Chapter Text
“Wear the furisode instead,” Utahime’s mother says, gesturing to the material hanging on the rack, “you always wear the homongi.”
Utahime, standing in her hadajuban and shivering from the cold of the room, looks over the flowing scarlet sleeves with a critical eye, “I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate, okaasan. Won’t it be too formal?”
“Nonsense!” Her mother claims, her smile blinding, “Two of the Higher Ups will be in attendance!”
Though not entirely comfortable with it and suspicious of the glint playing in her mother’s eyes, Utahime obeys. “Very well. It is quite lovely.”
“The scarlet will look so becoming on your pale skin. Here, wear this, too.” Her mother hands Utahime a long hairpin. Its simplicity is its beauty, lacquer wood ending with a ruby flower with dangling golden tassels. Her mother helps her fit it into the braided bun at the back of her head.
After, her mother’s assistants help dress her. The obi takes several minutes. Finally, she is ready, and her mother claps her hands together in delight. It is altogether too much for even a banquet. She feels like a doll on a shelf, standing precariously under the heaviness of finery. She glances at her mother’s reflection in the mirror with scrutiny.
“Oh, my gorgeous girl, you’re our family’s flower.” She titters, laugh lines crinkling as she grins and pats the side of Utahime’s face.
Utahime’s chest warms with the pleasure of her mother’s pride. Her suspicions of the outfit fade. “Thank you, okaasan. I should get going.”
“Yes, my love! I have a car out front for you. Your father will see you off. We just hate that we can’t come with you this year.”
She does, too. While her parents are nosy and pretentious, they genuinely care for her—and are familiar faces. Tonight, she will have to brave a multi-clan meeting alone. Usually, being unmarried, she would be escorted by a male family member. Seeing as she is a sorcerer, it is unnecessary. After all, the Iori Clan may be a long line of tradition, but they are not antiquated.
Her father assists her into the car and kisses her cheek, wishing her a good night and requesting that she be home no later than midnight. She is to help them with several rituals in the morning.
The car ride takes an hour. Her parents live relatively close to Tokyo. Her destination is a beautiful, sprawling estate, one of the many belonging to the Kamos. It combines traditional and Western architecture, and as they cruise up the paved driveway, she catches sight of a massive hedge maze.
The driver parks and then opens the door for her, helping her out of the car with one polite, gloved hand. With her handbag clutched between her fingers, she follows a meticulously dressed attendant around the main house. He takes her to a gorgeous courtyard garden where a large crowd mingles. With a bow, she is left to her own devices.
Utahime looks over the crowd, hoping that she might spot Shoko or Kusakabe. Bad luck greets her with a dejected sigh, and she shuffles over to the bar, keeping her steps light and graceful. She smiles politely at those who glance her way. Her status as the next head of the Iori Clan, since her parents are without any other children, grants her the privilege of them smiling back. Her Semi-First Grade position keeps them from directly engaging with her.
No skin off her back. She will be content to drink in silence and leave once the banquet has been picked over. Only a few hours, she has survived worse.
Of course, the night does not go so smoothly. A recognizable sensation of raw power prickles at her cursed energy, and she stiffens. Her heart beats faster, and her mouth dries. Clearing her throat, she pointedly ignores the energy that is surely stifling everyone here (that it does not do so to her, she does not want to dwell too long on) and flags down the bartender.
A flute of champagne in hand allows her the courage to turn around and face the crowd. She gasps and nearly drops it.
Gojo stands right behind her, his usual boyish smirk on his lips. They’re glossed and catch the light of the twinkling fairy lights strung through the air—they’re turned iridescent, not unlike his eyes, though his blindfold covers those.
As usual, he’s done nothing to show proper respect, dressed in his teacher’s uniform with scuffed shoes and tousled hair that could use pomade. He’s gorgeous, and it’s more annoying than it ought to be.
“You just got here, and first thing you do is grab a drink?” He muses.
“Yes- no- I greeted people.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I smiled at them.”
