, folded back inside like silk tucked into a drawer.
“You have fifteen minutes before the stylists arrive…”
Then, the door slides shut with a soft click.
And you’re left alone with the scent of sandalwood fading in the air, a chill still clinging to your skin, a heat between your legs, and the ache of a mother’s love that always pulls back before it ever reaches your hands.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Gentle fingers tilt your chin.
“Hold still, sweetheart. I don’t want to poke your eye out before the ceremony.”
The powder brush sweeps across your cheek in soft, fluttering strokes—light as breath, enough to chase the nerves from your skin.
“You really are a vision,” one of the stylists insists, a small, reverent sigh slipping past her lips. “He won’t be able to look away.”
“I doubt that…” you murmur, trying to smile—though it barely touches your eyes.
But the reflection staring back at you says otherwise. The perfect bride-to-be, composed and radiant.
Your kimono wraps tight around your ribs, layers of pale ivory and blooming crimson spreading like a painted fan across your body. Embroidered cranes glide up your sleeves in gold and silver threads—regal, serene. Their necks curve skyward, as though chasing something you can’t see.
“This must feel surreal,” the older stylist adds, stepping back to admire her work. She tilts your chin higher, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The yuino ceremony… such an elegant tradition.”
You blink slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.
The yuino—an engagement ritual where two families exchange gifts to formalize a union. Every offering means something: thread for longevity, sake for harmony, kelp for joy. It’s less about the couple, more about the bloodlines. A promise not just between people, but legacies.
“It’s definitely… traditional,” you admit.
“More like transactional…” the youngest mumbles, tugging at your obi with sharp, precise hands.
The elder hushes her with a look—not harsh, but warning—then turns back to you.
“My dear… tradition isn’t meant to trap us,” she assures, low and sincere. “It’s meant to carry us.”
Reaching up to adjust a pin in your hair, her touch is slow, almost motherly.
“All of this—the layers, the ritual—it’s not just for show. It’s a blessing. A beginning.” Her fingers pause at the side of your head before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And if you let it… it can be something beautiful.”
Glancing at your reflection, there’s a quiet ache behind her words. Because you were raised to follow. To perform. To marry. And yet, somehow… her words echo, soft as silk.
It’s startling. Strange, even.
It should feel like a cage. Shouldn’t it? Every fold, every knot, every ornament arranged to present someone else’s idea of who you are. After all, with your family, marriage was always the destination. And yet, the weight pressing down on your shoulders feels lighter than it should.
Maybe it’s the way she said it. Or… maybe it’s because of him.
Satoru Gojo, with his messy grin and reckless freedom—he doesn’t bow to tradition. He lives like nothing owns him. Not his clan. Not his duty. Not even his legacy. He rewrites every rule with a smirk.
You haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him.
The wet dream had only sharpened it, made it vivid—too vivid. That stretch, that heat. It felt real. It felt like it mattered. Because despite everything—despite duty and expectation—you want him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you fall apart in that villa.
You want him to see you through all of this.
You want to be his.
Because maybe, as strange as it sounds, the stylist is right. Maybe this can be more than duty. Maybe this is a beginning. Not of obedience—but of something else. Something fragile and full of possibility.
God, you wish it to be so. You need it to be so.
The older stylist gives your shoulder a final pat, stepping back to admire you once more.
“I wonder what he’ll give you,” the youngest muses, voice airy, almost starstruck. “Someone like Gojo Satoru…” she hums. “I bet it’s something extravagant.”
“He’s like a storm in silk,” another sighs dreamily. “Whatever it is, it’ll be unforgettable.”
The eldest smiles, something softer flickering in her eyes. “Glamour fades,” she remarks. “But a gift that knows who you are… now that’s something you carry for life.”
A gift that knows who you are.
The words echo, soft and lingering. And suddenly, you’re not sure—does yours? Is it enough? Will he appreciate it?
Glancing towards the vanity, your gaze drops to the small black box, half-hidden among the combs and lacquered trays like a secret.
“Ah!” One of the stylists perks up, catching the direction of your eyes. “That’s for him?” she asks, nodding toward the box.
You hesitate for a breath, then nod. “It is,” and reaching for it, your fingers smooth over the velvet before curling around the edges. “It’s my gift.”
In the yuino, it’s customary for the groom’s family to present gifts first—then comes the bride’s turn. Something of worth. Something of value.
That part was never easy. Not when you had nothing to give but what little you could scrape together. Money is short, but you did it. Somehow. And you wonder—would he see that? Would he know what it cost you—the quiet sacrifices, the things you were forced to let go of—just to place something in his hands that felt like truth?
Your fingers slide beneath the satin ribbon, loosening it slowly, letting it fall open.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a pair of sunglasses. Sleek. Rectangular. Matte black with thin platinum accents at the temples. Understated, but undeniably expensive—a limited designer release you spent weeks searching for.
“Um…” the elder tilts her head, “…sunglasses?”
“Modern,” another hesitates, as if afraid to offend. “Not exactly… traditional.”
You watch the way the lenses catch the light—dark, smooth, almost defiant.
“No…” you admit, lips curving faintly. “But neither is he.”
“Tch.” A voice from the doorway cuts in. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Looking up, you already know who’s interrupted before setting eyes on her—the dry bite in her voice is unmistakable.
Maki Zenin.
Leaning against the doorway, green hair pulled back into a ponytail, there she is. Your sister in arms. The closest thing you have to a friend. Or maybe… a younger sister, if life had been kinder.
“Ah…” one of the stylists clears her throat, taking a careful step back. “And… you are…?”
“Relax,” she huffs. “I’m just the disgraced friend. I promise not to stain the upholstery.”
The eldest arches a brow, and you jump in quickly.
“She’s with me.”
The two of you go back years—back when your families still tolerated one another. Her clan managed stock, yours specialized in cursed weapon refinement. While the adults buried themselves in trade negotiations and formalities, you both were left to your own devices. Two girls, too young to matter, yet old enough to know it.
She was brash even back then—calling you “old” and “boring.” Daring you to sneak into the armory, challenging you to out-duel her with weapons twice her size. You were quieter, more reserved, raised on obedience and grace. But when Maki handed you a dull blade and grinned, your blood had thrummed with something you never had words for.
You were raised to bow. She was raised to bite. And somehow, you met in the middle. Now, years later, you still find her at your side. The only one who never abandoned you, never flinched when the world turned cold and your clan shut you out. Like hers did for her.
“I see,” the stylist straightens politely, smoothing her sleeves. “We’ll give you two a moment, then. I’ll prepare the fan offering for the ceremony.”
“And I’ll fetch the lacquer box!” Another chirps, already gathering her things.
They exit with soft murmurs and a shuffle of silk, bows and slippers brushing over tatami. The door slides shut behind them, sealing the room in a quieter hush.
Exhaling, your shoulders ease as your eyes meet Maki’s in the mirror.
“You’re here.”
“Yeah, well… I said I’d come, didn’t I?” she sighs, pushing off the doorframe with the kind of casual bravado that’s always been second nature to her. Her eyes sweep the room—to the silk shimmering across your collarbones, the ceremonial stillness. “So…” her brow lifts, “…you’re really going through with it, huh?”
“Yup. But don’t sound so surprised,” you hum, smoothing your kimono with a teasing lilt. “After all, one of us had to make it out of exile first.”
“Pfft.” Maki rolls her eyes, but her grin flickers with something almost proud. “I don’t want out. Fuck the Zenins. I’m not crawling back just to prove a point.”
You smile faintly.
“Still stubborn.”
“And you’re still too soft,” she quips, striding towards the vanity.
Leaning against it, her arms fold, eyes narrowing in a way that only pretends to be judgmental. But you know. Beneath it: worry. Loyalty. That particular kind of protectiveness that only someone who’s exiled knows how to wear.
“You… really want to do this?”
“Maybe…” you meet her eyes in the glass, hesitating. “He’s not like them, Maki…” you shrug, looking down, fidgeting with the sleeve of your kimono. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe it could be… different?”
She doesn’t answer right away. You’re older, but she’s always looked out for you in her own prickly way. And the fact that you didn’t volunteer for this, more like you were voluntold—it annoys the hell out of her.
Still, she huffs out a breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Yeah…” she admits finally, like it costs her. “I guess he’s not.”
Glancing at her sideways, she drops her hands into her pockets, mouth twitching into a grin.
“Y’know… he let me train in the middle of the damn courtyard,” she mutters. “Didn’t even ask what I was doing there. Just tossed me a staff and went, ‘don’t embarrass yourself.’”
You blink. “Wait—what?”
“Yup.” She shrugs, almost smug. “Snuck into Jujutsu High last week. Through the garden wall. Figured I’d get thrown out before I even touched a weapon. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell the higher-ups either. Just… let me stay.”
Your lips part, but no words come right away. The thought of Gojo Satoru—maddening, brilliant, impossible Gojo Satoru—doing something so quietly kind? To someone you care for so deeply? It makes your chest warm. Maki’s been trying to get into Jujutsu High for months, but the system’s written her off like she’s disposable. Unfit. A mistake. But she’s more capable than half the sorcerers they’ve accepted. You’ve always known that.
And the fact that Satoru saw it too…
You feel it then—slow and steady—that hum beneath your skin. That ache of something soft unraveling inside you.
“I mean, damn,” Maki stretches, cracking her knuckles behind her head with a yawn. “You’d think someone that powerful would care about rules, right?”
“Yeah… he doesn’t,” you huff a breath, the smile pulling at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s the problem.”
Or maybe… it’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about him.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Meanwhile, Satoru’s head is spinning—with you. His pretty little wife-to-be, the one who’ll keep the elders quiet and his cock wet.
He’s been in the shower far too long. Steam clings to the cedar walls, fogging the glass panels while the overhead spout hisses steadily against his skin. Water beads down his spine—but it’s not the heat that has him breathless. His hand pumps steadily over his sensitive dick—gliding and rolling over his fat heat as it drips messily onto the stone tile.
He should be getting ready for the ceremony, but here he is, fapping his stiff cock while milky drops spill down his pretty pink tip.
“Fffuck…” he groans, panting with each filthy slap of his fist, “Unngh… that’s it…”
Lewd images flash through his mind—'cause this is easier. Just muscle and heat. No feelings. No expectations. Just the illusion of your trembling thighs, your sweet little cunt sucking him in, soaking his fat dick as he slams into you, over and over.
He bites down a moan, head tipping back, soft white bangs soaked to his forehead. Those impossible eyes—half-lidded beneath snow-damp lashes—burn in the haze, glassy and low. Water rivulets track the slope of his abdomen, glinting over taut skin as his hand works faster, more desperate.
“Shit—yeah… jus’ like that…”
Breath hitching, his hand jerks harder, crude sounds echoing with the hiss of water while his thick shaft pulses in his grip. He can’t stop. Can’t help it. The image sharpens in his mind—your tits bouncing with every thrust, the soft slide of your sleeves slipping off your shoulders. He'd drive into you from behind, hand fisted in your hair.
God, he doesn’t want to be married. But he’d love to fuck the pretty little wife they’ve handed him—make you cry for it, ruin you slow, watch your sweet face twist when his cock drags deep through your dripping cunt.
“Mnh—take it…” he growls, one palm braced against the slick cedar wall, the other pumping hard and fast. His hips stutter, rocking into the heat of his fist, chest heaving as steam curls like breath around his ankles.
Fuck, he’s desperate for relief, and your name’s on the tip of his tongue—not that he’d say it. ‘Cause that’s not how this works. He needs relief. He needs a distraction. Just a little more. So close. So—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?”
Flinching, Satoru’s hand stills as the voice slams through his pleasure like a slap. The water beats down, dazed eyes fluttering open as he pants—and the moment he glances at the room’s wooden door, an agitated scowl curls across his lips. That voice is muffled, but unmistakable.
