Chapter Text
He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t feel the wave of calm washing over him like some sort of aloe vera salve on a burn that had been on a patch of skin and spreading throughout his body to consume him. It’s a sigh of relief for a breath of air that he hadn’t realized he had been holding in his lungs for quite some time.
The burn had shaken his lungs, the decade-and-a-half long jealousy burning like acid through his stomach and into his circulatory system like some sort of parasitic curse in his body. He shouldn’t have let out a laugh so maniacal that it would have put Itadori Yuuji’s good ol’ best friend to shame. But hey. At least he had laughed in the confines of the janitorial closet, causing Nobara to wonder exactly what the hell is going on there after he had been notified of several deaths.
“What the hell is wrong with you…?” It had been more of a statement rather than a question, paired along with a very pointed glare from the auburn-haired teenager. At least the other Zen’in kids hadn’t been there to hear his muffled cackles.
A lot , he should have said.
The deaths were inconsequential to him. Death is inconsequential to him.
True, it had been a slaughter. Yes, it had been because one of the students had lost their mind after losing her own twin and being treated like shit by her clan all these years. Practically spat on after Mai’s death and ridiculed for her appearance, she had taken things into her own hands in an attempt to cull the problematic clan with its abusive traditions.
And she had, in a way. In the wake of her bloody footsteps, she left them much to think about.
Even Maki’s mother, an individual who had also filed into the internalized misogynistic ways of the clan, had the desire to take one last life before hers ended. Gojo had smiled upon hearing the news of his death, it warmed his heart and brought a smile to his face.
He’s just thankful that apparently, a certain someone hadn’t been there at the time. Apparently, you had been out shopping for clothes, just like whatever these fucked up Zen’in freaks dumb down their women into doing. The sorcerer knows that in all your indifference and silence towards your disgusting husband, you would have done everything you could have to protect him, would have put your life on the line and definitely murdered in an attempt to save him.
Gojo should probably frown, because he knows that Naoya more than likely wouldn’t have done the same thing, would have used you as some sort of stepping stone in order to survive.
But he doesn’t need to worry about that at all, because he’s dead.
The white haired sorcerer tosses his head back. Good gracious ass bodacious, he’s finally dead.
---
Not many people in their group attend the otsuya , as that’s reserved more for closer family and friends ( he snorts ) of the Zen’in clan.
So he’s there when they attend the kokubetsushiki , a ceremonial memorial service after the wake where friends and acquaintances outside of the clan offer their condolences.
The man is in a very, very plain black suit with a matte tie and simple black leather shoes. He knows he has to dress dull and look as though he had been crying for hours (yes, of course he would). Gojo knows that regardless of how he dresses, he will still stick out like a sore thumb here -- his excitement and glee barely contained in the doldrum of an atmosphere. And yet, he does his best to still maintain some semblance of composure when he enters the building.
As the Buddhist priest recites the sutras once they’ve taken their seats, he picks you out in the crowd. Well, it’s quite an easy feat, since the immediate family of the deceased sit at the front and he could tell by the way your hair is neatly styled into a muted yet fashionable bun. He can also tell because he’s just practically a whole fucking simp and this is his time to shine.
Yes , at a fucking funeral service. What about it? Mind your own business. At least he’s wearing his blindfold and it isn’t too obvious that his eyes are following your every movement.
After the priest has finished their chant, he and his group walk up to the front to participate in the oshoukou , a small ritual ceremony involving incense. In comparison to the other funeral services he had to attend, this one involves makko -- powdered incense instead of the senko incense sticks. One by one, they offer the prayers before going back to their seats. Through his blindfold, he looks over at the picture of the last leader of the Zen’in clan. The picture looks almost like a mugshot and it may as well have been one, considering how many lives the bastard had ruined -- including yours. He represses the urge to snort. Not anymore will that bitch do so .
With the dark prayer beads in his left hand, he uses his right to pick up a tiny amount of the makko incense powder before bringing it to his forehead. Placing the incense back into the burner, he repeats it two more times per protocol. After that, he engages in gasshou as the others had done, hands pressed together and near his chest as he tilts his head forward slightly. His eyes aren’t closed, definitely not closed as he gives a peek at you behind your blindfold.
As always, you look incredibly pristine even in your simple black kimono.
While you don’t look exactly haggard, there are some dark circles under your eyes that are quite visible at this distance and a slight gauntness that makes him worry slightly. No real worries, though , he thinks to himself. That would easily go back to normal and you would have your soft, round cheeks back in place once more.
All for show.
Giving you and the rest of the family there a formal bow and his deepest condolences, he returns back to his seat. The rest of the ceremony is in a blur as his mind starts to travel off to a variety of different getaway destinations for a trip -- specifically a special trip.
Paris? Mm. Too cliche. Venice on one of them sewer longboat things? Probably even more cliche. Las Vegas and get absolutely hammered off one sip of the free cocktails? Damn, they do have those Elvis impersonators you could pay for elopement ceremonies. Mm… perhaps… ? Question mark?
The rest of the ceremony is a blur afterwards for you.
Everything had been numb -- seeing your husband in his casket as you laid flowers inside the coffin had felt so incredibly strange. It seemed as though he were simply sleeping, sneaking in one of his ten-minute naps at some warm hour of the day like a lazy cat.
You had resisted the urge to lean down and plant a kiss onto his cheek out of propriety, just like how you would do when you would try and wake to tell him that it was getting already quite late. He would slowly stir and open his eyes, those very sharp, catlike ones that would glare at you and wrinkle his nose before yanking you down to the futon with him, because how dare you disturb his sleep. Also, don’t leave, you’re quite comfortable and smell like osmanthus peach tea .