He shrugs, “More than what I did.”
She rolls her eyes and shifts her weight on her geta. The last time she had worn such ostentatious traditional dress around him was at her graduation. He wasn’t even supposed to attend, but he, Geto, and Shoko stole seats at the front and cheered.
It sucks being nervous. Will he make fun of her? She wishes he’d take off that damn blindfold.
She sips her champagne to take her mind off it and wrinkles her nose. She has never been a fan of bubbly, no matter how expensive it may be.
“Watching me, were you?” Utahime asks, referring to his opening line.
“Hard not to notice someone who is usually yelling at you.”
“Ha-ha, you’re so clever,” she retorts drily.
“About time you admitted it.”
“Didn’t think you’d be here.” She says. When they banter playfully like this, she loosens her tongue more than she’d like.
Gojo leans against the bar. Unlike Utahime, who had to wait for the bartender’s attention, he is instantly served. A melon soda, his drink of choice. What a kid. “Wasn’t going to, originally, but I’ve got to show my face occasionally.”
He cocks his head at her, his grin turning sly and dark, “Got to remind them who to be afraid of.”
She snorts into her champagne. She isn’t stupid; she’s more than aware of his abilities and the scope of his power. Her very technique makes her so intuned to others they hardly ever have to tell her their own techniques—she can guess them with a high success rate. However, Gojo has never frightened her. Not even in the dark days after Geto’s defection. It’s hard for her to imagine it at times.
He’s just so…Gojo. Perhaps she’s privileged to see a side of him few others do. His genuine care for his students, though unorthodox. His worry for his friends, though sometimes cruelly shown. His generosity and his strength. She’ll never admit it to his face, but she trusts Gojo unconditionally.
“Right,” she says, keeping her thoughts to herself, “can’t let them think you’re not watching.”
“Exactly. Clever girl.”
She swats at his hand when he tries to poke her head. He laughs and plucks her champagne from her hand before she can stop him.
“Hey!”
“Lemme try. I heard the Kamos opened the cellars for this event.” Gojo lifts the glass, and she blanches when his lips press to the remnants of her crimson lipstick. She hardly notices his grimace and exaggerated cough as he hands it back to her. His lips left gloss behind, shining on a vermillion backdrop. His over hers. She swallows and holds the glass awkwardly as though she has never seen it before.
“Ugh, terrible. You like that junk?”
“Huh?” Utahime says dumbly, blinking in surprise at the sound of his voice. “Oh- not really. It’s okay.”
“You’d prefer a beer,” he says, sipping his melon soda through a bendy straw.
She isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or the memory of him ordering her favorite brand at the izakaya that warms her stomach. “The obvious choice.”
“Obviously.”
Through the throngs of well-dressed people, Utahime spots Gakuganji. She straightens when his eyes catch on her across the garden, obvious disapproval in his gaze. That thoroughly douses the embers. Utahime nods at Gojo politely and says, “Principal Gakuganji is here. I should go pay my respects.”
“I’ll come-”
“No!” She cuts him off in a rush of breath. At his frown, she quickly explains, “He hates it when you’re…” She trails off.
His face is curiously blank. “...when I’m what, ‘Hime?”
“Shut up. Don’t call me that here.”
With a lazy shrug, Gojo shoves himself from the bar, abandoning his melon soda and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll call you whatever I want. I’m the Strongest. Let’s remember that.”
She stares at him as he stalks off, shocked by the sudden mood swing. Nothing that man says ever makes sense. She knows he’s the Strongest; what’s he getting at? Huffing in irritation, she turns and makes her way to her superior. She’s a little disappointed that he didn’t comment on her outfit. She glances down at the long sleeves of her furisode and feels self-conscious.
When Utahime approaches Gakuganji, he nods in approval at her, obviously having watched what seems like her rebuttal of Gojo’s attempts at conversation. She offers a cordial bow, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Utahime.” He says, and then he turns to the men beside him. They range in age. “This is my brightest teacher, Iori Utahime.”
