"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐰." - 𝑵𝒂𝒐𝒚𝒂 𝒁𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏
⟶ He was born a king, and he reigned as a god. Gojo didn't walk-he crushed. His laughter slapped the w...
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In the sacred domain of the Gojo clan, beneath the vast expanse of the sky, she now lived as his concubine. Only a month since he had claimed her. A month spent growing accustomed to the heat of his body, the weight of him over her, the way he filled her, possessed her, consumed her. A month learning to be his.
Chihiro no longer fought. She no longer wielded her technique, no longer let her voice ring out in the exorcists' arena. Satoru had willed it so. A priestess had to be preserved. Intact. Her role was now more subtle, more silent. To note down important things, to assist her lord, to be his eyes and ears when he battled against the darkness of the world.
She wrote, transcribed. She followed him on certain missions—not to exorcise, but to witness. To record in ink the echo of his power. She stood back, humble and quiet, her trembling hand clutching the brush as she documented the names of the curses he felled, the shape of their deaths, the way Satoru, with a mere gesture, rewrote the balance of the world.
But at night... at night, she became a woman again.
The Gojo estate was vast, nearly infinite, perfumed with incense and the slow-burning torches swaying in the wind. In the shadow of lanterns, she was the late-night priestess, kneeling on tatami mats, her thighs marked red with the fervor of a god too powerful. Satoru took her in the night like one performs a ritual, like a body offered to the altar of the divine. She was growing accustomed to his size, to the slow stretch, to the exquisite pain that made her muscles tremble come morning.