Fucking Megumi.
“Dude. You’re taking forever,” the kid gripes, banging again. “I mean… for fuck’s sake—at this rate you’re gonna be late to your own damn engagement party!”
Engagement party.
Right. The yuino.
“Oh, fuck me…” Satoru mutters under his breath, grip falling away with a wet, dejected slap. His cock bobs, still red, swollen—leaking in desperation.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Even this—this one private moment—can’t fucking belong to him. The mood’s gone; sucked dry by the obligation pounding at his door.
Great. Now he’s annoyed. Because he was supposed to be getting off, not thinking. But of fucking course, Megumi’s words are that lovely, blaring reminder that he’s about to become officially tied down tonight. About to lose whatever little bit of freedom he was barely clinging onto.
Sure, you’re pretty, you’re tempting—but you’re also part of this now, aren’t you? Part of the problem—despite how good you make his dick feel.
Marriage?
Duty?
He never wanted that shit.
Another knock breaks through the water pounding around him—and with a groan, Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Kid, do you mind?!” he snaps, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking hell—some of us are trying to have a crisis in peace!”
“Yeah, well, your ‘crisis’ is way behind schedule.” Megumi fires back, tone dry as dust. “Get your shit together, old man.”
Oh, like it’s so simple. Sure. That’s what everyone expects of him.
Exhaling through his nose, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back under the stream. His cock twitches again, stubborn and sensitive, but already softening, the ache still lingering in his groin like a cruel echo.
Wait… why is he even fantasizing about you?! Great. Now he’s even more annoyed at himself. And as his irritation begins to simmer, another insistent knock breaks through the wooden door.
“Jesus Christ… Megumi!” Satoru grits, low and bitter, finally lifting his head. “Unless someone’s dying, just… walk the fuck away!”
“Well, I’m dying. From boredom. Hurry the fuck up.”
With a growl, Satoru twists the water off—steam hissing in protest while a silence finally settles—save for the drip of condensation tapping down the glass. His hands brace against the wall; muscles tense, breath ragged, cock twitching but neglected.
The moment’s gone. Stolen. Per usual.
And now he’s pissed the fuck off. Why the fuck does he keep thinking about your face when you cum?
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Eight minutes late,” Megumi notes. “Again.”
Strolling in barefoot, Satoru glides across the tatami, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. His inner kimono hangs loose over his frame, belt tied lazily at his hips, sleeves pushed up in carelessness.
“Oh?” he blinks, feigning surprise, raking the towel through his hair. “What’s this, hm? You timing me now?”
“Yaga is,” Megumi sighs, already looking back down at his phone. “Says you’re always late. Just not late enough to chastise.”
That earns a slow, smug grin from Satoru—crooked and boyish, like a secret he’s not going to share. Clicking his tongue, he tosses the towel over the back of the chair, reaching for the next layer of silk.
“Aww,” he hums, slipping into his outer kimono with an almost bored ease. “He’s still using that line? Sentimental old man.”
The linen is rich and textured, dark indigo, finely woven. Near the collar, stitched in silver so pale it borders on illusion, lies the Gojo family crest: Two dragonflies—wings outspread in mirror flight.
Curious creatures, dragonflies are. They say dragonflies can’t fly backward. Only forward. Relentlessly, instinctively—like time, or fate. No turning back.
…much like him after tonight.
Letting out a low breath, Satoru brushes the crest once over with his knuckles. Until—
Thunk!
He blinks, glancing toward the sound. Across the room, Yuji curses under his breath, a lacquered box falling to the floor, skittering across the tatami and landing near Megumi’s foot. As a silk ribbon flutters in Yuji’s hand like a white flag, Satoru immediately realizes what it is.
His gift—for you.
“Oi,” he calls, brow arching. “Is that my gift? Be careful with that.”
Freezing mid-reach, Yuji flinches—caught red-handed.
“Oh—shit. Sorry, Sensei!” he blurts, grabbing the box, fumbling quickly. Steadying it, his eyes flick up sheepishly. “I, um… didn’t mean to—uh—drop it.
Satoru’s eyes narrow, gaze dragging slowly over the box.
“Mmm… Yuji,” he drawls, tilting his head. “The ribbon’s untied.”
“Right. Uh…” Yuji hesitates, holding the ruined bow like it might defend him. “…it was already like that. Probably.”
Satoru snorts, fiddling with his kimono. “Uh-huh. Right. And I was born on a rice farm.”
Groaning in defeat, Yuji drops his shoulders.
“Okay—fine. But I didn’t mean to untie it. I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Got curious.”
“Curious,” Satoru echoes, unimpressed.
“Yeah…” Yuji mutters, guilt settling in. “Wanted to see what you’re giving the future Mrs. Gojo.”
Pausing mid-adjustment, that title hangs in the air.
Mrs. Gojo.
How strange. Satoru’s called you his wife already… but why does it sound kinda weird hearing it out loud from someone else. Especially someone as pure as Yuji. Huh… maybe it’s easier to call you that when your legs are spread open for him.
Humming low in his throat, he smooths his sleeve with more tension than before.
“Mm.”
But Yuji brightens anyway, as if the mood hasn’t shifted.
“Don’t worry, Gojo-sensei!” he declares, lifting the ribbon like he’s already halfway redeemed. “I can fix it!”
Satoru lifts a brow. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”
Megumi doesn’t even look up. “No, he can’t.”
And just like that, the pink haired boy’s hunched over the low table again, brows drawn in tight concentration, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as Yuji—bless his heart—tries his best; wrestling that ceremonial silk into submission.
Megumi sighs. “It’s a box, Itadori. Not a curse.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Yuji grumbles. “Tch.” He gives the ribbon a final tug, and the knot bunches in on itself like it’s mocking him. A frustrated exhale pulls through his nose. “Kay, but… like, why is this harder than cursed energy manipulation?”
Strolling over, an amused expression pulls from Satoru’s face as he ties his sash with one hand carelessly. Then, peering over Yuji’s shoulder, his gaze drops to the disaster unfolding under the young boy’s hands.
“Eh?” he hums, cocking his head. “You’ve come a long way with your cursed energy control. But clearly, we skipped basic knot tying, Yuji.”
“Okay, but Sensei, this ribbon is cursed,” Yuji deadpans. “It’s mocking me. I swear. I just—ughhh!” He flops back onto the tatami with a groan, arms spread wide like a fallen soldier. “The hell? I’m not even the one getting married, and I’m sweating over this.”
Satoru chuckles, crouching with an easy grace. He plucks the lacquered box from the table with two fingers and spins it once in his palm.
“It’s ‘cause tradition is allergic to convenience,” he drawls, deftly untying the clumsy knot with a flick of his wrist. “It exists purely to make our lives harder.”
“Hey!” Yuji bolts upright, looking betrayed. “I almost had it, Gojo-sensei—!”
“Mhm.” Satoru ruffles his hair in passing, already walking back toward the mirror with the box in hand. “Sure, ya did~”
And then, without even looking, he smooths the ribbon out, looping and tucking it back into a clean, symmetrical knot—annoyingly perfect in a matter of seconds.
Yuji gapes. “How’d you do that so fast?”
A smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips. “Talent,” he sighs simply, setting the box down and reaching for his hakama pants.
Huffing, Yuji groans, flopping back on his elbows. “Y’know, Gojo-sensei—”
“Yuji,” Megumi cuts in, tone clipped. “That’s the fourth time. Watch yourself.”
Mid-gesture, Yuji blinks. “Huh?”
Glancing up at the mirror, Satoru doesn’t say anything—he’s stepping into his pants, folding the kimono in with quiet ease. Megumi just exhales—slow and tired, like he’s said this a dozen times before.
“Don’t forget where we’re going tonight.”
“Uh…” Yuji squints. “What, the party? What about it?”
“Seriously…?” Megumi finally looks up, brow arching with something between irritation and warning. “There’ll be elders. Councilmen. Clanheads,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his phone. “Just… don’t slip and call him ‘sensei’ in front of them.”
“Oh...” realization hits fast—Yuji’s hand lowering, his grin slipping with it. “Right… sorry… I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…still don’t get why it has to be a secret though,” he grumbles under his breath.
Across the room, Satoru’s hands go still—fingers curling around the edge of his obi. In the mirror’s reflection, his gaze flicks to Yuji, lingering a second too long. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—like he’s caught in the gravity of a memory he doesn’t want to chase, standing on the edge of a thought he might not survive. But if he says nothing, maybe it will pass.
“I mean… it’s dumb, right?” Yuji tries, voice soft but sincere, gathering his courage. “You’re already doing it. Teaching us. So… why can’t it just be official?”
The question hangs there, light but pointed—too honest to brush off. Too direct to ignore. Just honest.
Young.
Satoru could say it; could say it’s not that simple—that some doors don’t open without closing others behind you. That some names come with chains no one sees. That the one thing they’d make him do to earn the title of sensei would leave a scar too deep to walk back from.
But what would be the point?
Yuji means well. Of course he does. That’s not the problem.
The issue is the world they live in.
There are rules older than all of them, and games played by ghosts who never left the table. But they’re too young to understand. And they shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids—holding the weight of things they shouldn’t have to carry.
And Satoru—he has no intention of handing them more. He’s good at pretending. He’s been doing it since before either of them were born. So, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t let the shadows stretch across the room. He only laughs—low, dismissive, breezy in a way that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.
“Oh, Yuji…” he exhales, feigning exasperation. “C’mon now. You really think I wanna sit through boring faculty meetings?” he deflects, reaching for his haori—the final layer of silk—and slides it on like armor. Easy. Fluid. Just another layer to keep the truth out. “I mean… please. Wear a tie? Take attendance? Bleh. I’ve got enough on my plate keeping you dummies alive.”
Stretching his arms overhead, a lazy grunt slips from his throat as if that settles it—shaking off the conversation entirely.
“Becoming Nanami is not on my bingo card.” He drawls, a smirk returning—lazy, lopsided, familiar. “I mean, being tied down’s not my thing, y’know?”
Scoffing from the floor, Yuji shoots him a look.
“Yeah, sure. Says the guy giving her that.”
Satoru blinks, following Yuji’s nod to the lacquered box that cradles your gift.
“Uh… what’s that supposed to mean?”
“No offense, Gojo-sensei, but it’s kinda… romantic. For you.”
Satoru scowls, adjusting the fold of his sleeve.
“It’s a formality, Yuji.”
“Yup, we know,” Megumi mutters, not bothering to look up from his phone. “The custom-cut sapphire gave that away.”
Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, jaw ticking as a simmering heat lingers, creeping up the back of his neck.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” he mutters, adjusting the collar like it suddenly doesn’t sit right on his shoulders.
“Whoa,” Yuji blinks, sitting up straighter. “Heirloom tier?”
“Yeah… anyways,” Clearing his throat, Satoru slips the box into the inner fold of his robe with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t make it a big deal.”
“You’re literally making it a big deal,” Megumi deadpans.
Something about that makes him snap—hot, brief, and immediate.
“I’m not!”
It comes out sharper than intended. Both boys blink, freezing—and Satoru’s hand tightens briefly around the edge of his haori.
Shit.
He didn’t mean to snap. Not like that. Not over a box. Not over you. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he suddenly so on edge? Is it ‘cause he didn’t get his release? Couldn’t finish what he started in the shower?
Yeah… must be. Get your shit together Satoru. This is what happens when he lets himself start thinking again. Lets himself linger too long on what tonight means.
Exhaling through his nose, he forces it all back down. Smooths his expression. Rebuilds the wall. Plays the part.