The men give their platitudes, and swiftly, she is forgotten about. Gakuganji dismisses her with a wave of his hand that is more rude than necessary. Utahime holds back a sigh as she retreats towards the bar. Her eyes naturally draw to Gojo’s head of ivory hair. He’s chatting animatedly with some older Kamo men, each looking less than enthused to be talking to him. She can see the nervous sweat on one of them from here.
While crossing by a small, well-kept pond, Utahime is stopped by a man she vaguely recognizes. A direct inferior of the Higher Ups, she thinks. He’s polite, bowing and shaking her hand.
“Iori-san, you look beautiful tonight.” He says.
Pleasantly surprised, Utahime smiles, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say. Have we met before?”
He’s handsome, in a classic sort of way, and has smooth, glassy skin that she’s honestly a little jealous of. “Only once or twice. I work in headquarters, so I don’t get out much. I’m Abe Hideyoshi.”
The name rings a distant bell. Utahime nods, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance…again, Abe-san.”
He chuckles. Unlike Gojo, Abe is dressed in an elaborate men’s kimono with dark hakama beneath. His light brown hair is shaved short to his head, but it works for him. She tends to appreciate clean faces on men, but his beard is becoming on him.
“Don’t feel bad for not remembering me. I usually have my nose in a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a manager of the governing treasury. I work directly beneath the Financial Director.” He says with no small bit of pride.
Not a practicing sorcerer? She immediately wants to ask but bites her tongue. That would be rude, even if his job sounds horrifically dull. “An important position.”
“I’m glad you think so. Many overlook the importance of-”
“Iori-san, good evening!” Another man cuts Abe off, approaching quickly from behind. Both Abe and Utahime turn to face him. Some distant Kamo cousin, a portly man with fading dark hair. “Don’t you look lovely!”
“Oh, thank you-” she says, unable to get another word out before the newcomer speaks again.
“I’m Kamo Kenji, third cousin of the third in line for Head of Clan, although you know that, surely.”
She didn’t. “Quite-”
“Kamo-san. Iori-san and I were having a discussion,” Abe says, irritation thinly veiled in his calm voice.
She is getting annoyed by how much they keep cutting her off. Her fingers begin to tap against the stem of her champagne flute.
“Can’t I join in, Abe-san?”
“Why don’t you wait a moment?”
She watches them bicker with little interest, already planning her escape. Another pissing contest between two men who care more about one-upping the other than speaking with her.
“You’ll get your turn.”
That snaps her out of her plotting. Utahime stares at Abe and says, “Pardon?”
He glances at her passingly, “As you well know-”
“No. I don’t know. Explain?”
Both Kamo and Abe stop to stare at her. Abe says, “...you’re on the market for a suitor, aren’t you?”
“...what?” Utahime takes a step back, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
“At the last banquet, your parents informed us that you are looking for a husband. Is that not why you came alone today? Dressed like that?” Kamo says.
She jerks her head back in shock at his words.
Kamo continues, “You’re basically advertising that you’re unmarried.”
Utahime’s dumbstruck. Sure, furisodes are traditionally worn by unmarried women, but…what year is it again? Wait, no, forget that . What did he just say about her parents?
“Kamo-san, that was highly inappropriate to say.” Abe chastises.
“There has been a mistake. I’m not here to advertise my single status. I am here to represent my clan as the heir.” Utahime says, not without deserved contempt. She steps away from them. “Nor am I here to be insulted by the third cousin of the third in line. Good night, gentlemen.”
She considers it a shame as she walks away. Though she finds finance boring—Nanami has tried more than once to spark her interest in the field, to no success—Abe was pleasant enough. Too bad he had ulterior motives for approaching her.
Irritation brews in her gut as she resumes her vigil by the bar. Of course, she should’ve known her mother was up to no good, making her wear the far more elaborate furisode rather than her usual muted ensemble. It isn’t as though Utahime has no interest in marriage—she doesn’t need her mother sticking her nose into her private matters.
