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juniormint1125 · 1 year

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The Necklace

THIS POST CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. PLEASE READ WITH THAT IN MIND.

So quite a while ago, a friend sent me this post about Stray Kids soft boyfriend habits. Completely unexpectedly, Hyunjin's hit me hard. He's not my bias, nor has he ever been a wrecker. But, I've been thinking about it for months with no explanation.

Thanks to @hwajin for the inspiration!

"ʜʏᴜɴᴊɪɴ

it is such a random thing but he will help you remove your jewelery. if you were out with friends, or on a date with him, basically anywhere where you put thought and effort into your outfit, necklaces and earrings and bracelets accentuating your body - hyunjin will be next to you in the evening, fiddling with the opening of the chains around your neck, or taking one off your earrings off while you work on the other one. he wouldn’t know a reason if you asked him why he had that habit, but you couldn’t complain if you were honest, your heart melting at how attentive his actions felt..."

So I wrote this SHORT scenario to get it out of my head.

The Necklace

Hwang Hyunjin x reader

Summary: You're getting ready for a party when Hyunjin decides to help. A necklace, a tie, and a few commands later, you're definitely late for the party.

Word Count: 1,375

Genre: smut

Warnings/Contains: very light bondage, mild dominant/submissive dynamic

“Almost ready, Hyunnie!” You call to him from the bedroom. “I just need to put my jewelry on.”

You slip into your heels, then walk to the full length mirror that hangs beside your closet. As you lift your head to put on your earrings, you see Hyunjin’s reflection staring back at you.

“Hello love,” he whispers seductively. He traces a fingertip down your cheek to your shoulders where he brushes back your hair.

“You look beautiful,” he coos and places feather like kisses on the bare skin of your neck. You tremble.

“Allow me.” He reaches for the earring you’re holding, caressing your shoulder as he turns you to face him. You’re breathing heavily as he brings it to your ear. His touch is electrifying, heating up your skin with every second he’s close to you.

Your eyes flutter shut as he leans closer to put an earring in your other ear. The smell of his cologne intoxicates you, making your head spin. A hint of fresh citrus and mint dances over the heady musk of amber. He reaches for you with both hands, carefully admiring the sparkling gold earrings. He swallows hard.

“Necklace?” he asks.

You hand him a delicate gold chain. The pendant is a small golden paintbrush, the bristles made from black jade to symbolize creativity. It was a gift from Hyunjin for your first anniversary. He wanted you to see it and be reminded that you’re his muse, his inspiration for everything he creates. When he sees the necklace, he smiles, remembering the message behind it.

“Turn around,” he commands.

You willingly comply, watching him in the mirror as his hands clasp the necklace. Those hands are your downfall. They’re the perfect blend of masculine strength and feminine beauty. His slim, graceful wrists give way to lithe fingers whose length makes your core clench insatiably. As his hands move across your throat, the veins become more prominent. Your eyes follow the twisting path they take on the back of his hand and you imagine them twisting through the strands of your hair.

He runs his fingertips across your collar bone, down the center of your breasts. Your body shutters and a soft moan escapes your lips. He hums in reply; he revels in the noises you make when lust overtakes you.

“Does that feel good, my love?” You nod, watching him loosen the silk tie that’s been intricately wound around his neck. You know what he’s thinking.

“Hyunjin, we’ll be late,” you scold, only half heartedly.

“Just one touch, love. Please?” He bats his eyelashes and you know it’s futile to resist. You don’t want to anyway.

He brings the fabric in front of your eyes, and you close them in obedience; you know the routine like the back of your hand. You can feel his breath closing in, sparks of desire ricocheting off your skin. Once he’s tightened the blindfold, you hold out your hand and he leads you across the room. When the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, you know to stop.

“Good girl,” he purrs, running his fingertips down your arm. He slides the fabric of your dress up and over your hips. Cool air washes over your core and you tremble again. He lightly drums his fingertips up the insides of your thighs, until he reaches the band of your panties, then slides his hands beneath them. The contrast of the coarse lace against your smooth skin as he pulls them down causes you to moan.

“Ready love?” he asks.

You nod and he gently lays you back on the mattress. You can feel him hovering over you, probably rolling up his sleeves. You jump a little when his hands finally touch your skin. The palms are flush against your thighs, and he slides them leisurely up your legs, kneading your flesh as he goes.

“Spread your legs for me, love.” His voice is gentle, coaxing and encouraging you. You move your legs apart, exposing yourself to his desire.

“More,” he demands. His voice is firmer than before, and you imagine his eyes black with lust. You widen the distance between your thighs.

“More.”

You widen your legs again until the muscles are aching.

“Tsk tsk, my sweet love. You know better.” His voice drips like honey and the burning you feel in your core as he pries your legs even further apart is just as sweet.

You whimper when he drags one of his fingers over your clit.

He rewards you with his praise. “That’s better.”

He removes his hands from your body and leaves you laying there, completely uncovered and on full display. You know that he’s waiting to see if you stay in the position he’s put you in. Because if you move, then he gets to have his fun.

You try with everything in you to keep your legs where he left them. He’s quiet, certainly standing over you watching. And when you think you’re about to give up, you hear him groan.

“Such a good girl.”

His voice trembles. It’s nearly imperceptible, but you hear it. He wants to touch you and he’s tired of waiting.

You feel him coming closer, and you feel your wetness dripping in anticipation.

“So so lovely,” he comments.

He must be kneeling in front of you; what feels like his knees connect with the inside of your legs and exert the slightest bit of pressure, making sure they stay open. His fingertips tease over the insides of your thighs, drawing ever shrinking circles until there’s only one fingertip circling your clit. He varies the pressure of his circles, driving you mad.

His fingers stop. “Are you ready for me love?”

You nod feverishly, trying to even out your ragged breathing. His body moves closer to you until his mouth is right at your ear. His hands fidget with the necklace pendant.

“Shall we see?” he whispers.

You breathe a hushed yes and wait for his next move.

It seems to take him an eternity to drag his fingers along the inside of your thigh, but he finally reaches your sex. He leisurely traces a circle around the edge before plunging his finger inside. Your body arches as his knuckle slams against your clit.

“Fuck, Hyunjin,” you cry.

He laughs. It’s a mixture of tenderness and madness and your core clenches at the sound. His finger moves in and out slowly and you hum in satisfaction.

You feel the sweet stretch of your opening as another finger dives in to join the first. This time he twists his fingers side to side raising the heat that’s burning inside you.

With the thumb of his other hand, he applies pressure to your clit, increases the speed of both hands until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. Your breathing becomes erratic as you barrel closer to your orgasm. You bite your lip, stifling your moans.