“Right then… anyways” he scoffs, reaching up to adjust his sleeves again, brushing away at nothing. “You’re the ones turning sapphires and heirlooms into some fairy tale proposal.”
The smirk that pulls at his lips is forced—thin, crooked, but convincing enough. He turns away from the mirror, shoulders squared like he’s fine. Like everything’s fine.
“It’s just a box,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Just a fucking formality.”
There’s a brief, weighty silence—the tension in the air saying enough. The kind of quiet where everything feels a little too loud.
Fucking hell Satoru…
These kids? They’re not supposed to see him come apart. He has to get it together. So, he exhales—loud and exaggerated this time—exploding into motion.
“Alright, alright,” he declares loudly, a sudden brightness that feels almost theatrical. “Enough dramatics. I’m polished. I’m present. I’m fucking dazzling. Yeah?”
He spins on his heel like a performer hitting the cue. A shift so abrupt it somehow works.
Because yeah—the ensemble’s perfect. Layers of rich indigo, the silver-threaded cuffs gleaming faintly under the warm overhead light. The cut is sharp, the fit immaculate. The Gojo crest near the collar flashes like a brand. The fabric whispers against his skin—luxury draped like armor.
Inherited. Not chosen. But he wears it like it fits.
Behind him, Yuji elbows Megumi with a grin. “Wow… Gojo-sensei cleans up scary fast.”
Megumi sighs, dry as ever. “Still late, though.”
And leaning back on his hands, Yuji tilts his head, eyes following the sweep of Satoru’s robes. “Let’s see… I think…” he hums pondering. “Hmm… Gojo-sensei looks like he belongs on money. Or maybe… oh! A museum!!”
Those words are said with a laugh—a spark of awe, but they hit something deeper.
Because… Satoru remembers that line.
Not from Yuji—but from himself. Eighteen years old and ascending to power, tossing the joke to Suguru as they stood side-by-side in this very same room.
His eyes lift to the mirror—pale lashes framing a vivid, electric blue. And for a moment—just a blink—his reflection looks… tired.
Shit… was that the same tired expression Suguru wore that very night? Showing subtle signs of…
No.
No thinking.
The boys are laughing, Megumi rolling his eyes as he mutters to Yuji, “Itadori… you’re feeding his ego.”
And just like that, Satoru’s mask slips back on.
“Oi,” he smirks. “You two done narrating my life?”
And turning towards them in a sweep of silk and silver, the fabric settles around his shoulders like a mantle.
“Besides, Megumi” he drawls, slinging an arm around both boys with exaggerated flair, “m’not late enough to get chastised. That’s the trick, remember?”
Groaning, Megumi shoves him off with a well-placed elbow as Yuji laughs—bright, boyish, easy.
And Satoru?
Satoru walks forward like he isn’t about to hand over the last piece of himself. Like this isn’t the beginning of the end of the only freedom he ever had.
Like this is just another night. And you’re just another girl.
“C’mon, kids,” he hums, stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go crash a party, yeah?”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Why’s everyone looking at me like that…?” Yuji mutters, tugging at the collar of his formalwear. His steps hitch as they move through the main hall, voices dimming just enough to be noticeable.
Satoru doesn’t need to look to know what he means. He feels it too—eyes following, sticking like burrs, veiled judgment behind brittle smiles.
“Probably ‘cause you weren’t technically on my guest list,” he remarks casually, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his haori.
Yuji blinks. “Wait, what?!”
Satoru huffs a laugh, soft and unbothered. “You’ve got a mass-murdering curse king riding shotgun in your gut, kid. Hard to ignore,” he hums, half amused. “I’d say it’s definitely a conversation starter.”
Yuji gapes, only for a beat. “Man, seriously?” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Jeez, they could’ve led with literally anything else…”
But Satoru’s attention is already drifting, sweeping the halls without really turning his head. This place is all muscle memory now. He could walk it blind. He knows every floorboard, every creak.
He’s bled in these corridors—trained, limped, laughed barefoot with split knuckles and scraped knees. He’s thrown punches, broken rules, kissed a girl for the first time just past the east wing when he was still dumb enough to think that means something.
And that’s the thing. He doesn’t hate the Gojo estate. Not when it’s empty. Not when it’s quiet. But tonight, it’s anything but—it doesn’t belong to him right now.
It belongs to them.
Shifting closer, Yuji’s shoulders tense, gaze flickering—not quite shrinking, but unsure. He knows he doesn’t belong, and he’s just now realizing how many eyes are on him.
Satoru glances sidelong at him, catching the flicker of discomfort.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Yuji’s eye. A slow, casual smirk curls at his lips. “I wanted you here,” he says simply, like it costs him nothing. “Relax. They can fuck off.”
Yuji blinks at him, uncertain. “You’re not worried?”
“About them?” Satoru scoffs, shaking off the thought entirely. “Please. They’ve been giving me dirty looks since I learned how to walk. You think I give a shit what they think now?”
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Megumi’s voice trails from behind. “I think you managed to piss off half the room, and we just got here.”
Satoru hums, pleased. “Off to a good start, then.”
As they round the corner, the corridor widens—washed in warm lamplight, paper lanterns strung overhead like soft stars. The ceiling arches high, beams lacquered and dark with age, polished to a quiet shine. Satoru remembers tracing them as a kid, flat on his back after getting knocked on his ass. Sparring with Suguru. Laughing through the bruises.
Now, guests linger in quiet clusters, murmurs woven through the hush. Silk hems whisper across tatami. And just ahead, the ceremonial platform waits—elevated like a stage, dressed in folds of indigo and silver. Scrolls line the walls in sharp calligraphy. But it’s just dead men’s words. Legacy bullshit.
At the center, a single katana rests on black lacquer, gleaming under the lights. And there it is: two cushions sitting beneath it.
Right. Two.
Satoru steps up without pause, dropping onto his cushion with a pointed exhale. One knee bends, arm draped over it. His sleeves settle in loose, elegant folds—like he couldn’t be bothered to care, like this platform’s just another bench in Shibuya Station.
A throne he never asked for. So fuck it—if they’re going to put him here, he’ll make sure they choke on the view.
Yuji lingers at the bottom of the step���gaze drifting, distracted. Then, stopping, something catches his attention. Or rather, someone.
“Eh?!” he blurts, face lighting up. “Nanamin~!”
Heads turn at once—a few elders visibly stiffening from the outburst. One exhales sharply, another murmurs beneath their breath.
Across the room, Nanami Kento straightens in his seat, blinking like he’s already exhausted. Shoko, seated lazily beside him, lifts two fingers in a languid wave, unfazed.
“Yo!!” Yuji waves both arms like he’s hailing a taxi, practically glowing. “Na-na-min!! Na-na-min!! Over here!!”
Rolling his eyes, Megumi delivers a quick smack to the back of Yuji’s head.
“Oi. Inside voices, idiot.”
“Ow!” Yuji winces, rubbing the spot. “Rude!”
But Satoru only chuckles, cheek resting against his palm—watching Yuji bound across the floor with all the grace of a golden retriever. He makes his way towards both sorcerers as Megumi follows behind, and the elders start whispering again.
Eh. Let ‘em. He’s stopped caring a long time ago.
But then—something shifts in the room, murmurs bending, redirecting. One by one, heads turn. Not toward Yuji, nor towards him, but towards the entrance—landing on a figure stepping into view, directly beside an elder woman in plum silk.
You.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Your steps are measured, your breath careful, but your heart won’t cooperate. It stutters, hummingbird-fast beneath the layered weight of your formalwear as you follow your mother into the hall.
But damnit, it’s not the room that makes you nervous.
It’s him.
His eyes lift, glacier-blue and impossibly clear. And for a moment, that sharp, unreadable stare softens, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—subtle, slow. Like he knows something you don’t. And maybe he does.
Because the moment your eyes meet his, heat blooms beneath your skin. It coils up your spine, floods your chest, burns in your cheeks. Like dry kindling catching flame. Like a dirty secret you can’t ignore.
Your body—your treacherous, filthy body—remembers everything. Too fucking well. God. Who even are you? Thinking such things. Here?? Now?!
He’s just sitting there, and your mind is dragging you back to the villa—laying under him in your unraveled kimono, pretty blue eyes watching you, lips whispering filth. He read your body like a fucking scripture. And worse—
Your dream. That fucking wet dream.
A rustle of silk breaks your spiral, and suddenly—
Thwack!
Jolting forward, you gasp as your mother’s hand clamps firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into a deep bow before the platform.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, voice tight and low. “Do not stand there gawking like a child.”
Flushed with embarrassment, you dip lower—automatically, like a switch had been flipped. Hands fold neatly over your lap, forehead hovering just above the tatami. You’re molten with shame and still shamefully warm in other places.
Wonderful.
First the dream, now this. What’s next—toppling into the ceremonial blade? A full descent into disgrace? Honestly, being swallowed by the floor wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Get it together.
Be poised. Be graceful. Good.
Inhaling, you peek up through the veil of your lashes, and of course—he’s watching. A lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, quiet and sure.
“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he drawls, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”
Goddamn him.
Your mother’s glare is burning into the side of your skull, and so, you move. Carefully. Rising from your bow, stepping onto the platform with quiet precision. As you watch your mother drift back towards the elders, her presence fades like incense—but the heat in your chest doesn’t. Especially not when Satoru leans in, close enough to stir the fine hairs at your nape.
“Made quite the entrance,” he murmurs.
You exhale through your nose. “That obvious, huh?”
“Eh, it’s fine,” he shrugs, voice dipping low, curling at the edges. “Afterall… a lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, right?”
Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, drawn to his like a thread pulled taut. Those shimmering blue eyes meet yours—bright, unreadable—a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Déjà vu.
Those words pull up memories like water from a well: his ascension, his 18th birthday—the night you first met, pulling you up from disgrace without blinking. You hadn’t known what to make of him then. You still don’t. But this time, the seat beside him isn’t offered as a favor. It’s yours. And that is what terrifies you most.
“I… shouldn’t have hesitated,” you whisper. “I can’t believe I forgot to bow…”
He clicks his tongue, mockingly gentle. “You really think I give a shit whether you bowed or not?”
You blink, startled.
“All this performance,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, “makes me want to claw my own fuckin’ eyes out.”
A small breath huffs from your nose—reluctant amusement warming you from the inside out. Because he doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds bored. Comfortable, even. Like none of this means anything at all. And for a moment, that loosens something in you. Your shoulders fall just slightly. Your heartbeat slows.
“If you lost those eyes,” you whisper, lips twitching, “they’d probably call it a national emergency…”
He scoffs. “Please. They’d just stuff me in a box and mourn the waste. Whispering prayers to what could’ve been.”
You giggle before you can stop yourself—an actual giggle, bubbling in your throat. It doesn’t belong in a room so silent and serious, and Satoru’s grin spreads instantly, smug with satisfaction.
Though just as warmth starts to bloom in your chest, your gaze strays.
Across the room, your mother sits poised, chin lifted, hands resting just so atop her knees. Her eyes are on you. Steady. Judgmental. And like that, your smile dims. Your hands return to your lap, fingers folding neatly—that old pressure settling heavy in your lungs again.
“…still,” you murmur, “I should’ve bowed. I’m to be your wife. I should carry myself with… grace.”
Satoru hums. “Grace, huh?” When you glance at him, his eyes are already on you. The blue of them softer now. Curious. “You don’t need to try for that, sweetheart. You’ve already got it. Beauty. Poise. The kind of elegance they spend their whole fucking lives faking.”
Blinking, you’re startled. Not just by the compliment but the way he says it. Like he means it. But just as a heat prickles up the base of your neck, he’s shifting, leaning in closer.
“But…” he whispers, voice dipping into something dark and amused, “if I’m being honest… you looked real fuckin’ pretty down there on your knees. M’sure I can think of a much better reason to put you there.”