Utahime sighs, tapping her manicured nail against the wooden counter. Her parents only mean well. As the next head of the Iori Clan, Utahime does have a duty to conceive an heir in wedlock. She will need to marry before her father passes, certainly, but that is a way’s off. He is pushing sixty and as healthy as a horse.
They mean well, but they infantize her. She doesn’t need them to hold her hand. Utahime will find a suitable match in due time.
There’s no more suitable match than the head of the most powerful clan in jujutsu society, but she nips that fantasy before it can bloom. The Higher Ups would sooner have the Iori Clan fall to ruin than allow Gojo to monopolize the Solo Forbidden technique. Ironically, he doesn’t even need her technique, yet they still fear it falling into his hands. They’d surely lose all their hair if they knew she'd already bolstered him in their youths.
That was a one-time mistake on Utahime’s part. Gojo begged to know how it felt, and she wanted to practice on someone whose power she wasn’t sure she could handle. It ended with her nearly passed out on the floor and Gojo laughing at her for being so delicate. Jerk. Never again, no matter how much he pleaded.
“Iori-san, good evening.”
Utahime eyes the new face sliding up to her, another clansman dressed in finery that wears him instead of the other way around. He immediately aggravates her, but not due to any fault of his own. Being torn from her daydreams of Gojo irks her, and that she is vexed by that only stands to incense her more.
He introduces himself, but it’s of no consequence. Utahime realizes she is being rude, a trait she despises, but it’s difficult for her to care—especially when another man stands further down the bar, made so evident that he is waiting for his turn to speak to her by how he glances their way out of the corner of his eye. It sets her teeth on edge.
Good lord, is she covered in cat nip? Usually, she is ignored at these types of events. The potential of becoming a clan head, even to a clan as small as the Ioris, must be some sort of aphrodisiac to men who have no chance in hell of rising the ranks in the Kamos or Zen’ins. It would make her laugh if she wasn’t so annoyed by it.
Utahime humors the man for a moment before politely excusing herself. As she hurries the best she can in her heavy clothing and difficult geta, she spots another man swiftly following her. She nearly groans, hardly able to keep her face devoid of irritation.
Hearing a familiar boyish laugh, Utahime whips her head around so fast that the tassels of her hairpin smack her cheek. Gojo continues to torment all who come too close, taking great pleasure in their discomfort and forced courtesy. She knows from experience that he loves flaunting his freedom from the shackles of conventional society. Civility is an option for someone like Gojo, and everyone knows it.
His cursed energy is a thick miasma that stifles the courtyard and makes hair stand on end. He does it on purpose, though Utahime is unsure why. It isn’t as though he needs to remind anyone here how much weaker they are. It’s an unspoken truth that everyone hates it when Gojo attends these clan get-togethers. He scares the daylights out of almost everyone.
Startlingly, Gojo’s head turns in her direction as though he sensed her eyes on him. The men that Gojo had been ‘entertaining’ appear relieved, for she instantly redirects his attention like a moth to a flame. She watches as his cruel smile warms at the sight of her, a soft summer breeze on an otherwise frigid autumn night. Her traitorous heart does a somersault over her lungs and a dive into her stomach.
He is enough of a distraction that Utahime pauses a bit too long. The man she had been avoiding catches up with her, and she is forced to drag her gaze away from Gojo. This one works closely with the Higher Ups, which is most likely why he is throwing his hat in the ring in the first place.
“Might I have a word, Iori-san?” He asks.
Stifling her rather unladylike groan, Utahime submits to her fate of being bored to tears.
.
.
.
.
Her actions are childish, but Utahime cannot drudge the wherewithal to give a damn. After being subjected to nearly an hour of ego and male posturing, supplemented with riveting discussions of stocks and Japanese politics, Utahime managed to excuse herself to the bathroom.
Of course, that had been a lie. She instead absconded to where she sits now, hiding within a quaint gazebo some turns into a hedge maze. She doesn’t feel guilty—the man was a nitwit. Though he annoyed her, at least Abe had been pleasant.