“Louder please, my love,” he requests. “I want to hear those pretty noises you make when you cum.”

His assault on your clit is relentless and you’re finally able let go, allowing yourself to tumble into ecstasy. Your body jerks around his fingers, your wetness floods over his hand. He begins to slow his movements.

“Take the blindfold off,” he directs you.

Dizzied by the bliss of your orgasm, you manage to reach behind you and undo the knot he’s tied in the fabric. Before you take it off, you rub the smooth silk against your cheek, breathing his scent in deeply.

You open your eyes and he’s poised over top you smiling. “Did that feel good love?”

You nod ardently. He’s still barely moving his fingers inside you, but he soon brings them to a stop. He takes each finger out slowly as he gazes into your eyes. Finally, he brings his hand to his face and, one by one, inserts his fingers into his mouth, lewdly sucking your wetness from each digit.

“Mouthwatering,” he smirks.

Your face flushes red. It’s embarrassing how aroused his vulgar act makes you feel. He leans closer to you, his lips grazing your cheek. The act is intimate and tender. When his lips are floating just above yours, he whispers.

“I love it when you wear that necklace.”

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heartlessfujoshi · 11 months

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*kicks door down* smut prompt! #25, and I'm a sucker for Ignoct, but any pairing you're into rn also works 💪

HI HELLO. I'M SORRY THIS TOOK ME A HOT MINUTE, BUT I HOPE YOU WILL LIKE IT. Thank you for the request!!! <3

Smut Prompts

25. “you can be louder than that” Rating: Explicit (NSFW) Word Count: ~1240

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Noctis’ lips stayed firm around the thickness that was in his mouth, warm cum continuing to slip down his throat as he made his Adviser lose himself. His hands were settled on Ignis’ hips, forcing him to stay still as he refused to let him move on his own accord; he was in complete control of him. His tongue pushed against the thick flesh that was staying stiff inside of his mouth, Noctis taking the cue that Ignis was not yet satisfied.

Pulling his lips off of his cock, Noctis used his left hand to wipe at his mouth, his eyes staring right into Ignis’. “More, Ignis?” He asked, knowing that his lover wasn’t going to say no to the question. How could he, when Noctis could see he was desperate for more? And to tell the truth, so was he. As good as it had been to finally suck his lover off, it wasn’t enough. Not by a longshot.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Ignis answered, his voice a bit breathless. His chest rose and fell as he took deep breaths, Noctis smirking as he observed his own handiwork, the limited light shining on the skull pendant that hung around Ignis’ neck. “Now?”

“No.” Noctis teased, as he slid off the bed and got his clothes off. They had been in such a rush to get back to the Three Z’s Motel that as soon as they’d gotten in here, Noctis had practically ripped off Ignis’ clothes, needing him to be stark naked for him. He’d dropped down to his knees as soon as the door slammed shut, pawing at Ignis’ slacks as he struggled to get his cock free and into his mouth. And from there, they traveled to the bed, and the rest is history.

Was it because they’d crossed paths with one of those wretched Mindflayers? It could be. Noctis hated them, but also was fascinated by them, as they had unique powers. Powers that he should fear, but didn’t. He knew how to handle them, even if it meant getting stuck in their tentacles for a little bit. Tentacles that stuck to his skin, touching him in a way that he could only dream of doing to another person on his own.

Pushing those lecherous thoughts aside, he finished taking his clothes off, and saw Ignis’ mouth was slightly open, his eyes closed as he was still breathing through the aftershocks of his last orgasm. Noctis got back onto the bed, and settled himself on top of Ignis’ chest. He grabbed onto his cock and brought it to Ignis’ lips, rubbing the tip against his bottom lip, the sweetest moan leaving his lover’s mouth as he realized what Noctis was doing to him.

“Kiss it a little, Ignis.” Noctis’ voice was low, much lower than normal. The desire to take his lover was becoming hard to ignore, as he struggled to keep his own needs in check. His eyes honed in on the way Ignis swept his tongue over the tip of his own cock, teasing him with the tiniest flick. Noctis moaned low, nodding his head as he drew Ignis’ lips back to his cock. “More, Ignis. Just a little more, please.”

Ignis listened to his command, as he knew he would, and continued to sweetly torture his cock. Noctis moaned lower, letting his flesh sit on Ignis’ tongue for a few minutes. He rolled his hips, pushing his cock against his wet muscle, Ignis whimpering low as Noctis released his own heady moans. He pulled his hips all the way back, and watched as a string of spittle kept the two of them connected by cock and tongue, watching it snap in two as he moved further down Ignis’ body.

“N-Noctis.” Ignis was now right where he wanted him, his hips raised up, inviting him to do terrible things to him. “I want you.”

It always felt good to hear those words leave his lover’s mouth. Not that he had any doubt how Ignis felt about him. Having spent the better part of his life by his side, Noctis knew that Ignis was telling the truth. “I want you too, Ignis.” It was the truth. It would always be the truth. There was no one else on this planet that could make him feel the way that Ignis made him feel.

“Then take me, Your Highness.”

Placing the tip of his cock up against Ignis’ puckering hole, Noctis settled his hands next to Ignis’ head and slowly pushed his hips forward. It took a few seconds, but as soon as his cock slipped inside of Ignis’ body, the world at large went away, and all he could see and feel was Ignis.

He slipped his arm underneath Ignis’ shoulders and brought his mouth to his, pushing his tongue into his mouth with a deep groan. Ignis wrapped his legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, the two of them now clinging to one another. He groaned, feeling Ignis’ inner walls tighten around his cock. He breathed into Ignis’ mouth, recycling the air from his lungs into Ignis’, refusing to break the kiss as their bodies found the perfect rhythm.

“More!” Ignis broke off the kiss with a soft plea, one that Noctis knew he couldn’t refuse.

Slipping his free hand between their bodies, he found Ignis’ cock and began to stroke him, while his hips moved to a separate rhythm. Ignis was moaning quietly, but Noctis wanted to hear more. “You can be louder than that.” He waited, and heard Ignis’ moans begin to grow in intensity. They were much more robust now, driving Noctis to move faster. He knew that Ignis was close - he could feel him tightening up each time he pushed his hips forward. Jerking him off with one hand, he brought his lips to Ignis’ ear. “Go ahead and come, Ignis. I know you want to. I can feel it. You want to come, don’t you?”

“Please!”

His thumb rubbed against the tip of Ignis’ cock, knowing that it would push him over the edge, and he felt his inner walls grip him tight as warm heat began to rush over his stroking fingers. Noctis listened to Ignis moan through his orgasm, his own very close. He pushed his hips forward, thrusting as deep as he could go, and released a deep moan, his own euphoria hitting at the right moment, his ears ringing with both the sound of his own heartbeat, and the soft moans that Ignis was now making.