You choke on air—something between a gasp and a whimper as your legs push together. He smirks immediately, and you’re blinking, glancing toward the elders, toward your mother.
They’re watching.
“I… um. I—” you start, but nothing coherent follows. Satoru’s voice is curling around you like smoke. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” Then, glancing at your mother again, you see her shift. Watching. Always watching. “I’m… not,” you whisper, eyes fixing forward.
“Mmm.” His voice dips, smile sharpening. “You are.”
Drawing in a breath, you try to steady the riot in your chest—trying to focus on the hum of mingling conversation, the scent of incense. Literally, anything but the man beside you.
“…it’s just… hot,” you mumble. And his chuckle is low and dangerous. You feel it. Not just in your ears, but under your skin. “Aw… don’t be shy,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear now. “You were a lot louder at the villa, baby.”
Your head jerks slightly. “S-Satoru—” you hiss, mortified.
But he’s already looking away, perfectly unbothered, grinning smugly. His eyes are half-lidded, watching guests mingle and bow in front of you, and his hand rests across one knee, fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. Relaxed, elegant—like he has all the time in the world.
Though his voice is wicked.
“Those pretty little gasps,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, “moaning my name like a good girl…” Your skin burns. “…all wet for me, yeah? So needy. So fuckin’ sweet.”
Your stomach flips. Your vision swims. The crowd moves like a dream around you—elders offering bows, dignitaries gliding in. And your mother—Still. Fucking. Watching.
Do they know?
Leaning in again, his breath tickles your ear.
“Though… next time,” he whispers, “I want that pretty little cunt in my mouth. Want you drippin’ for me. Want you shaking when you cum.”
You snap. “J-Just… shut up!” and the words are out before you even hear them leave you, making your blood run cold.
Because you said it. You told him—Satoru fucking Gojo—to shut up. The strongest sorcerer alive. The head of your clan. The man your entire life now orbitally depends on. You’ve never dared speak like that to anyone. Not your instructors. Not your elders. Certainly not to someone like him.
Eyes wide, panic swells in your chest.
“I mean—” you scramble, desperate to rewind. “I didn’t—um—I wasn’t—” But he’s fully looking at you now, already grinning. Slowly. Like a cat catching a bird mid-flutter. “Whoa,” he drawls, sounding delighted. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”
Yup. You want the floor to swallow you whole. No—burn you alive first, then bury the ashes beneath the floorboards. You want to disappear completely. Maybe reincarnate as a koi in the garden pond. Something small. Quiet. Unseen. Unhumiliated.
“I-I didn’t mean it like—” but he’s leaning in before you can finish, knuckle brushing your cheek in a touch far too soft for how much heat it sparks beneath your skin. “Mmm…” His eyes flick to your mouth—brief, but enough. “And here I thought you were the perfect little girl. The perfect little wife,” he muses, slow and silken. “Maybe I ought to punish you for that. Hm?”
Your breath stalls.
Because he says it like it’s a joke—but it lands like it’s half a threat, half a promise, and somehow, entirely an invitation. And the worst part? Your mind skips ahead before you can stop it, imagining exactly what kind of punishment he means.
No. Nope. Not today. Not when your thoughts are betraying you so loudly, you’re half-convinced he can hear them. You’re in formalwear. Surrounded by elders. With your mother somewhere in the crowd, probably chanting clan law in her head like a fucking Buddhist mantra.
“Ahem,” a throat clears—sharp, judgmental. “Gojo-sama,” an elder approaches.
Oh god. No. Someone heard. Everyone probably heard. You’re going to die here. Combust in real time. As panic swirls in your eyes, Satoru deflates, huffing an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling as a stiff man draped in a stone gray kimono towers over you.
“Mm?” he hums, reclining back slightly. “What is it now?”
“There are those present,” the elder continues, tone brittle, “who feel certain guests might cast… an unfortunate shadow over the ceremony.”
You blink, confused, glancing toward the back of the hall where the elder’s gaze lands on a young boy with pink hair. So… it’s not about you.?
“And?”
Satoru’s expression is eerily cold, and the elder’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. A weapon. The boy’s presence is dangerous—insulting, even. You’ve seated him in a place of honor and—”
“That vessel,” Satoru cuts, “has a name. And I invited him.”
“With respect—”
“Oh, don’t bother.” He scoffs, rising to his feet with slow, liquid grace. “You people keep saying that like you mean it.”
Before you can move or think or brace yourself, his fingers are curling around your wrist—pulling you smoothly to your feet beside him.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, already guiding you away from the dais, towards the estate’s garden. “We’re done here.”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Stepping into the garden feels like slipping into a dream—your sandals clicking lightly along the stone path as Satoru pulls you through lantern-lit trees and hedges glazed with moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime stirs in the breeze, delicate as breath.
The world feels hushed. As you approach the pond glimmering ahead, koi ripple through the water in lazy spirals, their pale scales flashing like ghost light beneath the surface.
Satoru is dragging you insistently, fingers wrapped around your wrist, loose but unwavering. And though you barely know this man, it’s obvious there’s something simmering beneath that silence. Something sharp.
“Um… Satoru…?” you murmur, uncertain.
“Mm?”
“Are you… okay?”
“Yup,” he trudges forward, eyes ahead. “M’fine.”
“Oh… alright.”
But he doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s trying not to snap. Not angry exactly—just… shut down. Like he’s closed a door inside himself, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Still, he doesn’t let go. Trailing behind—cherry blossom petals drift through the air like fallen wishes as he leads you to a wooden bench—nestled beside the pond’s edge, encompassed by flowering branches.
“Right then…” he sighs, dropping onto the bench. “Where were we?” And you stumble as he’s pulling you directly into his lap, catching yourself on his shoulders. “S-Satoru—!” he grins, “Shhh…”
And that’s the only warning you get. Because then he’s kissing you.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all heat and breath and teeth, like something’s been splintering in his chest all night, and he’s trying to silence the whole fucking world with the shape of your mouth.
“Mnh…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his hand slides low, gripping your ass, yanking you flush to his thigh. “’t-toru…” you whine as he forces you down onto the hard muscle of his leg, right against your wet, aching cunt.
“Fuck,” he groans, panting between each messy kiss. “There’s my little slut…” he palms your ass, squeezes your tit. “Mnh… tellin’ me to shut up in front of all those fuckin’ people…”
As his lips trail down your jaw, you whimper—shuddering. Your body begins. to move on its own.
“O-oh… fuck,” you whisper a moan, hips stuttering, rutting softly, shamefully against him. That delicious friction is too much and not enough, and you feel Satoru’s lips curl against your neck, grinning. “S’wrong, baby?” he croons, rocking your hips harder, the bench creaking beneath you. “Can’t help yourself?”
And God, you can’t. You don’t even recognize your own body. Everything is heat. Everything is him. He palms your ass with both hands now, guiding your hips with filthy easy, and you can feel it—your slick spreading, warm and messy, soaking through your delicate silk with every shameless roll of your hips.
“God, look at you…” he hisses, leaning back to watch, blue eyes hooded, glowing in the moonlight, “—so fuckin’ wet. So needy. This pussy’s soakin’ through your pretty little kimono.”
You choke on a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. Like it might muffle the shame—the filthy sounds of your own body. But nothing hides the mess between your legs. He’s right. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.
“F-Fuck… m’sorry…” you whine, cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. “Sorry?” he huffs a breathless laugh. “Shit… you’re not sorry. S’okay baby,” he purrs, rocking you again. “I know you wanted this. Little pussy missed me, hm?”
Fingers twisting into his hair, you nod—tugging, anchoring yourself. Honestly, you’re not sure if it’s shame or truth that’s guiding you anymore. “I want—” your voice cracks, words tangling, grinding down again, the sensation almost too much. “I want… I—fuck—”
“Hm?” he pants, nosing along your jaw, cocky and breathless. “Speak up, sweetheart. What do you want?”
The garden is too quiet. The moonlight too soft. The breeze shifts through the trees, rustling branches above you, and the soft ring of the wind chime cuts like a bell through fog. It all feels wrong for what’s spilling out of you—for how filthy you feel, how good you feel.
“Want you…” you whine, face burning, lashes fluttering shut. “Dreamt about you fucking me… woke up so wet.”
You don’t even know how you’re still speaking, but the words are tumbling out of your mouth while your hips move. As your pour out your filthy truth, a shameful slick drips from your cunt down the sharp line of his leg. You feel Satoru tense underneath you.
“Fuuuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “Bad fuckin’ girl,” and you squeal as he’s suddenly lifting you like you’re nothing, repositioning, pulling you down onto the thick, swollen ridge of his cock, tenting beneath his robes. “There,” he mutters, breath ragged, rolling you against it, “That what you wanted?”
You nod, moaning again, hips already moving, cunt grinding slowly over the shape of him. Even through the silk, you can feel everything. The size. The heat. The pulse. He’s panting against your lips, vibrant blue eyes lidded, soft white hair slipping through your fingers as you eagerly roll needy circles over his length.
“I’ve been fuckin’ hard all day,” he growls, dick leaking at the tip, twitching, wetting the fabric right against your cunt. “Had to fuck my fist this mornin’, thinkin’ about pounding your sweet little pussy…”
His mouth is on yours again—teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue swallowing your whimper as you continue to rock insistently. The kiss is filthy. Frantic. He spreads your thighs wider, grinding you down. Harder, deeper—cock throbbing beneath you, soaked with your slick, straining for friction. You’re right there; body flushed, rhythm building. But then—
Crunch
Footsteps on the gravel. The sound doesn’t register until the breeze stops. Until the wind chime stills. Until every nerve in your body suddenly goes entirely fucking cold.
“Oi!” You freeze. Everything freezes. “There you are. The elders are wondering where you—”
As your head slowly turns, you catch sight of a young boy with black hair, backlit by the faint lantern glow. Your eyes meet, and he blinks—seeing you, perched on Satoru’s lap, kimono askew, hitched around your waist, slick dripping down your thighs while his cock is under you. Somewhere in the distance, a koi splashes lazily in the pond, completely unbothered by your descent into personal hell.
“Oh…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Oh fuck.”
You feel your face turn fever-hot, and burying yourself forward, a strangled whimper escapes you, muffled in Satoru’s neck. Yup. You want to disappear. But Satoru just exhales, exhausted, head falling back against the bench.
“Megumi,” he says flatly. “…what the actual fuck.”
“W-What?” Megumi clears his throat, face visibly blanking. “I—” He blinks hard. Swallows. Then abruptly turns on his heel. “I didn’t see anything!” his voice cracks, already retreating. “Nope. Nothing. Not a thing.”
“Please, kill me…” you whimper again, but Satoru huffs. “Tch. I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbles, slumping back against the bench. His hand drags down his face. “Swear to fuckin’ god… this kid’s got a sixth sense for cockblocking.”
“Um… huh?” you peek up, still dazed.
But Megumi’s voice is already fading down the path. “For the record, Nanami sent me!” he shouts. “If you’re gonna kill someone, start with him!” And just like that, he’s gone.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Yo!! There you are!” Yuji’s voice rings out the second you and Satoru round the bend, loud and bright as he throws both hands in the air. “We were about to send a search party!”
You follow after Satoru, half a step behind, eyes flicking to him in quiet search. Maybe for a smile. A glance. Some thread of reassurance to hold onto. But he gives you nothing—just keeps walking, calm and composed, like you’re not unraveling quietly beside him.
“Mmm… Megumi beat you to it,” he hums, nodding toward the boy in question as you approach the group. You feel it before you even look—Megumi goes stiff like he’s just been yanked into a spotlight, his shoulders pulling tight.