She drags her geta along the floor, producing a rough sound of wood on stone. The hum of the party is muted here, though she can make out the strum of instruments playing some classic number. Hopefully, no one thinks of tracking her down here. It would be even worse to be alone with one of these men.
Not for the first time since she’s sat down, Utahime wonders what Gojo is up to. He's probably still torturing innocent partygoers with his insults and immature antics. The thought makes her crimson lips quirk. Maybe he’ll piss someone off and cause a scene. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She sighs and leans her head back, resting it against a column of the gazebo. Her hairpin digs into her scalp, and the tassels tickle her neck, so she slips it from her bun. As she stares at it, dragging her fingers over the wood, she thinks of the men who approached her tonight.
It’s not that she abhors the thought because they are the third cousin of a third in line—or a manager—or unattractive. It’s not that marriage to them would necessarily be deplorable. It’s just that they aren’t him.
Would any one of those men buy her Kirin Ichiban? Would they watch her dance with strangers and let her teach them how to do the same? Would they steal her missions out from under her nose? Would they bicker with a smile on their face? Would they make her forget the world?
She already knows the answer. To them, she’s little more than a decorative hairpin. Pure, obedient Iori-san. Adequately powerful but nothing that will threaten their egos. Three steps behind, nothing more than a kimono and a swollen stomach.
Gojo knows her. He’s seen her with gore carved into her face and dripping from her hands—seen her eyes alight with vicious bloodlust—understands the fervor that overtakes people like them in the heat of battle. He’s seen this, all of this, all of what a woman shouldn’t be, and delights in it. He encourages it, praises her when she’s violent and yowling.
Gojo Satoru, the only man she’s ever trusted.
“They’ve been clingin’ to ya like flies on shit.”
Sucking in an alarmed gasp, Utahime jerks her head up and stares as Gojo steps into the gazebo as though materializing from her very thoughts. He leans against a column, facing her.
She doesn’t bother asking how he found her. Tracking her is an easy task for the Six Eyes.
“That’s what happens when your parents advertise your single status.” She sighs, setting the hairpin on the bench by her side. The tassels twinkle prettily against the stone and catch the light of the moon—like the silver of his wild hair.
“Well, you are gettin’ old-”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll bury you out here where no one will find you.”
“You’d miss me too much. And you’re too weak to lift a finger against me.”
She scowls at him, lips twisting with familiar displeasure, “I certainly would not miss being tormented by you.”
He taps the toe of his right shoe against the ground, his hands in his coat pockets, “I think you would. I think you like it when I’m mean to ya.”
She sucks in a breath at the insinuation. The animal in her does. Beneath the layers of finery and decorum, she’s little more than a beast longing to run free. Fighting and vitriol are in her blood. It comes as naturally to her as love and loyalty. What she longs to present to him, yet hides in the folds of her heart.
“You like the bickering,” Gojo continues, “and you like that I never apologize.”
Kicking her geta against the ground, Utahime leans forward to rest her palms against the lip of her bench, “Don’t be stupid. Who’d like how rude you are?”
“Rather I act like those suitors of yours?”
He approaches her, sliding onto the bench beside her and tilting his head at her, “Good evening, Iori-san. You look so lovely tonight, Iori-san.”
Utahime snorts despite herself, an unladylike sound that clashes with her delicate hairstyle and soft makeup, “Stop, that’s creepy.”
He smirks, happy to prove his point. “Well, I’m a Clan Head, so I’m the best suitor you’d have here.”
Her heart skips a beat. A lonely daydream, from some forgotten afternoon in the empty halls of Kyoto Prefectural, of Gojo rescuing her from the reality of political marriage—of him approaching her parents with an offer—of him standing tall at her side at clan events with a hand on her waist and possession in his smile.
“You do. Look nice tonight, I mean.”
Utahime stares at him, shocked into silence by his words. She can count on one hand the number of times Gojo has complimented her. Usually, they’re backhanded. She mulls over his words, trying to find the barb in the silk, but falls short.