Taking a few minutes, Noctis stayed where he was, his lips now back on Ignis’, kissing him with a soft reverence that he poured his soul into. “I love you,” he whispered against Ignis’ lips.

“Love you too, Noctis.” Ignis mumbled, clearly spent from the evening’s activities.

He pulled out of him, grunting softly at the loss, then grabbed their towel they’d been using since staying here and cleaned Ignis up before getting himself situated. Ignis was already fast asleep as Noctis got settled next to him on the bed.

No one would ever know how much he cared for his Adviser. To the world, he was his right hand man. And that was fine. He didn’t care. As long as Ignis remained forever his, that was all that mattered to him. For he was, and would always be, Ignis’.

#ignoct #my writing #fanfic #drabble request #i hope this isn't too awful #ive missed writing these two so much ;A;#i really appreciate the request latt!! <3 #yay for a true read more lmao

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lovedrunkheadcanons · 1 year

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Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

Rated M

Hannah dreamed of fire. She dreamed of staring into its amber flame. It emitted no heat, and yet she was sweltering underneath the bundles of clothing on her skin. She watched the glittering flames turn from a heady amber to a sickly colored green. Extending her arms, she summoned the spirits to gather round, and like water freezing into solid ice, the phantoms took shape and proceeded to dance around her and the heatless fire. They danced and hooped and hollered. Fangs, claws, and horns, flailing with the cadence of the music. Hatred. They had hatred in their hearts. Infected yellow eyes flickered. Soon a bone white figure materialized from the swirling dark and advanced, scuttling on all fours, reeking of blood and pungent odor. The figure crept closer and closer, halting at her feet unblinkingly, and rose on its hind legs. She could see rows of needle-like teeth as it broke into a mouth splitting grin, black lines streaking its face. It seized her by windpipe, lifting her high up off the ground and spoke.

“I SEEEEE YOU”

Hannah bolted upright from her bed, drenched in sweat, throat dry and tasting of dust. She had dreamt it again, the same vision as before, three nights in one week. The curse bore disturbing similarities to the one that attacked the Louvre; humanoid, yellow slitted eyes, chalky white skin with black markings. This deeply unsettled her. She had been able to give the Association sufficient warning due to the Mona Lisa smiling eerily in the background, but this new vision disclosed nothing of its whereabouts. There was no distinguishable architecture, no people, no famous 16th century painting smiling on the walls, and if experience taught her anything, Hannah knew she was running out of time. Emerald flames. Demons. Swirling black. What did it mean? What was The Sight trying to show her?

A breeze nipped her perspired skin and Hannah quickly spun around.

She couldn’t recall leaving the partition open. The moon was a bright alabaster pendant in the sky, shining out into the tea garden. A scops owl sat perched on a decaying branch. Its haunting red eyes had her locked in its sights. She clutched her blankets and dared not move, dared not breathe. Where did it come from? How long had it been there? After a short lived eternity, the avian creature let out a high pitched screech, stretched out its long tapered wings, and dove back into the wild under the veil of darkness. Never to be seen again. The wind carried with it the sound of rasping laughter, whistling through the trees.

I see you.

You can’t hide forever.

Two weeks later

Satoru checked the hour on his phone. He had finished buttoning his shirt and faceted the uncooperative silver cufflinks on the sleeves. The black dress slacks he wore were stiff from being washed at the drycleaners, Makoto having picked them up yesterday morning. How long had it been since he last wore tails? Two, three years? The greasy clear gel used to part his hair smelled reminiscent of pine tar. It stung his nose.

“No one dresses for the opera anymore,” he grumbled, now buttoning an ivory colored vest. “Is a penguin suit really necessary?”

“The invitation did say ‘white tie,’ sir,” Makoto insisted. It hadn’t been the first time she reminded him of the fact.

Satoru continued moping, struggling to loop the aforementioned white tie around his wing-tipped shirt collar. The housekeeper walked over and tied it in a perfect bow, though to him it felt more like a hangman’s noose.

Much to his dread, the New National Theater was premiering its unique adaptation of Henry Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas with an celebratory gala. The opera itself was set to take place in Haeian Era Japan instead of Virgil’s Ancient Carthage, star studded with a full Japanese cast and musicians from the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra. Theatergoers and opera critics alike were already hailing the adaptation as “a triumph” for the performing arts. The Gojo family had been patrons of the NNTT since its inception, meaning Satoru and his new bride were expected to attend; their first formal outing together as husband and wife since the wedding. Satoru couldn't wait for the stupid event to be over.

“How much longer is she gonna take?” he sighed, scrolling impatiently through his phone, synchronizing the time for the Jacob and Co watch on his wrist. The only reason he agreed to go was because Nanami had new information regarding Hannah’s attack three months ago. “It’s important,” he said. They planned to rendezvous at the theater and talk more about it there.

“I believe she was deciding on jewelry, sir.”

“Right,” he huffed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Jewelry.”

Since stepping out of Hannah’s room, Makoto was looking extraordinarily pleased with herself, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by the young master. And when the doors slid open, it was obvious as to why.

Hannah emerged, wearing a blue gown with delicate velvet flowers and tiny crystals embellished along the fabric. Satoru remembered this dress. It was a sweet little number, cut and sewn to meet her exact proportions. The thin doubled straps crested into a modest v-neck and when turned around revealed the open plane of her back. While not overly salacious, the gown showed more skin than normal. It fit her petite frame so well, Satoru hardly noticed the dainty pear drop diamonds sparkling on her ears, nor the cuffs on her gloved wrists. She was the spitting image of a sorcerer's wife. Breathtaking.

Hannah fluttered her curled eyelashes and appraised him up and down.

“You look very handsome,” she said smiling, her lips the color of rose buds. Makoto had tucked her auburn hair into an elaborate updo, pinning the curls with a jeweled brooch.

“Thanks, you too,” Satoru replied, but quickly corrected this blunder. “I mean, you look put together — no, wait, that sounded bad — I mean you look good, and, uh, uh …” he felt a red flush begin to creep up the collar of his shirt. What was wrong with him?

Hannah giggled, choosing to relieve him with a simple “Thank you” and turned to acknowledge the housekeeper, who was handing her an evening coat and clutch. “Although I should really be thanking Makoto-san. I’d be lost without her.”

“You flatter me, ma’am,” Makoto said, sneaking Satoru an overly smug glance as if to say “you’re welcome.”

Yup, he definitely should give the woman a raise. Again.

Disgruntled, Satoru grabbed the tails from Makoto’s waiting arms and shuffled over to the genkan to slip on his dress shoes. Hannah did the same with a glittering pair of heels. Mr. Ijichi stood waiting outside. The deputy director would act as their personal chauffeur for the evening. A swanky Rolls Royce Phantom was parked along the driveway.