He would turn to face you, nose nuzzling into your neck while you complained that dinner would be arriving soon. Any protest would be met with silence from your husband, save for the sleepy hushing noises escaping his lips before planting them slowly along the side of your neck.
And like a perfect wife, you’d let him, indulging in the lazy, sleepy Naoya that you treasured so much. It wouldn’t take too long until he had himself in you, palming and holding onto your tits as they spilled out from your loosened kimono as though it would help anchor him outside of his dream world. He would let you mess up his hair, grab and tug as he worked himself in and out of you, demanding an heir from you.
A boy, he wanted a boy. He must have a boy. At least two or three. Then you could have a girl. He’d gift you with one, he had told you before as you stared up at him with that dumb, fucked out expression. He’d gift you a baby girl after you had done your duty to him as his wife.
A baby girl, as a treat. A reward, if you’re a good little wife .
For now, you would make do with expensive designer items as gifts until you managed to bear him a son. No little girl yet. But you’d work on that, he’d work on that -- he’d make sure to work his fat dick into you as often as he possibly could to achieve that goal. He’d tell you he’s such a good husband, making sure you get your own little treat.
As you had stared at your sleeping, no-- deceased spouse, you wondered if you too were in a dream. Your hand had rested over your stomach lightly. Before you had been driven off by your chauffeur to go visit a shop that made your favorite summer kimonos , he had taken you in his study, bent you over the desk and worked his heavy cock into you.
Several hours after that, you had cradled your husband’s lifeless body in your arms.
Are you pregnant now? It’s too early to tell. It would be too complicated if you are, given that per the clause agreement, Fushiguro Megumi is now the head of the Zen’in clan. It would make things easier, you’re certain, although there’s a selfish desire of wanting to actually carry your husband’s child -- maybe the little girl he had promised you.
There’s no need for a boy now, anyways.
As you pick up his bones from the ashes, you can’t help the tears that are sliding down your cheeks silently. Your mother, Naoya’s aunt, notices it but keeps quiet. In any other situation, she would have reprimanded you for allowing your emotions to show in such a humiliating way, but this time she allows it.
In the back of your mind, you wonder if you’re allowed to really, truly grieve for such a horrible man. It feels as though you’re stuck in some type of strange fever dream, and you’re not certain if it is a good or a bad one.
Several days later, one of the other clan members requested your presence, to which you immediately responded by stating they could visit you in your quarters. You’re not interested in really moving out from your own area, the space you shared with your husband.
“Lady Zen’in, we wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t an urgent matter.”
You simply hum, picking up the cup of tea and raising it to your lips. By your side, your mother drinks her own cup, eyeing the two that have come to rouse you out of your relaxation.
It’s a nice, early summer evening with the sun still hanging around in the sky. There’s a gentle breeze that sifts through the garden you’re in. It’s peaceful, and out here you could have some fresh air along with enjoying the symmetry of the karesansui rock garden. Not a single leaf is damaged, not a single pebble misplaced from the raking of the gravel.
Nothing is out of place.
A sigh escapes your lips once you turn your attention to the man and woman across you. Your mother, as usual, decides to start. “ Speak , my daughter’s patience is wearing thin.” There’s a strangled noise that escapes the man as he takes several steps towards you, hands holding out several kouden envelopes. Raising a brow, you take them from him, opening them quickly.
These letters of condolences hadn’t been something you busied yourself with after you had gratefully received them from acquaintances who had attended the funeral ceremony. The other servants and the undertakers had made sure that you wouldn’t be bothered with these sort of trivial matters. There would be no actual condolence money stashed inside, as your clan is more than wealthy enough and nothing would be truly needed. In fact, it would probably even be an insult.
But a chunk of money slips out from the kouden and into your lap, brows creasing in your forehead as you pick it up -- all in the ten thousands. All crisp and new.
You feel slightly enraged, long-held tradition bubbling up in your stomach. Who in their right mind would use fresh bills as condolence money? Your mind thinks over the guest list -- was it a foreigner? That would be understandable. They wouldn’t understand that fresh bills meant that you had the time to go to a bank for this, that you knew and had hoped for death to come for the deceased. But at the same time, they had Google to search for traditional funeral ceremonies.
No, this insolence was intentional .
Your eyes narrow upon seeing the kanji that’s scribbled on the inside of the kouden , jaw clenching as it all seems to make sense while you crush the money and envelope under your fist. A shaky sigh leaves you before you resume taking a sip out of your tea. The fact that many others hate your clan, hate your husband is understandable. You’re not stupid. You know exactly how they view the outside world and how they view their own people, especially their women . In fact, you don’t even blame Maki for her murderous rage in destroying most of the clan. You don’t blame her mother for finishing off your husband.
You know he had caused suffering for others. You know that if you didn’t play the role as a perfect wife who walked several steps behind your husband in public, you’d be treated even more harshly.
Almost affectionately, your mother rests her hand over your clenched one. Pressing her lips tightly together, she reaches over to pick up the other kouden that you hadn’t opened. A gasp escapes her and your eyes dart over to her.
Your tea cup falls to the table and bounces off, clattering onto the gravel beneath the both of you. In any other situation, you would have quietly cursed yourself for being so clumsy, for making a mess out of the would-have-been-perfect karesansui garden.
A marriage proposal, from Gojo Satoru.