“Yeesh, you’re never so quiet.”
If she didn’t know better, Utahime would say Gojo sounded nervous. Well, perhaps nervous isn’t the right word. Bashful. But that’d be ridiculous. Gojo would have to have the ability to be embarrassed first, and he would have to give a shit. Two qualities that are not synonymous with him.
“Oh- sorry. Thank you. My, uh, my mother picked my outfit,” Utahime raises an arm to show off the lengthy sleeve—the threads of the design catch on the light.
“Tricked you, huh?” He jokes.
“She’s only doing what she thinks is best for me. I am in my thirties.”
He shrugs, “So will I be here soon. Who cares.”
“You’re a man, Gojo; you know they view it differently.”
“Weaklings love to categorize themselves to forget that they are all the same. Especially the men. Chauvinism, and whatnot.”
Truthfully, it’s a weirdly reassuring thought. “Unfortunately, I’m one of these weaklings, so I must abide by these conventions.”
“Sure, you’re weak, but you’re not powerless. That’s not the same thing.”
“I’m assuming you mean my heir status?”
“Exactly. You’re worth more than every single one of those assholes that are arrogant enough to approach you.” He rests his arm on the back of the bench. It presses against her shoulders. “You and I are different, Utahime. We have power. ”
She has to fight off the smile that rises from his comparison. “Well, aren’t you being exceptionally pleasant tonight?”
“Just bein’ honest. And you already know that you’re different. You’re just playing the part they want you to—which, I can’t understand why. ”
“Because, as you said, Gojo, I’m weak. I have people I care about.” She admits.
“...they’ve threatened you?” Gojo asks after a beat of silence.
Now it’s her turn to shrug. Being threatened into submission by the Higher Ups is a reality of their society. “Not directly. You know how it is.”
“I don’t. I’m not a coward.”
She glares at him, anger sparking beneath her skin.
He raises a hand, “I meant them, Utahime. Only cowards hide behind shallow threats and bargaining chips.”
“Sure, they’re cowards. I couldn’t agree more. They send children to die in their place.” Her fingers tighten on the edge of the bench, and her shoulders tense. “But they’re cowards who are stronger than me.”
“You’re no more obedient to them than I am. Nor loyal.”
She shifts her weight, a little nervous with the turn in conversation. She must indeed maintain the face of docility, but Gojo is right. With every rule followed, she breaks three more. However, it’s a dangerous game that she plays. One wrong step, and she’ll show her hand—show who she truly desires to answer to.
“Where does that loyalty actually lie, I wonder?” Gojo muses.
With you, Utahime’s throat aches with the force behind those words, yet she doesn’t voice them. They’re too loaded, too heavy with the truth. Love and loyalty come easy to an obedient beast like Utahime, but they never rest where they ought to. No, they bound, uncaged, for the freedom someone like Gojo Satoru represents.
Utahime doesn’t answer. She isn’t sure how to without bursting at the seams with her love for him. He leans forward to catch her gaze, flashing her a smirk when he does. It’s cute.
With an exaggerated huff and an eye roll, Utahime stands. Gojo watches her curiously.
“Where’re you going?” He asks.
“I should get back.”
“Why? ‘Cause they’ll notice us both gone?”
That odd tone from earlier is back. He stands, too, and he’s so tall that the gazebo suddenly feels incredibly cramped. While his cursed energy doesn’t dominate the air as it had in the courtyard, it does roll around her in steady, undeniable waves. Her own cursed energy is eager to meet it, like a puppy returning to its master. It’s far too telling, so she keeps a careful lid on it.
“Honestly? Yes. They’ll give me grief if they think we might be…” she trails off as he steps closer.
“Together?”
“Conspiring.”
He flashes his teeth with a megawatt grin. “I like the thought of that. Conspiring with you.” He holds up her hairpin, reminding her of its existence.
“Thanks-”
He lifts it over her head and out of her reach. “Who said I’m givin’ it back?”