“Ijichi-san,” Hannah cheered warmly. It has been days since they last spoke. “It’s good to see you.”

“H-Hannah-chan.” A blush became evident on the deputy’s face as she stepped out. “Wow, you look…”

He was silenced by a wad of paper hitting him on the side of the head.

“Oi, Ijichi,” barked Satoru, opening the passenger seat for Hannah to climb in. “Get a move on. This thing ain’t gonna drive itself.”

“Oh, yes. R-Right away, Gojo-san,” the deputy director stammered, awkwardly bending over to pick up the wad of paper and race for the driver's seat.

The trio loaded into the vehicle and strapped on their seatbelts. Mr. Ijichi started the motor and put the car in reverse, while Hannah waved farewell to Makoto as they rolled out the driveway. Within minutes they were speeding down the outer roads towards the interstate.

When they merged onto Hachioji/Shinjuku, Satoru could tell Hannah was getting nervous. She was peering out the passenger seat window, gnawing her bottom lip, and bouncing her left knee as though shivering from the cold. It shook the entire car.

He rested a hand on her leg.

“Easy there, Princess,” he joked half-heartedly. The way she looked, the nickname felt appropriate. “Relax.”

“Sorry,” she squeaked, looking out the window again, cheeks tinged a soft pink. The car stopped shaking. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Satoru’s hand gave her leg an affectionate rub before sliding it off. Hannah was too transfixed by the city lights and gigantic jumbotrons to really notice.

Twenty minutes later, they had entered Shinjuku, a popular commercial hub in Tokyo. Concrete buildings and skyscrapers soon outnumbered the trees and mountainous terrain. They drove past flashing nightclubs and neon signed karaoke bars; popular street vendors; bougie restaurants; two 7 Eleven convenience stores; a gaming arcade Hannah mistook for a casino; another metro station. Every time the car waited for the light to change, they’d watch hoards of pedestrians cross the bustling intersections like large schools of herring. Satoru rolled down his window and let the paved asphalt and mouth watering street food flood his senses. The bright lights. The waves of color. Laughter. People staring at their phones as they walked. This was Tokyo: thirty seven million beating hearts. Thirty seven million souls in one thriving metropolis.

As a boy, Satoru would sneak out the house, board the fastest train, and wander up and down the city blocks for hours on end without adult supervision. Yeah, probably wasn’t his smartest move looking back on it. Coming home usually resulted in a major asswhooping and a stern “Don’t do it again,” but spankings and lecturers failed to detter him. Whenever Satoru heard the word “don’t,” he automatically thought “do.” He hated rules for the sake of rules. He hated being told how to act or what to say. Like that compulsion you suddenly harbored when some old crank started yelling at you to stop walking on grass that wasn’t even theirs. Walking the streets of Tokyo was like stomping all over that green grass. Victory.

Pausing his trip down memory lane, Satoru casually observed his wife from the neighboring passenger seat.

With her elbow bent along the door handle, she looked like a Hollywood film star posing for a cover shoot, a mix between an Audrey Hepburn and a younger Natalie Portman. The passing street lights illuminated the diamonds on her gloved wrists. She didn’t even know how stunning she was, he mused. Blissfully unaware.

Ijichi swung the car on Opera Street, and there, two blocks down, sat the New National Theater. He double parked the vehicle on the curb nearest the entrance.

The couple unbuckled their seat belts and scooched out of the Rolls Royce. Hannah eyed a single wine carpet rolled out like a velvet tongue for arriving guests. She could tell the theater was already packed. Her heart ratcheted, tightening the hold of her evening bag. She heard the clearing of a throat and turned to see Satoru stooped in a goofish bow.

“Madam,” he said, donning his best English accent. It sounded terrible, which in his case meant it was terribly good. His outstretched palm awaited hers. “Shall we?”

He was such a shameless lush. Hannah fell captive to his charm and allowed a smile to touch her lips. “We shall,” she laughed, humoring him with a small curtsy and taking his hand.

Together, they walked up the wine veloured tongue, permitting the entrance to swallow them whole. Into the belly of the beast.

The New National Theater was a relatively new attraction. Once the Japan Arts Council agreed to construct a performing arts center in 1960, it made the revolutionary decision that “non-traditional” arts would be included in the repertoire and that “necessary measures should also be taken with regard to facilities.” So after fierce deliberation and years of design and thoughtful planning, the New National Theater, Tokyo, was formally inaugurated in 1997, becoming Japan’s official safehaven for opera, ballet, and drama.

A contemporary opera house, the theater was modern as it was technologically advanced, giving guests the ultimate live viewing experience. The building incorporated not one, but three auditoriums, including an information center, an Italian eatery, a daycare room, and a rooftop garden. There was additionally the Tokyo Opera City Tower; a fluted skyscraper that stood adjacent to the theater, which contained an art gallery, a museum, several concert halls, as well as shops, restaurants, a chapel, dental clinics, and leasable office space. During the month of December, guests could peer out the tower’s 54 floors and observe the blinking Christmas lights decorating Shinjuku Central Park below. However, Hannah and Satoru weren’t visiting the tower. The Dido and Aeneas event was being celebrated inside the main building on the second floor.

Arm in arm, the married couple made their way up the staggered stairs, sleek and futuristic. Exhibited high on steel balconies were costumes of past productions, and framed along the walls were posters of upcoming shows and events. Hannah wasn’t an architect by any means, nor an interior designer, but she thought the entrance felt clinical; too much concrete and metal and geometric patterns. There were Japanese elements to its overall theme, no question, but had Hannah not known it to be a theater, she would’ve guessed they had segwayed into a shopping center, or perhaps even an airport.

A string trio played Mozart’s Salzburg Symphony No. 2. Waiters in black jackets carried trays of hor d'oeuvres and refreshments in and out of the kitchens. When Satoru and his wife stepped inside the main foyer, the animated chatting lost considerable volume, as did the music. Hundreds of people dressed in their best evening attire - the crème de la crème of jujutsu and Tokyo society - craned their necks to assess the new arrivals, pushing and shoving in the hopes of catching a fated glimpse.

Never had Hannah seen such a collection of jewelry and furs in one setting since her nights at Wasserton. Her heart hammered in her ears. She felt her anxiety surmounting the way water trundled into a ravine after a long summer rain. So many eyes. They made her feel undressed somehow, like she’d been brought in as a perambulating diversion; some satisfied by her appearance, others less so. As they continued gawping, Hannah couldn’t help but think back to the wolves; how they stalk their prey, find weaknesses, then kill and abandon whatever is left for the crows. She leaned on Satoru as they moved through the throngs of spectators. The music started up again.