“Huh?” Yuji turns, blinking at him. “You didn’t mention finding them.”
“I didn’t find anything,” Megumi mutters, clipped and quick—the tips of his ears blooming red. But Satoru just clicks his tongue and grins.
“Didn’t find anything, huh? Funny. Your face said otherwise.”
Scoffing, Megumi turns away sharply, already done with this conversation, while Yuji blinks between them, still trying to piece it together.
“Wait—what?”
“Ahhh… I see. That why you looked like you saw a ghost, Fushiguro?” a new voice chimes in as Shoko exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. “Makes sense now. You were white as a sheet,” she hums, ash tapping into a nearby tray.
“Can we not,” Megumi grumbles, glaring at a spot on the wall like he can will it to swallow him whole.
You get it. God, do you get it.
Megumi hasn’t looked at you once. Won’t even acknowledge you—and maybe that should make things easier. Maybe it’s a kindness. But still… something inside you prickles. Like if someone were painting this moment, you wouldn’t be in the frame. Just a blur in the background—a misplaced brushstroke someone meant to wipe away. Because the group is moving in sync around you—falling into a rhythm; a rhythm without you.
“Awww, that bad?” Satoru hums, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Reminds me of Sapporo.”
Megumi stiffens. “Don’t.” But Satoru’s already grinning, eyes lit with mischief.
“Oh, come on,” he drawls. “That curse with the split-face, in the middle of a snowstorm, remember? You tried to give it directions—”
“Oh my god,” Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you sometimes.”
Yuji perks up like he’s just been handed popcorn. “Wait, what? What happened in Sapporo?”
“It was beautiful,” Satoru deadpans, mock-serious. “Megumi thought the curse was just some lost old man. Actually bowed to it.”
Megumi snaps. “I was trying to be polite.”
“Ahhh… I remember now,” Shoko adds with a drag of her cigarette. “You were pale for a week.”
Yuji’s eyes widen. “Seriously?!”
“You should’ve seen his face when it hissed at him,” Satoru snickers. “I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot.”
They’re all laughing now, but you’re still sitting on the outside. Because they know each other—really know each other. There’s a shared language here; shorthand glances and stories etched into muscle memory. But you? You can’t fake your way into that.
Without thinking, you drift a little closer, just enough to feel the illusion of proximity. Maybe you’re hoping for Satoru to ground you. Introduce you. Anything. A gesture. A glance. A sign that you’re not entirely invisible to him.
But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t reach for you.
“If this comedy set is over,” Nanami sighs dryly, adjusting the sleeves of his kimono, “I’d like to suggest we return to the schedule.”
“Aww, don’t be like that, Nanamin.” Satoru tips back on his heels, grin curling. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of the elders. You sure you’re not secretly fifty?”
“At least I act my age,” Nanami deadpans.
Satoru scoffs, teeth flashing. “Can’t all be born with a stick up our ass, huh?” Then he turns toward Shoko, mock concern softening his voice. “Might need to get a medic to check that. You still licensed?”
She exhales, bored. “Only if it’s for your ego.”
They laugh again. You try to smile, to stay present, but it’s like watching the world through a window you’re not allowed to open. Their rhythm is effortless. You don’t even know the tempo.
Should you say something? Laugh along with them? Introduce yourself? Satoru hasn’t even spared you a glance. And though you’ve been trained your whole life to show up perfect, polished, gracious—there’s a difference between knowing how to perform and knowing where you belong.
And right now, you don’t belong.
Until Shoko’s eyes cut to you. Then back to Satoru.
“Uh… you gonna introduce us?” she murmurs, smoke curling from her mouth. “Or should we keep pretending we didn’t all clock the lipstick on your neck?”
The words hit like a slap—snapping you out of your haze before you even realize it. Because suddenly, you’re not invisible.
All eyes shift.
You’re not sure if you want to laugh or crawl under the nearest tatami mat. Shifting subtly, you straighten your kimono, tugging at the hem like it can somehow undo the fact that Satoru Gojo just made you grind your dripping cunt on his lap under the moonlight.
But Satoru just casually wipes his neck, lazily smearing the lipstick away with the pad of his thumb. “I was getting there…” he hums, rolling his shoulders. “This is…” he pauses, gesturing vaguely in your direction.
You glance up, confused. His grin is hitching, and though he’s finally looking at you again, why does it seem like he’s…
Hesitating?
“Uh…” he blinks, looking away from you and shrugging. “Her.”
Her?
Your stomach sinks. Heat creeps up your neck.
What does that even mean?
The silence stretches a second too long—enough for it to sting.
Nanami raises a brow. “…her?”
“Uhh… yeah?” Satoru clicks his tongue, like that’s clarification enough. “You know.”
More silence.
Finally, he huffs. “Jesus, the one who—”
“His wife!” Yuji cuts in brightly, grinning at you like you’re already one of them.
You blink, caught off guard by this boy now beaming at you—all wide-eyed sincerity, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s something so disarmingly genuine in the way he says it. The tightness in your chest loosens, and the nerves that were building low in your stomach begin to simmer away.
“Well—technically, future wife,” Yuji amends with a sheepish grin, arms folding behind his head like it’s no big deal.
“Right,” Satoru mutters beside you, jaw ticking. “Guess that’s the word we’re using now…”
You shift, startled by the way it’s said. Glancing at him, he doesn’t meet your eye, but before you can sit with the sting of it, Yuji is already pulling your attention back to him. “
“I’m Itadori Yuji, by the way!” he beams, all sunshine. “It’s super nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You bow, instinctive and polite, still trying to catch up with the feeling that’s been curling in your gut—but Yuji isn’t finished. “You’re really pretty, by the way!”
Blinking, a surprised smile tugs at your lips. This boy says it so plainly, so innocently, it catches you off guard.
“Oh—um… thank you?”
“Sure thing!” he nods, then adds seriously, “I mean—not that I thought you’d be ugly or anything, just—"
“Okaaaay…” Megumi interjects, already regretting the entire direction of the conversation. “We get it, Itadori.”
You glance Megumi’s way, half-expecting him to look annoyed, or maybe still mortified from earlier—but his arms are crossed and his expression is just… guarded, not unfriendly. Just Megumi.
“Name’s Fushiguro,” he says, giving a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” The words come easier now. There’s a pause, a breath of quiet that—for once—doesn’t feel strained. Yuji tips his head, eyes curious. “Y’know… you’ve got a calm, almost graceful presence. It’s kinda… grounding?”
“Oh?” you tilt your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Definitely good,” he replies without hesitation. “You seem like the type who’ll balance Gojo out.”
You smile, and for a moment, you don’t feel like a stranger. You feel… included. Until Satoru cuts in.
“Kay. Cool,” he says, coldly. “Glad everyone’s caught up. We done?”
It’s tossed out like a joke—but it doesn’t land like one. It lands with the dull thud of something meant to bruise. Glancing over, you see he’s already looking away, as if the moment wasn’t meant to include you at all. As if your presence is just something to get past.
Shoko raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Ignore him,” she exhales. “I’m Shoko. I do most of the patchwork when Satoru gets his dumb ass injured.”
He rolls his eyes. “Once. That happened one time.”
“Twice,” Nanami interjects mildly. “And you nearly bled out the second time.”
Satoru scoffs. “I healed myself that time.” But Nanami doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turns to you, dipping his head with calm precision.
“Kento Nanami. A pleasure.” You bow, a bit deeper this time. “Likewise. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Nanami straightens, and for a second, you think that’s all. But then his gaze flicks briefly to Satoru, who’s practically glaring, staring ahead—annoyed. Then Nanami’s eyes drag back to you.
“He’s a difficult man,” he states, matter-of-factly.
“Dude,” Satoru mutters. “I’m standing right here.”
“That you are.”
“Y’know I can hear you, yeah?”
“Yup. You were meant to.”
Glancing between them, you’re not quite sure if they’re joking or actually irritated with each other. It’s hard to tell. Because the mood has shifted again—warmer around the others, colder beside Satoru. There’s something else behind his smile now. Not amusement. Not ease. Something… distant.
“So…” Shoko drawls, attention shifting to you as she exhales another lazy plume of smoke. “You from one of the Kyoto clans?”
“Yes,” you nod, and despite everything, there’s a quiet thread of pride in your voice. “My family served in the western region for generations, mostly specializing in—”
“Excuse me.”
You blink—body stiffening instantly. The interruption is soft, but cutting. It silences you mid-sentence. And at the edge of the group, your mother steps into view. Elegant as ever in her perfectly pressed kimono. Not a single strand of hair out of place.
“Apologies, Gojo-sama,” she murmurs with a delicate bow. “I hope I’m not… interrupting.”
“Mm?” Satoru glances at her, then flicks his fingers lazily through the air. “S’fine,” he hums, as if it doesn’t matter either way. His gaze doesn’t follow you. Not once. And as your mother turns to you next, your stomach immediately drops.
“May I have a word?”
It’s not really a question.
You nod, feet already moving—trailing after her with the kind of obedience that was taught to you before you were ever allowed to speak your own name. The warmth you’d been tentatively gathering seems to drain from your chest instantly, bleeding out of you like ink in water. Because as the circle closes behind you, following her away—it’s like… you were never really part of it to begin with.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” your mother begins, low, clipped, “that your appearance reflects not just on yourself—but on your family. On me.”
Behind her shoulder, the group still lingers in a loose semi-circle—smiling, relaxed, unreachable. A world you crave. A world where they belong. Satoru’s laughing at something Shoko says—head tipped back, fingers raking through his hair like the last twenty minutes never happened.
“They’re all watching,” she continues, scanning the room for witnesses, not even sparing you a glance. “And this is how you present yourself?”
“I…” you start, lips parting—but the words never quite come.
Because it did happen. Right? You’re so confused. You remember every second; his hands on your hips, his mouth on your skin, dragging you against him like he wanted you, needed you. And yet, here he is—making you feel like none of that meant anything. Like the second you stepped into his real world, the spell broke.
“Look at you,” your mother cuts back, finally turning that sharp, assessing gaze onto you. “Your lipstick is smudged. Your collar’s uneven. Your obi…” she clicks her tongue. “What were you doing?”
Your gaze snaps back at that question, eyes widening.
What were you doing?
You open your mouth to respond but, what the fuck are you supposed to say? That he touched you? That you let him? That you wanted it to mean something?
“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your place?” her eyes are sharp but her voice is maddeningly calm. “And you walk in here looking like you’ve just rolled out of someone’s bed. Like you’re begging to be replaced.”
Replaced.
The word lands like a slap. You blink, but the burn behind your eyes rises too quickly, no matter how tightly you try to hold it back. Your mother’s lectures are nothing new, but this one? It pulls at something that’s already been festering in your chest since after you left the garden with Satoru. No. Maybe even before. Perhaps since the villa.
Does he truly want you?
The moments you’ve shared, has he moved past them? Was it just heat and impulse? Maybe you were never anything more than a passing indulgence.
Just over your mother’s shoulder, you catch a last glimpse of his white hair before a wave of guests shuffle between you, blocking your view completely. You lose sight of him. And with it, any illusion of being tethered.
“I asked you a question.”
Your mother’s voice slices through your spiral like a blade. Blinking hard, you will the tears to not fall.
“W-What?”
She sighs. “Are you even listening?”
“I-I am,” you rush out, voice thinner than you want it to be. “I just… I’m sorry mother. I didn’t realize my appearance was that bad.”
Her gaze flattens, disappointed. “Didn’t realize,” she echoes, like the words offend her. “That’s not good enough.”
You try to hold her stare, but everything in you feels like it’s caving inward. You want to disappear. You want her to stop. You want to cry, but damnit, you know better.