“Gojo!” She admonishes, swiping for it the best she can in her heavy furisode.
“C’mon, stay and conspire with me a bit longer, ‘Hime.”
“You know I can’t, Gojo.”
He pouts, “Fine. Then I guess you’re not gettin’ it back.”
“Don’t be a brat!”
It's another one of his annoying games. He shakes the hairpin, and the tassels chime as pretty as his blithe laughter. Her back hits a column, and she realizes he has successfully herded her into a corner. He rests a palm against the stone above her head.
If anyone catches them like this…she shivers at the thought.
Any other hairpin, and she’d cut her losses. As it so happens, this particular hairpin is one of her mother’s favorites. She dreads being the one to lose it. Swallowing her pride, she rocks forward on the front prongs of her geta and swipes for it. As expected, he easily keeps it just beyond her grasp. She could be more forceful but doesn’t want to risk damaging it.
“Ass!” She lands a quick punch on his gut, but her fist bounces off his Infinity. He chuckles boisterously when she winces and rubs her knuckles.
“You’re so short. Shortie.” He taps the crown of her head with the pin, and she tries for it again. Though she’s as quick as a cat, he’s faster, and once again, it’s dangling well above her reach. Curse his long arms!
Utahime clenches her fists at her sides, glaring hotly at him. His stupid grin is pissing her off. He’s only doing this to keep her attention on him—a tactic he often employs with his friends and students. The man’s a hog for it. She once watched him steal and wear Nanami’s glasses for an entire evening at a bar, all to get a rise out of the normally stoic man. Granted, she’d been laughing, too, but it’s not so funny when she’s the target.
Look at him. So arrogant that she can’t possibly get the drop on him, can’t outsmart him to get her hairpin back. What would he least expect? He obviously expects another punch, considering his Infinity is still active. She’ll just have to do the opposite.
Before Utahime can appreciate the scope of the stupidity of it, she reaches up again. Expecting her to grab for the pin, he doesn’t see her next move coming. She rests her hands against his chest and presses her lips quickly to his cheek, on the high of the bone.
Gojo freezes. His Infinity keeps her skin from directly touching him, and its buzzing power tickles her lips. With a victorious shout in his ear, Utahime takes advantage of his shock and snatches the hairpin from his hand. She grins as brightly as the sun and cradles it to her bosom, flooded with the rare joy of besting Gojo Satoru.
“Ah-hah!” She exclaims, pointing a finger in his slack-jawed face, “Bet’cha weren’t expectin’ that, huh? Men are so easy.”
She turns to escape him, determined to flaunt her victory before he inevitably snatches it from her with some other tease, but his arm shoots out to block her. Her heart skips a beat, and she nervously peaks at him beneath her lashes.
“Wait-” he grunts, sounding oddly strangled, “-do it again.”
“...huh?”
Caging her with his arms on either side of her shoulders, Gojo leans into her space. He shoves his blindfold up from his eyes, messing up his hair. A single white strand falls over the black band and onto his forehead. His starry eyes sparkle with boyish excitement.
“I didn’t get to feel it—Infinity was up.” He explains in a rush, his breath cascading over her face and smelling of mint and sugar.
She swallows and clutches the hairpin more tightly. This close, she’s made aware of how much bigger than her he is. So many believe Gojo’s strength resides solely within his technique, but she knows this not to be true. Those baggy clothes belie muscles honed from years of combative training. He used to be a beanpole in his more arrogant youth. After 2006, however…
“Utahime.” He practically whines, trying to catch her eye.
She realizes she has been daydreaming about his muscles. Heaven help her. “Gojo…”
“What? Ya scared?”
He and his playground antics. Unfortunately, they’re effective on a competitive woman like Utahime, and he knows it. “Scared of what?!”
“C’mo-on, just one more?” He turns his cheek to her, the muscles pulled taunt with his smile.