“Hey.”

Hannah looked up, meeting her husband’s alluring blue eyes; The night he carried her in his arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to his steady beating heart. Funny how those eyes once filled her with unease and trepidation. Now she craved them anywhere. His bigger hand clasped hers.

“Don’t let these lowlifes scare you, alright?” he murmured, his breath smelling like the peppermint candy he’d been nibbling on in the car. “Remember, you’re with me now. They’re not gonna do jack shit.”

Hannah looked at her shoes. “I just wish they wouldn’t stare so much.”

“No, let ‘em stare,” he softly countered, stopping long enough to gently tilt her chin upwards. “They’d be idiots not to.”

Hannah knew she was blushing through the makeup. His words were oddly reassuring. The hammering in her ears slowed to a manageable rhythm. She took slow deliberate breaths as they moseyed around the crowd. They found Shoko and Utahime standing next to a dessert table.

“Fashionably late, I see,” Utahime boasted loftily.

“What’re you talking about?” Satoru pulled his sleeve and checked the Jacob & Co. piece on his wrist. “We’re right on time.”

“Yeah, except the invitation said 5 o’clock, loser. It’s 6:30.”

“And the show doesn’t start till 8, weakling, so what’s your point?”

“W-Weakling?!! Who are you calling a ‘weakling?’ I’m not weak.”

“Weakling, weakling,” Satoru sang. “Utahime is a weakling.”

Utahime cheeks puffed scarlet red. “Shut up, Satoru. Nobody likes you. Why don’t you go be stupid somewhere else?”

“Wait, for real? Nobody likes me? But I'm such a nice guy.”

“Idiot, you’re about as nice as a cancer diagnosis.”

“Ouch,” Satoru demurred, ego deflating a bit. “That’s harsh.”

“No, that’s just the truth,” Utahime corrected. “And did you dislocate your spine or something? Quit slouching. It doesn't look cool.”

Hannah was amused by their bickering. They argue like siblings, she thought. As the two jabbered on, Shoko swiped a wine glass from a passing server.

“I like your dress, Hannah,” she said, taking a sip. The drink was the exact same burgundy as her gown, cut in a flattering sweetheart neckline, beaded head to toe, leaving her shoulders bare.

“Thank you, Shoko. I like yours too.” Hannah then turned to Utahime, who was also in a dress, except it had sleeves and only the bodice was beaded. The mauve color brought out the purple in her hair. “And Utahime’s as well.”

“See? Your wife knows how to give someone a compliment.” Utahime squinted at Satoru. “Why haven’t you said anything? You know it took me forever to get ready for this. Plus, the shopping and the makeup.”

Slouching even more, Satoru felt he couldn’t win. Women were just too complicated to understand. Besides, there were bigger things to worry about than makeup and acrylic fingernails. His eyes scanned the foyer.

“Anyone seen Nanami?”

Shoko finished the last of her wine. “Yeah,” she pointed her thumb behind them, “He’s over at the bar. Why?”

“No reason,” Satoru said. “Can the two of you watch Hannah for me, while I go talk to him? It won’t be long.”

“Sure,” Shoko said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Utahime agreed. “But bring me back a martini while you’re up there. Dry. No olives.”

They were able to catch Satoru muttering, “Do I look like a waiter?” before leaving for the bar. Hannah saw how easily he parsed through the mingling crowd, or perhaps a better way of describing it was how star-struck they all looked as he walked by them. He was still a head taller than everybody, a floating dandelion seed in the grass. She got cold all of a sudden, missing his warmth.

“Satoru doesn’t drink, you know,” Utahime conspired in her ear.

Hannah blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“Yup,” the teacher snickered. “He’s a total lightweight. Can’t hold his liquor at all. I’ve seen him take one sip of beer and, phewm,” she clapped her hands together, “pass out not ten seconds later.”

“She’s exaggerating, of course,” Shoko interjected. “But it’s basically true. Satoru is terrible with alcohol. You’re half his size and could probably take him on in a drinking contest.”

Hannah realized then that she’d never actually seen Satoru drink. The age registration in Japan was twenty, but the youngest Hannah had ever tried alcohol was seventeen. Truth be told, she didn’t like beer very much. Too bitter. Although she did enjoy a strong cream sherry at Christmas when the nun’s were pouring. Perhaps that’s what she needed to get her through this. A drink. She could still feel intense stares pressing all around her.

The foyer felt more crowded than before. Attendees were now bumping shoulder to shoulder, spilling their drinks, and voicing apologies. The waiters had begun setting aside the hor d'oeuvres in lieu of refreshments. No amount of expensive perfume could hide the smell of sweat and body odor. The walls were closing in. They swayed. Hannah suddenly developed a bout of nausea. Her eyes searched for a directory. She needed air.

“Can either of you tell me where the bathroom is?”

“It’s on the right, down the staircase,” Utahime answered. She could sense the younger woman’s worry. “Want us to come with?”

The wife shook her head. “No, I should be fine.”

“You have Utahime’s cell, right?” Shoko asked.

Hannah lightly rattled the contents of her evening bag where she’d packed her phone. “Yes.”

Neither female sorcerer felt it right to commandeer. Hannah was an adult, not a child. So long as they knew where she was, they saw no harm in letting her go off by herself. The theater was heavily guarded with the best sorcerers.

“Alright, call us if you need anything,” said Shoko. “We’ll be watching.”

Hannah excused herself, and turned to face the crowd, feeling a tinge of regret for wanting to go alone. The trip to the bathroom was like walking the road to Golgotha. Eyes pressing upon her, she became nervous again. She concentrated on the floor, trying to block out the whispers as she neared the staircase.

She just about made it until she was thwarted by a waiter carrying a large silver tray of glass flukes. Caught off guard, the waiter lost his balance, and tumbled spectacularly backwards. The flukes crashed to the floor. You could hear every shard and chip crack.

The crowd let out a unified gasp, followed by laughing and groans of discontent. None of them rushed in to help the waiter, who was scrambling to pick up the broken glass, sweat trickling from his forehead, humiliated. He’d be granted no reprieve. These people. They looked down on the weak, the downtrodden, the little guy. Like it was a sport.

But Hannah felt compassion. Not two months ago, this waiter and her were one in the same. As a girl, she recalled a time when it was her turn to help distribute communion during Mass, and having the hands of a slug, accidentally spilled a gold-plated ciborium of consecrated hosts, which had to be eaten off the floor immediately. The ordeal was soul crushing for Hannah, and like that very incident, she too felt responsible for this man’s folly. It was her fault. Had she been paying attention, he wouldn’t have fallen. She couldn’t erase the past, nor stop the crowd from laughing, but she could try to make things right. If this man was embarrassed, she would be embarrassed with him. Hannah got down on her knees and helped the man pick up the fractured shards.