“This world won’t make room for uncertainty,” she continues. “Not for someone standing beside him. If you look fragile, they’ll use it. If you look lost, they’ll pick you apart. You give them even an inch of doubt—” she narrows her eyes, “they’ll rip you to pieces.”
You swallow hard, gaze flicking to the crowd again, searching for his face. But he’s gone. Though you can’t get the sound of his laughter out of your head—a joy that you didn’t bring him.
“They are watching,” your mother murmurs, stepping in closer, voice lowering. “They’re whispering. Wondering what kind of girl the Gojo clan allowed through their gates.”
You don’t realize you’ve dropped your eyes until her hand lifts your chin—gentle, but firm. The way she’s always done. Like control dressed up as care.
“You want their respect?” her eyes narrow. “Then look like someone worth respecting. The Gojo name already eclipses your own. Don’t give them more reason to ask why you’re wearing it at all. The very least you can do is look like you belong.”
Belong.
You don’t even know what that means anymore.
Not when the people behind her were laughing like you’re not there. Not when Satoru won’t look at you. Not when your mother’s voice makes your chest feel hollow. Not when every inch of you feels like it’s wearing something borrowed.
“Go. Clean yourself up.”
Barely trusting your voice, you nod, shifting toward the estate’s restroom.
“Fix your collar,” she adds, turning slightly. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face.”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
‘Hold your stance, my little crane. Even when you feel small. Especially then.’
Hearing your father’s voice echo in your mind, the burn behind your eyes sharpens. Don’t cry. Damnit. Don’t cry.
You can’t. Not here.
You just need a second. A moment alone. To gather yourself—pull all the unraveling parts back into something whole. Something worthy. The shape of a girl who belongs.
So, you’ll do just that. You’ll fix your collar. Reapply your lipstick. Walk back with your chin high, like none of it touched you. Like you deserve to stand beside Gojo Satoru and not shrink in his shadow.
Slipping down the hallway, your steps brisk. The paper screens cast soft shadows against the wooden floors, muffling the noise from the party behind you. As you reach the bathroom’s sliding door, it’s barely cracked, and without thinking to knock, you immediately slide it open and enter.
But your eyes blink as you see two figures, seated at the lacquered bench in the bathing room. At first, all you see is silk. Fabric gathered over pale skin. A shoulder bare where it shouldn’t be. The gentle creak of a bench as someone shifts. A low, languid sigh.
But then—white hair.
Satoru.
A girl is straddling him, her kimono hiked high along her thighs, her chest pressed against his. One hand in his hair. The other curled loosely around his shoulder.
“Mnh… missed you…” she’s murmuring between kisses. “You always make me wait too long…” and you hear his satisfied hum against her lips before breaking it. His hand slides slowly up the back of her thigh, fingers splayed. “You like it when I make you wait,” he breathes, lips grazing hers—teasing, not quite touching.
Giggling, her mouth chases his again. “I like it more when you follow through,” she whispers, hips shifting as she rolls into his lap in a slow, practiced grind. “C’mon, Gojo…” she whines, “don’t you ever miss me?”
He huffs—half-laugh, half-sigh—eyes still closed. “Miss your timing…” he mutters, the curve of a smirk playing at his lips. “You always know when to crawl into my lap.”
“Mmh, asshole,” she breathes, catching his mouth again—sloppier this time. Hungrier. “You never called me back…” she pouts, tugging his hair between kisses. “Thought maybe you forgot about me…”
“Been busy,” he murmurs, muffled between kisses, hands tightening along her waist. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”
You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The air in your lungs lock up.
Because for a second, you think you must be mistaken. That this can’t be real. That your eyes are lying. That this is some sick trick of the lighting, the stress, the way your stomach’s been twisted into knots since you left the garden.
But no. It’s him. It’s her. It’s his hand curling over her thigh the same way it held your waist not even an hour ago. Satoru’s mouth finds hers with slow, practiced rhythm, and when he exhales against her skin, you feel it like a slap.
Not noticing you, she shifts in his lap, kissing down the line of his jaw, whispering something in his ear that makes him huff out a small, amused breath. His eyes open, heavy-lidded at first, then wider—startled.
Because now, he sees you.
Standing there in the doorway like an idiot—like some ghost caught between floors—here, at your fucking engagement ceremony. Still wearing the lipstick he smudged. Still tasting him on your tongue.
He’s blinking at you like he’s unsure you’re real, not moving, not stopping the girl as she continues to kiss the place where your mouth had just been.
“You’re so tense, baby…” she purrs, grinding slowly into him. “Need me to relax you?”
God, you want to run away.
The edge of your heel catches the corner of a decorative vase, perched on a stand beside the door. It wobbles, then—
Crash!
The ceramic splatters against the floor, immediately getting the girls’ attention, slicing through the room like a whip. She startles, glancing over her shoulder, lips pink and flushed, hair falling loose from her pin.
“Oh,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand down her skirt. “Shit—um, sorry. Did we forget to lock the door?”
You’re not sure who breaks first—your voice, or your heart.
“…I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves you. Like it’s you’re mistake. Like you’re the one intruding—you’re the one who doesn’t belong. Shifting, your eyes glance to the mirror, catching the way your lipstick’s smeared, the way your collars still crooked.
“Was just going to fix this…” you murmur, brushing at your mouth like it matters. Then a bitter laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, “…didn’t realize it had already been replaced.”
You feel so fucking stupid. So fucking naïve.
Satoru is looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s caused, but you refuse to look at him. The girl on his lap blinks, putting the pieces together.
“Wait… is she—?” she starts, glancing back at Satoru, confused, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Shit—um, is this—?”
“Hey. I—” he starts, ignoring her, sitting up straighter—but whatever he means to say dies on his tongue. Because you’re already backing away.
“I…uh… just needed a minute to breathe,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “Not to walk in and lose everything.”
Gripping the edge of the doorframe, you catch a glimpse of his brows knitting together, but you don’t wait for whatever comes next.
You’re already gone.
Because if you don’t get away now, you’ll fall apart in the middle of the hallway. And if there’s anything your mother taught you—it’s that you don’t let them see you fall.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
You don’t even feel your feet beneath you. Just grass brushing your ankles. The soft hush of wind threading through bamboo. You blink, not even remembering walking here, only remembering that the hallway swallowed you whole and your legs moved on their own, carrying you deeper into silence until it opened into starlight.
The garden.
Of course, it’s the garden—spilling out in front of you like a memory you weren’t ready to return to. You never chose this path, and yet… here you are. The one place you’d felt wanted tonight. The one place that now feels tainted.
The koi pond shimmers under the low lantern light, its surface undisturbed. Serene. Like it doesn’t remember how he kissed you here. Koi are sliding beneath the surface—flashes of copper and cream, rippling the water slightly.
Collapsing to your knees, you drop beside the pond’s edge, and looking down, your own reflection waves through their movements.
A mess.
Red-rimmed eyes. Your hair a disarray. Crooked collar. Lipstick smeared across your cheek like a fucking brand. A girl trying too hard to look like someone worth choosing.
‘You know why koi are special, little crane? Because they swim against the current. They never stop, no matter how long the river runs against them.’
Your father.
You used to love that story. Because while your mother’s discipline was perfection, his was protection. If you held your ground, no one could move you. But here you are. On the ground. Shaking. And though you did everything he said—still, you weren’t enough. Because, how could he abandon your mother? Abandon you? You’ll never be enough. Not for him, not for your mother, not for Satoru.
With trembling hands, you cover your mouth, but the sound pushes out anyway—soft, ugly, raw.
You cry like a child who never measured up. Like a girl who waited for her father to come home. Like a girl who was told to carry legacy on her back and make it look effortless. You cry for the silence you endured. For the weight of being perfect. For the softness he kissed and discarded like it didn’t matter.
For the fact that, deep down,you don’t even know who you are without trying to be what everyone wants.
The sound of footsteps doesn’t register at first. Just the soft press of soles against grass, slow and careful, stepping around you slowly. You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But the hem of her kimono drifts into view—embroidered cranes glinting gold in the lantern light, silk so pristine it seems untouched by the night.
She stops just across from you, and for a long moment, you stare at her feet. At the way her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs before folding neatly in her lap.
“What’s wrong?” your mother asks softly.
It’s such a simple question. And it destroys you. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might hold it in—but the tears keep spilling. Quiet, stubborn, relentless.
Though much to your surprise, she doesn’t scold. Doesn’t press her lips thin or huff with disappointment. She just watches. And then, without a word, she’s reaching forward—fixing the edge of your collar with gentle fingers, straightening the fabric, brushing a smudge from your cheek with her thumb. A small breath leaves her.
“…did he hurt you?”
Lips trembling, you nod. Just once. There’s a long pause—her gaze shifting to the pond beside you; watching the koi slide beneath the surface, silent ribbons of color weaving through dark water.
“I see…” she murmurs. “What happened?”
Where do you even begin? And how much should you really tell her?
“I… was just going to fix my lipstick,” the words come out thin and unsteady. You try to laugh, but it buckles halfway, folding into a sob. “God—I was so stupid,” and finally looking up, you blink past the blur of tears. “He looked me in the eye and let her keep kissing him.”
Your mother’s face remains still, unreadable—but her eyes flick once toward the garden gate. A flicker of caution. As if weighing how much time you have before someone else finds you like this. Then, without moving from her place, she reaches up again—adjusting your hair where it’s come undone, tucking strands behind your ear with a care she once gave you as a child.
“My dear… you are not stupid. Now you know,” Her eyes don’t flinch. “He is your husband in name. Not in heart. So, you act accordingly.”
“I… what?”
Blinking, the words barely leave your lips. Because her words don’t make sense—at least… not in the way you want them to. Or maybe they make too much sense. Either way, you’re left speechless.
As your mother’s eyes flick toward the garden’s edge again—faint footsteps pass just beyond the screen, reminding her, and you, that this world is always watching.
“Fate and tradition shape us,” she says quietly. “It isn’t always fair. But it is ours to uphold.”
There’s no sharpness in her tone. No heat. Just a calm, settled truth. And somehow, that makes it worse. It feels like a life sentence said with a lullaby. Like the ending has already been written—and you were the only one foolish enough to think you might rewrite it.
“I—” you try, but your throat catches. You shake your head once, like it might shake the grief loose. “I thought… I…” but you falter.
What is there to say?
That you believed this could be different? That you wouldn’t be tethered to the same quiet resignation you’ve watched around you your entire life. That you weren’t walking into a legacy of endurance, but something else—something that chose you back?
A breath trembles through you.
“I thought… being chosen meant I was wanted.”
Your mother doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. “…I’m sure you did,” she replies. And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d scolded you. “But he is a man. A powerful one. And you are a woman of duty.”
The words carve through you—not for their cruelty, but because they were always waiting. Tucked into every lesson she ever gave you. Spoken or not, this was where it always led. A script she memorized long before you were old enough to understand.
“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined this would be,” she murmurs, reaching up, brushing her fingers through your hair, smoothing it gently. “But that man will not carry your dignity for you. If you don’t learn to do it yourself… no one will.”
So… that’s it then?
It’s like she’s repeating something she once told herself. But, living a life like that? Standing tall—though remaining complacent? Silent? What kind of life is that to live? You’ve never once spoken against her. Never even thought to. But now—
“Mother… I…” the words break before they’re even formed. “…I don’t know if I can do this.”
Her brow tightens.
“You can.”
“No—I…”
“You must…” she hushes, smoothing a wrinkle from your sleeve, as if she’s wrapping your words before they unravel too far, “…there is no future for us without this. Without this arrangement, we remain exiled. Forgotten. Disgraced. You understand that, don’t you?”