She stares at his cheekbone and feels her hands quivering. He’s just doing this to mess with her. She shouldn’t read into it. If she waits long enough, he’ll pull away and laugh at her, mock her for being a coward—she’ll yell at him, and this strange tension between them will be forgotten.
But does she want it to?
Sucking in an unsteady breath, Utahime leans in-
“Uta-” Gojo turns his head at the exact moment-
-and Utahime’s lips press against his.
She inhales sharply, eyes fluttering wide, and she pulls back. He follows her, a hound on a scent, and her head meets the stone column as his mouth seals over hers again.
His lips are plush, sticky with gloss, and his skin's warmth and breath seep into her flesh. The heat lines her throat and dips into her lungs, a delight—a comfort—a pressure. Having minds of their own, her palms press flat against his chest. They neither push him away nor pull him closer. Instead, they anchor her to him, two points of stability as her heart and mind race each other.
His hands fall from either side of her to her waist, but he doesn’t grab her. They just rest there and it would be easy to step away from him. Though her back is to the stone, she doesn’t feel the least bit trapped.
She feels free.
Kissing Gojo is like loving him. Terribly, beautifully easy.
It’s almost too chaste, like two teenagers on their first date at the cinema, yet somehow, it makes her body burn with the most tantalizing of desires. The tassels of her hairpin sound as she drags her hands to the back of his neck.
He tugs her closer, gently, and they part briefly to pant into each others’ mouths. His moth-wing eyelashes flicker, and he kisses her again, more firmly, as though he is saying something to her. As though he is asserting the undeniable between them.
Gojo raises a palm to her face to tenderly cup her scarred cheek. His thumb brushes right beneath her eye, feeling the softness of the thin skin there. A soft sigh escapes her.
Utahime had imagined that their first kiss might be done in the heat of the moment. An argument between them, perhaps, after endless bickering. Imagined that it might be explosive and violent and rough, as is both their natures. That he might try to forcibly tame the wild animal she truly is with his mouth and his big, big hands.
It’s not so. Gojo coaxes her, cajoles her with delicate touches, and comforts her with his warmth. His strength is not used against her but rather for her as he gently tilts her head to grant them a new angle to explore together. It is she who slips her tongue against his, a light and playful tease that draws a lovely sound from him.
He tastes as he smells. Spearmint gum, his soda from earlier. She worries distantly that the alcohol on her tongue might displease him, but he makes no indication of it. His tongue eases into her mouth and glides wetly along her teeth. She shivers in his hold, her knees growing weak with his encouragement.
Utahime has to pull back to gasp for air. She had forgotten to breathe through her nose. Her damp breath brushes against his face as he runs the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of hers. It somehow feels more intimate than the kisses.
Her fingers slip over the silkiness of his undercut. She’s always loved this hairstyle on him.
He kisses her once, twice, thrice more.
“‘Hime…” he breathes, a slow and cozy secret.
She kisses him now, presses her free hand to his neck, and thumbs the thin scar there. It’s barely noticeable. He sighs against her, and his palms pass over the swell of her hips. A shock of arousal tightens the muscles of her abdomen.
They part and look at each other, blue on brown.
“Iori-san!”
Both stiffen, turning to look in the direction of the courtyard. Someone is calling her name, a woman.
“A servant,” Gojo says, slipping his blindfold back over his eyes with one hand and cradling her to him with the other. “It must be dinnertime.”
“We’ll both be needed,” she murmurs.
“You go first. I’ll warp to the other side of the estate.”
Utahime feels bereft as he pulls away from her. He smiles warmly at her, a rare sort of genuineness about him. He strokes her cheek, and she leans into his touch. “Don’t look at me like that. I won’t let you go.”
It takes everything in her to remember why allowing anyone to see them so intimately intertwined would be foolish. Utahime nods and steps back, her cheeks dark and her gaze bashful.
“...thank you,” she murmurs, thumbing the hairpin still in her grasp. It’s a miracle that she hadn’t dropped it.
He nods, and then, just as Utahime can hear the servant girl rounding the corner, he vanishes, disappearing into atoms.