“T-Thank you,” he said, directing his eyes towards the intimidating crowd. They were all staring.

Hannah said nothing and gave a kind smile, mindful not to hold the jagged, serrated edges in such a way they would slice through her gloves. After gathering what they could, and leaving the smaller shards to be swept with a broom and dustpan, the waiter patted himself and again gave thanks, but not before Hannah slipped him ¥250,000 from her evening bag as an apology. Rendered speechless, the waiter could only nod his head in shocked gratitude and dash for the kitchens.

Hannah was about to get up for the restroom, when she felt a presence overshadow her.

“My, that was rather charitable, helping a person in need like that,” came a stranger’s voice. She was given a hand. “Please, allow me the honor.”

Hannah glanced without sensing the impending danger, and took the newcomer’s open hand.

Satoru was still looking for Nanami over at the bar. Twenty minutes in and the salaryman hadn’t shown. He checked the bathrooms, the dessert buffet. He even tried locating him through the aid of the Six Eyes, but failed to get a read on his signature. Nope, something definitely wasn’t right. Punctual to a fault, Nanami Kento was rarely late. When he said to meet somewhere, the business man was always the first to arrive on the scene. He wasn’t replying to his texts either, “Unread” spelled at the top of the highlighted green messages. Where the heck was he?

As Satoru searched elsewhere, he had to endure the gaggle of strangers fawning over him, telling him how lovely his wife looked, rubbing elbows, receiving pats on the back. He loathed these interactions like he loathed the higher-ups. They were all a bunch of posers, flouting honeyed words hoping it would land them in his good graces, but he saw through their facade like glass. Their kindness wasn’t genuine. It wasn’t Hannah.

“You look lost, Satoru,” came a flirtatious voice from behind. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

Satoru turned around to identify who it was and smirked. “Mei Mei, I thought you weren’t much for parties.”

“I’m for parties where money is concerned.” The sorcerer fanned herself with a couple of ¥10,000 banknotes. “I already made short work of Mr. Trust Fund over there. His girlfriend wasn’t too happy about it though. She could do better, frankly.

Satoru looked over his shoulder where Mei Mei directed to see a woman berating her moneyless beau. The man waved at Mei Mei with puppy dog eyes, ignoring his girlfriend. Mei Mei waved back as though interested. The fool. Satoru’s seen her use this trick a thousand times; find a victim, play it all innocent, then leave the poor sod with the swag. She made it look easy.

“I saw you come in with your wife,” Mei Mei noted, circling the taller sorcerer as she counted her loot. “Hannah, was it?”

“Yeah,” Satoru said. “Hannah.”

“My, she’s a cute little thing.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Do you like her?”

“She’s a good person. Why wouldn’t I like her?”

“Silly,” Mei giggled and stopped counting her cash to trace a manicured finger along the lapel of his jacket. “That’s not what I meant.”

He glanced down where the finger touched the fabric, her womanly cleavage spilling out of her black dress, leg slitted. She had traded her silvery blue braids for hot-ironed curls. Ah, he knew what she was after, and for a time, he would’ve obliged. She was the strongest woman. He, the strongest man. It was a harsh, harsh world out there, never knowing which day would be your last.

Their sexual relationship began shortly after Suguru’s betrayal. Mei Mei insisted she was doing him a favor, “Better your first time be with someone you know,” she reasoned, teaching him the basics with her temptress hands. Where she learned to do all those vile, wicked things, he hadn’t bothered to ask. The sex was strictly transactional, a mercurial high to help them cope with the incessant bullshit life threw at them. It wasn’t love. It was anything but love. That’s what they wanted. Feelings would only get in the way.

But they weren’t teenagers anymore, flush with hormones and pent up angst. Satoru experimented with other partners as he got older. They were much needed distractions, keeping him from having to reconcile about his homicidal best friend, someone he once viewed as a brother, an equal. For a while it did the trick. Suguru hadn't perveyed his thoughts for nearly four years.

And then Hannah happened.

The curse who attacked her eight weeks ago was believed to be acting under the influence of the Manipulation Technique, Suguru’s signature ability. A small part of Satoru prayed this was merely coincidental and his friend was innocent, but the residuals and growing evidence were too damning. Sweet, innocent Hannah had been deliberately targeted. He knew it was for The Sight, but why? What was the motive? What did Suguru want with Hannah?

Mei Mei dropped her hand. “Well, if your bed starts feeling cold,” she hummed, prying him away from his thoughts. “You know where to find me.”

Satoru managed a noncommittal grunt.

Sounds of shattering glass dispersed from the crowd.

Alarmed, everyone swung their heads in unison, but there were too many people to get a clear view. Using the Six Eyes, Satoru zoomed to where the commotion was.

He saw Hannah kneeling on the floor, helping a waiter pick up shards of broken glass. His chest swelled with pride when he watched her slip the money into the waiter’s breast pocket. But his blood ran ice cold when he saw a certain someone barge through the crowd and give her their hand. A certain someone that had no place being invited. Touching her.

Oh no. What was he doing here?

Hannah took the stranger’s hand. She glanced at the people, swarms of onlookers circling around them like bees to a hive, increasing in number. They grimaced and shook their heads, a few pointing and casting disparaging looks, though not necessarily at her.

She swatted the dirt from her gloves. “Thanks,” she said, readjusting her dress straps that threatened to spool over. “Hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

“Not at all,” the stranger replied. Also wearing a tux, he slicked back his dirty blonde hair, silver piercings glinting on both ears. His face seemed permanently slanted in an arrogant grin. “Sorry, where are my manners? My name is — ”

“Naoya,” called a brazen voice from the crowd. “I thought they didn’t allow trash in here.”

An eerie hush fell over the crowd. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, everyone moved to bid the strongest sorcerer entrance. Hannah could tell from the menacing look Satoru gave that something was clearly wrong.

“Satoru,” Naoya beamed as though welcoming a long lost friend. “You’re looking dapper this evening. Is that a new suit? Ah, Dolce and Gabbana. Very nice.”

Utahime and Shoko pushed themselves through the gaggle of people. They had seen the problem also, but were blocked due to the crowd. Satoru met their tense gazes. Taking Shoko’s ready nod as a queue, he got between his wife and the stranger.

“Hannah, why don’t you go with the others while the two of us…catch up,” he said cautiously, not taking his eyes off Naoya.