Your gaze drops. Because you do. You always have. That truth has lived in your bones since the day your father left. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
“Your duty to him isn’t about love,” she continues, eyes sweeping your face. “It is about what is… necessary,” then, hesitating, you catch sight of her eyes, lifting just over your shoulder.
And that’s when you hear it. The grass bending beneath soft footsteps. The quiet hush of a new presence behind you. You tense, glancing over your shoulder, but of course, you already know who's there. And catching that glimpse of white hair through the dark confirms it.
Satoru.
“Hey… the ceremony’s starting,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting.”
It lands somewhere between casual and cautious. No apology. No explanation. Just a line dropped into the stillness like a stone. And when your mother speaks again, her voice is smooth, seamless—like he was always meant to hear it.
“Right then…” she smiles serenely, gripping your hands in a comforting squeeze. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Now that everything’s settled, come. You will walk beside him with grace, and you will fulfill your role as his wife—as the mother of his children.”
Blinking at her, you don’t find any words. Because you can’t believe that your own mother is really forcing you to go through with this. That you’re just supposed to pretend the bathroom didn’t just happen—pretend everything is fine? And of course, Satoru isn’t going to say anything of this, is he? Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Stepping closer, Satoru extends his hand to you.
“I suppose… mother knows best, hm?”
The words cut.
Déjà vu.
Except… it feels like betrayal now.
Your eyes sting. Not just from the tears, but from how easily you were made the fool, and with a trembling breath, you lift your sleeve and dab at your cheeks, quick and practiced, erasing the worst of it.
Not because the tears are gone—but because they are no longer allowed to be seen. You refuse to go in there looking like a girl who begged to be loved and was told it wasn’t part of the arrangement.
“Of course,” you murmur—voice steadier, taking his hand, not looking at his expression. “I just need a minute. To fix my face.”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Uh… you hunting something?”
Satoru quietly exhales, amused as you slip around the estate corners like you’re trespassing—even though you aren’t. Even though you’re the fucking bride-to-be. Even though this entire ceremony is built around you and him.
But you look like a mess, and damnit, you’re not going to let anyone know what the fuck happened tonight.
“I need a mirror…” you mutter, tugging open another shoji door. It glides back to reveal the usual: tatami floors, a low lacquered table, a delicate calligraphy scroll inked in stillness. Tranquil. Elegant.
Useless.
“There’s a perfectly good one in the bathroom,” he states flatly behind you.
Right. Of course there is. Like fucking hell you’re going back in that room.
Ignoring him, you keep moving, turning sharply down the next corridor. His footsteps follow—steady, unhurried; the soft whisper of his kimono a shadow just behind yours.
“…do you even know where you’re going?” he asks as you peer into another room. “Nope…” you exhale, letting the door fall shut with a quiet snap.
But you don’t stop. You can’t. Maybe because, if you keep going—room to room, door to door—this frantic motion will somehow piece your composure back together. That’s the only logic fueling you now. Though unfortunately, the next room is no better. Incense. Silk cushions. A painted folding screen.
No reflection. No relief.
“Huh,” Satoru muses dryly. “How many tea rooms does one clan really need. This has to be… what? Number six?”
“Yup…” you mutter dismissively, brushing past him with clipped breath. “You’d think a place this massive could spare at least one goddamn mirror…”
He only hums, content to trail behind like this is some game. Asshole. He probably knows where one is. He’s probably waiting for you to ask. But you won’t. Maybe out of pride. Maybe out of spite.
Or perhaps because… if you stop—if you look at him—you’ll break for real this time.
So, you press on—because the last thing you need is another pair of eyes watching you fall apart—which is exactly why it drives you fucking mad that you can feel his on you. That heavy blue gaze hasn’t left you since the moment he stepped into that garden. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.
You’re too terrified to look at him. Not after what he did to your heart. What expression is he even wearing?
Pity?
Amusement?
…nothing at all?
“…you’re not gonna find a mirror in a broom cupboard,” he adds as you slide open yet another useless door.
For a second, you truly consider slamming it shut—hard. Right in his fucking face. Just to hear it echo down the hallway and maybe shut him out with it.
“I’m well aware…” you grit, sliding it closed, fingers trembling at the seam. Then, shifting down the corridor, another door comes into view. Your hand lifts, reaching for it—before suddenly, you freeze—body stilling.
Because voices linger… muffled through paper-thin walls.
“…wonder what’s the hold up,” a woman sighs, bored.
“She’s still not out?”
“Nope. They’re stalling.”
“Think she’ll even show her face before the ceremony starts?” another muses.
“Honestly? Who knows. At this point, it’s just embarrassing.”
Blinking, your hand hovers inches from the handle. You feel Satoru still behind you.
“Mm. Not a great look for a bride, is it?”
“Well…” another voice drawls—sweet, venomous, “…her father cracked under pressure too, didn’t he?”
“Cracked?” another snorts. “More like he fucking shattered.”
Laughter.
It shivers through the paper like a breeze, but it hits you like a slap. Because that’s all it takes, isn’t it? To turn your life into a punchline. A passing footnote to joke about.
“Rumor has it that she ran off crying,” one whispers covertly.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” someone adds breezily—footsteps shifting closer. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone from that family bailed when things got hard.”
A giggle. “Guess falling apart runs in their blood.”
You don’t even realize that you’re shaking until your hand falls away from the door—like your name, your shame, your father, your tears—is just something for them to stir into their tea.
Stumbling, you shuffle back, retreating from the hurt, the anguish. But your back immediately collides with something solid, or rather, someone.
Satoru.
His arms catch you before your mind can catch up—steadying you as your breath stutters out. You blink back more tears as your fingers curl into the sleeve of his kimono, curling into it like a lifeline.
He doesn’t speak, you don’t look at him. Their footsteps are drawing near—the tatami whispering beneath them, and with it, your panic only builds.
Oh god.
If they slide the door open and see your face like this—they’ll know they were right. You’re unraveling.
The shoji begins to slide open.
And in and instant—you’re gone.
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
Your feet hit the polished floor with a soft scuff, hands still fisted in silk. And when you open your eyes, it’s there. Right in front of you.
A mirror.
That fucking mirror.
And behind you—arms still around you like he has any right—is the man who broke your heart in this very room.
“I didn’t want this mirror,” you snap, shoving him off, voice breaking halfway through. Satoru lets go, taking a single step back as you brace your hands on the sink. “A mirror’s a mirror,” he mutters, hands raising in lazy surrender. “Bathroom seemed like an upgrade, all things considered.”
You glare at the sink instead of answering, trying to breathe past the mess inside you.
…is this guy for real? Does he really not get it?
Is he that clueless to the hurt he caused you?
Clearly, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. And despite how clueless he may be, you know he heard what those girls were saying out there—heard every word about you, your family. They laid your shame out for everyone like a fucking dinner course.
Shaking the thoughts away, you twist the faucet on, splashing cold water over your face. One handful. Then Another. Like it’ll rinse off their voices. Like it could strip away the sting of their laughter.
Like it could cleanse the memory of him from your skin.
You turn the water off with trembling fingers, gripping the counter tightly as you breathe. Because your reality is that you have to face him. Face this. Walk your ass back out there and smile. This is your life now.
Lifting your head, you look up into the mirror, and there he is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you through the reflection like you’re some unsolvable thing. And that expression on his face is… strange.
Not pitying. Not cruel. But it’s not comfort either.
Just there.
Like… he sees you.
And for a moment, you almost wish he didn’t. Because that quiet—whatever it is—is worse. It’s the same kind of silence you’ve known your whole fucking life. The kind that says everything without saying a word. Cold meals. Cold rooms. Cold people. Conversations that never really started, let alone ended.
With a shuddering breath, you’re the one who looks away first. Because if you keep looking, you’re going to cry again. And you’re so fucking tired of crying. So instead, you reach for the compact hidden in your sleeve and snap it open.
Finally. Something to control. Powder. Liner. Blush.
Each motion is practiced, mechanical—building your face back up to dull the damage—stroke by stroke, until you look more like a bride and less like a breakdown.
“Hey…” Satoru mumbles, tilting his head. “That shit they said… about your family…”
Your fingers pause, hovering over the powder.
Of all the things to talk about, that’s what he chooses.
“Doesn’t matter,” you murmur, reflection hardening. As you reach for your lip color, he watches you smooth it on like war paint. “…you’re really gonna go back out there?” he asks, almost to himself. And capping the lipstick, you slide it back into your sleeve.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“…do I?”
You meet his eyes in the mirror. Briefly. Long enough to see the truth of it—that he knows what he’s saying isn’t fair. That he’s not offering you one.
And yet… he still says it.
That look on his face… it’s not indifference. But it’s not enough either. Just this frustrating stillness. That quiet, complicated way he’s always looked at you.
You almost wish he’d laugh. Or sneer. Or leave. Anything to make it easier. It would be easier if he acted cruel—acted like you meant nothing.
Instead, he says nothing at all.
“Come,” you say, turning from the sink. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. “They’re waiting.”
༻༺ꨄ༻༺
“Today, we gather not only to honor a union between clans, but to witness the seat at Gojo-sama's side finally be filled.”
While you and Satoru ascend the dais, the hush of the hall is thick around you. You step with grace—smooth, poised—a perfect pace beside the man you’re meant to call husband. The man who doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t reach for you.
At the edge of the platform, Gojo Hajime is droning about lineage and honor—the union of households, the promise of an heir. The words blur into each other—because you’ve heard them all before.
Still, you smile. You bow. You perform.
Settling on the cushions laid before you, you lower yourself with care, but the platform is narrow, and Satoru takes up space like it’s owed to him. As you adjust, your thigh brushes his.
“Might wanna scoot…” he mutters under his breath, amused. His eyes flick to the seat just behind you both—Gojo Hajime’s cushion, looming in quiet judgment. “I mean… not that I’m complaining. But Hajime hates when people steal his precious throne.”
“Yes,” you murmur, smoothing your sleeve as you shift subtly away. Your eyes stay forward. “I remember.” And that earns the faintest shift in Satoru beside you. “…oh?” he hums. “What’s there to remember?”
Glancing at him, you see the lazy coolness still etched into every line of his body, but those blue eyes are fixed on you.
Focused. Curious.
You hate how much those eyes unravel you. How, despite everything, they still make your heart stutter.
“…how could I forget?” you shake the unease away, exhaling. “You made space for me that day. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.”
He shifts again. “…huh?” and you raise a brow—exhausted with him, exhausted with this conversation. “…what do you mean huh?”
You’re trying to pay attention to the ceremony. To perform. But Satoru keeps whispering above the hush of the hall while Hajime continues without pause—speaking like his words are carved into stone.
“For nearly a decade, the strongest has stood alone,” he declares. “But even power must be accompanied. The strongest must not only protect blood—but create it. A legacy. An heir. She will nurture the future of this clan. And with this duty, she will take her place not behind him, but beside him.”
Right… more like beneath him, it seems. Beneath his name. Beneath his body. And the worst part? Some small, broken part of you still aches for it. For him. For the feeling of being wanted, of being seen—even if only in the dark. Even if only for a moment.
“No fair,” Satoru mutters suddenly, like he’s trying to break the weight in the air. A slow smirk curls at his lips. “You pissed him off without me. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”
“…you did see it,” your gaze flicks to him briefly. Flat. “The way he nearly took my head off with a single glance.”
Your eyes lock, and Satoru’s blinking—looking at you with bewilderment. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he tries to play it off. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. A crack in the cool.
“Uh… the fuck are you talking about?”
Inhaling, your spine straightens, and you don’t turn this time. Instead, your gaze stays trained on the gift tray being carried forward—on the servant kneeling before it, hands delicate and practiced.
“Seven years ago…” you mutter. “When I sat in his seat by accident. During your ascension.”
…what?
Satoru’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should, your words slotting into place with a quiet click that echoes—like a key turning into a lock he didn’t even know was there. That itch—that nagging sense of familiarity when he saw your photo in the dossier—he brushed it off. Didn’t connect it. Didn’t care to.
Well—shit.
It rushes back with startling clarity, like a memory pulled from fog: a girl in formal wear too heavy for her frame. Beautiful, but young. Sitting where she shouldn’t have, swallowing her fear like glass. And him—half-bored, half-amused—tilting his head and letting you stay.
It was a brief moment. You were a brief moment; a moment he let pass, a flicker.
But…
‘You made space for me. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.’
He’s confused. You say it like it should matter. Why is he unsettled? Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel unsettled. Hell, Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel—period. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has a job. A clan.
Okay… fine. Maybe people assume he doesn’t give a fuck about everything—but the truth is, feelings complicate things. Make you vulnerable. Weak. Unpredictable. All he needs is strength. Strength should be enough… shouldn’t it?
Because he has hopes and dreams too. To teach. To raise something better. To burn the whole damn system down and rebuild it from the bones. And feelings? Those get in the way. That’s why the elders made their conditions clear. He knows what he has to do. If he wants to teach he—
No. Don’t think about it.
His eyes flick sideways, catching your profile in the corner of his vision as Hajime drones on. You sit with your spine poised, your expression perfectly arranged. But he remembers what you looked like a moment ago—that gloss in your eyes, silence stretching tight across your face.
He was a dick. He knows that. But so what? You’re not even married yet. Why does it matter? And even if you were…
His lips press into a thin line. He’s getting real fucking tired of questioning his morals over someone he barely knows. But for whatever fucking reason, you’re stirring something in him that should’ve been long dead—guilt, confusion, the dull ache of something dangerously close to remorse. Feelings he buried the day Suguru walked away from Jujutsu High.
Why?
“Let us begin with the gifts,” Hajime intones, and Satoru blinks—snapping out of his thoughts. You’re already looking at him, expression unreadable while Hajime waits. Everyone in this damn hall is waiting—watching.
Anyways. Right.
No feeling.
“So… uh…” he tilts his head slightly, slipping back into his usual nonchalance, shoulders loosening. “…I go first?”
Hajime nods. “It is customary for the groom to present his offerings to the bride.”
“Right…” Satoru mutters, dragging a breath through his nose. “Customs.”
There’s an easy tone in his voice, but tension pulls beneath it as his hand slips into the inner folds of his kimono. The silk rustles as he draws a small black box from the depths of his sleeve—catching faintly in the hush, wrapped in a silk bow.
It almost seems like he’s holding his breath as he unties it—for his hands are far too careful for someone who mocks tradition. Popping the box open, he sets it on the tray in front of you gently.
“For you.”
Inside: a kanzashi comb shaped like a dragonfly. Platinum, fine as breath. The wings unfurl in delicate filigree—spiraling patterns so precise they seem to shimmer when caught by the light. Along the slender body, deep-blue sapphires glint like midnight stars. The craftsmanship is meticulous. Elegant. And yet, the edges are gently worn—not from neglect, but from time. From touch. From memory. Places where fingers must’ve lingered, again and again.
It looks… loved.
Blinking, your breath stills as you stare at the comb. Of all things… especially after tonight, you’d been expecting money. Something impersonal. That’s what most men offer in these ceremonies—clean, transactional, easy to forget. A sum to be tallied, tossed across a lacquered tray without thought.
But an heirloom?
It feels like a contradiction: a man who mocks tradition, honoring it. A man who avoids meaning, offering something that feels like reverence. It’s almost like part of him understood what this gesture was—and still did it anyway.
“It’s… beautiful,” you manage softly, “Thank you.”
“Mm,” he hums. “You’ll look good in it.”
Your smile cracks, but you pull it back into place. This man confuses the hell out of you. You try not to linger on it too long, because you know—this man does not love you, does not want you. That much is clear. But something about that comb… makes you wonder if clarity is ever that simple.
Clearing your throat, you shift, sliding your hand into your sleeve. “I know your technique can be a little… draining,” and pulling out your gift to him, you begin unravelling the ribbon. “So, I figured these might help. And… well… they suit you.”
With careful hands, you lift the box open—setting it on the tray between you. Satoru blinks down at the sunglasses, then back at you, unreadable.
There’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But you can feel Hajime shift beside you. An observer in the crowd coughs in the audience. The air sharpens with awkward expectation.
Yup. You’re already regretting getting him this gift entirely. What the fuck were you thinking?
“This gift…” Hajime starts, tone already tight with disapproval. “It is—”
“Huh. You got me shades,” Satoru cuts in flatly, like saying it aloud will make it make sense.
Still, his hand moves toward them—lifting them from the box—turning them over slowly as he examines the weight, the curve, the ridiculous sincerity behind him.
No one ever sees him. Not really. Or rather, they see him for his purpose, not for who he is. And the fact that someone bothered to think of him not as a symbol, but as a man?
Great, now he feels… unsettled. Again.
So, he does what he’s always done. Deflects—sliding them on with a cocky grin. Hajime clears his throat, and Satoru looks up at him unapologetically.
“What?” he drawls. “She’s right, they suit me.”
A ripple of faint laughter stirs at the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t reach the dais. You exhale slowly, heart pounding. Thank God. That’s probably the most untraditional gesture you’ve ever made. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you in the crowd—cutting, sharp—but you don’t look. You just sit straighter.
“Besides…” Satoru murmurs, vivid blue eyes glancing over the rim to you, “…she’s got good taste.”
Your breath catches, and the sunglasses certainly don’t help you make out that still unreadable expression he wears. Great. Now you’re guessing again. Reading between lines he never bothers to draw.
“Anyways…” he takes them off, folding them back into the box. “Uh… thanks…” he mumbles. “Sure…” you echo.
And with it, the tray rests between you, holding its mismatched offerings.
One comb.
One pair of sunglasses.
One tradition honored. One broken.
There’s a moment of stillness. Then—
“Come!” Hajime intones, rising from his cushion with all the slow gravity of ceremony. “Let us present the final offering. A token worn in promise—a symbol of union, where it may be seen, and remembered.”
The air shifts, and the change in Satoru is immediate. You feel it; something solemn threading back through the moment, like a red string of fate.
Exhaling through his nose, Satoru shifts his weight, reaching into his sleeve yet again—pulling out a small, lacquered ring box. You blink as he opens it.
Inside: a platinum engagement ring. The band curves in an elegant infinity twist, looping seamlessly between twin rows of diamonds and deep, midnight sapphires.
“Hand…” Satoru mumbles, barely above a whisper, his palm open in silent ask. “Oh—of course,” you breathe, hesitation flickering, then fading as you slip your hand into his.
His fingers wrap around yours, warm, steady. And when he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits like it was always meant to be there. Looking down at the flickers of silver, white and blue, your breath catches as it glitters softly—like stars trapped in metal. It’s gorgeously elegant, and the sapphires remind you of his eyes.
Though as your gaze lifts, his eyes hold the weight of something unspoken. He’s staring at the ring, and that vivid blue is suddenly… dimmed. Like something caught between elegance and meaning. Between promise and prison.
For the first time, it strikes you. The man beside you—who always seemed untouchable, unfazed, immune to the binds of tradition—is kneeling here, completing the ritual, bound by the same rules.
Maybe… he isn’t as free as he looks.
“Let it be seen,” Hajime declares, voice rising through the hush, “and remembered by all. Arise!”
The tray is lifted. The offering complete. And as Satoru straightens, you follow; shifting towards the crowd. Then—
Applause.
First a few. Then dozens. Then more.
Clapping…
Too loud. Too sharp.
Clapping…
Clapping…
Clapping…
It echoes off the walls like a warning—faces blurring in motion, smiles stretching too wide. The sound closes in like smoke—like something choking and hollow. Though, somewhere near the farthest end of the hall, lingering in the shadows, someone does not clap. They watch.
Because far from the estate, on the grounds of a forgotten shrine, ash stirs in the wind.
A candle gutters.
Another catches.
The world holds its breath.
And with the tilt of a match—
A curse begins to stir.

a/n. hello lovelies, i hope you enjoyed pt 2! 🥹💕 we're cooked. bc this was 20k and they aren't even married yet LOL. i kept telling myself that this fic wasn't going to be THIS long, but alas. i write what my heart tells me and my heart was yappin. i feel like a lot of arranged marriage fics jump straight to the marriage and i wanted to try something different and set some groundwork instead. plus, since tradition is a heavy theme in this fic, so bc of that, the traditional engagement ceremony just seemed right. there were a lot of callbacks i did with certain scenes from jjk, i wonder how many you can spot 🤔 both reader and satoru still have a lot of growing to do. anyways, there's more i could say but i am sleepy and posting this super late 🫠 so i'll leave it at that, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter 🥰 thanks for reading. MUAH! -aly
taglist pt 1:
@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji
@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7
@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy
@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii
@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave
@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog
@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii
@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincessss @7haze
@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld
@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @sukuxna0
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Satoru Gojo loves to make a mess of you.
Like the prettiest canvas, he enjoys nothing more than to paint every inch of your body with ropes of his cum. He loves to jerk his thick cock - so glossy with your slick - and watch as it shoots everywhere.
Your tits, your waist, your cunt, he whines out just a bit when he watches it spurt from his tip. You're so fucked out, your eyes dilated for him, hips just jerking.
'Hah, just look at you,' he'll bend down over you then, an arm on either side of your shivering body. His blue eyes go insane, grin plastered on his face. 'You're a mess, sweetheart. Aww but don't worry - I'll clean you up, do you want that pretty girl?'
All you can do is nod, his long pink tongue then desperately laps up the milky strings he left all over your tits. You gasp out, hands entangling in silky white locks, he moans at the taste of his own cum in his mouth.
'Aw, can't even talk sweetheart? look at you,' he'll taunt you even as he worships every inch of your body - lower and lower. Until satoru hits his favorite part - your pretty cunt.
'Toru!' He'll devour every drop of his cum, letting it mix with your sweet juices on his tongue, until he's got you ready again, cock thrusting into your abused little hole.
'This time, m'gonna eat it out of you'
#im blushin rn#chrissy just dropping this masterpiece when im ovulating#what a queen#mooties ♡#fic recs#jjk x reader smut#satoru gojo smut
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sweet aly!!!! hope ur taking care of urself 💗😉


oh my sweet precious jayyy, you are always a light in my inbox i literally love you sm 🥹💖
i’m goin through it fr, but overall im good bb ty 💕 giving you a big ol smooch. thanks for brightening my day 😘🫶🏻
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NO ONE is talking about the gift exchange?? I’ve been obsessing over it for days now. I keep going back to it. The juxtaposition….toru giving an heirloom…traditional…something he’s trying to break away from…and HER….the sunnies…completely unprecedented…something she’s not used to being!!
They just GET each other without even realizing 😫 I know he’s gonna cherish those glasses (like imagine one of his fck buddies tries to take them or wear them?? He’ll freak) and the comb?? She’ll probably be too scared to wear it bc it’s so special!!
I could write a whole dissertation on it lol you’re a genius aly !!
😭😭 omg this ask is literally everything. ilysm anon bc the gift exchange is so important to me—i’m so happy to hear it stuck with you 💕
yaaaas. the fact that they don’t even realize how deeply they understand each other yet??? like, they’re both just fumbling in the dark, trying to navigate this arrangement, and somehow, still, they touch something so tender and unspoken in the other.
i will say… there’s more to the sunglasses than what meets the eye 👀 but i won’t spoil it yet, bc we’re definitely gonna explore it in pt 3 hehe 😌ilysm bb and ty for your ask 😘
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