Confused, Hannah peered those innocent hazel eyes up at Satoru for an explanation. Who is this guy? But Satoru didn’t take the bait. “It’s okay,” he mouthed, gently nudging her towards his two friends. She gave him a forlorn look, wanting to stay, but eventually complied, and walked over to Shoko and Utahime. Safe and sound.

Satoru turned his attention back on his adversary.

Naoya Zen’in was a bonafide sadist and a real fear monger. His treatment towards women, especially young girls, had become infamous. Last Satoru heard, the bastard was caught having sex with a minor (his second offense). Since 1907, Japan’s consenting age remained frozen at thirteen, meaning Naoya’s latest victim had to be twelve years or younger, and knowing his sexual proclivities, it was unlikely the act was consensual. Satoru had supported legislation to bump the legal age to seventeen, but the system was corrupt. He suspected the Hei had their grimy fingerprints all over everything. This latest Jane Doe and her family were brave for speaking out. Most never made it that far.

“So, her name’s Hannah,” Naoya mused, watching the three women leave. “I gotta say, Satoru, you’re a lucky man. A very, very — ”

“Fuck off, Naoya,” Satoru said, affronting him once more. “I see you touch her again, you’ll be leaving here in a plastic bag.”

Naoya spreaded his hands in mockery. “Woah, Woah, woah, hold the phone. Are my ears deceiving me? Could it be that the great Gojo Satoru has learned to care for someone other than himself?”

“I care about what’s mine.”

Naoya threw back his head. “What’s yours,” he brayed. “That’s rich.”

Satoru was growing impatient. “Mind telling me why you’re sorry ass isn’t being holed up in a jail cell?” he inquired. “What, did daddy have to bail you out a second time? Tsk, tsk, that’s two felonies in a row now, buddy. Better watch it, or your chances of being clan leader will be flushed down the toilet.”

As Satoru spoke, Naoya kept on smiling, though not as confidently. He had pinched a nerve. Everyone knew Naobito, the current Zen’in clan head, had not officially bequeathed the title to his son, which was rumored to be a point of contention within the family. It was satisfying for Satoru, watching the bastard cave under the scrutiny.

“If you must know,” Naoya huffed, looking vindicated. “My father didn’t ‘bail me out.’ The charges were dropped based on uncorroborated evidence. They let me go.”

Satoru shrugged his shoulders. “Or you bribed the judge.”

“Bribed the judge, listen to you,” Naoya sneered. “The Zen’in family would never hold themselves above the law.”

Satoru’s hands were clenched tightly, nails digging into the center of his palm. That was the biggest lie if there ever was one. If he had it his way, he would beat this pervert to a bloody pulp, but there were too many witnesses. A fight would cause an unwanted scene. It was better to let the bastard off with a warning.

“I see you with her again, you're a dead man. You hear?” he growled, and turned to leave, but the Zen’in wanted the final say.

“I wouldn’t be making such idle threats, if I were you, Satoru.”

The Six Eyes wielder halted mid-step to glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, yes,” Naoya snickered, taking a bold step forward. “Don’t think we don’t know what it is you're doing. That teaching gig you’ve been after? Your grandiose plan to tear down the establishment? I’m here to tell you it won’t work. And when it falls into a crumbling ash heap, the Zen’in family will be ready to assume the mantle. And who knows? Maybe they’ll give me that pretty new wife of yours as tribute.”

Satoru flashed his eyes. “Over my dead body.”

“Now that,” Naoya’s lips curled into a serpentine grin, “is something I’d love to see.”

What impudence. Gojo had heard enough. Play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. This sexist prick was talking shit out of his ass. Unimpressed, the Six Eyes wielder at last turned and walked away, Naoya’s hissing laughter trailing behind him. The crowd ceased their eavesdropping and carried on, and the reception hall refilled with noise as the string orchestra resumed playing. Hannah, Shoko, and Utahime were waiting over in the corner. Satoru approached them, recovering his bride, and followed the people into the auditorium. They had opened the doors.

“Who was that?” Hannah whispered, worry edged in her voice. “You looked ready to strangle him.”

At this, Satoru suddenly stopped walking, and with featherlite finesse, grabbed his wife by the waist and twirled her off to the side so the rest of the crowd could pass.

“Listen, Hannah,” he said softly, leaning her against the wall. “If that guy ever does that again, talks to you, touches you, promise you’ll come find me, okay? Don’t engage with him.”

“Engage?”

“I’m serious, Hannah.” He secured his hold around her waist, their foreheads hovering close. “Promise me you’ll do this.”

Hannah stared into his pleading blue eyes, an endless ocean, a thousand and one questions. She wanted to ask more, but knew now wasn’t the right time or place. “Alright, I promise.”

“Good,” he exhaled, relieved to have gotten the message across. He shepherded her back into the bustling crowd. “C’mon, let’s go find our seats.”

The opera auditorium was hewn entirely of golden mahogany, from the ceiling down to the floorboards. The theater’s chief architect Yanagisawa Takahiko wanted the interior to mimic a musical instrument, almost like a Stradivarius, or a grand Yamaha piano. A proscenium arched theater stood behind the 120 person orchestra pit and thousands of folded chairs, while LEDs suffused the gleaming space with light. The Gojo family had their own private box located on the third level. Peering out from the balcony, Hannah watched the theatergoers gather below. They looked so small, she could fit them in the palm of her hand.

“I’ll be back,” Satoru said, touching her shoulder as she took a seat. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

“Yes.” Hannah looked back at him. “But where are you going now?”

“Nature calls.” Satoru unfastened the single button of his dress tails and draped it over the chair. “Gotta take a leak.”

“Okay,” she better situated the tails and turned back towards the stage.

His face got right in front of her, obscuring her view.

“Stay. Put.”

Hannah rolled her eyes and batted him away. “Yes, yes. I heard you,” she said. “I’m glued to the seat.”

He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at her, and left to find the lavatory, hiding a grin as she let out a laugh.

Alone in the box, Hannah continued watching.

As the small chamber orchestra entered the pit and began tuning their instruments, Hannah spied a middle aged woman, one floor down, enter her box. The woman was dressed in an elaborate tomesode, black with multiple gold accents. Not a hair pin out of place. Hannah was too far away to distinguish the mon on her sleeves and nape. Did she belong to a prominent family? She was the only individual not wearing Western clothing. It was hard to guess her age. Her otherwise youthful face breathed with it an air of contempt, like she’d been forced to attend and didn’t want to.

The lights flickered three times, signaling the show was about to begin. People stopped conversing with one another and rushed to their seats.

Satoru returned, carrying a dessert tray he likely swiped from one of the waiters. He was finishing a shot glass with what looked to be tiramisu.

“Want one?” he asked, whipped cream on his lips.

“No.” Hannah shook her head. “Help yourself.”

The show was about to start.

The lights slowly dimmed. A spotlight haloed around the conductor as she made her debut appearance and bowed. The audience broke into thunderous applause. Then turning to face her fellow musicians, the conductor tapped a baton, gave a small nod of the head, and like a wizard casting a spell through the use of their magic wand, the music began.

The violins and viola lead the instruments in a baroque overture, followed by two cellos and a bass. A harpsichord merrily twiddled in the background alongside the lute, and after playing thirty measures of bass continuo, the velvet curtains lifted to reveal the throne room of a stately palace. Our tragic heroine Dido, played by the grand-diva Kanoh Etsuko, stood costumed in jūnihitoe style dress, with layers upon layers of multicolored silk. Her shiny black hair trailed the length of her skirts, and her face shone like fine porcelain with lips the color of carnations. Beautiful, she was surrounded by her many courtesans, but appeared deeply troubled. Her most loyal servant, Belinda, entered the stage.

“Sha-ea-ea-ke the cloud from off your brow,” she trilled, wanting to cure her queen’s sadness. “Fortune smiles and so should you.”

After several refrains the harpsichord changed key.

“Ah! Belinda,” Dido slowly grieved in her rich mezzo soprano. “I am pressed with torment not to be confessed.”

All is not well in the city of Carthage, reforged to mimic the historic capital of Heian-kyo (modern day Kyoto). It was revealed that Dido was teetering on the edge of political ruin. She had secretly fallen for Aeneas, the Trojan prince whose crew had shipwrecked on Carthage’s shores, but was reluctant to act on her love, fearing its ramifications. The whole of Carthage was pressuring the two rulers to marry and merge their kingdoms. “When monarchs unite, how happy their state,” they sang. Dido secretly worried that marrying Aeneas would weaken Carthage, and that he would abandon her on his quest to establish Rome.

The orchestra strung a triumphant melody. Joining them on stage was the conquering warlord Aeneas, under the guise of tenor Mochizuki Tetsuya. Decked in full samurai armor (ō-yoroi), he tore off his helmet and once again implored Dido for her hand on bended knee; “If not for mine, then for Empire’s sake.” He swore he loved her, as she loved him, promising never to leave and abandon his mission of ever finding Rome. Dido struggled to resist and eventually, under the besiege of her courtesans, embraced his advances. The audience clapped at the end of their impassioned duet.

Hannah clapped too. Having never been to a theater before, it was all so wonderfully exciting. She had the entire libretto of Dido and Aeneas memorized by heart, thanks to an Italian nun who briefly trained as an aspiring opera singer. Henry Purcell’s works were easy because they were written in English, instead of Italian or German. Though being an opera, loosening their jaws to make the correct vowel sound, it was sometimes difficult for listeners to understand what the singers were actually saying. Lots of rounded “aah”s and “ohh”s. Hannah was mesmerized, her elbows perched on the balcony to get a better view.

Satoru slumped in his seat, head propped, bored out of his wits. He hated opera almost as much as he hated rules. He found the constant drama nauseating and the storylines formulaic. Ugh, and the singing. He couldn’t stand the incessant singing. At least the Mozart ones were funny.

Nanami said he had new information regarding Hannah’s attack. That was the real reason he came, but the salaryman remained elusive. Satoru kept checking his phone for updates. Still nothing.

He afforded himself occasional glances at his wife, leaning against the balcony. She was humming along to the music, mouthing the words verse by verse. The diamond jewelry glittered as she dreamily swayed her head, and the sparkling dress exposed the plane of her back as though to tease him. His fingers twitched. The dessert tray no longer held interest, nor the actors on stage. Satoru had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth his yearning hands over her bare skin, slip off those dainty beaded straps, and cup the tender, supple flesh underneath. He wanted to feel their weight in his palms, hear her moaning his name, begging for release…Satoru felt himself grow hard at the thought, crotch pushing against his pant zipper as if to say “Let me out!” He couldn’t decide whether this was a blessing or a curse, but she looked absolutely ravishing, a grown man’s wet dream. He needed to take her out like this more often. It felt selfish keeping her indoors all the time.

Thankfully, Hannah was too absorbed by the music to notice him undressing her with his eyes.

Slow and ominous music played for Act II. The stage lights that were once a dreamy colored orange transitioned into a bright arsenic green, casting a sickly glow over the theater. The audience were shrouded in a swirling mass of black. An evil Enchantress stepped forth from the shadows and stood over a bubbling cauldron. News of Dido and Aeneas’ betrothal had reached her knowing. She hated the Queen of Carthage, and now planned to thwart the two lovers by assembling her legion of wicked servants.

“Wayward sisters, you that fright,” she nazily crooned. “Appear, APPEAR, at my call!!”

A coven of witches took center stage. Yokai and oni resolved from the shadows and pranced around the emerald flames in a state of delirium. They danced and hooped and hollered. Fangs, claws, and horns, flailing wildly. “Harm is our delight and mischief all our skill,” they chorused. Costumes. They were extras wearing costumes, singing of their hatred for the Queen. That meant …

Satoru heard his wife gasp, grabbing for his arm. Her eyes held the wide desolate look of someone on the verge of fainting.

“Oh, God,” she breathed.

Satoru’s brow wrinkled. He initially thought she was reacting to the opera, but then the foul stench of raw cursed energy assailed his nose. The Six Eyes shifted more into focus, looking at the audience, the stage, searching, searching, searching — there. He saw it; a bone white figure hiding amongst the curtains, hunched on all fours. Satoru quickly rose to his feet, but the curse had already infiltrated the stage. It swooped in from behind and grabbed the Enchantress by the throat. The soprano’s singing morphed into coughing screams, legs thrashing, lungs grappling for air, before the auditorium echoed with the stomach churning break of her neck. Snap. Her body flopped to the stage like a dead fish. Music screeched to a dying halt. Everyone leapt from their seats in full blown panic. “What’s going on?” “What is that thing?” Gleeful, the curse aimed its hand at the audience, purple aura energizing around its fingertips. Satoru pulled his wife close.

“Get down!”

BOOM. A deafening blast rippled throughout the theater, shaking the floorboards. People screamed. Hannah heard heavy groaning like that of humongous trees being uprooted from the ground. She heard bodies trampling over each other, scrambling to get away; concrete slabs jutting apart; metal pipes bursting. Another blast. Clouds of thick dust and debris obscured her eyes. She couldn’t see. A lone child cried out for its mother somewhere amidst the growing chaos. Then the lights flickered for a halting moment, thrumming and fizzling, until the ceiling finally collapsed, descending on top of them like a coffin lid.

Everything fell into darkness.

Chapter Contents

#jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk #gojo x oc #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #Gojo Takes a Wife

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